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.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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
Sunday, January 24, 2010
January 20, 2010 Murphy's Law Strikes Again
Here I am sitting in George Bush Intercontinental Airport half asleep because I've been up since 5:00 a.m. from a rather painful sleepless night as it was. Things were going pretty good, according to my plans this morning. Everything was packed by 5:40. I even had my makeup on. Then, while we were in the car headed to the airport, I checked my iphone to discover which terminal we needed to head for only to find that my flight wasn't listed. Last night I printed my boarding passes. Everything seemed to be in good order . . .
So I go to the luggage drop off. My barcode won't scan. The attendant comes over to help me. Next thing I know, she's telling me my flights were actually reversed. My 7:40 a.m. flight today is running out of Salt Lake City to Houston, not the other way around and vise versa.
Some twenty minutes later everything finally gets sorted out. I've got a flight leaving Houston at 9:40. Now my return flight is at 7:40 from Salt Lake which means I've got another 5:00 a.m. start come Sunday morning.
Why am I running off to Salt Lake? The impending wedding has me worried into knots. On the internet all the dresses hve to be ordered ten weeks in advance. I've got less than eight. Eight weeks is too short for even the rush order options. Even if I could do a rush order they cost all kinds of more money which only adds to the ever increasing total bill for this enterprise. I hate spending fat chunks of money. It terrifies me.
Talk about sleepy . . . I'm about ready to drop off into lala land. The drammamene isn't going to help. Of course, I have to get airsick at the drop of a hat. zzzzz . . .
So I go to the luggage drop off. My barcode won't scan. The attendant comes over to help me. Next thing I know, she's telling me my flights were actually reversed. My 7:40 a.m. flight today is running out of Salt Lake City to Houston, not the other way around and vise versa.
Some twenty minutes later everything finally gets sorted out. I've got a flight leaving Houston at 9:40. Now my return flight is at 7:40 from Salt Lake which means I've got another 5:00 a.m. start come Sunday morning.
Why am I running off to Salt Lake? The impending wedding has me worried into knots. On the internet all the dresses hve to be ordered ten weeks in advance. I've got less than eight. Eight weeks is too short for even the rush order options. Even if I could do a rush order they cost all kinds of more money which only adds to the ever increasing total bill for this enterprise. I hate spending fat chunks of money. It terrifies me.
Talk about sleepy . . . I'm about ready to drop off into lala land. The drammamene isn't going to help. Of course, I have to get airsick at the drop of a hat. zzzzz . . .
January 24, 2010 Home Again!
After making a mad dash up to Utah to make emergency wedding plans I'm finally back to sunny Houston! January in Utah is meant for insane people like those who love snowboarding or skiing to fanatical degrees. Even then, why endure the pain unless you're able to hit the slopes every free second you have? Then again, just driving around in that snowy mess is a nightmare. One night it was a complete whiteout. I couldn't see where I was going. If I stopped, someone was likely to hit me no matter where I did stop. It was a miracle I made it to my destinaton all in one piece.
Maybe I shouldn't be so negative. The snow is beautiful. It is nice to see all the trees lined in lace like white. If you could just stay at home and not worry about moving on with life, it's great. You can cozy up to a fire, read a good book and appreciate the fact that you have a small haven all your own.
If only life could always be so ideallistic. At least you don't have to worry so much about your weight in such weather. If you're smart, you're covered in enough layers that you could be fifty pounds heavier and no one would be the wiser. I have this fantastic "Alaska" coat (so named because it was purchased specifically for a trip to Alaska). It is the best coat I have ever owned. The only thing warmer for me to wear is my husband's Alaska coat which, although awkwardly extra large for me, is delightfully enveloping when I am cold.
So, once again, I am keenly thankful that I am living in Houston. My trip to Utah did prove to be very productive. We have a reception center along with all the associated amenities arranged. I bought a wedding dress, bridesmaid's dresses, and flower girl dresses. The only person dressless at this point is me. Don't worry, I'm working on that. We found a great place for tuxes, and a photographer. To be honest, I wish I could rush it all the more just because these two kids are so eager to get married. I wish the whole enterprise wasn't so expensive. It would make things a little more fun.
This is a good lesson regarding me and stress. A long time ago when I was in high school I would literally find myself terrified to go to certain classes. I'd feel like I wasn't fully prepared, or like I was slower at catching on to concepts compared to everyone else. In some situations I was certain the teacher had prejudices toward me, while in others, I felt like I couldn't disappoint the teachers.
I learned a number a clever ways to get out of class without getting in trouble. Some teachers would write me excuses to go work on projects for them, so I could avoid other classes. But, there is only so much dodging a person can do. In the end, if you're going to pass a class you've got to face it, go to class, and get the work done. In truth, no matter how painful it was to get myself to class in the first place, I learned it was always better to be in class, than not be there. In other words, the only way out was through.
That's the way it is with this wedding thing. I know the only way out of the stress is just getting through the stress. If I made arrangements as quickly as possible, it would put my mind at ease. I wouldn't worry as much. In concept, in the end I should be able to better enjoy the wedding at the time of the wedding, rather than stress it. Now my daughter's happy because she has the most beautiful dress of her dreams. I was able to buy it for less than half of what I expected to pay (sometimes I am thankful for the recession).
The reception is going to be lovely at this wonderful Victorian place - catering, cake, decorations, etc. all included. I met the groom's family - fantastic people! Of course, the groom is still wonderful. I can't complain. In spite of the fact that I'm a spaz, things will work out. I faced the challenge and started working through it rather than avoiding it, which probably would have been my first instinct if not for my long lost high school experiences.
Maybe I shouldn't be so negative. The snow is beautiful. It is nice to see all the trees lined in lace like white. If you could just stay at home and not worry about moving on with life, it's great. You can cozy up to a fire, read a good book and appreciate the fact that you have a small haven all your own.
If only life could always be so ideallistic. At least you don't have to worry so much about your weight in such weather. If you're smart, you're covered in enough layers that you could be fifty pounds heavier and no one would be the wiser. I have this fantastic "Alaska" coat (so named because it was purchased specifically for a trip to Alaska). It is the best coat I have ever owned. The only thing warmer for me to wear is my husband's Alaska coat which, although awkwardly extra large for me, is delightfully enveloping when I am cold.
So, once again, I am keenly thankful that I am living in Houston. My trip to Utah did prove to be very productive. We have a reception center along with all the associated amenities arranged. I bought a wedding dress, bridesmaid's dresses, and flower girl dresses. The only person dressless at this point is me. Don't worry, I'm working on that. We found a great place for tuxes, and a photographer. To be honest, I wish I could rush it all the more just because these two kids are so eager to get married. I wish the whole enterprise wasn't so expensive. It would make things a little more fun.
This is a good lesson regarding me and stress. A long time ago when I was in high school I would literally find myself terrified to go to certain classes. I'd feel like I wasn't fully prepared, or like I was slower at catching on to concepts compared to everyone else. In some situations I was certain the teacher had prejudices toward me, while in others, I felt like I couldn't disappoint the teachers.
I learned a number a clever ways to get out of class without getting in trouble. Some teachers would write me excuses to go work on projects for them, so I could avoid other classes. But, there is only so much dodging a person can do. In the end, if you're going to pass a class you've got to face it, go to class, and get the work done. In truth, no matter how painful it was to get myself to class in the first place, I learned it was always better to be in class, than not be there. In other words, the only way out was through.
That's the way it is with this wedding thing. I know the only way out of the stress is just getting through the stress. If I made arrangements as quickly as possible, it would put my mind at ease. I wouldn't worry as much. In concept, in the end I should be able to better enjoy the wedding at the time of the wedding, rather than stress it. Now my daughter's happy because she has the most beautiful dress of her dreams. I was able to buy it for less than half of what I expected to pay (sometimes I am thankful for the recession).
The reception is going to be lovely at this wonderful Victorian place - catering, cake, decorations, etc. all included. I met the groom's family - fantastic people! Of course, the groom is still wonderful. I can't complain. In spite of the fact that I'm a spaz, things will work out. I faced the challenge and started working through it rather than avoiding it, which probably would have been my first instinct if not for my long lost high school experiences.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Why do I know about Mental Illness?
It just occurred to me that I haven't written anything explaining why I might have any useful knowledge about mental illness. I am not a doctor or a psychologist, but I have been through a lot of life lessons. Brace yourself. I am going to be bluntly honest. In this blog I am always going to be bluntly honest.
I am not ashamed of my mental problems. I refuse to be. It is the negative stigma of mental illness which causes many, many people to refuse or even deny themselves treatment, not to mention treatment for their loved ones. No one should needlessly suffer from mental illness. It is a treatable disease. Trying to hide it all due to social stigma seems anti-productive.
On the other hand, I don't go running around telling the world that I'm mentally ill, like a child begging for attention. If someone asks, or the subject comes up, I'll give you a straight answer, but I'm not going to make a freak show out of myself. I'm a strong person who can stand on my own and deal with my issues. This blog is a tool, which I hope will be useful to others who may not be so familiar with such things. To serve that end, I feel it is important that I be very open and honest about my own problems. So here goes:
1. I have severe chronic depression. At one point I was hospitalized as an inpatient and have also dealt to a degree with eating disorders. Stress can kick me into hallucinations and hearing things. The worst, however, at this point is my postpartem depression. I've been pregnant four times. (producing 3 healthy kids) The first three months following the pregnancy are the hardest. I can become extremely psychotic (out of touch with reality, having hallucinations, having personality changes and blackouts, etc.). The depression itself lasts for at least three years and that is on top of my 'normal' state of being depressed.
2. All of my life I've been gaining various skills which have helped me cope and deal with my depressive symptoms. My problems are primarily based in my hormones. No one abused me as a child. To be honest, in spite of my depressive nature, I consider myself to have had one very awesomely blissful childhood thanks to two wonderful, loving parents.
3. My husband has pretty severe anxiety, a trait which my son also inherited. Both are prone to bouts of depression at times as well. They are both by nature more pessimists than optimists, which can sometimes make life seem a little harder than it needs to be.
4. All three of my kids have been hospitalized for depression. Of course, there are a lot of labels associated with their problems including, but not limited to: bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, psychosis, anxiety, various phobias particularly those associated with school, etc.
5. That means I've seen mental illness in many different forms from both sides of the story - as the person experiencing it, and as the loved one who is painfully watching a child or spouse fighting to keep their head above water.
5. At this point you may be thinking this lady is a nut case! She thinks her kids are all nut cases and has needlessly drugged and hospitalized them! You're wrong if that's what you are thinkng. If anything, I think I was in denial for far too long especially when it comes to my two older children. For some nonsensical reason I convinced myself that my children could not possibly have the same problems - or even additional mental problems - when compared to me. In my mind, I'd trumped all trumps. None of my children were allowed to have issues. Fortunately for all of us (as in our family) I was sharp enough to recognize the traits when they were blatantly flashing in my face before too much serious damage was done. That is why this is so important. Early detection, just recognizing the problems for what they are, can make all the difference in the world!
So there you have it. I'm not claiming to be some mental health expert, I've just experienced it from both sides. Maybe what I've experienced can help you.
I am not ashamed of my mental problems. I refuse to be. It is the negative stigma of mental illness which causes many, many people to refuse or even deny themselves treatment, not to mention treatment for their loved ones. No one should needlessly suffer from mental illness. It is a treatable disease. Trying to hide it all due to social stigma seems anti-productive.
On the other hand, I don't go running around telling the world that I'm mentally ill, like a child begging for attention. If someone asks, or the subject comes up, I'll give you a straight answer, but I'm not going to make a freak show out of myself. I'm a strong person who can stand on my own and deal with my issues. This blog is a tool, which I hope will be useful to others who may not be so familiar with such things. To serve that end, I feel it is important that I be very open and honest about my own problems. So here goes:
1. I have severe chronic depression. At one point I was hospitalized as an inpatient and have also dealt to a degree with eating disorders. Stress can kick me into hallucinations and hearing things. The worst, however, at this point is my postpartem depression. I've been pregnant four times. (producing 3 healthy kids) The first three months following the pregnancy are the hardest. I can become extremely psychotic (out of touch with reality, having hallucinations, having personality changes and blackouts, etc.). The depression itself lasts for at least three years and that is on top of my 'normal' state of being depressed.
2. All of my life I've been gaining various skills which have helped me cope and deal with my depressive symptoms. My problems are primarily based in my hormones. No one abused me as a child. To be honest, in spite of my depressive nature, I consider myself to have had one very awesomely blissful childhood thanks to two wonderful, loving parents.
3. My husband has pretty severe anxiety, a trait which my son also inherited. Both are prone to bouts of depression at times as well. They are both by nature more pessimists than optimists, which can sometimes make life seem a little harder than it needs to be.
4. All three of my kids have been hospitalized for depression. Of course, there are a lot of labels associated with their problems including, but not limited to: bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, psychosis, anxiety, various phobias particularly those associated with school, etc.
5. That means I've seen mental illness in many different forms from both sides of the story - as the person experiencing it, and as the loved one who is painfully watching a child or spouse fighting to keep their head above water.
