You're Just Jealous 'cuz You Can't Hear Them

The Times, They Are A-Changing

2009-09-05T01:01:00.001-07:00

So it has been about four weeks since my last dose. The first week was really bad, even after tapering off. I don't know how many times I thought, geez, maybe staying on the drug wouldn't be that bad.

But I kept pushing myself to get past the side effects of withdrawal. The drug has a really long half-life in the system -- it took every bit of that week and the next two for it to really subside. Occassionally, I still get the wierd tingly, but I can definitely deal.

On the emotions front, those first weeks were dicey. My emotions were all over the place. It didn't help that work was so busy then too, necessitating 9 and 10 hour days. It got to where one new task landing on my desk nearly sent me into tears. (And I can't stand women who do that.) I had to really fight myself to keep my voice and outside attitude from reflecting the mess that was my head.

And no one warns you about the brain drain. I mean my brain just turned to mush one day, and I've been fighting ever since to get it back. I always close my day with the Nintendo DS and a few Sudoku puzzles to calm down and transition into sleep. (Wierd, I know. But it works for me.) And one day I just noticed that my brain couldn't do it. It was like it was wrapped in a layer of cotton batting -- the input had to fight through the cobwebs to get in and be recognized, and the output had to fight its way into the world.

It's coming back slowly. My brain, I mean. I still find myself with short-term memory issues, and I really don't remember much of the those first two weeks without the drug.

But you know what? I can be happy now without the meds. Oh, it turns out I need a lot more work on my coping mechanisms, but I can recognize what I'm feeling, why I'm feeling it, and can feel the need to change. That's all I wanted.

Cha-cha-cha-changes...

2009-07-24T14:18:00.000-07:00

Medication is a wonderful thing. But too much medicine not only costs a lot of money, it can also make us placid.

With mind-bending meds, you want just enough medicine in your system to keep you off the bridge railings, but not so much meds that you don't have incentive to change. Too much medication makes you content with the status quo. You're just all right - not too happy, not too sad. It doesn't matter if you lose weight or exercise, because it doesn't really make a difference. It doesn't matter if you go to a party at the neighbors, because you don't need to meet new people and make new friends - you'll still feel the same tomorrow.

Well, it's time to end the status quo. Between my pocketbook and the lack of measurable progress these last few years, it is time for me to stop being content. So, I'm going off my meds.

Oh, not all at once. Nope; the meds I'm on don't like it when you try to quit them. The side effects kick in - brain "shivers" (the wierd tingly sensation in your head), disconnection, etc., etc., etc. - when you don't take your daily dose. I'm about half way through a slow tapering off. And it is going surprisingly well - proof that it really is the right time.

Yes, the events of this month - the neighbors, the health problems - did set me back. But for every day of light, there must be night, and darkness. True depression, desperate depression, scuttles back from any hint of light, believing all is hopeless. I, for the first time in years, saw the light of dawn, and embraced it.

Oh, I know there will be setbacks along the way. Light can't be without dark. Contrast is the natural enemy of status quo. But maybe, just maybe, I've learned enough to wait out those stormy nights and hold out hope for the brilliant light of dawn.

Redemption

2009-07-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

Is redemption ever truly possible? How far can we fall and God still lift us up?

How do we measure atonement? In years in prison, or dollars of restitution?

All the advances of science owing to testing on "lesser races" or the "mentally inferior" - do we throw them aside as bites of the poisoned apple? If a doctor discovered a cure for AIDS, but only as the result of a study that infected hundreds of unknowing subjects, is he a saviour or a sinner? By curing them, does he ultimately obtain absolution?

What of the frustrated boy, saddled too young with the responsibilities of man, who kills a baby? Is his redemption possible? Is atonement achieved by years of jail or is something more required?

And what of us, those who stood by and did nothing? Can we be redeemed, or is too late?

Blind Faith

2009-07-20T23:03:00.001-07:00

What are the biggest moments of our life? Birth, marriage, death.

When we are born, our family, our community, gathers to bear witness - to the parents' promise to raise a child of faith, to a child's promise to abide by that faith.

When we are married, we again invite families and communities to bear witness to our lovers' declarations of love everlasting.

And in death, it is our final duty as witnesses to give testimony, to bestow "life everlasting".

So what is the most sacred duty of our faith? To stand witness. Not just to passively observe, but to actively witness, and testify. To remind our larger communities of the promises they made before God and man.

But, when He asked me to bear witness, I closed my windows and my blinds, and tried not to hear. If I could not see, then I could not know. In being blind, I broke faith with God.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be thy name,

Thy Kingdom come,

Thy Will be done,

On Earth as it is in Heaven.

And give us this day, our daily bread,

And forgive us our trespasses,

As we forgive those who trespass against us,

And lead us not into Temptation,

But deliver us from Evil."

I understand now.

The Abyss, Again

2008-09-13T17:09:00.000-07:00

You never really notice the climb when you're on the way down. Sure, some days you may look up and see that the sun doesn't look as bright that day, but you attribute it to the weather, and not your perspective on it. You may realize you've gone days without connecting to another person, but you chalk it up to their busy lives, and not the fact that few climb willingly into the dark, cold abyss.

At first it feels good. The mists are cool and welcoming, there is no sun to hurt your eyes, no noise to pierce your ears. There are no people around, so there aren't any expectations. You can sleep all day and do nothing. The chores can pile up around you and no one will care.

But one day, you notice that every gesture seems slow, heavy, deliberate. You look down and see that your protective layer is made of ice, and suddenly, you feel the cold.

You panic. You start to notice your surroundings. The steep cliffs of granite, cold and unyielding, looming above you in every direction. The pale cold light barely peeking beyond. The ice makes everything slippery and every movement difficult. With no one around, there is no one to hear your cries.

Despair becomes real. Hopelessness sets in. And you begin to question the fight.

It's Time

2008-06-23T22:10:00.001-07:00

I've been stuck for a while now, trying to find a way forward that would still leave me whole. I tried to take stock, but all I could see was this mass of old hurts and the laundry list of my lackings.

Surely in all these negatives, there had to be some positives?

And this last weekend, I discovered them. I met with this fabulous group of women that I look up to and admire. And I was accepted and liked and yes, loved. And I accepted and liked and gave love. These smart, funny, capable women told me I am strong, and witty, and wise.

And if they think it is so, then surely it has to be true. And truth is ever true; it cannot be unmade by time or will.

So, I cannot change the truth of what was: my past made me who I am today, everything these women see in me and more.

I cannot change what is; we are who we are today.

I can change what will be. Instead of clinging to the shadows in the ruins left from my past, I can move out into the sunlight, to see and accept the gifts the past has left me.

It is time to move on.

It is time to let go.

It is time to forgive.

Off Topic

2008-03-03T14:23:00.001-08:00

Okay, so there is a news story out there today that just maddens me.

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2004256586_webdreamsfire03m.html

Basically, the Earth Liberation Front is suspected in the firebombing of Seattle's Street of Dreams. The Street of Dreams was apparently advertised as being more "green", or environmentally-friendly, than in past years. They used recycled materials, reduced run-off by creating permeable hardscapes, etc. The ELF saboteurs apparently felt that the community as a whole wasn't green enough, because of its placement outside the urban area. (More resources required to bring materials and services to the site, destruction of "wild" areas, etc.)

To me, the (alleged) ELF terrorism cuts to the heart of why so many get turned off by the environmental movement: the refusal to see the world as anything but black and white.

Now, personally, I think a 4,000 square foot home is overkill, unless you're planning to take in indigent widows and orphans. I agree with the idea that most homes have become storage lockers, necessary to our everyday pursuit of more and better stuff. (How many of us actually use our garages for parking cars anymore? The junk drawer has grown to become the junk room - where used-up furniture and broken electronics go to gather dust.)

