Last night gave me a big scare. It is extremely easy to have someone going through terrible pain and suffering due to mental illness right in front of you, while you do not have a clue that something is wrong. I am a great example of that conundrum.
When I was growing up you could easily have called me an over achiever. On top of earning good grades and taking advanced placement courses, I was heavily involved in all kinds of activities. My acting career began when I was eight. I was cast in a leading role in a university production. Not long after that I was in a television show for PBS. At the age of sixteen I earned the lead role in a production which toured Europe and was televised there. That was all on top of what I did through my high school and community theater.
Of course, that wasn’t enough for me. I was also an active, successful participant on the Forensics team, in DECA club, and choir, winning state and national awards as well as serving in many leadership positions. Since the age of eight I played the piano. My first composition won an award. Later on, at the age of fourteen, another piece I composed won a very important national honor.
By the time I graduated from high school I had already earned enough university credits to be classified as a sophomore. I pushed myself hard and believed I was unstoppable.
The over achieving alone was a sign of things to come. It’s not normal for a kid to do so much. All the time there was this constant pressure inside me telling me I needed to be more, to do more, that I wasn’t good enough.
There were down times which were like being trapped in a black hole. I would isolate myself, completely convinced no one wanted to be my friend. For hours I’d lay on the bed in my room staring at the ceiling.
I’d come home from dates and various activities only to break down sobbing in hopelessness. My parents brushed it off as teenage angst, PMS, and exhaustion, all very reasonable explanations. No one could have known It was all bipolar behavior. Back then no one knew about bipolar disorder. Little was known about depression.
At one point, after my mother had my brother, her fourth child, she went into a very serious depression. My parents went to great lengths to shield we kids from what was going on, but things were bad enough that I remember my dad sitting us down, explaining how mommy needed some extra help. She spent a lot of time locked in her bedroom. I don’t think my parents ever considered getting her medical help beyond some basic advice. They knew it was postpartum depression and figured over time it would pass.
So how would a person know if someone like me needed help? The real indicators didn’t show up until after I got married at the very young age of eighteen. The stress I put on myself boiled over. My memory began to deteriorate. I began having panic attacks - although I didn’t know what panic attacks were at the time. My headaches increased. My emotions became extremely unstable to the point that my husband began to wonder what happened to the girl he thought he had married.
Since much of my problem is based in my hormones, taking birth control pills made everything worse. I gained ten pounds of water weight, which made me hate myself even more than I had.
Hate myself you wonder? Yes. I was in a constant race against myself trying to prove that I was a person of value and importance. When we were courting, it took my husband an entire day of constantly lingering at my side, demanding an answer, until I finally admitted I loved him. It was too terrifying to make myself so vulnerable. On the surface I tried so hard to put on the face of confidence and control while inwardly I could find one reason after another why people would have good reason to reject me.
Not even a full year into our marriage the indicators were clear that I was having some serious problems. My extreme mood swings, the memory loss, inability to concentrate, insecure need for constant reassurance from my husband that he loved me, that I was indeed lovable, were all clear signs.
The two of us decided I could no longer take birth control pills. That was a wise decision. Beyond that we didn’t think there was a problem. Soon after, I went back to my old habits of thinking I could do anything. I piled mountains of stress on myself - working part time, attending school with more than a full time credit load, performing in a professional traveling show for extra income, and so on.
After two years of marriage we decided one of us had to graduate. Financially speaking, one of us needed to be working full time. I was the one closest to being done. I was the idiot who believed I could do anything, so we decided I was the one who had to finish school. With special permission from the university (due to my good grades) I took on a class load which was twice as much as the number of credits considered to be full time.
One month in I found out I was pregnant. The first thing that came to my mind was the stories I’d heard of how Chinese women would be working in the fields, pop out a baby, and return to their task. I figured if so many other women could do so much while they were pregnant, I wasn’t going to let it slow me down in any way.
For obvious reasons, I did have to quit the traveling show I was in. Otherwise I continued working, getting in as many extra hours as I could. It was unquestionably insane.
In December of that year our apartment building was sold to a new investor who decided to raise the rent considerably. It was far beyond our budget. In order to complete my required student teaching winter semester I had no choice but to quit my part time job. The loss of my income was too crushing. When we were unable to find another affordable place, we ended up moving in with my parents.
Although my parents were wonderful about the whole thing, our situation only became worse. My husband was mortified that we were living with his in-laws. The weight of his responsibility of being a provider was crushing him. We had a child on the way. My huge belly was a constant reminder of that impending lifelong commitment. He was scared.
I didn’t have time to get scared. Every day I had to be at the high school working the same hours as the drama teacher I was assigned as my mentor. In theater school doesn’t end when the bell rings. Always there are rehearsals lasting at least until 5:00. Saturdays were required. On top of that, I was still trying to take an evening course.
I was exhausted, overwhelmed. This strange, constant nagging pain was in the top of my head. My ability to focus was slipping.
By the time winter semester ended, even though we couldn’t afford it, I’d found us an apartment. It was clear my husband couldn’t deal with living with my parents any more and I needed to have my baby in my own home.
I went into a crazy cleaning frenzy just before we moved in. Any kind of dirt or mess within my home had become a point of extreme distress and aggravation. I’d start cleaning, but the more I cleaned, the more I realized there was no way I could get rid of all the dirt. It was probably the first time I ever noticed my own odd obsessive compulsive behavior.
We moved. The pain in my head continued to grow worse. Everything in general seemed worse. I couldn’t concentrate on any of my school work. When I could concentrate for a moment or two I’d end up falling asleep. With my student teaching completed I was able to return to my job. My credit load was higher than ever. Just to get everything in before August graduation I was working to test out of a number of classes. In the mean time I was scheduling interviews with local schools for teaching positions.
Midway through spring term on a Friday my son was born. I actually had to call a principal from the hospital to cancel an employment interview. Determined to not let anything keep me down, I was back in class by the following Tuesday.
Things start getting blurry after that. My husband and I were so thrilled with our new son. I wanted to be everything for him. Since I was breast feeding I was up all night, never able to get any kind of regular sleep. During the day I have little ‘black outs.’ I’d be doing one thing, like walking to class, then I’d find myself in a whole other place. The missing time was nominal. I don’t think I even noticed it was happening at first. Then, when it started as I was driving, it increasingly began to scare me.
All the same, I blamed it on exhaustion and did not allow myself to think it was anything serious. Somehow I survived spring term. Summer started. I was six weeks away from graduating. Everything was still on schedule.
I don’t know what I looked like to my husband. He was worn to the bone just like me, doing hard labor full time as a roofer over the summer. At night I’d been trying to let him sleep even though the baby kept me up. Outwardly I was going to great lengths trying to convince everyone including myself that I was fine.
I already wrote about the hallucinations that began (The Brain Tumor). They were what prompted me to go to my doctor. I was convinced the only reasonable explanation for me to be having such horrible hallucinations, black outs, memory loss, and constant headaches, had to be a brain tumor. That one misconceived notion probably saved my life.
There were signs and symptoms all over the place, but no one noticed, not even me until it was almost too late. That is one of the most fearsome things about mental illness. Someone can be falling apart right in front of your own face. If you don’t know what to look for, you could miss it entirely - an oftentimes very fatal mistake.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Know Your Limits
If you think life is hard as a young parent, even as the parent of a teenager, you are in for a rude awakening when you become the parent of an adult. All of a sudden the controls you've been accustomed to having are gone. You can't tell your kid what to do - well, you can, but it doesn't mean much. There comes a time when you have to let go and accept the fact that your kid isn't a kid any more. He or she needs to make their own decisions, their own mistakes, and live with them without you to cushion the fall.
You know that story about the little boy who's father is in a dark hole. The father calls to him, telling him to jump into his arms, saying he'll be safe because his dad will catch him. The boy jumps. Dad catches him. Happy ending. It's supposed to be all about faith.
Well, with the adult child you have to say - hey kid, there's the hole; jump if you want; if you break your leg I'm sorry, it's your choice, but I'm not down there waiting to catch you. The lesson is still about faith - having faith in your kid. That doesn't make it any easier. I remember back when I left home. I made some stupid mistakes, paid the price for them, all while my poor parents had to watch. Like the wonderful parents they always were, they always supported me regardless of my own foolishness.
Big sigh.
That's the way it is with anyone you love who's all grown up. You can tell them what to do until you're blue in the face. You can break your back trying to save them from themselves, but in the end, no matter how hard you try, the only person who can make change happen is the person.
It's a good plan. God made it up. I trust Him. I wouldn't want anyone to take away my right to choose, so why should I ever think to take something so precious from anyone else?
All of this is from a very emotionally drained person, so if it sounds dreary, I'm sincerely sorry. It's just a harsh lesson I'm learning - kind of like drinking through a fire hose right now. I'm losing my kids to that dark hole they're jumping into. I don't know the outcome. It scares me. I honestly believe in the end, things will work out great. We all have our insecure moments. This one is mine.