5. At this point you may be thinking this lady is a nut case! She thinks her kids are all nut cases and has needlessly drugged and hospitalized them! You're wrong if that's what you are thinkng. If anything, I think I was in denial for far too long especially when it comes to my two older children. For some nonsensical reason I convinced myself that my children could not possibly have the same problems - or even additional mental problems - when compared to me. In my mind, I'd trumped all trumps. None of my children were allowed to have issues. Fortunately for all of us (as in our family) I was sharp enough to recognize the traits when they were blatantly flashing in my face before too much serious damage was done. That is why this is so important. Early detection, just recognizing the problems for what they are, can make all the difference in the world!
So there you have it. I'm not claiming to be some mental health expert, I've just experienced it from both sides. Maybe what I've experienced can help you.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Screaming Deamons and Nefarious Nightmares!!!
Sorry I haven't written in a couple of days. As I may have mentioned previously, my 20 year old daughter is getting married. We were planning on the first of June. Well, that isn't happening. On Friday she asked me if we could squeeze in a wedding during my other daughter's spring break from school in March. MARCH! I'm supposed to put a wedding together between now and mid MARCH? Pant, pant, pant - someone give me a brown bag before I pass out!
You have to understand, when you're a Mormon, you don't have sex until you're married, which means you don't fudge around for a few years living together saving your money so you can turn into the ultimate Bridezilla and star on TV for spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on a marriage that's got better than 50% odds not to last. (At least you put on a good show - right?)
Ouch. That's way too harsh. I'm not trying to pass judgement on other people. We're all doing the best we can with what we've got. All the same, it doesn't change my predicament. Mormons tend to get married quick for some rather obvious reasons. I mean, if you've been waiting all of your life to really BE with someone, who is the ultimate RIGHT someone, why put it off?
My husband and I got engaged the first part of December, but put off the wedding until mid May. I'll tell you right now, it was way too long. We put it off for the right reasons, trying to accommodate for family, etc., but if I could go back, I'd think twice about the delay aspect. (Secret elopment comes to mind . . .) So who am I to judge my daughter? I already told her she had to plan this thing around her sister's schedule because her sister has already been through enough hardship for one year. That requirement is being met if she bumps things up to spring break. Now I've just got to figure out how to pull it all together in a lot less time than I had expected.
What does this have to do with mental illness? Not that everything I post here does have to be about mental illness, but in this cast I must note the stress factor. I am quite literally obsessing over this thing. (Ever heard of OCD?) It's got everything to do with my perfectionistic personality, thinking in terms of what is 'proper' and what is not. ('Proper' being a term I frist gained from my Mother, a true blue Southerner to the core, which now extends to my own extensive east Texas heritage).
As a result of all this excitement, I'm suddenly going to be flying up to Utah on Wednesday morning to somehow attempt putting together arrangements for the whole show within less than 5 days. At least I'm flying up there. Can you imagine how I'd be going nuts if I couldn't fly up there for some reason?
I must say, however, that the boy she is wedding is outstanding. If I must gain a son he's one of the best I could gain. That is cool. How many moms are happy about that aspect of things? I'll deal. Things will work out and be dreamy. Brides are so silly. They get all uptight about everything being the way they have always fantasized them to be, but when the moment arrives, it doesn't matter all that much. What matters is that you are permanently attached to this incredible person you love.
Ok. I'm taking in some deep, even breaths. Oxygen is returning to my brain. Once I see the price tag on everything I'll freak out again. Knowing me, I'll be freaking out again within the next thirty minutes wondering how I'm going to put together a bunch of bridesmaid dresses. You know, I don't think my husband fully appreaciates this enterprise. Yes, I've been quite clear regarding the staggering cost, but just a few moments ago he was saying there was no way he was going to stand in a line with the bride and the groom to greet a bunch of strangers. That's the trouble with weddings. There are too many opinions that must be factored in. I haven't even met her fiance's parents!
You have to understand, when you're a Mormon, you don't have sex until you're married, which means you don't fudge around for a few years living together saving your money so you can turn into the ultimate Bridezilla and star on TV for spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on a marriage that's got better than 50% odds not to last. (At least you put on a good show - right?)
Ouch. That's way too harsh. I'm not trying to pass judgement on other people. We're all doing the best we can with what we've got. All the same, it doesn't change my predicament. Mormons tend to get married quick for some rather obvious reasons. I mean, if you've been waiting all of your life to really BE with someone, who is the ultimate RIGHT someone, why put it off?
My husband and I got engaged the first part of December, but put off the wedding until mid May. I'll tell you right now, it was way too long. We put it off for the right reasons, trying to accommodate for family, etc., but if I could go back, I'd think twice about the delay aspect. (Secret elopment comes to mind . . .) So who am I to judge my daughter? I already told her she had to plan this thing around her sister's schedule because her sister has already been through enough hardship for one year. That requirement is being met if she bumps things up to spring break. Now I've just got to figure out how to pull it all together in a lot less time than I had expected.
What does this have to do with mental illness? Not that everything I post here does have to be about mental illness, but in this cast I must note the stress factor. I am quite literally obsessing over this thing. (Ever heard of OCD?) It's got everything to do with my perfectionistic personality, thinking in terms of what is 'proper' and what is not. ('Proper' being a term I frist gained from my Mother, a true blue Southerner to the core, which now extends to my own extensive east Texas heritage).
As a result of all this excitement, I'm suddenly going to be flying up to Utah on Wednesday morning to somehow attempt putting together arrangements for the whole show within less than 5 days. At least I'm flying up there. Can you imagine how I'd be going nuts if I couldn't fly up there for some reason?
I must say, however, that the boy she is wedding is outstanding. If I must gain a son he's one of the best I could gain. That is cool. How many moms are happy about that aspect of things? I'll deal. Things will work out and be dreamy. Brides are so silly. They get all uptight about everything being the way they have always fantasized them to be, but when the moment arrives, it doesn't matter all that much. What matters is that you are permanently attached to this incredible person you love.
Ok. I'm taking in some deep, even breaths. Oxygen is returning to my brain. Once I see the price tag on everything I'll freak out again. Knowing me, I'll be freaking out again within the next thirty minutes wondering how I'm going to put together a bunch of bridesmaid dresses. You know, I don't think my husband fully appreaciates this enterprise. Yes, I've been quite clear regarding the staggering cost, but just a few moments ago he was saying there was no way he was going to stand in a line with the bride and the groom to greet a bunch of strangers. That's the trouble with weddings. There are too many opinions that must be factored in. I haven't even met her fiance's parents!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
January 14, 2010 feeling down right now
Ok, I'm feeling pretty down right now, so I thought I might write a little about my dogs. First, there's Cujo, AKA Bell. Not too long ago I caught her outside in total Cujo mode, ready to charge a couple of Mormon missionaries. Maybe that wouldn't be so funny if I wasn't Mormon myself. Yet, here I am with the demon dog, her hackles up - totally Mohawked from the top of her head to the tip of her tail - ready to attack a couple of innocent guys riding around in suits on bikes. Oh well. Don't worry, I saved the day. The missionaries escaped the wrath of my beast. Five minutes later we're watching TV and she's back into being the ultimate, cute and cuddly yellow lab that she is.
Daisy is our golden retriever. She has a talent for being surprised by her own gassy outbursts. First comes the sound. She gets up all startled and confused staring, utterly stunned at her own back end. Then slowly she eases back down to the floor. Daisy's our senior citizen. She's in her teens now, where Bell is only a year and a half old. They make for an odd couple.
Daisy is delicate and dainty. She timidly sniffs at her treats then nibbles at them. Bell chomps the whole thing down in one gulp and looks at you like, so where's the next one already? Throw a ball to Bell, she's off like a bolt of lightening, back in a flash, begging you to throw it again. Daisy never caught on to that concept. You pass a ball in her direction; she'll take the ball then head for her private section of the grass to guard it like a disgruntled bear.
Dogs are some of the best therapy around. That's the truth. Talk about unconditional love. They will never give up on you, even when you can't stand a moment more.
Yeah, so right now Bell is staring at me, laying her head on my legs, basically saying I've given this computer more attention than it deserves. She's the priority around here. Spoiled dog. Why does she have to be so cute about it?
Daisy is our golden retriever. She has a talent for being surprised by her own gassy outbursts. First comes the sound. She gets up all startled and confused staring, utterly stunned at her own back end. Then slowly she eases back down to the floor. Daisy's our senior citizen. She's in her teens now, where Bell is only a year and a half old. They make for an odd couple.
Daisy is delicate and dainty. She timidly sniffs at her treats then nibbles at them. Bell chomps the whole thing down in one gulp and looks at you like, so where's the next one already? Throw a ball to Bell, she's off like a bolt of lightening, back in a flash, begging you to throw it again. Daisy never caught on to that concept. You pass a ball in her direction; she'll take the ball then head for her private section of the grass to guard it like a disgruntled bear.
Dogs are some of the best therapy around. That's the truth. Talk about unconditional love. They will never give up on you, even when you can't stand a moment more.
Yeah, so right now Bell is staring at me, laying her head on my legs, basically saying I've given this computer more attention than it deserves. She's the priority around here. Spoiled dog. Why does she have to be so cute about it?
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
January 13, 2010 Selfishness?
My heart goes out to the people of Haiti. It seems so easy to think your life is hard, then something like a huge earthquake happens and all of your problems lose significance. One woman angrily commented that the United States shouldn't respond, claiming Haiti should handle it's own problems. She asked, why do we have to be there first offering relief when so many other countries hate us? I couldn't believe anyone would say such a thing, that they could be so selfish. She must be a very miserable human being.
Sometimes it has been hard for me to distinguish what is selfish and what is not. I once had a counselor who challenged me to do one thing for me and only me throughout the course of a week. It was like torture. All I'd decided to do was get a milkshake at McDonalds - just me and some food for ten minutes at the most. The guilt I felt for doing that one simple thing, even spending the money (I'm such a big spender), was huge. It made me realize how ridiculously extreme I'd become about denying myself entirely for the sake of taking care of everyone and everything else. The stress of carrying the world on my shoulders was killing me. My daughter said today, "Mom, I feel like Atlas." Boy could we relate. I let her watch a TV show while I did the dishes she thought she 'should' be washing.
It took me a while to finally figure out that by totally denying myself any 'me' time, I was diminishing my ability to do what I wanted to do most - take care of everyone else. The anger, the self hatred that was boiling beneath the surface of my psyche, was tearing me apart. I'd be raging mad as I fixed dinner and tried to take care of my kids at the same time thinking my husband 'should' notice and come help me out. Why didn't I just ask for help? It was silly. I didn't ask because I thought I 'should' be able to handle it with or without him. Asking him was like admitting I was insufficient.
I would come home from teaching high school wound up tight as a knot. The tension in the air would be like a tangible presence between myself and my husband, our kids. I was losing weight hand over fist - more self denial - almost like I deserved the punishment of going without food because I was doing such a poor job of keeping everything else going. The doctor said if I lost any more weight he was going to put me in the eating disorders ward at the hospital. That shook me up a bit. The last thing I wanted was to be back in the hospital. At the same time I was kind of happy with how skinny I'd become.
My husband suggested that I start weight lifting. I'd gain muscle which weighs more than fat, so I'd gain weight without increasing my size. So that's what I did. We paid for a few sessions of weight training for me at a small gym to get me started. Sacrificing the time and money was tough. If my fear of the hospital hadn't been hanging over my head I might not have kept with it. I did keep with it, however, and it helped.
Every day after work I'd go pump off all the angst and anger I had over all the things I couldn't control, or hadn't done right. By the time I was finished I was too tired to care. The endorphins would kick in. Of course my husband figured out I'd been having issues about me shouldering too much of the load, so like the hero he always has been for me, he did more. It was like I could breathe again.
To sum it up, you need to take care of yourself in order to make sure you're well enough to take care of anyone else. I love to swim in the pool with my dogs, read good books, watch movies with my family and, occasionally treat myself to a milkshake at McDonalds. One depression book I have makes you list all kinds of small enjoyable things that you have or wish you could have in your life. Then the assignment is to make sure you do at least one of them a day. It's an unfinished assignment I'm still working on. :)
Sometimes it has been hard for me to distinguish what is selfish and what is not. I once had a counselor who challenged me to do one thing for me and only me throughout the course of a week. It was like torture. All I'd decided to do was get a milkshake at McDonalds - just me and some food for ten minutes at the most. The guilt I felt for doing that one simple thing, even spending the money (I'm such a big spender), was huge. It made me realize how ridiculously extreme I'd become about denying myself entirely for the sake of taking care of everyone and everything else. The stress of carrying the world on my shoulders was killing me. My daughter said today, "Mom, I feel like Atlas." Boy could we relate. I let her watch a TV show while I did the dishes she thought she 'should' be washing.
It took me a while to finally figure out that by totally denying myself any 'me' time, I was diminishing my ability to do what I wanted to do most - take care of everyone else. The anger, the self hatred that was boiling beneath the surface of my psyche, was tearing me apart. I'd be raging mad as I fixed dinner and tried to take care of my kids at the same time thinking my husband 'should' notice and come help me out. Why didn't I just ask for help? It was silly. I didn't ask because I thought I 'should' be able to handle it with or without him. Asking him was like admitting I was insufficient.
