Diary

10/21/2025. A Deja Vu Of Sorts

I haven’t been here for almost a year. The need to spew my guts has returned. Maybe I’ll explore what causes that compulsion later.

Or not. I mean, “now you see me, now you don’t” has been the modus operandi with my writing, whether in analog journal form since my youth, to today’s current digital form in my …dare I say, “old age”?…. I am pushing 60 after all. Don’t necessarily feel old, despite the aches in my healing broken patella. (Oh, yeah…that happened while I was out…)

Anyway, I was intending to do something of an update on the State of Our Union (micro and macro) but I got distracted for a moment scrolling back on this blog, curious about where I’d left off. I have to admit some of it made me tear up as it brought back memories of how I was feeling back then about stuff going on.

Then, I ran across an entry entitled “10/22/20”, which I actually wrote on 10/10/23….

And wow. I don’t know the right word to describe running across it just moments ago. I chose Deja Vu for today’s title because of the timing – the really weird timing.

Basically, 2 years ago, at roughly the same time of year as now, I was writing about something that happened 3 years previously at roughly the same time of year; and here I am 5 years out, at almost the exact same date as what I was referencing in 2023. And this was not what I had intended to ramble on about when logging in today. But, it’s….kinda weird.

Let me explain, if I even can be remotely coherent right now.

My father died of mesothelioma in November of 2020 after a long, rough, hospice at home. It was slow and painful and, therefore, pretty traumatic for him, my mom, and me. 5 years later, I don’t think we’ve really processed everything about it. It kind of remains a room behind a door that we rarely take a peek into. We know what’s there. We just can’t bring ourselves to look at the details for too long.

Anyway, I recall a book that I read and that I gave to my mom while we were dealing with taking care of my dad as his health slipped away. It was Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s book, “On Life After Death”. A book I highly recommend to everyone – even if you and your loved ones are in perfect health. I found it to be a big comfort and I think it was a comfort for my mom as well, because, you see, the author explores the common threads in dying and near-death experiences that she researched and witnessed throughout her career all over the world. And though it doesn’t necessarily come to some concrete, absolute declaration about what happens after we die, it most definitely offers hope. Especially for people who worry about things like religion and faith. Because while my dad was for the majority of his life firmly anti-religion, my mom had been steadily growing firmer and firmer in her religious beliefs. And when I did what they’d always encouraged, i.e. to choose what I believed, I chose Judaism. Which, I was dismayed to find out, didn’t exactly make them too happy. Anyhoo, you can well imagine that my mother, being very Lutheran, was worried (maybe even still IS, I don’t know) about her husband and daughter’s souls. But the thing about Kübler-Ross’s book was that she found that no matter what religion, belief, non-belief, race, country, age of a patient, etc., the experiences they had as they were dying, or returning from a state of dying, were remarkably very similar. The vast majority were experiences of comfort, joy, painlessness, fearlessness, acceptance, illumination. And that book kicked off a small fascination in me with near death experiences (NDEs), which leads to what I watched this morning on YouTube…..

So, my latest habit is YouTube. I watch it for news, information, entertainment. You name the subject, you will find it there. I’ll start my day with drinking my coffee, while maybe working on a project, maybe while cleaning up the kitchen, and I’ll have it going. And one channel I regularly check in on is, yep, one with testimonies from people with NDEs. I’ll admit, some stories seem a bit convoluted, maybe even a bit wacky, but I don’t dispute the experiences people attest to. Some of them even make me wonder if I myself may have died briefly in my sleep back in my late twenties, because several NDEs describe what I distinctly remember dreaming about once (my husband can’t understand how I can remember so much from my childhood or how I can remember dreams I’ve had in the past…but I do) And, I digress….

The NDE video I watched this morning was from a journalist who was raised without religion, and her experience and what she described gave me chills for a second. It made SO much sense to me. It resonated with thoughts I’d often had when contemplating the intersection of religion, belief and dying; it sort of aligned with Kübler-Ross’s book. And it was such a comfort. Because I also worried about my dad when he died. Not about his soul. Because his soul was – IS – a good one, through and through. But I could sense that he was maybe a little afraid in those last days. That he was apprehensive about what was going to happen next. I didn’t want that for him. Looking back I wish that I had told him about that book. I don’t know why I didn’t discuss it with him, because we always discussed things we’d read, news and documentaries and films we’d watched. In those last days, strangely enough, we danced around talking about what was going to happen, even though he, for maybe the first time in a long time, maybe ever, agreed to pray traditional end-of-life type prayers with me and mom as a family one afternoon.

