Third Act With Pattie

Tag: mental-health

  • I Knew Better

    I Knew Better

    As I write this, we are on Day Three (of Five) of Liddle S’kiddle’s Family Senior Trip to Universal Studios Orlando.

    Against all logic, reason, and personal preference, I am still alive.

    Accompanying me on this adventure are Hubby, Senior S’kiddle, Middle S’kiddle, Middle S’kiddle’s boyfriend Redbeard (currently enjoying a favorable performance review), and of course, Liddle S’kiddle.

    To say I don’t enjoy amusement parks is like saying the Pope is a little bit Catholic.

    I am not comfortable in big crowds.

    Short people, you know what I mean.

    We are overlooked down here.

    Stepped over.

    Bumped into.

    And back in the days when everybody smoked? Burned.

    My PTSD still burns bright.

    Loud noises confuse me and make it difficult for me to think.

    I do not like to ride rides, mostly because I really do not want to stand in lines.

    And finally, I do not like to be hot and sweaty.

    Despite the facts, and because of my love for all the S’kiddles, I let hope overrule experience.

    I knew.

    We took this trip before when all the S’kiddles were little, sans Redbeard of course, and neither I nor they have changed. 

    They still disagree frequently and loudly:  on food, on clothes, on makeup, and existentially – boys. 

    They remain completely different human beings with wildly different definitions of fun.

    In addition, just two days before leaving on this trip, I dropped the edge of a 30-pound design wall onto my big toe…

    and it landed squarely on the nail root—

    that tender little patch of flesh where the nail emerges from the skin

    and pain goes to live.

    I’m not gonna lie.

    I cried like my foot had been amputated with a butter knife.

    Oh, and let’s not forget that I am sneaking up on seventy whether I approve of it or not.

    Or that I had cancer last year and had my last chemo treatment after Christmas. I forget about it more often than you’d think – until my body reminds me that IT has not.

    In other words, I arrived at Universal carrying a bruised toe, post-chemo stamina, sensory overload issues, and a lifelong dislike of amusement parks.

    The odds were not in my favor.

    First stop: Super Nintendo World.  Three stories of noise, music, children, and heat aimed directly at your soul.

    My circuits overloaded within five minutes –

    full-on senior brain seizure. 

    Next stop: Donkey Kong – kingdom of intense heat and sanity-invading drumbeats. 

    Two hour wait in the sun while the “children” – all of them adults, every one capable of being left unsupervised –  rode a roller coaster that turned out to be their least favorite.  

    And Hubby and I, still mid-brain seizure – never thought to seek shade and comfort just steps away. 

    Pull up a chair. There is no way this trip fits into one story.

    Frankly, it may take three margaritas and a miniseries.

    -Pattie

    P.S.  Consider this Episode One of The Universal Chronicles. More to come – pace yourselves.

    Subscribe now. New episodes of suffering drop regularly, and binge-reading is encouraged.

  • My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

    My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

    I call myself a quilter.

    In the interest of full disclosure…
    I haven’t touched my sewing machine in at least ten months.

    And considering the fact that I own enough fabric to insulate a small village…
    that feels a little ridiculous.

    First it was cancer,
    then it was recovery,
    then it was the Great Retirement Delusion.

    The phase where we allegedly “slowed down,” despite the fact that I now spend half my life trying to remember where I put things I packed myself.

    We have moved so many 27-gallon bins full of sewing room stuff that if they were filled with water,

    I’d have a hot tub.

    But I don’t.

    I have fabric and notions and tools and machines and enough sewing-room chaos

    that if I did have a hot tub,

    I’d probably be too exhausted to climb into it.

    And even though I’m currently buried alive under “moving a sewing room,”

    something unexpected has happened.

    Every time I open another bin,

    I stumble into an old idea,

    an old project,

    or a version of myself who used to make things just because she wanted to.

    Tiny scraps from a shooting star quilt I made during the phase where I believed sewing together 1.5 x 2-inch pieces would somehow make me a “real quilter” instead of just giving me neck pain and eye strain.

    A ruler I’ve used so much the numbers are wearing off,

    which feels judgmental at this point.

    Half a bundle of fat quarters that instantly brings back a last-minute Christmas table runner…

    and a weekend where I stayed up until 2 a.m.,

    insisting I was “almost done”

    like a woman with absolutely no prior experience being me.

    A box full of blocks for a quilt I adored while cutting…

    and completely hated by block five of assembly.

    And somewhere between hauling bins, untangling extension cords, and wondering why all seventeen pairs of my fabric scissors disappear simultaneously like they’re part of an organized crime ring…

    my brain skipped right past “you should really get organized” and went straight to:

    What can I make now?