But what if you entertain frequently, for business and personal reasons? You'd need a bigger kitchen to accomodate the food prep, regardless of whether you cook or leave it to professionals. You'd also need extra bedrooms to accomodate the overnighters, or just guests who've had one to many.

And what if you need room for the elderly parents when they can't live on their own anymore? If they, or you, aren't comfortable with institutional care, you'd want them at home. And you'd probably want to give them their own space so they can feel somewhat independent. If they're in worse shape, you might even need room for a caregiver or nursing aide.

These are perfectly reasonable reasons for needing a larger home. And they're just the ones I thought of in the space of five minutes. I'm sure there are more.

So you can't just make a blanket statement that big houses are bad. Especially when you consider possible offsets.

(Now, what do I mean by offset? Well, I don't live near where I work. But, I do what I can to reduce the impact of all that mileage. I bought a smaller, more fuel-efficient car classified as a low emissions vehicle. When I need to make short errand runs near the office, I check out the public transit options. And I "lump" my trips together - picking up groceries and odds and ends on my way to or from the office. These are offsets.)

The Street of Dreams builders made offsets. They knew that larger homes would equal greater run-off (from water impermeable surfaces like roofs and driveways), so they landscaped (and hardscaped) the property to create better "natural" drainage. They used more efficient heating and cooling systems and Energy Star appliances.

The builders might even have used more earth-friendly design features like wood flooring and cabinets built from certified sustainable harvested woods, marmoleum floors, or PaperStone countertops.

Where do these radical "environmentalists" account for these offsets in their black and white view of the world?

What about the homes' future owners? What about the big software executive who telecommutes, cutting down on his car trips? The owner who hosts parties and shuttles or carpools his guests in from the city? The owner who composts, and has their own organic "kitchen garden"?

Who decides how many offsets we have to have before we can call ourselves green?

Will I be exposed as an earth-killer because I don't live near where I work? Will someone paint "warmonger" on the side of my neighbor's gas-guzzling work van?

The only way to save this Earth for future generations is to work together. To listen to one another and find compromises we can all live with. If I'm too scared of being attacked for my practices, I can't share my point of view. And if I'm not sharing, we can't find a solution.

It is time to take back our cause from the extreme. Lets all promise to listen, and consider, and work together. We can all start with just one thing...

Anger

2008-01-10T20:23:00.001-08:00

I thought I'd given up on anger. It's pointless to be angry with someone who's mentally ill. Her mind isn't capable of understanding. So what's the point in being mad?

But I've learned it isn't that easy to just let it go. I've been storing it up in a little box in my soul for all these years. But anger is corrosive; over all this time, the acid has eaten through that box and slowly leached into my heart. It poisons my everyday thoughts, and twists my every relationship.

I have to find a way to let it go - even if it means finally acknowledging all that pain, all that hate. It's time to pull it up, examine it, and let it go. So...

I'm angry at my mother: for not being the mother I so desperately needed. I'm angry for her accusations, her assumption that the daughter she raised could stray so far. I'm angry for all the times she accused my father of things he didn't do, tainting forever after my every interaction with him. I'm angry for all the times she embarrassed me in front of my friends. I'm angry for all the friends she made me drive away, for all the friends I never made, because I knew she wouldn't approve.

I'm angry with my father: for not being the father I so desperately needed. For every time he failed to shield me from my mother's delusions. For every time I needed a fatherly hug, but didn't get so much as a pat on the shoulder. For not protecting me soon enough.

I'm angry with my sister: for not stepping in to be the mother I so desperately wanted, until it was too late. Stupid I know. But to a 5-year old, a 15-year old sister looks so worldly and adult. I'm angry with her for not guiding me when I just needed someone to tell me what was normal and what wasn't. I'm angry with her for not seeing the damage Mom has already done to our family, and how much more damage she's capable of creating.

I'm angry with my best friend: for every time she made fun of or disparaged her parents' relationship. I just want to slap her, and tell her how lucky she was, how lucky she is, to have two parents capable of showing love and affection, sharing good and bad.

I'm angry with the Family Court: for not protecting me from my mother soon. For not protecting MY interests in my parents' long-running divorce.

And finally, I'm angry with myself: for not letting this all go.

Things

2008-01-06T23:27:00.000-08:00

I find it hard to get "attached" to things. The closest I come is that half-finished craft project I refuse to throw any further than my closet.

Today was clean-out day. Happens once or twice a year. Unlike some people I could mention, I acknowledge that I live in a small house. And unless I want the local newspaper to report my death by detailing the clutter I live in, I need to periodically cull my possessions.

You'll probably never hear me say, "I'm keeping that for sentimental reasons." I can understand the behavior in others, to a certain extent - I get keeping that wedding dress, for instance.

Keeping that horror of '80's fashion that was your wedding travel jumpsuit? Not so much. It's just stuff. Keep it light, you'll move faster. (I should say here that I'm still absolutely amazed by the amount of stuff I live with and find necessary. Just try to pry that stainless steel cook set out of my cold, dead hands.)

So today was Day 1 of the clear-out - the master bedroom. I am ruthless on clear-out. If you made it through the cut last time, and I haven't touched you since - it's time to go. Clothes with tags still on them, shirts that have seen better days and better waistlines. Total of five bags of clothes, purses, shoes and miscellany.

If there is one group of things I can get sentimental about, it's my books. But even there, I was coldblooded and pitiless. Bye to Nancy Herndon, Stef Ann Holm - sorry, gals, but it's time to make room for Victoria Laurie and Tess Gerritsen.

What's the upside of Clear-Out? Well, for one, I can see my closet floor for the first time since Thanksgiving . My bedroom feels lighter. I can go to sleep without worrying that the book I just tossed on top of my To-Be-Read pile will topple the whole stack.

Downside? Hauling everything to the garbage and the charity bin. Last time, it took me four carloads get everything to Goodwill.

The other downside? Sometimes, I wonder at my lack of sentimentality. Am I too cold-blooded? Is Clear-Out really a manic episode disguised as useful endeavour? Is this low ...

I don't know where I'm going with this. I guess I just wanted it said.

Inspiration

2007-07-02T19:25:00.000-07:00

This last week, therapy touched upon, oddly enough, my ADD when it comes to arts and crafts. I love arts and crafts. Writing, knitting, sewing, drawing, painting, all of it. But like so many others out there, I have a huge pile of unfinished projects.

I'll go to a craft store, find a yarn that sings to me its siren's song. I can see a shawl so clearly, done in that yarn, with an open gage. It would be so soft, so feminine, so pretty.

So I'll buy the yarn, the right size needles, etc. and tote it all home. Maybe I'll even go so far as to cast on and throw a few rows. But then the clack of the needles stills, and the yarn just sits there, alone, unused. I'll clean up the house for guests, see the project still laying where I'd abandoned it weeks before, and with a little sigh of regret, I'll banish it to the Land of Unfinished Crafts.

It wasn't that I stopped being able to picture that lovely shawl that first caught my imagination in the store. I can still see it, gauzy and fine, hanging around the shoulders of an imaginary form.

It's that I began to fear that vision. Where it could lead me. What if I got all wrapped up in the project? What if I let it consume me? The inspiration leads to chaos - knitting without a pattern.

And that is my great fear - my fear of letting go. If you were to ask me what vision haunts me when the drugs get weak, it is a vision of me, standing on the edge, and just ... stepping off. Letting go.

What chaos that would wreak!

Now, take my Craft ADD to something that means even more to me: writing. I love putting words together. Finding just the right way to express a feeling, a sentiment. I get giddy when people laugh at something silly I wrote. I feel honored when someone finds truth in something scary I wrote.

When I picture myself writing, I see chaos. Papers strewn around me, tacked to the walls, stacked on my desk. I see myself forgetting things like bedtime and meals.