I would come home from teaching high school wound up tight as a knot. The tension in the air would be like a tangible presence between myself and my husband, our kids. I was losing weight hand over fist - more self denial - almost like I deserved the punishment of going without food because I was doing such a poor job of keeping everything else going. The doctor said if I lost any more weight he was going to put me in the eating disorders ward at the hospital. That shook me up a bit. The last thing I wanted was to be back in the hospital. At the same time I was kind of happy with how skinny I'd become.
My husband suggested that I start weight lifting. I'd gain muscle which weighs more than fat, so I'd gain weight without increasing my size. So that's what I did. We paid for a few sessions of weight training for me at a small gym to get me started. Sacrificing the time and money was tough. If my fear of the hospital hadn't been hanging over my head I might not have kept with it. I did keep with it, however, and it helped.
Every day after work I'd go pump off all the angst and anger I had over all the things I couldn't control, or hadn't done right. By the time I was finished I was too tired to care. The endorphins would kick in. Of course my husband figured out I'd been having issues about me shouldering too much of the load, so like the hero he always has been for me, he did more. It was like I could breathe again.
To sum it up, you need to take care of yourself in order to make sure you're well enough to take care of anyone else. I love to swim in the pool with my dogs, read good books, watch movies with my family and, occasionally treat myself to a milkshake at McDonalds. One depression book I have makes you list all kinds of small enjoyable things that you have or wish you could have in your life. Then the assignment is to make sure you do at least one of them a day. It's an unfinished assignment I'm still working on. :)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
More Than Just a Fish post
I was just thinking about my son, really about all three of my kids. This poem suits them all so well. As a parent it is always hard to cut the line and set them free.
Back in 1996 I was a high school English teacher. Right around 150 students moved through my classroom every day. Most of them probably had no idea how much I cared about each of them as individuals. It was actually that throng of high school students which inspired my poem. I had no idea how it would be so infinitely applicable to so many people in my life.
It is so easy for all of us to think we are all fish. We must be the same. The truth is, we don't have to force ourselves into the mold. We can be more. We can be our own person. Never let someone else hold you back because of their limited expectations. You are a child of God, a heritage which offers you infinite potential.
For today, that message is above all for my exceedingly un-fishly son.
Back in 1996 I was a high school English teacher. Right around 150 students moved through my classroom every day. Most of them probably had no idea how much I cared about each of them as individuals. It was actually that throng of high school students which inspired my poem. I had no idea how it would be so infinitely applicable to so many people in my life.
It is so easy for all of us to think we are all fish. We must be the same. The truth is, we don't have to force ourselves into the mold. We can be more. We can be our own person. Never let someone else hold you back because of their limited expectations. You are a child of God, a heritage which offers you infinite potential.
For today, that message is above all for my exceedingly un-fishly son.
More Than Just a Fish
I caught your face
before it drowned
in the ocean of humanity.
It was an easy catch.
I just cast out a glance
and there you were
quietly going at your own pace
swimming in the streams
others had shunned
with easy confidence,
as if you were something more
than just a fish.
I stared in awestruck wonder
yearning to reel you in
to spill your innards
and devour their mysteries.
I cut the line instead.
It was the least
I could do
for someone
so un-fishly
as you.
Now I watch
the others hanging on hooks
smiling
trapped in a place
they thought they wanted.
You will never know that pain
not because you could not
but because you would not
Be
a fish.
before it drowned
in the ocean of humanity.
It was an easy catch.
I just cast out a glance
and there you were
quietly going at your own pace
swimming in the streams
others had shunned
with easy confidence,
as if you were something more
than just a fish.
I stared in awestruck wonder
yearning to reel you in
to spill your innards
and devour their mysteries.
I cut the line instead.
It was the least
I could do
for someone
so un-fishly
as you.
Now I watch
the others hanging on hooks
smiling
trapped in a place
they thought they wanted.
You will never know that pain
not because you could not
but because you would not
Be
a fish.
May 1996
My Son
He smiles
with silver strings
of dribble bombs
dangling from his chin.
Unsteady
yet determined
he tries
and tries again
unable to fail.
And endless eyes
that glisten
steady
overwhelming
love.
spring 1988
A Message to My Son
One of my best friends is my son. He is witty, intelligent, handsome, deeply devoted, and most importantly he has a vast, sincere desire to do what is right. To be honest, there are many times when I don't know how I would have gotten by without him.
Just like all of our clan, he has his own set of mental issues. He is in the process of working through some challenges. (Aren't we all?) But as a mother, it seems all too natural for me to be doling out advice which, it occurred to me, might be useful to more than just him. (Or just irritating, but I'll ignore that option.) So here goes . . .
First, if you need medical help, get it. Don't put it off. Don't lie to yourself that you don't really need it, or that it costs too much. It costs too much if you DON'T take care of it.
Second, pray. I have always found that through sincere prayer you are NEVER alone.
Third, don't isolate yourself. Socialize! Socialize! Socialize! I don't entirely know why it is so important for we humans to have and maintain connections with other humans, but it is absolutely, unquestionably, essential. Crib death seems to be some rather sombering evidence of that fact. Studies have shown that something as simple as the human touch, getting a massage, holding hands, wrestling, literally make a difference in our mental well being.
Depression, anixety, whatever ailment you wish to label it, will always tell you others don't want you around, that others don't care, and that you don't matter. Instead, think of it this way: Every other person feels the way you feel. What would you want them to do for you? It's the old Biblical adage, do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Do to them what you would want them to do keeping in mind that it is something they need. It isn't about what you are going to get out of it. What you are doing is about them.
You will forget yourself. The problems others face will suddenly appear and you'll realize that maybe you don't have it so bad. Maybe they really do need you just as much as you need them.
Three is enough for now. I have a terrible habit of trying to take on everything all at once. It's either conquer the world or nothing. (Yes, that smacks of bipolarism. They say I'm type two.) In truth, progress comes one step, one minute, one hour, one class period, one work day, at a time. The hardest part is to keep on trying. Never give up.
Oops. I think I let a fourth one slip. Better stop now before it happens again.
Just like all of our clan, he has his own set of mental issues. He is in the process of working through some challenges. (Aren't we all?) But as a mother, it seems all too natural for me to be doling out advice which, it occurred to me, might be useful to more than just him. (Or just irritating, but I'll ignore that option.) So here goes . . .
First, if you need medical help, get it. Don't put it off. Don't lie to yourself that you don't really need it, or that it costs too much. It costs too much if you DON'T take care of it.
Second, pray. I have always found that through sincere prayer you are NEVER alone.
Third, don't isolate yourself. Socialize! Socialize! Socialize! I don't entirely know why it is so important for we humans to have and maintain connections with other humans, but it is absolutely, unquestionably, essential. Crib death seems to be some rather sombering evidence of that fact. Studies have shown that something as simple as the human touch, getting a massage, holding hands, wrestling, literally make a difference in our mental well being.
Depression, anixety, whatever ailment you wish to label it, will always tell you others don't want you around, that others don't care, and that you don't matter. Instead, think of it this way: Every other person feels the way you feel. What would you want them to do for you? It's the old Biblical adage, do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Do to them what you would want them to do keeping in mind that it is something they need. It isn't about what you are going to get out of it. What you are doing is about them.
You will forget yourself. The problems others face will suddenly appear and you'll realize that maybe you don't have it so bad. Maybe they really do need you just as much as you need them.
Three is enough for now. I have a terrible habit of trying to take on everything all at once. It's either conquer the world or nothing. (Yes, that smacks of bipolarism. They say I'm type two.) In truth, progress comes one step, one minute, one hour, one class period, one work day, at a time. The hardest part is to keep on trying. Never give up.
Oops. I think I let a fourth one slip. Better stop now before it happens again.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Why Hope in All Things?
Many years ago someone defined depression to me as being the absence of hope. If you think about it, the concept makes a lot of sense. Would anyone ever commit suicide if they believed there was even one last shred of hope? No.
As a result, I became increasingly interested in the idea of hope. In the Thirteen Articles of Faith which outline the religious beliefs of my church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, there is a phrase which reads, "Indeed you may say we follow the admonition of Paul. We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things and hope to endure all things." (emphasis added)
The phrase reference comes from Paul's epistles to the Corinthians in the New Testament. If you know anything about Paul, following his conversion to Christianity he was persecuted with a great number of adversities. The Articles of Faith were written by Joseph Smith, a prophet, who was sorely persecuted for his Christian beliefs, a persecution which, like Paul, ultimately led to his martyrdom. Neither had any outwardly open reason to believe there was hope in all things, did they? Their lives were filled with suffering, so why say such a thing?
In order to find answers I began searching the scriptures, studying every reference to hope. Did you know that the book of Job is literally innundated with references to hope? He was the last guy who should have had hope. Job had done absolutely nothing wrong. He was a good man who was left to the open buffetings of Satan. Why did he hold on and endure? He specifically talks about how he wishes at one point that he had never been born. That sounds an awful lot like severe depression to me.
The more I studied, the more I saw reference after reference speaking of Christ as the source of all hope. He was the reason why all of these men perservered. Christ? I wondered. How could Christ be the reason for hope in all things? Yes, I had no doubt His atonement was infinite and eternal, filling in the gaps, compensating for all of mankind's sins. Through Him I knew perfect justice balanced with mercy could be achieved. But how could He be the source of hope in all things when with depression we have so little hope that getting out of bed in the morning is a challenge; taking showers, surviving a day at school or work seems impossible; at times just surviving the next five minutes without having your entire mentality slip into some deep, dark, endless abyss?
It made me angry. How could Christ be the answer? For a while all I could do was rely upon faith, holding fast to the knowledge that the scriptures were true. But, I needed something more.
Then, the ultimate blow hit me. After having two children which had caused me to have such severe psychotic postpartem depression that I was hospitalized, I found out I was pregnant again. My husband and I had been doing everything we could within reason to avoid getting pregnant. Every medical professional who knew of my condition had adamantly told me having another child could very well leave me permanently insane. We were poverty stricken, with medicad for medical insurance. I'd actually seen the state mental hospital. Death was a better option than permanent insanity. How could I have this child?
On the other hand, how could I not have the child? Two times I'd known how very real the babies were even from the very beginning. I didn't believe in abortion. It would have been like willfully killing my own baby.
Everywhere I turned, doctors were telling me abortion was my only option. According to them I had to consider my own personal welfare first. But then, why had God given me this child? I wondered. Where was the hope?
Slowly I came to realize first, that I would never be able to forgive myself if I did not have the baby. Second, if God was going to give me this child and as part of that, if it was His will for me to go permanently insane, then so be it. Who was I to question God's will? I knew that God loved me. I knew He would not give me any trial greater than I could endure, which meant that even if I did go insane, I could still obtain eternal salvation. For the first time in my life I completely put my trust in God because I knew through Christ He had designed a plan which would ultimately bring me happiness not regardless of the hardship but because of the hardship. This was my opportunity to learn and grow.
For nine months I did everything in my power to prepare for what would come following the birth. I set up a situation so that for three solid months I would have someone with me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, making sure the children and I were safe. I went to doctors, considred every medical option, deliberately having the birth induced two weeks early since I knew the sooner the child was out, the better off I was. I threw everything I had into my hope in Christ, that if I did everything in my ability to prepare and live right, He would do the rest. Whatever the outcome, I knew it would be okay.
It was. My miracle daughter was born healthy and strong. As expected, the episodes of psychosis began, but because of my preparations, I knew what to do, how to stop things before they became worse, how to re-direct my thoughts, distract myself, use biofeedback, ask for help. At times it was as if the spirits of my ancestors were with me watching over me, lending me their strength. It was hard, excruciating; the mental anguish at times was so great I was certain my very soul would shatter, but it didn't. I did not permanently lose my sanity.
There is hope in all things because God knows what is best for us. Christ's atonement filled in the gaps. He saves us from ourselves and our many weaknesses. All we have to do is put our trust in God, allow Him to mold us, to refine us into the people He knows we can become and in the end, everything will be okay.
On a day to day basis I don't always think about the big picture. Sometimes I forget. I get frustrated. Why does it have to be so hard? Why can't I just get a break? But in the end I always know, regardless of my own foolishness, whether we can see it or not, there truly is hope in all things.
As a result, I became increasingly interested in the idea of hope. In the Thirteen Articles of Faith which outline the religious beliefs of my church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, there is a phrase which reads, "Indeed you may say we follow the admonition of Paul. We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things and hope to endure all things." (emphasis added)
The phrase reference comes from Paul's epistles to the Corinthians in the New Testament. If you know anything about Paul, following his conversion to Christianity he was persecuted with a great number of adversities. The Articles of Faith were written by Joseph Smith, a prophet, who was sorely persecuted for his Christian beliefs, a persecution which, like Paul, ultimately led to his martyrdom. Neither had any outwardly open reason to believe there was hope in all things, did they? Their lives were filled with suffering, so why say such a thing?
In order to find answers I began searching the scriptures, studying every reference to hope. Did you know that the book of Job is literally innundated with references to hope? He was the last guy who should have had hope. Job had done absolutely nothing wrong. He was a good man who was left to the open buffetings of Satan. Why did he hold on and endure? He specifically talks about how he wishes at one point that he had never been born. That sounds an awful lot like severe depression to me.
