Constipation and Happiness

Here is my situation: I am bloated, tired, stressed, and over it. But remarkably happy about it.

Let’s break it down (now I have Justin Timberlake singing that in my head)

BLOATED

I am sick and tired of having this bloated pooch for a mid section of my body. I wish I was one of those divided flip books where you could just choose your legs, middle, and head. The reason I am bloated is possibly because I have been eating some dairy, bread, and sugar. And whisky. Consuming these items while in a fight or flight mode just puffs me all up like a puffer fish trying to protect itself. And I get grumpy. Then all the people who live with you get scared and also seek out comfort from ice cream and before you know it everyone is constipated and then the toilets all stop up. And it costs you $350 for the plumber to come out on a Friday evening emergency call to fix it.

I am working out, convincing myself I am eating well, and am generally happy. (Thanks, Zoloft and Wellbutrin!) I mean, I actually do have my shit together, all things considered. My shit is so together, I’m constipated. Alas, my senna laxatives can only do so much. I guess I just have to zen out before I can get my flat stomach back.

TIRED

I don’t sleep as much or as well as I would like. We need a new mattress, I get hot in the middle of the night, my husband and shiz tzu both snore, and one of the cats likes to come talk to me in the middle of the night.

I am a fan of naps.

STRESSED

The past month has been a wee bit hectic. First, my daughter graduated from high school. Big deal. And a couple of days after that we went to a freshman and family orientation at the school she is going to in Atlanta this fall. I am not prepared for her to leave yet. It’s like knowing you are gonna lose your arm in September and you’re just supposed to be happy because it’s what is best for the arm.

The next week my mother had her heart shocked back into rhythm because she has afib that won’t calm down. She had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia and puffed up so much she could barely see and broke out in hives. But at least her heart was in rhythm for a full 48 hours. Then it went back to improvising and it took several days for the doctor to get it under control. My mom lives with heart disease and it involves three different issues, none of which are fun and exciting. So, she could just die suddenly. But so far, she has been polite enough to not drop dead. I really appreciate that.

The week after that my husband left to do Race Across America, a bicycle race from California to Maryland. He and his team did it in six days, and raised over $300,000 for cancer research. He raced through 124 degree heat, wildfires, climbed over 11,000 feet, dodged coyotes and wild dogs, did not sleep much, and stayed alive. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if he was alive because there was not any phone service where they were. The kids and I drove up to meet him at the finish line in Annapolis. It was amazing and the hardest most bad ass thing he has ever done. Except maybe staying married to me.

The morning that my husband left for California, my dearest friend since age six died suddenly. I am dealing with this alone. My husband is gone and my teenagers are being teens. Preparing a eulogy for a lifetime of friendship and saying goodbye sucks ass. And makes you sad and mad and lonely and happy for what you shared all at the same time.

OVER IT

As I come back home to clean up dog and cat hair and the never ending issues of owning an old house, I just want some peace and calm.

Then somebody decides to fuck with me. This somebody doesn’t know me very well. I let somebody know in no uncertain terms what I think of the particular situation we are in. Somebody is a jerk face and has no idea they are a jerk face and I’m not having it. It feels really good to not give a fuck about some situations or some peoples fragile and high opinion of themselves. And still not lose your shit and just be matter of fact about it all.

I feel like I’m really doing Carrie Fisher proud.

HAPPY

I am all of these things but still gloriously happy, mainly because I have been in therapy for 35 years and have a perfect balance of medication. But I’m gonna give me some good old fashioned credit for just sticking it out in life this long.

I know that all of this will pass. I have survived 52 years in this world and I keep getting better at dealing with it all. I have known deep love and amazing friendships, the privilege of aging, and the joy of my own little family growing up together.

Life is much like my husband’s Race Across America. You really don’t know what you are getting yourself into. You might die of exhaustion, sleep deprivation, or be eaten by coyotes. But you will see the most glorious sights, climb the highest mountains, make the best friends and most amazing memories. And at the end of it, you will be greeted by love and joy at the finish line.

After, you will go get ice cream with your family to celebrate. Even if it bloats you.

Now what?

These first few days of January have been stress inducing, what with the storming of the United States Capital and all. People believing anything they see or hear. It’s mind boggling how many idiots there really are in the world. And it is so embarrassing. Kinda hard to feel like an international traveling actress/fantasy woman full of mystique when you are from the US right now. Plus, you can’t travel because of stupid dumb Covid.