You know that story about the little boy who's father is in a dark hole. The father calls to him, telling him to jump into his arms, saying he'll be safe because his dad will catch him. The boy jumps. Dad catches him. Happy ending. It's supposed to be all about faith.
Well, with the adult child you have to say - hey kid, there's the hole; jump if you want; if you break your leg I'm sorry, it's your choice, but I'm not down there waiting to catch you. The lesson is still about faith - having faith in your kid. That doesn't make it any easier. I remember back when I left home. I made some stupid mistakes, paid the price for them, all while my poor parents had to watch. Like the wonderful parents they always were, they always supported me regardless of my own foolishness.
Big sigh.
That's the way it is with anyone you love who's all grown up. You can tell them what to do until you're blue in the face. You can break your back trying to save them from themselves, but in the end, no matter how hard you try, the only person who can make change happen is the person.
It's a good plan. God made it up. I trust Him. I wouldn't want anyone to take away my right to choose, so why should I ever think to take something so precious from anyone else?
All of this is from a very emotionally drained person, so if it sounds dreary, I'm sincerely sorry. It's just a harsh lesson I'm learning - kind of like drinking through a fire hose right now. I'm losing my kids to that dark hole they're jumping into. I don't know the outcome. It scares me. I honestly believe in the end, things will work out great. We all have our insecure moments. This one is mine.
Monday, February 22, 2010
THIS IS SUPER IMPORTANT!!!
Please, if someone you know or love is showing signs of utter hopelessness, do something about it! Right now I'm beating myself up inside. I just got an email from someone I care about very much. He's been struggling for a long time. About a year ago he was in a hospital program for a number of weeks. The only reason he was there was because I'd insisted he had to do something to help himself. For a while he was doing better. He went off to school, got a job, seemed to be doing okay. He was certainly doing a good job of making things look like he was doing okay when he really wasn't. Now things are extremely bad. He has no hope at all for himself. When I told him to go to the emergency room at the hospital, he said it was pointless, he was never going to get better. The next step to that kind of attitude is suicide. I'm sure the only thing that has kept him alive this long is his religious beliefs.
Now I feel sick inside because I didn't see things for what they are sooner. I'm blaming myself for not catching on to how serious his problems really are. Nobody wants to have mental illness. Nobody wants someone they love to have mental illness. It is so very easy to pass things off like they're a passing phase, or have the attitude that it will pass over time. But to be honest, when you see signs of trouble, you've got to take them seriously.
I thought it was ridiculous the first time anyone told me to go to the emergency room due to my own mental health. I didn't consider myself to be in the midst of that kind of serious crisis. The truth of the matter is, a mental health crisis often ends in death. Death is pretty serious.
At least I know now that he's on his way to getting help. He's alive. I let him know something had to be done. I've done what I can do. I'll never give up.
Now I feel sick inside because I didn't see things for what they are sooner. I'm blaming myself for not catching on to how serious his problems really are. Nobody wants to have mental illness. Nobody wants someone they love to have mental illness. It is so very easy to pass things off like they're a passing phase, or have the attitude that it will pass over time. But to be honest, when you see signs of trouble, you've got to take them seriously.
I thought it was ridiculous the first time anyone told me to go to the emergency room due to my own mental health. I didn't consider myself to be in the midst of that kind of serious crisis. The truth of the matter is, a mental health crisis often ends in death. Death is pretty serious.
At least I know now that he's on his way to getting help. He's alive. I let him know something had to be done. I've done what I can do. I'll never give up.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Finding a Good Counselor or Therapist
Finding the right person for you can be tough. First, if such services are covered by your health plan, you need to be sure to find someone within your health plan. I would suggest that instead of looking up the list of providers online or listed by your insurance, first ask friends, neighbors, and co-workers if they know of anyone good. Make calls to the offices people suggest, asking if they take your insurance plan. Usually they will. If not, move on to the next most popular referral until you do find someone who will work.
The same principle applies to people who may not have insurance coverage. You are going to want the most bang for your buck. Get the same referrals from your friends, then call and ask about cash pay discounts that may be available. It may take you some time making phone calls, but in the end you could save yourself a lot of money and heartache.
One thing to consider is the gender of the therapist. If you call in to a group of therapists that is the first question you’ll be asked. Do you want a man or a woman? You may be more comfortable with a woman than you are with a man or vice versa. For myself, I’ve come to find that men tend to be more logical and less emotional. Women are generally empathetic and understanding. The best therapists for me have always been men. They suit my personality, filling my need for logical efficiency. I even prefer therapeutic self help books written by men rather than women. Thus far, all of my kids have done better with men as well. You, however, will have your own set of needs, so this is something you need to seriously consider.
Once you’ve found someone do not think the matter is finished. Your first visit will be a big indicator as to whether you will get along with this person or not. Based on my own experience it takes at least three separate visits before you know for certain if a person is really a good match for you or not.
At one time I went to a great deal of trouble trying to find the best possible person for my daughter. I checked every possible resource. This lady was supposed to be a big specialist in dealing with teenagers with my daughter’s specific kind of problem. For the first appointment I went with her to see how well they did with each other. A couple of appointments later my daughter called me up, sobbing uncontrollably because of something the therapist had said. After a great deal of discussion I finally figured out that the therapist and my daughter did not understand each other when it came to religion. The therapist was telling her what she thought my daughter needed, when in fact, her comments were making her feel far worse. It was not the fault of the therapist, or my daughter, or either person’s religion for that matter. They just did not understand each other.
In truth, my daughter had to go to three different therapists before she was able to find someone who was right for her. Now that she has the right person, she’s finally seeing her problems for what they are and taking steps toward doing what she can to help herself get better.
Be patient. Be persistent. Eventually you’ll find the right person. Don’t give up.
The same principle applies to people who may not have insurance coverage. You are going to want the most bang for your buck. Get the same referrals from your friends, then call and ask about cash pay discounts that may be available. It may take you some time making phone calls, but in the end you could save yourself a lot of money and heartache.
One thing to consider is the gender of the therapist. If you call in to a group of therapists that is the first question you’ll be asked. Do you want a man or a woman? You may be more comfortable with a woman than you are with a man or vice versa. For myself, I’ve come to find that men tend to be more logical and less emotional. Women are generally empathetic and understanding. The best therapists for me have always been men. They suit my personality, filling my need for logical efficiency. I even prefer therapeutic self help books written by men rather than women. Thus far, all of my kids have done better with men as well. You, however, will have your own set of needs, so this is something you need to seriously consider.
Once you’ve found someone do not think the matter is finished. Your first visit will be a big indicator as to whether you will get along with this person or not. Based on my own experience it takes at least three separate visits before you know for certain if a person is really a good match for you or not.
At one time I went to a great deal of trouble trying to find the best possible person for my daughter. I checked every possible resource. This lady was supposed to be a big specialist in dealing with teenagers with my daughter’s specific kind of problem. For the first appointment I went with her to see how well they did with each other. A couple of appointments later my daughter called me up, sobbing uncontrollably because of something the therapist had said. After a great deal of discussion I finally figured out that the therapist and my daughter did not understand each other when it came to religion. The therapist was telling her what she thought my daughter needed, when in fact, her comments were making her feel far worse. It was not the fault of the therapist, or my daughter, or either person’s religion for that matter. They just did not understand each other.
In truth, my daughter had to go to three different therapists before she was able to find someone who was right for her. Now that she has the right person, she’s finally seeing her problems for what they are and taking steps toward doing what she can to help herself get better.
Be patient. Be persistent. Eventually you’ll find the right person. Don’t give up.
A Word About Psychologists
I’ll tell you point blank, I don’t like psychologists. My overall experience has been that they tend to make more problems for you, not resolve the ones you already have. Just recently my daughter was hospitalized for a relatively minor problem. The hospital counselors were saying that she urgently needed to have ‘family counseling,’ that she had some seriously messed up issues with her two siblings.
Okay, I already knew she had some issues with her siblings. I also knew those sibling issues were getting blown way out of proportion because of her momentary mental state. What she really needed was to get the right combination of meds working for her. Once that was in place, anything with her brother and sister would fix itself as well as it could be fixed.
That’s been my experience almost every time someone has been hospitalized. Because there is mandatory counseling involved it’s like the counselors have to validate themselves by making problems for the patients. My other daughter was told she had huge problems with her father. All of a sudden, on top of all the distress she had in the first place, she was even more upset. Sure, she did have a little problem with her dad, but it was nothing like what they were making it out to be. Once again, as soon as she was mentally stable and had the right meds, there was no problem.
I’ve had the same thing happen to me. Blame has been placed on my parents, my husband, my religion, when in truth, all of those factors were by far more helpful and supportive than they could have ever been damaging. That kind of thing infuriates me. The terminology I use is that counseling is more retroactive than proactive.