    Not what should I donate.
    Not what should I finish.
    Not what responsible adults would do in this situation.

    What can I make now!

    And then it hit me…

    my sewing room wasn’t just fabric storage

    it was where my creativity had quietly been waiting for me.

    Honestly, I didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling until it came back.

    Not the pressure to make something impressive.
    Not the giant complicated projects that require seventeen fabrics and a level of math I refuse to acknowledge publicly.

    Just the spark.

    That little twitch in your brain that looks at fabric and immediately starts making terribly wonderful decisions.

    The sudden belief that this might be the project where I lose myself in the creating for a while… and somehow find pieces of myself again in the process.

    And after ten months of surviving, recovering, relocating, downsizing, upsizing, and wandering around looking for things I packed myself…

    that tiny creative spark feels a lot less like “coming home” and a lot more like trouble.

    The good kind.

    The kind that ends with fabric all over the table, thread stuck to your shirt, twenty-seven browser tabs open for “inspiration,” and a completely irrational conviction that your entire happiness depends on finding one more shade of teal.

    And honestly?
    I think I’m finally ready for that again.

    So come sit by me.

    We’ll dig through fabric, make wildly questionable project decisions, and lie to ourselves about only starting one new quilt.

    Some traditions are worth preserving.

    – Pattie

  • Domestic Squatting: A Personal Tail

    Domestic Squatting: A Personal Tail

    For the past FIVE days, my best frienemy Hennie has been staying at my house.

    Hennie belongs to Mama’s granddaughter, my niece.
    Which, according to Mama’s completely unverified family math, makes ME Hennie’s great aunt.

    Honestly, that feels correct.
    I do have strong opinions and chronic disappointment in other people’s decisions.

    Also, I am older. 

    Now Hennie is a white chiweenie (half chihuahua and half weenie dog?) and only weighs seven pounds, but she has the confidence of a much larger problem.

    And listen…
    I love her.

    But also?

    She is exhausting.

    From the minute she arrives, the entire household becomes chaos.
    We run.
    We wrestle.
    We bark at things that are absolutely our business.
    We conduct perimeter security like two emotionally unstable park rangers.

    At first, it’s fun.

    Then eventually Hennie remembers who she is.

    A tiny loud girl with absolutely no boundaries.

    For example:
    Hennie insists we all go outside every fourteen minutes.

    Urgently.

    Like there has been a national emergency involving squirrels.

    So out we go.

    Then the second Mama opens the door to let us back in, Hennie suddenly becomes “a sunbathing girl.”

    She refuses to move.

    Just lays there in the blazing heat with her tiny legs stretched out.  Honestly, Hennie is less dog outside and more tiny desert lizard with anxiety.

    Meanwhile it is eighty-something degrees.

    I am hot.

    Hennie is laying in direct sunlight like she’s trying to recharge herself.

    And another thing…

    When we do go back inside she steals MY section of the sectional.

    MY section.

    My special, reserved section that no human even tries to steal.

    But little Hennie has her own rules.

    She also tries to steal my food.

    Now let me explain something.

    Hennie has her OWN bowl.
    Her OWN food.
    Her OWN tiny portions.

    She weighs seven pounds.
    She needs approximately ten pieces of kibble and a positive attitude to survive.

    But every single time Mama feeds us, Hennie immediately abandons her own bowl and comes trotting over to mine like she’s conducting a quality control inspection.

    Then she eats my food while I stand there in complete disbelief.

    I swear.
    One day I am going to put her in her place.

    Probably.

    Maybe.

    Unless she barks first.

    And the attitude.

    The audacity.

    At one point she looked directly at me like:
    “Oh. Were you eating this?”

    Mama laughed.
    Daddy laughed.
    I did not laugh. 

    I was one inconvenience away from legal representation.

    By this morning, I had stopped fighting back.
    I would just stand there staring at Hennie.

    There is apparently a proverb about guests and fish becoming a problem after three days.

    By Day Five, I would like to formally support that research.

    But then…

    Today…

    We took Hennie home, back to her own house.

    Honestly?
    The ride home was heavenly.

    No barking.
    No sectional theft.
    No tiny backyard hostage situations.
    No food-related betrayals.

    Peace.

    When we got home…

    I walked directly to my section …
    turned around three times for emotional reasons…
    collapsed dramatically into my rightful place…
    and slept like a woman who had finally reclaimed her nation.

    But that was hours ago.

    And now I miss her.

    A little.

    Apparently I’d gotten used to the chaos.

