As a 'pitbull' mix owner, I get nervous every time there's another article about the evils of the breed. From the get go, people addressing this breed always paint themselves as uneducated on the topic because, well, the biggest kicker is there IS NO PITBULL BREED. There are American Pitbull Terriers, yes, but when people use the blanket term 'Pitbull' it involves anywhere from three to OVER A DOZEN dog breeds! Personally, I own an American Staffordshire Terrier mix ,which is completely different from and American Bulldog, which has nothing to do with an American Bull Terrier, which is maybe a third the size of and American Pitbull Terrier!

Finally, however, there is an article out in mainstream media saying what Pibble (Yes, that is what many owners call them. They seriously are just not that scary) Owners have been saying for years. 'Owners, Not Pit Bulls, Are the Problem' by Joan Raymond is a well-informed, directly written, short article that is both informative without having a heavy PETA-like biase. Instead of simply saying 'I think they're nice dogs!', she cites reliable SCIENTIFIC studies that back up the fact that yes, bully breeds are often dog aggressive, but when it comes to people, they're one of the most friendly breeds out there.

I strongly encourage ANYONE to read the article, whether you're fond of the breed or not. If you've had a bad run in with the breed before, I hope this article will help you identify dangerous OWNERS of these dogs so you never have the same experiance again.

Owners, Not Pit Bulls, Are the Problem

Today, in the scheme of things, was a good day. I complete two of my projects, played with the dogs, and bought groceries without forgetting anything or picking something up with the urge to 'make myself feel better'.

My pumpkins are carved and suitably gruesome to be zombies and victim so I've very proud. It's not quite dark enough yet to light them and the trick-or-treaters still haven't started trickling in, so they real test on their success will be later.

I also finished the painting I started. It ended up being a very emotional piece for me, even though it's very simple.

My brother shot himself a week ago and I’m still picking up the pieces. On one hand, I know I’ve barely had any time to live with it, but on the other, I feel like I should be able to pick myself up and move on. The conflicting ideas have me tumbling through classes and sleeping through others, making small plans to keep myself busy while neglecting things I know I need to do. I wish I could seize onto one and let the other go, but I feel like grasping onto mourning will keep me from living, but ignoring what I’ve lost is only denying the inevitable.

With all the self-help books out there, you’d think that someone, somewhere, would have perfected mourning. It’s not a new concept; people have been dying and leaving families behind since the days of Adam and Eve. I have a feeling when Cain bashed Able’s head in, their parents where wishing the same thing. Here we are, thousands of years later, with nothing to show for it. I know there are support groups out there to assist with this sort of thing, but I suppose it’s selfish not to want to share with them. My pain is unique and, well, mine. I don’t want to bring Andrew out to a group of people with their own memories of loved ones and lose him amongst the jumbles of everyone else’s loss. Besides, most families recovering from suicide either had warning signs, a list of depressive symptoms, or, hey, previous threats that they can look back on and pull their heart out crying over going ‘I should have known’. Well guess what? There weren’t any. Not a single one. We talked to him within hours of him pulling the trigger and he was broken up over a fight with his girlfriend, but he was fine. There weren’t any red flags and when he said, ‘I’m going to try and get some sleep, I love you.’ It wasn’t a black omen of his dark intentions where our failure to read the signs brought ruin to the world. It just was.

When I saw the body, It was wrong. I know now why so many people react to a body with ‘That’s not them’. When you pulled the spirit out of Andrew, he was gone. You noticed things that weren’t there before, like how little his nose was and how it was identical to my older sister, Rebecca’s. The fact his features didn’t line up properly and his eyes were too small and his lips too big. If he were a canvas, he would be tossed out for imperfections because the sheer force that was Andrew that made all of those little things fit and come together was gone. The thing I notice most, though, were his lips.

I first thought it was a sloppy mistake on the part of the funeral home. It seemed silly that, while the rest of him was impeccably presented, they should be so careless with the foundation on his lips. It took me hours to realize it wasn’t the foundation that was applied unevenly, it was his lips. The funeral home had tried their best to disguise the burns on his lips, where Andrew had swallowed the barrel and been singed. Contact burn, I guess they call it. Because he’d died immediately, there was none of the tell-tale swelling or reddening, just a case of bad chapped lips.

