Bad Hippie, No Patchouli!

Surprise, surprise -- we're all alive and well here in Mayberry-on-Acid, U.S.A. Sure, we're busy as heck...but it's soccer season, so that's completely understandable.

Yeah, I know. It's always soccer season. It never ends. Anyone who says so probably has a sandbox in Florida they're trying to sell, too.

So, soccer season. I thought it would get easier when The Beavis hit high school...I mean, the bus takes the players to away games and he can walk to home games with his friends, so all I have to do is show up and enjoy myself, right? Wrong! There's after-game pick ups and practices and laundry almost every night -- especially when the team has back-to-back games. (Don't even get me started on joining the Athletic Boosters Club. That was a bad move on my part.) Plus, I agreed to coach a U10 girls' team with a friend, not realizing how much more work it takes to motivate younger players. I guess I was lucky with The Beavis' team -- they came to me fully trained. I just had to keep them under control and help them remember what they liked to forget. Imparting my rather limited soccer wisdom to a group of neophytes is much more difficult!

Of course, my adult recreational team has been having a busy season, too. Every Sunday evening we take to the field, and try our damndest to generate some action. Unfortunately, with all the other soccer commitments I have going on, it's hard for me to get to the gym and work out so that I can actually play a full game without constantly sucking wind. In other words, I'm playing like complete crap. My endurance is shot, and my speed is nil.

After my most recent soccer playing debacle, I tried to get The Beavis to spare some sympathy and prop up my rather battered self-esteem. He only looked away from the computer screen long enough to give me a pitying stare, and then to say: "Chill out. It just takes time." Then he went back to texting his girlfriend while IM-ing his buddies and listening to his iPod. Thanks, Mr. Sensitivity.

Much to my surprise, however, he did turn off the technology long enough to create an elaborate gym plan for me -- one that involves a complicated series of sprints to build endurance and stretching to ensure fewer injuries. I'm betting he IM-ed my brother, who is studying physical therapy in college, to help him cook up this extra-special, "my mom is lame and getting lamer" work-out routine. Just to get me to shut up, of course.

I guess the funniest part of this whole scenario (beside my abysmal lack of soccer-related skills) is that I'm actually going to FOLLOW the routine he suggested. Yup -- I like soccer so much that I'm going to run and sprint around a track on a regular basis to build up my endurance. To play soccer. That's got to be the epitome of insanity, I think...especially if you're playing in a REC league, and are you know, a bit on the "older" side. But what the hell -- I still want to get at least one goal before a dramatic sports injury sidelines my soccer "career."

So off to the gym I go -- to sprint my way to super speediness and hopefully a more productive indoor soccer season. Yeah...indoor soccer. The Beavis may be taking some time off over the winter months, but I'm just getting started.

You know that scene in Office Space? You know...the one where Samir and Michael Bolton get fired from their jobs at Initech, and Peter steals the pain-in-the-ass copier so they can beat the hell out of it with baseball bats? And gangsta rap is playing in the background? You know -- that scene?

Well, that's how I felt yesterday. No, not because I got fired. But because ... drumroll, please ... I found a new job. And -- after a year and a half in publishing -- I finished up my two weeks' notice, turned over my office key card, and walked away from my cubicle for the last time.

I won't lie -- it felt good. No, it felt awesome. I did a little hop, skip, and a jump as I walked away from that job, with the words from Samir's rap favorite song (Back up in your ass/with the resurrection) blasting away in my head. YES! YES! YES!

But that's all I'm going to say about the old job...and no, I'm not going to mention what I'll be doing come Monday. Blogs are too easy to find these days, and I don't plan on getting "dooced" any time soon. Let's just say I'm happy with the change, and I think this is going to go a long way toward alleviating my stomach issues and give me a chance to focus on writing for fun and/or myself for a while. YES!

Now, if you'll excuse me -- I have to look up the hip-hop version of Take This Job and Shove It (from the Office Space soundtrack), so I can blast it from the computer speakers as I celebrate this major life change!

Now that soccer season is over, I decided to turn my attention to another (and even shorter) season -- strawberry season. Yeah, you heard me -- strawberry season. If I ever end up stranded on a desert island with a minimal food supply, I would hope it could include strawberries. And cheese. But cheese has nothing to do with this entry. This is about my love for strawberries. Real strawberries...from a local farm. Not strawberries trucked across the country from the Sunshine State.