Even in the case of people who do have legitimate, traumatic experiences which have left them emotionally crippled, they need positive things they can do to overcome those hard times. If the discussion isn’t bringing the individual closer to healing, what is the point? A counselor cannot become obtusely engrossed in the problem itself. I daresay all kinds of so called counselors have made all kinds of money off of simply listening to people go on and on about themselves and their problems. The patient leaves feeling better because there is a cathartic effect which comes from having someone simply listen. In the long run, however, they’re not any closer to an actual resolution.
In order to get better you need more than a listener. What you need is someone who can realistically help you to identify your problems, then provide you with the steps you need to take to overcome those problems. There are counselors out there who can be very helpful. The trick is in finding someone who will work well for you.
Okay, I already knew she had some issues with her siblings. I also knew those sibling issues were getting blown way out of proportion because of her momentary mental state. What she really needed was to get the right combination of meds working for her. Once that was in place, anything with her brother and sister would fix itself as well as it could be fixed.
That’s been my experience almost every time someone has been hospitalized. Because there is mandatory counseling involved it’s like the counselors have to validate themselves by making problems for the patients. My other daughter was told she had huge problems with her father. All of a sudden, on top of all the distress she had in the first place, she was even more upset. Sure, she did have a little problem with her dad, but it was nothing like what they were making it out to be. Once again, as soon as she was mentally stable and had the right meds, there was no problem.
I’ve had the same thing happen to me. Blame has been placed on my parents, my husband, my religion, when in truth, all of those factors were by far more helpful and supportive than they could have ever been damaging. That kind of thing infuriates me. The terminology I use is that counseling is more retroactive than proactive.
Even in the case of people who do have legitimate, traumatic experiences which have left them emotionally crippled, they need positive things they can do to overcome those hard times. If the discussion isn’t bringing the individual closer to healing, what is the point? A counselor cannot become obtusely engrossed in the problem itself. I daresay all kinds of so called counselors have made all kinds of money off of simply listening to people go on and on about themselves and their problems. The patient leaves feeling better because there is a cathartic effect which comes from having someone simply listen. In the long run, however, they’re not any closer to an actual resolution.
In order to get better you need more than a listener. What you need is someone who can realistically help you to identify your problems, then provide you with the steps you need to take to overcome those problems. There are counselors out there who can be very helpful. The trick is in finding someone who will work well for you.
The Difference Between Psychologists and Psychiatrists
A lot of people seem to be confused regarding the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist. Psychiatrists are medical doctors. They have gone through the traditional training required for any M.D., then have had additional training to specialize in psychiatric medicine. The main thing you need to keep in mind is that Psychiatrists can prescribe medications. They are familiar with the physical as well as mental aspects of the conditions they treat.
Psychologists earn degrees much like educators. They can obtain a Bachelors degree only or advance further to earn a Masters. Their highest level of education is a Doctorate, but even though you can refer to a psychologist as a ‘doctor,’ they are not doctors in the medical sense, but rather doctors like a professor at a university. The degree designates the level of their education, not an education in medicine.
Obviously, it takes a lot more time, effort and education to become a psychiatrist. Their time is very valuable. Nowadays the primary function of a psychiatrist is to prescribe and manage medications. This means that the average psychiatric office visit is only be about fifteen minutes long.
On the other hand, the average psychologist or counseling visit, is about forty-five minutes. It’s kind of like you give your psychologist the full version of your personal novel while you give your psychiatrist the abbreviated version. In most instances, psychiatrists will tell their patients to get further support through a counselor. You sign a release which allows the two to share information so that your needs are more fully and efficiently met.
Not all mental patients need to see a psychiatrist in order to obtain treatment. If you need a mild to moderate degree of medication you can oftentimes work through your primary care doctor and/or their physician’s assistant, nurse practitioner, etc. Usually they will strongly urge you to meet with a counselor as well, which helps them monitor you more efficiently, just like a psychiatrist.
If you think you have a problem, I would recommend that you see your primary care doctor first, then go from there. You may or may not need medication. They could simply send you to counseling, but it is always wise to get a medical opinion.
Psychologists earn degrees much like educators. They can obtain a Bachelors degree only or advance further to earn a Masters. Their highest level of education is a Doctorate, but even though you can refer to a psychologist as a ‘doctor,’ they are not doctors in the medical sense, but rather doctors like a professor at a university. The degree designates the level of their education, not an education in medicine.
Obviously, it takes a lot more time, effort and education to become a psychiatrist. Their time is very valuable. Nowadays the primary function of a psychiatrist is to prescribe and manage medications. This means that the average psychiatric office visit is only be about fifteen minutes long.
On the other hand, the average psychologist or counseling visit, is about forty-five minutes. It’s kind of like you give your psychologist the full version of your personal novel while you give your psychiatrist the abbreviated version. In most instances, psychiatrists will tell their patients to get further support through a counselor. You sign a release which allows the two to share information so that your needs are more fully and efficiently met.
Not all mental patients need to see a psychiatrist in order to obtain treatment. If you need a mild to moderate degree of medication you can oftentimes work through your primary care doctor and/or their physician’s assistant, nurse practitioner, etc. Usually they will strongly urge you to meet with a counselor as well, which helps them monitor you more efficiently, just like a psychiatrist.
If you think you have a problem, I would recommend that you see your primary care doctor first, then go from there. You may or may not need medication. They could simply send you to counseling, but it is always wise to get a medical opinion.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Forgiveness
In the fall of 1990 I was still struggling with postpartum depression. A new school year had begun, which meant I was back to working on a full time basis. That alone was making life hard. Trying to get up early, drag both my kids out of bed to get them to the sitter and myself to the school before 7:30 was tough.
Due to financial duress, we’d sold our second car. All kinds of new transportation issues complicated our lives. My husband was working to finish all of his pre-med courses. The big hope was that the next fall we’d be off to medical school. We both knew that was going to be a huge challenge, especially since we already had two kids, but my husband had always talked of how he wanted to be a doctor. I truly wanted him to have an occupation which would make him happy, so I figured it was worth the sacrifice.
All the same, I was constantly racked with guilt, feeling like I was failing my kids. How could I be leaving them to be raised by practical strangers? My beautiful daughter had nearly died because of me, because my mind had turned to mush. Others had to care for her. That was how she had caught the pneumonia. More than seven months had passed since that incident, yet it continued to torment me. Even though my job was an unquestionable necessity, it did not make things any easier for me mentally, especially regarding that subject.
Then, one Sunday while we were at church I was standing outside the classroom during Sunday School trying to keep my daughter under control. She was tired, yet excited and curious to be around so many people. Patiently I held her in my arms, rocking her until finally she succumbed to her need for sleep.
All was still and quiet. It felt so wonderful to be there, comforting my child, knowing I was the one who was there for her, not someone else. Suddenly a tremendous wave of guilt hit me. How could I have not been there for her so much of the time? Tears were welling in my eyes. I hated myself so much for being so weak, so inadequate, I literally felt like the pain alone should have been enough to kill me.
Then, the strangest, most wonderful thing happened. It was as if my daughter had sensed my thoughts. Her very soul began whispering to me, telling me of her love for me, how she was so happy to be my child. I was literally overwhelmed by the sudden sense of love and total, unquestionable forgiveness I felt, from an infant. How could a child so small even know how to communicate such articulate emotions? Yet, I knew without a doubt, it was her speaking to me. Somehow she knew.
For a long time I sat there, holding my little one, being blessed with a kind of peace I had not felt in a very long time.
To be honest, I haven’t written about this before. It always seemed too fantastic, too impossible to believe. Some experiences are so deeply intertwined with your very soul, you know without a doubt how true they really are while at the same time can understand how very strangely impossible it may be to someone else.
For myself, I know. My daughter spoke to me that day. She wholeheartedly forgave me. She loved me without reserve. For a brief moment, we were one. I have no doubt it was a gift from God, one which has comforted me often.
Due to financial duress, we’d sold our second car. All kinds of new transportation issues complicated our lives. My husband was working to finish all of his pre-med courses. The big hope was that the next fall we’d be off to medical school. We both knew that was going to be a huge challenge, especially since we already had two kids, but my husband had always talked of how he wanted to be a doctor. I truly wanted him to have an occupation which would make him happy, so I figured it was worth the sacrifice.
All the same, I was constantly racked with guilt, feeling like I was failing my kids. How could I be leaving them to be raised by practical strangers? My beautiful daughter had nearly died because of me, because my mind had turned to mush. Others had to care for her. That was how she had caught the pneumonia. More than seven months had passed since that incident, yet it continued to torment me. Even though my job was an unquestionable necessity, it did not make things any easier for me mentally, especially regarding that subject.
Then, one Sunday while we were at church I was standing outside the classroom during Sunday School trying to keep my daughter under control. She was tired, yet excited and curious to be around so many people. Patiently I held her in my arms, rocking her until finally she succumbed to her need for sleep.
