Mental Illness

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.

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…..

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?

Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend…

“I used to think the worst thing in life is to end up all alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people who make you feel all alone.” 

The above quote has been attributed to Robin Williams.  As with a lot of quotes out there on the internet, the source may or may not be true.  I’ve seen some quotes that I’m pretty damn sure were never uttered by the supposed person they were attributed to.

In any case, the sentiment of the quote is spot on.

I’ve been struggling the past week, maybe more, with a feeling that is very much related.

It’s not so much that the people around me are making me feel like they don’t want to listen to me or to know what’s going on with me or that they don’t support me and love me….
It’s my own mind that’s turning things around. As it is wont to do.
It’s Depression trying to claw and talk it’s way out of the trunk in my head where I thought I had safely locked it away.

I’m having flashbacks to when I was in middle school and high school – the times when I truly began suffering from depression and self-loathing and low self-esteem.

(Of course, who DIDN’T feel those things in adolescence though, right??)

It was the feeling that I should JUST. SHUT. UP.
The feeling that I had nothing of interest or value to say.
The feeling that I was obnoxious and weird and maybe crazy and delusional.
And a fuck-up.
And stupid.
And foolish.
And naive.
And lazy.
And spoiled.
…..
I could go on.
Seriously.

For a brief period of time, after having endured a lot of things (as people do)…..

Like:

Having survived countless humiliating scholastic moments; having survived countless humiliating socially awkward moments; having survived countless humiliating workplace moments; having survived humiliating romantic escapades; having survived suicide attempts and suicide ideation and the voice in my head chanting “you don’t belong here”; having survived truly stupid drug and alcohol experiments; having survived childbirth twice; having survived breast cancer; having managed to muddle through humiliating financial difficulties…(well, this is still a work in progress….)
(And. Um. Don’t ask me if I’ve survived parenthood just yet….)…

I thought that I’d reached a mature enough age to be self-aware enough, to be confident enough, to have been “scared straight” by brushes with death enough; to have had enough therapy and medication, etc. enough to be confident enough to voice out loud my opinions and my thoughts and what I’d thought I’d learned; to share freely without shame or remorse or self-consciousness or embarrassment all the things that go around in my mind….

HA!  (I can even remember being twenty-one and thinking that I couldn’t wait to be forty-five . 45 was an age at which I imagined that I wouldn’t give a shit what other people thought and at which I would have a better understanding of what really mattered in life…an age in which I might actually have some self-confidence…)

Yet, here I am at 53….

And lately, I’m feeling, once again, like I need to STFU around everyone in my life despite the fact that they are loving and caring and supportive and truly generous and patient people.
I’m having that same sensation that I am WAY too yappity, and obnoxious, and whiny, and unrealistic, and delusional, and annoying, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc…..

I’m having a feeling like everyone is thinking “Well, we told her so.” Or “She didn’t listen” or “Well, of course she’s in this position”…. A perceived feeling of deep exasperation from my loved ones.

I’m feeling like I can’t really talk to anyone because I don’t want to stress them out (because many of them already have enough stressors in their life and difficulties they are trying to get through themselves) and because I’m not feeling truly understood.  I’m feeling like nothing I say is justifiable or valid.

I think what I’m trying to describe is the loneliest feeling in the world.
Namely, no one to talk to in complete honesty without judgement and to have that person understand where you’re coming from, to truly understand what you’re trying to say, and still LIKE you.

Isn’t that what we all need? Someone to “get it”? Someone to assure you you’re not: crazy, stupid, worthless, foolish, dumb, annoying, whiny, obnoxious, spoiled, inept, naive, lazy, delusional, worthless, a loser, a failure, pompous, self-centered, irritating, boring, weak, overly sensitive, unrealistic, stridently idealistic, a fucking hot mess…etc. etc. etc. etc…..

It even feels like my psychiatrist is passing judgement on me recently.

And I know that it’s probably the lying bitch of Depression gaining the upper hand.
But….is she? Really???

What if I AM all those things? What if it is the absolute TRUTH? What if everyone else can see it except me? What if I’m in need of what some call “a come-to-Jesus” moment? What if I don’t know WTF I’m talking about? What if I am really, really, full of SHIT??

I’m back to being 13.

And now I think I can understand why certain people in the past may have wanted to get themselves to a place where they were not required to talk to anyone, to do anything except the basic things for survival – like growing food – and to isolate themselves from secular society and its’ pressures and demands….

