On this day I am humbled. Gratitude is too simplea word to express what I feel. It is my most earnest belief that the reason why there is hope in all things is in truth because of Christ's Atonement and resurrection.
At one time this seemed like a somewhat simplistic, unrealistic idea. There is hope in all things because of Christ? How? Wasn't it God who cursed me with my mental illness in the first place? How could I ever glean anything good or hopeful from my plight?
Then something happened that more than ever shook the foundation of my world. I found out I was pregnant for the fourth time. No one knew more keenly how very dangerous my situation was. Postpartum depression exponentially increases with each pregnancy. My last turn on that Ferris wheel had left me in the hospital. For years I had struggled to regain my mental footing. I had experienced unspeakable anguish. Countless times the psychosis nearly overcame me.
Just as every professional knew, I knew one more full term pregnancy could easily rob me of my sanity forever. It was a fate worse than death. I'd seen the mental hospital sponsored by the state. It was a cold, pale green place, ill kept with all things old and in ill repair. It was a place filled with confusion and endless pain. How could I risk such a horrible fate?
Abortion. Abortion. Abortion was thrown at me time and time again. As far as every doctor, psychologist or friend was concerned, I had no other option.
With all my heart I wanted this baby. I knew there was a child within me. Was my life more important than hers? Could I live with myself knowing I killed an innocent infant in order to save myself?
Abortion the doctors said. Abortion is your only option.
No. I couldn't do it. My situation was hopeless. Unable to live with myself if I had an abortion, I had to face that fate which was worse than death - permanent psychosis, incarceration in a state mental hospital for the rest of my life.
How could there be 'hope in all things' under such circumstances? All I knew was that God would not give me a trial greater than I could withstand. Even if in the end I died, as long as I was valliant to the best of my ability, mentally ill or otherwise, I would be resurrected and united with my family again, free from the shackles of any disease.
Why? Because my Savior died for me, for all of us. Because of Him in that seemingly no win situation, there was still ultimate hope.
In earnest diligence, I did all I could to prepare for the worst, holding fast to the hope that I just might make it through the nightmare ahead. My children needed a mother. If there was any way for me to miraculously survive, I was determined to find it.
Nine months passed. As soon as we knew it was safe for the child, I was enduced. No delivery had been easier for me. When they placed that infant in my arms, my joy was full. I knew no matter what the consequence, she was worth it.
That same day my father called. My mother who had been cancer free for well over a decade, was going in for emergency surgery. A tumor the size of a grapefruit was in her abdomen.
We had been relying heavily on my mother's help. Someone had to be with me 24 hours, seven days a week for at least the first three months. Me being alone was simply too dangerous. Like a miracle the women of my church came to the rescue. They knew nothing of my problem or the risks involved. Outwardly I appeared to be fine. It was such a difficult thing for outsiders to understand. They came anyway. For three whole months, between them and my husband, I was never alone.
It was hard. The psychotic episodes came. Sometimes I lost track of things. I was walking a very fine line. My troubles, as expected, lasted for years. But, because of God's tender mercies, because of the unconditional love which was extended to me by all of those sisters, I survived. Although they paid a price of their own, my children always had a mother.
In the mean time my own mother was braving her own battle. We had been lucky the first time for her to have survived as she had. Somehow I knew that this time the disease would eventually take her. I suppose I could have prayed for her to pull through. That is what I wanted. I did not want to see my mother die. But as the disease became worse, my mother only became better. Her earnest love for everyone around her grew. She showed valiance in everything she did right to the very last.
When the time came, our family was all together in the room with her. I offered a prayer asking for God to take her, and free her from the pain. Moments later, she passed away. Sorrowful as I was, I knew that death was not her end, only a new beginning. I knew I would see her again and that the separation is only temporary. Why? Because of Christ. Because of the Atonement. There was hope, even in her death.
So today, above all days, I need to express my gratitude. Without the hope of Christ I could have easily aborted my sweet daughter. I could have despaired and not even tried. I would not know without a doubt that I will see my mother again. There are so many more examples. I am thankful for my beliefs and the knowledge that there is hope in all things.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
No way out but through
In some situations, maybe even a lot of situations, there is no way out of the problem without going through it. For example, for days I've been glancing out at my back yard. All of our tropical plants are brown. After the unexpected freezes this year in Houston our normally green haven is mostly brown and crusty. Sigh. If anything has any hope for coming back, we've got to cut away all the dead stuff to let the living parts live.
For the longest time I've been putting off the task. Some of those plants have huge three inch spikes. No matter how much protection I put on, I know I'm going to come out of the experience bleeding. Finally, a couple of days ago the weather was decent. There weren't any more excuses I could fall back on, so I took in a deep breath and started chopping.
The first thing I discovered was that all of our cutting tools are in poor shape. Then I realized that it was oftentimes easier to simply break away the dead parts and not worry so much about cutting. After one long marathon, I finished what I could do in the front yard. Once I get going, it is very hard for me to stop.
Of course, it was the back yard that really has me rattled. We're on a corner lot. Our landscaper was overly enthused and we were naive enough to let her do whatever she wanted. The result is too much work. This isn't some simple one marathon task, more like four or five. But what choice did I have? Someone had to do it. If I waited too long the plants would die.
I dove in again. This time it was really nasty. The palm spikes were running right through my heavy duty gloves. One sank itself into my arm like a quilting needle. Another slid into the space down the side of my thumbnail. There was blood, long scratches, fire ants. At least now I know what is going to live and what we've got to replace. I did it. I'll have to do it again.
The thing is, I don't have to do it again. I could just leave things as they are and deal with the consequences. I could have ignored the problem entirely. About two months from now I'd be feeling pretty sorry since we've got an open house due around then.
There comes a time for everyone when they've got to face their demons, or they will never get to where they want to be in life. I'd like to have a nice yard in two months. We'll see how that goes. When I was in school there were times when a test came up and I wasn't ready. Ditching class only meant that I'd have to deal with more problems, plus the test. It was better to do my best at winging it on the test, to just get through the task, take a few thorns, so that I could move on with my life.
My youngest daughter just went through a monumentally difficult time. She was in the hospital for a while, missed a lot of school; getting back on top of things was a task which seemed larger than life. As usual, for her however, she forded her way onward. It meant a lot of compromise on her part - like taking tests when she didn't feel prepared, and turning in homework which wasn't up to par by her standards - hard shots for a kid who expects something better than perfect from herself. She's been a really tough trooper. She could see what she had to do in order to get where she wanted to be. You'd think her grades would have taken a hit. I suppose they did according to her standards. Instead of A++ work she's only doing A+. It looks the same on a report card.
I could give you more examples. I can't count how many times I've told myself 'The only way out is through.' before plunging into the thorns. There is no doubt that I've earned my fair share of injuries in the process. But, if I keep my eye on the ultimate goal, rather than the small obstacles which might immediately entangle me, I've found in every instance, I can not just survive, but thrive and move forward.
Conveniently, right now the window blinds are drawn. I did happen to clear the side of the yard which is more visible. From where I sit (my favorite perch), I would be able to focus more on how much has been cleared (a smart move on my part), rather than what needs to be done. The rest will get finished. Now I'm looking forward to planting flowers, moving on to the living things.
Talking can only get you so far, then you've got to do and keep on doing even if it hurts, even if it seems like things won't work. The only way it won't work is if you do nothing. Is that what you want? A yard full of dead plants? I didn't think so.
For the longest time I've been putting off the task. Some of those plants have huge three inch spikes. No matter how much protection I put on, I know I'm going to come out of the experience bleeding. Finally, a couple of days ago the weather was decent. There weren't any more excuses I could fall back on, so I took in a deep breath and started chopping.
The first thing I discovered was that all of our cutting tools are in poor shape. Then I realized that it was oftentimes easier to simply break away the dead parts and not worry so much about cutting. After one long marathon, I finished what I could do in the front yard. Once I get going, it is very hard for me to stop.
Of course, it was the back yard that really has me rattled. We're on a corner lot. Our landscaper was overly enthused and we were naive enough to let her do whatever she wanted. The result is too much work. This isn't some simple one marathon task, more like four or five. But what choice did I have? Someone had to do it. If I waited too long the plants would die.
I dove in again. This time it was really nasty. The palm spikes were running right through my heavy duty gloves. One sank itself into my arm like a quilting needle. Another slid into the space down the side of my thumbnail. There was blood, long scratches, fire ants. At least now I know what is going to live and what we've got to replace. I did it. I'll have to do it again.
The thing is, I don't have to do it again. I could just leave things as they are and deal with the consequences. I could have ignored the problem entirely. About two months from now I'd be feeling pretty sorry since we've got an open house due around then.
There comes a time for everyone when they've got to face their demons, or they will never get to where they want to be in life. I'd like to have a nice yard in two months. We'll see how that goes. When I was in school there were times when a test came up and I wasn't ready. Ditching class only meant that I'd have to deal with more problems, plus the test. It was better to do my best at winging it on the test, to just get through the task, take a few thorns, so that I could move on with my life.
My youngest daughter just went through a monumentally difficult time. She was in the hospital for a while, missed a lot of school; getting back on top of things was a task which seemed larger than life. As usual, for her however, she forded her way onward. It meant a lot of compromise on her part - like taking tests when she didn't feel prepared, and turning in homework which wasn't up to par by her standards - hard shots for a kid who expects something better than perfect from herself. She's been a really tough trooper. She could see what she had to do in order to get where she wanted to be. You'd think her grades would have taken a hit. I suppose they did according to her standards. Instead of A++ work she's only doing A+. It looks the same on a report card.
I could give you more examples. I can't count how many times I've told myself 'The only way out is through.' before plunging into the thorns. There is no doubt that I've earned my fair share of injuries in the process. But, if I keep my eye on the ultimate goal, rather than the small obstacles which might immediately entangle me, I've found in every instance, I can not just survive, but thrive and move forward.
Conveniently, right now the window blinds are drawn. I did happen to clear the side of the yard which is more visible. From where I sit (my favorite perch), I would be able to focus more on how much has been cleared (a smart move on my part), rather than what needs to be done. The rest will get finished. Now I'm looking forward to planting flowers, moving on to the living things.
Talking can only get you so far, then you've got to do and keep on doing even if it hurts, even if it seems like things won't work. The only way it won't work is if you do nothing. Is that what you want? A yard full of dead plants? I didn't think so.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Early marital advice
Just recently my daughter has been calling me on a regular basis asking for recipies. She talked about how she's been wearing herself out doing all kinds of cleaning as well. I don't know why it took me so long, but it finally clicked - she was doing the exact same thing as I did when I first got married.
When I first got married I wanted to be the most perfect wife in the whole wide world. After all, I was married to the most wonderful guy in the world. I just wanted to give him what he deserved. We were living in an attic apartment which was part of a large old home. Everything about the place was old, used, and dirty. Our bed mattress was so worn that when we got into bed we'd both roll into the middle because the springs were completely shot.
I didn't pay much notice to those issues. Being poor and not having things was part of being young and married, right? All the same, I wanted the place to be clean. Clean based upon my mother's standards amounted to immaculately, white glove clean. In a place as old as ours, that kind of clean was impossible which aggravated me a lot. It was like a constant reminder of my own inadequacies.
The other problem was cooking. My vision of the ideal home consisted of the wife who was able to cook delicious, well balanced meals every night and have it all ready in time to please my husband. It didn't matter that we were both going to school full time; both working the same number of hours; both shouldering at least an equal amount of homework; etc.
Now that I think back on the situation it seems ridiculously clear. Getting dinner on the table, washing the dishes, cleaning the house, running the laundry, were all tasks both of us had to complete, not one neurotic perfectionist who couldn't handle the fact that she couldn't do EVERYTHING perfectly.
In the midst of all this I rarely said or did anything to let my husband know I was going nuts. In truth, he was pitching in a lot. Every week he did the laundry over at his dad's place. It's just that his standards and my standards regarding certain things didn't always match up. What he thought was okay, was not acceptable to me. I didn't know how to deal with it. I hated myself for not being able to deal with it.
My daughter is a lot smarter about those things than I was when I first got married. I am sure she is far more aware of her own weaknesses than I was willing to let myself see in myself. That kind of sounds like a slander of some sort, but in truth it is a huge compliment.
I just want her to know that if she feels overwhelmed she needs to talk about it with her husband. She needs to tell him how she feels and not be afraid that he will think she isn't sufficient the way I was so afraid my husband would see me.
At the same time I want her husband to know that with all her heart and soul, she wants to make him happy. She wants to be wonder woman for him. She wants to leap tall buildings and save people from huge disasters all while looking breathtakingly beautiful, all for her husband. (At least that is how I felt.)
Every time I didn't live up to my own standards was crushing. That is something my poor husband didn't understand. I'd be crying in the midst of a mental breakdown because I couldn't do or be everything for him, totally terrified he wouldn't want me any more. He'd be completely confused wondering what on earth he had done to get me so upset.
The first year of marriage is the hardest. They say if you can get through the first three years of marriage, the chances for divorce are significantly reduced. I think back now and wonder why my husband stuck around. I guess he must have really loved me. It's the only expanation I can grasp.
So to my daughter - be smarter than me. Accept yourself for who you are. Be realistic. Talk to your husband. Do better than me.
To my son-in-law - be patient. Be helpful. Understand that what she thinks is necessary may not be what you think is necessary. You may not always be on the same page. But above all, love her no matter what. I don't think you'll have a problem with that task.
When I first got married I wanted to be the most perfect wife in the whole wide world. After all, I was married to the most wonderful guy in the world. I just wanted to give him what he deserved. We were living in an attic apartment which was part of a large old home. Everything about the place was old, used, and dirty. Our bed mattress was so worn that when we got into bed we'd both roll into the middle because the springs were completely shot.
I didn't pay much notice to those issues. Being poor and not having things was part of being young and married, right? All the same, I wanted the place to be clean. Clean based upon my mother's standards amounted to immaculately, white glove clean. In a place as old as ours, that kind of clean was impossible which aggravated me a lot. It was like a constant reminder of my own inadequacies.
The other problem was cooking. My vision of the ideal home consisted of the wife who was able to cook delicious, well balanced meals every night and have it all ready in time to please my husband. It didn't matter that we were both going to school full time; both working the same number of hours; both shouldering at least an equal amount of homework; etc.
Now that I think back on the situation it seems ridiculously clear. Getting dinner on the table, washing the dishes, cleaning the house, running the laundry, were all tasks both of us had to complete, not one neurotic perfectionist who couldn't handle the fact that she couldn't do EVERYTHING perfectly.
In the midst of all this I rarely said or did anything to let my husband know I was going nuts. In truth, he was pitching in a lot. Every week he did the laundry over at his dad's place. It's just that his standards and my standards regarding certain things didn't always match up. What he thought was okay, was not acceptable to me. I didn't know how to deal with it. I hated myself for not being able to deal with it.
My daughter is a lot smarter about those things than I was when I first got married. I am sure she is far more aware of her own weaknesses than I was willing to let myself see in myself. That kind of sounds like a slander of some sort, but in truth it is a huge compliment.
I just want her to know that if she feels overwhelmed she needs to talk about it with her husband. She needs to tell him how she feels and not be afraid that he will think she isn't sufficient the way I was so afraid my husband would see me.
At the same time I want her husband to know that with all her heart and soul, she wants to make him happy. She wants to be wonder woman for him. She wants to leap tall buildings and save people from huge disasters all while looking breathtakingly beautiful, all for her husband. (At least that is how I felt.)
Every time I didn't live up to my own standards was crushing. That is something my poor husband didn't understand. I'd be crying in the midst of a mental breakdown because I couldn't do or be everything for him, totally terrified he wouldn't want me any more. He'd be completely confused wondering what on earth he had done to get me so upset.
The first year of marriage is the hardest. They say if you can get through the first three years of marriage, the chances for divorce are significantly reduced. I think back now and wonder why my husband stuck around. I guess he must have really loved me. It's the only expanation I can grasp.
So to my daughter - be smarter than me. Accept yourself for who you are. Be realistic. Talk to your husband. Do better than me.
To my son-in-law - be patient. Be helpful. Understand that what she thinks is necessary may not be what you think is necessary. You may not always be on the same page. But above all, love her no matter what. I don't think you'll have a problem with that task.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wedding
As you may have guessed, my long absence from writing is largely due to the wedding of my daughter. Eons ago when I got married my mother was with me every step of the way. I was still living at home. My daughter, on the other hand, has been living in Utah going to school, so I haven't been able to be there for her like my mom was there for me. In many ways I felt left out. In other ways I was worried I was letting my daughter down.
It is funny how we can become so intensely engrossed in the small, not so important things. That is probably my greatest weakness. Perhaps it is associated with obsessive compulsive disorder, but I am often so distracted by minute details that I forget about the big picture. In that sense it is a good thing I was not always there for my daughter.