All was still and quiet. It felt so wonderful to be there, comforting my child, knowing I was the one who was there for her, not someone else. Suddenly a tremendous wave of guilt hit me. How could I have not been there for her so much of the time? Tears were welling in my eyes. I hated myself so much for being so weak, so inadequate, I literally felt like the pain alone should have been enough to kill me.
Then, the strangest, most wonderful thing happened. It was as if my daughter had sensed my thoughts. Her very soul began whispering to me, telling me of her love for me, how she was so happy to be my child. I was literally overwhelmed by the sudden sense of love and total, unquestionable forgiveness I felt, from an infant. How could a child so small even know how to communicate such articulate emotions? Yet, I knew without a doubt, it was her speaking to me. Somehow she knew.
For a long time I sat there, holding my little one, being blessed with a kind of peace I had not felt in a very long time.
To be honest, I haven’t written about this before. It always seemed too fantastic, too impossible to believe. Some experiences are so deeply intertwined with your very soul, you know without a doubt how true they really are while at the same time can understand how very strangely impossible it may be to someone else.
For myself, I know. My daughter spoke to me that day. She wholeheartedly forgave me. She loved me without reserve. For a brief moment, we were one. I have no doubt it was a gift from God, one which has comforted me often.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Beast
I am really anxious right now. You should see me bouncing up and down on the couch, unable to stay still, wondering half the time what is wrong with me. Half the time? You repeat to yourself . . . Yes. Well. I know the reason why I’m going bonkers. There’s this really great app I have on my iphone that helps me keep track of my, ahem, female hormonal cycle. The Beast is on the brink, very much on the brink, clearly explaining why I am having issues.
For me, hormones are at the very root of my mental problems. It is the sudden hormonal changes which occur after the birth of a child which drive me into postpartum psychosis. As I’m growing older, advancing toward the great change, my hormones are back to causing me all kinds of increasingly devilish trouble. And, of course, the most reliably worst time of the month is here, right now upon me.
The funny thing is, as I mentioned, half the time I’m still wondering what is wrong with me. You’d think I’d know for a fact - oh yeah, it’s that same monthly friend of mine ready for it’s next visit. For some silly reason, though, somehow between the simple actions of the day, I forget why I’m feeling so messed up. Suddenly, as I’m sitting on the couch watching the Olympics, wrenching my hands over watching some random curling match of all things, I realize, oh, this emotional response doesn’t make sense! Tomorrow’s the big day! You’re not nuts. You’re just HORMONAL.
Confidentially, I think a lot of people would save themselves a lot of stress if they just kept in mind that a little madness once a month is actually rather normal. I say this to include men just as much as women since this sudden emotional surge often baffles men far more than it baffles we women who actually are the ones who are raving.
That said, I feel much better. I am still very agitated. I’ve been making concessions for myself all day. Now that I know there’s a bonafide issue at hand I have the comfort of also knowing those concessions were justified. I guess I can go back to being a vegetable and watch some more TV.
For me, hormones are at the very root of my mental problems. It is the sudden hormonal changes which occur after the birth of a child which drive me into postpartum psychosis. As I’m growing older, advancing toward the great change, my hormones are back to causing me all kinds of increasingly devilish trouble. And, of course, the most reliably worst time of the month is here, right now upon me.
The funny thing is, as I mentioned, half the time I’m still wondering what is wrong with me. You’d think I’d know for a fact - oh yeah, it’s that same monthly friend of mine ready for it’s next visit. For some silly reason, though, somehow between the simple actions of the day, I forget why I’m feeling so messed up. Suddenly, as I’m sitting on the couch watching the Olympics, wrenching my hands over watching some random curling match of all things, I realize, oh, this emotional response doesn’t make sense! Tomorrow’s the big day! You’re not nuts. You’re just HORMONAL.
Confidentially, I think a lot of people would save themselves a lot of stress if they just kept in mind that a little madness once a month is actually rather normal. I say this to include men just as much as women since this sudden emotional surge often baffles men far more than it baffles we women who actually are the ones who are raving.
That said, I feel much better. I am still very agitated. I’ve been making concessions for myself all day. Now that I know there’s a bonafide issue at hand I have the comfort of also knowing those concessions were justified. I guess I can go back to being a vegetable and watch some more TV.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentines Day 2010
“I’m so anti-Valentines Day this year.” grumbled my husband. “It’s a completely senseless holiday. Weren’t people executed on Valentines Day?”
“It doesn’t have a pleasant history.” I reply.
It’s Saturday, the day before the big V day. All the stores are acting like this is an urgent last minute affair now. If you wish to save your love life, this is the moment when you must step up to the plate and pay your dues.
I’ve scarcely done anything for the holiday. Lately it’s as if all the verve I once had for celebrations of any kind has dwindled down to near nothingness.
Twenty years ago times were far more challenging. I had just barely been released from the mental ward at the hospital. The same day my infant daughter was released from pediatrics. Her severe case of pneumonia had significantly, if not miraculously, cleared. Although we were a far cry from being fine, I was overjoyed to have my family back together again.
One year later, it seemed appropriate to celebrate. Before picking our kids up from the sitter, my husband and I snuck out to a local supermarket to buy our kids some fun things to show them our love. Balloons were a must. What small child doesn’t enjoy balloons? We bought them little coloring books, a puzzle for my son, a cuddly little rabbit for my daughter. At home we laid everything out as if a second Christmas had arrived, then went to get our kids.
I will never forget the excitement of our two little kids as they saw what was waiting for them. My daughter, who had just barely begun walking, did a crazy tottering dance while hugging the rabbit. No one could get enough of the helium balloons and the wonder of how they managed to so stubbornly defy gravity.
Suddenly, with the passing of that one Valentines day, a tradition was born. Year, after year, I treated the holiday as something far more than just a time to exchange flowers and candy. Our kids always got clothes, a necessity made nicer in the form of a gift. They always got at least one toy as well. Candy and balloons were a given. In my mind we were celebrating the reunion of our family at a time of year when we had thought, perhaps, our family was lost.
Now, nineteen years later, two of our kids are gone off to school. One will soon be married. Only one remains at home. Things have changed.
I figured there was nothing to be done, or worried about for that matter. For my part, I bought a lot of candy, sent a lot of it off to our college student clan, then kept some for the few of us here. Clearly my husband had no intention of doing anything. He’d made enough comments over the last number of days that I didn’t have the will or inclination to argue.
Saturday night he decides he is bored enough to go check out the video store. Rather uncharacteristically, he doesn’t ask me if I want to go. I chalk it up to the fact that I haven’t been feeling well. Maybe he was trying to be considerate.
A few minutes later Scrooge shows up with a dozen red roses. He shrugs at me with a smile. “Well, I figured I may as well do something even if it is a stupid holiday.”
Stupid holiday or not, he’s made this one for me. Once again, I remember how much I love him.
“It doesn’t have a pleasant history.” I reply.
It’s Saturday, the day before the big V day. All the stores are acting like this is an urgent last minute affair now. If you wish to save your love life, this is the moment when you must step up to the plate and pay your dues.
I’ve scarcely done anything for the holiday. Lately it’s as if all the verve I once had for celebrations of any kind has dwindled down to near nothingness.
Twenty years ago times were far more challenging. I had just barely been released from the mental ward at the hospital. The same day my infant daughter was released from pediatrics. Her severe case of pneumonia had significantly, if not miraculously, cleared. Although we were a far cry from being fine, I was overjoyed to have my family back together again.
One year later, it seemed appropriate to celebrate. Before picking our kids up from the sitter, my husband and I snuck out to a local supermarket to buy our kids some fun things to show them our love. Balloons were a must. What small child doesn’t enjoy balloons? We bought them little coloring books, a puzzle for my son, a cuddly little rabbit for my daughter. At home we laid everything out as if a second Christmas had arrived, then went to get our kids.
I will never forget the excitement of our two little kids as they saw what was waiting for them. My daughter, who had just barely begun walking, did a crazy tottering dance while hugging the rabbit. No one could get enough of the helium balloons and the wonder of how they managed to so stubbornly defy gravity.
Suddenly, with the passing of that one Valentines day, a tradition was born. Year, after year, I treated the holiday as something far more than just a time to exchange flowers and candy. Our kids always got clothes, a necessity made nicer in the form of a gift. They always got at least one toy as well. Candy and balloons were a given. In my mind we were celebrating the reunion of our family at a time of year when we had thought, perhaps, our family was lost.
Now, nineteen years later, two of our kids are gone off to school. One will soon be married. Only one remains at home. Things have changed.
I figured there was nothing to be done, or worried about for that matter. For my part, I bought a lot of candy, sent a lot of it off to our college student clan, then kept some for the few of us here. Clearly my husband had no intention of doing anything. He’d made enough comments over the last number of days that I didn’t have the will or inclination to argue.