I should have mentioned to him what was in that book! I wanted his anxiety to dissipate, to be relieved in his last moments…It’s the fact that we weren’t in the room with him when it happened that has tortured me ever since. That we weren’t by his bedside, holding his hands, but down the hall, when he passed over. So, we don’t know if he was able to relax and be pleasantly surprised in that moment. This is one of the details of his death that I have so diligently avoided voicing, deliberately avoided opening the door on for more than a second.

So this morning, I was watching a NDE video from a stranger on YouTube about dying and what they saw. Then, about an hour ago, I got onto this blog to deal with other unrelated stuff, and instead found myself looking at the posts about my dad and losing him. Each entry with coincidental October dates.

I’ll just say this: That video was a comfort. That video is what I needed to see before diving back into this blog and before diving into processing what’s happening in the world on a micro and macro level in my life.

Now that video feels like a distinct, personal, message.

And the message is this: Don’t worry. It’s all good.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But….

My dad worked in intelligence for a short time, before leaving the military and marrying my mom. People in intelligence tend to question convenient coincidences…a favorite joke is the classic “just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they AREN’T out to get you!”. They learn about codes in communications. They pick up on patterns. I’m still very much my father’s daughter, I guess. And I’m definitely good with that.

Day 11 Of My So-Called Retreat

Yeah…..It’s more like I’ve been retreat-ish; still have my toes in the water…

The damn news. News of what’s going on “out there”. It’s an itch I can’t quit scratching.

I’ve been good about not getting on FaceBook or Instagram. But I’m still in the habit of scrolling through my news feed on my phone and of pulling up YouTube on my computer. It’s a terrible habit. It’s a time stealing, sleep-delaying habit. At least I’m just reading the headlines (for the most part, though some articles will draw me in…argh); I’ll hit “save” to read later…I can tell just from the headlines whether or not it’s gonna stress me out and that’s really the thing that I’ve been trying to retreat from: the stress. I’m specifically retreating from the anger and frustration and dismay and anxiety that inevitably results from that stress. The stress that humanity gives me.

I’m happy to report that my stress actually is down though – just from the little bit of retreat I’ve managed so far.

I think one big factor in reducing it has been getting outdoors. What they say is true, people! Touch that grass!! Get out into Nature!!! Even if that nature is your tiny, oddly shaped backyard in a city neighborhood which needs a lot of work. But only if it isn’t swelteringly hot and humid…because that situation will just wilt your psyche and make you cranky as hell. I’m not so sure, now that I think on it, that the zombies in “The Walking Dead” became zombified because of a virus or more because of the god-awful climate of the South. Anyway, I’ve been taking advantage of the cooler temperatures of Spring and trying to “make hay while the sun shines” as the old saying goes. Trying to work towards creating a little backyard oasis in which to…yes…retreat when needed … not just for me, but for my family. It’s something positive to do.

My psychologist observed something about me in my last visit, that I don’t think I’d ever realized fully about myself. She said, while encouraging me on this path to cocoon myself in order to repair my mental health, “I know, you want to save the world…” She called me an “activist”, because I care about social issues.

A couple of friends of mine and I have joked in the past about us getting together at our little klatsches in order to fix the world’s problems, but it’s funny that I’ve never actually thought of myself as someone who wants to do that. And I know that I’ve never thought of myself as an “activist”. But my psychologist is onto something about me. In my mind, and in the words of other people throughout my life, it’s more like I’ve always just been overly sensitive, a “goody-goody”, taken things too seriously, just cared too much. But, the way she put it…”wanting to save the world”. She distilled it out of my well of distress. That has been my “problem” for a long, long, long time, I think. And maybe I’m starting to feel a bit lighter because it’s finally sinking in that I can’t do that. There’s no way I can do that. There’s no way any one human being can do that.

