Mental Issues

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…..

Morning Pondering Over Coffee 9/27/23

On the whole “gender assignment at birth” thing….

So, if we are all simply allotted a gender identity when we’re born, based on our genitals…

That means, essentially, that the doctors are taking a guess…

Which means that sometimes they guess correctly! …

Because a lot of us do grow up to identify as male and female without any confusion in our heads…

(even though many of us don’t conform to all the gender expectations….
I mean, I was “assigned female” when I was born, but I didn’t, and don’t, completely conform to stereotypes and yet I still identify as female…)

So, are doctors really these manipulative, agenda-driven, cis-white-hetero-male figures they’re being portrayed as, chaining innocent babes to identities of “society’s” choosing?

(Because, let’s not forget, doctors are not all male, nor all white, nor all heterosexuals, nor all American, nor all Christian, nor all conservative..)

Or are they just going on the outward clues that Mother Nature (to use a gendered stereotype) has given them?

So does that really fit the definition of “assigning” or “bestowing” or “forcing”…???? Or is it more like taking an educated guess?

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?

I’m Baaa-aaack….(or am I?)

Well, it does seem that I’m back to being “yappity”, anyway. We shall see.

Finally received an official diagnosis of ADHD and finally started medication for it. And it is making me weirdly social again. It is making me a bit like I was after surviving breast cancer. I was uncharacteristically hopeful and optimistic and forgiving and motivated and extroverted and chatty after all that….During all that, actually.

And then Life carried on… and, well, kinda took the shine off that survival high for a good 6 years or so and sent me reeling back to an old familiar state of being; as is occasionally documented in previous, cringe-y, but authentic, posts which, if I were anyone else, I would probably delete out of merited embarrassment. But I can’t deny who I am: Too honest, too earnest, too talkative, too wordy, too neurotic, too open, too sensitive, messy, emotional, curious, real, maybe shameless. Human.

Also? Probably worthy of the label of Alcoholic. Avoiding the stuff now – mainly because of my new meds.

I think that there’s more to being back though. As mentioned, it definitely has something to do with this new prescription added to my anti-depressant (which sorta broke down and was like, “Nope! Gonna need some help here!”) but I think it also has a lot to do with the unexpected death of someone, a friend, whom I considered one of my favorite people on this planet.

She and I met in college on a study abroad program. We became fast friends. We may have been opposite in so many ways, but we clicked. Mainly because she was one of those people who just hummed with brightness; she touched so many people with her warmth and kindness and energy. I was very lucky to have met her. She was in my wedding party (in fact, she was the reason I even met my husband) and I was in hers. Marriage and jobs and homes and kids came along and drew us away for periods of time, but we always circled back to touch base and check in on each other. And when we did, it was like no time had passed at all. We were the same together again as we were before. I am damn lucky to have a handful or two of friends like that. And her death has just thrown those relationships into stark focus. I’m still in disbelief and it’s been almost a month since she’s been gone. We had said we would get together soon several months ago. Another mutual friend had arranged to see her this past July. She backed out because she wasn’t feeling well – just two weeks before she passed.

I think that even more than when I had the possibility of dying in front of me roughly 11 years ago, my friend’s death has driven home to me the urgency of the time we have left for us on Earth. I know that sounds weird coming from someone who has gone through cancer treatment, from someone who has wrestled mightily with suicide-ideation for years, from someone whose husband not very long ago, attempted his own departure from this life, from someone who has lost a mother-in-law, from someone who has lost a father who was also a best friend, from deaths of other very dear ones… I’m not unfamiliar with loss.

Grief, I am discovering, is a weird thing though.

Those previous deaths, those close-calls with death….are events that I’ve managed to compartmentalize somehow. I think that I’ve put them into a room in my head, closed the door and chosen to examine them later. Every time I peek inside that room, I have to slam it shut. Especially my father’s death. ESPECIALLY that one. (Yes, I need to deal. I’ve signed up for a grief-counseling group, thank you). Probably I’ve done it because those events come with particularly tender to the touch, awful, memories. That’s not to say that my friend’s death isn’t painful. It most definitely is. But I think because of who she was and how she was and what she believed in, the suddenness of it is still so surreal, the fact that she died peacefully at least, surrounded by those she loved the most, at home and relaxing….everyone unaware of what was about to happen…. makes it somewhat gentler to reflect upon. And it makes it easier to keep her spirit with me.

And so, it is making me reflect upon the people in my life, the relationships I’ve had, human existence and its uncertainties, friendships and their impact. But most of all: Time. How to be in it and how to use it. Who to spend it with. How unpredictable it is.


I feel like I have her to thank for this awakening. Typical of her. That incredibly real positive open petite fun giggly honest caring bright earnest sweet energetic giving compassionate forgiving gracious authentic thoughtful soul. May her memory be a blessing. And may it keep me awake.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where My Mind Goes

Surely, this is normal.
It is, isn’t it?