Saturday night he decides he is bored enough to go check out the video store. Rather uncharacteristically, he doesn’t ask me if I want to go. I chalk it up to the fact that I haven’t been feeling well. Maybe he was trying to be considerate.
A few minutes later Scrooge shows up with a dozen red roses. He shrugs at me with a smile. “Well, I figured I may as well do something even if it is a stupid holiday.”
Stupid holiday or not, he’s made this one for me. Once again, I remember how much I love him.
Cream of Mushroom Soup
Early spring 1990
It was evening. Time for dinner. Someone had to do something about dinner, but I couldn’t think. There was too much rushing through my mind. Dust in the corner on the floor. Must clean the floor. Can’t clean floor. Dinner. What about dinner? Does the baby need a diaper change? Where’s the baby? Did I forget about the baby?! She’s okay - right? Where were they? What had I done? Mom and dad. Mom and dad took my kids. Remember? But they’ll be here soon.
Dinner needs to be here. Plates. Silverware. Glasses. Napkins. What do we put on the plates? MEATBALLS! I scream at myself. It’s meatballs with rice. Something in the back of my head is mumbling tacos, mac& cheese, Hamburger Helper... The list goes on and on, but now I’m determined. It’s meatballs. No changes allowed.
I mush the meat into balls and drop them into the sizzling pan. Water is boiling for the rice. It’s been a struggle, picking the right pots, making sure they’re not dirty. The slightest speck of anything makes my skin crawl. But there are specks everywhere!
Shut it out! Meatballs. You’re making meatballs. For a moment I gasp in air because I’ve forgotten to breathe, then the bombshell hits. I reach for a can of soup. We’ve always got soup.
It’s not there. I can’t find any cream of mushroom soup! How am I supposed to make rice and meatballs without the soup?! I’m in a panic. The rice is done. The meatballs are made. I’ve even heated up a can of green beans. I was doing so well! The table is set. What will my husband think? I’m such an incompetent wife, I can’t even fix dinner!
Someone is at the front door. It’s mom and dad with the kids.
“Dad!” I cry out urgently. “I need a can of cream of mushroom soup!”
“It’s okay honey. Calm down.” says my dad. Mom’s holding my baby. My daughter’s fiercely independent brother is making his own way into the apartment. They’re here. I’ve failed. Any minute now my husband is going to come see what a raw deal he got when he married me!
“I need soup. Please dad! Take me to the store so I can get soup?”
Mom mom nods to my dad like she’s okay with staying there with the kids. I feel even worse. Look at the way I’m burdening them...
Dad quickly ushers me into the car. I can do this. I can walk into the store and buy a can of soup. Just one can. No big deal. Breathe. The kids are okay. Dinner will be fine. My husband still loves me, right? Dad’s taking me to the store.
He pulls up to the curb, easily thinking it will be a quick in and out sort of deal. With the same attitude I run inside. Wow. There’s so much stuff - colors and lights and people! I’d really like to see that movie . . . five cans for a dollar! . .I’ve got a dollar . . . Oh. That’s for the soup. Find the soup!
It’s a miracle I find the aisle. Good job girl! Grab one and go! Oh no . . . Campbells or the generic, or what about the store brand? Generic is cheapest. I need to be cheap. But Campbell’s tastes better . . . I’m squabbling with myself over a matter of pennies! I know it is completely senseless, but I can’t help it. Just grab a stinking can!
I grab a can, get half way down the row only to run back and grab the other brand. This is agonizing. Why can’t I just make a decision? It’s just a can of soup!
Next thing I know I’m back in my dad’s car, no soup in my hands. It was too much for me to handle. There were too many choices. Tears are streaming down my face. Dad is distressed. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help. I can’t keep doing this to people. Tell him what to do! Tell him. Be fair. Fix this. Tell him.
“I can’t do it. I can’t decide.” I try to explain, “All I need is a can of cream of mushroom soup. I’ll give you the money. Please?”
Now he understands, at least for the moment. With a nod he steps out of the car. I’m so mortified I very desperately wish I could melt into the seat and simply disappear.
“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand . . .” I begin counting. It’s my method for passing time when time seems unendurable. The amount of effort it requires to stay focused on the task is tremendous. On a regular basis I lose track of what number I am on and have to start over. It doesn’t matter. The counting is what matters. As long as I am counting I know the seconds are passing.
The security guard is going to come arrest me. I don’t think security guards can arrest people. Other customers seem to be staring as they walk in and out of the store. I stare at the dashboard, doing my best to be invisible. The waiting seems nothing less than eternal when finally, like a miracle dropped out of heaven, my dad pops back into the car.
Stern, and business like - the way he always is when he’s worried - he drives me back to the apartment. Our car is waiting in the parking space. My husband is home. Look at the circus he had to face upon coming home this time! Why was I such a failure to him when above all else, he was the one I wanted to please?
Defeated, I walk inside. Somehow my mom’s finished the meatballs and rice for me. My son’s in his high chair, ready to go. His sister is rocking contentedly in her swing. Once again, my husband acts like it’s no big deal. In fact, it’s great I was able to get so much of dinner done. Mom completely downplays her part. She and my dad clear out quickly.
“I’m so sorry honey . . .” I mumble.
“Sorry for what?” he replies softly, “Everything is okay.”
He’s right. For the moment everything is okay. Unfortunately, we both know all too well how it will not last.
It was evening. Time for dinner. Someone had to do something about dinner, but I couldn’t think. There was too much rushing through my mind. Dust in the corner on the floor. Must clean the floor. Can’t clean floor. Dinner. What about dinner? Does the baby need a diaper change? Where’s the baby? Did I forget about the baby?! She’s okay - right? Where were they? What had I done? Mom and dad. Mom and dad took my kids. Remember? But they’ll be here soon.
Dinner needs to be here. Plates. Silverware. Glasses. Napkins. What do we put on the plates? MEATBALLS! I scream at myself. It’s meatballs with rice. Something in the back of my head is mumbling tacos, mac& cheese, Hamburger Helper... The list goes on and on, but now I’m determined. It’s meatballs. No changes allowed.
I mush the meat into balls and drop them into the sizzling pan. Water is boiling for the rice. It’s been a struggle, picking the right pots, making sure they’re not dirty. The slightest speck of anything makes my skin crawl. But there are specks everywhere!
Shut it out! Meatballs. You’re making meatballs. For a moment I gasp in air because I’ve forgotten to breathe, then the bombshell hits. I reach for a can of soup. We’ve always got soup.
It’s not there. I can’t find any cream of mushroom soup! How am I supposed to make rice and meatballs without the soup?! I’m in a panic. The rice is done. The meatballs are made. I’ve even heated up a can of green beans. I was doing so well! The table is set. What will my husband think? I’m such an incompetent wife, I can’t even fix dinner!
Someone is at the front door. It’s mom and dad with the kids.
“Dad!” I cry out urgently. “I need a can of cream of mushroom soup!”
“It’s okay honey. Calm down.” says my dad. Mom’s holding my baby. My daughter’s fiercely independent brother is making his own way into the apartment. They’re here. I’ve failed. Any minute now my husband is going to come see what a raw deal he got when he married me!
“I need soup. Please dad! Take me to the store so I can get soup?”
Mom mom nods to my dad like she’s okay with staying there with the kids. I feel even worse. Look at the way I’m burdening them...
Dad quickly ushers me into the car. I can do this. I can walk into the store and buy a can of soup. Just one can. No big deal. Breathe. The kids are okay. Dinner will be fine. My husband still loves me, right? Dad’s taking me to the store.
He pulls up to the curb, easily thinking it will be a quick in and out sort of deal. With the same attitude I run inside. Wow. There’s so much stuff - colors and lights and people! I’d really like to see that movie . . . five cans for a dollar! . .I’ve got a dollar . . . Oh. That’s for the soup. Find the soup!
It’s a miracle I find the aisle. Good job girl! Grab one and go! Oh no . . . Campbells or the generic, or what about the store brand? Generic is cheapest. I need to be cheap. But Campbell’s tastes better . . . I’m squabbling with myself over a matter of pennies! I know it is completely senseless, but I can’t help it. Just grab a stinking can!
I grab a can, get half way down the row only to run back and grab the other brand. This is agonizing. Why can’t I just make a decision? It’s just a can of soup!
Next thing I know I’m back in my dad’s car, no soup in my hands. It was too much for me to handle. There were too many choices. Tears are streaming down my face. Dad is distressed. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help. I can’t keep doing this to people. Tell him what to do! Tell him. Be fair. Fix this. Tell him.
“I can’t do it. I can’t decide.” I try to explain, “All I need is a can of cream of mushroom soup. I’ll give you the money. Please?”
Now he understands, at least for the moment. With a nod he steps out of the car. I’m so mortified I very desperately wish I could melt into the seat and simply disappear.
