Bringing Blogging Back
Do you, too, hate Facebook? How about Twitter? TikTok? Instagram? Same ya'll. So, I'm bringing the blog back. I need to write, I don't need to share my data with anyone, and so, here behind a VPN, and no ads, and no pressure of any sort... welcome back officially to Growing Up Granby.
I suppose I should begin again with where we began all those many years ago, yes, fifteen in fact!
My very first post here included the lyrics to the only song I knew well enough to sing my four babies to sleep. And now, I have no more babies to sing to and the innocence of this song strikes me as ironic today. I think the fact that the current mood of our world makes me question the veracity of a lullaby is really enough to unpack, yes?
Ugh.
There. That's 2020.
One big, giant, fucking shit show.
I am here, my kids are all physically healthy. My husband is a god damn rock star - STILL. So, it's not like I have a personal life falling to pieces. In fact, that's the one thing keeping me here. On this keyboard. My family. I'm going THROUGH it and it sucks.
What is it? Well, it could be bipolar disorder to be perfectly honest. Yep. The depression I went through in 2017 - 2018 left me in bed for three months and for the first time in life I contemplated my children's lives without me. It was scary. It came out of nowhere. It felt like nothing I've felt before in my life.
My house isn't large. It's a ranch. It's a long, 1400 square footer with my bedroom at one end and the garage and living room at the other. The dozen or so steps it took to get to the bathroom was so exhausting, I decided to just not eat that much or drink that much. I got away with only getting out of bed at 10 am and again at 9 pm. Other than that, I slept and watched television and played games on my iPad.
Immediately before this, I was working what I thought was my dream job. I was traveling the country, I was doing good work. I was one of "those girls" in the airport with my dusty rose trench coat, perfect patent leather Mary Janes, and a body-conscious dress that fit me like a glove. I was a size 4. I was working out all the time. I was eating perfectly. My hair a lovely shade of golden ash brown with blonde highlights was in a frizz-free bob. My skin was glowing because I'd been having laser treatments and $200 facials. I looked exactly like the woman I imagined I'd become. I became the furthest thing from who I truly was. I was hiding. That, my friends, is called shame.
Looking back, I think I was ashamed of being poor for so long. When you get married at 19, things aren't exactly easy. We were evicted from apartments, lived on food stamps, it was awful. I never knew when my ex-husband would be unemployed again. So, I decided to go back to college in 1997. I finished it, too.
There I was, working the job I never thought I could have, and all I could do was beat myself up for taking too long to accomplish anything. I was partly embarrassed by it, but I'd also swing to moments of pride. I fucking did it. I didn't have bootstraps, but I did wear pointe shoes for many years and if you can do that, you can do anything. So, I made my own and I fought like hell to climb into whatever job would be next, would be harder, would pay more, would teach me more, and challenge me in new ways.
In reality, I was terrified they'd find me out: I was a fake. An imposter.
I didn't earn the job, I didn't know enough about the technical stuff, I wasn't strong enough with certain coworkers, I was constantly triple checking my work only to have my ass handed to me by someone. I thought it was just me, that I was failing on my own terms. I would spend two hours each morning on my hair and makeup. Do not get me started on the way I beat myself up over not working out enough.
If you were to include travel, I was easily working 80-90 hour weeks.
At home, my father's health continued to decline. Then my mother's hip broke. Then... I just couldn't take it anymore. I was sitting in my home office, hoping to help a friend run for State Senate, I was running for a seat on the Selectboard while serving on the School Committee and it all started happening. I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong. It started with shaking. My voice, then my hands, then my entire body, then panic.
I'd pull into the parking lot for a School Committee meeting and the ability to take a breath would leave me. Or I'd feel the shaking coming and could not force myself into that building. It got to the point where just walking into my sons' school, I felt responsible for all the ways the school was struggling. It was a crazy notion, I know that now. In 2017, however, I did not.
Everything that was wrong around me I'd find a way to blame myself. It was and is selfish and self-centered to think that way, but I've never claimed to be perfect. Also, I was likely having the first break into this world of bipolar disorder. I honestly do not know. I just know I fought like hell to get that job, I enjoyed 80% of it and then fell flat on my face. At least it felt that way to me. I'm proud of the work I did, and I'm in a good enough place to know it was good work.
The thing is, I quit that job out of fear and without a clear plan as to what to hell I was going to do with myself next.