“But I can do something about the one in front of me…” My dad’s favorite line from a story about someone who was told they couldn’t save all the lost and distressed creatures they ran across…

Yup. It is true. You can do something about the life that crosses your path. And the life that is most immediately in front of me is mine.

Car Thoughts

My husband is one of those people who cannot drive anywhere without music playing. Before he pulls out of any parking space, he has to make sure he has his playlist synced with the bluetooth in the car; and if he can’t have his own music going for whatever reason, he has to have a radio station on. It can’t be talk radio though – it has to be music. He needs a soundtrack.

I used to be one of those people. But as I got older, I got sick of the music stations and all of their schticks – commercials, banter, suckier music, etc. – and sometimes found myself wanting to listen to the news instead. Even after I joined Spotify, figured out the car bluetooth thing and had my song playlists, I felt pulled more toward things like NPR, Podcasts, and Audio books. Why the talk and not the music?? After all, I love music and just about all genres of music, in almost any language and culture, with only a few exceptions (really heavy metal and most country…but even then, I can find a few songs I like…) Music is one of the wonderful, enjoyable, beautiful things about human life. Music has been a comfort throughout my existence. But more and more, I don’t necessarily need it playing in the background, whether in the car or even at home. And more and more, I find myself not even listening to anything at all…not even the talk.

I drive my teenage son back and forth to school. He still doesn’t have his driver’s license for a couple of reasons right now (nothing criminal, no). He usually wears his headphones so he can listen to his own playlists, and more importantly: not have to interact with me. But even with his headphones, he used to turn the car radio on, and he can’t understand why more and more, I drive with silence. He finds it weird. Though he prefers it to when I attempt conversation with him. And my husband as well can’t understand not having anything playing at all. And one reason occurred to me this morning: my brain is like a radio when I’m driving. Well, also anywhere else, but mostly when I’m driving. Whether I’ve got some song on repeat in my head, or I’m having some sort of dialogue with myself, musing about one thing or another, it’s constant chatter, constant noise. So, no, I don’t need the extra…I’m just chasing thoughts around and those thoughts are loud and distracting enough already.

Anyway, one thing that has always bothered me about my thoughts while driving is that I can’t stop to write them down. And I don’t know why I have had this need to write down my thoughts, get them out of my head, discuss them with others, even way before I ever learned to drive…I only know that I have. And the thoughts I have while driving always seem to be the thoughts I want to explore further…the epiphanies, the connections, the curiously odd ones, the philosophical ones…. and by the time I get home, it feels like I’ve been down so many rabbit holes already, through all the connecting tunnels, that I’m already forgetting what I wanted to hold onto.

So, here I am, grabbing a coffee, after returning home from dropping him off at school…and documenting the fragments to maybe explore at a later date: God as Consciousness, Consciousness beginning with Language, or is it the other way around? The Word manifesting (as they say), Humans need to constantly communicate, Why do we do it, Misinterpretation of language, The problems of conveying feelings through words, back to God as consciousness – How our brains process everything, The universe looking like a network of neurons, God as Universe, The impossibility of humans being Godly or God-like, though we keep striving because our religions say we need to, but the impossibility of that because…Human, Why do we regard some people as more intelligent than other people? Why do we think of some people’s opinions more important than other people’s? The constant human need to Understand Things, to Connect…Communication being a process of sharing and judging thoughts, Thoughts leading to actions or to inactions, The physical world vs. the intellectual world and the interplay between the two, back to the Intellectual being part of Consciousness, back to God as consciousness, reason….The Macro and the Micro, and what lies in between….Life is everything being connected and yet everything being separate experiences at THE SAME TIME….Time and Consciousness being related…Parenthood…(Yup. Mind jumps around like that…but it IS related)…Creation…Universal creation…What effects what? What do we really know? Why do we keep wanting to know? Everything matters and nothing matters…Human beings as Thought Sifters…..Thought Sifters, hmmm….God as Thought….back to that….Energy….Where Energy fits in…My father’s theory of God being Gravity….Humans are weird, Human experience is weird, (as opposed to what other living organisms’ experience, right?…or as opposed to God’s experience?) and we’re all just trying to get each other through it….