“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand . . .” I begin counting. It’s my method for passing time when time seems unendurable. The amount of effort it requires to stay focused on the task is tremendous. On a regular basis I lose track of what number I am on and have to start over. It doesn’t matter. The counting is what matters. As long as I am counting I know the seconds are passing.
The security guard is going to come arrest me. I don’t think security guards can arrest people. Other customers seem to be staring as they walk in and out of the store. I stare at the dashboard, doing my best to be invisible. The waiting seems nothing less than eternal when finally, like a miracle dropped out of heaven, my dad pops back into the car.
Stern, and business like - the way he always is when he’s worried - he drives me back to the apartment. Our car is waiting in the parking space. My husband is home. Look at the circus he had to face upon coming home this time! Why was I such a failure to him when above all else, he was the one I wanted to please?
Defeated, I walk inside. Somehow my mom’s finished the meatballs and rice for me. My son’s in his high chair, ready to go. His sister is rocking contentedly in her swing. Once again, my husband acts like it’s no big deal. In fact, it’s great I was able to get so much of dinner done. Mom completely downplays her part. She and my dad clear out quickly.
“I’m so sorry honey . . .” I mumble.
“Sorry for what?” he replies softly, “Everything is okay.”
He’s right. For the moment everything is okay. Unfortunately, we both know all too well how it will not last.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Take your Medication!!!
So today my daughter came home from school pretty much in total hysterics. I haven't seen her so bad off in quite some time. Between all of the crying and bits of barely coherent explanation, she was finally able to point out that she thought she had forgotten to take her medication, not once, but twice, for two whole days.
Suddenly cutting yourself off from your medication for whatever reason - intentional or otherwise - is not smart unless you're doing it under your doctor's supervision. Feel bad, feel good, feel whatever - take your medication! If it is someone you love who's taking the meds, do everything you can to make sure they stay on top of things.
I could embellish, and at some point, I probably will. Off the top of my head I can think of at least three different 'take your medication!' type life experiences I've been through. They'll get told soon enough. But for now, NEVER FAIL to TAKE YOUR MEDICATION! : )
Suddenly cutting yourself off from your medication for whatever reason - intentional or otherwise - is not smart unless you're doing it under your doctor's supervision. Feel bad, feel good, feel whatever - take your medication! If it is someone you love who's taking the meds, do everything you can to make sure they stay on top of things.
I could embellish, and at some point, I probably will. Off the top of my head I can think of at least three different 'take your medication!' type life experiences I've been through. They'll get told soon enough. But for now, NEVER FAIL to TAKE YOUR MEDICATION! : )
Absense due to Flu
Sorry I haven't written or rather posted anything for a little while. I managed getting really sick earlier this week. This morning I thought I was doing a lot better - which is unquestionably true - but not as much better as I'd hoped. My daughter and I ran off to a dress fitting this morning and by the time we were done, I was ready to call it quits. Oh well. At least I'm not bedridden like I was a couple of days ago.
Just as an interesting side note, I happened to catch this flu from my husband. No sooner had I flew off to make wedding arrangements, than he became extremely ill. The daughter who was still home with him started having emotional issues due to my absense as well. Long story short, I want to give huge kudos to my husband for being such a trooper while I was gone. Now that I've been through the illness, I don't know how he did it. I just married an amazing man, plain and simple.
Just as an interesting side note, I happened to catch this flu from my husband. No sooner had I flew off to make wedding arrangements, than he became extremely ill. The daughter who was still home with him started having emotional issues due to my absense as well. Long story short, I want to give huge kudos to my husband for being such a trooper while I was gone. Now that I've been through the illness, I don't know how he did it. I just married an amazing man, plain and simple.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Cognitive Distortions or Messed up Thinking
Cognition basically means thinking, so ‘cognitive distortions’ put simply, means messed up thinking or distorted thinking. I don’t know if there is any kind of thinking that can truly be deemed ‘normal’. I’m not a psychologist. What I do know is that A LOT of people have messed up thinking or cognitive distortions.
When you have messed up thinking patterns going on in your head, the first thing you need to do is recognize that your thinking is messed up. This is a really big deal. It is extremely easy to think that what you are thinking makes all kinds of sense because that is the way you think all the time. It is something you are accustomed to doing - so how are you supposed to know it is not right?
Logic is the answer. This sounds simple, but isn’t. Here’s an example to consider. Let’s say you’re walking into a classroom on the very first day of class. You look around the room and see a pair of girls talking pleasantly. After they glance in your direction, one girl lifts her hand up to whisper in the other girl’s ear. They smile and giggle afterwards. You immediately assume something negative has been said about you, that they are making fun of you.
Yes, it is possible that they are making fun of you. Logic, however, lets us know that the whisper probably has nothing to do with you, but rather what they’ve been discussing before you even came along. Logic says that their conversation could just as easily be complimentary about you as it could be non-complimentary. You don’t know. All you see is a couple of girls talking and whispering to each other.
So you think to yourself - but I got this feeling. Feelings are tricky little demons when it comes to thinking and reasoning. For depressed people it is very important to pay more attention to the logic associated with a situation rather than the emotions the situation may evoke.
Sometimes it is extra hard for me to keep things clear in my mind. I start following my emotions and impulses more than logic. To help myself I have abbreviated charts about cognitive distortions to help remind me what kind of thinking is self defeating.
The following are some general examples of messed up thinking. Please be sure to note that all of this is gleaned from David Burns’ book FEELING GOOD.
COGNITIVE DISTORTIONS
All or Nothing Thinking:
You see things in black and white categories. If your performance falls short of perfect you see yourself as a total failure.
Over Generalization:
You see a single negative event as never ending pattern of defeat.
Mental Filter:
You pick out a single negative detail and dwell on it exclusively so that your vision of all reality becomes darkened, like the drop of ink that colors the entire beaker of water.
Jumping to Conclusions:
You make a negative interpretation even though there are no definite facts that convincingly support your conclusion. These include
Mind Reading- You arbitrarily conclude that someone is reacting negatively to you, and you don’t bother to check this out.
The Fortune Teller Error - You anticipate that things will turn out badly, and you feel convinced that your prediction is an already established fact.
Magnification (Catastrophizing) or Minimization:
You exaggerate the importance of things (such as your goof-up or someone else’s achievement), or you inappropriately shrink things until they appear tiny (your own desirable qualities or the other fellow’s imperfections).
Emotional Reasoning:
You assume that your negative emotions necessarily reflect the way things really are: “I feel it, therefore it must be true.”
“Should” Statements:
You try to motivate yourself with shoulds and shouldn’ts as if you had to be whipped and punished before you would be expected to do anything. “Musts” and “oughts” are also offenders. The emotional consequence is guilt. When you direct should statements toward others, you feel anger, frustration, and resentment.
Labeling and Mislabeling:
This is an extreme form of over generalization. Instead of describing your error you attach a negative label to yourself: “I’m a loser.” When someone else’s behavior rubs you the wrong way, you attach a negative label to him: “He’s a stinking louse.” Mislabeling involves describing an event with language that is highly colored and emotionally loaded.
Personalization:
You see yourself as the cause of some negative external event which in fact you were not primarily responsible for.
That’s my list. A good trick I’ve learned to use for myself is to try thinking about the situation from another person’s point of view. If I were an outsider watching the situation how would I interpret it? If I were my husband how would he see the situation - would he say I was a loser because I didn’t do my workout today? No. He’d say, so you missed a workout. Do the next one. Get on with your life. No big deal.
All of that is more than enough to consider. Think about it and evaluate how your own mind seems to function.
When you have messed up thinking patterns going on in your head, the first thing you need to do is recognize that your thinking is messed up. This is a really big deal. It is extremely easy to think that what you are thinking makes all kinds of sense because that is the way you think all the time. It is something you are accustomed to doing - so how are you supposed to know it is not right?
Logic is the answer. This sounds simple, but isn’t. Here’s an example to consider. Let’s say you’re walking into a classroom on the very first day of class. You look around the room and see a pair of girls talking pleasantly. After they glance in your direction, one girl lifts her hand up to whisper in the other girl’s ear. They smile and giggle afterwards. You immediately assume something negative has been said about you, that they are making fun of you.
Yes, it is possible that they are making fun of you. Logic, however, lets us know that the whisper probably has nothing to do with you, but rather what they’ve been discussing before you even came along. Logic says that their conversation could just as easily be complimentary about you as it could be non-complimentary. You don’t know. All you see is a couple of girls talking and whispering to each other.
So you think to yourself - but I got this feeling. Feelings are tricky little demons when it comes to thinking and reasoning. For depressed people it is very important to pay more attention to the logic associated with a situation rather than the emotions the situation may evoke.
Sometimes it is extra hard for me to keep things clear in my mind. I start following my emotions and impulses more than logic. To help myself I have abbreviated charts about cognitive distortions to help remind me what kind of thinking is self defeating.