Never. Never in my life have I ever been unemployed. I've worked two jobs at a time. After getting a worker's permit in 1984, I always had a source of income. Sometimes it was $20 a week babysitting, but I had a job. And yet, in August 2017, I gave a three weeks notice to the best paying gig I've ever had, pulled the calendar filled with travel dates and destinations off the wall and called it OVER.
It wasn't a relief.
It wasn't anything I had hoped it would be.
I was adrift. I went from constant high-pressure deadlines, running through concourses, and looking for an Uber for 90 hours a week to NOT A FUCKING THING TO DO IN THE WHOLE WORLD.
And the worst part??
Nobody needed me.
Nobody emailed.
Nobody called.
It was me. For the very first time in my life, I sat still long enough to figure out that there's still some shit up there that I gotta deal with. It's easy to keep moving, to put it away in a box, and keep it there in a dark room. To not think about what's wrong, who hurt you, how they hurt you, and the hard truths behind that pain. It doesn't go away. There's no hiding from this stuff, I've tried. As a former Activity Night organizer and champion hide-n-seek player, if there was a way to hide it away, I'd have figured it out by now.
Look, this blog ain't gonna be a rain of sunshine. In fact, I hope nobody even reads it. This is the only way I know how to move forward through shit. I've grown up a bit so I've added medication and therapy to the mix.
This blog is a rambling rant of bullshit. I rarely edit. I rarely even reread what is here. The only time I do is if I mention a family member so I can try not to piss anyone off. I always do.
If something here is harsh, if you don't like it, if I fuck up something (and I will), if I go off on a rant... this is my safe place to do that. I can't do this any other way. So, please, cut a girl some slack. Who knows, maybe honesty still has a place out there. Maybe blogs do. Maybe blogs coming back is what we need?
I left FB two years ago and it was the single greatest gift I've ever bought myself. You should try it. Start a group text with your family members, send each other pics, keep Zuckerberg out of it. He doesn't deserve you and you're not for sale, are you?
Yeah, fine. So, here we are blogging again. The last time I blogged seriously, I was dealing with the loss of Patrick. That was all the way back in 2008. Now my dog and my dad are gone. Four weeks apart. April 16th for Clancy, just a few months shy of his 14th birthday. May 18th for dad.
I don't know that we can fill the space he left in our house. He'd been with us since we became a family. Aaron and I moved in together because I was pregnant. A year later, we had twin babies, my girls, and a dog named Clancy. He was the center of our All Six and without him there, we're all sort of floating looking for something to grab onto. Some anchor is missing still. An 82-pound anchor who couldn't bark anymore, who was fighting cancer, who couldn't hear, who went blind in one eye, who still fetched a stick, who still waiting by the front door for me to get home, who hated that suitcase, and who caught me when I fell that morning on October 30, 2008.
That was my Clancy.
I miss him every damn day. I still jump out of my bed, over the spot he slept in these last 13+ years. We still open the door slowly, waiting for his face to look up at us and smile from his spot by the front door, right next to my seat on the couch. We cannot stop missing the sound of the "Golden pant", especially after his tie-back surgery.
In the end, it was his mind. He was still doing all the doggie things. He was still happy until one day, he just wasn't anymore. He wasn't Clancy.
The first tip was when my sister came by to visit and he get up to say hello. Then he didn't seem to know where he was. He was looking for me, but I was right there. He'd look at me, whine a bit, but then run away from me. Gah, it was awful.
This, of course, is mid-pandemic. I drove him off to the animal hospital. We waited for hours in the car because nobody is allowed inside. They brought Clancy inside. They brought him outside. His bloodwork was fine, his tumors hadn't spread too much, but there was enough to worry about. As a result, we medicated him so he could at least stop pacing and searching and spinning.
Two hours after his first dose, he couldn't stand or walk. I spent that night on the floor next to him but it was time. I made him the promise the day I scooped him up off the floor and held that fuzzy butt in my arms. That is the deal. A lifetime of those sneezes, of ears flipped inside-out, of noses out windows, of chases down the street, and runs through the woods. All in exchange for a peaceful and pain-free passing.
We honored our pact.
In the morning we lost him, I called and scheduled a home visit. There is a local veterinarian who would make house calls. He would be by later that day.
We had one last day.
We cooked bacon, made peanut butter treats, he had his belly rubbed by all five of us who were here (my oldest is living in Oregon). That afternoon, all five of us gathered around our best friend, each with a hand on his fur, my hands holding his head, my eyes on his, when the doctor gave him the medication that would take him from us.
Clancy left this world with peanut butter and bacon on his breath, he knew who we were, he felt us all there, he heard us, and he went ahead to make heaven ready for who was to come to next.
