Mouth Wide Open

Recovery from sinus surgery is pretty damn unpleasant.

I have to mouth breathe because there are splints and blue foam tampons in my nostrils.

I have to take tiny bites of food because my mouth is also my sole means of breathing. I can’t taste what I’m eating, though I can slightly tell the difference between sweet and salty. This is probably a good sign that it won’t take weeks or months for my sense of smell and taste to return.

The pain could be worse. I feel like my nose was rearranged, but it’s not an intolerable feeling. I’ve only taken 2 pain pills, but they made me too sleepy. This wouldn’t be a problem with almost any other surgery, but with sinus surgery, I fear sleep.

I sleep in roughly 30 minute intervals. I wake up when my lips and gums and tongue are completely parched and adhering to each other. I take a tiny sip of ice water and roll it around my mouth, and fall back asleep for another roughly 30 minutes. Repeat until my body allows me to stay awake.

Monday, the splints and packing will come out, though I’ve read that the unpacking can be quite unpleasant and possibly a bloody mess that will require immediate repacking. I might need to take a pain pill before the appointment.

I’ve sneezed 4 times today, I think because my nosebleed has mostly stopped and the tampons are drying out and tickling my nose. The quivering, uncertain moments just before the sneeze are terrifying. But I keep my mouth wide open during the sneezes, as I was instructed, and they don’t hurt. I laughed kind of hard last night and it was painful, so only mild humor from here on out.

My brother is waiting to see how my sinus surgery turns out before he looks into getting his own fixed. I told him to just try using a sinus rinse first, to see if it solves his problems. “The only thing I fear more than sinus surgery is a sinus rinse,” he said. Pfft. The rinses are the easy part! I’m going to avoid talking to him until I’m in a better frame of mind. I don’t yet know how much this is going to help me and my animal brain is still telling me that this was a huge mistake.

Sinus rinses will be part of my daily treatment for at least a year post surgery, and possibly forever. I don’t mind, though, if the surgery is effective. Sinus rinses helped me function the last couple months in a way that Mucinex D, ibuprofen, and Zyrtec couldn’t.

Tiny is stressed. I hope as I feel better, she relaxes a little. Her entire routine has been upended, and she’s pretty exhausted. I wish I could do more.

My nose looks ridiculous. It’s not at all my slender, defined nose. Someone swapped a wide, pugnacious nose onto my face, and I don’t remember consenting to that.

For now, I’m dreaming of a time when I can breathe out of my nose again, a life without daily sinus headaches and frequent migraines, and a nap with my mouth closed. I’m also wondering why anyone would subject themselves to this for purely cosmetic reasons.



I’m sick. I’ve been sick for months, and pretty steadily since the end of 2012. My sinuses are a mess and, well, here. Just look:


That is not normal.

I’ve spent months trying everything. Humidifiers, saline spray, nasal rinses, Flonase, Zyrtec, sometimes NyQuil to help me sleep, plus a constant diet of ibuprofen and Mucinex D. Nothing is helping. The sinus pressure builds and builds. I always have a headache, and those turn into migraines. I even took Topamax to stop the headaches, and that barely helped, plus the side effects were terrible. I was a different person on that dirty drug. It scared me.

To stop the chronic sinus infections and headaches, I need surgery to fix my deviated septum, plus some other stuff. I’m not getting a nose job, though I sort of wish a younger me and been insecure enough about my character actor nose to have one, the way my aunt and cousin were. Then I wouldn’t be dealing with any of this.


Tiny knows that I’m sick. She knows I get headaches, She knows that she has to be quiet some times, lest I get agitated or push on my sinuses in pain. She knows I’ve gone to the doctor a lot, and that I’m trying to get better. She knows that I’m unhappy.

She’s spent the last 5 months, basically, in the house with me, bearing this situation as much as I am. We’re both stir crazy from the weather and from me.

When I decided to have the surgery, I had to talk to her and explain, in a limited way, what that meant.

“Doctor go in your nose and fix it?” was how she summed up what I said.

“Yes. Now I have to talk to you about something else.”


“You’ve been hitting Mommy sometimes when you’re upset.”

“Sorry, Mommy.”

“It’s okay, baby. But when I get home from the hospital, you can’t hit Mommy in the face.”

“Alright,” she said and hugged me. I hugged her, and then pulled her away and made her look me in the eyes.