Within my church marriage is a very sacred covenant. The objective is always to be married in a temple. A person must live up to a certain level of standards in order to be worthy to go to the temple. It is not always easy to live up to all of those standards.
My husband and I were married in the Provo temple. My daughter and her husband were married in the Manti temple, which is about an hour and a half drive south of Provo. It is a very beautiful temple with a long, rich history. I had never been there before.
You would think the only people who would be terribly nervous on the day of a wedding would be the bride and groom. I think the bride and groom in this case were so eager to make the committment, they were probably more calm than some of we parents. I do not think I could have seen two more happy people as they finished the ceremony with a kiss.
Immediately following the wedding, pictures were taken. Then the small group who could attend inside the temple, or had waited outside, all went to have a luncheon at a nearby restraunt. For a small town like Manti, the food was remarkably good. Since we don't drink alcohol, we had a toast with water. It was wonderful to have family members reunited on such a special occasion.
After driving back up to the Provo/Orem area, we didn't have much time before we were supposed to be at the reception center for more photos. That part didn't go well. The bride and groom became rather preoccupied with enjoying their new marital bliss. They arrived late and my daughter's hair was a mess - an amazing fete given that it had been practically glued in place that morning before the wedding ceremony.
A lot of other people arrived late as well. Apparently there was some poor communication regarding when people needed to be where. Still, we got in some good photos before the crowds arrived. You know, during all the time I spent there I never once had a chance to get anything to eat. People now keep asking me about how the food was - and I honestly have no idea. Thank heaven I had the whole thing set up at a reception center. It was worth every penny. The stress it saved me was priceless. I was already befuddled enough without having those extra worries.
In the end, the important things happened as they should. The bride was radiantly, breathtakingly beautiful, just as she had always dreamed she would be on her wedding day. The groom could not have been more handsome or completely enamored by his new wife.
My second daughter caught the bridal bouquet. She seems to have a knack for such things. She's caught the last three bridal bouquets. My 18 year old nephew got the garter. He had no idea what to do with the thing. We told him to hang it on his rear view mirror as soon as he got a car. Speaking of cars, the happy couple's car was decorated three times over. Some people said that at least 60 different car fresheners were hidden inside. Of course, the most important part was what it said on the back "just married."
When it came time for them to go, all the guests lined the walkway to the heavily decorated car. After working their way through a few booby traps, the bride and groom took off.
My daughter may have some serious illness issues, but clearly the best medicine for her is the man she married. I'm very glad they found each other.
It is funny how we can become so intensely engrossed in the small, not so important things. That is probably my greatest weakness. Perhaps it is associated with obsessive compulsive disorder, but I am often so distracted by minute details that I forget about the big picture. In that sense it is a good thing I was not always there for my daughter.
Within my church marriage is a very sacred covenant. The objective is always to be married in a temple. A person must live up to a certain level of standards in order to be worthy to go to the temple. It is not always easy to live up to all of those standards.
My husband and I were married in the Provo temple. My daughter and her husband were married in the Manti temple, which is about an hour and a half drive south of Provo. It is a very beautiful temple with a long, rich history. I had never been there before.
You would think the only people who would be terribly nervous on the day of a wedding would be the bride and groom. I think the bride and groom in this case were so eager to make the committment, they were probably more calm than some of we parents. I do not think I could have seen two more happy people as they finished the ceremony with a kiss.
Immediately following the wedding, pictures were taken. Then the small group who could attend inside the temple, or had waited outside, all went to have a luncheon at a nearby restraunt. For a small town like Manti, the food was remarkably good. Since we don't drink alcohol, we had a toast with water. It was wonderful to have family members reunited on such a special occasion.
After driving back up to the Provo/Orem area, we didn't have much time before we were supposed to be at the reception center for more photos. That part didn't go well. The bride and groom became rather preoccupied with enjoying their new marital bliss. They arrived late and my daughter's hair was a mess - an amazing fete given that it had been practically glued in place that morning before the wedding ceremony.
A lot of other people arrived late as well. Apparently there was some poor communication regarding when people needed to be where. Still, we got in some good photos before the crowds arrived. You know, during all the time I spent there I never once had a chance to get anything to eat. People now keep asking me about how the food was - and I honestly have no idea. Thank heaven I had the whole thing set up at a reception center. It was worth every penny. The stress it saved me was priceless. I was already befuddled enough without having those extra worries.
In the end, the important things happened as they should. The bride was radiantly, breathtakingly beautiful, just as she had always dreamed she would be on her wedding day. The groom could not have been more handsome or completely enamored by his new wife.
My second daughter caught the bridal bouquet. She seems to have a knack for such things. She's caught the last three bridal bouquets. My 18 year old nephew got the garter. He had no idea what to do with the thing. We told him to hang it on his rear view mirror as soon as he got a car. Speaking of cars, the happy couple's car was decorated three times over. Some people said that at least 60 different car fresheners were hidden inside. Of course, the most important part was what it said on the back "just married."
When it came time for them to go, all the guests lined the walkway to the heavily decorated car. After working their way through a few booby traps, the bride and groom took off.
My daughter may have some serious illness issues, but clearly the best medicine for her is the man she married. I'm very glad they found each other.
Hope in Death
A week ago my husband's grandmother died. For more than ten years our family has been visiting her. Every Christmas it was something our children always cherished. She was a most unique, colorful, loving, independent woman.
At 93 she was still living on her own, driving herself around, caring for her home out in the middle of nowhere, Texas. Stepping into her home was like a time warp. Suddenly you were steeped in the 1970's. This last Christmas she seemed a little more frail than usual, but still strong, still fiercely independent. Which is why her death was something of a surprise.
She lived a good life, on her own terms. Death came swiftly. There wasn't lingering illness and pain.
In my church we believe there is life after death. When our spirits leave our bodies we go to a place where we can await the resurrection, and in the case of some, share the teachings of Christ with others in the spirit rhelm.
During the funeral I was completely at peace. I even felt joy. I knew without a doubt she had been reunited with her beloved husband. I know she is happy.
My faith brings me peace. Find faith and you will always have hope.
Grandma was buried in a pink coffin sealed in a crypt with a sparkling bright pink cover. She will ever be vibrant in my memory until the day when we will meet again.
At 93 she was still living on her own, driving herself around, caring for her home out in the middle of nowhere, Texas. Stepping into her home was like a time warp. Suddenly you were steeped in the 1970's. This last Christmas she seemed a little more frail than usual, but still strong, still fiercely independent. Which is why her death was something of a surprise.
She lived a good life, on her own terms. Death came swiftly. There wasn't lingering illness and pain.
In my church we believe there is life after death. When our spirits leave our bodies we go to a place where we can await the resurrection, and in the case of some, share the teachings of Christ with others in the spirit rhelm.
During the funeral I was completely at peace. I even felt joy. I knew without a doubt she had been reunited with her beloved husband. I know she is happy.
My faith brings me peace. Find faith and you will always have hope.
Grandma was buried in a pink coffin sealed in a crypt with a sparkling bright pink cover. She will ever be vibrant in my memory until the day when we will meet again.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Bridal Shower
For days I've written about all kinds of subjects related to depression and mental illness, only to decide they're just not working. In the end I've deleted every one. The bottom line is that I'm falling apart. My own racing thoughts are feeding my brain with too much to catch. Holding on to my thoughts right now is difficult. When I do, I hold on to the wrong ones.
Yesterday afternoon I came home from a wedding shower for my daughter. For more than six hours I'd been fighting off a nightmare of a headache - probably due to tension. Throughout the whole thing I kept inadvertently clutching at my head. There was nothing I could do or take to get rid of the pain, not until the whole thing was over and I got home.
All my life I've had a certain amount of social anxiety. I like to socialize, but I get hypercritical of myself. I feel terribly awkward, like I don't know the polite or graceful thing to do. For hours after any social event, if I let myself, I'll be playing an replaying one small incident after another, thinking about how I should have done one thing or another; how I totally messed up everything.
I was eleven years old when I first keenly noticed my social fears. On a trip where I was staying with some people I didn't know I was stuck outside with a three year old for a few minutes. I was absolutely terrified. Talking with a three year old scared me to death. It was ludicrous.
From then on I decided I wasn't going to let my social fears control me. I deliberately forced myself to meet new people. I found that if I initiated the conversation, my confidence generally stayed higher. It was a smart move. In many respects I overcame my fear.
Yesterday, however, I was already wound up with worries on top of my social fears. My confidence was low. Nothing was in my ballpark mentally speaking. I survived it. One way or another I'm always too determined not to survive such events. (This may or may not be a good characteristic.)
Afterwards I came home in a vegetable state. For a long time I had to sit still, concentrating very hard on keeping my body physically relaxed - a form of biofeedback. Even then, I started crying. Why would I be crying after my daughter's wedding shower?
Just to get myself to stop thinking the thoughts that had gotten me crying in the first place, I went in the bedroom to watch TV with my husband for a few minutes. He'd asked me if we could go grocery shopping right after I'd gotten home. After the TV I decided the shopping would be a good diversion for my mind.
By then it was well after 5:00. I thought at that time on a Saturday that the grocery store wouldn't be such a madhouse. On that point I was extremely wrong. It was worse than Saturday morning. I wasn't thinking clearly in the first place, which led me to picking up some bad fruit. We caught it when we were in the check out stand, (bad timing). The fruit was the whole reason why we'd made the trip, so we went to the laborious trouble of getting better fruit. My husband was upset with me.
Over the last two days my husband has snapped at me over downright airheadedness on my part. Like I said, I'm not at the top of my game right now. His snappiness is a clear indication that the stress is getting to him as well. All the same, last night I had a terrible nightmare about how he decided to dump me and marry a friend of mine. He said he was too tired of having to deal with me and my problems. He needed to have a chance at happiness with someone 'normal.'
I was crushed beyond measure. I totally went bullistic over collecting spousal and child support. I wanted him to hurt the same way I was hurting. He'd totally discarded me like a piece of trash. It was without a doubt, one of my worst fears played out to the fullest.
Things really aren't so bad. I've got to pause and remember all of my blessings. My focus needs to be on what is most important right now, not on all the tiny details that jump out at me, screaming for the whole of my attention. I refuse to let myself get too uptight about this wedding. Whatever happens, happens. If the dresses don't match perfectly, I will survive. The dresses aren't the most important part. What's most important is that my daughter is getting married to a really great guy. He's the best medicine for her in every way.
This is going to be tough.
Yesterday afternoon I came home from a wedding shower for my daughter. For more than six hours I'd been fighting off a nightmare of a headache - probably due to tension. Throughout the whole thing I kept inadvertently clutching at my head. There was nothing I could do or take to get rid of the pain, not until the whole thing was over and I got home.
All my life I've had a certain amount of social anxiety. I like to socialize, but I get hypercritical of myself. I feel terribly awkward, like I don't know the polite or graceful thing to do. For hours after any social event, if I let myself, I'll be playing an replaying one small incident after another, thinking about how I should have done one thing or another; how I totally messed up everything.
I was eleven years old when I first keenly noticed my social fears. On a trip where I was staying with some people I didn't know I was stuck outside with a three year old for a few minutes. I was absolutely terrified. Talking with a three year old scared me to death. It was ludicrous.
From then on I decided I wasn't going to let my social fears control me. I deliberately forced myself to meet new people. I found that if I initiated the conversation, my confidence generally stayed higher. It was a smart move. In many respects I overcame my fear.
Yesterday, however, I was already wound up with worries on top of my social fears. My confidence was low. Nothing was in my ballpark mentally speaking. I survived it. One way or another I'm always too determined not to survive such events. (This may or may not be a good characteristic.)
Afterwards I came home in a vegetable state. For a long time I had to sit still, concentrating very hard on keeping my body physically relaxed - a form of biofeedback. Even then, I started crying. Why would I be crying after my daughter's wedding shower?
Just to get myself to stop thinking the thoughts that had gotten me crying in the first place, I went in the bedroom to watch TV with my husband for a few minutes. He'd asked me if we could go grocery shopping right after I'd gotten home. After the TV I decided the shopping would be a good diversion for my mind.
By then it was well after 5:00. I thought at that time on a Saturday that the grocery store wouldn't be such a madhouse. On that point I was extremely wrong. It was worse than Saturday morning. I wasn't thinking clearly in the first place, which led me to picking up some bad fruit. We caught it when we were in the check out stand, (bad timing). The fruit was the whole reason why we'd made the trip, so we went to the laborious trouble of getting better fruit. My husband was upset with me.
Over the last two days my husband has snapped at me over downright airheadedness on my part. Like I said, I'm not at the top of my game right now. His snappiness is a clear indication that the stress is getting to him as well. All the same, last night I had a terrible nightmare about how he decided to dump me and marry a friend of mine. He said he was too tired of having to deal with me and my problems. He needed to have a chance at happiness with someone 'normal.'
I was crushed beyond measure. I totally went bullistic over collecting spousal and child support. I wanted him to hurt the same way I was hurting. He'd totally discarded me like a piece of trash. It was without a doubt, one of my worst fears played out to the fullest.
Things really aren't so bad. I've got to pause and remember all of my blessings. My focus needs to be on what is most important right now, not on all the tiny details that jump out at me, screaming for the whole of my attention. I refuse to let myself get too uptight about this wedding. Whatever happens, happens. If the dresses don't match perfectly, I will survive. The dresses aren't the most important part. What's most important is that my daughter is getting married to a really great guy. He's the best medicine for her in every way.
This is going to be tough.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
RESURRECTION
I think I was reborn today.
The nightmare bills,
toothpaste sink,
my son's soiled bed,
my daughter's crayon fit,
the cluttered mess of things undone
dreams and 'shoulds'
'can'ts' and wants
was gone.
Gliding 'crost the silver sound of rustling leaves
was me,
back home
in worn out jeans,
too small shirt,
hair uncombed
in Our front yard.
That was safe.
That was me,
when thinking was a luxury.
I cleaned the sink,
washed the sheets,
scrubbed the wax from walls and floor,
The cluttered mess still lurks around.
I'll find some way to solve the bills.
I'm here,
right here,
where just beyond the window screen
the wind still blows
the world is green
and even though I'm years away
the laughing trees
still stirred my mind.
New born,
Slapped hard
I floundered for that lifeblood gas
of bright blue skies
and new cut grass.
I'm breathing now.
The air is sweet.
Once again,
I
can think.
The nightmare bills,
toothpaste sink,
my son's soiled bed,
my daughter's crayon fit,
the cluttered mess of things undone
dreams and 'shoulds'
'can'ts' and wants
was gone.
Gliding 'crost the silver sound of rustling leaves
was me,
back home
in worn out jeans,
too small shirt,
hair uncombed
in Our front yard.
That was safe.
That was me,
when thinking was a luxury.
I cleaned the sink,
washed the sheets,
scrubbed the wax from walls and floor,
The cluttered mess still lurks around.
I'll find some way to solve the bills.
I'm here,
right here,
where just beyond the window screen
the wind still blows
the world is green
and even though I'm years away
the laughing trees
still stirred my mind.
New born,
Slapped hard
I floundered for that lifeblood gas
of bright blue skies
and new cut grass.
I'm breathing now.
The air is sweet.
Once again,
I
can think.
Anger
Anger is a tricky emotion. I used to have these little psychotic flashes on a frequent basis. In my car while driving I'd see myself do something like deliberately running a red light to cause an accident. Or I'd be in the kitchen with a knife and I'd see vision of myself stabbing my husband. You get the idea.
They seemed really random to me. At times they'd be more frequent than at others. It took me a long time to figure out exactly why they were happening.
You see, I expect a lot from myself. Inside my head there's this constant list of things I 'should' be doing. I 'should' be the perfect wife who keeps the house in perfect order, has meals ready on the table on time, plans and runs the household like a pro. I 'should' be the perfect office manager who is there from 8:00 to 5:00, no lunch allowed, working to serve the needs of the patients, my employees, my husband doctor - anybody but me. I 'should' be working to get a writing career going for myself, be more active in my church, learn scrapbooking, volunteer at the schools, etc. etc. etc.
There is no possible way for me to live up to all the 'shoulds' that are constantly running around inside my head. When I don't live up to that impossible standard I get frustrated. I get angry. Sometimes it's good to get angry. Anger is a great motivator. If I see myself slipping away from being the kind of person I want myself to be, the anger usually kicks in enough to get me back on track.
But, like I said, the standards I set are unrealistic. There's no way I'm going to live up to everything. It makes me angry. I interpret the anger to be a bad emotion, and do my best to supress it. That is when those little psychotic flashes come into play.
My repressed anger emerges in the form of violent thoughts. I don't want to just hurt myself, I want to hurt the rest of the world for holding me back, for making life so difficult. Why can't my husband be more helpful? Why should I have to shoulder so much at work? I didn't want this job. Why does the house need to be perfectly clean and why should I be the one who must keep it that way? Anger, anger, anger.