    💗🐾
    Sassy


    Great Aunt
    Section Owner
    Victim of Domestic Squatting

    If you’ve ever had your favorite seat stolen by a guest, I expect your full support in the comments.

    And subscribe, obviously. Somebody around here needs to be on my side. 💗🐾

  • 🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    I would first like the record to reflect that the parents left me behind.

    Again.

    Discarded while they wandered off on what I assume was a completely unnecessary vacation involving restaurants that don’t allow dogs and beds that probably weren’t even properly covered in fur.

    I think it’s important to report the facts.

    The parents insist on calling the place they leave me “the farm.”

    First of all…

    it is NOT a farm.

    The way the parents say it, you’d think we were out there being free-range harvested.

    Frankly, their branding is terrible.

    This place is so much better than a farm.

    We call it:
    being on campus.

    Because this place was very clearly designed specifically for dogs.

    Finally.

    Someone with vision.

    We have our own house.

    Not a kennel.
    Not a shed.
    Not one of those sad little concrete situations where everyone slowly loses the will to live.

    There are fields and meadows, and woodsy areas, and…

    A HOUSE.

    A big house.
    Like two-legged people houses.

    Except cleaner and emotionally better regulated.

    There are leather couches.
    A fireplace.
    A kitchen.

    Of course, we have staff to prepare the meals because none of us have thumbs…               and frankly that feels like a design flaw we should address as a species.

    There are also outdoor recreation areas, structured activities, enrichment programs, leadership development, and ongoing educational opportunities.

    Mama calls it “training.”

    That is adorable.

    This is higher education.

    I arrived fully prepared to carry the burden of abandonment with dignity, restraint, and just enough sadness to make everyone uncomfortable.

    Emotional discipline is important.

    Instead…

    The Boxer was there.

    Tiny White Floof had already positioned herself on the couch like a tiny retired queen judging the entire campus.

    Mr. Golden Retriever Class President was once again running around greeting everyone like an unpaid cruise director fueled entirely by optimism.

    Then there was the doodle.

    There is always a doodle.

    This one looked like he had consumed three energy drinks and half a motivational podcast before breakfast.

    Honestly, things escalated quickly.

    There was running.
    There was training.
    There were organized social activities.

    At one point, I became so involved in campus life that I briefly forgot I had parents.

    In my defense, there was a lot going on.

    The faculty did not help matters.

    Apparently I was “a very good girl.”

    Repeatedly.

    Frankly, I found the entire thing manipulative.

    Effective.
    But manipulative.

    Time moves differently on campus.  

    One minute you’re being abandoned by your family.

    The next minute you’re supervising outdoor activities and helping maintain doodle stability.

    Then suddenly it was time to go home.

    Apparently, Mama expected some sort of emotional reunion scene when she returned.

    Probably tears.

    Possibly dramatic whining.

    Maybe me launching myself into her arms while soft music played in the background.

    Honestly, she may have built the whole thing up in her head.

    Instead, I was outside managing a rapidly escalating doodle situation.

    Frankly, the campus was one poorly timed squirrel away from complete disorder.

    It was not an appropriate moment for emotional reunions.

    Plus, I have my pride.

    Now to be clear…

    I DID miss them.

    Usually during brief quiet moments between activities.

    Or when nobody was actively throwing something.

    But overall, I adjusted extremely well to campus life.

    Mama always tells people:
    “Sassy LOVES going to the farm!”

    This is an outrageous oversimplification.

    What I love is:
    structure,
    leadership opportunities,
    my friends,
    and whatever magical system they have in place that results in twenty dogs behaving better than one Daddy trying to grill hamburgers.

    Also naps in the sun.

    I love those too.

    By the time they got me home, I was exhausted in the deeply satisfying way one becomes exhausted after a successful semester away.

    I slept the entire evening.

    At one point Mama checked to make sure I was still breathing..

    which honestly felt over-dramatic.

    Then the next morning, Mama casually used the word “campus” in conversation, and I would like it officially noted that I was standing at the front door with one toy, two emotional support tennis balls, and complete emotional readiness before she finished the sentence.

    Purely precautionary.

    Leadership is a responsibility, not a hobby

    — Sassy 🐾

    Off the record…

    Hey girl…

    I know your parents left you while they went somewhere with my parents.

    I wish you’d been at my campus this weekend. We could’ve used another very good girl.

    Did your weekend get this wild too?

  • Lake Music

    Rain

    tap tap tapping

    on the metal roof

    Wind whipping

    through the trees

    Water rushing

    everywhere

    The lake makes its own music