“I’m serious, honey. If you hit Mommy’s nose, I could get very hurt and have to go to the hospital. Do you understand?”

She shook her head yes.

“Doctor go in nose, then you feel better?”

“Yes, honey. After the doctor fixes my nose I’ll feel better.”

I hope.


Today has been a bad day. I fell asleep last night with a severe headache. I woke up with one, too. All I can take is Tylenol, but if I take Tylenol I can’t take my migraine meds. So I usually don’t take Tylenol. It’s not going to stop a migraine, and it doesn’t seem to do anything to alleviate my pain. I miss ibuprofen. I could actually feel it kick in and soothe my aching eyes and teeth. My pain and facial pressure would slowly wash away to a dull ache. I even breathed better on it. I can’t take it for 2 weeks prior to surgery, and a miscommunication over this with my ENT has already led to my surgery being rescheduled.

Tiny is potty training. She went #2 on the big potty and she was so proud of herself that I was excited, too.

“Now you better, Mommy?” she asked me. “You feel better?”

“No, honey. But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy for you. Mommy still doesn’t feel well. Soon.”


I hate this. It’s probably temporary, but I hate it. I can’t even get on the floor and play with my two year old because the sinus pressure overwhelms me. What a sweet kid. But then I worry that she’s too young to worry like this.


This will be my third surgery in just under 4 years. I am 33 years old. I dread going under because I can’t control anything.

I am coping with several different forms of stress, most of it major, though things could always be worse. I lucked out and landed my dream kid, but I won’t have any more children. This makes me sad, but also a little relieved. I am tired, often lonely, always aware of the ways I am failing.

But I have a shot at making this one thing better, at being the mom I used to be, at enjoying being in the moment with my sweet girl and not just counting minutes until my next dose of medication.

I want to say yes the next time she asks me that question. No. I want it to be so obvious to her that she doesn’t think to ask me at all.

Clairvoyance Test

When I was 22, and Josh and I were newly in love—though we obviously didn’t dare to say that yet, obviously—a very close friend of mine had a party. A psychic party. A numerology party, to be exact.

I was, of course, expected to attend. And even though I have several times experienced, um, unexplained phenomenon, I was loathe to pay a stranger to lie to me about my future in the name of teenage friendship. Yet, that is precisely what I was prepared to do. You see, I had already skipped her recent candle party.

The day of the psychic party, I was in a bit of a time crunch because I had to work in a couple hours. I’d run late on purpose, thinking that I could just sneak in, maybe they wouldn’t have time for me, and I could sneak out. Only, they hadn’t even started. There were several women there, but the only people I knew were my friend and her mom. Everyone was milling about, chatting quietly, eating snacks. I looked around for a barefoot woman wearing a gypsy skirt or something, but there was no one there who looked like that. I sat down and waited. I was going to have to do this stupid thing. And the psychic wasn’t even here yet.

Eventually, one of the guests, a small middle-aged woman with short hair and glasses, stood up and said she was ready to get started. Since it was her party, my friend went first. She asked me to sit in the room with her, so I listened while the psychic told her all sorts of positive things about her job and her fiance, and her future. She slipped in a few minor negative things, but mostly it was You have a bright future; here, wear these shades.

When she was done, her mom went in. My friend and I chatted in a nearby room. She asked me what I was going to ask the psychic. I told her I didn’t know. She told me I should ask the psychic if Josh was The One.

I don’t believe in The One, and I never have. Maybe that’s a byproduct of being a child of divorced parents, or maybe it’s just that I have some understanding of math. Regardless, I believe in The Many. I settled on asking the psychic about college and about whether Josh and I had a future together.

When it was my turn, the psychic lady called me into her makeshift office. She popped a cassette tape into a portable recorder, hit Record, and started taking notes. Then she said the day’s date and asked me to say my name and birthday. From there she figured out my number and rattled off some basic “facts” about people with that number. She barely looked at me.

“So, what do you want to know?”

On the tape, you can hear how nervous I am. Maybe not nervous. I was uncomfortable, and sort of uninterested. This woman was a total stranger, and she wasn’t even looking at me. She was phoning it in.

I asked her some questions about my education and what career path I should take, and she fed me generic bullshit. I asked about my brother’s health and whether he’d fully recover from all of his injuries, and she was optimistic. I started to talk about my job situation, but she stopped me.