When inspiration hits, the force it generates in me is so powerful, it can call me out of bed in the middle of the night, desperate to get the idea down. And then, it scares me. I can't control it. I don't know where the inspiration might take me, where it might lead, the chaos it might create. So I back off. And another note gets filed away in another notebook, tossed away with the recycling the next time I clean house.

Maybe it's time to let go. I've kept everything under tight control for thirty-odd years, and this is as far as its gotten me. Maybe it's time to let go, and let inspiration set my course.

What's in a Name?

2007-05-03T15:15:00.000-07:00

A Name is Power.

In ancient times, they used to believe that you should never utter a baby's name aloud, lest evil overhear. If Evil knew the baby's name, it could use the name to cast a spell upon the child.

Among some American Indian tribes, they had a practice of adopting the names of their spirit guides, thereby summoning the guide's strength and power to them.

If you want to take this out of the realm of myth, you need look no further than a baby. What is one of a baby's first milestones? His first word. When that baby first names his "Mommy", he gains power. He can summon a grown adult to his side with just one simple word. Just two syllables gets him a smile, a hug, a diaper change or a bottle. All his simple needs met, with just a single word.

Now take this to the adult who is seriously ill. You're afraid, but you don't yet know of what. You can't sleep for the worry. You can't eat without choking. You can't ask for help, because you don't yet know what is wrong. You feel helpless against this nameless demon that is trying to take over your life.

But then, someone gives you its name - Depression. You can own it now. It is no longer a faceless demon, but a thing. Now that you know its name, you can ask others, "Have you seen the demon known as Depression? Do you know how to defeat it?"

Now that you know its name, you can summon forth a champion to help you fight it. "Who amongst you has the courage to slay the mighty demon in my name?"

"Go forth, Prozac (or Zoloft, or Effexor) and defeat the demon known as Depression!"

Names have power.

Until you can name your fears, until you can speak their names out loud, you are at their mercy. And they are neither merciful nor swift in the havoc that they cause.

Progress/The Cinder Block Wall

2007-05-03T15:03:00.000-07:00

I have made progress (at last!) this past week. Many times before, I have been at a place in my head where it is okay to dress attractively, to wear flattering makeup, and take care to style my hair. But each time, I would hit a point where I would retreat, and not ever "know" why.

This time, I know that the voice in my head, telling me I shouldn't wear that, I shouldn't look like that, is my mother's. And I know she doesn't belong in there. I can take this fear of trying to be attractive and toss it back. It isn't mine. It doesn't belong to me. The girl with minimal makeup, practical clothes, and hair in a clip isn't me.

I am feminine. I like to feel "casually sexy". I like to dress in flattering clothes and wear nice makeup. I like to hear compliments about my skin and my hair. I still love to hear that I'm a great organizer, great assistant, great servicing agent, but I want people to see more of me! I want people to remember my smile, and how I laughed at something silly.

So that is my progress.

But these other fears? I still can't name them. Every time we try to journey a little deeper, this cinder block fortress wall pops up in my brain. And those nameless fears are right there, in the darkness, building the wall a little higher.

The therapist keeps pushing, trying to find a way to help me around, over, or under the wall, but each time, the wall gets higher and more menacing, until it feels like a physical weight in my head.

Here There Be Dragons

2007-04-26T11:27:00.000-07:00

I've still got a long way to go.

I've absorbed my mother's world. As a little girl, all I knew of the world was what my parents told me, showed me. All I knew was that there was something Out There so terrible that it even scared my Mommy. And over those formative years, I never saw any evidence to the contrary.

My parents were socially isolated - there was Work, and there was Home. Mom and Dad never had dinner parties with the neighbors, Mom never went out for lunch with "the girls", Dad never went to a bar with "the boys". My sister was nearly 11 years older than me - involved in her own life, very separate from my own.

Any other family we had lived nearly a thousand miles away. There were no "play dates" with cousins or neighbors. There were no neighbors even close to my age.

Is it so odd that I would take on my mother's view of the world?

Life in Mom's world had so many boundaries. Beyond the implication that if you wore That Skirt, you wouldn't look ladylike, you wouldn't look like my daughter, you wouldn't be worthy of my love, there was an even deeper, even darker implication. Girls who wore That, who looked like That, girls who didn't have her love and protection, were in Grave Danger.

Danger from what, I never knew. I just knew that my mommy thought that there was a very scary world outside our front door, and we had to be on constant guard against its evil. And so it must be so.

Here, there be dragons.

I am a bundle of fear, of anxiety. I live my entire life in my fortress, high on the hill. If I go Out There - without the protection of my mother and the safety of her rules - Evil might catch me.

Out There, there be dragons.

Emotional Abuse

2007-04-18T00:20:00.000-07:00

There is a conversation going on in another blog that is touching on several themes close to my world. In the interest of not hijacking that author's blog, I'm taking my thoughts on emotional abuse over here.

No, with all due respect, you can't leave the emotional abuser any more than you can leave the physical abuser. Both demons control you, one with fear and one with love. They are equally powerful forces.

I'd like to illustrate the insidious nature of emotional abuse by going back to the example of the parent as the emotional abuser. It doesn't begin all at once. There is no "magic age" where a parent simply loses it and begins criticizing you, controlling you. It begins before you're even born; it begins with the parent. Part of their DNA, part of the tangled umbilical cord that connects you.

We're taught from the cradle that all parents love their children and all children love their parents. Every book we're read, every television show we see as children reinforces this notion that the bond between parent and child is sacred, everlasting, and beautiful.

The emotional abuser controls you by implying that if you don't conform with their standards, of conduct, of dress, of beauty, of brains, that you aren't deserving of their love. As a child, raised on the dram of "special bonds", how can you combat this? This bitter poison that taints the love you're given is all you've ever tasted, so how can you even know there is something better out there?

As you get older, maybe you are lucky enough to see that other people's homes aren't like that. So maybe you say something, to the other parent, to a trusted adult. Emotional abuse is rarely ever recognized, the pattern so subtle, few see it for what it is. The other parent is maybe already used to the abuse themselves, and afraid to rock the boat, so they'll tell you that it is easier if you just acknowledge that "it's a difficult time for her", "she's just that way", and "shake it off".

Maybe you tell a teacher. You'll hear, "Have you told your mother how much her words hurt you?"

So you go home and tell Mom that her words are hurtful. But the abuser doesn't hear that. Instead, she hears that you don't love her. How could you not love your own mother? How could you not believe your own mother loves you? What an awful person you must be. Not only are you not pretty, not attractive, not ladylike, too noisy, too dumb, but you're also an unlovable kid.

So, tell me, how does this child "just walk out" of that abusive relationship?

Depression

2007-04-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

What does depression feel like? There is a song playing on the radio right now that says it well for me: "Into the Ocean" by Blue October.

...Now floating up and down
I spin, colliding into sound
Like whales beneath me diving down
I'm sinking to the bottom of my
Everything that freaks me out
The lighthouse beam has just run out
I'm cold as cold as cold can be

I want to swim away but don't know how
Sometimes it feels just like I'm falling in the ocean
Let the waves up take me down
Let the hurricane set in motion... yeah
Let the rain of what I feel right now...come down
Let the rain come down

Where is the coastguard
I keep looking each direction
For a spotlight, give me something
I need something for protection
Maybe flotsam junk will do just fine
the jetsam sunk, I'm left behind
I'm treading for my life believe me
(How can I keep up this breathing)

Not knowing how to think
I scream aloud, begin to sink
My legs and arms are broken down
With envy for the solid ground
I'm reaching for the life within me
How can one man stop his ending
I thought of just your face
Relaxed, and floated into space

I want to swim away but don't know how
Sometimes it feels just like I'm falling in the ocean
Let the waves up take me down
Let the hurricane set in motion... yeah
Let the rain of what I feel right now...come down
Let the rain come down
Let the rain come down....

That is what it feels like to me. It starts with a need to escape - to just walk into the ocean. Let the cold water wash right over you, make you numb. Buffeted by the waves, just body surfing to the rythm of the ocean.