My family is still scattered across the states; my parents and younger sister are spending another week in St. Louis and older sister is in Boston for work. I don’t know what my parents are thinking, staying in that town, but I couldn’t get away from there soon enough. After burying my grandfather a month ago – and I do mean a month; Granddad died September 19^th and Andrew October 19^th – I’ve too many bad memories to ever enjoy myself in Missouri ever again, much less St. Louis. Of course, I’m not sure how healthy my sitting at home alone is turning out to be. Technically, I have a friend staying with me, but she’s so busy I see her five minutes a day, if we wake up around the same time. I tend to spend long hours laying in bed not wanting to get up, followed by hours sitting on the sofa not wanting to get up. It’s wonderful for my psyche, I’m sure.

At least I do go out, now and again. I’ve been seeing Mr. Brown every couple of days. He taught all three of us older kids and will undoubtedly have Emma before she graduates. Of any of the adults in Andrew’s life, he knew him best and it’s a comfort to be around someone who misses him just like I do, but who doesn’t expect to be consoled and pampered. Mr. Brown misses him, but he wasn’t his son or brother and that makes it easier, I guess.

Of course, Adam isn’t taking it any better than I am. Adam was Andrew’s best friend since kindergarten and there was little in his life he did without consulting Andrew first. Andrew was always the general, an effortless leader that people flocked to for guidance. It helped that he was rarely wrong, and only debatably so when he was. Andrew was the guiding light for so many people; it was a shock to me to realize he was mine, too. I didn’t ask him before I made my choices, but ever since I was a child, Andrew would tell me something and I’d repeat it ad nauseum as fact for the rest of my life. It didn’t matter I didn’t know where it came from or if it had any basis in fact, Andrew believed it and that was enough. I spent my entire life mimicking him and following his footsteps, even when striking out as an individual. Now, he’s done something I don’t want to follow, that I can never agree with, and in a way, he’s knocked himself off his pedestal. I won’t be repeating what he says anymore or trying to be who he was. Whoever he was, he wasn’t as strong as I thought and I know I can be better. I know I am better.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s stopped influencing my life. Andrew believed that I was only as limited as my dedication and that it had been a lifelong frustration for him to watch me fail in school and other pursuits simply because I decided not to apply myself and not according to any actual pitfalls in ability or talent. It was flattering and encouraging to know someone I admired so greatly had that sort of confidence in me. Years before, when I’d first begun working on my weight, Andrew had told me not to worry about it. One day, I’d decide it was time to lose it and I would. Well, I’ve been working hard these last few months, but it was nothing compared to the dedication I found with Andrew’s death. Some part of me refuses to make a liar out of him. I still want to believe that everything Andrew said will come true. I suppose it’s just the little sister in me.

Back home from St. Louis again. We buried Andrew in Marceline on Sunday, so at least that's taken care of. Texas is going to take two months getting us his death certificate so we can't clean up any of the legal business until then. This whole thing has cost about 20k and I have no idea how we're going to pay for it. I'm still numb from the whole thing and getting up in the morning is hell, but at least the first thing is gym every day, so I don't have to think. I just have to get there and the instructor will take it from there.

Thank you, everyone who sent your condolences.

So, this month shit out the wazoo has happened, including me missing over half my gym classes, but hey, I still have to fess up to it. So here's my first month's photo!

Link to Start photo

One Month, October 10th: 184lbs - 6 lbs weight loss, despite the crazy!

so, I've been being creative the last couple days as a pick-me-up. Been finishing Nicole's scarf/hat combo and working on Bek's fox - it's going well, by the way. However, I've decided to have a junk project on the side. All my extra yarn will go towards a large blanket. This is pure insanity since a blanket is just a much larger scarf and I've already sworn to never ever ever make another scarf, ever. However, the fact this isn't a present for anyone will probably make all the difference. I'll be able to screw it seven ways from Sunday and no one will care because it's sole purpose is to be warm.

I want to thank everyone who's wished me well in these hard times. I know I haven't replied, but it's more a fact I'm moving on as fast as possible by not thinking about it than not appreciating the support.