The more I studied, the more I saw reference after reference speaking of Christ as the source of all hope. He was the reason why all of these men perservered. Christ? I wondered. How could Christ be the reason for hope in all things? Yes, I had no doubt His atonement was infinite and eternal, filling in the gaps, compensating for all of mankind's sins. Through Him I knew perfect justice balanced with mercy could be achieved. But how could He be the source of hope in all things when with depression we have so little hope that getting out of bed in the morning is a challenge; taking showers, surviving a day at school or work seems impossible; at times just surviving the next five minutes without having your entire mentality slip into some deep, dark, endless abyss?
It made me angry. How could Christ be the answer? For a while all I could do was rely upon faith, holding fast to the knowledge that the scriptures were true. But, I needed something more.
Then, the ultimate blow hit me. After having two children which had caused me to have such severe psychotic postpartem depression that I was hospitalized, I found out I was pregnant again. My husband and I had been doing everything we could within reason to avoid getting pregnant. Every medical professional who knew of my condition had adamantly told me having another child could very well leave me permanently insane. We were poverty stricken, with medicad for medical insurance. I'd actually seen the state mental hospital. Death was a better option than permanent insanity. How could I have this child?
On the other hand, how could I not have the child? Two times I'd known how very real the babies were even from the very beginning. I didn't believe in abortion. It would have been like willfully killing my own baby.
Everywhere I turned, doctors were telling me abortion was my only option. According to them I had to consider my own personal welfare first. But then, why had God given me this child? I wondered. Where was the hope?
Slowly I came to realize first, that I would never be able to forgive myself if I did not have the baby. Second, if God was going to give me this child and as part of that, if it was His will for me to go permanently insane, then so be it. Who was I to question God's will? I knew that God loved me. I knew He would not give me any trial greater than I could endure, which meant that even if I did go insane, I could still obtain eternal salvation. For the first time in my life I completely put my trust in God because I knew through Christ He had designed a plan which would ultimately bring me happiness not regardless of the hardship but because of the hardship. This was my opportunity to learn and grow.
For nine months I did everything in my power to prepare for what would come following the birth. I set up a situation so that for three solid months I would have someone with me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, making sure the children and I were safe. I went to doctors, considred every medical option, deliberately having the birth induced two weeks early since I knew the sooner the child was out, the better off I was. I threw everything I had into my hope in Christ, that if I did everything in my ability to prepare and live right, He would do the rest. Whatever the outcome, I knew it would be okay.
It was. My miracle daughter was born healthy and strong. As expected, the episodes of psychosis began, but because of my preparations, I knew what to do, how to stop things before they became worse, how to re-direct my thoughts, distract myself, use biofeedback, ask for help. At times it was as if the spirits of my ancestors were with me watching over me, lending me their strength. It was hard, excruciating; the mental anguish at times was so great I was certain my very soul would shatter, but it didn't. I did not permanently lose my sanity.
There is hope in all things because God knows what is best for us. Christ's atonement filled in the gaps. He saves us from ourselves and our many weaknesses. All we have to do is put our trust in God, allow Him to mold us, to refine us into the people He knows we can become and in the end, everything will be okay.
On a day to day basis I don't always think about the big picture. Sometimes I forget. I get frustrated. Why does it have to be so hard? Why can't I just get a break? But in the end I always know, regardless of my own foolishness, whether we can see it or not, there truly is hope in all things.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
PARADOX
It's December 27th in the Emergency Room.
Hours pass
with little change;
A thin man wrapped in the tattered remains
of someone's discarded coat
huddles in one corner
then shifts to another
cautiously clinging to the warmth
of the cold, molded plastic, bathroom tiled, place.
Two girls
one four, the other six,
bounce and flit
from stranger to stranger
announcing with excitement
they're wearing their Christmas clothes;
asking names;
asking whys;
hungrily glancing at the toy my toddler embraces.
A tall boy stumbles across the threshold
clutching his side;
blood, crusted in crimson globs
is randomly disbursed across his face.
Children gather, pooling their change to share a small bag of chips
from the vending machine.
"There's vomit on the floor." calls someone to the clerk.
Housekeeping is paged.
They're paged again.
The foul mess begins to dry.
A young woman excitedly displays her growing collection of aluminum cans
to her stone-faced companion;
words gush from her mouth in English, then Spanish, and English again
as if the two
were interchangeable.
The Old Ones
dressed in a montage
of axle greased shirts, polyester uniforms, home patched boots,
and hand made shawls
sit in silence.
The patience of Job
was something they learned
long lines ago.
I have no patience.
My child is ill.
Somewhere behind the counter
where clean people
dressed in white coats and scrubs
shuffle through papers
in short-lived appearances
Is my husband
pulling the strings
letting them know
we don't belong here;
letting them know
we cannot wait;
And as we are ushered ahead of the throng
into the halls
where gurneys are strung
an infant rolls by
in it's own plastic box;
a drug addict moans;
and a child, no more than four,
comes smiling
into the pediatric room.
The burns on her feet, so deep and infected, they may never heal.
I want to take away the burns.
I want to clean the clothes,
wipe the vomit from the speckled tiles,
hand out blankets,
feed the hunger,
and hold the people in my arms
until the pain
disappears.
But it won't.
And I can't.
My daughter is ill.
She is all I can hold.
She is all I can feed.
She is all I can clean.
Life is not fair.
I leave
promising myself I will not forget;
praying we will never need
to return;
And the smiling child
cries out
in pain.
December 28, 1995
Hours pass
with little change;
A thin man wrapped in the tattered remains
of someone's discarded coat
huddles in one corner
then shifts to another
cautiously clinging to the warmth
of the cold, molded plastic, bathroom tiled, place.
Two girls
one four, the other six,
bounce and flit
from stranger to stranger
announcing with excitement
they're wearing their Christmas clothes;
asking names;
asking whys;
hungrily glancing at the toy my toddler embraces.
A tall boy stumbles across the threshold
clutching his side;
blood, crusted in crimson globs
is randomly disbursed across his face.
Children gather, pooling their change to share a small bag of chips
from the vending machine.
"There's vomit on the floor." calls someone to the clerk.
Housekeeping is paged.
They're paged again.
The foul mess begins to dry.
A young woman excitedly displays her growing collection of aluminum cans
to her stone-faced companion;
words gush from her mouth in English, then Spanish, and English again
as if the two
were interchangeable.
The Old Ones
dressed in a montage
of axle greased shirts, polyester uniforms, home patched boots,
and hand made shawls
sit in silence.
The patience of Job
was something they learned
long lines ago.
I have no patience.
My child is ill.
Somewhere behind the counter
where clean people
dressed in white coats and scrubs
shuffle through papers
in short-lived appearances
Is my husband
pulling the strings
letting them know
we don't belong here;
letting them know
we cannot wait;
And as we are ushered ahead of the throng
into the halls
where gurneys are strung
an infant rolls by
in it's own plastic box;
a drug addict moans;
and a child, no more than four,
comes smiling
into the pediatric room.
The burns on her feet, so deep and infected, they may never heal.
I want to take away the burns.
I want to clean the clothes,
wipe the vomit from the speckled tiles,
hand out blankets,
feed the hunger,
and hold the people in my arms
until the pain
disappears.
But it won't.
And I can't.
My daughter is ill.
She is all I can hold.
She is all I can feed.
She is all I can clean.
Life is not fair.
I leave
promising myself I will not forget;
praying we will never need
to return;
And the smiling child
cries out
in pain.
December 28, 1995
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The Brain Tumor
A few months before my first child was born I noticed a strange aching sensation which lingered at the very top of my head. It wasn't exactly painful, just odd and bothersome at first. I brushed it off as another of the many ailments late pregnancy produced.
Oddly enough, after the baby arrived, the headace persisted, even growing progressively more poinent. My ability to concentrate or focus on anything was shot. Simple things like writing an essay for school which I could normally rattle off with little effort became monumentous. In order to make sure I graduated, I'd put in a big effort to finish school over the last year. The credit hour loads I'd taken on were twice the number considered to be standard 'full time'. Even then, to squeeze in more credits, for some classes I'd simply studied my heart out and tested out of them. Learning for the more part had always been easy for me.
But, there I was, weeks away from graduation finding it impossible to focus. Then things got even stranger. There would be times when I was driving and I'd black out or something. One minute I'd be in one place, the next I'd be another, seriously wondering if I'd run a red light. I had no idea what had happened in the interim. Stubbornly I refused to believe anything so strange could actually be happening to me. Instead I went into a kind of denial. Each time I'd black out, I'd brush it off like it hadn't really happened, I was just imagining things.
Finally one day I was sitting in an English class, putting forth a Hurculean effort to stay focused on the teacher's lecture when this wild vision took over. All of a sudden knives of all sizes and shapes were flying through the air, slashing through the flesh of students around me until one by one people were being beheaded. Heads were rolling between the desks with blank staring eyes, spurting blood. It was terrifying. Even though I knew none of it could possibly be real, it looked and felt so terribly real I suddenly grabbed all my things and ran out of the room.
Some distance down the hall I cautiously paused to make sure the hallucination hadn't followed me. Much to my relief, it was gone, but for how long? What was happening to me? The only thing that remotely made sense to me was that maybe I had a brain tumor. Brain tumors could easily mess with your mind. It would explain the strange sensation I'd had in the top of my head, my inability to concentrate, and the black outs I'd been having.
Completely desperate for help I went straight to my car, drove to my doctor's office, walked inside and said I needed to see the doctor right away. It was completely out of line behavior, but I was desperate. I didn't know what else to do.
After what seemed an eternity, my doctor who was also the physician who had recently delivered my son, agreed to see me. I told him what had been going on with the head pains and black outs, my inability to concentrate. For some reason it just seemed too mortifying to say that I was actually having hallucinations. Then I shared with him my brain tumor theory. He patted my knee comfortingly. Next he told me the good news - it wasn't a brain tumor. Instead it was probably a combination of stress and postpartem depression. I knew most women got the 'blues' after having babies. I didn't think it could have anything to do with hallucinations or black outs. How could those things be related to depression?
He told me to take it easy for the weekend - completely relax, not worry about school at all. Over the next number of days I did my best to follow his instructions on the hope that he was right. In some ways things did seem to get better. Stress clearly was a big factor. All the same, school had to return sometime. About a week had passed when I woke up in the middle of the night. This time things were a thousand times worse than my classroom hallucination.
All kinds of gore infested, violent scenarious were playing out inside my head. It was like the person I knew to be myself had been pressed into the recesses of my mind. Another creature was doing it's best to take over. That horrific demonic thing wanted nothing more than to kill in the bloodiest of ways. Stiffly I made my way out into the living room hoping the change of location might make a difference. Things got worse. The part I knew to be myself shrunk to the size of a fly watching nearly helpless as my mind carefully planned out how I could get the biggest kitchen knife, use it to stab my husband time and time again. Once that part was played out to it's fullest, I was to move on to my infant son, swing him by the feet and smash his head into the wall. Finally, I'd finish off myself. That one had to involve a lot of blood mixed with a lot of time. I'd run a bath, slit my wrists, then watch with delight as the chrimson fluid drained away what was left of my life.
I was more than terrified. It was taking every ounce of strength I had to keep myself on the couch. My knuckles were turning white from the effort of keeping myself still. In all honesty I was beginning to believe there was no other option, but to follow the impulse. It was crushing me, making the part I knew to be myself, less significant by the moment.
Then, like a miracle, I remembered a scripture, something I'd studied in seminary when I was in high school about how I couldn't be tempted beyond my ability to resist that temptation. Even this? I wondered. Did I even have a choice? It was all I had, my only shred of hope. That one fragment of memory was like an essential lifeline. I held on tight, knowing it had to be true. Weakly, at a volume lower than a whisper, I began calling for my husband. Each time I called his name, the stronger I became. Over an over, laboriously I struggled until finally my sleepy husband staggered into the living room.
He asked me what was wrong. I couldn't speak. The horrible thoughts that had been in my head of all places were too terrible to verbalize. They weren't me. They couldn't possibly be a part of who I was. Saying it was like accepting it. Instead I told him to turn on the TV. Time passed. Slowly, very slowly, I began to sense the person I knew to be me back inside myself, back to being in primary control.
I told Scott a very vague, very watered down version of the truth - the only version I could deal with at the time. The next day I went back to the doctor. This time I did manage telling him about the classroom hallucination. He got some remote sense as to how serious things were. If he had known the full truth I'm sure he would have sent me straight to the hospital. Instead he told me there was a medication I needed to take, something called Tophranol. Taking the medication, however, meant sacrifice. I probably wouldn't be able to finish the term at school. I wouldn't be able to graduate in time to get a teaching job. We needed the money. We needed me to graduate. There was no way I was going to give up my degree, not after everything I'd done to get where I was. Graduation was paramount, so like an idiot I didn't take the pills.