I’m thinking that getting thyself to a nunnery and taking a vow of silence and retreating from the materialism and vices of the world (society as a whole) isn’t such a bad idea in the scheme of surviving this man-made world and its’ self-made pressures with any semblance of mental health and peace.

Are there still convents around like that? Brew some beer, grow some vegetables, bake some bread, contemplate God, don’t talk to anyone (for their good as well as your own)??

If so, can I sign up??

P.S.  This message was brought in part by dealing with teenagers (one of which is college-bound)…Parents who still view their grown-ass daughter as a mess-up…Genetics….A severely depressed and (understandably) anxious and stressed-out husband…Dysfunctional family dynamics…A very bad case of “shoulda, coulda, woulda”….and American society as a whole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This Is My Problem

Something has set me off lately, which has consequently off-set me… again.
Actually, there have been lots of somethings, lots of situations and lots of things, that have happened.  I won’t get into them today.

I will say that I find myself in yet another self-reflective funk.  It’s not as terrible or as painful a funk as my past depressive episodes have been.  It’s a weird funk in which I find myself a little ..detached from? lucidly objective with?… my brain, and how it functions.  I guess I’m trying to figure out exactly how it tends to work.  (Because lots of other things, like Life, aren’t really working for me, for us, ….oh, what the hell….let’s be honest….have not been working for some time now).

I’m finding myself strangely mindful of what I’m doing, and what I’m feeling so frustrated about, while doing it. It’s like looking at a blueprint of a complicated system (which, of course, is what everyone’s brain IS) and trying to figure out where things get FUBAR.

Anyway, there’s a poem that keeps coming to mind.
It’s a poem by A. A. Milne, who was one of my absolute favorite authors when I was a child (and still is).  It isn’t a poem that I would have called a favorite back then.  I had lots of favorites which my mother would often read to me at bedtime.  No, this is a poem that was among many that were usually skipped, not for any particular reason except to save time for my mother who probably wanted desperately for me to go to sleep and didn’t feel like reading the long ones.
(I understand the reasoning now that I’ve had children of my own.  You want to give them as many poems or stories as possible so that they think you’ve read them everything there is to read and they can’t plead “just another one!”; and it’s also to give your throat a break a little more often.  Shorter ones fit the bill).

So here I present this poem that’s been rattling ’round my noggin, “The Old Sailor”, which I feel describes me quite accurately:

“There was once an old sailor my grandfather knew
Who had so many things which he wanted to do
That, whenever he thought it was time to begin,
He couldn’t because of the shape he was in.

He was shipwrecked, and lived on an island for weeks,
And he wanted a hat, and he wanted some breeks;
And he wanted some nets, or a line and some hooks
For the turtles and things which you read of in books.

And, thinking of this, he remembered a thing
Which he wanted (for water) and that was a spring;
And he thought that to talk to he’d look for and keep
(If he found it) a goat, or some chickens and sheep.

Then, because of the weather, he wanted a hut
With a door (to come in by) which opened and shut
(With a jerk, which was useful if snakes were about),
And a very strong lock to keep savages out.

He began on the fish-hooks, and when he’d begun
He decided he couldn’t because of the sun.
So he knew what he ought to begin with, and that
Was to find, or to make, a large sun-stopping hat.

He was making the hat with some leaves from a tree,
When he thought, “I’m as hot as a body can be,
And I’ve nothing to take for my terrible thirst;
So I’ll look for a spring, and I’ll look for it first.”

Then he thought as he started, “Oh, dear and oh, dear!
I’ll be lonely tomorrow with nobody here!”
So he made in his note-book a couple of notes:
“I must first find some chickens”
and “No, I mean goats.”

He had just seen a goat (which he knew by the shape)
When he thought, “But I must have a boat for escape
But a boat means a sail, which means needles and thread;
So I’d better sit down and make needles instead.”

He began on a needle, but thought as he worked,
That, if this was an island where savages lurked,
Sitting safe in his hut he’d have nothing to fear,
Whereas now they might suddenly breathe in his ear!

So, he thought of his hut…and he thought of his boat,
And his hat and his breeks, and his chickens and goat,
And the hooks (for his food) and the spring (for his thirst)…
But he never could think which he ought to do first.

And so in the end he did nothing at all,
But basked on the shingle wrapped up in a shawl.
And I think it was dreadful the way he behaved –
He did nothing but basking until he was saved!”

– From the book of poems, Now We Are Six, by A. A. Milne

 

(I wonder if this was the first time that ADHD had been written about in literature, because…..c’mon…..right?).