Logically I know I can't do or be everything for everyone. Emotionally accepting that is an entirely different matter. The anger's got to come out somehow, so I get disturbing flashes.
The good news is, that if I'm doing a good job of managing my stress the flashes don't come. They can be eliminated entirely if I plan wisely, accept myself along with all of my limitations and budget my time in a way that accommodates my special needs. I eliminate the stress, which eliminates the anger, which in turn eliminates the flashes.
I didn't know all of this in the beginning. The flashes started when I was a teenager. They distressed me terribly. I couldn't believe my own mind would conjur up ways for me to hurt my own family members - the people I loved the most. Back then when the thoughts came I'd cut them off, denying their existence, vehemently shutting the whole thing down. It was actually the best thing I could have done. I taught myself how to control my own thoughts so they couldn't get out of control.
When I was older, however, and the postpartum depression set in, the visions became huge. What I saw in my head was violent to the point of absolute gore. The rage was insatiably blood thirsty. My little 'cut the thoughts off' technique wasn't enough.
Those were the times when I was unquestionably the most suicidal. Time and time again I would come to the conclusion that the only way I would be able to spare the lives of others was to kill myself before I acted upon any of my horrific visions.
It is a realistic concern. We read about people who go on killing rampages in the news all the time. You don't think those people could be you or your friend or your own family member, but you're wrong. There's a very fine line between thinking about such things and acting upon them.
I got help. Even when nobody else thought I could do those terrible things, I knew I could. It was either kill myself before something bad happened, or do whatever I had to do to find help.
Not everyone's experience with anger is like mine. Other people get angry when their concept of justice is not met, or things don't measure up to their expectations. Either way, if you're experiencing a lot of anger and rage it isn't something you should ignore. You need to figure out why it is there. If needed, get help before you snap.
I use anger every day. Sometimes it is why I get up in the morning, why I exercise or fix dinner, or resolve problems at work. It isn't a bad emotion. Sometimes you have to toss out your whole concept of 'good' and 'bad' before you can actually see things for what they are.
My daughter now says she has the same kind of flashes that I often used to have. They've been distressing her greatly. They don't fit into what she sees herself to be. I told her to try re-thinking the matter, that maybe it was just her own reaction to stress. For some reason, just knowing why the anger was there is empowering. She can move forward now. I hate to think how things might be if we did not have so much in common.
They seemed really random to me. At times they'd be more frequent than at others. It took me a long time to figure out exactly why they were happening.
You see, I expect a lot from myself. Inside my head there's this constant list of things I 'should' be doing. I 'should' be the perfect wife who keeps the house in perfect order, has meals ready on the table on time, plans and runs the household like a pro. I 'should' be the perfect office manager who is there from 8:00 to 5:00, no lunch allowed, working to serve the needs of the patients, my employees, my husband doctor - anybody but me. I 'should' be working to get a writing career going for myself, be more active in my church, learn scrapbooking, volunteer at the schools, etc. etc. etc.
There is no possible way for me to live up to all the 'shoulds' that are constantly running around inside my head. When I don't live up to that impossible standard I get frustrated. I get angry. Sometimes it's good to get angry. Anger is a great motivator. If I see myself slipping away from being the kind of person I want myself to be, the anger usually kicks in enough to get me back on track.
But, like I said, the standards I set are unrealistic. There's no way I'm going to live up to everything. It makes me angry. I interpret the anger to be a bad emotion, and do my best to supress it. That is when those little psychotic flashes come into play.
My repressed anger emerges in the form of violent thoughts. I don't want to just hurt myself, I want to hurt the rest of the world for holding me back, for making life so difficult. Why can't my husband be more helpful? Why should I have to shoulder so much at work? I didn't want this job. Why does the house need to be perfectly clean and why should I be the one who must keep it that way? Anger, anger, anger.
Logically I know I can't do or be everything for everyone. Emotionally accepting that is an entirely different matter. The anger's got to come out somehow, so I get disturbing flashes.
The good news is, that if I'm doing a good job of managing my stress the flashes don't come. They can be eliminated entirely if I plan wisely, accept myself along with all of my limitations and budget my time in a way that accommodates my special needs. I eliminate the stress, which eliminates the anger, which in turn eliminates the flashes.
I didn't know all of this in the beginning. The flashes started when I was a teenager. They distressed me terribly. I couldn't believe my own mind would conjur up ways for me to hurt my own family members - the people I loved the most. Back then when the thoughts came I'd cut them off, denying their existence, vehemently shutting the whole thing down. It was actually the best thing I could have done. I taught myself how to control my own thoughts so they couldn't get out of control.
When I was older, however, and the postpartum depression set in, the visions became huge. What I saw in my head was violent to the point of absolute gore. The rage was insatiably blood thirsty. My little 'cut the thoughts off' technique wasn't enough.
Those were the times when I was unquestionably the most suicidal. Time and time again I would come to the conclusion that the only way I would be able to spare the lives of others was to kill myself before I acted upon any of my horrific visions.
It is a realistic concern. We read about people who go on killing rampages in the news all the time. You don't think those people could be you or your friend or your own family member, but you're wrong. There's a very fine line between thinking about such things and acting upon them.
I got help. Even when nobody else thought I could do those terrible things, I knew I could. It was either kill myself before something bad happened, or do whatever I had to do to find help.
Not everyone's experience with anger is like mine. Other people get angry when their concept of justice is not met, or things don't measure up to their expectations. Either way, if you're experiencing a lot of anger and rage it isn't something you should ignore. You need to figure out why it is there. If needed, get help before you snap.
I use anger every day. Sometimes it is why I get up in the morning, why I exercise or fix dinner, or resolve problems at work. It isn't a bad emotion. Sometimes you have to toss out your whole concept of 'good' and 'bad' before you can actually see things for what they are.
My daughter now says she has the same kind of flashes that I often used to have. They've been distressing her greatly. They don't fit into what she sees herself to be. I told her to try re-thinking the matter, that maybe it was just her own reaction to stress. For some reason, just knowing why the anger was there is empowering. She can move forward now. I hate to think how things might be if we did not have so much in common.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Noticing symptoms - my personal story
Last night gave me a big scare. It is extremely easy to have someone going through terrible pain and suffering due to mental illness right in front of you, while you do not have a clue that something is wrong. I am a great example of that conundrum.
When I was growing up you could easily have called me an over achiever. On top of earning good grades and taking advanced placement courses, I was heavily involved in all kinds of activities. My acting career began when I was eight. I was cast in a leading role in a university production. Not long after that I was in a television show for PBS. At the age of sixteen I earned the lead role in a production which toured Europe and was televised there. That was all on top of what I did through my high school and community theater.
Of course, that wasn’t enough for me. I was also an active, successful participant on the Forensics team, in DECA club, and choir, winning state and national awards as well as serving in many leadership positions. Since the age of eight I played the piano. My first composition won an award. Later on, at the age of fourteen, another piece I composed won a very important national honor.
By the time I graduated from high school I had already earned enough university credits to be classified as a sophomore. I pushed myself hard and believed I was unstoppable.
The over achieving alone was a sign of things to come. It’s not normal for a kid to do so much. All the time there was this constant pressure inside me telling me I needed to be more, to do more, that I wasn’t good enough.
There were down times which were like being trapped in a black hole. I would isolate myself, completely convinced no one wanted to be my friend. For hours I’d lay on the bed in my room staring at the ceiling.
I’d come home from dates and various activities only to break down sobbing in hopelessness. My parents brushed it off as teenage angst, PMS, and exhaustion, all very reasonable explanations. No one could have known It was all bipolar behavior. Back then no one knew about bipolar disorder. Little was known about depression.
At one point, after my mother had my brother, her fourth child, she went into a very serious depression. My parents went to great lengths to shield we kids from what was going on, but things were bad enough that I remember my dad sitting us down, explaining how mommy needed some extra help. She spent a lot of time locked in her bedroom. I don’t think my parents ever considered getting her medical help beyond some basic advice. They knew it was postpartum depression and figured over time it would pass.
So how would a person know if someone like me needed help? The real indicators didn’t show up until after I got married at the very young age of eighteen. The stress I put on myself boiled over. My memory began to deteriorate. I began having panic attacks - although I didn’t know what panic attacks were at the time. My headaches increased. My emotions became extremely unstable to the point that my husband began to wonder what happened to the girl he thought he had married.
Since much of my problem is based in my hormones, taking birth control pills made everything worse. I gained ten pounds of water weight, which made me hate myself even more than I had.
Hate myself you wonder? Yes. I was in a constant race against myself trying to prove that I was a person of value and importance. When we were courting, it took my husband an entire day of constantly lingering at my side, demanding an answer, until I finally admitted I loved him. It was too terrifying to make myself so vulnerable. On the surface I tried so hard to put on the face of confidence and control while inwardly I could find one reason after another why people would have good reason to reject me.
Not even a full year into our marriage the indicators were clear that I was having some serious problems. My extreme mood swings, the memory loss, inability to concentrate, insecure need for constant reassurance from my husband that he loved me, that I was indeed lovable, were all clear signs.
The two of us decided I could no longer take birth control pills. That was a wise decision. Beyond that we didn’t think there was a problem. Soon after, I went back to my old habits of thinking I could do anything. I piled mountains of stress on myself - working part time, attending school with more than a full time credit load, performing in a professional traveling show for extra income, and so on.
After two years of marriage we decided one of us had to graduate. Financially speaking, one of us needed to be working full time. I was the one closest to being done. I was the idiot who believed I could do anything, so we decided I was the one who had to finish school. With special permission from the university (due to my good grades) I took on a class load which was twice as much as the number of credits considered to be full time.
One month in I found out I was pregnant. The first thing that came to my mind was the stories I’d heard of how Chinese women would be working in the fields, pop out a baby, and return to their task. I figured if so many other women could do so much while they were pregnant, I wasn’t going to let it slow me down in any way.
For obvious reasons, I did have to quit the traveling show I was in. Otherwise I continued working, getting in as many extra hours as I could. It was unquestionably insane.
In December of that year our apartment building was sold to a new investor who decided to raise the rent considerably. It was far beyond our budget. In order to complete my required student teaching winter semester I had no choice but to quit my part time job. The loss of my income was too crushing. When we were unable to find another affordable place, we ended up moving in with my parents.
Although my parents were wonderful about the whole thing, our situation only became worse. My husband was mortified that we were living with his in-laws. The weight of his responsibility of being a provider was crushing him. We had a child on the way. My huge belly was a constant reminder of that impending lifelong commitment. He was scared.
I didn’t have time to get scared. Every day I had to be at the high school working the same hours as the drama teacher I was assigned as my mentor. In theater school doesn’t end when the bell rings. Always there are rehearsals lasting at least until 5:00. Saturdays were required. On top of that, I was still trying to take an evening course.
I was exhausted, overwhelmed. This strange, constant nagging pain was in the top of my head. My ability to focus was slipping.
By the time winter semester ended, even though we couldn’t afford it, I’d found us an apartment. It was clear my husband couldn’t deal with living with my parents any more and I needed to have my baby in my own home.
I went into a crazy cleaning frenzy just before we moved in. Any kind of dirt or mess within my home had become a point of extreme distress and aggravation. I’d start cleaning, but the more I cleaned, the more I realized there was no way I could get rid of all the dirt. It was probably the first time I ever noticed my own odd obsessive compulsive behavior.
We moved. The pain in my head continued to grow worse. Everything in general seemed worse. I couldn’t concentrate on any of my school work. When I could concentrate for a moment or two I’d end up falling asleep. With my student teaching completed I was able to return to my job. My credit load was higher than ever. Just to get everything in before August graduation I was working to test out of a number of classes. In the mean time I was scheduling interviews with local schools for teaching positions.
Midway through spring term on a Friday my son was born. I actually had to call a principal from the hospital to cancel an employment interview. Determined to not let anything keep me down, I was back in class by the following Tuesday.
Things start getting blurry after that. My husband and I were so thrilled with our new son. I wanted to be everything for him. Since I was breast feeding I was up all night, never able to get any kind of regular sleep. During the day I have little ‘black outs.’ I’d be doing one thing, like walking to class, then I’d find myself in a whole other place. The missing time was nominal. I don’t think I even noticed it was happening at first. Then, when it started as I was driving, it increasingly began to scare me.
All the same, I blamed it on exhaustion and did not allow myself to think it was anything serious. Somehow I survived spring term. Summer started. I was six weeks away from graduating. Everything was still on schedule.
I don’t know what I looked like to my husband. He was worn to the bone just like me, doing hard labor full time as a roofer over the summer. At night I’d been trying to let him sleep even though the baby kept me up. Outwardly I was going to great lengths trying to convince everyone including myself that I was fine.
I already wrote about the hallucinations that began (The Brain Tumor). They were what prompted me to go to my doctor. I was convinced the only reasonable explanation for me to be having such horrible hallucinations, black outs, memory loss, and constant headaches, had to be a brain tumor. That one misconceived notion probably saved my life.
There were signs and symptoms all over the place, but no one noticed, not even me until it was almost too late. That is one of the most fearsome things about mental illness. Someone can be falling apart right in front of your own face. If you don’t know what to look for, you could miss it entirely - an oftentimes very fatal mistake.
When I was growing up you could easily have called me an over achiever. On top of earning good grades and taking advanced placement courses, I was heavily involved in all kinds of activities. My acting career began when I was eight. I was cast in a leading role in a university production. Not long after that I was in a television show for PBS. At the age of sixteen I earned the lead role in a production which toured Europe and was televised there. That was all on top of what I did through my high school and community theater.
Of course, that wasn’t enough for me. I was also an active, successful participant on the Forensics team, in DECA club, and choir, winning state and national awards as well as serving in many leadership positions. Since the age of eight I played the piano. My first composition won an award. Later on, at the age of fourteen, another piece I composed won a very important national honor.
By the time I graduated from high school I had already earned enough university credits to be classified as a sophomore. I pushed myself hard and believed I was unstoppable.
The over achieving alone was a sign of things to come. It’s not normal for a kid to do so much. All the time there was this constant pressure inside me telling me I needed to be more, to do more, that I wasn’t good enough.
There were down times which were like being trapped in a black hole. I would isolate myself, completely convinced no one wanted to be my friend. For hours I’d lay on the bed in my room staring at the ceiling.
I’d come home from dates and various activities only to break down sobbing in hopelessness. My parents brushed it off as teenage angst, PMS, and exhaustion, all very reasonable explanations. No one could have known It was all bipolar behavior. Back then no one knew about bipolar disorder. Little was known about depression.
At one point, after my mother had my brother, her fourth child, she went into a very serious depression. My parents went to great lengths to shield we kids from what was going on, but things were bad enough that I remember my dad sitting us down, explaining how mommy needed some extra help. She spent a lot of time locked in her bedroom. I don’t think my parents ever considered getting her medical help beyond some basic advice. They knew it was postpartum depression and figured over time it would pass.
So how would a person know if someone like me needed help? The real indicators didn’t show up until after I got married at the very young age of eighteen. The stress I put on myself boiled over. My memory began to deteriorate. I began having panic attacks - although I didn’t know what panic attacks were at the time. My headaches increased. My emotions became extremely unstable to the point that my husband began to wonder what happened to the girl he thought he had married.
Since much of my problem is based in my hormones, taking birth control pills made everything worse. I gained ten pounds of water weight, which made me hate myself even more than I had.
Hate myself you wonder? Yes. I was in a constant race against myself trying to prove that I was a person of value and importance. When we were courting, it took my husband an entire day of constantly lingering at my side, demanding an answer, until I finally admitted I loved him. It was too terrifying to make myself so vulnerable. On the surface I tried so hard to put on the face of confidence and control while inwardly I could find one reason after another why people would have good reason to reject me.
Not even a full year into our marriage the indicators were clear that I was having some serious problems. My extreme mood swings, the memory loss, inability to concentrate, insecure need for constant reassurance from my husband that he loved me, that I was indeed lovable, were all clear signs.
The two of us decided I could no longer take birth control pills. That was a wise decision. Beyond that we didn’t think there was a problem. Soon after, I went back to my old habits of thinking I could do anything. I piled mountains of stress on myself - working part time, attending school with more than a full time credit load, performing in a professional traveling show for extra income, and so on.
After two years of marriage we decided one of us had to graduate. Financially speaking, one of us needed to be working full time. I was the one closest to being done. I was the idiot who believed I could do anything, so we decided I was the one who had to finish school. With special permission from the university (due to my good grades) I took on a class load which was twice as much as the number of credits considered to be full time.
One month in I found out I was pregnant. The first thing that came to my mind was the stories I’d heard of how Chinese women would be working in the fields, pop out a baby, and return to their task. I figured if so many other women could do so much while they were pregnant, I wasn’t going to let it slow me down in any way.