And then the current catches you and before you know it, the ocean has pulled you past the breakwater. That's when you start to feel anxious, worry that you've gone to far. But the ocean is relentless, the current so strong now you can't break free.

Hypothermia sets in. You begin to lose consciousness, you see the ocean as a higher power. You aren't giving up; you're giving in to a greater force. Peace sets in. You know it isn't a real peace, but it could be the end of the pain, so you let go. Into the ocean. End it all.

Don't worry. I'm not in danger of jumping overboard. I'm actually on an upswing. (Or to continue the metaphor, the Coast Guard came along with good meds and a pretty decent therapist.)

It's just that I'm starting to see how I came to this place in my life. There is good, and there is bad, but it is time to swim out of the ocean and accept my rescue. I am worthy of this life.

The Invading Horde

2007-03-26T10:55:00.000-07:00

I've been pushing this thought around in my head since my last therapy session. See, people tend to see me as a control freak. I don't think of myself that way; I mean, I like things how I like them, that's all.

Several weeks ago, we uncovered that I don't really have a need to control so much as a need to anticipate. I'm okay with change, so long as I can predict or reason out what comes next.

And this is perfectly reasonable given the environment I grew up in. I knew that if I started a conversation about friends, and mentioned a boy, that could lead to darkness in my mother. So I'd avoid that conversation.

My need for things to be in their place also harkens back to Mom; she always suspected people of stealing from her, from us. If I knew where something was, it wasn't stolen - what she "saw" wasn't real.

As fearful as my Mom was of the outside world, our home was a fortress - if I stayed home alone, the windows had to be closed and locked. The door and phone could not be answered. I wasn't allowed out into the front or back yard. If I did leave the house, I had to call before I left and when I returned. If those calls weren't "on schedule", I knew there would be an outburst.

But our fortress was also a prison for me. Not just because I couldn't leave, but because nothing was "mine". My books, my backpacks, my clothes - these were all subject to search at any time. My room was not a sanctuary - it, too, was subject to entry and search. Worse was when Mom would "find" things that I would be forced to explain.

I was so eager as an adult to have my own home. Not an apartment, where you can't paint the walls or where you have to wait for a landlord to get around to fixing your leaky water heater, but a home.

Now that I have a home of my own, I'm very protective of it, especially when my family comes to visit. I like my things, and my things have their place. I like the order of my home, the cleanliness of it. When my family (and particularly, my mother) comes to visit, I feel as if I'm being invaded by a foreign army. And they force me to feel guilty for asking that they, my family, observe my rules.

This extends to sharing my life with my mother. I simply don't. She asks how things are going for me personally, I say things are fine, and change the subject.

The therapist pointed out how this all comes back to my childhood. I know from childhood experience that if I open up my personal, private life to my mother, I'll be interrogated. My friends' and colleagues' motives will be attacked.

I know that when my mother comes to visit, she will get in to everything. (She even once used a credit card to get into my shed for my gardening tools. I appreciate that she feels she's helping me by doing some yard work, but breaking in to my shed to accomplish it?)

I have to admit to being worried about all this. My sister says I'll never be able to live with someone else. That I'm too set in my ways. And I think I started to fear she was right.

But truly, I can share my life with someone else. I invited Fred into my home, and if anyone can bring chaos to your life, it is a puppy with a sensitive stomach! But Fred is in my home by my choice. I set the rules we live by (some of them, like no paws on the bed, have resulted in a compromise). And Fred is perfectly happy with that.

So, my need for order, my need to anticipate, my need to protect my home and my life from invasion - these are things I need to be conscious of. It's okay to protect my home and my life from my mother, but by not sharing these things with other people, I've isolated myself. I need to open myself up more, but to the right people. People I can trust.

RANT

2007-03-26T00:04:00.000-07:00

Oh, and another thing, since I just talked about minimizing:

Maybe it was just the movie, but I remember seeing Ya-Ya-Sisterhood in a theatre a few years back. The whole "they're not crazy, they're just colorful southern women" thing bugged me. Talk about minimizing mental illness.

The Abyss

2007-03-25T23:10:00.000-07:00

These last few weeks have been difficult for me. I feel as if a sinkhole has opened up beneath my fortress, and it is pulling me in.

I think it would be easier if my mother had hit me. Even back then, that was something people acknowledged. If a parent hit you, someone HAD to take action. But if your mom was crazy?

"She's just a little overprotective, honey. That's understandable in this day and age."

"Your mother is just a very intense person. You'll get through this together."

"Mom's just...Mom."

No one wants to see it. And you're left wondering if it's all in your head. No one else sees anything wrong. It must just be me.

It's worse when your own family denies it. If the people you trust, who live with you day in and day out, see the same behavior, don't acknowledge a problem, how can there be a problem?

I get all tangled up in my head. Am I just being melodramatic? Everyone's families have problems. It's not like I was molested or my parents beat me. Why can't I just get over it?

Then, well, so it doesn't matter if it is all in my head. It's my pain and I own it. But I've already moved 200 miles from home, and she's STILL in my head. What else can I do?

I wrote a few weeks ago about how I wasn't able to escape into my books anymore. That realization was earth-shattering.

As a kid, when Mom started yelling, when everything got too dark, I could pick up Nancy Drew or Little Women, and shut the whole world out. Nothing could penetrate the new worlds books built in my head. For just a little while, I could live on the prairie with the Ingalls family or in the city with the March girls. Books were my only refuge in a house I (literally) couldn't escape.

Realizing that I had lost that -my safety net, my security blanket - was just too much. And it seems that the journey from neurotic to psychotic isn't that long or hard of a trip.

Fortunately, this time I reached out for help. And I chose the right person - not another person to minimize the situation or to betray me - but the person I hired to help guide me through this.

It hasn't been easy, trying to climb out of this abyss, but I've finally got a flashlight, and if I'm lucky, the light will hold out 'til I see the sun.

No Peace

2007-03-13T22:32:00.000-07:00

Now it seems even the limited solace of books is beyond my grasp. My whole life, books have been there for me; sometimes, the only one there for me. When I needed escape, when I needed to wrap myself up in someone else's life, books provided a path. When I could no longer feel my own pain, books were there to help me feel alive again.

All I needed was a book. A few pages, a few hundred words, and peace could be mine, if only for an hour or two.

Now, even that is gone. I don't remember the last time I was able to actually finish a new book. A To-Be-Read pile was a foreign concept to me. Now, my TBR pile takes up an entire shelf; bookmarks mock me every time I dare to look.

As for my old friends - the faithful, dog-eared companions that I thought would always be there for me - they've turned their backs on me. Like an old friend who's moved on with life, a few words is all the time they can spare for me now.

Know peace? Once upon a time, I did.

Progress

2007-03-08T20:47:00.000-08:00

Therapy hasn't been a pleasant experience these last few weeks. I've discovered that the hill my fortress is built on is prone to landslides. The fortress may be sturdy, but come the rains...

Today, we spent a lot of time discussing why I've been unstable lately. My therapist tells me that it is a natural progression of our work together and reminds me that I need to get through this to have any hope of getting better.

Why is therapy so difficult for me?

1. A lifetime of living with my mother's delusions. Puberty, sexuality, flirting, being attractive; these were all dangerous, inciteful things in my mother's world. I learned at my mother's knee not to ever bring them up, not to discuss them. I've spent twenty years hiding my femininity, my sensuality, my sexuality. To willing bring these up a 15'x20' office, with a male therapist, no less?

2. My family. We've spent more than my lifetime minimizing my mother's illness. My sister thinks I'm just melodramatic - it's not that bad. Everyone else has family problems too. But, my sister is too invested in my mother for her to admit the truth, even to herself. If mother is truly that far gone, then how can she leave her to watch her children every day?