Last Saturday, I decided (now that I have a bunch of free time on my hands) to go out to the local strawberry farm and pick strawberries. I haven't been berry picking since The Beavis was 10 and I convinced him and his friend to be my strawberry picking slaves for the day.(Ah, good times, good times.) But last weekend, it was all me. Me and a giant patch of strawberries. And I was determined to pick a bunch of those little suckers...enough to eat in cereal and yogurt and fruit salads for the entire week, with plenty left over to freeze for the winter.

Now, I don't know if you've ever frozen strawberries for consumption during the off season, but it takes A LOT of strawberries to get anything worth freezing. A lot of strawberries. Maybe two or three hours worth of bending over rows and rows of strawberries, hoping that the end of the strawberry season doesn't mean piddly little strawberries with no flavor. And maybe, just maybe, because you are picking the strawberries alone, you'll choose to leave the already full buckets of strawberries at the bottom of the row you just picked, so that you don't have to drag them along as you fill up a new bucket. And maybe, just MAYBE, the folks picking strawberries along with you will leave the patch before you, taking YOUR already filled buckets of strawberries (lovingly left at the bottom of the rows you already picked) with them when they leave.

Seriously, folks. Who the hell takes another person's buckets of strawberries with them when they leave the U-Pick patch? Huh? Tell me!

When that happens, there's not much you can do (if you still want strawberries) except to suck it up, grab another bucket, and keep picking. For another hour. Until the thunderstorms roll in and chase you out of the patch with your carefully guarded remaining buckets of red berries.

And, after a long afternoon picking berries (followed by an even longer evening washing and cutting the damn things), you'll end up with...four one-quart freezer bags filled with berries. Four quarts. FOUR. QUARTS. And you'll curse that damn family with their four kids and their minivan and their Michigan State bumper sticker, and you'll think about how they are enjoying your berries right now -- while all you have for the coming non-strawberry season if four stinking quarts of berries.

And then, because soccer season is over, you'll consider going back to the U-Pick patch next weekend to try to get some more berries. But, you'll vow never to leave your berry buckets unattended at the bottom of ANY row, not even if you are alone in the strawberry patch -- not ever again.

The first week of June marked a lot of changes for everyone in the Hippie Househould, the big one (for me) being that The Beavis finished up eighth grade and got his pass to move on...to high school. I don't know about you, but I'm not ready for The Beavis to enter high school. Hell, I STILL vividly remember my first day of high school and the ultra-miserable hormonal mess that followed for the next four years. Granted, The Beavis has been in the same school district for his entire life, and has a circle of friends that will most likely stick together through high school -- just like they did all through elementary and middle school. Still, my BABY is in high school. And he and his buddies are already planning their outfits for HOMECOMING.

That's just not possible.

But overall, I think The Beavis has got his shit together and will get through the next four years. I even have a back-up plan. If he can't make the grade, I'm calling in his old math teacher to give him a little lecture about the importance of his studies:

What? It takes a village to raise a child, you know. And sometimes some members of that so-called village have to be a little tough on the more obnoxious inhabitants.

Shortly following the last day of junior high, The Beavis' U14 recreational soccer team played their last game together. Most of the kids have been together since they were seven years old, and -- when they are not screwing around or threatening to beat each other up during practice -- they can play some good soccer. The team made it to tournaments this year, which is always fun, and -- although the coaches had some doubts as to their ability to take home the first place trophy -- the kids pulled two consecutive wins out of their collective backsides, while playing the most cohesive and well-executed games of their last two seasons together. Go figure.

Of course, this means the end of my rather inglorious "coaching" career. The kids are all getting ready to try out for their respective high school teams, and will be going on to bigger and better soccer fields. Me? Well, I'll miss 'em. They may have been a difficult crew, but I enjoyed the fact that they got me outdoors three times a week and forced me to really commit my lazy self to their cause. And during the period immediately following my lay off, going to soccer practice on a regular basis and focusing on the kids was a lifesaver. So, while saying goodbye to Saturday morning 8 a.m. soccer runs, a stinky equipment bag, and way too many games spent standing in the rain doesn't SOUND all that bad, I'm pretty much bereft at the loss. Clearly, the accupuncture isn't working all that well.

The Bad News Bears strike again, ending a winning season on a high note.

Of course, what's a winning season without gatorade? Especially when you dump it over your MOM.

Thanks a lot, Beavis. Now, come here so I can strangle you. Note: Thanks to HWSRN for taking the tournament picts. Especially the ones of me. With Gatorade on my head. No, I'm not mad. Seriously. You shouldn't worry about me seeking any kind of revenge at all.