Depression is so terribly deceptive. You can convince yourself 'I'm perfectly fine right now. All that other stuff was just some wild fluke. It won't happen again. Why would it happen again? I know who I am. I would never hurt anyone, least of all the people I love the very most.' Days passed. Things were going well enough. Sure, it was still nearly impossible to concentrate, or even keep hold of my thoughts for that matter, but I could do this, I could graduate. There were only three weeks left.
Then absolute hell returned. Exactly one week after the first episode, the same thing happened a second time. This time the urges were more powerful. The fractional part I knew to be myself began reasoning that the only way I could save my husband and my child was to eliminate myself first. I was trying to figure out how to get the razor blades out from the little disposable razors we had on hand so that I could cut myself deeply enough to get the job done.
Yet again, like a miracle I remembered how the scriptures had promised there was no temptation which did not leave me with some way to escape. God didn't condone suicide. There had to be another way. For the second time I started calling for my husband. The next day I began taking the pills.
Two weeks later by the skin of my teeth, I graduated from college. Those last few grades were the lowest grades I'd ever gotten, but I did it. After going to great lengths working with my professors, explaining my situation, I passed every last class. It was one of the greatest accomplishments of my life.
Oddly enough, after the baby arrived, the headace persisted, even growing progressively more poinent. My ability to concentrate or focus on anything was shot. Simple things like writing an essay for school which I could normally rattle off with little effort became monumentous. In order to make sure I graduated, I'd put in a big effort to finish school over the last year. The credit hour loads I'd taken on were twice the number considered to be standard 'full time'. Even then, to squeeze in more credits, for some classes I'd simply studied my heart out and tested out of them. Learning for the more part had always been easy for me.
But, there I was, weeks away from graduation finding it impossible to focus. Then things got even stranger. There would be times when I was driving and I'd black out or something. One minute I'd be in one place, the next I'd be another, seriously wondering if I'd run a red light. I had no idea what had happened in the interim. Stubbornly I refused to believe anything so strange could actually be happening to me. Instead I went into a kind of denial. Each time I'd black out, I'd brush it off like it hadn't really happened, I was just imagining things.
Finally one day I was sitting in an English class, putting forth a Hurculean effort to stay focused on the teacher's lecture when this wild vision took over. All of a sudden knives of all sizes and shapes were flying through the air, slashing through the flesh of students around me until one by one people were being beheaded. Heads were rolling between the desks with blank staring eyes, spurting blood. It was terrifying. Even though I knew none of it could possibly be real, it looked and felt so terribly real I suddenly grabbed all my things and ran out of the room.
Some distance down the hall I cautiously paused to make sure the hallucination hadn't followed me. Much to my relief, it was gone, but for how long? What was happening to me? The only thing that remotely made sense to me was that maybe I had a brain tumor. Brain tumors could easily mess with your mind. It would explain the strange sensation I'd had in the top of my head, my inability to concentrate, and the black outs I'd been having.
Completely desperate for help I went straight to my car, drove to my doctor's office, walked inside and said I needed to see the doctor right away. It was completely out of line behavior, but I was desperate. I didn't know what else to do.
After what seemed an eternity, my doctor who was also the physician who had recently delivered my son, agreed to see me. I told him what had been going on with the head pains and black outs, my inability to concentrate. For some reason it just seemed too mortifying to say that I was actually having hallucinations. Then I shared with him my brain tumor theory. He patted my knee comfortingly. Next he told me the good news - it wasn't a brain tumor. Instead it was probably a combination of stress and postpartem depression. I knew most women got the 'blues' after having babies. I didn't think it could have anything to do with hallucinations or black outs. How could those things be related to depression?
He told me to take it easy for the weekend - completely relax, not worry about school at all. Over the next number of days I did my best to follow his instructions on the hope that he was right. In some ways things did seem to get better. Stress clearly was a big factor. All the same, school had to return sometime. About a week had passed when I woke up in the middle of the night. This time things were a thousand times worse than my classroom hallucination.
All kinds of gore infested, violent scenarious were playing out inside my head. It was like the person I knew to be myself had been pressed into the recesses of my mind. Another creature was doing it's best to take over. That horrific demonic thing wanted nothing more than to kill in the bloodiest of ways. Stiffly I made my way out into the living room hoping the change of location might make a difference. Things got worse. The part I knew to be myself shrunk to the size of a fly watching nearly helpless as my mind carefully planned out how I could get the biggest kitchen knife, use it to stab my husband time and time again. Once that part was played out to it's fullest, I was to move on to my infant son, swing him by the feet and smash his head into the wall. Finally, I'd finish off myself. That one had to involve a lot of blood mixed with a lot of time. I'd run a bath, slit my wrists, then watch with delight as the chrimson fluid drained away what was left of my life.
I was more than terrified. It was taking every ounce of strength I had to keep myself on the couch. My knuckles were turning white from the effort of keeping myself still. In all honesty I was beginning to believe there was no other option, but to follow the impulse. It was crushing me, making the part I knew to be myself, less significant by the moment.
Then, like a miracle, I remembered a scripture, something I'd studied in seminary when I was in high school about how I couldn't be tempted beyond my ability to resist that temptation. Even this? I wondered. Did I even have a choice? It was all I had, my only shred of hope. That one fragment of memory was like an essential lifeline. I held on tight, knowing it had to be true. Weakly, at a volume lower than a whisper, I began calling for my husband. Each time I called his name, the stronger I became. Over an over, laboriously I struggled until finally my sleepy husband staggered into the living room.
He asked me what was wrong. I couldn't speak. The horrible thoughts that had been in my head of all places were too terrible to verbalize. They weren't me. They couldn't possibly be a part of who I was. Saying it was like accepting it. Instead I told him to turn on the TV. Time passed. Slowly, very slowly, I began to sense the person I knew to be me back inside myself, back to being in primary control.
I told Scott a very vague, very watered down version of the truth - the only version I could deal with at the time. The next day I went back to the doctor. This time I did manage telling him about the classroom hallucination. He got some remote sense as to how serious things were. If he had known the full truth I'm sure he would have sent me straight to the hospital. Instead he told me there was a medication I needed to take, something called Tophranol. Taking the medication, however, meant sacrifice. I probably wouldn't be able to finish the term at school. I wouldn't be able to graduate in time to get a teaching job. We needed the money. We needed me to graduate. There was no way I was going to give up my degree, not after everything I'd done to get where I was. Graduation was paramount, so like an idiot I didn't take the pills.
Depression is so terribly deceptive. You can convince yourself 'I'm perfectly fine right now. All that other stuff was just some wild fluke. It won't happen again. Why would it happen again? I know who I am. I would never hurt anyone, least of all the people I love the very most.' Days passed. Things were going well enough. Sure, it was still nearly impossible to concentrate, or even keep hold of my thoughts for that matter, but I could do this, I could graduate. There were only three weeks left.
Then absolute hell returned. Exactly one week after the first episode, the same thing happened a second time. This time the urges were more powerful. The fractional part I knew to be myself began reasoning that the only way I could save my husband and my child was to eliminate myself first. I was trying to figure out how to get the razor blades out from the little disposable razors we had on hand so that I could cut myself deeply enough to get the job done.
Yet again, like a miracle I remembered how the scriptures had promised there was no temptation which did not leave me with some way to escape. God didn't condone suicide. There had to be another way. For the second time I started calling for my husband. The next day I began taking the pills.
Two weeks later by the skin of my teeth, I graduated from college. Those last few grades were the lowest grades I'd ever gotten, but I did it. After going to great lengths working with my professors, explaining my situation, I passed every last class. It was one of the greatest accomplishments of my life.
ONE post
There never was a doubt in my mind that my parents truly and deeply loved each other. They were human and had their rough spots, but even during the worst of times I knew everything would be okay with them in the end. It was one of the greatest gifts my parents, any parents, could give to their child.
Now I'm married. I've been married for a long time, never divorced, never separated. The relationship I have isn't the same as my parents. Each couple has their own unique dynamic. Oddly enough I recently realized my husband and I had both gotten so deeply into the habit of doing things to protect each other, to make life easier for the other, that we'd created a rift of sorts. He didn't understand what was going through my head and vice versa. It was kind of funny how it turned out to be the two of us trying to protect each other. Is it possible to love someone too much?
Depression destroys marriages almost every day. More than seventeen years ago I had a clinical psychologist tell me she was utterly flabbergasted that I was still married based on my extensive mental illness history. It takes a lot out of a spouse to deal with mental illness. The person who is depressed doesn't see things for what they are. From both sides blame gets laid on the spouse where it doesn't belong.
A lot of doctors who have their wives working for them as office managers end up in divorces as well. I suppose we've got a lot working against us.
On the other hand, when we made our marriage committment and were sealed in the temple, we were sealed to be with each other for eternity. It was a very deep, sacred vow, a promise the two of us made with God. So when times were hard, leaving the other wasn't an option to consider. We held on no matter what. We're still holding. Although he is not perfect, I married a very good man who loves me in spite of me, exactly the way I love him.
My mother died soon after I wrote this poem. I miss her. My dad misses her. According to our beliefs my parents will be reunited in the next life. Their union will last for eternity. What a beautiful blessing that is.
Now I'm married. I've been married for a long time, never divorced, never separated. The relationship I have isn't the same as my parents. Each couple has their own unique dynamic. Oddly enough I recently realized my husband and I had both gotten so deeply into the habit of doing things to protect each other, to make life easier for the other, that we'd created a rift of sorts. He didn't understand what was going through my head and vice versa. It was kind of funny how it turned out to be the two of us trying to protect each other. Is it possible to love someone too much?
Depression destroys marriages almost every day. More than seventeen years ago I had a clinical psychologist tell me she was utterly flabbergasted that I was still married based on my extensive mental illness history. It takes a lot out of a spouse to deal with mental illness. The person who is depressed doesn't see things for what they are. From both sides blame gets laid on the spouse where it doesn't belong.
A lot of doctors who have their wives working for them as office managers end up in divorces as well. I suppose we've got a lot working against us.
On the other hand, when we made our marriage committment and were sealed in the temple, we were sealed to be with each other for eternity. It was a very deep, sacred vow, a promise the two of us made with God. So when times were hard, leaving the other wasn't an option to consider. We held on no matter what. We're still holding. Although he is not perfect, I married a very good man who loves me in spite of me, exactly the way I love him.
My mother died soon after I wrote this poem. I miss her. My dad misses her. According to our beliefs my parents will be reunited in the next life. Their union will last for eternity. What a beautiful blessing that is.
Friday, January 8, 2010
January 8, 2010
Sitting in another doctor's office feeling too cold to move let alone write, but if I just sit here waiting to get warm (an unlikely event) I'm going to really lose my marbles.
I get anxiety attacks on a regular basis, such as right now. If I had my druthers I'd be curled up in a ball in the corner rocking back and forth. Thoughts are rushing through my head too fast to catch. Did I turn off the curling iron? Did I wear the right clothes? My shirt is all wrong, why did I wear it? My poofy Alaska parka is making my hair go wild with static. Why wasn't I up at seven or six or some other hour dragging my daughter out of bed to be on time to school?
Holding on to all the criticism isn't something I can afford. Instead I do my best to refute the worst arguments with logic - like who cares what shirt I'm wearing? I'm the boss! Or your daughter is almost seventeen, if she can't learn to get a grip on things now, what kind of disaster will follow? Sometimes you need to step back as a parent to teach your kids about independence!
Right now the arguments are barely keeping me calm enough to sit still and avoid any inviting corners. None are available at the moment. In the mean time I've brilliantly employed this distraction tool of writing in this journal. It's helping. To be honest it would help a lot more if I could focus on something totally unrelated to me, but if I am going to do this blog thing, I may as well take the opportunity to lay out for others some of my daily struggles.
It's funny, but I feel completely trapped if I've got to be at a certain place at a certain time. Like working an 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. job kills me. I'll push myself through maybe three days before I turn into completely useless mental mush. It infuriates me because I know I'm bright, capable, intelligent, good at what I do, and so on... I just can't take the stress. So, I find compromises.
I've started my own businesses run out of my home a number of times. It's a situation where I can be in control of the schedule, not trapped by it. Right now I'm my husband's office manager. We have an agreement of sorts. I come and go as needed, take off when it is too much for me to take, or my kids need me, and we have a cleaning service for the house. (Huge incentive that cleaning service since I love a clean house, but get way too obsessive when I try to start cleaning. It never ends!)
In exchange, he has the peace of mind knowing private things stay private, like payroll, and finances. He can relax a little and not feel like he's got to micro-manage everything. You see, my husband, much to my surprise soon after we were married, turned out to be an anal perfectionist just like me (a dangerous combination in a countless number of ways). Although I must say perfectionisim is unquestionably a quality you're going to want in a doctor, especially a suregon such as my husband. He is unquestionably an exceptionally good man. Only a man of high caliber would have stayed with someone so burdensome as me for all of these years. He loves me, and I love him.
I get anxiety attacks on a regular basis, such as right now. If I had my druthers I'd be curled up in a ball in the corner rocking back and forth. Thoughts are rushing through my head too fast to catch. Did I turn off the curling iron? Did I wear the right clothes? My shirt is all wrong, why did I wear it? My poofy Alaska parka is making my hair go wild with static. Why wasn't I up at seven or six or some other hour dragging my daughter out of bed to be on time to school?