I suppose I should begin again with where we began all those many years ago, yes, fifteen in fact!
You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine.
You make me happy,
When skies are gray.
You'll never know dear,
How much I love you.
So please don't take my sunshine away!
My very first post here included the lyrics to the only song I knew well enough to sing my four babies to sleep. And now, I have no more babies to sing to and the innocence of this song strikes me as ironic today. I think the fact that the current mood of our world makes me question the veracity of a lullaby is really enough to unpack, yes?
Ugh.
There. That's 2020.
One big, giant, fucking shit show.
I am here, my kids are all physically healthy. My husband is a god damn rock star - STILL. So, it's not like I have a personal life falling to pieces. In fact, that's the one thing keeping me here. On this keyboard. My family. I'm going THROUGH it and it sucks.
What is it? Well, it could be bipolar disorder to be perfectly honest. Yep. The depression I went through in 2017 - 2018 left me in bed for three months and for the first time in life I contemplated my children's lives without me. It was scary. It came out of nowhere. It felt like nothing I've felt before in my life.
My house isn't large. It's a ranch. It's a long, 1400 square footer with my bedroom at one end and the garage and living room at the other. The dozen or so steps it took to get to the bathroom was so exhausting, I decided to just not eat that much or drink that much. I got away with only getting out of bed at 10 am and again at 9 pm. Other than that, I slept and watched television and played games on my iPad.
Immediately before this, I was working what I thought was my dream job. I was traveling the country, I was doing good work. I was one of "those girls" in the airport with my dusty rose trench coat, perfect patent leather Mary Janes, and a body-conscious dress that fit me like a glove. I was a size 4. I was working out all the time. I was eating perfectly. My hair a lovely shade of golden ash brown with blonde highlights was in a frizz-free bob. My skin was glowing because I'd been having laser treatments and $200 facials. I looked exactly like the woman I imagined I'd become. I became the furthest thing from who I truly was. I was hiding. That, my friends, is called shame.
 |
| What the fuck am I even doing? |
Looking back, I think I was ashamed of being poor for so long. When you get married at 19, things aren't exactly easy. We were evicted from apartments, lived on food stamps, it was awful. I never knew when my ex-husband would be unemployed again. So, I decided to go back to college in 1997. I finished it, too.
There I was, working the job I never thought I could have, and all I could do was beat myself up for taking too long to accomplish anything. I was partly embarrassed by it, but I'd also swing to moments of pride. I fucking did it. I didn't have bootstraps, but I did wear pointe shoes for many years and if you can do that, you can do anything. So, I made my own and I fought like hell to climb into whatever job would be next, would be harder, would pay more, would teach me more, and challenge me in new ways.
In reality, I was terrified they'd find me out: I was a fake. An imposter.
I didn't earn the job, I didn't know enough about the technical stuff, I wasn't strong enough with certain coworkers, I was constantly triple checking my work only to have my ass handed to me by someone. I thought it was just me, that I was failing on my own terms. I would spend two hours each morning on my hair and makeup. Do not get me started on the way I beat myself up over not working out enough.
If you were to include travel, I was easily working 80-90 hour weeks.
At home, my father's health continued to decline. Then my mother's hip broke. Then... I just couldn't take it anymore. I was sitting in my home office, hoping to help a friend run for State Senate, I was running for a seat on the Selectboard while serving on the School Committee and it all started happening. I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong. It started with shaking. My voice, then my hands, then my entire body, then panic.
I'd pull into the parking lot for a School Committee meeting and the ability to take a breath would leave me. Or I'd feel the shaking coming and could not force myself into that building. It got to the point where just walking into my sons' school, I felt responsible for all the ways the school was struggling. It was a crazy notion, I know that now. In 2017, however, I did not.
Everything that was wrong around me I'd find a way to blame myself. It was and is selfish and self-centered to think that way, but I've never claimed to be perfect. Also, I was likely having the first break into this world of bipolar disorder. I honestly do not know. I just know I fought like hell to get that job, I enjoyed 80% of it and then fell flat on my face. At least it felt that way to me. I'm proud of the work I did, and I'm in a good enough place to know it was good work.
The thing is, I quit that job out of fear and without a clear plan as to what to hell I was going to do with myself next.
Never. Never in my life have I ever been unemployed. I've worked two jobs at a time. After getting a worker's permit in 1984, I always had a source of income. Sometimes it was $20 a week babysitting, but I had a job. And yet, in August 2017, I gave a three weeks notice to the best paying gig I've ever had, pulled the calendar filled with travel dates and destinations off the wall and called it OVER.