“Don’t you have a beau?”

“Oh, uh, I—”

“What’s his birthday?”

I told her and she gave me his number, one greater than mine.

“How are things with you two?”

“Oh, wonderful. He’s a great guy. He’s—”

“He’s not.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look, I normally don’t do this. And you seem sweet. But I have to warn you, honey.” She took off her glasses, and looked right at me.


“He’s trash. He’s a trash baby. Do you know what I’m saying? A trash baby.”

“Not really. You don’t know him.”

“I don’t need to. I know what I see. This is what I do.” She leaned over the table and locked our gazes, without any malice in her eyes. “He is a trash baby. He will ruin your life. He will wear you down. He will use you up. He will lie, cheat, steal. Get away from this man as fast as you can. Understand? A trash baby.” She punctuated the air with her pen.

I nodded once, and stood up. Wasn’t this supposed to be a dumb little party? She hit Stop/Eject on the tape recorder and handed me the tape.

“That’ll be twenty-five dollars, honey.”

I paid her and I left, half shell-shocked, half defiant.


I probably listened to that tape 3 or 4 times between 2003 and 2006 or so. By 2004, it was clear that the psychic wasn’t totally wrong. But she was wrong. Josh went to counseling, he sought help, he did everything I asked of him. Or so I thought anyway.

By the time we were married in 2007, we’d had 2 years of relative harmony. We’d battled adversity. We’d overcome things individually and together. I had serious reservations about the institution of marriage (still do), but I didn’t have doubts about marrying him.

By 2009, he didn’t seem quite right again, but things were nothing like how awful they got in 2004. Again, he sought help. He got diagnoses, and medications, and he’s been diligent about taking them ever since. He showed real, tangible improvement. He evened out and life was good for another 2+ years.

And then in 2011, the other shoe dropped. This time I was pregnant. People tried to explain away our clashes as me being hormonal and a typical experience for couples who are pregnant, but I knew better. I’d seen this all before, except this time I was scared. How would I be able to help him when my real job would be taking care of an actual child?

And I thought about that damn psychic. She wasn’t wrong.  It kills me that she wasn’t completely wrong.


Despite the fact that Josh got additional help for yet another diagnosis, 2013 was an awful year for so, so many reasons. And so I feel worn down. I feel used up. I feel lied to and used and manipulated.

But all of that is just temporary. No matter what happens between Josh and me, I will get past these feelings. So, she was wrong.

At the very least, she was wrong about me.

The Beast

In 1989, having already survived a quadruple bypass and surgery for colon cancer, my grandpa decided that he would buy a new truck. It couldn’t be just any truck. He would buy the one he wanted to drive during his retirement and he would not settle.

Back in the day, Grandpa was a Dodge man, but he’d settled into Ford vans and trucks as he’d gotten older. The new truck needed to be powerful enough to tow the Mallard travel trailer he planned to buy. The new truck also needed to be red.

(Grandpa loved the color red, much to Grandma’s consternation. The ’70s must have injected more gender equality into household decisions because Grandpa flexed his decorating muscles. He outfitted the family room in heavy blood-red curtains and bought a red and black velour sofa for the living room. In every other way, the house was Grandma’s: dark cherry wood, creams and light blues. “And that damn red couch,” she’d say.)

There was a Ford dealership near Grandpa’s house, but they didn’t specialize in trucks. Things were different then. So, Grandpa had to go to a different dealership that felt very far away when I was 9. I remember the trip fondly though, because there was a monster truck parked out front. My brother was delighted and Grandpa was pleased. And even though I didn’t care about monster trucks, I loved when Grandpa was excited to show us something.

(Often, while working on cars or fixing something around the house, Grandpa would call my brother and me over to show us what he was doing. He never talked down to us and always explained things.

Once, when doing an evening oil change on my mom’s car, Grandpa called us out to watch and help him. My brother and I stood shoulder to shoulder in the cool air, watching and listening while he worked under a single-bulb portable light. My brother said, “Grandpa, this is a boy job. Why is she out here?” Grandpa told him, “A job is a job and it has to get done. And it’s even more important for her to know these things than it is for you.” Even at that young age, I knew what he meant.)