Of course, our "adult" recreational league sort of disbanded for the summer, too -- leaving me with quite a bit of free time. Crazy! I guess I may get some knitting and/or home improvements done after all. It's amazing how much time a little thing like soccer can take up...once you get into it. Just amazing.

Yeah, I'm maudlin. I don't like things to end. For me, the end of The Beavis' middle school years and his aging out of the soccer rec league system is a reflection of the passing of time...for ME. When The Beavis entered middle school, I was 30. When he started playing soccer (to keep up with his cool friends from school,) I was 27. Now, I'm staring at ANOTHER birthday in just two weeks, and feeling a bit...I don't know...nervous about it. Maybe even a little bit OLD.

Of course, there's only one way to cure that feeling. Join the high school Athletic Booster Club! Get involved in high school soccer! Play more with your adult league! Maybe even...coach another team?

I know. I really should just stick with the knitting, shouldn't I?

The Kinks sang about depression long before it was trendy to be depressed, as evidenced by the title of this post — and, yes…one of my all-time favorite tunes. It’s deceptively peppy for a song about mental disease, but such is the genius of Ray Davies. He earned his bread and butter off of fairly nostalgic tunes about Britain’s past glories, and had a knack for turning a depressing topic into something deceptively light-hearted enough to top “Top of the Pops” time and time again.

Heck, if you don’t believe me, try listening to “Dead End Street.” If you can get past the feedback from brother Dave’s guitar, you’ll find a very grim song. Shoot – if you’re really intrepid, you could probably find the video on You Tube. It’s dark stuff. With a great pop hook. Go figure.

Anyhow, I love that song. Not because I’m a schizophrenic. And no, I’m not even paranoid, except on occasion – for example, when I have an “off” day on the soccer field and think my teammates are IM-ing each other about my inadequacies. But blue…now, that’s another story. I am blue a lot of the time. And I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember.

I was always a moody kid, I think. It’s hard to go back and remember how you were, especially as you age. But I have it on good authority from my aunt that I was a shy kid, often hiding behind a book at family reunions and sitting out the games or sports events that everyone else so enthusiastically participated in. No, I wasn’t a loner – I had a core group of three friends, and we were very close. I also had a fairly wide circle of acquaintances at school. But I was shy…my nose stayed in a book most of the time and I generally walked with my eyes on the ground.

I guess I thought if I couldn’t see other people, they couldn’t see me.

My folks liked to explain this away to other people as me having an “artistic” temperament. I wanted to be a writer from the moment I knew what a writer was, and I was forever sketching plots or writing poems and narratives that I would immediately destroy for fear they would be found. I think I suffered Van Gogh’s angst and Hemingway’s writer’s block long before I knew anything about the artists themselves. It made me quite moody and emotional as a kid. But I guess that’s what writers and other artistic types do. They cultivate moody until it is a high art form.

My so-called mood swings got worse once puberty hit. By college, I was probably not very stable. A combination of life changes…my family’s third move in five years, me going away to college, the loss of close friendships…sent me over the edge in college, where (although not diagnosed) I’m pretty sure I had a breakdown. So, I dropped out. From a college where I had a great scholarship and was making the dean’s list with ease. At that point, however, I could have given a shit less. It was the first time I experienced the “crawl-into-bed-and-stare- at-the-ceiling” kind of depression I would eventually come to know all too well.

Oddly enough, being pregnant alleviated my depression. I was a good pregnant person…no morning sickness, no crazy cravings, the picture of health. High-risk, to be sure (I was still a teenager), but my doctors were pretty happy with me. The pregnancy hormones elevated my mood and kept me on an even keel…I worked 60 hours a week at a labor-intensive job, and was going to school at the local community college.

Hell, I don’t even have that type of energy NOW. I really can’t tell you how I pulled it off then, with a parasitic Beavis protesting his 9-month confinement vigorously on the best of days.

I don’t recall if post-partum depression was an issue for me. There was a lot to contend with – I didn’t expect the labor to be as difficult as it was (neither did the doctors), and recovering was hard. I was living at home with my parents, and incorporating a baby into the routine was dicey. Working, finding day care, signing up for state benefits to support him, dealing with separation anxiety when I left him for the first time…I didn’t have time to wallow. I simply had to DO. I doubt I even had time to think at all during his first year of life. To be honest, I don’t even remember much of it.