I've spent a lifetime hearing, "you're just like your mother", from my Dad, from my sister. They meant it about the little things, but to a kid who knows her mother isn't right? And my mother's whole family is seemingly around the bend. Given that my own father and sister think I'm just like Mom, given that Mom's whole family is nuts, "crazy" for me just seems inescapable.

3. "Shhh, you can never tell." Everytime I tried to reach out, it failed. My father refused to see the damage my mother was capable of inflicting. My sister says it's not that bad.

I told my mother's brother (before I realized he was already quite a ways around the bend himself); only to have him betray me to my mother.

I told the shrink my mother made me see when I was 13. She told me my mother and I were just "intense" and we'd grow through it.

I told the family court counselor, and she separated us. (You'd think that'd be a good thing, right? But to a teenage mind, it just meant that my mother was angry with me for years. My sister was angry with me for messing up Christmas. And Dad didn't know what to do with a teenage daughter.)

Everything that has gotten me this far, every rule of survival I've ever learned, tells me that going to see a therapist is wrong. It's dangerous. It will lead to betrayal, or worse: I'll find out that I'm crazy; or that I'm not, that my mother's not.

Why do I need to move forward?

1. I want to be my best me. Rather Oprah of me, I know, but it's true. I want, need, desire, a more full life. I've had my hair styled, colored; I've had a professional manicure, my first pedicure; I've taken to wearing my jewelry again. I'm taking the time each day to do all those things women do to look their best. And I feel better for it - attractive, appealing, feminine.

2. I can't do this on my own. I've been here before: taking pains with my appearance, getting out among people, opening myself up to the opportunities. And each time before, I'd slowly begun to sabotage myself - getting up "too late" to take time with hair and makeup, not keeping up with hair cuts and color because it was "too expensive", not going out for fear of being found unattractive, lacking. And each time I withdrew, my world got just a little smaller, a little darker.

3. I am strong. Or maybe I've just reached the point where desperation is stronger than experience and fear. My therapist pointed this out today. I don't think he meant it as a "yeah for you"; more as a "this is why you're feeling unstable". Regardless, to discount years of experience, walk willing into a therapist's office to discuss all this - it's progress.

The Forest and the Trees

2007-02-22T15:36:00.000-08:00

It's not as easy as saying, "I'm afraid that I'm not feminine enough. I'm afraid that other women will find me lacking." And then signing up for tutoring in the feminine arts of hair and makeup.

See, I secretly long for the feminine things - makeup may mystify me, but I still gleefully (yet covertly) shop at Sephora. I have a hidden stash of scented body lotions, face creams, and expensive hair products.

All things just for me, so I hide them from everyone. After all, if no one can see the lotions and potions and miniature porcelain boxes hidden back in my room, no one can judge me for them.

But they're indisputedly feminine things, so who would find them lacking? Which brings us to the real fear:

That my mother would see them. That she would think I'm trying to attract, to entice; that I'm inviting danger and shame. That she would react as she always did in my youth: with wild, irrational ravings about "Them" - those shadowy, vague and menacing demons just waiting outside our front door.

A week and a few hundred dollars to find I've been contemplating trees and forgetting it's a forest. Two hundred miles from home, and I may as well still be there.

The Fortress

2007-02-18T20:07:00.000-08:00

I've completely decorated and re-decorated my fortress. But, you know what? Underneath that pretty paint, it's still a stone fortress - cold and lonely. The windows offer great views of people out in the village, laughing with their significant others, playing with their kids, gossiping with their neighbors. But since I still can't find the door, I can't go join them.

I'm thirty-some-odd years old, and I'm still living my life bound by my mother's fears, my mother's rules. Don't attract attention; wear makeup and clothing to conform, never to enhance or attract. Don't flirt, don't talk to strangers. "They" can mis-interpret your intentions.

Clothes shopping was never fun for me. My mother always had to approve my choices. This was "too short", that "too tight". Red was a color for streetwalkers. And don't even get me started on bras or panties. Like every young girl back then, I had a subscription to YM magazine. But unlike some of my peers, I never got a chance to experiment with trends and styles.

But at the same time, I acknowledge that living by her rules makes me less than a full person. I don't like to go out and meet people (even of the same sex) for fear of being judged. Other women, women who know how to be feminine and confident, intimidate me. I'm afraid that I'm being weighed and found wanting. "Look at her! My God, doesn't she know how to dress? And who taught her to use makeup? Doesn't she ever do anything with her hair?"

Another part of me is trapped by my childhood experiences. Talking to boys back then was a guarantee that my mother would break with reality. Irrational rage, yelling and screaming - being a teenager was hard enough without my peers seeing that. I learned not to create situations that would set Mom off. Which means I never was alone with a boy. I never got to experience all those normal high school moments - holding hands in the hallways, kissing under the bleachers, first fights, breakups - that prepare us for our grown-up experiences.

So now, I don't know how to relate to men in a getting-to-know-you sense, let alone dating. I freeze, shut down.

So, curing my depression and loneliness isn't a simple "get out and meet people". I can't. By my mother's rules, that is a situation fraught with peril. I'm so terrified of the possibilities that I'm blind to the fortress' door.

Baby steps. This weekend, I pulled a picture from a magazine and took it in to my stylist. She said, "That would look good on you". And then she proceeded to cut and style my hair, carefully showing me, every step of the way, what she was doing, and how to replicate it at home.

Next step? My family is coming to visit next weekend. I'll see if my sister will go to the neighborhood sports bar with me, so I can be familiar with the surroundings.

And the third step? A facial and a makeup lesson at a day spa.

Baby steps.

Fear

2007-01-18T14:53:00.000-08:00

It cushions us from hurt, protects us from the consequences of our own foolishness. Fear keeps us from climbing down those rickety basement stairs in the dark. It is fear that keeps us ordinary folk from jumping off cliffs or throwing ourselves out of airplanes.

But the same comfortable swaddling that cradles us can also suffocate us. Where is the line between guardianship and imprisonment?

Therapy today held a couple of revelations for me. The biggest revelation was how, despite my best efforts, I’ve held on to the fears my mother instilled in me. And in fact, how I’d rationalized the irrational.

My whole childhood, I was surrounded by my mother’s paranoia. I couldn’t go outside at night. I couldn’t be alone with a boy or a man without my mother’s supervision. I couldn’t wear pajamas or a nightgown outside my room without a robe, even in my own home.

Men were evil, abusers by their very nature. My fellow teens were alcoholics, budding druggies, promiscuous Adams & Eves luring me from the straight and narrow.

As an adult, intellectually, I’ve known that my mother’s fears were a manifestation of her illness, and not a guide to live my own life. But it seems that instead of letting those fears go, I instead began to rationalize them.

Talking to a guy in a bar? No, never, because it’s not safe for a woman.

Running by myself at night? Not wise in my neighborhood - I could get hit by a car.

My mother’s fear of sexual intimacy became my fear of pregnancy, my fear of disease, my fear that “others” might perceive me as “loose”.

And by adopting my mother’s fears, I’ve allowed healthy fear to grow into something overwhelming; walls that loom around me, no matter where I step. A fortress of solitude, indeed.

Past

2007-01-11T14:47:00.000-08:00

"Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it." Remember that truth. I think the behavioral psyschologists have forgotten it.

Thanks to the advent of managed care, behavioral psychology and medicine management have gotten a big boost. Medicine is cheaper for an insurance company than paying for an undefined number of office psychotherapy visits. Since no one likes the idea of an entire populace doped up on Prozac indefinitely, behavioral psychology won acceptance.

In a gross simplification, it works something like this:

Your preferred physician puts you on medication to alleviate the symptoms of depression and refers you to the behavioral shrink down the hall. The behavioral shrink will then meet with you and discuss your recent history ("Why do you think you're depressed?") The behavioralist will have you chart your symptoms so that the two of you can spot triggers. You then work on those triggers.