Sometime later, Grandpa came home with his new truck, a Ford F-350 quad cab. It was huge and had four wheels in the back instead of two. In addition to having it outfitted with a special in-bed trailer hitch and a folding bed cover, Grandpa had other customizations done as well: a second fuel tank, running boards along both sides, the interior was red velour, power windows on the front doors and power locks all around (both of which required custom work in 1989!), a CB radio, and a custom two-tone red and cream paint job. One of my aunts nicknamed the new truck The Beast.

Grandpa was feeling great and he was determined to travel with Grandma. I know they took some short trips, but he never got to take that one last major road trip he really wanted. The cancer returned, and this time it stayed, eventually finishing the job. The truck was basically still new.

For years, The Beast sat in Grandma’s driveway. My brother and I would occasionally wash and wax it by hand, a ludicrous job for even grown men. But we needed to restore The Beast to its proper glory, if only to see Grandma’s slight smile. (Plus, she gave us $50 each to do the job.)

Sometimes, Mom’s car would break down or need work and she’d end up driving the truck.

Once, before heading to school, I’d smoked a bowl of pot and left my pipe in the running board crevice. After I left, Mom drove The Beast to work that day for some reason. When I got home from school the truck was gone – along with my pipe. Panicked, my brother and I walked the route my mom drove to work to see if it had flown off the running board along the way. We found nothing. That evening, after my mom was home, I found a reason to go outside and check the truck. My pipe was still there, nestled and safe.

Another time, my mom was getting gas at a QuikTrip and a man offered her $10,000 cash for The Beast. She said no. She knew Grandma would never sell it. Even after the trailer was sold, Grandma would never entertain selling it.

So, mostly The Beast just sat. It made for an easy target when my high school friends started turning on me. Someone put shaving cream on the paint, permanently dulling and mottling the surface. Another person dumped sugar into one of the fuel tanks. And while the sugar did mess up that tank, they stupidly didn’t notice the other tank. For years, the sugar tank went unused, but stayed full of gasoline. One day, years later, Mom decided to use it. Other than the fuel gauge not working on that tank, it was fine. It still is.

I drove The Beast on I-270 only once, when I was preparing for my driver’s license exam. I think my mom was testing me: if I could handle that truck, I could handle anything. She was probably right. I was nervous, but more than a little impressed with how well I drove it. I also never, ever wanted to drive it again. I never did.

For awhile, my cousin had the truck. Little things started going wrong with it, and he jury-rigged problems instead of fixing them. A window had an issue so he opened the door up and strapped the window into a closed position. He ripped off the running boards, but not the brackets. the custom folding mirrors no longer folded because he welded them into place. (Because they could no longer move, cars and trucks often clipped those mirrors when the truck was parked. The mirror itself would break, but the frames never budged out of place. Once, on Kingshighway, a stretch Hummer limo hit one of the mirrors, which scraped along the length of the Hummer. The limo driver just kept going.) Things like that. And that’s the condition The Beast was in when Josh bought it for his masonry business.

We’ve had the truck since 2008. Josh did all but the major  work himself to save money, even though it cost him days and days of his life. We’ve had engine parts re-machined. Almost 2 years ago, we put in a new transmission – which just now has only 10,000 miles on it. (The original engine hasn’t even cracked 100,000 miles!) We’ve slowly lost everything from the radio to the front power windows, to the air conditioning. One of the back doors will no longer open, and one has been jury-rigged to open with a vice grip and good timing. We’ve gone through 13 tires and many hundreds of gallons of gas. Usually loaded with a steel toolbox, a sand box, gravel, bricks and scaffolding, The Beast averaged 7 miles per gallon. On the highway.

People marvel at this shitty truck. A few have even offered to buy it, but until Josh was done with masonry, he couldn’t let it go.

Today, finally, Josh took the truck to his dealership. The wholesalers will come get it and auction it off to whoever wants to take the transmission or part it out, or to some crazy bastard who falls in love with it. In my wildest dream we get a thousand dollars for it, though obviously there’s no amount that’ll ever be quite right. It has been a hell of a ride, one Grandpa certainly never imagined. But I hope it’s one he’d get a kick out of.

RIP The Beast. Long live The Beast.


L: Tell me something funny.

S: Hmm… Once, a guy stole my bra after sex.

L: Haha, what?!

S: I didn’t realize it at first, so I kept searching for it the rest of the day. But I never found it.

