what sandra thinks

flowers.

Once upon a time, a very long time ago:

“Why don’t you ever bring me flowers?”

The next day, he came home with flowers, all proud of himself for getting them. Was I happy about it? No.

It was nice and I said thank you, but it doesn’t mean anything when I give him the idea. It only means something if he thinks of it on his own.

And forevermore, the phrase, “It’s like flowers,” which has been uttered many many times, means that a gesture he didn’t think of on his own is meaningless.

“I can’t believe you didn’t think to get me [insert thing here].”
“I can go get it now.”
“Forget it. I don’t want it anymore. It’s like flowers.“

(This is what happens to flowers. They shrivel up and die. Just like my heart.)

If I tell him I want something, and he gets it, he basically just ran an errand for me. If he thinks of it on his own, however, like buying me a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for no reason, then it means something. (Probably that most of my favorite things are edible.)

(Yum.)

Do I expect anything today? No, because I didn’t give him any ideas. I didn’t flat out ask him to get me something for Valentine’s Day, which is what I would have needed to do. I probably would have had to tell him what to get, too.

I don’t really care. We don’t have the kind of relationship where I’d expect any sort of romantic gesture. (Sucks to be me.) But I still wish he’d think of the Ben & Jerry’s thing on his own. Like, anytime. Not necessarily today. I could really go for a pint of Oat of this Swirled or Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz or Half Baked. Really, it would be difficult to go wrong here.

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They don’t need to send me flowers. Just themselves.

p.s. — For the record, I like flowers. They’re pretty and they smell nice. But they die too quickly. Leave it to me to go there when I think of receiving flowers—dead ones. I’d rather have the cash. Or the Ben & Jerry’s.

p.p.s. — That Magnum stuff is also delicious. Bad name, though. All I can thing of is condoms.

p.p.p.s. — I recognize that it’s not *completely* meaningless if he gets [whatever] after I’ve given him the idea. I don’t want to sound like an ungrateful bitch. It means he did something I asked him to do. Like a trained puppy. What it doesn’t mean is that he thought of me and did something for me all on his own. 

©2022 what sandra thinks

too many people.

I used to be able to handle being around lots of people, but I get anxious now. I don’t slip into a panic or anything. I just don’t like it. I even want to move, partly because I live in a busy suburb and there are too many people. I want to be farther away. From everything. (I want to move for a number of other reasons, too, but that’s another story.)

Of course, no matter how far away I run, I’ll still be with me. *I* am too many people. I have so many thoughts screaming at me inside my head. I can’t escape them. And I have yet to learn how to quiet them. They’re actually having a fucking party in my head right now. This is why sometimes I want to sleep for a few days. Like, straight through.

I have all sorts of contradicting thoughts, too. I’m fighting myself.

I wish I had friends. I want to be alone. I’m lonely. I wish I wasn’t alone. I want everyone to get out. Doing [insert thing here] will make me feel terrible. I’m going to do [insert same thing here]. I’m going to accomplish something. I’m staying in bed. I don’t care what people think. What if they don’t like me?

I have a headache.

(Not actually my brain. Close, though.)

I really do want to have a good friend or two, but I also want alone time. Right now, too much of my time is alone time. That might sound good to some of you, but trust me when I say too much is a bad thing. I guess that’s true for anything. Even people. Especially people. Too many people is definitely a bad thing.

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Mr. Right and Mr. Left would not be too many people.

p.s. — I don’t actually *hear* the voices in my head. They’re just thoughts. And I’m not actually more than one person. Those things were metaphors. Just wanted to clarify in case that concerned you. 

©2022 what sandra thinks

i can’t wait.

I started this one at least five times already. It’s not that it’s a particularly difficult one. It’s that something is on my mind that’s seriously weighing me down, and it’s something that’s only partly in my control. That’s making me even more anxious about it.

No one knows I’m worrying about this because I haven’t told anyone. And I won’t because they’d probably think I’m crazy. It’ll sound like it’s not a big deal, but to me, it is a very big deal. I only have one shot at this. I hope I don’t fuck it up.