For obvious reasons, I did have to quit the traveling show I was in. Otherwise I continued working, getting in as many extra hours as I could. It was unquestionably insane.
In December of that year our apartment building was sold to a new investor who decided to raise the rent considerably. It was far beyond our budget. In order to complete my required student teaching winter semester I had no choice but to quit my part time job. The loss of my income was too crushing. When we were unable to find another affordable place, we ended up moving in with my parents.
Although my parents were wonderful about the whole thing, our situation only became worse. My husband was mortified that we were living with his in-laws. The weight of his responsibility of being a provider was crushing him. We had a child on the way. My huge belly was a constant reminder of that impending lifelong commitment. He was scared.
I didn’t have time to get scared. Every day I had to be at the high school working the same hours as the drama teacher I was assigned as my mentor. In theater school doesn’t end when the bell rings. Always there are rehearsals lasting at least until 5:00. Saturdays were required. On top of that, I was still trying to take an evening course.
I was exhausted, overwhelmed. This strange, constant nagging pain was in the top of my head. My ability to focus was slipping.
By the time winter semester ended, even though we couldn’t afford it, I’d found us an apartment. It was clear my husband couldn’t deal with living with my parents any more and I needed to have my baby in my own home.
I went into a crazy cleaning frenzy just before we moved in. Any kind of dirt or mess within my home had become a point of extreme distress and aggravation. I’d start cleaning, but the more I cleaned, the more I realized there was no way I could get rid of all the dirt. It was probably the first time I ever noticed my own odd obsessive compulsive behavior.
We moved. The pain in my head continued to grow worse. Everything in general seemed worse. I couldn’t concentrate on any of my school work. When I could concentrate for a moment or two I’d end up falling asleep. With my student teaching completed I was able to return to my job. My credit load was higher than ever. Just to get everything in before August graduation I was working to test out of a number of classes. In the mean time I was scheduling interviews with local schools for teaching positions.
Midway through spring term on a Friday my son was born. I actually had to call a principal from the hospital to cancel an employment interview. Determined to not let anything keep me down, I was back in class by the following Tuesday.
Things start getting blurry after that. My husband and I were so thrilled with our new son. I wanted to be everything for him. Since I was breast feeding I was up all night, never able to get any kind of regular sleep. During the day I have little ‘black outs.’ I’d be doing one thing, like walking to class, then I’d find myself in a whole other place. The missing time was nominal. I don’t think I even noticed it was happening at first. Then, when it started as I was driving, it increasingly began to scare me.
All the same, I blamed it on exhaustion and did not allow myself to think it was anything serious. Somehow I survived spring term. Summer started. I was six weeks away from graduating. Everything was still on schedule.
I don’t know what I looked like to my husband. He was worn to the bone just like me, doing hard labor full time as a roofer over the summer. At night I’d been trying to let him sleep even though the baby kept me up. Outwardly I was going to great lengths trying to convince everyone including myself that I was fine.
I already wrote about the hallucinations that began (The Brain Tumor). They were what prompted me to go to my doctor. I was convinced the only reasonable explanation for me to be having such horrible hallucinations, black outs, memory loss, and constant headaches, had to be a brain tumor. That one misconceived notion probably saved my life.
There were signs and symptoms all over the place, but no one noticed, not even me until it was almost too late. That is one of the most fearsome things about mental illness. Someone can be falling apart right in front of your own face. If you don’t know what to look for, you could miss it entirely - an oftentimes very fatal mistake.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Know Your Limits
If you think life is hard as a young parent, even as the parent of a teenager, you are in for a rude awakening when you become the parent of an adult. All of a sudden the controls you've been accustomed to having are gone. You can't tell your kid what to do - well, you can, but it doesn't mean much. There comes a time when you have to let go and accept the fact that your kid isn't a kid any more. He or she needs to make their own decisions, their own mistakes, and live with them without you to cushion the fall.
You know that story about the little boy who's father is in a dark hole. The father calls to him, telling him to jump into his arms, saying he'll be safe because his dad will catch him. The boy jumps. Dad catches him. Happy ending. It's supposed to be all about faith.
Well, with the adult child you have to say - hey kid, there's the hole; jump if you want; if you break your leg I'm sorry, it's your choice, but I'm not down there waiting to catch you. The lesson is still about faith - having faith in your kid. That doesn't make it any easier. I remember back when I left home. I made some stupid mistakes, paid the price for them, all while my poor parents had to watch. Like the wonderful parents they always were, they always supported me regardless of my own foolishness.
Big sigh.
That's the way it is with anyone you love who's all grown up. You can tell them what to do until you're blue in the face. You can break your back trying to save them from themselves, but in the end, no matter how hard you try, the only person who can make change happen is the person.
It's a good plan. God made it up. I trust Him. I wouldn't want anyone to take away my right to choose, so why should I ever think to take something so precious from anyone else?
All of this is from a very emotionally drained person, so if it sounds dreary, I'm sincerely sorry. It's just a harsh lesson I'm learning - kind of like drinking through a fire hose right now. I'm losing my kids to that dark hole they're jumping into. I don't know the outcome. It scares me. I honestly believe in the end, things will work out great. We all have our insecure moments. This one is mine.
You know that story about the little boy who's father is in a dark hole. The father calls to him, telling him to jump into his arms, saying he'll be safe because his dad will catch him. The boy jumps. Dad catches him. Happy ending. It's supposed to be all about faith.
Well, with the adult child you have to say - hey kid, there's the hole; jump if you want; if you break your leg I'm sorry, it's your choice, but I'm not down there waiting to catch you. The lesson is still about faith - having faith in your kid. That doesn't make it any easier. I remember back when I left home. I made some stupid mistakes, paid the price for them, all while my poor parents had to watch. Like the wonderful parents they always were, they always supported me regardless of my own foolishness.
Big sigh.
That's the way it is with anyone you love who's all grown up. You can tell them what to do until you're blue in the face. You can break your back trying to save them from themselves, but in the end, no matter how hard you try, the only person who can make change happen is the person.
It's a good plan. God made it up. I trust Him. I wouldn't want anyone to take away my right to choose, so why should I ever think to take something so precious from anyone else?
All of this is from a very emotionally drained person, so if it sounds dreary, I'm sincerely sorry. It's just a harsh lesson I'm learning - kind of like drinking through a fire hose right now. I'm losing my kids to that dark hole they're jumping into. I don't know the outcome. It scares me. I honestly believe in the end, things will work out great. We all have our insecure moments. This one is mine.
Monday, February 22, 2010
THIS IS SUPER IMPORTANT!!!
Please, if someone you know or love is showing signs of utter hopelessness, do something about it! Right now I'm beating myself up inside. I just got an email from someone I care about very much. He's been struggling for a long time. About a year ago he was in a hospital program for a number of weeks. The only reason he was there was because I'd insisted he had to do something to help himself. For a while he was doing better. He went off to school, got a job, seemed to be doing okay. He was certainly doing a good job of making things look like he was doing okay when he really wasn't. Now things are extremely bad. He has no hope at all for himself. When I told him to go to the emergency room at the hospital, he said it was pointless, he was never going to get better. The next step to that kind of attitude is suicide. I'm sure the only thing that has kept him alive this long is his religious beliefs.
Now I feel sick inside because I didn't see things for what they are sooner. I'm blaming myself for not catching on to how serious his problems really are. Nobody wants to have mental illness. Nobody wants someone they love to have mental illness. It is so very easy to pass things off like they're a passing phase, or have the attitude that it will pass over time. But to be honest, when you see signs of trouble, you've got to take them seriously.
I thought it was ridiculous the first time anyone told me to go to the emergency room due to my own mental health. I didn't consider myself to be in the midst of that kind of serious crisis. The truth of the matter is, a mental health crisis often ends in death. Death is pretty serious.
At least I know now that he's on his way to getting help. He's alive. I let him know something had to be done. I've done what I can do. I'll never give up.
Now I feel sick inside because I didn't see things for what they are sooner. I'm blaming myself for not catching on to how serious his problems really are. Nobody wants to have mental illness. Nobody wants someone they love to have mental illness. It is so very easy to pass things off like they're a passing phase, or have the attitude that it will pass over time. But to be honest, when you see signs of trouble, you've got to take them seriously.
I thought it was ridiculous the first time anyone told me to go to the emergency room due to my own mental health. I didn't consider myself to be in the midst of that kind of serious crisis. The truth of the matter is, a mental health crisis often ends in death. Death is pretty serious.
At least I know now that he's on his way to getting help. He's alive. I let him know something had to be done. I've done what I can do. I'll never give up.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Finding a Good Counselor or Therapist
Finding the right person for you can be tough. First, if such services are covered by your health plan, you need to be sure to find someone within your health plan. I would suggest that instead of looking up the list of providers online or listed by your insurance, first ask friends, neighbors, and co-workers if they know of anyone good. Make calls to the offices people suggest, asking if they take your insurance plan. Usually they will. If not, move on to the next most popular referral until you do find someone who will work.
The same principle applies to people who may not have insurance coverage. You are going to want the most bang for your buck. Get the same referrals from your friends, then call and ask about cash pay discounts that may be available. It may take you some time making phone calls, but in the end you could save yourself a lot of money and heartache.
One thing to consider is the gender of the therapist. If you call in to a group of therapists that is the first question you’ll be asked. Do you want a man or a woman? You may be more comfortable with a woman than you are with a man or vice versa. For myself, I’ve come to find that men tend to be more logical and less emotional. Women are generally empathetic and understanding. The best therapists for me have always been men. They suit my personality, filling my need for logical efficiency. I even prefer therapeutic self help books written by men rather than women. Thus far, all of my kids have done better with men as well. You, however, will have your own set of needs, so this is something you need to seriously consider.
Once you’ve found someone do not think the matter is finished. Your first visit will be a big indicator as to whether you will get along with this person or not. Based on my own experience it takes at least three separate visits before you know for certain if a person is really a good match for you or not.
At one time I went to a great deal of trouble trying to find the best possible person for my daughter. I checked every possible resource. This lady was supposed to be a big specialist in dealing with teenagers with my daughter’s specific kind of problem. For the first appointment I went with her to see how well they did with each other. A couple of appointments later my daughter called me up, sobbing uncontrollably because of something the therapist had said. After a great deal of discussion I finally figured out that the therapist and my daughter did not understand each other when it came to religion. The therapist was telling her what she thought my daughter needed, when in fact, her comments were making her feel far worse. It was not the fault of the therapist, or my daughter, or either person’s religion for that matter. They just did not understand each other.
In truth, my daughter had to go to three different therapists before she was able to find someone who was right for her. Now that she has the right person, she’s finally seeing her problems for what they are and taking steps toward doing what she can to help herself get better.
Be patient. Be persistent. Eventually you’ll find the right person. Don’t give up.
The same principle applies to people who may not have insurance coverage. You are going to want the most bang for your buck. Get the same referrals from your friends, then call and ask about cash pay discounts that may be available. It may take you some time making phone calls, but in the end you could save yourself a lot of money and heartache.
One thing to consider is the gender of the therapist. If you call in to a group of therapists that is the first question you’ll be asked. Do you want a man or a woman? You may be more comfortable with a woman than you are with a man or vice versa. For myself, I’ve come to find that men tend to be more logical and less emotional. Women are generally empathetic and understanding. The best therapists for me have always been men. They suit my personality, filling my need for logical efficiency. I even prefer therapeutic self help books written by men rather than women. Thus far, all of my kids have done better with men as well. You, however, will have your own set of needs, so this is something you need to seriously consider.
Once you’ve found someone do not think the matter is finished. Your first visit will be a big indicator as to whether you will get along with this person or not. Based on my own experience it takes at least three separate visits before you know for certain if a person is really a good match for you or not.
At one time I went to a great deal of trouble trying to find the best possible person for my daughter. I checked every possible resource. This lady was supposed to be a big specialist in dealing with teenagers with my daughter’s specific kind of problem. For the first appointment I went with her to see how well they did with each other. A couple of appointments later my daughter called me up, sobbing uncontrollably because of something the therapist had said. After a great deal of discussion I finally figured out that the therapist and my daughter did not understand each other when it came to religion. The therapist was telling her what she thought my daughter needed, when in fact, her comments were making her feel far worse. It was not the fault of the therapist, or my daughter, or either person’s religion for that matter. They just did not understand each other.
In truth, my daughter had to go to three different therapists before she was able to find someone who was right for her. Now that she has the right person, she’s finally seeing her problems for what they are and taking steps toward doing what she can to help herself get better.
Be patient. Be persistent. Eventually you’ll find the right person. Don’t give up.
A Word About Psychologists
I’ll tell you point blank, I don’t like psychologists. My overall experience has been that they tend to make more problems for you, not resolve the ones you already have. Just recently my daughter was hospitalized for a relatively minor problem. The hospital counselors were saying that she urgently needed to have ‘family counseling,’ that she had some seriously messed up issues with her two siblings.
Okay, I already knew she had some issues with her siblings. I also knew those sibling issues were getting blown way out of proportion because of her momentary mental state. What she really needed was to get the right combination of meds working for her. Once that was in place, anything with her brother and sister would fix itself as well as it could be fixed.
That’s been my experience almost every time someone has been hospitalized. Because there is mandatory counseling involved it’s like the counselors have to validate themselves by making problems for the patients. My other daughter was told she had huge problems with her father. All of a sudden, on top of all the distress she had in the first place, she was even more upset. Sure, she did have a little problem with her dad, but it was nothing like what they were making it out to be. Once again, as soon as she was mentally stable and had the right meds, there was no problem.
I’ve had the same thing happen to me. Blame has been placed on my parents, my husband, my religion, when in truth, all of those factors were by far more helpful and supportive than they could have ever been damaging. That kind of thing infuriates me. The terminology I use is that counseling is more retroactive than proactive.
Even in the case of people who do have legitimate, traumatic experiences which have left them emotionally crippled, they need positive things they can do to overcome those hard times. If the discussion isn’t bringing the individual closer to healing, what is the point? A counselor cannot become obtusely engrossed in the problem itself. I daresay all kinds of so called counselors have made all kinds of money off of simply listening to people go on and on about themselves and their problems. The patient leaves feeling better because there is a cathartic effect which comes from having someone simply listen. In the long run, however, they’re not any closer to an actual resolution.
In order to get better you need more than a listener. What you need is someone who can realistically help you to identify your problems, then provide you with the steps you need to take to overcome those problems. There are counselors out there who can be very helpful. The trick is in finding someone who will work well for you.
Okay, I already knew she had some issues with her siblings. I also knew those sibling issues were getting blown way out of proportion because of her momentary mental state. What she really needed was to get the right combination of meds working for her. Once that was in place, anything with her brother and sister would fix itself as well as it could be fixed.
That’s been my experience almost every time someone has been hospitalized. Because there is mandatory counseling involved it’s like the counselors have to validate themselves by making problems for the patients. My other daughter was told she had huge problems with her father. All of a sudden, on top of all the distress she had in the first place, she was even more upset. Sure, she did have a little problem with her dad, but it was nothing like what they were making it out to be. Once again, as soon as she was mentally stable and had the right meds, there was no problem.
I’ve had the same thing happen to me. Blame has been placed on my parents, my husband, my religion, when in truth, all of those factors were by far more helpful and supportive than they could have ever been damaging. That kind of thing infuriates me. The terminology I use is that counseling is more retroactive than proactive.
Even in the case of people who do have legitimate, traumatic experiences which have left them emotionally crippled, they need positive things they can do to overcome those hard times. If the discussion isn’t bringing the individual closer to healing, what is the point? A counselor cannot become obtusely engrossed in the problem itself. I daresay all kinds of so called counselors have made all kinds of money off of simply listening to people go on and on about themselves and their problems. The patient leaves feeling better because there is a cathartic effect which comes from having someone simply listen. In the long run, however, they’re not any closer to an actual resolution.
In order to get better you need more than a listener. What you need is someone who can realistically help you to identify your problems, then provide you with the steps you need to take to overcome those problems. There are counselors out there who can be very helpful. The trick is in finding someone who will work well for you.
The Difference Between Psychologists and Psychiatrists
A lot of people seem to be confused regarding the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist. Psychiatrists are medical doctors. They have gone through the traditional training required for any M.D., then have had additional training to specialize in psychiatric medicine. The main thing you need to keep in mind is that Psychiatrists can prescribe medications. They are familiar with the physical as well as mental aspects of the conditions they treat.
Psychologists earn degrees much like educators. They can obtain a Bachelors degree only or advance further to earn a Masters. Their highest level of education is a Doctorate, but even though you can refer to a psychologist as a ‘doctor,’ they are not doctors in the medical sense, but rather doctors like a professor at a university. The degree designates the level of their education, not an education in medicine.