L: What a weirdo! Do you think he kept a bra collection?

S: Maybe. Can you imagine explaining that to a girlfriend? And where  would he keep them? A rubbermaid container? Just tack them to his bedroom wall?

L: Tacking them to the wall is pretty “it puts the lotion on its skin,” only less murder-y.

S: But aren’t they basically his trophies?

L: Were you guys teenagers when this happened?

S: Yes. Sixteen.

L: Oh, then he definitely displayed them.

S: Ha!

L: But if he displayed them, wouldn’t his parents know? That would be tricky to hide. Maybe he kept them in the trunk of his car?

S: He had a Jeep Wrangler.

L: Hmm…

S: Maybe he wore them?

L: That’s very “it puts the lotion on its skin.” So, I guess you never had sex with this guy again?

S: Uh, no. What teenager could afford that?

A eulogy (of sorts)

There was a guy named Lou who hung out with some of my friends in high school. He had dark greasy hair, sleepy blue eyes and a pimply face and he didn’t talk much. When he did he was usually an asshole. We once smoked pot together in the library.

Josh and his brother knew Lou through different people (who I also knew, but barely hung out with). They stayed friends after high school and into early adulthood. Lou broke up Josh and his old girlfriend, though it’s never been clear whether anything happened between them or if he was trying to show Josh how shitty she was. Anyway, they broke up over Lou. Josh and Lou stayed friends anyway.

Which is how Lou saved Josh’s life one night. Josh, high and drunk and suicidal, locked himself in the bathroom, crying and talking crazy. Lou was on parole and drunk when he called 911 and Josh’s brother. He told Josh he called 911 and that he was sorry he had to leave him. Then he ran. The cops kicked Josh’s door in and the paramedics carried him kicking and screaming to an ambulance. Then they drove him to the hospital. Josh got better and, eventually, got sober. Lou stayed the same.

By the spring of 2008, Josh had several years sober and we’d been married a year. One day, Lou showed up to our apartment, the same one he’d run from years before. He was crying and told Josh that his mom had just died of cancer. He didn’t want to be at home because it was too hard for him emotionally. He asked if he could stay with us. Josh asked me if I was okay with it. I was wary of allowing an active drug addict to stay in our home; it wasn’t much, but it was all we had. Plus, I’d just had a miscarriage and was under a lot of stress. I didn’t really understand Lou’s angle, but I understood Josh’s: he wanted to help save his friend. My only condition was that Lou had to leave when Josh left. Lou accepted our terms and slept on our couch.

He stayed for a few days – I barely saw him. One day, Josh got a phone call from Lou’s mom who was most definitely alive. She was also not cancer-stricken or ill in any way. She was just looking for Lou. Josh was furious. He told Lou to get out. Lou said okay and he left.

Lou called Josh occasionally for the next few years. Josh would either answer and tell him, “I don’t want to talk to you,” before hanging up, or he’d just ignore him. Then, not long after Tiny was born, Lou called again. This time they talked. They had a good talk, but Josh made it clear to Lou that as long as he was using drugs, they’d never be friends. Lou told him he was just drinking and wasn’t doing heroin anymore. “You still smoking weed?” Josh asked. Lou admitted that he was. “I’m just never going to trust you, man.”


“My brother’s called me a few times in like 20 minutes,” said Josh.

“Uh oh,” I said. “Think he’s in jail?”

“I hope not.” He touched his phone screen a few times and put it to his head. After a few moments he said the call went to voice mail and hung up.

“Let’s go start Tiny’s bath,” I said.

We went to the bathroom and started bathtime. Josh’s phone rang. It was his brother.

“Hey. (pause) Wow. He’s really dead?” he said.

“Who?” I whispered.

“Lou. He overdosed,” said Josh. He left the bathroom, shaking his head.


I didn’t like you, Lou.

But thanks for getting the door kicked in.


For months, Josh and I have talked about having another baby. We would love to have another baby. I’m not getting any younger, especially considering my past fertility issues. Plus, I don’t want Tiny to be an only child.

However, my stomach tightens and my breathing becomes shallow to even write about this.

It’s not just the past infertility. It’s not just that pregnancy – or the loss of one – would be much more difficult while caring for a toddler. It’s not just that my successful pregnancy was pretty miserable. It’s not just the ever-present tick-tick-tocking of time, biological and otherwise. It’s not just that I’m scared I’ll gain too much weight again. It’s not just Josh.