I guess I can’t wait until it’s over so I can stop worrying about it. But if it goes wrong, I’ll be sad. Really sad.

I feel sick. It’s anxiety. And probably also that I haven’t eaten since 9:30 this morning. It’s after 5pm now. I just don’t feel like eating anything. Still drinking coffee though. I guess all is not lost.

I don’t want this entire post to be about that ^ whole situation, so I’ll add this:

I can’t wait to see Shawn Mendes this summer. Covid better not fuck it up for me.

My boyfriend.
(Not my actual boyfriend. Damn.)

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Also not my actual boyfriends. Why is this my life?

p.s. — I’m starting to struggle. I’ve not even reached the halfway-point of the month, but my head hurts. Maybe this was too much for me. But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. I have too many failures in my life. I don’t want to have another.

©2022 what sandra thinks

she didn’t.

She didn’t know what to write for this one. So she’s going to use this post to write about whatever she wants.

[I’m not going to write this entire post in the third person, though, because that’s just weird and awkward.]

I’m going to talk about something that’s really not a big deal, but I’ve spend way too much time thinking about it. It’s who I am. Overthinker extraordinaire.

I’ve been thinking about redesigning this blog. Do people even visit my actual website (whatsandrathinks.com), or do you just read in the reader? (I loathe the reader.) Or do you read on your phone?

By redesigning, I really only mean changing my header image and background. I like the theme I’m using, and it’s been retired so if I switch, I can never get it back. (Bite me WP.)

But tell me this—do you identify me with the way my site looks now? Would it seem like it’s not me anymore if I change it? Is the site as it is now my brand? Should I not fuck with it? (Of course, it’s just a freaking header image and background. I can change it back. *rolling my eyes at myself*)

I’ve no idea why I’m overthinking this. I do it with everything. I hate it.

I’ve already designed six new header images. I enjoy doing that kind of thing. I wanted to change it to something kind of bright and cheerful, but that would definitely not be me.  I tested it and it was totally weird. What’s kind of funny, though, is that my favorite new one is darker than what I have now. So much for brightening things up around here! I guess I am just a dark person.

That raises another matter entirely.

Here I am in darkness. (Not actually me.)

I’m stuck in darkness. I want to be happy, or at least work toward that, but it feels weird. It feels like it’s not me. My entire identity is wrapped up in depression and anxiety and sadness. If I’m ever in a (somewhat rare) good mood, I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel like I’m someone else. I don’t want to pretend to be someone else. (Even though I hate myself, so that makes no sense.) I already have to pretend too often in my offline life, and it’s fucking exhausting.

That horrible phrase “fake it ’til you make it” is so stupid. I have to fake it often, but it hasn’t changed me at all. It has just annoyed me that I can’t be myself without having to put on a show.

Damn, this is why I haven’t been able to overcome my sadness! I feel like I need it as much as I need coffee. Okay, no. I don’t need anything as much as I need coffee. But you get the idea. It’s like sadness (and/or depression and/or anxiety) is my thing. Like math is my thing. Know what I mean?

How do I dissociate myself from sadness/depression/anxiety?

And how do I stop overthinking things as ridiculously insignificant as my blog design?

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And am I going to change these guys? I think I want to pick just one. But not necessarily the same one forever. Ugh. I have issues.

p.s. — Apologies. This post was boring. I’m sure no one cares what I do with my blog design. I guess the married-to-my-darkness part wasn’t as boring, but still… I’m very sorry.

©2022 what sandra thinks

so hot.

I considered talking about our summer heatwaves. We have them every year—days well above 90 degrees with oppressive humidity. We’re even told not to be outdoors if we can avoid it. But that’s a boring topic.

I also thought of those gross Takis (hot-as-fuck rolled tortilla chips) my daughter eats. I don’t know how she still has functioning taste buds. I tried one. Then I had a glass of milk. But that’s also boring.

