Beware the Ides (and the rest of) March

True confession: March has never been my favorite month. From Mother Nature's mood swings (Snow, rain, wind, ice, and melting all in one month? That's crazy!) to losing an hour of sleep due to daylight savings time to my seasonal allergy attacks which will kick in every single time we have a small thaw, leaving me snotty, breathless, and mainlining Claritin to cope with my sinus headaches to the way that March deposits a heaping helping of fresh grief and loss on my doorstep, March is the time of year when I feel less like a princess and more like pee. Lest you think that was either a Freudian slip or spell check error, let me be clear – I feel like actual urine. That was intentional.

On March 14, 2001, I learned the true meaning of grief. If you don't answer when grief calls, don't worry. Grief leaves a voicemail. And if you don't respond to that voicemail immediately, because you're busy being a very important corporate drone and you decide to return the call when it's more convenient for you, grief will join forces with her BFFs guilt and shame, and the three of them will wait for you and they will deliver an ass-kicking that will stick with you for the remainder of your days. Like most of the lessons I've learned, I learned this one the hard way and I have the invisible scars to prove it. When I finally got around to returning grief's phone call 14 years ago, I remember feeling annoyed and put out that I had to respond to this likely annoying voicemail – until I heard the words that would break my heart into a million pieces and change me forever. Nate was dead.

Nate was the embodiment of love, of laughter, of light, and of life – but where there is love and light, there can also be darkness lurking below the surface. Nate's struggle was epic – he fought the demons of bipolar disorder and depression quietly and alone for many years. He won many battles but ultimately, mental illness won the war when he took his own life on March 13, 2001. He was my best friend. Why didn't he confide in me? Why didn't he tell me how bad things had become? I couldn't reconcile the idea of a guy who was too gentle to kill a spider with this man who bought a gun and used it to end his life. How did this happen? Why didn't I know? Why didn't I stop it? Lather, rinse, repeat.

On St Patrick's Day 14 years ago, we said our goodbyes and buried Nate – and I said goodbye to my dear friend and hello to my three new companions; grief, shame, and guilt. The four of us spent a lot of time together in the ensuing days, months, and years – mostly late at night when the rest of the world was sleeping. My three new companions would gang up on me; tell me horrible things about myself; and they pushed me to make lousy life choices. So, no, March – I don't particularly care if you decide to go in like a lamb, a lion, or a loose cannon . . . I just plain don't like you.

Of course, time marches on (pun not intended but awesome nonetheless) and since it's not socially acceptable to take to your bed for an entire month just because it's not your best time of year, I continue my efforts to give up, give in, or give it all I've got. Here's the latest:

Give Up: I gave up an hour of sleep – but so did everyone because daylight savings time is here. I also gave up part of my weekend to take my niece (aka mini-me) on some college visits. There is nothing like spending 36 hours with a 16 year old to make you feel older than dirt. I remember the day Mini-me was born, and suddenly we're filling out college applications and looking at dorm rooms and talking about college majors and careers. She has a drivers' license, an opinion about everything, and such a bright future in front of her. I want her to take advantage of every opportunity and shine – and not make all the mistakes that my dumb ass made, but I also know that screwing up is part of growing up, so instead, I bite my tongue so hard that I taste blood and do my best to be a good role model, mentor, and champion for her while trying to remember to buy Geritol and Activia because I. AM. OLD. How the hell did this happen?

Give In: I love living in America, and I know that part of the deal of living in this great land is that I have to pay taxes. Yet the annual income tax routine makes me sweat, itch, and panic like nothing else on earth. I am terrified of the size of the check I will need to write my uncle, Sam. Occasionally, I get a small refund but more often than not, I'm writing a check with a lot of zeros. Last year, I sold a house and made a profit (on paper) so I feared the worst. After almost chewing off my nice-looking fingernails from anxiety, I decided to suck it up and the hubby and I called our tax dude. The short version of this story is that yes, I owe some money. It's a lot less than my worst nightmare and we'll be filing this week. Am I thrilled to write these checks? No. But it could be a lot worse, as I learned in previous years, so I'll write the checks, lick the stamps, and shut my pie hole. And that, my friends, is the very definition of giving in.

Giving It All I've Got: I have 69 days of mostly honest and complete food logging on MyFitnessPal, which is both a personal record and quite an achievement. I'm terrified to step on the scale to determine if I'm making any actual progress, so I am relying on the positive affirmations and proactive shaming I receive from MyFitnessPal on a regular basis to define my success. Thankfully, MyFitnessPal has not yet figured out that I occasionally replace entire meals with wine, so it has yet to provide me with the shaming I so richly deserve, "Wine is not one of the four food groups" or alternately, "This much wine consumption is only going to lead you down the road to inhaling a family size bag of Pirate's Booty before the day is done." I jest. I only had wine for dinner one time. I promise.

I'm finishing up my Thrive Eight-Week Experience. Have I lost weight? Only my scale knows for sure and I am certainly not going to hoist my fat ass onto that digital nightmare to find out. Do I have more energy? I think I do. Do I feel pretty good most of the time? Yes, actually – which is no small feat considering March is generally the time of year I go into a deep depression that no amount of sleep, chocolate, wine, or Lifetime movies can cure. One of these mornings – preferably not a morning after I've smashed an entire platter of onion rings (also known as last Thursday) or a large pizza (also known as the prior Saturday) or a gooey chocolate-peanut butter Rice Krispy treat (within the past 72 hours) – I will face my demons, step on the scale, and get an official progress report. Until then, I'll keep Thriving because it's probably not hurting and frankly, sometimes that's the best I can hope for.

Not only have I been religious about seeing Big Bad Trainer, but I think I might be getting stronger! I frequently flex my biceps at home in front of the mirror, the cat, the dog, and my husband. None of them seem too impressed. I huff and puff like the Big Bad Wolf's twin sister when Big Bad Trainer puts me through the paces, and the thought of lunging or squatting makes my hair hurt. And maybe Big Bad Trainer is playing head games with me, but even he has mentioned that I seem to be getting stronger. You've been warned.

I've been sporadic about my cardio workouts – but, I did pack my sneakers on my weekend road trip to Fargo, ND – and damn if I wasn't in the hotel gym at the Candlewood Suites getting my sweat on early Saturday morning. I'm not giving it all I've got here but I'm giving it something which is better than nothing, right?

I am pleased to report that I do not have to move out of my little community. My volunteer application to serve on the human services committee has been approved and I am supposed to be sworn in by the city council next week. I attended my first meeting tonight and I'm looking forward to being in a position to make a small difference in the community where I live. My husband is happy that I'm not going to move out, as I threatened to do if I was not selected to serve. What can I say? I'm a vengeful person.

It's been at least 65 days since I last chewed my fingernails. I do still occasionally pick a ragged cuticle but I'm not going to lie to you – my nails look pretty good. I have discovered the shellac manicure which has been basically life-changing, and I frequently admire my own lovely nails. Because I can.

Finally – in the spirit of giving it all I've got, I'll be remembering my dear Nate on Friday, March 13^th. While I remember him every day, on Friday, I'll be taking special care to "give it all I've got" to paying it forward and honoring his memory. Don't be alarmed if you get a phone call or a text from me. Will I be handing out hugs? Doubtful. But hey – stranger things have happened.

© 2015 Princess D