Holding on to all the criticism isn't something I can afford. Instead I do my best to refute the worst arguments with logic - like who cares what shirt I'm wearing? I'm the boss! Or your daughter is almost seventeen, if she can't learn to get a grip on things now, what kind of disaster will follow? Sometimes you need to step back as a parent to teach your kids about independence!
Right now the arguments are barely keeping me calm enough to sit still and avoid any inviting corners. None are available at the moment. In the mean time I've brilliantly employed this distraction tool of writing in this journal. It's helping. To be honest it would help a lot more if I could focus on something totally unrelated to me, but if I am going to do this blog thing, I may as well take the opportunity to lay out for others some of my daily struggles.
It's funny, but I feel completely trapped if I've got to be at a certain place at a certain time. Like working an 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. job kills me. I'll push myself through maybe three days before I turn into completely useless mental mush. It infuriates me because I know I'm bright, capable, intelligent, good at what I do, and so on... I just can't take the stress. So, I find compromises.
I've started my own businesses run out of my home a number of times. It's a situation where I can be in control of the schedule, not trapped by it. Right now I'm my husband's office manager. We have an agreement of sorts. I come and go as needed, take off when it is too much for me to take, or my kids need me, and we have a cleaning service for the house. (Huge incentive that cleaning service since I love a clean house, but get way too obsessive when I try to start cleaning. It never ends!)
In exchange, he has the peace of mind knowing private things stay private, like payroll, and finances. He can relax a little and not feel like he's got to micro-manage everything. You see, my husband, much to my surprise soon after we were married, turned out to be an anal perfectionist just like me (a dangerous combination in a countless number of ways). Although I must say perfectionisim is unquestionably a quality you're going to want in a doctor, especially a suregon such as my husband. He is unquestionably an exceptionally good man. Only a man of high caliber would have stayed with someone so burdensome as me for all of these years. He loves me, and I love him.
January 7, 2010
Houston is bracing itself for a big freeze. We've already had snow this year, an uncanny anomaly in and of itself. I moved to Houston to get away from the cold!
This morning, like many mornings, I woke up with a nasty headache. For a while all I could do was take my medication and wait for it to kick in. I always get aggravated when I'm forced, crippled so much by pain, that there is nothing I can do but wait.
After about forty-five minutes of that kind of torture I decided I couldn't afford to waste any more time. Even though the headache was still lingering, I did my usual exercise routine. It helped. I've come to find regular exercise to be an essential aid when it comes to my mental health. That doesn't mean I'm some kind of buff health maven. Just getting myself to do the task is tough. In the end, however, my self esteem rises, the endorphens kick in and I just feel better. By the time I hit the shower - which is almost always a task I also dread - my headache was essentially gone.
I don't know why showers are so hard for me. The room always seems too dark and isolating. It's like it messes with my mind. Every time I take a shower I shave. That razor blade almost has a mind of it's own. Inevitably this vision of me smoothly slicing away at least one huge swath of my long blond hair pops into my mind like it's the justified punishment I deserve for all of my imperfections. I am sure there are women in this world who are not so vain to value their hair, but to me, the loss would be mortifying. Yet, there I am, as usual, struggling against my own will, reassuring myself I could never do such a horrible thing to myself.
Furiously I scrub at my face hoping to remove the constant crop of zits it insists on harboring, fully knowing that yet again it won't make much of a difference. Then there's the cold; that moment when you have to shut off the warm stream of water. I hate the cold. So much of my time is already spent cringing, I certainly don't need a sudden drop in temperature to make things worse. All the same, I survive. Only someone as neurotic as me could turn showering into a dreaded event.
Decisions, even the simplest ones, are difficult for me to make, which means choosing what to wear often becomes an ordeal. In my mind I run through any number of outfits assessing every minute factor from appearance to practicality to my own outright moodiness until I finally put something on. Even then I may change again. It's a process which still baffles my husband, but being the good man that he is, he does his best to work with it.
Almost three hours into the day I'm finally able to start tackling the work that needs to be done. I read up on how to protect my home from the cold, do what little I think to be necessary, then head out for a doctor's appointment.
I hate doctors. I hate doctor's appointments. It seems like I can never get away from them. This time it's my General Practitioner, to get some routine meds refilled. Tomorrow it's the dermatologist (remember my zit farm issue?). Then there's the psychiatrist, the gynechologist, and the rheumatologist. You'd think I was at death's door and forty years older than I actually am at the rate I run up medical bills.
Here he comes. I've got to go.
This morning, like many mornings, I woke up with a nasty headache. For a while all I could do was take my medication and wait for it to kick in. I always get aggravated when I'm forced, crippled so much by pain, that there is nothing I can do but wait.
After about forty-five minutes of that kind of torture I decided I couldn't afford to waste any more time. Even though the headache was still lingering, I did my usual exercise routine. It helped. I've come to find regular exercise to be an essential aid when it comes to my mental health. That doesn't mean I'm some kind of buff health maven. Just getting myself to do the task is tough. In the end, however, my self esteem rises, the endorphens kick in and I just feel better. By the time I hit the shower - which is almost always a task I also dread - my headache was essentially gone.
I don't know why showers are so hard for me. The room always seems too dark and isolating. It's like it messes with my mind. Every time I take a shower I shave. That razor blade almost has a mind of it's own. Inevitably this vision of me smoothly slicing away at least one huge swath of my long blond hair pops into my mind like it's the justified punishment I deserve for all of my imperfections. I am sure there are women in this world who are not so vain to value their hair, but to me, the loss would be mortifying. Yet, there I am, as usual, struggling against my own will, reassuring myself I could never do such a horrible thing to myself.
Furiously I scrub at my face hoping to remove the constant crop of zits it insists on harboring, fully knowing that yet again it won't make much of a difference. Then there's the cold; that moment when you have to shut off the warm stream of water. I hate the cold. So much of my time is already spent cringing, I certainly don't need a sudden drop in temperature to make things worse. All the same, I survive. Only someone as neurotic as me could turn showering into a dreaded event.
Decisions, even the simplest ones, are difficult for me to make, which means choosing what to wear often becomes an ordeal. In my mind I run through any number of outfits assessing every minute factor from appearance to practicality to my own outright moodiness until I finally put something on. Even then I may change again. It's a process which still baffles my husband, but being the good man that he is, he does his best to work with it.
Almost three hours into the day I'm finally able to start tackling the work that needs to be done. I read up on how to protect my home from the cold, do what little I think to be necessary, then head out for a doctor's appointment.
I hate doctors. I hate doctor's appointments. It seems like I can never get away from them. This time it's my General Practitioner, to get some routine meds refilled. Tomorrow it's the dermatologist (remember my zit farm issue?). Then there's the psychiatrist, the gynechologist, and the rheumatologist. You'd think I was at death's door and forty years older than I actually am at the rate I run up medical bills.
Here he comes. I've got to go.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
ONE
I remember the mornings
when Daddy and Momma
would so often play out their flirting routine;
Daddy enthusiastically aggressive,
Momma coyly beaming and evasive.
I remember the early afternoons
when Daddy stopped home for lunch.
His presence alone would make Momma shine
"Hello Beautiful," he'd say, no matter how she looked,
then hold her for a long, long time.
I remember the evenings;
that magic moment when Daddy would walk through the door;
the brief renewal of their reunion;
and the quiet, rhythmic, routine, passage of time
setting the table
rinsing the dishes
seeing to small repairs or homework projects
reading the scriptures
holding hands;
As if with a look they could read each other's minds at any moment.
when Daddy and Momma
would so often play out their flirting routine;
Daddy enthusiastically aggressive,
Momma coyly beaming and evasive.
It was just like the kissing parts in movies.
We'd moan in disgust, cover our eyes,
and cautiously peer between the cracks our fingers made.
I remember the early afternoons
when Daddy stopped home for lunch.
His presence alone would make Momma shine
"Hello Beautiful," he'd say, no matter how she looked,
then hold her for a long, long time.
We'd be hungry sometimes
still, none of us minded the wait;
the food that they shared filled our souls.
We knew, above all, we were safe.
I remember the evenings;
that magic moment when Daddy would walk through the door;
the brief renewal of their reunion;
and the quiet, rhythmic, routine, passage of time
setting the table
rinsing the dishes
seeing to small repairs or homework projects
reading the scriptures
holding hands;
As if with a look they could read each other's minds at any moment.
They made marriage look easy.
As a 12 year novice, I've learned it is not.
We work
We watch
We struggle
We pray
I've witnessed a union that transcends all time.
How can I not try to follow?
My daughter calls them "Grandpa"
One word for Both.
An amazingly accurate assessment
for a three-year-old.
One brilliant morning they will waken
united as they should be
Mother, coy and beaming,
Father, eagerly aggressive for their game.
I intend to be there,
my companion at my side
ready to do the same.
Delicate Places post
Even though it may seem nonsensical, I like this poem a lot. Unlike a cold or the flu, mental illness can linger for a long time. It gets old fast. You don't want to deal with it any more. Your family doesn't want to deal with it any more. What you want is to be 'normal' like everyone else around you who seems to be getting along okay. After a while you start forcing yourself into the mold. In some ways it can be good. You find out you have inner strength you didn't know you had. You can almost start to believe you really are better.
The trouble is, you really aren't better. My daughter recently decribed it as walking on eggshells. You've done such a great job of making things look fine, other people actually think you are fine. But inside it's like you're making a huge ugly mess, living a lie, a very painful lie because you want so badly for everything to be okay.
That's what I was writing about. I'd pushed the phasod too far. Saving face had lost it's value, but I was also too tired of the problem to stop flubbing on through the mess.
It can take up to three years for a woman to fully recover from postpartem depression. That's right. Three Years. The worst part, when I would become severely psychotic, have halluciations and strong desires to do violent things always lasted at least three months immediataely following the birth. For most women severe psychotic postpartem depression doesn't occurr until their fourth or fifth child. I'm the lucky oddball who got hit hard with child number one and it just kept getting worse until in the end, I decided it wasn't fair to the children I had for me to risk having any more kids, but that's another story. You'll have to look for it later.
The trouble is, you really aren't better. My daughter recently decribed it as walking on eggshells. You've done such a great job of making things look fine, other people actually think you are fine. But inside it's like you're making a huge ugly mess, living a lie, a very painful lie because you want so badly for everything to be okay.
That's what I was writing about. I'd pushed the phasod too far. Saving face had lost it's value, but I was also too tired of the problem to stop flubbing on through the mess.
It can take up to three years for a woman to fully recover from postpartem depression. That's right. Three Years. The worst part, when I would become severely psychotic, have halluciations and strong desires to do violent things always lasted at least three months immediataely following the birth. For most women severe psychotic postpartem depression doesn't occurr until their fourth or fifth child. I'm the lucky oddball who got hit hard with child number one and it just kept getting worse until in the end, I decided it wasn't fair to the children I had for me to risk having any more kids, but that's another story. You'll have to look for it later.
Delicate Places
We're treading on potato chips
all about the house.
We forgot to clean the party up
now we're playing Strauss.
The waltz is wearing weary
We're dancing on the crumbs.
See us flounder fleetingly
in the sledge
of our lives
all the lies?
The potato chips are broken.
I'm beginning not to care.
They are there.
They are there.
So why care?
all about the house.
We forgot to clean the party up
now we're playing Strauss.
The waltz is wearing weary
We're dancing on the crumbs.
See us flounder fleetingly
in the sledge
of our lives
all the lies?
The potato chips are broken.
I'm beginning not to care.
They are there.
They are there.
So why care?
The Emergency Phone List
Sometime after my second child was born and the postpartem depression had me turned into mush I had to make a decision - kill myself or survive. It sounds almost silly, but it was true. I had to make my mind up to really put my dukes up and fight, or give up entirely. After I wrote the "Suicidal Thoughts" poem it was pretty clear I couldn't allow myself the luxury of a simple end which left me with only one other option - fight.
It's tough to fight when you're alone and confused and you know you can't go on. Some mornings I'd wake up faced with the challenge of getting my kids to daycare and myself to work. My husband would already be gone to school. I was alone facing a major mental meltdown. Somehow in the midst of that turmoil I came up with a never ending phone list concept. The idea was that if someone - anyone - called me asking for help, the kind of help I needed, if at all possible, I knew I would drop everything and do what I could to help. That meant that even a total stranger could potentially be willing to be my friend even, maybe especially, when I was losing my mind.
One morning I called all the usual family members for help. No one was answering. So I put my new theory to practice. I picked up our ward or church directory and started calling people. No matter how many rejections I got, or how many people weren't at home, I was going to call until I found someone who could come help. It was a pretty desperate measure at a very desperate time for me. It also worked.
Not long after I'd begun the practice, my husband and I had to move to San Francisco for his medical school. There was only one other couple we knew who was going to school in the same area. I had no family to rely on at all. But, I held to the same calling list theory. I'd pick up the church member list, the neighbor phone list, anything I thought might work and when the need arose I knew I could call until I found someone who was willing to be there for me.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't do it very often. In fact, I probably only did it a handful of times. But because I'd already come up with a plan and the dead determination to carry it out if needed, I was able to survive times which might not otherwise have been survivable.