I ultimately decided to go with the obvious. Men I wish were mine. All of them are so hot. They are in no particular order. I couldn’t possible rank them. They all look perfect to me. I wish I could have one. Even maybe just for a day? Is that too much to ask? *sigh* Yeah, it is. *pout*

 
(Marry me?)

(Damn right I give in.)

(Can I help you with that?)

(Inappropriate crush. But look at his fucking arms!)

I will spare you the rest of my Men folder. Yes, I have a Men folder. I also won’t tell you how many pictures are in it.

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And let’s not forget these two. The whole thing with these guys started with that beach guy on the left. If you don’t know why he is here at all, you can read this. The second guy I added when I first saw that picture on the cover of a book. Now, though, I kind of want to switch out my guys. Does that ruin the joke? Kinda.

p.s. —    I’m done. For now.

©2022 what sandra thinks

in the closet.

It’s no secret that I love Flynn Rider and Tangled is my favorite animated film of all time. At least I’ve never kept it a secret. And yes, I am a grown-ass woman.

(Not my actual hair.)

But I’ve never mentioned the box.

In my bedroom, I have a box in the closet filled with Tangled-related stuff. I have a few toys (still an adult), but it’s mostly filled with books, coloring books, and notebooks. I have some frame-able art, too (that I never framed).

(From The Art of Tangled.)

I also have everything I made for my daughter’s Tangled-themed birthday party when she was 4. I made an invitation with Flynn climbing Rapunzel’s hair up the tower. I made lanterns, Flynn’s wanted poster, a Snuggly Duckling menu, and even Flynn’s satchel with a tiny crown inside. Yes, I sewed a small satchel for every guest.

If you’ve never seen the movie, you won’t know the significance of these things. Also, if you’ve never seen the movie, what the hell is wrong with you?

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Obligatory corny comment: I’d like to be tangled up with these guys.

p.s. — I like grown-up stuff, too. But we’re talking about what’s hiding in my closet, not my nightstand. 

©2022 what sandra thinks

too much.

I feel too much.

I feel feelings that aren’t my own. More specifically, I feel my kids’ feelings. I sympathize and empathize, but I go too far. I’ve seen it called toxic empathy, but that makes it sound so awful. Maybe it is.

When one of my kids is going through something difficult, I over-identify with them to the point of taking on their feelings as my own. When they are anxious, I’m anxious. When they are sad, I’m sad. When they’re upset, I’m upset. But it’s not that simple.

Being over-empathetic, I not only absorb their feelings, I also absorb their problems. There are two major issues with this.

(1) I become more involved than I should. I try so hard to help—to fix things (that are not mine to fix but I feel like they are)—that I make things worse for them. I’m probably getting on their nerves, for one, but also, by interfering, I’m taking away opportunities for them to learn how to handle things on their own. I step over the line because the line is blurry, if not invisible, to me.

[Aside: I have trouble determining when to get involved and when not to. It seems I always make the wrong choice—I get involved when they don’t want me to, or I don’t get involved and they think I don’t care. I never seem to get it right.]

(2) Taking on their problems and emotions on top of my own, I become overwhelmed. But I’m incapable of separating theirs from mine. I take them all. And then I feel drained and exhausted. And of course, I prioritize their problems over my own. I’m told this is bad because if I’m better, I’m better for them. Yet I can’t seem to focus on me. My heart says focus on them; my brain knows I should focus on me. Guess which one wins?

(Not my actual heart.)

I can even take it a step further.

I get so consumed by their emotions that I feel them more intensely than they do. I’m more sad, more upset, more anxious than they are. That’s so fucked up! I feel physically stressed (and sometimes physically sick) when they have something bad going on. I go into emotional overdrive. Hell, I’m often still upset about things after the kids have gotten over them! So fucked up.

It’s also selfish. I unintentionally make it about me—I am anxious, I am sad, I am upset, I am overwhelmed—when the matters at hand and the emotions that go along with them are not mine. It’s not about my feelings. It’s about theirs.

So what do I do?