Obviously, it takes a lot more time, effort and education to become a psychiatrist. Their time is very valuable. Nowadays the primary function of a psychiatrist is to prescribe and manage medications. This means that the average psychiatric office visit is only be about fifteen minutes long.
On the other hand, the average psychologist or counseling visit, is about forty-five minutes. It’s kind of like you give your psychologist the full version of your personal novel while you give your psychiatrist the abbreviated version. In most instances, psychiatrists will tell their patients to get further support through a counselor. You sign a release which allows the two to share information so that your needs are more fully and efficiently met.
Not all mental patients need to see a psychiatrist in order to obtain treatment. If you need a mild to moderate degree of medication you can oftentimes work through your primary care doctor and/or their physician’s assistant, nurse practitioner, etc. Usually they will strongly urge you to meet with a counselor as well, which helps them monitor you more efficiently, just like a psychiatrist.
If you think you have a problem, I would recommend that you see your primary care doctor first, then go from there. You may or may not need medication. They could simply send you to counseling, but it is always wise to get a medical opinion.
Psychologists earn degrees much like educators. They can obtain a Bachelors degree only or advance further to earn a Masters. Their highest level of education is a Doctorate, but even though you can refer to a psychologist as a ‘doctor,’ they are not doctors in the medical sense, but rather doctors like a professor at a university. The degree designates the level of their education, not an education in medicine.
Obviously, it takes a lot more time, effort and education to become a psychiatrist. Their time is very valuable. Nowadays the primary function of a psychiatrist is to prescribe and manage medications. This means that the average psychiatric office visit is only be about fifteen minutes long.
On the other hand, the average psychologist or counseling visit, is about forty-five minutes. It’s kind of like you give your psychologist the full version of your personal novel while you give your psychiatrist the abbreviated version. In most instances, psychiatrists will tell their patients to get further support through a counselor. You sign a release which allows the two to share information so that your needs are more fully and efficiently met.
Not all mental patients need to see a psychiatrist in order to obtain treatment. If you need a mild to moderate degree of medication you can oftentimes work through your primary care doctor and/or their physician’s assistant, nurse practitioner, etc. Usually they will strongly urge you to meet with a counselor as well, which helps them monitor you more efficiently, just like a psychiatrist.
If you think you have a problem, I would recommend that you see your primary care doctor first, then go from there. You may or may not need medication. They could simply send you to counseling, but it is always wise to get a medical opinion.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Forgiveness
In the fall of 1990 I was still struggling with postpartum depression. A new school year had begun, which meant I was back to working on a full time basis. That alone was making life hard. Trying to get up early, drag both my kids out of bed to get them to the sitter and myself to the school before 7:30 was tough.
Due to financial duress, we’d sold our second car. All kinds of new transportation issues complicated our lives. My husband was working to finish all of his pre-med courses. The big hope was that the next fall we’d be off to medical school. We both knew that was going to be a huge challenge, especially since we already had two kids, but my husband had always talked of how he wanted to be a doctor. I truly wanted him to have an occupation which would make him happy, so I figured it was worth the sacrifice.
All the same, I was constantly racked with guilt, feeling like I was failing my kids. How could I be leaving them to be raised by practical strangers? My beautiful daughter had nearly died because of me, because my mind had turned to mush. Others had to care for her. That was how she had caught the pneumonia. More than seven months had passed since that incident, yet it continued to torment me. Even though my job was an unquestionable necessity, it did not make things any easier for me mentally, especially regarding that subject.
Then, one Sunday while we were at church I was standing outside the classroom during Sunday School trying to keep my daughter under control. She was tired, yet excited and curious to be around so many people. Patiently I held her in my arms, rocking her until finally she succumbed to her need for sleep.
All was still and quiet. It felt so wonderful to be there, comforting my child, knowing I was the one who was there for her, not someone else. Suddenly a tremendous wave of guilt hit me. How could I have not been there for her so much of the time? Tears were welling in my eyes. I hated myself so much for being so weak, so inadequate, I literally felt like the pain alone should have been enough to kill me.
Then, the strangest, most wonderful thing happened. It was as if my daughter had sensed my thoughts. Her very soul began whispering to me, telling me of her love for me, how she was so happy to be my child. I was literally overwhelmed by the sudden sense of love and total, unquestionable forgiveness I felt, from an infant. How could a child so small even know how to communicate such articulate emotions? Yet, I knew without a doubt, it was her speaking to me. Somehow she knew.
For a long time I sat there, holding my little one, being blessed with a kind of peace I had not felt in a very long time.
To be honest, I haven’t written about this before. It always seemed too fantastic, too impossible to believe. Some experiences are so deeply intertwined with your very soul, you know without a doubt how true they really are while at the same time can understand how very strangely impossible it may be to someone else.
For myself, I know. My daughter spoke to me that day. She wholeheartedly forgave me. She loved me without reserve. For a brief moment, we were one. I have no doubt it was a gift from God, one which has comforted me often.
Due to financial duress, we’d sold our second car. All kinds of new transportation issues complicated our lives. My husband was working to finish all of his pre-med courses. The big hope was that the next fall we’d be off to medical school. We both knew that was going to be a huge challenge, especially since we already had two kids, but my husband had always talked of how he wanted to be a doctor. I truly wanted him to have an occupation which would make him happy, so I figured it was worth the sacrifice.
All the same, I was constantly racked with guilt, feeling like I was failing my kids. How could I be leaving them to be raised by practical strangers? My beautiful daughter had nearly died because of me, because my mind had turned to mush. Others had to care for her. That was how she had caught the pneumonia. More than seven months had passed since that incident, yet it continued to torment me. Even though my job was an unquestionable necessity, it did not make things any easier for me mentally, especially regarding that subject.
Then, one Sunday while we were at church I was standing outside the classroom during Sunday School trying to keep my daughter under control. She was tired, yet excited and curious to be around so many people. Patiently I held her in my arms, rocking her until finally she succumbed to her need for sleep.
All was still and quiet. It felt so wonderful to be there, comforting my child, knowing I was the one who was there for her, not someone else. Suddenly a tremendous wave of guilt hit me. How could I have not been there for her so much of the time? Tears were welling in my eyes. I hated myself so much for being so weak, so inadequate, I literally felt like the pain alone should have been enough to kill me.
Then, the strangest, most wonderful thing happened. It was as if my daughter had sensed my thoughts. Her very soul began whispering to me, telling me of her love for me, how she was so happy to be my child. I was literally overwhelmed by the sudden sense of love and total, unquestionable forgiveness I felt, from an infant. How could a child so small even know how to communicate such articulate emotions? Yet, I knew without a doubt, it was her speaking to me. Somehow she knew.
For a long time I sat there, holding my little one, being blessed with a kind of peace I had not felt in a very long time.
To be honest, I haven’t written about this before. It always seemed too fantastic, too impossible to believe. Some experiences are so deeply intertwined with your very soul, you know without a doubt how true they really are while at the same time can understand how very strangely impossible it may be to someone else.
For myself, I know. My daughter spoke to me that day. She wholeheartedly forgave me. She loved me without reserve. For a brief moment, we were one. I have no doubt it was a gift from God, one which has comforted me often.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Beast
I am really anxious right now. You should see me bouncing up and down on the couch, unable to stay still, wondering half the time what is wrong with me. Half the time? You repeat to yourself . . . Yes. Well. I know the reason why I’m going bonkers. There’s this really great app I have on my iphone that helps me keep track of my, ahem, female hormonal cycle. The Beast is on the brink, very much on the brink, clearly explaining why I am having issues.
For me, hormones are at the very root of my mental problems. It is the sudden hormonal changes which occur after the birth of a child which drive me into postpartum psychosis. As I’m growing older, advancing toward the great change, my hormones are back to causing me all kinds of increasingly devilish trouble. And, of course, the most reliably worst time of the month is here, right now upon me.
The funny thing is, as I mentioned, half the time I’m still wondering what is wrong with me. You’d think I’d know for a fact - oh yeah, it’s that same monthly friend of mine ready for it’s next visit. For some silly reason, though, somehow between the simple actions of the day, I forget why I’m feeling so messed up. Suddenly, as I’m sitting on the couch watching the Olympics, wrenching my hands over watching some random curling match of all things, I realize, oh, this emotional response doesn’t make sense! Tomorrow’s the big day! You’re not nuts. You’re just HORMONAL.
Confidentially, I think a lot of people would save themselves a lot of stress if they just kept in mind that a little madness once a month is actually rather normal. I say this to include men just as much as women since this sudden emotional surge often baffles men far more than it baffles we women who actually are the ones who are raving.
That said, I feel much better. I am still very agitated. I’ve been making concessions for myself all day. Now that I know there’s a bonafide issue at hand I have the comfort of also knowing those concessions were justified. I guess I can go back to being a vegetable and watch some more TV.
For me, hormones are at the very root of my mental problems. It is the sudden hormonal changes which occur after the birth of a child which drive me into postpartum psychosis. As I’m growing older, advancing toward the great change, my hormones are back to causing me all kinds of increasingly devilish trouble. And, of course, the most reliably worst time of the month is here, right now upon me.
The funny thing is, as I mentioned, half the time I’m still wondering what is wrong with me. You’d think I’d know for a fact - oh yeah, it’s that same monthly friend of mine ready for it’s next visit. For some silly reason, though, somehow between the simple actions of the day, I forget why I’m feeling so messed up. Suddenly, as I’m sitting on the couch watching the Olympics, wrenching my hands over watching some random curling match of all things, I realize, oh, this emotional response doesn’t make sense! Tomorrow’s the big day! You’re not nuts. You’re just HORMONAL.
Confidentially, I think a lot of people would save themselves a lot of stress if they just kept in mind that a little madness once a month is actually rather normal. I say this to include men just as much as women since this sudden emotional surge often baffles men far more than it baffles we women who actually are the ones who are raving.
That said, I feel much better. I am still very agitated. I’ve been making concessions for myself all day. Now that I know there’s a bonafide issue at hand I have the comfort of also knowing those concessions were justified. I guess I can go back to being a vegetable and watch some more TV.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentines Day 2010
“I’m so anti-Valentines Day this year.” grumbled my husband. “It’s a completely senseless holiday. Weren’t people executed on Valentines Day?”
“It doesn’t have a pleasant history.” I reply.
It’s Saturday, the day before the big V day. All the stores are acting like this is an urgent last minute affair now. If you wish to save your love life, this is the moment when you must step up to the plate and pay your dues.
I’ve scarcely done anything for the holiday. Lately it’s as if all the verve I once had for celebrations of any kind has dwindled down to near nothingness.
Twenty years ago times were far more challenging. I had just barely been released from the mental ward at the hospital. The same day my infant daughter was released from pediatrics. Her severe case of pneumonia had significantly, if not miraculously, cleared. Although we were a far cry from being fine, I was overjoyed to have my family back together again.
One year later, it seemed appropriate to celebrate. Before picking our kids up from the sitter, my husband and I snuck out to a local supermarket to buy our kids some fun things to show them our love. Balloons were a must. What small child doesn’t enjoy balloons? We bought them little coloring books, a puzzle for my son, a cuddly little rabbit for my daughter. At home we laid everything out as if a second Christmas had arrived, then went to get our kids.
I will never forget the excitement of our two little kids as they saw what was waiting for them. My daughter, who had just barely begun walking, did a crazy tottering dance while hugging the rabbit. No one could get enough of the helium balloons and the wonder of how they managed to so stubbornly defy gravity.
Suddenly, with the passing of that one Valentines day, a tradition was born. Year, after year, I treated the holiday as something far more than just a time to exchange flowers and candy. Our kids always got clothes, a necessity made nicer in the form of a gift. They always got at least one toy as well. Candy and balloons were a given. In my mind we were celebrating the reunion of our family at a time of year when we had thought, perhaps, our family was lost.
Now, nineteen years later, two of our kids are gone off to school. One will soon be married. Only one remains at home. Things have changed.
I figured there was nothing to be done, or worried about for that matter. For my part, I bought a lot of candy, sent a lot of it off to our college student clan, then kept some for the few of us here. Clearly my husband had no intention of doing anything. He’d made enough comments over the last number of days that I didn’t have the will or inclination to argue.
Saturday night he decides he is bored enough to go check out the video store. Rather uncharacteristically, he doesn’t ask me if I want to go. I chalk it up to the fact that I haven’t been feeling well. Maybe he was trying to be considerate.
A few minutes later Scrooge shows up with a dozen red roses. He shrugs at me with a smile. “Well, I figured I may as well do something even if it is a stupid holiday.”
Stupid holiday or not, he’s made this one for me. Once again, I remember how much I love him.
“It doesn’t have a pleasant history.” I reply.
It’s Saturday, the day before the big V day. All the stores are acting like this is an urgent last minute affair now. If you wish to save your love life, this is the moment when you must step up to the plate and pay your dues.
I’ve scarcely done anything for the holiday. Lately it’s as if all the verve I once had for celebrations of any kind has dwindled down to near nothingness.
Twenty years ago times were far more challenging. I had just barely been released from the mental ward at the hospital. The same day my infant daughter was released from pediatrics. Her severe case of pneumonia had significantly, if not miraculously, cleared. Although we were a far cry from being fine, I was overjoyed to have my family back together again.
One year later, it seemed appropriate to celebrate. Before picking our kids up from the sitter, my husband and I snuck out to a local supermarket to buy our kids some fun things to show them our love. Balloons were a must. What small child doesn’t enjoy balloons? We bought them little coloring books, a puzzle for my son, a cuddly little rabbit for my daughter. At home we laid everything out as if a second Christmas had arrived, then went to get our kids.
I will never forget the excitement of our two little kids as they saw what was waiting for them. My daughter, who had just barely begun walking, did a crazy tottering dance while hugging the rabbit. No one could get enough of the helium balloons and the wonder of how they managed to so stubbornly defy gravity.
Suddenly, with the passing of that one Valentines day, a tradition was born. Year, after year, I treated the holiday as something far more than just a time to exchange flowers and candy. Our kids always got clothes, a necessity made nicer in the form of a gift. They always got at least one toy as well. Candy and balloons were a given. In my mind we were celebrating the reunion of our family at a time of year when we had thought, perhaps, our family was lost.
Now, nineteen years later, two of our kids are gone off to school. One will soon be married. Only one remains at home. Things have changed.
I figured there was nothing to be done, or worried about for that matter. For my part, I bought a lot of candy, sent a lot of it off to our college student clan, then kept some for the few of us here. Clearly my husband had no intention of doing anything. He’d made enough comments over the last number of days that I didn’t have the will or inclination to argue.
Saturday night he decides he is bored enough to go check out the video store. Rather uncharacteristically, he doesn’t ask me if I want to go. I chalk it up to the fact that I haven’t been feeling well. Maybe he was trying to be considerate.
A few minutes later Scrooge shows up with a dozen red roses. He shrugs at me with a smile. “Well, I figured I may as well do something even if it is a stupid holiday.”
Stupid holiday or not, he’s made this one for me. Once again, I remember how much I love him.
Cream of Mushroom Soup
Early spring 1990
It was evening. Time for dinner. Someone had to do something about dinner, but I couldn’t think. There was too much rushing through my mind. Dust in the corner on the floor. Must clean the floor. Can’t clean floor. Dinner. What about dinner? Does the baby need a diaper change? Where’s the baby? Did I forget about the baby?! She’s okay - right? Where were they? What had I done? Mom and dad. Mom and dad took my kids. Remember? But they’ll be here soon.
Dinner needs to be here. Plates. Silverware. Glasses. Napkins. What do we put on the plates? MEATBALLS! I scream at myself. It’s meatballs with rice. Something in the back of my head is mumbling tacos, mac& cheese, Hamburger Helper... The list goes on and on, but now I’m determined. It’s meatballs. No changes allowed.
I mush the meat into balls and drop them into the sizzling pan. Water is boiling for the rice. It’s been a struggle, picking the right pots, making sure they’re not dirty. The slightest speck of anything makes my skin crawl. But there are specks everywhere!
Shut it out! Meatballs. You’re making meatballs. For a moment I gasp in air because I’ve forgotten to breathe, then the bombshell hits. I reach for a can of soup. We’ve always got soup.
It’s not there. I can’t find any cream of mushroom soup! How am I supposed to make rice and meatballs without the soup?! I’m in a panic. The rice is done. The meatballs are made. I’ve even heated up a can of green beans. I was doing so well! The table is set. What will my husband think? I’m such an incompetent wife, I can’t even fix dinner!
Someone is at the front door. It’s mom and dad with the kids.
“Dad!” I cry out urgently. “I need a can of cream of mushroom soup!”
“It’s okay honey. Calm down.” says my dad. Mom’s holding my baby. My daughter’s fiercely independent brother is making his own way into the apartment. They’re here. I’ve failed. Any minute now my husband is going to come see what a raw deal he got when he married me!