It wasn't a relief.
It wasn't anything I had hoped it would be.
I was adrift. I went from constant high-pressure deadlines, running through concourses, and looking for an Uber for 90 hours a week to NOT A FUCKING THING TO DO IN THE WHOLE WORLD.
And the worst part??
Nobody needed me.
Nobody emailed.
Nobody called.
It was me. For the very first time in my life, I sat still long enough to figure out that there's still some shit up there that I gotta deal with. It's easy to keep moving, to put it away in a box, and keep it there in a dark room. To not think about what's wrong, who hurt you, how they hurt you, and the hard truths behind that pain. It doesn't go away. There's no hiding from this stuff, I've tried. As a former Activity Night organizer and champion hide-n-seek player, if there was a way to hide it away, I'd have figured it out by now.
Look, this blog ain't gonna be a rain of sunshine. In fact, I hope nobody even reads it. This is the only way I know how to move forward through shit. I've grown up a bit so I've added medication and therapy to the mix.
This blog is a rambling rant of bullshit. I rarely edit. I rarely even reread what is here. The only time I do is if I mention a family member so I can try not to piss anyone off. I always do.
If something here is harsh, if you don't like it, if I fuck up something (and I will), if I go off on a rant... this is my safe place to do that. I can't do this any other way. So, please, cut a girl some slack. Who knows, maybe honesty still has a place out there. Maybe blogs do. Maybe blogs coming back is what we need?
I left FB two years ago and it was the single greatest gift I've ever bought myself. You should try it. Start a group text with your family members, send each other pics, keep Zuckerberg out of it. He doesn't deserve you and you're not for sale, are you?
"If it's free, it's because you're the product."
Yeah, fine. So, here we are blogging again. The last time I blogged seriously, I was dealing with the loss of Patrick. That was all the way back in 2008. Now my dog and my dad are gone. Four weeks apart. April 16th for Clancy, just a few months shy of his 14th birthday. May 18th for dad.
This is for Clancy.
I don't know that we can fill the space he left in our house. He'd been with us since we became a family. Aaron and I moved in together because I was pregnant. A year later, we had twin babies, my girls, and a dog named Clancy. He was the center of our All Six and without him there, we're all sort of floating looking for something to grab onto. Some anchor is missing still. An 82-pound anchor who couldn't bark anymore, who was fighting cancer, who couldn't hear, who went blind in one eye, who still fetched a stick, who still waiting by the front door for me to get home, who hated that suitcase, and who caught me when I fell that morning on October 30, 2008.
That was my Clancy.
 |
| Clancy, Fall 2019 |
I miss him every damn day. I still jump out of my bed, over the spot he slept in these last 13+ years. We still open the door slowly, waiting for his face to look up at us and smile from his spot by the front door, right next to my seat on the couch. We cannot stop missing the sound of the "Golden pant", especially after his tie-back surgery.
In the end, it was his mind. He was still doing all the doggie things. He was still happy until one day, he just wasn't anymore. He wasn't Clancy.
The first tip was when my sister came by to visit and he get up to say hello. Then he didn't seem to know where he was. He was looking for me, but I was right there. He'd look at me, whine a bit, but then run away from me. Gah, it was awful.
This, of course, is mid-pandemic. I drove him off to the animal hospital. We waited for hours in the car because nobody is allowed inside. They brought Clancy inside. They brought him outside. His bloodwork was fine, his tumors hadn't spread too much, but there was enough to worry about. As a result, we medicated him so he could at least stop pacing and searching and spinning.
Two hours after his first dose, he couldn't stand or walk. I spent that night on the floor next to him but it was time. I made him the promise the day I scooped him up off the floor and held that fuzzy butt in my arms. That is the deal. A lifetime of those sneezes, of ears flipped inside-out, of noses out windows, of chases down the street, and runs through the woods. All in exchange for a peaceful and pain-free passing.
We honored our pact.
In the morning we lost him, I called and scheduled a home visit. There is a local veterinarian who would make house calls. He would be by later that day.
We had one last day.
We cooked bacon, made peanut butter treats, he had his belly rubbed by all five of us who were here (my oldest is living in Oregon). That afternoon, all five of us gathered around our best friend, each with a hand on his fur, my hands holding his head, my eyes on his, when the doctor gave him the medication that would take him from us.
Clancy left this world with peanut butter and bacon on his breath, he knew who we were, he felt us all there, he heard us, and he went ahead to make heaven ready for who was to come to next.
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