So there you have two important points. If at all possible, make a plan before the crisis arises. Then you'll know what to do even when you aren't thinking straight. Second, remember how much you would want to help someone else if given the opportunity, then be willing to give someone else that gift. All kinds of people are more than willing to do all kinds of things to help others once they know the need is out there. Sometimes you have to swallow your pride, ask for the help, and take comfort in knowing that when the opportunity arises, you will gladly do the same for someone else.
It's tough to fight when you're alone and confused and you know you can't go on. Some mornings I'd wake up faced with the challenge of getting my kids to daycare and myself to work. My husband would already be gone to school. I was alone facing a major mental meltdown. Somehow in the midst of that turmoil I came up with a never ending phone list concept. The idea was that if someone - anyone - called me asking for help, the kind of help I needed, if at all possible, I knew I would drop everything and do what I could to help. That meant that even a total stranger could potentially be willing to be my friend even, maybe especially, when I was losing my mind.
One morning I called all the usual family members for help. No one was answering. So I put my new theory to practice. I picked up our ward or church directory and started calling people. No matter how many rejections I got, or how many people weren't at home, I was going to call until I found someone who could come help. It was a pretty desperate measure at a very desperate time for me. It also worked.
Not long after I'd begun the practice, my husband and I had to move to San Francisco for his medical school. There was only one other couple we knew who was going to school in the same area. I had no family to rely on at all. But, I held to the same calling list theory. I'd pick up the church member list, the neighbor phone list, anything I thought might work and when the need arose I knew I could call until I found someone who was willing to be there for me.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't do it very often. In fact, I probably only did it a handful of times. But because I'd already come up with a plan and the dead determination to carry it out if needed, I was able to survive times which might not otherwise have been survivable.
So there you have two important points. If at all possible, make a plan before the crisis arises. Then you'll know what to do even when you aren't thinking straight. Second, remember how much you would want to help someone else if given the opportunity, then be willing to give someone else that gift. All kinds of people are more than willing to do all kinds of things to help others once they know the need is out there. Sometimes you have to swallow your pride, ask for the help, and take comfort in knowing that when the opportunity arises, you will gladly do the same for someone else.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Midnight post
My dad used to always say the devil comes out at midnight. His saying and concurrent curfew inspired me to write the poem back when I was in high school. In many ways I think he was right. As a teenager it's a lot easier to find trouble in the middle of the night than at any other time. I could tell you stories of how I tried driving a car upside down, how we convinced a McDonalds attendant my boyfriend was a stabbing victim or convinced a Dennys manager that we'd stolen my friend from the hospital so she could get some 'decent' food.
It's also true for people with any kind of mental illness. Often going to sleep is a fearful experience for me. I can have terrible nightmares which seem so real that even when I wake up they won't go away; knives are still flying at me; a dead man's lying in my bed; people are hunting down my family and killing them as I watch. Going to sleep also means that you're going to have to get up in the morning and face all the terrible things you are already dreading - things like going to work, cooking meals, running laundry, cleaning the house, making sure the kids are cared for - the list can be endless and agonizing when it takes all you have just to get out of bed in the first place.
The absolute worst times for me have been in the middle of the night when I cannot sleep. A nightmare awakens me, or I'm just restless. In the stillness for some reason it seems harder to think reasonably. You can hear things, see things, get strange thoughts or ideas. To prevent problems I have a few rules that I follow.
First, go to bed at a reasonable time, not too early or too late. When you go to bed be prepared to really relax and go to sleep. That may mean taking a bath or exercising earlier in the day or doing a relaxation exercise in your mind (see Biofeedback). If needed, take something to help you sleep. That doesn't always have to be sleeping pills. It could be something simple like Benadryl - which is commonly used as a sedative in hospitals - or Drammamene. Take the usual dosage as instructed on the bottle. Those two will make you go to sleep, but not necessarily keep you asleep or groggy in the morning like some sleeping pills can do.
Second, have a plan in place in case you do have a problem. I had a wise doctor tell me once to not worry about not being able to sleep, it was perfectly normal. It's so easy to get anxious over losing sleep and that anxiety will always make everything worse. If I'm really awake and there's nothing to be done about it, I'll start doing laundry or washing dishes just to keep myself busy and feeling useful. Usually, though, I'll watch TV. My rule is that I can't get 'hooked' into watching some lengthy movie that's going to keep me up. I have to find something simple like a talk show or sitcom rerun, even an infomercial so that as soon as I feel tired I can turn it off. Keeping the TV on helps you keep a grasp on reality that you might not otherwise have.
Finally, be prepared to get help. That means get help in the middle of the night by waking someone up who can be with you until you're sensible. Calling a suicide line even works on that front. Open any phone book, search any search engine and you can find a crisis line to call - just call - don't hesitate to ask for help. It also means asking your doctor for help. Don't blow it off the next day telling yourself it was a fluke. If you were up the night before thinking I've got to do something about this, do something about it!
Okay. That's enough of a lecture. Don't forget - the devil comes out at midnight :)
It's also true for people with any kind of mental illness. Often going to sleep is a fearful experience for me. I can have terrible nightmares which seem so real that even when I wake up they won't go away; knives are still flying at me; a dead man's lying in my bed; people are hunting down my family and killing them as I watch. Going to sleep also means that you're going to have to get up in the morning and face all the terrible things you are already dreading - things like going to work, cooking meals, running laundry, cleaning the house, making sure the kids are cared for - the list can be endless and agonizing when it takes all you have just to get out of bed in the first place.
The absolute worst times for me have been in the middle of the night when I cannot sleep. A nightmare awakens me, or I'm just restless. In the stillness for some reason it seems harder to think reasonably. You can hear things, see things, get strange thoughts or ideas. To prevent problems I have a few rules that I follow.
First, go to bed at a reasonable time, not too early or too late. When you go to bed be prepared to really relax and go to sleep. That may mean taking a bath or exercising earlier in the day or doing a relaxation exercise in your mind (see Biofeedback). If needed, take something to help you sleep. That doesn't always have to be sleeping pills. It could be something simple like Benadryl - which is commonly used as a sedative in hospitals - or Drammamene. Take the usual dosage as instructed on the bottle. Those two will make you go to sleep, but not necessarily keep you asleep or groggy in the morning like some sleeping pills can do.
Second, have a plan in place in case you do have a problem. I had a wise doctor tell me once to not worry about not being able to sleep, it was perfectly normal. It's so easy to get anxious over losing sleep and that anxiety will always make everything worse. If I'm really awake and there's nothing to be done about it, I'll start doing laundry or washing dishes just to keep myself busy and feeling useful. Usually, though, I'll watch TV. My rule is that I can't get 'hooked' into watching some lengthy movie that's going to keep me up. I have to find something simple like a talk show or sitcom rerun, even an infomercial so that as soon as I feel tired I can turn it off. Keeping the TV on helps you keep a grasp on reality that you might not otherwise have.
Finally, be prepared to get help. That means get help in the middle of the night by waking someone up who can be with you until you're sensible. Calling a suicide line even works on that front. Open any phone book, search any search engine and you can find a crisis line to call - just call - don't hesitate to ask for help. It also means asking your doctor for help. Don't blow it off the next day telling yourself it was a fluke. If you were up the night before thinking I've got to do something about this, do something about it!
Okay. That's enough of a lecture. Don't forget - the devil comes out at midnight :)
Midnight
In the middle of the night
when the light
has gone home
and justice is asleep
Who knows?
What silent devil roams
across the tattered flesh
where perversion sleekly stands
in the night
when the light
has gone home.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Biofeedback
Just a minute ago I was letting my dogs out to do their business. As I stood there I noticed how without even thinking I had my shoulders completely hunched up hiked into tight knots. So, as I've taught myself over the years, I practiced biofeedback. The simplest definition of biofeedback is how a person can pay attention to their autonomic functions and then influence how those autonomic functions operate. In this instance I relaxed my shoulder muscles. It sounds simple, but it isn't easy.
Personally, I have a nasty tendancy to hold a lot of tension in my shoulders and jaw. Sometimes I stop breathing, or I breathe too fast. By paying attention to myself, my own bodily reactions I can often reverse many negative effects. For example, if the shoulder thing goes unchecked for too long, I end up with upper back pain. Headaches come along. Even worse, the tension builds, spreading to other parts of my body at times when I really, really need to relax - like when I'm trying to go to sleep.
When I was a kid my dad was really into children's theater. He was a theater professor, so I got exposed to a lot of theatrical exercises including all the trust and relaxation stuff. Because of theater I learned how to talk someone through a relaxation exercise so I could practice it on myself or share it with others. Most beneficially I was able to do relaxation exercises with my kids.
My son was a bit of a nightmare when it came to going to bed. He was wound up pretty tight in general. Years later we found out he had chronic anxiety. When he was a child, however, I was always able to get him to relax by going through a relaxation exercise with him. As he got older there were times when he would ask me to do it with him to help him calm down.
Of course, I've been working on this practically all of my life and, as I said, just a minute ago I caught myself with my shoulders hunched up. Just recognizing the problem can be a big help. Teaching yourself to change is an ongoing process, but I believe it is well worth the effort.
Personally, I have a nasty tendancy to hold a lot of tension in my shoulders and jaw. Sometimes I stop breathing, or I breathe too fast. By paying attention to myself, my own bodily reactions I can often reverse many negative effects. For example, if the shoulder thing goes unchecked for too long, I end up with upper back pain. Headaches come along. Even worse, the tension builds, spreading to other parts of my body at times when I really, really need to relax - like when I'm trying to go to sleep.
When I was a kid my dad was really into children's theater. He was a theater professor, so I got exposed to a lot of theatrical exercises including all the trust and relaxation stuff. Because of theater I learned how to talk someone through a relaxation exercise so I could practice it on myself or share it with others. Most beneficially I was able to do relaxation exercises with my kids.
My son was a bit of a nightmare when it came to going to bed. He was wound up pretty tight in general. Years later we found out he had chronic anxiety. When he was a child, however, I was always able to get him to relax by going through a relaxation exercise with him. As he got older there were times when he would ask me to do it with him to help him calm down.
Of course, I've been working on this practically all of my life and, as I said, just a minute ago I caught myself with my shoulders hunched up. Just recognizing the problem can be a big help. Teaching yourself to change is an ongoing process, but I believe it is well worth the effort.
There's a Woman in the Grocery Store post
Stress and change seem to be big factors in the depression equasion. Many people will experience some degree of depression after someone dies, they move to a new place, take on a new job, lose a job, and so on.
My husband was in school for more than ten years. He had a hard time deciding on an occupation. Oddly enough he fought against his desire to become a doctor because the task was so time consuming. In the end, however, I adamantly told him to go ahead and do it. I wanted him to do whatever he needed to do to be happy.
It was hard. After I miraculously managed earning my degree I was able to teach high school for a few years, but after the birth of our second child, we decided I needed to stay at home and be a mom. By then my mental health was already an issue we had to consider. On top of that, if I did get a job it had to be a pretty good one to compensate for all the child care we would have to pay. Fortunately, I was able to find work I could do out of my home. My husband was awarded grants for his schooling, but what we had was never enough.
Still, the one thing I did have throughout it all was the hope in knowing someday it would end. Someday he would finish school and be a doctor. Not all women have that specific hope. The poem was actually for them. I saw so many hopeless women. But any woman - any woman has the potential for hope - to believe in herself and her future. All I wanted was simple things. After a very long time, miraculously I got them. Hope is essential for anyone to survive adversity.
My husband was in school for more than ten years. He had a hard time deciding on an occupation. Oddly enough he fought against his desire to become a doctor because the task was so time consuming. In the end, however, I adamantly told him to go ahead and do it. I wanted him to do whatever he needed to do to be happy.
It was hard. After I miraculously managed earning my degree I was able to teach high school for a few years, but after the birth of our second child, we decided I needed to stay at home and be a mom. By then my mental health was already an issue we had to consider. On top of that, if I did get a job it had to be a pretty good one to compensate for all the child care we would have to pay. Fortunately, I was able to find work I could do out of my home. My husband was awarded grants for his schooling, but what we had was never enough.
Still, the one thing I did have throughout it all was the hope in knowing someday it would end. Someday he would finish school and be a doctor. Not all women have that specific hope. The poem was actually for them. I saw so many hopeless women. But any woman - any woman has the potential for hope - to believe in herself and her future. All I wanted was simple things. After a very long time, miraculously I got them. Hope is essential for anyone to survive adversity.
There's a Woman in the Grocery Store
There's a woman in the gorcery store.
She'll be a doctor's wife some day.
They'll live in a house with just enough room.
A swing set will sit in their yard.
The children will always be neatly well dressed,
A minivan for her own car.
And once every month, when the need will arise,
someone else will be cutting her hair.
No more second-hand-me-down table and chairs
or second-hand-me-down clothes.
No more long waits in endless lines
while the baby turns from squirms to cries
and tattooed women drown the air with ciagarette smoke.
No more nervous days, wondering when more money might come,
knowing for certain the ever-present fear
of eviction, hunger, or cold.
She's a woman in the grocery store
with food stamps to pay the bill
surviving the shame of the moment
through a vision of something better
and miraculously
the minutes
pass.