“I need soup. Please dad! Take me to the store so I can get soup?”
Mom mom nods to my dad like she’s okay with staying there with the kids. I feel even worse. Look at the way I’m burdening them...
Dad quickly ushers me into the car. I can do this. I can walk into the store and buy a can of soup. Just one can. No big deal. Breathe. The kids are okay. Dinner will be fine. My husband still loves me, right? Dad’s taking me to the store.
He pulls up to the curb, easily thinking it will be a quick in and out sort of deal. With the same attitude I run inside. Wow. There’s so much stuff - colors and lights and people! I’d really like to see that movie . . . five cans for a dollar! . .I’ve got a dollar . . . Oh. That’s for the soup. Find the soup!
It’s a miracle I find the aisle. Good job girl! Grab one and go! Oh no . . . Campbells or the generic, or what about the store brand? Generic is cheapest. I need to be cheap. But Campbell’s tastes better . . . I’m squabbling with myself over a matter of pennies! I know it is completely senseless, but I can’t help it. Just grab a stinking can!
I grab a can, get half way down the row only to run back and grab the other brand. This is agonizing. Why can’t I just make a decision? It’s just a can of soup!
Next thing I know I’m back in my dad’s car, no soup in my hands. It was too much for me to handle. There were too many choices. Tears are streaming down my face. Dad is distressed. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help. I can’t keep doing this to people. Tell him what to do! Tell him. Be fair. Fix this. Tell him.
“I can’t do it. I can’t decide.” I try to explain, “All I need is a can of cream of mushroom soup. I’ll give you the money. Please?”
Now he understands, at least for the moment. With a nod he steps out of the car. I’m so mortified I very desperately wish I could melt into the seat and simply disappear.
“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand . . .” I begin counting. It’s my method for passing time when time seems unendurable. The amount of effort it requires to stay focused on the task is tremendous. On a regular basis I lose track of what number I am on and have to start over. It doesn’t matter. The counting is what matters. As long as I am counting I know the seconds are passing.
The security guard is going to come arrest me. I don’t think security guards can arrest people. Other customers seem to be staring as they walk in and out of the store. I stare at the dashboard, doing my best to be invisible. The waiting seems nothing less than eternal when finally, like a miracle dropped out of heaven, my dad pops back into the car.
Stern, and business like - the way he always is when he’s worried - he drives me back to the apartment. Our car is waiting in the parking space. My husband is home. Look at the circus he had to face upon coming home this time! Why was I such a failure to him when above all else, he was the one I wanted to please?
Defeated, I walk inside. Somehow my mom’s finished the meatballs and rice for me. My son’s in his high chair, ready to go. His sister is rocking contentedly in her swing. Once again, my husband acts like it’s no big deal. In fact, it’s great I was able to get so much of dinner done. Mom completely downplays her part. She and my dad clear out quickly.
“I’m so sorry honey . . .” I mumble.
“Sorry for what?” he replies softly, “Everything is okay.”
He’s right. For the moment everything is okay. Unfortunately, we both know all too well how it will not last.
It was evening. Time for dinner. Someone had to do something about dinner, but I couldn’t think. There was too much rushing through my mind. Dust in the corner on the floor. Must clean the floor. Can’t clean floor. Dinner. What about dinner? Does the baby need a diaper change? Where’s the baby? Did I forget about the baby?! She’s okay - right? Where were they? What had I done? Mom and dad. Mom and dad took my kids. Remember? But they’ll be here soon.
Dinner needs to be here. Plates. Silverware. Glasses. Napkins. What do we put on the plates? MEATBALLS! I scream at myself. It’s meatballs with rice. Something in the back of my head is mumbling tacos, mac& cheese, Hamburger Helper... The list goes on and on, but now I’m determined. It’s meatballs. No changes allowed.
I mush the meat into balls and drop them into the sizzling pan. Water is boiling for the rice. It’s been a struggle, picking the right pots, making sure they’re not dirty. The slightest speck of anything makes my skin crawl. But there are specks everywhere!
Shut it out! Meatballs. You’re making meatballs. For a moment I gasp in air because I’ve forgotten to breathe, then the bombshell hits. I reach for a can of soup. We’ve always got soup.
It’s not there. I can’t find any cream of mushroom soup! How am I supposed to make rice and meatballs without the soup?! I’m in a panic. The rice is done. The meatballs are made. I’ve even heated up a can of green beans. I was doing so well! The table is set. What will my husband think? I’m such an incompetent wife, I can’t even fix dinner!
Someone is at the front door. It’s mom and dad with the kids.
“Dad!” I cry out urgently. “I need a can of cream of mushroom soup!”
“It’s okay honey. Calm down.” says my dad. Mom’s holding my baby. My daughter’s fiercely independent brother is making his own way into the apartment. They’re here. I’ve failed. Any minute now my husband is going to come see what a raw deal he got when he married me!
“I need soup. Please dad! Take me to the store so I can get soup?”
Mom mom nods to my dad like she’s okay with staying there with the kids. I feel even worse. Look at the way I’m burdening them...
Dad quickly ushers me into the car. I can do this. I can walk into the store and buy a can of soup. Just one can. No big deal. Breathe. The kids are okay. Dinner will be fine. My husband still loves me, right? Dad’s taking me to the store.
He pulls up to the curb, easily thinking it will be a quick in and out sort of deal. With the same attitude I run inside. Wow. There’s so much stuff - colors and lights and people! I’d really like to see that movie . . . five cans for a dollar! . .I’ve got a dollar . . . Oh. That’s for the soup. Find the soup!
It’s a miracle I find the aisle. Good job girl! Grab one and go! Oh no . . . Campbells or the generic, or what about the store brand? Generic is cheapest. I need to be cheap. But Campbell’s tastes better . . . I’m squabbling with myself over a matter of pennies! I know it is completely senseless, but I can’t help it. Just grab a stinking can!
I grab a can, get half way down the row only to run back and grab the other brand. This is agonizing. Why can’t I just make a decision? It’s just a can of soup!
Next thing I know I’m back in my dad’s car, no soup in my hands. It was too much for me to handle. There were too many choices. Tears are streaming down my face. Dad is distressed. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help. I can’t keep doing this to people. Tell him what to do! Tell him. Be fair. Fix this. Tell him.
“I can’t do it. I can’t decide.” I try to explain, “All I need is a can of cream of mushroom soup. I’ll give you the money. Please?”
Now he understands, at least for the moment. With a nod he steps out of the car. I’m so mortified I very desperately wish I could melt into the seat and simply disappear.
“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand . . .” I begin counting. It’s my method for passing time when time seems unendurable. The amount of effort it requires to stay focused on the task is tremendous. On a regular basis I lose track of what number I am on and have to start over. It doesn’t matter. The counting is what matters. As long as I am counting I know the seconds are passing.
The security guard is going to come arrest me. I don’t think security guards can arrest people. Other customers seem to be staring as they walk in and out of the store. I stare at the dashboard, doing my best to be invisible. The waiting seems nothing less than eternal when finally, like a miracle dropped out of heaven, my dad pops back into the car.
Stern, and business like - the way he always is when he’s worried - he drives me back to the apartment. Our car is waiting in the parking space. My husband is home. Look at the circus he had to face upon coming home this time! Why was I such a failure to him when above all else, he was the one I wanted to please?
Defeated, I walk inside. Somehow my mom’s finished the meatballs and rice for me. My son’s in his high chair, ready to go. His sister is rocking contentedly in her swing. Once again, my husband acts like it’s no big deal. In fact, it’s great I was able to get so much of dinner done. Mom completely downplays her part. She and my dad clear out quickly.
“I’m so sorry honey . . .” I mumble.
“Sorry for what?” he replies softly, “Everything is okay.”
He’s right. For the moment everything is okay. Unfortunately, we both know all too well how it will not last.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Take your Medication!!!
So today my daughter came home from school pretty much in total hysterics. I haven't seen her so bad off in quite some time. Between all of the crying and bits of barely coherent explanation, she was finally able to point out that she thought she had forgotten to take her medication, not once, but twice, for two whole days.
Suddenly cutting yourself off from your medication for whatever reason - intentional or otherwise - is not smart unless you're doing it under your doctor's supervision. Feel bad, feel good, feel whatever - take your medication! If it is someone you love who's taking the meds, do everything you can to make sure they stay on top of things.
I could embellish, and at some point, I probably will. Off the top of my head I can think of at least three different 'take your medication!' type life experiences I've been through. They'll get told soon enough. But for now, NEVER FAIL to TAKE YOUR MEDICATION! : )
Suddenly cutting yourself off from your medication for whatever reason - intentional or otherwise - is not smart unless you're doing it under your doctor's supervision. Feel bad, feel good, feel whatever - take your medication! If it is someone you love who's taking the meds, do everything you can to make sure they stay on top of things.
I could embellish, and at some point, I probably will. Off the top of my head I can think of at least three different 'take your medication!' type life experiences I've been through. They'll get told soon enough. But for now, NEVER FAIL to TAKE YOUR MEDICATION! : )
Absense due to Flu
Sorry I haven't written or rather posted anything for a little while. I managed getting really sick earlier this week. This morning I thought I was doing a lot better - which is unquestionably true - but not as much better as I'd hoped. My daughter and I ran off to a dress fitting this morning and by the time we were done, I was ready to call it quits. Oh well. At least I'm not bedridden like I was a couple of days ago.
Just as an interesting side note, I happened to catch this flu from my husband. No sooner had I flew off to make wedding arrangements, than he became extremely ill. The daughter who was still home with him started having emotional issues due to my absense as well. Long story short, I want to give huge kudos to my husband for being such a trooper while I was gone. Now that I've been through the illness, I don't know how he did it. I just married an amazing man, plain and simple.
Just as an interesting side note, I happened to catch this flu from my husband. No sooner had I flew off to make wedding arrangements, than he became extremely ill. The daughter who was still home with him started having emotional issues due to my absense as well. Long story short, I want to give huge kudos to my husband for being such a trooper while I was gone. Now that I've been through the illness, I don't know how he did it. I just married an amazing man, plain and simple.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Cognitive Distortions or Messed up Thinking
Cognition basically means thinking, so ‘cognitive distortions’ put simply, means messed up thinking or distorted thinking. I don’t know if there is any kind of thinking that can truly be deemed ‘normal’. I’m not a psychologist. What I do know is that A LOT of people have messed up thinking or cognitive distortions.
When you have messed up thinking patterns going on in your head, the first thing you need to do is recognize that your thinking is messed up. This is a really big deal. It is extremely easy to think that what you are thinking makes all kinds of sense because that is the way you think all the time. It is something you are accustomed to doing - so how are you supposed to know it is not right?
Logic is the answer. This sounds simple, but isn’t. Here’s an example to consider. Let’s say you’re walking into a classroom on the very first day of class. You look around the room and see a pair of girls talking pleasantly. After they glance in your direction, one girl lifts her hand up to whisper in the other girl’s ear. They smile and giggle afterwards. You immediately assume something negative has been said about you, that they are making fun of you.
Yes, it is possible that they are making fun of you. Logic, however, lets us know that the whisper probably has nothing to do with you, but rather what they’ve been discussing before you even came along. Logic says that their conversation could just as easily be complimentary about you as it could be non-complimentary. You don’t know. All you see is a couple of girls talking and whispering to each other.
So you think to yourself - but I got this feeling. Feelings are tricky little demons when it comes to thinking and reasoning. For depressed people it is very important to pay more attention to the logic associated with a situation rather than the emotions the situation may evoke.
Sometimes it is extra hard for me to keep things clear in my mind. I start following my emotions and impulses more than logic. To help myself I have abbreviated charts about cognitive distortions to help remind me what kind of thinking is self defeating.
The following are some general examples of messed up thinking. Please be sure to note that all of this is gleaned from David Burns’ book FEELING GOOD.
COGNITIVE DISTORTIONS
All or Nothing Thinking:
You see things in black and white categories. If your performance falls short of perfect you see yourself as a total failure.
Over Generalization:
You see a single negative event as never ending pattern of defeat.
Mental Filter:
You pick out a single negative detail and dwell on it exclusively so that your vision of all reality becomes darkened, like the drop of ink that colors the entire beaker of water.
Jumping to Conclusions:
You make a negative interpretation even though there are no definite facts that convincingly support your conclusion. These include
Mind Reading- You arbitrarily conclude that someone is reacting negatively to you, and you don’t bother to check this out.
The Fortune Teller Error - You anticipate that things will turn out badly, and you feel convinced that your prediction is an already established fact.
Magnification (Catastrophizing) or Minimization:
You exaggerate the importance of things (such as your goof-up or someone else’s achievement), or you inappropriately shrink things until they appear tiny (your own desirable qualities or the other fellow’s imperfections).
Emotional Reasoning:
You assume that your negative emotions necessarily reflect the way things really are: “I feel it, therefore it must be true.”
“Should” Statements:
You try to motivate yourself with shoulds and shouldn’ts as if you had to be whipped and punished before you would be expected to do anything. “Musts” and “oughts” are also offenders. The emotional consequence is guilt. When you direct should statements toward others, you feel anger, frustration, and resentment.
Labeling and Mislabeling:
This is an extreme form of over generalization. Instead of describing your error you attach a negative label to yourself: “I’m a loser.” When someone else’s behavior rubs you the wrong way, you attach a negative label to him: “He’s a stinking louse.” Mislabeling involves describing an event with language that is highly colored and emotionally loaded.
Personalization:
You see yourself as the cause of some negative external event which in fact you were not primarily responsible for.
That’s my list. A good trick I’ve learned to use for myself is to try thinking about the situation from another person’s point of view. If I were an outsider watching the situation how would I interpret it? If I were my husband how would he see the situation - would he say I was a loser because I didn’t do my workout today? No. He’d say, so you missed a workout. Do the next one. Get on with your life. No big deal.
All of that is more than enough to consider. Think about it and evaluate how your own mind seems to function.
When you have messed up thinking patterns going on in your head, the first thing you need to do is recognize that your thinking is messed up. This is a really big deal. It is extremely easy to think that what you are thinking makes all kinds of sense because that is the way you think all the time. It is something you are accustomed to doing - so how are you supposed to know it is not right?
Logic is the answer. This sounds simple, but isn’t. Here’s an example to consider. Let’s say you’re walking into a classroom on the very first day of class. You look around the room and see a pair of girls talking pleasantly. After they glance in your direction, one girl lifts her hand up to whisper in the other girl’s ear. They smile and giggle afterwards. You immediately assume something negative has been said about you, that they are making fun of you.
Yes, it is possible that they are making fun of you. Logic, however, lets us know that the whisper probably has nothing to do with you, but rather what they’ve been discussing before you even came along. Logic says that their conversation could just as easily be complimentary about you as it could be non-complimentary. You don’t know. All you see is a couple of girls talking and whispering to each other.
So you think to yourself - but I got this feeling. Feelings are tricky little demons when it comes to thinking and reasoning. For depressed people it is very important to pay more attention to the logic associated with a situation rather than the emotions the situation may evoke.
Sometimes it is extra hard for me to keep things clear in my mind. I start following my emotions and impulses more than logic. To help myself I have abbreviated charts about cognitive distortions to help remind me what kind of thinking is self defeating.
The following are some general examples of messed up thinking. Please be sure to note that all of this is gleaned from David Burns’ book FEELING GOOD.
COGNITIVE DISTORTIONS
All or Nothing Thinking:
You see things in black and white categories. If your performance falls short of perfect you see yourself as a total failure.
Over Generalization:
You see a single negative event as never ending pattern of defeat.
Mental Filter:
You pick out a single negative detail and dwell on it exclusively so that your vision of all reality becomes darkened, like the drop of ink that colors the entire beaker of water.
Jumping to Conclusions:
You make a negative interpretation even though there are no definite facts that convincingly support your conclusion. These include
Mind Reading- You arbitrarily conclude that someone is reacting negatively to you, and you don’t bother to check this out.
The Fortune Teller Error - You anticipate that things will turn out badly, and you feel convinced that your prediction is an already established fact.
Magnification (Catastrophizing) or Minimization:
You exaggerate the importance of things (such as your goof-up or someone else’s achievement), or you inappropriately shrink things until they appear tiny (your own desirable qualities or the other fellow’s imperfections).
Emotional Reasoning:
You assume that your negative emotions necessarily reflect the way things really are: “I feel it, therefore it must be true.”
“Should” Statements:
You try to motivate yourself with shoulds and shouldn’ts as if you had to be whipped and punished before you would be expected to do anything. “Musts” and “oughts” are also offenders. The emotional consequence is guilt. When you direct should statements toward others, you feel anger, frustration, and resentment.