Depressed because you have no friends? The behavioralist will tell you to get out more - join a club or visit church.

Depressed because you just got divorced? Get back on the dating scene.

Schizophrenic? The behavioralist will make sure your meds are managed appropriately and train you to recognize your symptoms and your triggers.

The behavioralist believes you can be cured by changing your life patterns. We live in the present; your past doesn't matter.

But while this approach works for SOME people, it doesn't work for others.

Why? Because while we all strive to live "in the moment", we live in moments formed by our past. The ex-wife got a divorce because she was unable to trust that a husband wouldn't abuse her as her father had done. The shut-in is trapped by her lack of self-worth and a family that reinforced that belief through constant criticism.

Sending the shut-in to church to meet people won't cure her. It will only enforce her isolation by reminding her that she lacks the ability to connect with people. Lonely in a room full of people.

Psychoanalysts believe that our past has power. That in some people, the experiences of their past can envelope them in a hell of their own design. They see that the shut-in can't form connections with other people because her past taught her time and again that those same connections will fail her.

I've come to realize that there is something powerful in acknowledging my past. For me, the behavioral approach doesn't work because it dismisses the past. But my past is me - it forms who I am today, and why I am neurotic: I am afraid of becoming my mother. I am afraid of spending my whole life wrapped in psychosis; convinced that every man I meet is an abuser, every kid a drug addict, every neighbor a thief.

The behaviorist hears this and says, "Well, don't isolate yourself as your mother has done. Get out, meet people, form more friendships, make connections, and date men." All of which dismisses the impact my mother has had on me.

I can't make connections, I can't let go - I'm a control freak. Why? Because my experiences with my mother have taught me to fear chaos. And what is the nature of love? The ability to let go. Chaos incarnate.

The psychoanalyst hears, "I'm afraid of becoming my mother" and says, "Why do you fear becoming your mother? What did she do that makes you afraid?" And you begin a guided journey into your past.

Through that journey into your history, you begin to recognize the "Whys". Why you have to always obey the rules. Why you can't let men into your life. Why you have difficulty forming attachments.

Our past has power. Those who disregard their past are doomed to repeat it.

Eeek!

2007-01-04T11:40:00.000-08:00

Just left my therapy session. Today's Topic? Human Sexuality. Specific Human? Me. (Just lucky I guess.)

We discussed my sexuality as influenced by my mother's psychotic delusions and her belief that sex was shameful and dirty.

My sexuality as a source of contradiction, courtesy of my faith. I grew up Catholic -therefore, sex is for procreative purposes only. Anything outside of that is a sin. However, I belonged to a "progressive" church (if only my mother and the Pope had known), and they taught that God made sex pleasurable as a gift.

We reviewed my sexuality through interaction during my teenage years. (That was a short conversation.)

And I made an admission. One I never expected to speak aloud. (Big oops. But I said it. I suppose it's a good thing.)

Now, I'm ready for a big old piece of chocolate and a spicy romance novel. (Sublimation? Nah....?)

Christmas

2006-12-26T22:38:00.000-08:00

My doctor has pointed out that my family is in pretty strong denial about our circumstances. For every birthday, for every holiday, we are all (divorced Mom & Dad included) to present ourselves for a family dinner. No raised voices allowed. Everyone must play nice and pretend we're all normal. Mom's not a paranoid delusional psychotic, Dad's not a passive-aggressive depressive with deadly cancer, the sister isn't a control-freak with stress management issues, the brother-in-law isn't a lazy couch potato who can't do anything without step-by-step instructions....

And as per usual, this Christmas, the illusion shattered pretty quickly. We didn't even make it through our Christmas breakfast before Mom said something silly about the food, my sister took it the wrong way, the refridgerator starting going on the fritz, and the kids started acting up.

Once again, I was forced to give thanks to Bristol-Meyers Squibb (or whichever other pharmaceutical company makes my drugs).

But, there was one change this year: I had Fred along. My family was still nuts, I was still depressed, but Fred provided a new focus for me. My family was still at the center of my Christmas, but they were forced to share space with Fred. Fred needed exercise, and I got time alone. Worked pretty well. Which is not to say that I don't have plenty of new material for the shrink to chew on next week.

Hope your Christmas illusions stayed intact. A happy new year is coming....

Welcome to the Darkness

2006-11-19T22:59:00.000-08:00

I think the title says it all. A little over a week ago, I was in my weekly session with the psychiatrist. [For those of you who went through Psych 101 in college, he's a Freudian psychoanalyst - blame it all on your mother. Current mental health practice is more behavioral in nature - your insurance won't pay to dig in to your childhood issues, so let's change your behaviors, and hope that helps.(BTW, it doesn't.)]

Anyways, we are still working on history. Family/friend mapping, family history of psychiatric disorders, etc. In that particular session, he asked me for my earliest memories of my Mom and Dad. (For the record, Mom broke with reality a long time ago. She’s been paranoid, delusional, and in denial since I was in elementary school. See “blame it on mother” above.)

So I dredged up the memories. And they were good. Stuff like my Dad asking if I’d heard the reindeer on the roof Christmas Eve. Mom in the kitchen with my sister and me, baking; letting me play with the extra pie crust dough.

I started crying during our session. The doctor asked me why I was crying. I said, “Because I want that back.”

I was still crying down on the street after our session. I was still crying all the way back to my office. And I was still crying as I gulped down the giant piece of Hershey’s chocolate that had been hidden in the back of my desk drawer.

It felt like a giant gaping black hole had opened up inside me. Sucking everything it could inside, trying to fill the gap. And no matter what, that hole wouldn’t close.

That night, my Dad called with the news that my grandmother (92 years-old and in frail health) had fallen and broken her leg and hip. Adding to that stressor is the fact that my 72 year-old father is dealing with his own mortality. He’s recently been diagnosed with myelofibrosis, an untreatable cancer of the bone marrow. On that night, we were still waiting for the results of some tests that were to show how advanced his condition had become.

I made it to the weekend, and thought, “Eh, not so bad.” But I spent most of the weekend in bed. I only left the covers to take Fred (see posts below) for his walks and to make myself some lunch or dinner.

When I returned to the office on Monday, I was still struggling. I no longer felt the overwhelming presence of that giant black hole, but I still felt the “sucking”. And a sense of emptiness.

The week continued with more weeping. (I’m not normally a watering-pot, but last week I could have kept the botanical garden moist.) Anger, frustration, irratibility, aggravation, apathy – these were my friends.

I debated calling the doctor, but in the end, decided to hold off for my regular weekly visit. (Bad idea, I know.) I came in crying. May as well start as you mean to go on….

We reviewed the last week, and then the doctor asked me to provide some details about when my mother started to go “off the rails”. Not great memories.

After writing a new prescription for a stronger dose of anti-depressants, the doctor decided that maybe taking a session break over Thanksgiving week wasn’t such a good idea. We’re due to reconvene on Tuesday.

The way its going, I may still be crying by then. While the news from Dad and Grandma is good (very good), I can’t seem to close off this black hole inside. For the first time ever, I called in sick without an illness.

I was hoping my four-day weekend would give me enough time for the new dosing to kick in to gear. So far, I’m still waiting for the anti-depressant high, and I have to be back at the office on Monday.

I guess it’s a good thing I do the office ordering. Maybe they won’t notice the two boxes of Kleenex I’ve gone through already.

[Okay, since I couldn’t admit it to my doctor, maybe I’ll try it here: I’m not afraid that I’ll hurt myself – actively. More that I’m afraid I might be capable of hurting myself passively – through delayed reaction (that apathy thing).

The only time I’ve ever been this close to the edge before was just before I left university. I used to just get in my car and drive. My fantasy was just staying in my car and going as far as I could (denial and avoidance for one, please).

Of course, the logical side of my brain knew that, a) I’d eventually run out of gas, and, b) everything wouldn’t just go away.