Everything Everywhere All At Once. There’s more than one reason that I loved that movie. The title alone describes my mental state.

But why does it always get activated most while I’m in the car, when I should be paying more attention to the road?

Anyone need a ride?

Day 5 of Attempted Retreat

I caved again last night to scrolling through my news feed. But I only read the headlines. I guess that’s a compromise.

I was really good about not looking at my social media. That seems to be the easiest for me to have let go of. It could be because I’ve had some practice with it, as well as the fact that there’s only two platforms I have used: FaceBook and Instagram. I’ve left FaceBook in the past for up to three months at a time. It puts me in mind of the process I went through when I quit smoking so many years ago. It took me many attempts, but I finally managed it. (Though, getting pregnant with my first child was really the nail in the coffin on that habit…)

But the news….UGH. So hard to stay away. Part of me is like, what if there’s a major natural calamity that will be affecting me where I am? What if missiles are headed our way? What if war breaks out here? What if the unimaginable becomes very possible? In which case, I have to wonder with my newfound unsentimental objectivity, would it matter if I knew? Because we are certainly not preppers. What would my family do? Where would we go? I think about that movie, “Don’t Look Now”, and the ending, and feel like, yeah…honestly, what does knowing really help? And it puts me in mind of my father’s death….(My mind goes off on tangents that way. ADHD, you know…)

Oh, and YouTube….

Yeah, YouTube, which I also tend to turn to for news (Don’t roll the eyes! A lot of news outlets have channels, including foreign ones, like Deutsche Welle…And there are YouTubers out there with pretty good informative content…) Anyway, YouTube has these travel channels with walking tours of various places that I like to watch sometimes. There’s no commentary, just the audio of the walking environs, just the visuals…and that’s what I enjoy about them. It’s like getting to travel virtually when you don’t have the luxury of traveling. It’s like having a nice quiet walk to yourself…which is something I’ve always enjoyed…and I like to see the places I’ve always wanted to visit, and the places I’ve already been that I miss terribly.

BUT….I realized as I was watching this one video while drinking my coffee this morning….I’m doing it again. Not being present in my own life. Because I’m NOT there. I’m here, with things I really should be taking care of for me and my family. Like taking a walk myself…with my dogs, who are in desperate need of more exercise, as am I….Yes, the YouTube video of a nice, quiet, rainy walk in Brooklyn, NY is somewhat relaxing, feeds into my typical daydreamer mind, but ultimately, how does it affect my life right this minute, aside from taking up my time?

And on that note…..

Just Waiting It Out

I have an appointment with my psychologist today. Boy, is she in for a disappointing surprise.

Last time I met with her, about a month ago, she was pleased because I was doing so much better. The Focalin seemed to have done the trick. I was reaching out to meet with friends. I was signed up to a group to deal with grief about my father’s death. I was feeling positive. I was feeling hopeful. Despite all the stress.

And it’s sad that it only lasted about a month. It only lasted until I ran out of Focalin and realized that I, that we as a family, are still in the same dank hole we’ve been in for what seems like forever.

I’m finding it sad that for the majority of my life, I’ve had to rely on chemicals outside of myself in order to deal with human life, as we have made it.

I imagine that I’m not the only one. In fact, I’m pretty damn sure I’m not. And it makes me wonder what sort of life human beings have created for themselves that leads so many to seek that assistance from a bottle, whether made of glass or of plastic. And sometimes from substances rolled up in paper. Or found growing in the dirt.

Oh, to be the sort of human that never felt the need to alter their reality or their feelings! The sort of human that is content and accepting of existence as it is, as we’ve been practicing it on each other and our fellow creatures on this planet for millions of years. The sort of human who never feels the need to complain or question or doubt. Who can just shrug and accept and move on and enjoy themselves – despite what they see or hear or feel. Who can do all of that without a little assistance from a concoction of one sort or another.

I’m not happy about the fact that I need to alter my brain chemistry in order to function politely and rationally in our society. In order to not want to fling myself off a cliff. And it’s become obvious that I am beholden to those man-made chemicals now. It’s just a question of legalities and combinations and milligrams and moderation and availabilities.

Because I was feeling better, and now, seven full days without Focalin, I’m not. I had a little taste of feeling positive and I don’t care if that feeling of Hope and Wanting to Survive was synthetically produced. I need it back.