Labeling and Mislabeling:
This is an extreme form of over generalization. Instead of describing your error you attach a negative label to yourself: “I’m a loser.” When someone else’s behavior rubs you the wrong way, you attach a negative label to him: “He’s a stinking louse.” Mislabeling involves describing an event with language that is highly colored and emotionally loaded.
Personalization:
You see yourself as the cause of some negative external event which in fact you were not primarily responsible for.
That’s my list. A good trick I’ve learned to use for myself is to try thinking about the situation from another person’s point of view. If I were an outsider watching the situation how would I interpret it? If I were my husband how would he see the situation - would he say I was a loser because I didn’t do my workout today? No. He’d say, so you missed a workout. Do the next one. Get on with your life. No big deal.
All of that is more than enough to consider. Think about it and evaluate how your own mind seems to function.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Count Your Blessings
My son asked me how I make myself feel better when I’m feeling bad. This story, which is true like all the stories on this blog, is what came to my mind.
I felt like Cinderella, breathless, as if I’d just left the most magnificent ball I could have ever imagined. The Phantom of the Opera had far exceeded my expectations. The old playhouse in downtown San Francisco had been so very perfect. There’s nothing like a Broadway cast performance.
I’d thought my mother-in-law was outright crazy when she told us to purchase the tickets. Even as a gift, the money could have been used for so many other simple, needful things like food and clothes, and shelter. We were barely hanging on as it was with me working part time out of our home so that I could stay home with the kids, and my husband working long hours doing rounds at places like San Francisco General, earning his medical degree. But, for one brief night she gave us the gift of magic. Even as the three of us walked out of the grand theater I couldn’t believe the vehicle that awaited us was our shabby little Honda. At least my prince charming was still at my side. For a few moments we were royalty.
The icy, near constant cold of San Francisco hit us the moment we stepped outside. Rain was falling. Elegant people scrambled with their valet tickets, huddling by the door, waiting for the men with umbrellas to escort them safely to their cars. As for us, the magic moment of transformation back to our lowly lives had arrived. In a rush we walked out down the main street to the alley which led to our parking garage. There, just beyond the corner I saw something I thought I would never see.
Right in the middle of the walkway was a cardboard box which had been carefully placed over some kind of vent or drain. Steam was rising from the ground. It was obviously a limited source of heat. Then, to my dread, I saw them. Hidden within the shadows of the box were two small children, completely filthy to the bone. They certainly didn’t have enough clothes to keep them warm in such weather. Their cardboard box wasn’t going to last long in the rain.
A tiny white hand silently remained clearly exposed, extended waiting for donations.
We had nearly passed them by the time the whole thing hit me. I’d been so obliviously caught up in myself. All of a sudden I didn’t know what to do. This was horrible! How could anyone allow two children, two small children just like my own, a boy and his little sister, suffer alone out in the cold?
First I turned toward my purse, then abandoned that idea. I had nothing to give. In truth, they needed something more than money. Couldn’t we take them somewhere? Wasn’t there something we could do? Instead I felt my husband’s steady grasp on my arm. With a subtle glimpse across the alley he brought my attention to a couple of men lurking nearby in the shadows.
I felt sick. He’d told me about the beggars who had accosted him almost on a daily basis as he and his friends walked from the BART station to their school. He’d told me how there were certain parts of town where I should never go. Tears were welling in my eyes. Innocent children were being used for money? Where were the police?
Before I could protest further my husband had us at the car. Urgently he ushered his mother and me inside, constantly checking for the dangers that might lurk in the darkness around us. “There were children . . .” I began.
“In the cardboard box.” he finished for me. “I know. You saw their handlers. If we would have stopped, they were ready to jump us for sure.”
“But children?” I asked still desperately upset.
For a few minutes we drove in urgent silence, maneuvering our way out of the ever changing city. As soon as we were on the Bay Bridge he calmed a little, trying to throw out a casual comment about the wonderful show we’d just seen.
My mind was boiling. What could I do? What could anyone do? How could anyone allow such things to happen? Suddenly our car seemed like it was the lap of luxury. We were clean, decently dressed, well fed. My children were safe and warm, waiting for us in our now unexpectedly spacious apartment.
For days leading up to the event I’d been worried that my dress would be too shabby, that we would stick out like wide eyed fools gone on an adventure we did not deserve. Now, I was more than thankful for what I had. Just to know my children were safe made all the difference in the world. It was like everything had been turned upside down.
The gift my mother-in-law had given us was precious to me beyond words. I still cherish the memory of being in that theater, feeling like a queen, feeling like someone worthy of something more than basic necessities. She taught me a valuable lesson.
Out in the alley, I finally discovered something just as important. There were blessings all around me that I had failed to see. I had a wonderful husband who loved me, who protected me, who was working his heart out to be a good provider for me. Two beautiful, vibrant, healthy, children were ours. We had what we needed. Food, shelter, clothing, had seemed like such simple things.
Even today, as I sit in my roomy four bedroom home, with flat screen TVs, furniture that was all bought new, a kitchen pantry full of food, two cars, a garage, a yard with - miracle of miracles - a swimming pool - my gratitude overflows. Others labor just as much for far less. We have been blessed. It is a lesson which lends me peace and happiness when I might feel otherwise.
That is my answer to you, son.
I felt like Cinderella, breathless, as if I’d just left the most magnificent ball I could have ever imagined. The Phantom of the Opera had far exceeded my expectations. The old playhouse in downtown San Francisco had been so very perfect. There’s nothing like a Broadway cast performance.
I’d thought my mother-in-law was outright crazy when she told us to purchase the tickets. Even as a gift, the money could have been used for so many other simple, needful things like food and clothes, and shelter. We were barely hanging on as it was with me working part time out of our home so that I could stay home with the kids, and my husband working long hours doing rounds at places like San Francisco General, earning his medical degree. But, for one brief night she gave us the gift of magic. Even as the three of us walked out of the grand theater I couldn’t believe the vehicle that awaited us was our shabby little Honda. At least my prince charming was still at my side. For a few moments we were royalty.
The icy, near constant cold of San Francisco hit us the moment we stepped outside. Rain was falling. Elegant people scrambled with their valet tickets, huddling by the door, waiting for the men with umbrellas to escort them safely to their cars. As for us, the magic moment of transformation back to our lowly lives had arrived. In a rush we walked out down the main street to the alley which led to our parking garage. There, just beyond the corner I saw something I thought I would never see.
Right in the middle of the walkway was a cardboard box which had been carefully placed over some kind of vent or drain. Steam was rising from the ground. It was obviously a limited source of heat. Then, to my dread, I saw them. Hidden within the shadows of the box were two small children, completely filthy to the bone. They certainly didn’t have enough clothes to keep them warm in such weather. Their cardboard box wasn’t going to last long in the rain.
A tiny white hand silently remained clearly exposed, extended waiting for donations.
We had nearly passed them by the time the whole thing hit me. I’d been so obliviously caught up in myself. All of a sudden I didn’t know what to do. This was horrible! How could anyone allow two children, two small children just like my own, a boy and his little sister, suffer alone out in the cold?
First I turned toward my purse, then abandoned that idea. I had nothing to give. In truth, they needed something more than money. Couldn’t we take them somewhere? Wasn’t there something we could do? Instead I felt my husband’s steady grasp on my arm. With a subtle glimpse across the alley he brought my attention to a couple of men lurking nearby in the shadows.
I felt sick. He’d told me about the beggars who had accosted him almost on a daily basis as he and his friends walked from the BART station to their school. He’d told me how there were certain parts of town where I should never go. Tears were welling in my eyes. Innocent children were being used for money? Where were the police?
Before I could protest further my husband had us at the car. Urgently he ushered his mother and me inside, constantly checking for the dangers that might lurk in the darkness around us. “There were children . . .” I began.
“In the cardboard box.” he finished for me. “I know. You saw their handlers. If we would have stopped, they were ready to jump us for sure.”
“But children?” I asked still desperately upset.
For a few minutes we drove in urgent silence, maneuvering our way out of the ever changing city. As soon as we were on the Bay Bridge he calmed a little, trying to throw out a casual comment about the wonderful show we’d just seen.
My mind was boiling. What could I do? What could anyone do? How could anyone allow such things to happen? Suddenly our car seemed like it was the lap of luxury. We were clean, decently dressed, well fed. My children were safe and warm, waiting for us in our now unexpectedly spacious apartment.
For days leading up to the event I’d been worried that my dress would be too shabby, that we would stick out like wide eyed fools gone on an adventure we did not deserve. Now, I was more than thankful for what I had. Just to know my children were safe made all the difference in the world. It was like everything had been turned upside down.
The gift my mother-in-law had given us was precious to me beyond words. I still cherish the memory of being in that theater, feeling like a queen, feeling like someone worthy of something more than basic necessities. She taught me a valuable lesson.
Out in the alley, I finally discovered something just as important. There were blessings all around me that I had failed to see. I had a wonderful husband who loved me, who protected me, who was working his heart out to be a good provider for me. Two beautiful, vibrant, healthy, children were ours. We had what we needed. Food, shelter, clothing, had seemed like such simple things.
Even today, as I sit in my roomy four bedroom home, with flat screen TVs, furniture that was all bought new, a kitchen pantry full of food, two cars, a garage, a yard with - miracle of miracles - a swimming pool - my gratitude overflows. Others labor just as much for far less. We have been blessed. It is a lesson which lends me peace and happiness when I might feel otherwise.
That is my answer to you, son.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Self Reliance, 2/4/10
Dear God I want to scream! I want to scream so long and loud that the walls of the house begin to rattle. This morning there is no doubt in my mind that I’ve got carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand. Half the fingers are completely numb. There’s nothing to be done! It’s driving me nuts!
On top of that I’ve got some fat nasty tennis elbow pain going on. My right arm isn’t so bad as the left. It just aches, hurts like not other when I touch it to relieve the pain and of course, do any kind of heavy lifting.
On the other hand, (odd pun there if you think about it) my left arm is causing me almost constant, excruciating pain. It’s so bad in the morning I don’t want to move my arm. I don’t want to move period. Getting dressed is literally an ordeal.
I know, you’re thinking, so shut up about it and see a doctor! Yeah, well I think I’ve exhausted all my desire to see doctors. In the last couple of years I’ve had five trigger fingers released, a carpal tunnel repair, a golfers elbow procedure, a tennis elbow correction - one which I believe was a fraud - and a shoulder rotator cuff cleaning all on my left side. (I’m left handed if you haven’t guessed already.)
In the end, just typing this out is going to leave me in pain. I can’t play the piano for more than ten minutes before it hurts too much. Handwriting is a killer.
Whine, whine, whine, whine . . . . poor baby. If you’ll let me finish, I’ll get to my point - one which I unfortunately utterly abhor.
So I’ve had multiple surgeries, seen doctors, ran MRIs and blood tests. It seems like I’ve been through every test imaginable, but I’m married to a doctor, so I know better. There’s fluid in my hip. My knee and foot joints have issues. I’ve got fibromyalgia - another term for constant, incurable, pain. Etc., etc., etc.
Enough already. The point is about self reliance. Many, many years ago I had my husband point out to me that if I didn’t take the time to take care of myself, I would be greatly diminishing my ability to help others, most especially my family.
You see, my behavior pattern was, take care of the kids, take care of my husband, take care of the house, and it’s mountains of laundry, oh yes, don’t forget you’ve got to earn a living. While you’re at it, remember you’ve got to be the best at whatever you are . . . and so on. No time for me to be me. No time for exercise or reading favorite books, or writing. You get the picture.
By trying to be everything for everyone else all the time, I was literally forcing myself into a corner, silently screaming for help until I had a mental meltdown.
It took me a while, but the point really hit home when the doctor threatened to send me to the eating disorders ward. How could he do such a thing? I had the best figure ever! A size one sounded great!
When my husband suggested spending some of our incredibly meager income on a personal trainer, I fought him tooth and nail. Unfortunately, his idea was a far better, less costly option than a full time hospital stay. No one was going to stick a tube down my throat!
Over the years I’ve made one concession after another to accommodate my mental health. I quit teaching and began a business out of my own home so that I could stay home with the kids and somewhat control my work environment. Exercise has almost always played a part in my life. Some days I get on the bike, pedal for at least 30 minutes and give myself huge bonus points for just doing something.
That brings me back to now. The fact is, I’m getting older. That typing speed I maintained at 100+ wpm and long piano playing / teaching career has taken it’s toll. Now I’m in near constant excruciating pain. I never want to see another doctor, run another test or endure yet another surgery. But for the sake of that self reliance rule, what choice do I have?
Go see another doctor already and stop griping! Grrr! There’s a rule for you - do what you must to take care of yourself, not so much for you, but for everyone else around you. It is so easy to deny myself, but when it hurts others, I can’t be irresponsible.
Just as a side note: I still hate doctors!
2/4/10
On top of that I’ve got some fat nasty tennis elbow pain going on. My right arm isn’t so bad as the left. It just aches, hurts like not other when I touch it to relieve the pain and of course, do any kind of heavy lifting.
On the other hand, (odd pun there if you think about it) my left arm is causing me almost constant, excruciating pain. It’s so bad in the morning I don’t want to move my arm. I don’t want to move period. Getting dressed is literally an ordeal.
I know, you’re thinking, so shut up about it and see a doctor! Yeah, well I think I’ve exhausted all my desire to see doctors. In the last couple of years I’ve had five trigger fingers released, a carpal tunnel repair, a golfers elbow procedure, a tennis elbow correction - one which I believe was a fraud - and a shoulder rotator cuff cleaning all on my left side. (I’m left handed if you haven’t guessed already.)
In the end, just typing this out is going to leave me in pain. I can’t play the piano for more than ten minutes before it hurts too much. Handwriting is a killer.
Whine, whine, whine, whine . . . . poor baby. If you’ll let me finish, I’ll get to my point - one which I unfortunately utterly abhor.
So I’ve had multiple surgeries, seen doctors, ran MRIs and blood tests. It seems like I’ve been through every test imaginable, but I’m married to a doctor, so I know better. There’s fluid in my hip. My knee and foot joints have issues. I’ve got fibromyalgia - another term for constant, incurable, pain. Etc., etc., etc.
Enough already. The point is about self reliance. Many, many years ago I had my husband point out to me that if I didn’t take the time to take care of myself, I would be greatly diminishing my ability to help others, most especially my family.
You see, my behavior pattern was, take care of the kids, take care of my husband, take care of the house, and it’s mountains of laundry, oh yes, don’t forget you’ve got to earn a living. While you’re at it, remember you’ve got to be the best at whatever you are . . . and so on. No time for me to be me. No time for exercise or reading favorite books, or writing. You get the picture.
By trying to be everything for everyone else all the time, I was literally forcing myself into a corner, silently screaming for help until I had a mental meltdown.
It took me a while, but the point really hit home when the doctor threatened to send me to the eating disorders ward. How could he do such a thing? I had the best figure ever! A size one sounded great!
When my husband suggested spending some of our incredibly meager income on a personal trainer, I fought him tooth and nail. Unfortunately, his idea was a far better, less costly option than a full time hospital stay. No one was going to stick a tube down my throat!
Over the years I’ve made one concession after another to accommodate my mental health. I quit teaching and began a business out of my own home so that I could stay home with the kids and somewhat control my work environment. Exercise has almost always played a part in my life. Some days I get on the bike, pedal for at least 30 minutes and give myself huge bonus points for just doing something.
That brings me back to now. The fact is, I’m getting older. That typing speed I maintained at 100+ wpm and long piano playing / teaching career has taken it’s toll. Now I’m in near constant excruciating pain. I never want to see another doctor, run another test or endure yet another surgery. But for the sake of that self reliance rule, what choice do I have?
Go see another doctor already and stop griping! Grrr! There’s a rule for you - do what you must to take care of yourself, not so much for you, but for everyone else around you. It is so easy to deny myself, but when it hurts others, I can’t be irresponsible.
Just as a side note: I still hate doctors!
2/4/10
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Eating Disorders Ward, 1990
Walking into an eating disorders ward is like entering an alternate universe filled with skeleton people. Tubes are running through their noses, down their throats, feeding them the food their bodies need, but their minds abhor. Needless to say, tubes get ripped out often. All the skeleton people can see are endless calories layering on the fat, further distorting their view of their already distorted bodies.
Still only a few weeks past delivering my overdue baby, I’m already uncomfortably walking around with some extra weight. Clearly, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t belong in the eating disorders ward. Yet, this is where the doctor has dumped me, so here I am.
Gradually all the walking bones types are herded into the room with me. They glance nervously at a full length mirror on the wall. Some odd stares are tossed in my direction. I am certain they are keenly noticing how obese I must look in comparison to them. One girl won’t sit down. Instead she half jogs, half paces from one side of the room to the other as if the exercise will negate what her feeding tube has done.