Remember Schoolhouse Rock?

So I am just gonna work on what I can control right now. And it might be taking the feed bag off and exercising my gut away. Something strange happens when you stop exercising, start drinking and eating whatever you want, get cancer and have surgery, lay around some more, have teenagers, and just generally feel as if you got off the express train and onto a back road stuck behind a tractor that broke down. No wait, I’M the tractor! Geez this is a good analogy. I don’t want to be farm equipment. I prefer to be a purple Porsche 911 with leopard print interior.

As it stands, I’m more of a 1989 mid sized sedan that needs detail work and an oil change.

I’ve decided I want to look good in exercise clothes and a bikini again. Why? Well, cause I’d feel more like myself. I was skinny all of my life until this middle age shit show.

Plus, now that I am back into acting (was a Pilates instructor for 15 yrs) I have decided I am willing to sign the nudity contract for any upcoming union, well written, scripts that I get offered.

Me as a Pilates studio owner

I never wanted to do nudity before, but middle age and having anyone and everyone seeing my tits during the breast cancer thing got rid of any fucks I had about modesty. I used to look good nekkid. Nobody but my husband knew that. Now, I weigh 25 pounds more and have scars across my fake titty implants that move when I flex my pecs. SEXY.

Narrator: But there would never be a script offered to Ashley. Because no one wants to see a middle aged woman take of her clothes.

So really, it’s just a challenge to see what I can do with what I have now. Let’s see if this four door sedan can at least get a new paint job and some of that new car smell again.

Empath Exhaustion

Zoloft the Elf

I am definitely an empath. I also dress like a drunk kindergartner, which makes me attractive to depressed people, children, and the mentally delayed. I look like a one woman circus most days and live in a technicolor cottage.

My husband did all of the lights

I am also a good friend. I try to be present and honest and helpful to those in my circle. I truly enjoy giving. But holy fuck, sometimes I’m over being kind and loving. I want to scream, “The fuck is wrong with you?! Get it together. If I can survive, so can you!” But I don’t say that, because that wouldn’t be received well by those teetering on the edge.

Now, I totally understand depression and what happens if you do not take care of your mental and physical health. Having a father that was brilliant, mentally ill, had addiction issues, and never completed therapy or dealt with his own trauma, ended up bringing him to death by suicide at age 70.

Good times when all were happy and healthy
Nutmeg the cat, me, Daddy, and my sister Jan

It is just hard, but somehow refreshing, to not be available all the time to everyone. Even when a couple of folks have no understanding of you needing an empath recess. Did Jesus ever go, “Fuck, man, just leave me alone so I can sort my own shit out.”? Jesus didn’t have a cell phone. So I guess he could hide from the lepers if he wanted to.

Free association break: I was at a funeral once and in all the flowers surrounding the casket, there was a styrofoam rectangle with plastic flowers hot glued around the edges and in the middle was a big red plastic rotary dial phone-off the hook- and letters that spelled out, Jesus Called… Sometimes I’m not the best person to bring to a funeral.

I’ve had the benefits of 35+ years of therapy and the right meds when I needed them.

The year 2020, when everyone’s life has sucked rotten eggs and you are some people’s life line and joy and who they call when they are down, your phone WON’T STOP MAKING NOISES. I imagine Octomom felt similar when she had 8 tiny infants and no husband to pick up the slack. I’m pretty sure I would have just gone all guppy on those babies and just ate them if they got in my way on a bad day.

I do surround myself with color and glitter and silliness to keep my own self happy. But it does seem to be a beacon to those who also need some joy in their life. Most days I am so happy to share myself with others. But what I need is a signal to allow those who need me all the time and have no concept of my own emotional life, and perhaps boundaries in general, that I am not currently available. Like the red light outside of the recording booth so you know to be quiet.

My first thought is a beige flag. That is too awful to even bring to reality. Too sad. Maybe black? But that is for funerals and eyeliner. Grey is an option. Eww. Anyhow, I will soldier on. Being a loving person who just puts her phone on silent for awhile.

Now, to plan my outfit for the day. What in my closet says rainy New Year’s Day? For now, I’m content still being in my big red robe, dog in lap, tea in mug.