So Much For It All

Damned if I stay. And damned if I go.

Feeling the calm after my morning break-down. Feeling that cold, emotionally-drained, numb sort of resignation.

Canceled my attendance in the grief group therapy program. I’m just not ready.

Or maybe I am, just not in that format.

Giving up.

No, not on physical existence. I had my chance to leave with Cancer and I passed it up. Had to go and get all “Up With Life!” back then. What the fuck was I thinking?? It would have been the perfect way to bow out of this place gracefully! And now I recognize that I am stuck. Because if I choose to leave, that would not be fair to the ones I love. Not that I believe that I’m doing them any good, mind you. Au Contraire! I think my absence could actually do them some good. It’s just that permanently leaving would cause more drama and damage and they don’t need that. At all.

People often say “Just let it go!”, or “Let go, let God!”…and they’re right. I need to let go…. But my problem is how. How to do it in a way that would cause the least harm.

All I can come up with is to emotionally and mentally check out; if not some temporary physical removal of some sort. Like, go live somewhere else. If only money weren’t such a huge obstacle… But then, if I did, I’d still have to live with me. No matter where you go, there you are. And I’d feel guilty for leaving them with all the housework and pet care and chores. Yeah. Because that’s apparently all I can do; and even there, I’m no Martha Stewart.


Checking out emotionally and mentally would help with the resignation to letting go; to letting go of the notion that I can help my kids in any way, to the notion that anything I say or do benefits them, to the notion that I add much value to the world; to the resignation of my Sisyphean lot of cleaning and laundering and driving and grocery shopping and scheduling (because I was unfortunately too messed up to create any sort of career when I had youth on my side)… To the resignation that not much that I do matters. Not in the grand scheme of things. My father’s death, I’m realizing, reinforced this feeling I’ve had most of my life. And in some ways, that’s okay; that’s a bit freeing. But also, that sort of takes any sense of purpose away as well.

The problem is definitely, undeniably, indubitably, me.

Actually, I take that back. This world is pretty fucked up. So, it’s not ALL my fault. There are some real and truly hypocritical, ignorant, mean, greedy, selfish, egotistical, unprincipled, bigoted, violent, unthinking, uncaring stupid assholes out there. And the world is brutal; just the way it’s designed is pretty cruel! Nasty, brutish and short. It’s true. But I’m wholly ineffective and inept and shit at helping my family cope with it all, and that has been the one job I’ve had to do for the last 22 years. And I managed to mess it up. Because I’ve never really been good at coping with it myself…with this existence.

Because I care too much, I worry too much, I talk too much, I think too much, I feel too much, I want too much… It’s all too much. I’m too much. And not enough.

A mother’s lament…..

10/22/2020

Yesterday, September 28th, 2023, at 12:30 p.m., via Zoom, I attended my first ever group grief counseling meeting. We had to introduce ourselves and give one word to the way we were feeling at the moment. My word was “Okay”. (I was, in fact, feeling okay. I had just left a nice get-together with some new friends over coffee). At the end of the meeting, we were asked again for one word to describe how we were feeling in the moment, now that we had all met and shared our reasons for being there. I couldn’t find one that was truly appropriate. The closest I could come up with was “scared”.

I think that “apprehensive” might actually be a better, more nuanced, description though. Then again, it could be just a synonym for “scared”. (It is. I looked it up)

I chose it because suddenly I wasn’t sure if I wanted to open up and talk about my father’s death. Like, the nitty, gritty details of how I felt back then and how it has continued to affect me. I thought that I was ready. I know that I really need to for my mental health; in order to deal with the rest of my life. Because I do know that when you don’t address something emotional, it does not evaporate. It festers and becomes rancid, sour, turns your insides to goo which eventually leak out at inopportune times. Or, it can become hardened like an abnormally massive kidney stone, that if not removed will make your life extremely painful and difficult. It will block you.