The following are some general examples of messed up thinking. Please be sure to note that all of this is gleaned from David Burns’ book FEELING GOOD.
COGNITIVE DISTORTIONS
All or Nothing Thinking:
You see things in black and white categories. If your performance falls short of perfect you see yourself as a total failure.
Over Generalization:
You see a single negative event as never ending pattern of defeat.
Mental Filter:
You pick out a single negative detail and dwell on it exclusively so that your vision of all reality becomes darkened, like the drop of ink that colors the entire beaker of water.
Jumping to Conclusions:
You make a negative interpretation even though there are no definite facts that convincingly support your conclusion. These include
Mind Reading- You arbitrarily conclude that someone is reacting negatively to you, and you don’t bother to check this out.
The Fortune Teller Error - You anticipate that things will turn out badly, and you feel convinced that your prediction is an already established fact.
Magnification (Catastrophizing) or Minimization:
You exaggerate the importance of things (such as your goof-up or someone else’s achievement), or you inappropriately shrink things until they appear tiny (your own desirable qualities or the other fellow’s imperfections).
Emotional Reasoning:
You assume that your negative emotions necessarily reflect the way things really are: “I feel it, therefore it must be true.”
“Should” Statements:
You try to motivate yourself with shoulds and shouldn’ts as if you had to be whipped and punished before you would be expected to do anything. “Musts” and “oughts” are also offenders. The emotional consequence is guilt. When you direct should statements toward others, you feel anger, frustration, and resentment.
Labeling and Mislabeling:
This is an extreme form of over generalization. Instead of describing your error you attach a negative label to yourself: “I’m a loser.” When someone else’s behavior rubs you the wrong way, you attach a negative label to him: “He’s a stinking louse.” Mislabeling involves describing an event with language that is highly colored and emotionally loaded.
Personalization:
You see yourself as the cause of some negative external event which in fact you were not primarily responsible for.
That’s my list. A good trick I’ve learned to use for myself is to try thinking about the situation from another person’s point of view. If I were an outsider watching the situation how would I interpret it? If I were my husband how would he see the situation - would he say I was a loser because I didn’t do my workout today? No. He’d say, so you missed a workout. Do the next one. Get on with your life. No big deal.
All of that is more than enough to consider. Think about it and evaluate how your own mind seems to function.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Count Your Blessings
My son asked me how I make myself feel better when I’m feeling bad. This story, which is true like all the stories on this blog, is what came to my mind.
I felt like Cinderella, breathless, as if I’d just left the most magnificent ball I could have ever imagined. The Phantom of the Opera had far exceeded my expectations. The old playhouse in downtown San Francisco had been so very perfect. There’s nothing like a Broadway cast performance.
I’d thought my mother-in-law was outright crazy when she told us to purchase the tickets. Even as a gift, the money could have been used for so many other simple, needful things like food and clothes, and shelter. We were barely hanging on as it was with me working part time out of our home so that I could stay home with the kids, and my husband working long hours doing rounds at places like San Francisco General, earning his medical degree. But, for one brief night she gave us the gift of magic. Even as the three of us walked out of the grand theater I couldn’t believe the vehicle that awaited us was our shabby little Honda. At least my prince charming was still at my side. For a few moments we were royalty.
The icy, near constant cold of San Francisco hit us the moment we stepped outside. Rain was falling. Elegant people scrambled with their valet tickets, huddling by the door, waiting for the men with umbrellas to escort them safely to their cars. As for us, the magic moment of transformation back to our lowly lives had arrived. In a rush we walked out down the main street to the alley which led to our parking garage. There, just beyond the corner I saw something I thought I would never see.
Right in the middle of the walkway was a cardboard box which had been carefully placed over some kind of vent or drain. Steam was rising from the ground. It was obviously a limited source of heat. Then, to my dread, I saw them. Hidden within the shadows of the box were two small children, completely filthy to the bone. They certainly didn’t have enough clothes to keep them warm in such weather. Their cardboard box wasn’t going to last long in the rain.
A tiny white hand silently remained clearly exposed, extended waiting for donations.
We had nearly passed them by the time the whole thing hit me. I’d been so obliviously caught up in myself. All of a sudden I didn’t know what to do. This was horrible! How could anyone allow two children, two small children just like my own, a boy and his little sister, suffer alone out in the cold?
First I turned toward my purse, then abandoned that idea. I had nothing to give. In truth, they needed something more than money. Couldn’t we take them somewhere? Wasn’t there something we could do? Instead I felt my husband’s steady grasp on my arm. With a subtle glimpse across the alley he brought my attention to a couple of men lurking nearby in the shadows.
I felt sick. He’d told me about the beggars who had accosted him almost on a daily basis as he and his friends walked from the BART station to their school. He’d told me how there were certain parts of town where I should never go. Tears were welling in my eyes. Innocent children were being used for money? Where were the police?
Before I could protest further my husband had us at the car. Urgently he ushered his mother and me inside, constantly checking for the dangers that might lurk in the darkness around us. “There were children . . .” I began.
“In the cardboard box.” he finished for me. “I know. You saw their handlers. If we would have stopped, they were ready to jump us for sure.”
“But children?” I asked still desperately upset.
For a few minutes we drove in urgent silence, maneuvering our way out of the ever changing city. As soon as we were on the Bay Bridge he calmed a little, trying to throw out a casual comment about the wonderful show we’d just seen.
My mind was boiling. What could I do? What could anyone do? How could anyone allow such things to happen? Suddenly our car seemed like it was the lap of luxury. We were clean, decently dressed, well fed. My children were safe and warm, waiting for us in our now unexpectedly spacious apartment.
For days leading up to the event I’d been worried that my dress would be too shabby, that we would stick out like wide eyed fools gone on an adventure we did not deserve. Now, I was more than thankful for what I had. Just to know my children were safe made all the difference in the world. It was like everything had been turned upside down.
The gift my mother-in-law had given us was precious to me beyond words. I still cherish the memory of being in that theater, feeling like a queen, feeling like someone worthy of something more than basic necessities. She taught me a valuable lesson.
Out in the alley, I finally discovered something just as important. There were blessings all around me that I had failed to see. I had a wonderful husband who loved me, who protected me, who was working his heart out to be a good provider for me. Two beautiful, vibrant, healthy, children were ours. We had what we needed. Food, shelter, clothing, had seemed like such simple things.
Even today, as I sit in my roomy four bedroom home, with flat screen TVs, furniture that was all bought new, a kitchen pantry full of food, two cars, a garage, a yard with - miracle of miracles - a swimming pool - my gratitude overflows. Others labor just as much for far less. We have been blessed. It is a lesson which lends me peace and happiness when I might feel otherwise.
That is my answer to you, son.
I felt like Cinderella, breathless, as if I’d just left the most magnificent ball I could have ever imagined. The Phantom of the Opera had far exceeded my expectations. The old playhouse in downtown San Francisco had been so very perfect. There’s nothing like a Broadway cast performance.
I’d thought my mother-in-law was outright crazy when she told us to purchase the tickets. Even as a gift, the money could have been used for so many other simple, needful things like food and clothes, and shelter. We were barely hanging on as it was with me working part time out of our home so that I could stay home with the kids, and my husband working long hours doing rounds at places like San Francisco General, earning his medical degree. But, for one brief night she gave us the gift of magic. Even as the three of us walked out of the grand theater I couldn’t believe the vehicle that awaited us was our shabby little Honda. At least my prince charming was still at my side. For a few moments we were royalty.
The icy, near constant cold of San Francisco hit us the moment we stepped outside. Rain was falling. Elegant people scrambled with their valet tickets, huddling by the door, waiting for the men with umbrellas to escort them safely to their cars. As for us, the magic moment of transformation back to our lowly lives had arrived. In a rush we walked out down the main street to the alley which led to our parking garage. There, just beyond the corner I saw something I thought I would never see.
Right in the middle of the walkway was a cardboard box which had been carefully placed over some kind of vent or drain. Steam was rising from the ground. It was obviously a limited source of heat. Then, to my dread, I saw them. Hidden within the shadows of the box were two small children, completely filthy to the bone. They certainly didn’t have enough clothes to keep them warm in such weather. Their cardboard box wasn’t going to last long in the rain.
A tiny white hand silently remained clearly exposed, extended waiting for donations.
We had nearly passed them by the time the whole thing hit me. I’d been so obliviously caught up in myself. All of a sudden I didn’t know what to do. This was horrible! How could anyone allow two children, two small children just like my own, a boy and his little sister, suffer alone out in the cold?
First I turned toward my purse, then abandoned that idea. I had nothing to give. In truth, they needed something more than money. Couldn’t we take them somewhere? Wasn’t there something we could do? Instead I felt my husband’s steady grasp on my arm. With a subtle glimpse across the alley he brought my attention to a couple of men lurking nearby in the shadows.