She'll be a doctor's wife some day.
They'll live in a house with just enough room.
A swing set will sit in their yard.
The children will always be neatly well dressed,
A minivan for her own car.
And once every month, when the need will arise,
someone else will be cutting her hair.
No more second-hand-me-down table and chairs
or second-hand-me-down clothes.
No more long waits in endless lines
while the baby turns from squirms to cries
and tattooed women drown the air with ciagarette smoke.
No more nervous days, wondering when more money might come,
knowing for certain the ever-present fear
of eviction, hunger, or cold.
She's a woman in the grocery store
with food stamps to pay the bill
surviving the shame of the moment
through a vision of something better
and miraculously
the minutes
pass.
BE post
I wrote this poem at a time when my beautiful daughter was extremely suicidal. It is one thing to be in the midst of your own emotional turmoil. It is an entirely different matter when the person suffering is someone you love. All of a sudden so many things I'd been obsessing over no longer mattered. I needed her to hold on if for no other reason than to know that I truly, deeply, needed her to be.
Although I initially wrote it for my daughter, I came to quickly realize how it keenly applied to my husband and other two children. They were all as essential to me as the air I breathe. I desperately wanted them to know how important they were.
You think so little of yourself when you are depressed. You imagine that the would would be a better place without you. I knew all too well exactly how my daughter was feeling. She did not want to exist any more. The pain was too much. But killing yourself is in fact, a selfish act. We all have people around us who need us. I have two dogs that would fall apart if one of us were hurt. If my dogs care, how much more do the humans feel? Never allow yourself the luxury of missjudging your own value.
Although I initially wrote it for my daughter, I came to quickly realize how it keenly applied to my husband and other two children. They were all as essential to me as the air I breathe. I desperately wanted them to know how important they were.
You think so little of yourself when you are depressed. You imagine that the would would be a better place without you. I knew all too well exactly how my daughter was feeling. She did not want to exist any more. The pain was too much. But killing yourself is in fact, a selfish act. We all have people around us who need us. I have two dogs that would fall apart if one of us were hurt. If my dogs care, how much more do the humans feel? Never allow yourself the luxury of missjudging your own value.
BE
Things we need
do not include
-wrapping paper
or the present it holds.
-that last minute
ice cream Sundae.
-everything on sale
just because it's on sale.
Things we need
do not include
the latest car
the biggest house
designer clothes
gourmet meals . . .
No.
All I need to do is breathe.
Quit breathing.
Then you'll have some serious problems.
Give me food
Shelter
Clothes
And my ice cream Sundae
will always be
You.
That present without paper?
You.
That super sale item worth amazingly more than the miniscule cost?
Unquestionably, indubitably, incredibly and always
You.
So do me a favor
suck in that air
let it out
do it again.
Eat.
Sleep.
Survive.
BE
for me.
I promise I'll return the favor
even if it isn't enough to pay you back
for everything you give to me
every day
every hour
every minute
You
are what I need.
BE
and let me breathe.
do not include
-wrapping paper
or the present it holds.
-that last minute
ice cream Sundae.
-everything on sale
just because it's on sale.
Things we need
do not include
the latest car
the biggest house
designer clothes
gourmet meals . . .
No.
All I need to do is breathe.
Quit breathing.
Then you'll have some serious problems.
Give me food
Shelter
Clothes
And my ice cream Sundae
will always be
You.
That present without paper?
You.
That super sale item worth amazingly more than the miniscule cost?
Unquestionably, indubitably, incredibly and always
You.
So do me a favor
suck in that air
let it out
do it again.
Eat.
Sleep.
Survive.
BE
for me.
I promise I'll return the favor
even if it isn't enough to pay you back
for everything you give to me
every day
every hour
every minute
You
are what I need.
BE
and let me breathe.
The Gnat post
Life isn't fair. It never was, never will be. But what do we want? We want fair. At least that's what we think we want. You look at something as simple as a gnat, this creature that can barely manage sustaining itself in the air, and it doesn't seem fair that God would have bothered enough to give it of all things, the ability to fly. Why not me? Why am I tethered to the earth by gravity? Why are so many other people going about their lives seeming so happy, so completely at peace with themselves, while my mind is in a constant struggle against itself, fighting for literal survival? It isn't fair. Sometimes it makes me angry.
Even then, I couldn't allow myself to be the malicious one who killed the innocent gnat. I knew better. I knew God had given me gifts of my own which others could as easily envy. So, rather conveniently, I allowed Martha to do the job for me. Fictious as she is, I like her for her spunk.
Even then, I couldn't allow myself to be the malicious one who killed the innocent gnat. I knew better. I knew God had given me gifts of my own which others could as easily envy. So, rather conveniently, I allowed Martha to do the job for me. Fictious as she is, I like her for her spunk.
The Gnat
Martha sat inspecting
a gnat upon the wall
wondering all the while when it would fall,
But
instead
drunkenly it wobbled
from the surface
into nothing
like some Divine Assistant sustained it's life there
in mid air.
Martha watched a moment
dazzled
then furious with envy
smashed the helpless creature
between her thumb and finger.
a gnat upon the wall
wondering all the while when it would fall,
But
instead
drunkenly it wobbled
from the surface
into nothing
like some Divine Assistant sustained it's life there
in mid air.
Martha watched a moment
dazzled
then furious with envy
smashed the helpless creature
between her thumb and finger.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Psychosis
Perhaps I should explain what a depressive psychosis is. There are many different layers to depression. It can run the gambit from feeling down in the dumps to completely losing contact with one's self. When it reaches the point where you are hearing or seeing things that aren't there, when you lose your grasp on reality, like who you are, that is called psychosis. You may have heard of Andrea Yates who in June of 2001 killed all five of her children while she was experiencing postpartem depression. She was experiencing something called postpartem psychosis. She lost contact with herself and did something her real self would consider to be unthinkable.
It is rare for women to experience postpartem psychosis to such a severe degree. I just happen to be one of the few. I honestly do not know where I would be, or what would have happened if I had not been blessed with the knowledge of the gospel which I have been given.
It is rare for women to experience postpartem psychosis to such a severe degree. I just happen to be one of the few. I honestly do not know where I would be, or what would have happened if I had not been blessed with the knowledge of the gospel which I have been given.
Leviticus 13:40
And the man whose hair is fallen off his head, he is bald; yet is he clean. :)
I first read this when I was about 13 or 14 in my first attempt at plowing through the Old Testament. Leviticus was torture, so when I stumbled on this little tidbit I realized even God could have a sense of humor. It still makes me laugh.
I first read this when I was about 13 or 14 in my first attempt at plowing through the Old Testament. Leviticus was torture, so when I stumbled on this little tidbit I realized even God could have a sense of humor. It still makes me laugh.
I Corinthians 10:13
There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man; but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.
This scripture very literally saved my life. I was on the brink of going into a complete psychosis. It was as if another being, a creature of intense evil, was trying to take over control of my body. The person I knew to be myself was like a fly on the wall, watching helplessly as the strange alien evil being specifically plotted out how to kill my infant son, my husband, and myself. It was taking all I had to keep myself from grabbing the biggest knife in our kitchen. Then I remembered this promise, that I would not be tempted above that which I was able to withstand. Because of this scripture I knew there had to be some way to escape, so stubbornly, I held on first whispering, then squeaking out cries for help until I was finally able to awaken my husband. I was so ashamed of what had been in my head I couldn't tell my husband what had been going on, only that I needed him to be with me for a while. And he, being the wonderful man that he is, patiently held me until the demon in my mind finally went away.
This scripture very literally saved my life. I was on the brink of going into a complete psychosis. It was as if another being, a creature of intense evil, was trying to take over control of my body. The person I knew to be myself was like a fly on the wall, watching helplessly as the strange alien evil being specifically plotted out how to kill my infant son, my husband, and myself. It was taking all I had to keep myself from grabbing the biggest knife in our kitchen. Then I remembered this promise, that I would not be tempted above that which I was able to withstand. Because of this scripture I knew there had to be some way to escape, so stubbornly, I held on first whispering, then squeaking out cries for help until I was finally able to awaken my husband. I was so ashamed of what had been in my head I couldn't tell my husband what had been going on, only that I needed him to be with me for a while. And he, being the wonderful man that he is, patiently held me until the demon in my mind finally went away.
My Faith
I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, otherwise known as The Mormons. My faith is a deep, integral part of who I am. It is the key which has kept me alive, which at times has also kept my family alive in spite of the mental illness we must face on a day to day basis.
As a Mormon I believe in the King James version of The Holy Bible, The Book of Mormon, The Pearl of Great Price and the Doctorine and Covenants, all to be sacred scripture. Most of the time, when I referr to scripture in this blog, I will be trying to focus on the Bible, mainly because it is the basis of Christian faith, something many people in addition to Mormons can understand. At times, however, I will referr to the other scriptures. They are all very important to me.
To try separating my faith from my depression would be like asking me to breathe without air. It can't be done, so I'm not going to try.
As a Mormon I believe in the King James version of The Holy Bible, The Book of Mormon, The Pearl of Great Price and the Doctorine and Covenants, all to be sacred scripture. Most of the time, when I referr to scripture in this blog, I will be trying to focus on the Bible, mainly because it is the basis of Christian faith, something many people in addition to Mormons can understand. At times, however, I will referr to the other scriptures. They are all very important to me.
To try separating my faith from my depression would be like asking me to breathe without air. It can't be done, so I'm not going to try.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Suicidal Thoughts
I could take the pills in my hand.
With a little water it would be easy.
My hand is shaking.
Some people say that life is hard and then we die.
So why not end it now, before the hard part gets too big?
There is nothing better than nothing.
Now I see my children.
They are crying.
I am on the floor asleep.
Their sobbing will not wake me any more.
They beg for my attention.
They sit, pathetically lingering by my side
alone.
The pills will have to wait this time.
I hold my little ones
and weep.
With a little water it would be easy.
My hand is shaking.
Some people say that life is hard and then we die.
So why not end it now, before the hard part gets too big?
There is nothing better than nothing.
Now I see my children.
They are crying.
I am on the floor asleep.
Their sobbing will not wake me any more.
They beg for my attention.
They sit, pathetically lingering by my side
alone.
The pills will have to wait this time.
I hold my little ones
and weep.
Hope in ALL things
I've spent more than twenty years feeling the urgent need to share my experiences with depression. The trouble has always been that sitting down to get the job done was rather frankly, depressing. As contradictory as it may seem, you've got to be positive if you're going to survive mental illness. How do you hand out perky advice when every time you approach the subject, you end up feeling worse? I've made hundreds of attempts, only to give up, but this time will be different.
This time I'm breaking it down into smaller segments, thus the 'blog' concept. If I spit this out in regular chunks, good or bad, like it or not, what needs to be said will be said. My concience will be cleared. My pride, which tends to make me write and rewrite and then write again, will just have to deal. Pride has probably been my Achilles heel in the matter anyway.
So, here I am writing. I'm going to include my poems and explanations following my poems. Maybe if I just follow the trail of poems and stories, eventually it will become clear how very hopefull the world of depression, of mental illness for that matter, can truly be. As the scriptures say, I fully believe there is hope in all things. That includes depression. Maybe if you read more, you will know what I mean.
This time I'm breaking it down into smaller segments, thus the 'blog' concept. If I spit this out in regular chunks, good or bad, like it or not, what needs to be said will be said. My concience will be cleared. My pride, which tends to make me write and rewrite and then write again, will just have to deal. Pride has probably been my Achilles heel in the matter anyway.
So, here I am writing. I'm going to include my poems and explanations following my poems. Maybe if I just follow the trail of poems and stories, eventually it will become clear how very hopefull the world of depression, of mental illness for that matter, can truly be. As the scriptures say, I fully believe there is hope in all things. That includes depression. Maybe if you read more, you will know what I mean.
Suicidal Thoughts Post
This poem is like a pivotal fulcrum for me. One morning probably around two months after my daughter had been born I was getting ready to go to work. My son and new baby both had to be dropped off at the daycare home. I was faced with the overwhelming task of picking up the mess left behind by a substitute teacher who had unexpectedly had to stay weeks longer because I had ended up hospitalized for postpartem psychosis. That morning it felt like too much. I'd bought a box of Unisom pills and was seriously thinking about downing the whole lot.
Then I looked at my children, two beautiful, innocent children who would never understand why mommy was asleep, why mommy wasn't going to ever wake up. It was something they didn't deserve, something I realized I could not allow to happen. So in spite of the terrible pain, the fear, that tremendous want to no longer be I chose to go on.
Sad as it may seem, it is a message of hope. I knew I had a reason to hold on even when I could not see how there could ever be any hope. That vision I had of my children was a gift from God, reminding me of what was most important.
Then I looked at my children, two beautiful, innocent children who would never understand why mommy was asleep, why mommy wasn't going to ever wake up. It was something they didn't deserve, something I realized I could not allow to happen. So in spite of the terrible pain, the fear, that tremendous want to no longer be I chose to go on.
Sad as it may seem, it is a message of hope. I knew I had a reason to hold on even when I could not see how there could ever be any hope. That vision I had of my children was a gift from God, reminding me of what was most important.
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