The “post-partum” stuff came much later. I had managed to get myself into a four-year college, and was determined to get a degree so I could support The Beavis and stop relying on the state to do it for me. But part way through my first year of college, I made the executive decision to leave The Beavis’ dad. This decision has caused lasting repercussions, including three separate custody suits against me, and a huge loss of time and income while I was fiddling away my time and energy in court. It was at this time that I also made the unwise decision to get married (obviously, not to The Beavis’ dad) – another bad decision that cost me too much angst and emotional energy before I had the good sense to ask my now ex-husband for a divorce.

Somewhere around The Beavis’ second birthday, I sought treatment for my depression. I had the definite feeling that I was not all there, and my concern was NOT that I would hurt myself or him, but that I couldn’t be a present mother, a good mother to him in my “condition.” So began a long trial-and-error of many drugs…Prozac, Paxil, Wellbutrin, Zoloft, Buspar, etc…until I found Effexor and discovered my miracle cure. I was reborn.

Effexor made me “me” again…without the nagging doubts and fears always crowding out my thoughts and causing me to second-guess myself. I had energy, I had confidence, I had stick-to-it-ness, hell – I even felt flirty and sexy. But the one thing it also had, over time, was a pretty crappy effect (all puns intended) on my stomach. The result? A GI specialist recommending the drug’s cessation. And, granted, I am happy that my stomach is better, but God almighty – there are days when I wonder if I rival Van Gogh as cuckoo.

What’s the solution? I don’t know. I have done the yoga. I do the regular exercise. I take the B12 supplements. I am rigorous in my diet. I try to meditate. I try to knit. I garden. I use soccer as a crutch to spike my adrenaline level and get me through a day or two before I crash again. I write about it, sometimes. I did try Lexapro a few weeks ago, but I couldn’t take the side effects and the return of all my stomach pain.

My current doc’s recommendation? Take the Lexapro, and double, triple, quadruple if I have to, my daily dosage of fiber and Miralax. Excuse me, Western Medicine, but that doesn’t seem like an acceptable answer to me. Hell, I don’t think I could drink enough liquid in one day to get all of that stuff down. And even with that regimen, there’s no guarantee that my stomach will be happy. Sure, I may be happy…but my stomach? Probably not so much.

So, in a fit of absolute despair, I caved. I went absolutely nuts. I went…to an acupuncturist. My parents are convinced I’ve lost my mind. HWSRN doesn’t have much faith in it, either. The Beavis, well – he just wants to watch them stick the needles in my ear. As for myself...well, the verdict was out until the treatment worked.

I had heard, from someone else who had recently been to the same acupuncturist, that he experienced complete and utter relaxation during the treatment, even falling asleep on the table. But when the acupuncturist was poking away at my “meridians,” trying to determine the root cause of my stress and depression, she perhaps figured out what no one else has ever thought to suggest – that I am a deeply angry individual.

It turns out that the pressure points on your feet are hooked up to your liver, which is the organ that is equated with anger. And when the points on my feet were manipulated just right, I felt it – and I screamed. After that, it was determined that she would treat my stomach and my depression…by releasing my anger. Weird, huh?

So, in went the needles…two in each ear, two in each hand, one in the middle of my forehead, one in my skull, six straight across my stomach, three on each knee, and I don’t know how many on my feet. What I do know is that once the needles were in, I started shaking. And sweating. And crying. I don’t know how to explain it, except to say that I felt this huge upswelling of emotion, like water gushing over a damn, and it just wouldn’t stop. It was like wave upon wave of something, rushing up and crashing over me. I couldn’t will it to stop…it was absolutely involuntary.

I shook until the last needle came out, and was utterly drained when it was over. Drained, but refreshed. The acupuncturist said the reaction made sense for someone who experienced (and bottled) a lot of anger. She also said that the skin around the needles in my stomach turned bright red, like bulls-eyes. Weird as it sounds, something good happened in that room. Something healing.

I know that acupuncture isn’t a magic bullet. I have to go multiple times before I will begin to “self-heal,” or so says the hippie literature on the subject. And, I have to admit that I am not as calm or relaxed today as I was last week. But for three or four days, I was mellow. And happy. And positive. AND…pain free. It was amazing. More amazing than any anti-depressant that I have ever experienced.

So, is it the answer? I don’t know. I really don’t. But it’s a start…and, along with the mandate to do yoga at home and drink more water, maybe it will work. At least I hope it does. I’m not really looking forward to the alternatives if it doesn’t.