I’m having that fantasy again…]

Thank You to the Humane Society of the US!

2006-10-24T22:12:00.000-07:00

They have a really wonderful website: hsus.org.

If you click on "Pets", you get all these great articles like "Puppy Nipping and Rough Play" and "Basic Training Techniques". Thanks to those articles, Fred and I are well on the way to our HEA.

I wasn't sure how to handle his habit of jumping up on me (and anyone else who pets him). I knew it wasn't threatening behavior, just too much exuberance, so I didn't want to over correct. Thanks to that puppy nipping article, I now know to settle him down by crossing my arms and not giving him attention until he settles down. (Which, BTW, works for a whole host of other puppy behaviors, too.)

And the training article has gone a long way in building my confidence that we're on the right path. In fact, tonight we strengthened "sit" and learned how to hold that for a short count. We also learned "lie down" and "up". (Of course, we're still working on how to do that when he knows there isn't a treat hiding in my hand.)

I've been fretting about all the treats I've been giving Fred with his training lessons. Through reading the Humane Society articles, I've learned there is absolutely nothing wrong with using Fred's meal times for training - making him work for every kibble (until he gets tired, anyway). That was a huge relief - I had this vision of my 50lb-Thinks-He's-A-Lapdog turning into a 70lb-Thinks-He's-A-Lapdog.

And those tips about plenty of exercise being the best way to keep him out of trouble? Priceless. My shoes and clothes have been completely safe.

(Of course, there is that bit about Fred hijacking my laptop last night. I've now got dried doggy slobber all over the keyboard. Who taught him typing, anyway? He's faster than I am.)

Introducing Fred CherryBomb!

2006-10-23T21:01:00.000-07:00

My name is Fred CherryBomb, and I came home with my new person last week. Phew! Has it really been just a few days?

I'm part Basset Hound, part Labrador, and all hunting dog. On one of my very first walks through the new 'hood, I spotted a grouping of deer hanging out at the back of the cemetery. I told my new Mom I'd be happy to bring one home for her, but she wouldn't let me go after them.

I also love to sniff the ground, trying to track small game. Mom wouldn't let me bring one of those home for her either. Geez, parents!

Unlike my Basset forebears, I really love to go for walks. And I love spending time outdoors, even if Mom won't let me off my leash. All that activity! The other dogs and cats and kids!

Right now, my Mom is cursing my last toenail trimmer. I guess I scratched her when I jumped up. I'm really trying not to do that anymore, but it is sooo hard not to do it when I get excited.

And now that I've recovered my energy after that little "snip" last week, I've started to get a little more rough with my play. All my doggy friends let me nip at them to show my affection, but Mom won't let me do that either! She says the Humane Society has articles to help us with these things...

All in all, life is pretty good. If I obey "sit", I get treats. I love treats! I'm starting to learn lie down, but I get all excited about my treat and forget to stay. Mom says that's okay, our obedience class will help us with that, too.

Yawn! I'm getting sleepy. My new Mom is sacked out on the couch sleeping. I think I'll join her. (Don't worry, I won't climb on the couch. I already know my house rules!)

Won't Mom be suprised when she finds out I know how to use the Internet!!! Another Fred, TOTW!!!

What's in a Name?

2006-10-18T21:39:00.000-07:00

I couldn't tell the shelter my name. So they stuck me with the awful name Krumpin'.

Do I look like a hip-hop rapper to you?

So, what should my new name be?

1) Krumpin' - And maybe P Diddy will pay my vet bills!

2) Pumpkin - 'Cuz it's October, and my coloring matches those exotic gourds you find this time of year.

3) Fred CherryBomb - With my red nose, don't I look like I just got caught sticking my nose in a bowl of cherries?

4) Charlie All Night - Well, my new mommy certainly hopes all night describes my sleep habits and not any basset singing!

Bravenet and Blooger weren't getting alone this evening, so you'll have to vote in the comments.

By the way, my ears aren't usually tucked back like this. I was a little nervous when I first arrived, and of course, that's when they took my mugshot. Hey, at least I look better than Nick Nolte or Mel Gibson!

Krumpin' . . . eh, not so much

2006-10-17T22:42:00.000-07:00

I went to the Humane Society shelter again today. I met more than a few dogs, and fell in love with a 10 month old Basset Hound/Labrador mix saddled with the rather unfortunate sobriquet of "Krumpin".

He's got the attitude of a Basset Hound and the looks of a Labrador. Which means he must sniff everything. He loves "treats". And he's very affectionate. (My face got a lovely tongue bath :-) His coat is a beautiful cream color with darker tan spots.

Unfortunately, I couldn't take him straight home. The Humane Society will only release dogs after they've been spayed/neutered. His snip-snip is tomorrow, so they let me place a 24-hour hold that will start immediately after his surgery.

I'll know on Thursday.

One thing is for sure. That name WILL be changed.

Therapy and Dogs as Prozac

2006-10-16T22:38:00.000-07:00

I went to the psychiatrist today. He had REAL operating windows - he must have a lot of faith in his abilities. Even the college counseling office had fixed windows.

Turns out I'm too screwed up to be diagnosed in one session. This could be a while...

And at $20 co-pay per session, one session per week, insurance covering only 38 more visits over the next 24 months...

The buddy I was going to adopt from the shelter tomorrow was adopted earlier today. If anyone knows of a homeless, loving, active, couch-potato dog weighing 40 pounds or less....

Modern Healthcare and Other Frustrations

2006-10-15T22:57:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow afternoon I get to visit the shrink. My first psychiatrist. A little scary. But in exchange, I'll get to learn just how screwed up I really am. Certainty - a beautiful thing.

It's been a difficult weekend. Not sure why. Maybe the change of the weather, maybe all the trouble I've been through trying to get Monday's appointment.

On the plus side, the dog search has been a positive thing for me. I can't wait to bring my companion home. Only bad thing - I live in a "community" that forbids pets over 40 pounds. And I've lost my heart to a 70# labrador at the Humane Society.

After much back and forth, I think I've finally convinced the owner to let me have my larger dog. But she won't give me a waiver until she returns to town on Tuesday, which means I've been checking the Humane Society site four times a day to make sure my buddy hasn't been adopted yet.

If he does get adopted before I can bring him home myself, I'm going to have to start the search anew. And if I have to stick below the 40 pound limit, I'll have to find a puppy, since most dogs in that weight class have inbred behaviors (barking, dominance) that can be made worse with poor upbringing (poor socialization, lack of training).

Also, the shelters around here don't get many dogs in that size range. The few they do seem to take in go VERY quickly. (A poodle/lhasa mix went in 6 hours. And that was with a $250 adoption fee.)

I hope to soon supply the answer to the equasion PUPPY ?=? PROZAC.

Today I Went to the Shelter

2006-10-09T19:19:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking off and on over the last couple of years about getting a dog now that I'm living in my own home. So, when the boss sent me home early, I decided to take the opportunity to drive up to the Oregon Humane Society. Spay, neuter, and leash your pets folks! Very sad to see all the dogs there.

You could tell some of the dogs just weren't very happy about the shelter kennel. They just lay in the back of their enclosures. Many of them didn't even come forward when you stopped at their cages.

Other dogs were more aggressive: hearing other dogs get to go out seemed to spawn a great deal of lunging, jumping, and barking. (It was a little like the scenes in Law & Order where the pretty assistant to the Assistant DA gets sent to the jailhouse to interview some creep and has to walk past all the inmates.)

There were a couple of small dogs who have just been "snipped". The older one just huddled, shaking, in the back of his cage. His eyes were all red and watery and he just looked so miserable (it didn't help that he was part beagle). The younger puppy was roaming all over his enclosure, no big deal at all.

I nearly lost my heart to this guy:

Great dog. He was brought in as a stray just before the weekend. They don't know his name, and he isn't used to the new name they christened him with. You could just see his confusion when you addressed him.