Yup. This is how my brain works.

I’m pretty sure that “I think it[‘s] dreadful the way [s]he behave[s]” is probably what a lot of people, and especially my mother, think about me when they come to my house and take a look at the state it’s in combined with the fact that I’m a stay-at-home mom.

I’ve always known that I’m indecisive, but I’ve never framed that judgement in the sense that I’m just interested in so many things!

Because, it’s true! When I haven’t been depressed, when I’ve been “awake and alive”, so to speak….

I’ve wanted to learn as many foreign languages as I possibly could…
I spoke German with my mother until I entered elementary school in Texas and they talked me out of continuing (much to my mother’s dismay).  I tried picking it back up in High School, but I’m not fluent as I should be.  I did study French for awhile in college, going on a study-abroad program and even took two semesters of Chinese (which I’m proud to say I earned A’s in!  But not proud to say that I’ve mostly forgotten….)

I’ve wanted to study linguistics and communication disorders.

I’ve wanted to learn how to play  piano and guitar and saxophone and cello and harmonica and drums and violin and flute….I did play clarinet in school for seven years.

I’ve wanted to be able to help the homeless, whether human or canine or feline.  The most I’ve done with that is to unquestioningly give donations of whatever change I have on me to whatever homeless person asks for it, and to taking in dogs and cats, left and right, over the years.

I’ve wanted to read.  Read and read and read!  Fiction, always, but also non-fiction on topics like History and Nature and Biography and Psychology and Politics and Social Studies and Science and Art and Religion.
Things I don’t care to read about??  Business Strategy.
Mathematics. Marketing. Technology (depending). Economy (depending). Food (depending).
Eh.  I just want to read…doesn’t really matter much what. Just LOTS. I want to know about almost everything.

I’ve wanted to write and/or to edit.  That was my plan from the age of twelve until I got into college and completely gave up that idea (Hello, Clinical Depression.  Hello, Block. Hello, Hell).  But, here I am, on a blog, which I remember feeling extremely queasy about when I first made the rash, and yes, drunken, decision to begin one.  But, this blog is just me spouting in the wind for no particular purpose.

I’ve wanted to garden.  Correction: I’ve wanted to garden well. Don’t ask to visit my backyard.  Seriously.  Ugh.

I’ve wanted to travel; which I have been able to do from time to time over the years. Mostly when I was young.  I miss it.
I love airports and terminals and train stations.  When I say I long to do it, I mean a longing that is almost physically painful.

I’ve wanted to be healthy.  I’ve wanted my family and my pets to be healthy. (Who doesn’t want that, right?)
I’ve wanted to get us all on some sort of exercise routine and to cook healthy meals.
It’s one of the most important things you can do for yourself and your loved ones.  Take care of your health.
I’m not going to comment on where we are with that.
I mentioned that Life isn’t working for us already, yes?

I’ve wanted to paint and draw and photograph and sew and crochet and knit and embroider and decoupage and design and build and bead and weave and potter and invent and craft and make jewelry and rugs and paper and books and furniture and …..I don’t need to go on, do I?  Sorry.

And recently I became obsessed with Genealogy.  I was obsessed for about two to three weeks before becoming obsessed with sewing a couch cover to protect our leather furniture from our neurotic, pissing, Doberman, before really wanting to do and finish OHSOMANYPROJECTS!!!!  And before all this I was obsessed with getting this house organized….so I could DO THINGS and FIND THINGS with which to do them!!!!
(Not the least of which involves making some income so that we can live under a roof and feed ourselves.  Oh, wait.  I wasn’t going to get into the “somethings”, right? Moving on….)

My husband has told me numerous times that my problem is that I don’t know how to prioritize.  Oh, and that I need to manage my time better.  He’s told me, rightly, that I need to just pick an important thing and do it, and then move on to the next thing. Just make ONE thing a priority and forget about the other stuff.

My mom called me “lazy” so many, many times when I was growing up. “Lazy” and “Selfish” and “Uncaring”.  Maybe she might have understood me better if she had read that poem, “The Old Sailor”.

Because, he wasn’t lazy.  He wanted to DO all these things.
And, he wasn’t really selfish; after all, he needed to survive.
And he cared very much.

He was unfocused.
EVERYTHING was important to him.
He was overwhelmed and thus, distracted.
He was pulled in too many directions.
And Time is not a friend to those who want to do so many things.

It can be very, very, very, very, very discouraging.
It’s enough to make someone want to lay down and give up.