I felt sick. He’d told me about the beggars who had accosted him almost on a daily basis as he and his friends walked from the BART station to their school. He’d told me how there were certain parts of town where I should never go. Tears were welling in my eyes. Innocent children were being used for money? Where were the police?
Before I could protest further my husband had us at the car. Urgently he ushered his mother and me inside, constantly checking for the dangers that might lurk in the darkness around us. “There were children . . .” I began.
“In the cardboard box.” he finished for me. “I know. You saw their handlers. If we would have stopped, they were ready to jump us for sure.”
“But children?” I asked still desperately upset.
For a few minutes we drove in urgent silence, maneuvering our way out of the ever changing city. As soon as we were on the Bay Bridge he calmed a little, trying to throw out a casual comment about the wonderful show we’d just seen.
My mind was boiling. What could I do? What could anyone do? How could anyone allow such things to happen? Suddenly our car seemed like it was the lap of luxury. We were clean, decently dressed, well fed. My children were safe and warm, waiting for us in our now unexpectedly spacious apartment.
For days leading up to the event I’d been worried that my dress would be too shabby, that we would stick out like wide eyed fools gone on an adventure we did not deserve. Now, I was more than thankful for what I had. Just to know my children were safe made all the difference in the world. It was like everything had been turned upside down.
The gift my mother-in-law had given us was precious to me beyond words. I still cherish the memory of being in that theater, feeling like a queen, feeling like someone worthy of something more than basic necessities. She taught me a valuable lesson.
Out in the alley, I finally discovered something just as important. There were blessings all around me that I had failed to see. I had a wonderful husband who loved me, who protected me, who was working his heart out to be a good provider for me. Two beautiful, vibrant, healthy, children were ours. We had what we needed. Food, shelter, clothing, had seemed like such simple things.
Even today, as I sit in my roomy four bedroom home, with flat screen TVs, furniture that was all bought new, a kitchen pantry full of food, two cars, a garage, a yard with - miracle of miracles - a swimming pool - my gratitude overflows. Others labor just as much for far less. We have been blessed. It is a lesson which lends me peace and happiness when I might feel otherwise.
That is my answer to you, son.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Self Reliance, 2/4/10
Dear God I want to scream! I want to scream so long and loud that the walls of the house begin to rattle. This morning there is no doubt in my mind that I’ve got carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand. Half the fingers are completely numb. There’s nothing to be done! It’s driving me nuts!
On top of that I’ve got some fat nasty tennis elbow pain going on. My right arm isn’t so bad as the left. It just aches, hurts like not other when I touch it to relieve the pain and of course, do any kind of heavy lifting.
On the other hand, (odd pun there if you think about it) my left arm is causing me almost constant, excruciating pain. It’s so bad in the morning I don’t want to move my arm. I don’t want to move period. Getting dressed is literally an ordeal.
I know, you’re thinking, so shut up about it and see a doctor! Yeah, well I think I’ve exhausted all my desire to see doctors. In the last couple of years I’ve had five trigger fingers released, a carpal tunnel repair, a golfers elbow procedure, a tennis elbow correction - one which I believe was a fraud - and a shoulder rotator cuff cleaning all on my left side. (I’m left handed if you haven’t guessed already.)
In the end, just typing this out is going to leave me in pain. I can’t play the piano for more than ten minutes before it hurts too much. Handwriting is a killer.
Whine, whine, whine, whine . . . . poor baby. If you’ll let me finish, I’ll get to my point - one which I unfortunately utterly abhor.
So I’ve had multiple surgeries, seen doctors, ran MRIs and blood tests. It seems like I’ve been through every test imaginable, but I’m married to a doctor, so I know better. There’s fluid in my hip. My knee and foot joints have issues. I’ve got fibromyalgia - another term for constant, incurable, pain. Etc., etc., etc.
Enough already. The point is about self reliance. Many, many years ago I had my husband point out to me that if I didn’t take the time to take care of myself, I would be greatly diminishing my ability to help others, most especially my family.
You see, my behavior pattern was, take care of the kids, take care of my husband, take care of the house, and it’s mountains of laundry, oh yes, don’t forget you’ve got to earn a living. While you’re at it, remember you’ve got to be the best at whatever you are . . . and so on. No time for me to be me. No time for exercise or reading favorite books, or writing. You get the picture.
By trying to be everything for everyone else all the time, I was literally forcing myself into a corner, silently screaming for help until I had a mental meltdown.
It took me a while, but the point really hit home when the doctor threatened to send me to the eating disorders ward. How could he do such a thing? I had the best figure ever! A size one sounded great!
When my husband suggested spending some of our incredibly meager income on a personal trainer, I fought him tooth and nail. Unfortunately, his idea was a far better, less costly option than a full time hospital stay. No one was going to stick a tube down my throat!
Over the years I’ve made one concession after another to accommodate my mental health. I quit teaching and began a business out of my own home so that I could stay home with the kids and somewhat control my work environment. Exercise has almost always played a part in my life. Some days I get on the bike, pedal for at least 30 minutes and give myself huge bonus points for just doing something.
That brings me back to now. The fact is, I’m getting older. That typing speed I maintained at 100+ wpm and long piano playing / teaching career has taken it’s toll. Now I’m in near constant excruciating pain. I never want to see another doctor, run another test or endure yet another surgery. But for the sake of that self reliance rule, what choice do I have?
Go see another doctor already and stop griping! Grrr! There’s a rule for you - do what you must to take care of yourself, not so much for you, but for everyone else around you. It is so easy to deny myself, but when it hurts others, I can’t be irresponsible.
Just as a side note: I still hate doctors!
2/4/10
On top of that I’ve got some fat nasty tennis elbow pain going on. My right arm isn’t so bad as the left. It just aches, hurts like not other when I touch it to relieve the pain and of course, do any kind of heavy lifting.
On the other hand, (odd pun there if you think about it) my left arm is causing me almost constant, excruciating pain. It’s so bad in the morning I don’t want to move my arm. I don’t want to move period. Getting dressed is literally an ordeal.
I know, you’re thinking, so shut up about it and see a doctor! Yeah, well I think I’ve exhausted all my desire to see doctors. In the last couple of years I’ve had five trigger fingers released, a carpal tunnel repair, a golfers elbow procedure, a tennis elbow correction - one which I believe was a fraud - and a shoulder rotator cuff cleaning all on my left side. (I’m left handed if you haven’t guessed already.)
In the end, just typing this out is going to leave me in pain. I can’t play the piano for more than ten minutes before it hurts too much. Handwriting is a killer.
Whine, whine, whine, whine . . . . poor baby. If you’ll let me finish, I’ll get to my point - one which I unfortunately utterly abhor.
So I’ve had multiple surgeries, seen doctors, ran MRIs and blood tests. It seems like I’ve been through every test imaginable, but I’m married to a doctor, so I know better. There’s fluid in my hip. My knee and foot joints have issues. I’ve got fibromyalgia - another term for constant, incurable, pain. Etc., etc., etc.
Enough already. The point is about self reliance. Many, many years ago I had my husband point out to me that if I didn’t take the time to take care of myself, I would be greatly diminishing my ability to help others, most especially my family.
You see, my behavior pattern was, take care of the kids, take care of my husband, take care of the house, and it’s mountains of laundry, oh yes, don’t forget you’ve got to earn a living. While you’re at it, remember you’ve got to be the best at whatever you are . . . and so on. No time for me to be me. No time for exercise or reading favorite books, or writing. You get the picture.
By trying to be everything for everyone else all the time, I was literally forcing myself into a corner, silently screaming for help until I had a mental meltdown.
It took me a while, but the point really hit home when the doctor threatened to send me to the eating disorders ward. How could he do such a thing? I had the best figure ever! A size one sounded great!
When my husband suggested spending some of our incredibly meager income on a personal trainer, I fought him tooth and nail. Unfortunately, his idea was a far better, less costly option than a full time hospital stay. No one was going to stick a tube down my throat!
Over the years I’ve made one concession after another to accommodate my mental health. I quit teaching and began a business out of my own home so that I could stay home with the kids and somewhat control my work environment. Exercise has almost always played a part in my life. Some days I get on the bike, pedal for at least 30 minutes and give myself huge bonus points for just doing something.
That brings me back to now. The fact is, I’m getting older. That typing speed I maintained at 100+ wpm and long piano playing / teaching career has taken it’s toll. Now I’m in near constant excruciating pain. I never want to see another doctor, run another test or endure yet another surgery. But for the sake of that self reliance rule, what choice do I have?
Go see another doctor already and stop griping! Grrr! There’s a rule for you - do what you must to take care of yourself, not so much for you, but for everyone else around you. It is so easy to deny myself, but when it hurts others, I can’t be irresponsible.
Just as a side note: I still hate doctors!
2/4/10
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