But he did know basic commands - sit, stay, etc. And he loved chasing the ball around. (I think he liked that even more than the treat!) He was a little difficult on the "walk", but he is probably trainable (he wanted to lead).

As much as I loved him, I'm just not sure. And if I'm not sure, he's not ready to come home with me.

I'm hoping that the woman with another area shelter returns my message about the older malamute/black lab mix she's fostering. I want to meet him and see if he's as perfect as he seems in his "personals ad".

Just What is "Normal" Anyway?

2006-10-07T22:54:00.000-07:00

That's my question for the day. It seems I may have spent most of my life (or at least the last fifteen or so years of it) dealing with depression. So how do I know what normal is for me? When I don't remember what being happy felt like, how am I supposed to tell when simply being "happy" has crossed into mania?

They say that is one of the biggest problems with the manic phase of bipolar disorder - how you (and others) can perceive the manic you.

One day, you come out of your "funk" and the house is neater and cleaner, you're sleeping less, you're taking more care with your appearance - in turn, feeding your self-confidence. You're able to do more - the cooking, the shopping, writing and creating - all the things you wouldn't or couldn't do while depressed.

When you've been a functional depressive for so long, all you or anyone can think is "Wow!". Your colleagues notice that your work performance has improved: you're smiling more and showing more confidence, you're more productive, you're finally starting to arrive at work on time. At home, your friends and family notice these things, too. You notice.

And when everything suddenly seems to be going so right, after being so wrong for so long, you (and everyone around you) can have trouble noticing that it's become a problem.

Sure, you're getting more things done at home, but that's because you're still cleaning dishes at 1:00 a.m. And yes, you're taking on more projects at work, but that is because your mind can't concentrate on any one thing for too long. And yeah, maybe you finally start to tackle that one big "honey-do" chore you've been putting off forever, but that's because mania gives you feelings of omnipotence and euphoria - you can conquer anything, even the new deck.

Somehow, We All Survive Our Childhood

2006-10-06T21:10:00.000-07:00

That's my thought for the day. Somehow, we all survived. Whether our parents withheld sugars and sodas or withheld food altogether, somehow, we all survived.

Good news today: I finally have an appointment. With a nurse practicioner instead of a psychiatrist, but she can see me next week. It's a start.

I'm frightened for all the other people out there. I'm in insurance, so at least I know the ropes. What about everyone else out there? Even being in insurance, it took three "escalations", a total of 4 hours on the phone, 30 phone calls, and the intervention of my employer, our insurance broker (us), and the insurer's sales rep to get that one appointment.

It's no wonder that there are so many mental health related emergencies out there, if this is what it takes to get treated. Could you imagine if I'd attempted this while in the throes of a major depression, when you don't want to do anything? Or if I'd tried while sailing through a manic phase, when you're pulled in 10 different directions and your mind can't focus on any one of them?

I'm lucky to have a very supportive employer who believes in both mental and physical health. It's hard to imagine there are many employers out there who would actively encourage their employees spend work time trying to resolve this situation, but my employer did just that, throwing their weight as both insurance brokers and the insuring employer behind my calls and complaints.

Depression excepted, today was a GOOD day.

Be Vwery, Vwery Qwiet...

2006-10-05T19:45:00.000-07:00

The men-in-white-coats are getting closer....

Thanks to the diagnostic tools of the DSM-IV, my therapist has concluded that I am showing signs of a bipolar disorder. On Tuesday night, she referred me to a psychiatrist for confirming diagnosis, medication, and further treatment.

On Wednesday morning, like every good patient taking charge of their own health care, I called my PPO with the list of psychiatrists my therapist gave me - not one of those 4 were on the approved provider list.

I got in to the office and searched the PPO's website for local psychiatrists. There are none in the town where I live. None in the next town, or the next town after that.

There were two doctors listed near my office. I called the first office, and was informed that I would:

a) have to be rescreened by one of their clinic psychologists (burning up one more of my rapidly dwindling stash of pre-authorized mental health visits),
and
b) still wouldn't be able to see the psychiatrist for another 3 months(!).

I went back to the computer. This time, I widened my search out 20 miles. Oh, I got doctors: I called 15 of them. Nine weren't accepting new patients. I had to leave voice mail for the remaining six.

Twenty-four hours went by. Not one call back. So, on my therapist's advice, I called my PPO again, and this time told them it was their problem - fix it. I guess I sounded just crazy enough, because they agreed to forward my case on to the "Special Handling Team" (I assume that is code for "we handle the really crazy ones"). So, would I be transferred over to a specialist on that team? Nope, the rep just took down some notes and e-mailed them to the SHTs, who would take 24 hours just to acknowledge receipt of my case.

After some screeching, phone slamming, and curses, I bundled myself off to lunch. Just as I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, my phone rang. One of those 6 doctors I left voice mail for passed my message along to another associate in his office. She called me back to say she could take me on, and if I felt that strongly, she could make time for me tomorrow. I said, "Hallelujah!"

I skipped back to the office and somewhat naively picked up the phone to call my PPO. Oh, silly me. When I finally got through to a phone rep, she informed me that due to a "high volume" of calls, she would have to take a message and someone would get back to me in 24 hours. I said, "But, I've got an appointment tomorrow! I need to know if the doctor is on the approved provider list, and I need to get a new authorization, and I need to cancel the SHT!"

She said sorry.

I said, give me a supervisor. She said (gladly), "Just a moment."

After about 10 minutes on hold, she came back to tell me she was sending her notes to her supervisor, and that Emily the supervisor would call me back within 1 hour.

I hung up and cried.

But, lo and behold, Emily did call me back. In twenty minutes, no less. But ruined it all when she started the call with, "There is really nothing I can do."

I explained how I had been playing by the rules, I'd already done my part, I just wanted the PPO to do theirs. Something must have gotten through, because she looked up the doctor for me. Only to tell me, "She's not in the network. She is in the process of being approved, but until she actually is, her services will not be covered."

I sputtered, I screeched, I pleaded, but to no avail. But somewhere in there, I must have hit a key word, because what she did do was transfer me to one of their please-don't-do-anything-rash-while-on-the-phone-with-us-'cuz-that-would-be-bad-publicity telephone therapists. And I must have used the right words with him, because he promised to have the SHT mark my file "urgent" (code for "she could go off at any moment", I assume). But it would still take 24 hours for them to acknowledge my file.

So, somewhere out there (hopefully), some poor SHT-schmo is clutching his approved physicians directory; madly searching for the one doctor in the network who is taking new patients; praying I can hold it together until he can get me an appointment.

So, here I sit, wondering what bipolar disorder actually is. Is it any worse than plain old depression? Does it explain anything about me?

Despite the title of this blog, I don't hear voices (just my own, telling me stories in my head, writer-style, not crazy-style), and I don't have delusions. I just have a really difficult battle with depression, and every once in a while, I develop the Low Self Esteem Woman's version of a God Complex: I post on blogs, when I'm usually too shy to speak in public, I ask for bonuses when I usually get tongue-tied just listening to the boss talk about a raise, and I think I can conquer the world (or at least finish that amazing novel that has been circling 'round in my head for the last three years).

I get tons of energy, and I write pages and pages of stuff (really sharp, witty, insightful stuff I'd never been able to write before). And I clean and I organize and try new things and I start newer, bigger, better, craft projects.

And then, somewhere in there among all that good stuff, it starts to turn sour. This new craft project, this new idea, this new chore, the fast, decisive way of thinking - it all starts coming too fast. I find myself suddenly surrounded by ten, twenty different projects that have only just been started and none finished. My fast thoughts become too fast...I can't keep up. And it all goes to heck. And that is enough to spiral me back to depression.

So, here's to hoping the book I picked up at the store helps me start to figure this out. Enough to give me some feeling of control until I can get in to see that psychiatrist they've promised me.

Consumer-directed health care, my a**.