To begin with, I am not an morning person AT. ALL. I also do not work outside the home.
And, my children are older and in school.  So, I do have the luxury that I am aware others do not, of waking up around 9:30 a.m. or so and taking my time, for better or for worse, to slowly ease into the world.  This ritual is facilitated by many, many, cups of coffee.

(Well , by that I really mean a whole pot of coffee, at the very least).

And since I’ve got the itch to make things again, I found this morning that continuing a knitting project while sipping my warm and dark cure for grogginess was what I needed to get me going.

And this is where my mind ambled…..

“What did the philosophers and writers and artists of yore do to support themselves whenever they weren’t philosophizing and writing and painting?  I’m talking about the people who became known forevermore as the “great thinkers’ and the “great artists”.  What were their “day jobs”?  I must look into this.  I’m curious.  I can’t imagine that anyone was paying them to sit around and do what they did.  I doubt that much has changed in attitudes about that sort of work over the ages.  Artists were paid, maybe, by commissions from the Church or from Royalty…but in between gigs?”

Then, because I had a news program going on my phone whilst knitting and sipping, and because they were addressing the Noble Prize and some scientists’ achievements in studying bacteria, and because they were showing pictures of bacteria and cells under a microscope…..

“I find it extremely interesting how the tiniest organisms on Earth, and the tiniest brain systems in our head, are so visually similar to the massive systems of stars and galaxies in the universe.”

Which somehow led me to remembering what my my father, never a particularly religious person, likes to say from time to time….

“God is Gravity”.

And this sparked a thought about religious beliefs…

“I always hear from religious and spiritual people that we are here on Earth to learn lessons.  That God has a greater plan and that there’s a reason for everything.
Some even say that we choose our lives before we’re even born.  Or that God does.
As if Life on Earth is some sort of amusement ride.  As if Life on Earth is a product in a gigantic universal vending machine from which we choose to sample.

And if it’s the case that humans simply have to have Faith, that we simply have to believe in an afterlife or in a higher power, does that mean that our own brains are what control our lives? I mean, that certainly seems to be the implication.

Like, if you believe in Heaven and in God then you will most definitely go there and see Him.  But if you don’t, then you truly DIE – as in, completely cease to exist anywhere anymore. No passing Stop and moving on. You chose one ride and now it’s over.

Bill Hick’s quote about Life being just a ride pops into my grey matter…

‘You are what you eat’ as the saying goes….
You are also what you believe ??

If our brains are so powerful that all we have to do is believe in something, then is it maybe the case that we are actually God?? (Wasn’t there someone famous who expressed that idea?).

Sometimes I see the proclamations about saviors in my mind’s eye as Tinkerbell saying the magic words and sprinkling around some pixie dust….

I mean, I certainly don’t feel like God.  Or a god. Trust me, things would be a whole lot different if that were the case! I know I haven’t seen any sort of magic in my life that makes everything okay….Well, with the exception of wine. Or chocolate. Or cold, wet dog noses.  Or a baby’s laugh. Or good music. Or a cat’s purring in my ear. (And I can just hear my husband whispering…”Or ME purring in your ear, right?”…ha!)
BUT none of that sort of magic makes your problems stop.  Doesn’t cure your ailment, whether it’s financial or physical. The objective world remains the same.

But I won’t say I haven’t seen or experienced things that resembled miracles….

Hmnnn…… They say ‘God is One’, ‘We are all part of God’, “Connectivity is what is important to humans’, ‘Treat others as you would have yourself treated’, ‘We are all brothers and sisters’, etc……

Try substituting “Mind” for “God” and for “Humans”….
Why is it that neurons and cells and bacteria and synapses resemble a snapshot that Hubble takes out in space?
Are we really parts of the whole? Parts of one Big Power??

Is this how prayer is supposed to work? Everyone thinking and hoping for the same thing continually or at once?
But then why is it that so many people who are sick, who do have Faith, and have devout friends and family praying for them in large numbers, nevertheless die from their disease? Why do some make it and some don’t? Why is it that a missing child for whom many people pray to be found safe and sound…isn’t??

Does this go back to the idea of the giant vending machine in the sky? That existences are truly planned out before birth, as some believe? That our experiences here are simply parts of the whole Deluxe or Prime or Individual or Wild Card Life Packages that we CHOSE???  Like, somehow YOU picked “The Wild Card Life Package” that resulted in you ending up homeless just so you could feel what it’s like and to learn something from it. Or maybe the “Deluxe Package” in which you go from rags (with all it’s struggles and pain) to riches (with everything which that implies to you.)?
I think that maybe the idea of reincarnation fits in here somewhere….”

And then I realized that I’d had enough coffee to wake me up, and that I wanted to write this down, and that I need to go out to see my dad today.

And I wondered, “Is this what other people think about as they go on with their day too? Is this a normal train of thought”?

What sort of thoughts bounce about your skull as you make your way through the day?