But, it’s almost just Josh. At least, it’s how I feel about him that’s making me freeze.

I do not trust him. Ninety percent of that is because, well, he’s an extremely dishonest person. Ten percent of that is my own baggage. The erosion of trust doesn’t usually happen early in a relationship, so when our relationship started, any lack of trust was because of my baggage.

Not anymore. I mean, I obviously still have baggage, but he has fully earned my lack of trust.

The last couple months have been better. Things have been improving. I have every reason to believe that things will continue to improve. Josh’s work schedule is normal. He’s around. We’re spending quality time together as a family. I like him more than half the time. Usually way more.


It’s not just the dishonesty. With the exception of not being a lunatic for the month after my surgery, he pretty much checked out or was extremely uneven while I was pregnant. Plus, within a couple hours of being home with Tiny he was being insane. Quite literally insane.

For months after that, he barely spoke to me. He usually didn’t show me any affection. Sometimes he left the house without saying goodbye. Meanwhile, I took care of Tiny 24/7 with very little to recharge my batteries. I certainly couldn’t find support in him.

He asked me to go to intense couples counseling, which was difficult for me as I had to deal with pumping and leaving Tiny for several hours over entire weekends. My mom, dealing with my senile Grandma and a baby, twice failed to give Tiny enough milk, making her horribly constipated. Meanwhile, Josh continued to lie. My only requirement was that he not lie during our therapy. He did not honor his commitment. I’m not sure how many of his promises he’s kept. I know that he almost never keeps them.

Then, out of desperation, Josh gave me a diamond as an “early 5 year anniversary gift.” The problem? I don’t want a diamond. I never have. He never discussed spending that much money with me, even though it goes WAY over a previously agreed to limit. Until this, I’d never had to worry about him doing anything financially reckless. (I decided to keep the ring as an insurance policy against any future recklessness. Cynical? Realistic? Both?)

Meanwhile, Josh’s medications were in flux. New meds were added, old meds increased. It hit a point where Josh couldn’t tell the difference between Tiny’s fussing and happy noises. Even looking right at her he couldn’t tell me how she was feeling. She would be screaming and he couldn’t see that she needed comfort. Then, following a horrible situation between us, I demanded he stop taking one of his meds. (The doctor signed off on the decision.) Things slowly improved, but very slowly. Very.

The man I got pregnant with is not the man I went through pregnancy with. Nor is he the man who I brought a baby home with. Nor is he who he was the first year-plus of her life.

Who is he? Who is he going to be tomorrow? I know he’ll be here physically. But is that going to continue to be a good thing? Is he going to be there when I need him? Or will he be a ghost again? Will he lie? Is he still lying? Will he be hostile and cruel? Will he ignore us?

I don’t think I will ever be able to satisfactorily answer these questions. I don’t see how I’ll ever completely trust him. If I ever do, it’ll be years from now, years after I’m willing to have babies.

Josh is mentally ill. He’s been diagnosed with ADD, PTSD (horrible, terrible childhood), depression and a “milder” bipolar disorder. (Plus he’s an alcoholic! Though fortunately he’s been sober since before we got together.) Any one of these problems would be challenging to deal with. All of them together? He’s being properly treated for all of those things. But if he’s unwilling to be honest, none of that matters.

2012 was terrible for me. I’m leaving out so much stuff. I could write an obscenely long, detailed list of tribulations and stresses, but that’s not the point of this.

My daughter is amazing. She brings me great joy. But she isn’t and cannot be my sole source of joy. I take motherhood very seriously. I consider as much as my brain will allow me to. I put a lot of intention behind my actions. But the best thing I can do as a parent is to be okay and healthy. Right now, I am good. My marriage is trending up. It’s gotten easier and easier to once again be present in the moment. I don’t fantasize about breaking Josh’s nose anymore. I actually did nice stuff for him for his birthday. I cared that he had a good time.

I’m scared another pregnancy will somehow cause or coincide with everything again coming undone. I’ve struggled falling asleep the last two nights; I can’t afford to give into the insomnia anymore. My fears aren’t unfounded, and yet, I don’t want them to control me. Where is the line? Where do I cross over from taking a leap of faith into making a huge mistake?

Ramble, ramble.