I think that’s where I am. Where I’ve been for three years. Blocked. And I know it. And my kidney stone of grief isn’t going to be able to be removed with a nice little anesthetized surgery. No. I’m gonna have to pass it on my own. And this grief group is gonna have to hold my hand while I do it. And I’m gonna have to hold theirs. And it’s gonna hurt like a bitch. And that’s why I ended the meeting feeling, not a tad bit better as others seemed to, but a tad bit worse. Because I know that it’s going to be really painful and I’ve been avoiding it.

Like I’ve been avoiding this blog. And like I’ve avoided listening to all the recorded conversations I’d had with my dad. (Because we knew he was dying and I wanted to keep all the stories he had to tell me alive and I wanted to keep his voice nearby, I recorded some of our conversations. I knew talking to him and listening to him was going to be the thing I missed the most). And like I’ve avoided writing. Because it felt like when he died, my words died with him. And I’m still avoiding those hours of recordings.

But today, here I am. Because yesterday I was “scared”. And it’s because I’ve said I’m going to face my grief. Which has lead me this morning to this draft I’d saved, has lead me to what I was writing on October 22, 2020, at my parent’s house. I got freaked out and didn’t finish it because my dad called to me from the hospice bed where he was stationed, where he was living, where he was dying, in the front room of their house.
I’d freaked out because he had started, as a lot of dying people do, to seeing people who were not there, and to somehow be able to know about stuff going on in other parts of the house, even though he was bedridden. I suddenly wondered if he was able to see what I was trying to get out of my system and into writing. And I didn’t want him to know, because all of us were in horrid emotional turmoil.

And this is what I didn’t want him to know…

It had been three days. For three days, I had been at my parent’s house, listening to my father moan and groan and yelp out – in discomfort, not pain! he insisted. He insists it isn’t pain because he knows that then my mom and I would badger him to take pain medication.

(He has an extreme aversion to pain medication for some reason. Something that I remember my late mother-in-law also had. It makes me wonder if there’s some sort of generational thing about pills. Some sort of distrust of modern medicine. Some sort of character association with people who take pills….like, weakness or something…or a fear of getting addicted?…Though, in my dad’s case, when you’re dying, what does addiction matter anymore?)

Three days looking at his emaciated face. He’s always been a thin man in normal times. Now he looks, in his own words, correctly, like someone from a concentration camp; ravaged by this cancer that has no potential for cure. He’s already bought as much extra time as he could with the chemotherapy (something that we managed to talk him into, surprisingly…) Now it’s sheer stubbornness and orneriness and will that is keeping him going.

And, I suspect, a love of life that he wouldn’t admit to.
And, a love of my mother and myself and his grandchildren that he would.
And, perhaps, a bit of fear about what’s next.

Three days listening to him complain about various things that hurt, but refusing anything that might help – medicine, shifting him on the couch that he’d been living on for … God, feels like years now….
Three days listening to him coughing up phlegm every 10 or 15 minutes. Handing him a plastic bag to spit into and then tissue to clean up his lips and his beard (which had grown in since he quit shaving – and didn’t trust anyone to shave for him – ever the perfectionist; in his mind, if you’re going to do something right, you have to do it….well, if not your own way, then his…)
Three days of the sounds of a tortured animal coming from my dad.
Something that would distress him terribly if he were the one hearing it, whether from an animal or one of us. He wouldn’t be able to tolerate it.
“Just let me make my noise!” he kept saying, adamant that it helped him with the pain. Because damn those pain pills!
Three days of taking shifts with my mom – keeping him company and catering to his needs – she, during the day, and me, at night.
Three nights of sleep – and daytime naps, too – interrupted constantly because he’s been a night owl for as long as I can remember. Normally, I’m a night owl too, but when stressed out, I tend to want to just sleep.
But mom sleeps pretty soundly, she’s always been a morning lark, and her hearing isn’t too good, and she needs her rest.

Yes. He’s stubborn and ornery. He isn’t the best patient. We still love him, no matter how frustrating he gets.

But three days of this and it was time for me to return briefly to my own home to check on my husband and my son and our house. Our own House of Stress: Husband out of work, fighting his own depression; teenage son, also depressed, struggling in school and starting to self-harm….
This year has been the worst out of already too many years of awfulness…

I’d been calm. (Thank you, Lexapro!) Until I couldn’t find the coffee pot.