As I read about this, I came to the advice section (as one always does) telling me how to fix this. Here are two things I saw repeatedly (neither of which helps me).

Draw boundaries—their problems are not mine, and I’m not required to take on their burdens.

I’m not sure this applies since I’m talking about my kids. In some ways, their problems are mine. But there does need to be a line somewhere. I just can’t see it.

Don’t let their emotions overtake your mind and body—focus on relaxation and let those feelings go.

This gem of wisdom applies to pretty much anything stressful. And it’s easier said than done. In fact, I can’t do it at all. I end up curling into a ball of despair, crying and struggling to function. But I’m not exactly a model of mental health.

So, again, what do I do?

I don’t know. When I try to distance myself from a situation, I feel like a terrible parent. But when I get too involved and try too hard to help, I’m also a terrible parent. I know the answer is somewhere in the middle, but I can’t seem to find balance.

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I’d like to feel them too much. I said what I said.

p.s. — I’d like to think that I’m subconsciously trying to take their pain away. The more I take, the less they’ll have. But it doesn’t work like that. Besides, their emotions are not mine to take. I wouldn’t rip a cookie out of their hand and eat it myself. And I can’t do that with emotions either. I need to let them have their cookie and eat my own. That doesn’t mean I don’t know how delicious their cookies are, it just means I’m letting them have that deliciousness instead of taking it from them. (Bad analogy.) 

But I don’t even know if that’s what’s going on. I may just be overly emotional, needy, and selfish. I want all the cookies. 

©2022 what sandra thinks

I killed it.

People use the phrase “I killed it” when they’ve done something spectacularly.

How’d you do on the math test?
I killed it!

But that’s not how I’m going to use it.

My first apartment was on the top floor of an old three story home a few hours away from where I grew up. It had a walk-in closet and uneven floors that made spills a special kind of challenge.

It also had bats.

I will never forget the night I discovered this. Something woke me up in the middle of the night. It sounded like something flying. Maybe a fly too close to my head or maybe a moth. But as I became fully awake, I realized that the sound was too loud for that. I held my breath as I turned on the lamp.

A fucking bat was flying in a figure eight directly over my bed. I went from not breathing to panting in a panic. I was so scared. I remembered that bats nest in people’s hair. Really, I had no idea if that was true. But I grabbed a baseball hat my boyfriend had left in my apartment and put it on. Then I ran out of the room and locked myself in the bathroom. (I’m not sure why I locked it. I’m pretty sure the bat wasn’t going to open the door.)

I am definitely not Batman.

Once I was breathing semi-normally again, I took the small bathroom trash bucket and removed the bag of trash from it. I slipped out and found a piece of cardboard in the kitchen. I turned on every single light, hoping the bat would think it was daytime and stop flying around. You know, because they’re nocturnal. By this time, the bat was in the kitchen, still doing figure eights. I stood in the doorway and watched and waited. I probably stood there for at least ten minutes until it finally stopped.

I very quietly moved a chair close to it so I could reach with the trash bucket. I covered him with the bucket and slid the cardboard in to trap him. Still a bit panicked, I brought it to the bedroom because that was the easiest window to open to put it outside.  Once I managed to get the window open without losing the bat, I put the whole thing—bucket, cardboard, and bat—on the roof that extended from second floor below.

I took a few deep breaths, and told myself, “Okay… I need to get my bucket back. Or maybe I don’t. But no, I can’t leave the bat right there to die under a bucket. Okay. I can do this…” More deep breaths. Then, in one quick move, I grabbed the bucket and flicked it away from me so the bat wouldn’t fly back into the house.

But he would never fly again. When I flicked the bucket away, he smacked into a tree and fell to the ground. I killed it. It was involuntary batslaughter.

I won’t discuss the other two times I found bats in that apartment.

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—

   
They would have protected me from the bat.

p.s. — To this day, anything that flies anywhere near me freaks me out. Bats, bugs, butterflies (and all insects), birds… anything. I can handle paper planes. That’s about it.

©2022 what sandra thinks