There are some beautiful, knowledgeable posts up about St. Paddy’s Day and the different celebrations that abound. There are probably ones teaching a bit about the day as well.

This isn’t one of those. I know very little besides the demand to wear green.

I have a legitimate claim to the day – great-grandma on my dad’s side was Irish, and his mother, though raised in New Zealand, held the traditional temper and stubbornness. She was a formidable almost-five-foot bundle of fierce.

I like to think I’m a like her, at least in the stubborn and feisty department. I never verge into unreasonable, however, she said with a wink.

“Stubborn” can be a double-edged sword – it helps get things done, but it also can also make one rigid.

Not that I’m ever that way.

Unless I’m under stress or in distress. Like most days when one is human.

It’s easier to maintain one’s personal and recovery goals in a bubble. Real life has been busy with a vengeance this last bit and I can’t say I’m a fan.

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Can we all agree that daylight saving time is a horrible idea whose time has passed? We’re only saving marginal energy with the shift these days, what with us being connected and producing nearly twenty-four-seven. The only reason not to, from a government perspective, is because you’re caving to pressure from businesses who don’t want to deal with the programming expenses.

Sucks to be them.

We’ve created this weird world where businesses think that all their costs should be born by the consumer and they’re should responsible for less-than-none. The latter would be the damage some industries cause and walk away from *cough – Alberta tailings ponds and orphan wells – cough.*

It’s also bad economics.

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The days are long and I’ve no time to do anything.

I’d forgotten how dependent young teens are. I’d forgotten how mature and independent they think they are. They’re more annoying and smellier than I remembered as well, though my memory has started to return.

There’s nothing like a teenage boy to render the atmosphere of a bedroom nigh uninhabitable. I’m not sure what they off-gas, but it’s vile, and teenage girls are much the same. They don’t notice, however, which doesn’t comfort me as I reflect on my tween years.

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I’m struggling with my body dysmorphia this week. It’s the neurosis that leads me to cut and pick at my face. I was already a little lit with the recent changes to my world – my neuroses have noticed I’m under stress and are pushing hard at the recovery wall.

Then came Garnier.

I bought the BB cream again. I’ve been upping my makeup game, and I’d forgotten how useful a BB cream can be. I had a Purlisse sample size one, but it’s a bit light. My eye caught on the Garnier one at the grocery store and I snapped it up.

Why did I stop using this, I asked myself as I brushed it on (I like to put on foundations with a brush). It’s such a lovely texture, with a nice scent, and a dewy finish. Plus, I love the convenience of an all-in-one. It removes one step from what feels like twenty at times.

Though all-in-one hair products never work well.

I remembered the next morning when I awoke to a face of pustules. Well, a bunch. I tend to be allergic when it comes to Garnier products (there’s a serum that’s okay). Cue the Claritin. Cue the cutting.

It’s not cutting in the way non-suicidal self-injury is, and can you hear my sneer regarding that name? Medical professionals do like to pretty names up, especially ones regarding mental illness, to much minimizing.

This is about perfecting a damaged field, though the way my brain tries to do that is by semi-surgical interventions in front of a mirror. It’s weird, I’m aware.

Harmful as well.

The current spike in behaviours is likely a (maladaptive) response to the anxiety provoked by recent changes, and by my need for order and symmetry. BDD is all about symmetry.

It wrecks my self-image at times. I’m not speaking metaphorically. I mean there are times when I try and visualize myself and I can’t. The features are skewed, off-kilter, oddly cubist. It’s a pain.

I need to calm down. I need to stop reacting as though challenging behaviours are personal.

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My mother’s lung cancer treatment is stealing her hair. All of it – her eyebrows and eyelashes are nearly a memory. She wear wigs, but they’re a bit of a challenge – aggressive arthritis in her hands makes putting them on difficult. And she’s like me – resistant to help.

I ordered some turbans, which are cute, and was finally able to convince her to get her hair cut. I figured it would be better shorter, less straggly and you’re less aware of the strands as they fall. And fall they are.

She’s delighted. It’s better than she thought, and the shorter cut bulks it up so it looks like more is there.

These are all true things, but my heart broke as well upon seeing her because they’re true things about very little hair. The forehead is very large now, the hairline receding at the top in all directions.

I notice again that not only is cancer cruel but so are the attempts at treatment.

I don’t want to ask if she still thinks treatment is worth it, what with all the side effects like more cancer, but I’m afraid of the answer.

The DNRs are a big enough punch.

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I’m required to be connected in my role as a foster parent. The various professionals involved communicate via email and I’m the recipient or a carbon for them all. The volume is impressive and because it might also be urgent, I’ve had to turn emails on my phone on.

“I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I am.”

This constant connection is not a good way to live. I’d forgotten that’s how we roll now – it’s been a while since I’ve been in any way connected to work. We managed to muddle through without it, and successfully, once upon a time.

I’m going to have to change the notification tone to something more soothing. It’s starting to make me flinch.

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