I’ve left it unfinished all this time. Because my words died with him. Because I couldn’t go back to the details of the last days. Of what I witnessed. Of what my mother and myself witnessed. Of what torture it was. For all of us.

And I know I need to deal with it. To make some sense of it. Because the stress and the grief has not let up, not one iota. I’ve always experienced existential angst. My father’s death made it a tangible, solidified, objective matter.

What happened with the coffee pot? I can’t remember now.







Now What? What Now?

It’s been 12 years since my diagnosis of Triple Negative Breast Cancer. Thanks to FaceBook for the reminder. I think I’ve been doing a pretty good job of putting it in my rear-view mirror. At the time I was dealing with treatment, it invigorated a lust for life in me (cue Iggy Pop) which previously hadn’t been particularly stable. But that lust was smacked down gradually by life going back to the usual struggles that human beings are susceptible to: mental issues of one’s own, mental issues of others, money, money, money, societal expectations and pressures, parenting, finding meaning, purpose and identity in one’s existence, navigating relationships, adulting…not to mention the existential stress about the world around me.

And at long last, this confirmation of ADHD, this definitive diagnosis, has put a lot of things in perspective about my personal history. I’d been wondering the majority of my years where this depression and self-loathing came from because I have not had a tough life by any means in terms of money (never rich, but not abject poverty), or loving relationships, no instability in living situations growing up, no lack of socialization, no physical abuse, no wars endured. I’ve started to wonder what came first? Depression? It does run in the family. Or ADHD? And now that I’ve finally got medication to help me with it, I’m really starting to wonder about it all. I’ve only been on this prescription for about a week and I have noticed that it has helped in little ways that may not seem big to others, but are big to this person who has been in a depressive funk for way too long.

However, I feel a tinge of unease this morning. And I’m trying to figure out what that is.

When I started on this prescription, I almost immediately felt a difference. I had more energy. (Doh. These meds are all stimulants, of course). I was suddenly in a better mood. I haven’t been jittery per se, but definitely “bouncier”, a bit like Tigger. It’s helped with my tendency to procrastinate. It’s helped with my tendency to avoid people and doing things. It’s definitely helped me grab my tongue back from the cat….

And, I think, that’s where my uneasiness is coming from.

When depressed, I see myself as annoying, obnoxious, useless, a failure, selfish, spoiled, irresponsible, foolish, stupid, awkward, talentless, pompous, boring, inept, absolutely, positively, unimportant and unhelpful, a gigantic mistake of the Universe, a complete embarrassment and disappointment of a human being. And someone who needs to just shut up, already!

Whenever I manage to pull myself out – and it seems completely arbitrary how it happens – I feel like I’m not too shabby. Maybe worthwhile. I’m okay. Not perfect, but not terrible. Definitely not stupid. Maybe worthy of offering my two cents to a conversation.

But, I haven’t yet gotten out of my thoughts and feelings of needing to be quiet. And this medication is transforming me back to how I was as a child: pretty expressive. Like, I don’t add just two cents. I exuberantly throw in about 50 dollars.

As long as I was in a space where I felt comfortable, mind you. Teachers, bosses and other “officials” made me clam up tight in most situations. Well, in my younger days, anyway. And I can remember how others would treat me when I got too chatty or lively. My parents would admonish me to calm down. My mother, for certain, has always said I talk too much and don’t give others a chance to speak. My school friends always used the word “weird”. I’ve stayed closest to those for whom “weird” wasn’t a bad thing; they’re nicer and more interesting anyway. New acquaintances have occasionally given me some looks. And sometimes even my husband exasperatedly just wishes I would “get to the point”. I know for a fact that my teenage son would like me to keep my mouth shut (much more so than other kids typically wish that for their parents).

I woke up from a dream this morning that may have some involvement with this sudden, slightly dampened enthusiasm, lessened energy, and general unease I’m now feeling. Like, Tigger has been given a mild sedative and a disappointing situation. All I can remember from the dream is the image of a Facebook page and someone’s voice, maybe mine, saying “You’re gonna regret this renewed wordiness. You should have stuck to not talking. Why the hell are you reaching out again? Have you learned nothing?”

And I feel Depression and it’s favorite sibling, Shame, breathing on my neck.

What do I do now?