The leader starts talking. Even though I’m cordially introduced, I remain stoically silent. I don’t belong here. How could I possibly belong here? I’m like an elephant amongst chickens. As the talking continues I hear how they hate themselves; how they hate their parents. Their parents hate them, or worse, ignore them. Much to my own amazement, I find out their issues with weight loss have nothing to do with simple appearances.
One girl just happened to be the only other person in the house when her brother found a shot gun and blew his own head off. She witnessed the gruesome aftermath. How could anyone ever forget such a sight? No matter how often or clearly anyone tries to explain to her that what he did, wasn’t her fault, that it was nothing more than fate that had left her there to hear the roar of the blast and find the mangled, lifeless form of her brother, she cannot accept that it wasn’t ultimately her fault. In her mind self starvation seems to be just punishment for such a failure.
Another near bald set of bones, the one still insistently jogging, is clearly wrapped up in some kind of delusional concept of perfection. Everything she did never seemed to be enough to keep her parents pleased. She had been head cheerleader and a prom queen. Her grades were immaculate. But then, her constant exercise regimen became an obsession. She’d eat when everyone was looking, but for some reason continued to lose weight. When her beautiful blond hair began falling out in globs, her parents finally realized something was seriously wrong. Even then her anal, perfectionistic mother couldn’t understand. Her parents would probably never understand. She was on her own in this battle. Clearly, thus far she was losing the fight.
One emaciated body after another spoke of their terrible feeding tubes, gazed furtively at their forms in the mirror and told tales of how they deserved to die. Sometimes it was simply a tool for getting attention or silently punishing others for their thoughtlessness. I’d never thought all the stories I’d heard about bulimia and anorexia were true. Now, all of a sudden, I couldn’t deny them.
Suddenly I realized how more than once, without even thinking about it, I’d found myself well on the way to starvation, weighing less than 100 pounds when I should have been more like 120. On those occasions I was so thrilled to find myself fitting into clothing sizes I’d never dreamed of squeezing into, that the abnormality of the situation never hit me. In truth, I was punishing myself for all of my own inadequacies, my never ending imperfections. It was a plea for help no one including myself, could see. Maybe the doctor had known what he was doing when he sent me to be with these waifish girls.
It made me sick, looking at these once very beautiful women, so unreasonably wasting away. There was no doubt in my mind some of them simply were not going to make it. They were literally locked in a battle for survival.
I don’t know why on that one odd occasion I found myself re-routed to the eating disorders ward for group counseling. Everyone, including the leaders thought it was a strange move. We all assumed it was because the doctor didn’t know where else to put me. Maybe he wasn’t so misguided. Maybe sheer providence was on my side. Either way, nine months later when my primary care doctor noticed how I had suddenly been losing all kinds of weight, he threatened to send me back to the eating disorders ward. It was like a slap on the face. There was no way I was going to allow myself to fall into that pit, not after I had seen up close what it was like. I changed my diet. My husband got me a trainer so that I could gain muscle rather than fat. Poor as we were, I did what I had to do to survive. That unforgettable hour made a life changing difference.
Still only a few weeks past delivering my overdue baby, I’m already uncomfortably walking around with some extra weight. Clearly, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t belong in the eating disorders ward. Yet, this is where the doctor has dumped me, so here I am.
Gradually all the walking bones types are herded into the room with me. They glance nervously at a full length mirror on the wall. Some odd stares are tossed in my direction. I am certain they are keenly noticing how obese I must look in comparison to them. One girl won’t sit down. Instead she half jogs, half paces from one side of the room to the other as if the exercise will negate what her feeding tube has done.
The leader starts talking. Even though I’m cordially introduced, I remain stoically silent. I don’t belong here. How could I possibly belong here? I’m like an elephant amongst chickens. As the talking continues I hear how they hate themselves; how they hate their parents. Their parents hate them, or worse, ignore them. Much to my own amazement, I find out their issues with weight loss have nothing to do with simple appearances.
One girl just happened to be the only other person in the house when her brother found a shot gun and blew his own head off. She witnessed the gruesome aftermath. How could anyone ever forget such a sight? No matter how often or clearly anyone tries to explain to her that what he did, wasn’t her fault, that it was nothing more than fate that had left her there to hear the roar of the blast and find the mangled, lifeless form of her brother, she cannot accept that it wasn’t ultimately her fault. In her mind self starvation seems to be just punishment for such a failure.
Another near bald set of bones, the one still insistently jogging, is clearly wrapped up in some kind of delusional concept of perfection. Everything she did never seemed to be enough to keep her parents pleased. She had been head cheerleader and a prom queen. Her grades were immaculate. But then, her constant exercise regimen became an obsession. She’d eat when everyone was looking, but for some reason continued to lose weight. When her beautiful blond hair began falling out in globs, her parents finally realized something was seriously wrong. Even then her anal, perfectionistic mother couldn’t understand. Her parents would probably never understand. She was on her own in this battle. Clearly, thus far she was losing the fight.
One emaciated body after another spoke of their terrible feeding tubes, gazed furtively at their forms in the mirror and told tales of how they deserved to die. Sometimes it was simply a tool for getting attention or silently punishing others for their thoughtlessness. I’d never thought all the stories I’d heard about bulimia and anorexia were true. Now, all of a sudden, I couldn’t deny them.
Suddenly I realized how more than once, without even thinking about it, I’d found myself well on the way to starvation, weighing less than 100 pounds when I should have been more like 120. On those occasions I was so thrilled to find myself fitting into clothing sizes I’d never dreamed of squeezing into, that the abnormality of the situation never hit me. In truth, I was punishing myself for all of my own inadequacies, my never ending imperfections. It was a plea for help no one including myself, could see. Maybe the doctor had known what he was doing when he sent me to be with these waifish girls.
It made me sick, looking at these once very beautiful women, so unreasonably wasting away. There was no doubt in my mind some of them simply were not going to make it. They were literally locked in a battle for survival.
I don’t know why on that one odd occasion I found myself re-routed to the eating disorders ward for group counseling. Everyone, including the leaders thought it was a strange move. We all assumed it was because the doctor didn’t know where else to put me. Maybe he wasn’t so misguided. Maybe sheer providence was on my side. Either way, nine months later when my primary care doctor noticed how I had suddenly been losing all kinds of weight, he threatened to send me back to the eating disorders ward. It was like a slap on the face. There was no way I was going to allow myself to fall into that pit, not after I had seen up close what it was like. I changed my diet. My husband got me a trainer so that I could gain muscle rather than fat. Poor as we were, I did what I had to do to survive. That unforgettable hour made a life changing difference.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The Mental Ward
Humiliation sums up what it's like to admit yourself into a mental ward. They take away all of your personal belongings, removing anything they consider to be potentially harmful. No belts, shoelaces, makeup, hoodies, nail clippers, tweezers, earphones or electronics in general, are allowed. What's worse is that they body search you to make sure you're not hiding anything harmful in some other unthinkable place.
After stripping me of practically everything I'd brought, they dumped me in an empty room with three beds. What little stuff I had, underwear included, was to sit out on an open shelf in plain view. Beyond that, I was locked in like a prisoner, unable to come and go as I pleased. What had I gotten myself into?
The nurse handed a book to me that turned out to be a psych test close to 1000 questions long. Didn't they know a huge part of my problem was my total inability to concentrate? To answer just one question I had to read it at least three times. Even then, I didn't know how to answer.
An eternity passed.
Some ten pages later a new girl is admitted into the room. She's on the heavy side, looking strangely weak. What surprizes me is how uncommonly social she is. As it turns out, the mental ward is a routine haunt of hers. As soon as the attendant leaves she looks around suspiciously, then with a smile, raises her shirt just enough so I can see her large belly, heavily bandaged in the shape of a large "Z".
"I'm a cutter." she explains with a smile, "I cut myself."
In order to show me more proof of her unique skill, she pulls up her sleaves, displaying white, chubby arms, riddled with scars.
"It almost killed me this last time." she said with a hint of pride, "I lost a lot of blood before the ambulance arrived. Of course, I was passed out by then . . . "
None of this is any big deal to her. She's just relaying the facts in a friendly fashion.
"So what about you?" she finally asks.
"Postpartem depression." I replied flatly.
The nod she gave me in return indicated some small measure of understanding.
"Is that 'The Test' they've got you working on?"
"The Test?" I repeat.
"Everybody has to take 'The Test'." she answers, "It's as standard as them taking away our deadly shoelaces."
For the first time in a while I cracked a sincere smile.
"As if we couldn't find some way to kill ourselves anyway." I reply.
Soon we've launched ourselves into a long discussion regarding all the ways we could still find if we really wanted to kill ourselves. Shoelaces are deadly, but the phone cord isn't? The windows aren't breakable? Couldn't we smash a mirror? Heck, my test pencil alone could do some serious damage!
We are laughing. Lock the doors, take away what they want, body search us even - no one could ultimately stop us from doing 'the deed' if that's truly what we want! I'm not alone. There's someone else who understands! For the first time in a long time I feel a little glimmer of hope.
After stripping me of practically everything I'd brought, they dumped me in an empty room with three beds. What little stuff I had, underwear included, was to sit out on an open shelf in plain view. Beyond that, I was locked in like a prisoner, unable to come and go as I pleased. What had I gotten myself into?
The nurse handed a book to me that turned out to be a psych test close to 1000 questions long. Didn't they know a huge part of my problem was my total inability to concentrate? To answer just one question I had to read it at least three times. Even then, I didn't know how to answer.
An eternity passed.
Some ten pages later a new girl is admitted into the room. She's on the heavy side, looking strangely weak. What surprizes me is how uncommonly social she is. As it turns out, the mental ward is a routine haunt of hers. As soon as the attendant leaves she looks around suspiciously, then with a smile, raises her shirt just enough so I can see her large belly, heavily bandaged in the shape of a large "Z".
"I'm a cutter." she explains with a smile, "I cut myself."
In order to show me more proof of her unique skill, she pulls up her sleaves, displaying white, chubby arms, riddled with scars.
"It almost killed me this last time." she said with a hint of pride, "I lost a lot of blood before the ambulance arrived. Of course, I was passed out by then . . . "
None of this is any big deal to her. She's just relaying the facts in a friendly fashion.
"So what about you?" she finally asks.
"Postpartem depression." I replied flatly.
The nod she gave me in return indicated some small measure of understanding.
"Is that 'The Test' they've got you working on?"
"The Test?" I repeat.
"Everybody has to take 'The Test'." she answers, "It's as standard as them taking away our deadly shoelaces."
For the first time in a while I cracked a sincere smile.
"As if we couldn't find some way to kill ourselves anyway." I reply.
Soon we've launched ourselves into a long discussion regarding all the ways we could still find if we really wanted to kill ourselves. Shoelaces are deadly, but the phone cord isn't? The windows aren't breakable? Couldn't we smash a mirror? Heck, my test pencil alone could do some serious damage!
We are laughing. Lock the doors, take away what they want, body search us even - no one could ultimately stop us from doing 'the deed' if that's truly what we want! I'm not alone. There's someone else who understands! For the first time in a long time I feel a little glimmer of hope.
Monday, January 25, 2010
One Big Fat Wad of Spit
A wet glob of saliva gathered eagerly in my mouth as I seriously contemplated sending one fat lugie straight into the counselor's face. What I wanted to call her wasn't a word I normally used. The crazy woman, without checking with me or even my husband, had called all of my extended family - mom, dad, sisters, brother, brothers-in-law, etc. - everyone into her office for what she had deemed an "emergency" meeting.
"Do you know why we've all called you here today?" asked the face that was begging for my spit.
You're a total moron? I replied inside my head. It was, after all, a rhetorical question. She wasn't expecting an answer.
"We are all deeply worried about you."
Wow. What a face! So sad, so sincere, so totally insensitive! Did this lady really have a license to practice psychology?
"We think you should admit yourself into the hospital."
Oops. The bombshell was dropped. The room exploded with a sudden burst of wide-eyed, protesting, silent emotion. No one could have been more shocked than that audience. I imagined my wad of spit flying through the air, meeting perfectly with it's target, smearing frothy ooze across the woman's smug face. Clearly no one other than the counselor had remotely considered sending me to a mental hospital.
My husband, who was already livid over being grossly underinformed of this meeting by phone via my sister of all people, reached a whole new level of anger. Anyone could have told you, based on my dad's shocked, perplexed expression, that he had been caught completely off guard. People shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, unsure of what to do.
Instead of allowing my spit to fly I chuckled. The situation, the entire day, had been so unbelievably bad, the only thing left to do was laugh.
"You know I just came from admitting my newborn into the hospital for pneumonia." I retorted, "Less than two hours ago I find out my daughter is on the brink of death, and this is why I'm here?"
My husband was already up. He'd had more than enough. Then, I shocked everyone.
"To be honest, I was going to admit myself into the psych ward anyway."
Silence. Wide eyed stares.
"But you're not that bad off are you?" commented someone.
"We had no idea she was going to put you up to this." came someone else's terse response.
"I only wanted to help." it was the sister who had started it all by calling the counselor. I knew no one in that room was to blame but the one so-called 'professional.' What kind of confidentiality code had she been taught in school? The smug look on her face made me sick.
My husband took me by the arm to lead me out of the room. The second we were outside, my dad began trying to talk me out of the move I'd announced. I wasn't crazy. His daughter couldn't possibly be out of her mind. Others were dead silent, full knowing they'd just witnessed a major breach of privacy.
"I'm so sorry!" pled my sister, "I had no idea that was what she was going to do!"
"It's okay." I mumbled. It was my fault, not hers. What kind of idiot gets their sister to take them to the store to buy a box of sleeping pills, then jokes about how easy it would be to down the whole box? They all needed to shut up and go away. My sweet baby was in the hospital with a severe strain of pnemonia which was already well known for killing small children. More than anything I believed I'd truly failed as a mother. Calling me suicidal at that moment was, quite frankly, an understatement.
"You don't have to do this." said my husband once we were in the car.
"Yes, I do." I replied wearily. Oddly enough, I probably wouldn't have been so determined if I'd known exactly what I was getting into. But, all I knew was that I needed help, drastic help. In the end, however, going to the hospital was undoubtedly one of the smartest moves I've ever made.
January 1990
"Do you know why we've all called you here today?" asked the face that was begging for my spit.
You're a total moron? I replied inside my head. It was, after all, a rhetorical question. She wasn't expecting an answer.
"We are all deeply worried about you."
Wow. What a face! So sad, so sincere, so totally insensitive! Did this lady really have a license to practice psychology?
"We think you should admit yourself into the hospital."
Oops. The bombshell was dropped. The room exploded with a sudden burst of wide-eyed, protesting, silent emotion. No one could have been more shocked than that audience. I imagined my wad of spit flying through the air, meeting perfectly with it's target, smearing frothy ooze across the woman's smug face. Clearly no one other than the counselor had remotely considered sending me to a mental hospital.
My husband, who was already livid over being grossly underinformed of this meeting by phone via my sister of all people, reached a whole new level of anger. Anyone could have told you, based on my dad's shocked, perplexed expression, that he had been caught completely off guard. People shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, unsure of what to do.
Instead of allowing my spit to fly I chuckled. The situation, the entire day, had been so unbelievably bad, the only thing left to do was laugh.
"You know I just came from admitting my newborn into the hospital for pneumonia." I retorted, "Less than two hours ago I find out my daughter is on the brink of death, and this is why I'm here?"
My husband was already up. He'd had more than enough. Then, I shocked everyone.
"To be honest, I was going to admit myself into the psych ward anyway."
Silence. Wide eyed stares.
"But you're not that bad off are you?" commented someone.
"We had no idea she was going to put you up to this." came someone else's terse response.
"I only wanted to help." it was the sister who had started it all by calling the counselor. I knew no one in that room was to blame but the one so-called 'professional.' What kind of confidentiality code had she been taught in school? The smug look on her face made me sick.
My husband took me by the arm to lead me out of the room. The second we were outside, my dad began trying to talk me out of the move I'd announced. I wasn't crazy. His daughter couldn't possibly be out of her mind. Others were dead silent, full knowing they'd just witnessed a major breach of privacy.
"I'm so sorry!" pled my sister, "I had no idea that was what she was going to do!"
"It's okay." I mumbled. It was my fault, not hers. What kind of idiot gets their sister to take them to the store to buy a box of sleeping pills, then jokes about how easy it would be to down the whole box? They all needed to shut up and go away. My sweet baby was in the hospital with a severe strain of pnemonia which was already well known for killing small children. More than anything I believed I'd truly failed as a mother. Calling me suicidal at that moment was, quite frankly, an understatement.
"You don't have to do this." said my husband once we were in the car.
"Yes, I do." I replied wearily. Oddly enough, I probably wouldn't have been so determined if I'd known exactly what I was getting into. But, all I knew was that I needed help, drastic help. In the end, however, going to the hospital was undoubtedly one of the smartest moves I've ever made.
January 1990
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