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.







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.

Tonight

I want to rip my hair out.

I want to rip off my skin, down to the bone, and run until my skeleton falls apart on some deserted road.

I want to burn everything I own down to the ground.

I want to rid myself of everything and just disappear.

I want to just go “POOF!”. Bye-bye! Anyone know of how to spontaneously combust???

It feels as if the Universe has been trying to get me to leave this planet for a very long time. It’s made it clear that I don’t belong here and that it’s given me the chances to go, and I just keep on hanging on…..For what? For why??
I’m not a value-added package. I’m not doing anyone any good that I can tell. And I just don’t get the rules of this place. I don’t like how this world operates.

As my dad was fond of saying, and I whole-heartedly concur: “Ain’t no way to run a railroad”.

I went to a friend’s house and she helped me calm down. But the situation still remains….I came home and the restlessness and sadness and frustration just smacked me in the face as soon as walked in the door.

I suck at motherhood. I suck at marriage. I suck at work. I suck at pretty much everything I can think of.
There is no reason for me to be here.

Yeah, yeah, yeah….I drank a bottle of wine. Because it’s the only way to mellow me out. Unfortunately, it occasionally leads me to melancholy too. And here I am. Spilling it all out, despite promising myself that I wouldn’t. See? I can’t be trusted.

Probably time for me to get back into therapy.
But the scary thing is that I don’t want to this time. I’m nearing the end of my rope. My very, very, very frayed rope.

Just ranting. Into the abyss.

But it’s seriously hard not feel as if SOMETHING out there wants me to just fucking give up already.

Hello???

It’s July 9th, 2022, 6:46 a.m.

I’ve been … lost. I’ve been busy. I’ve been worried. I’ve been stressed out.

I’m drinking. As the sun rises. Not good. And then again, it mellows me out.

I’ve been thinking a lot. There’s been a lot going on. Trying to collect my thoughts.

If you’re here with me….. Thank you.

(Great. I thought I was posting this to my other blog: DandelionHeadStudio…..I’m so out of it….I need to get my shit together. As my mother likes to remind me…..)

Wishing I could disappear, but knowing that it isn’t possible. I mean, it isn’t possible if I’d like to be a responsible, empathetic, loving, person….

Hello???

O.K. Today is July 9th, 2022. It is 6:24 A.M. as I type this.
Don’t know what I’m doing. It’s been awhile.

So many things have happened.

And I’m finding it amusing, but not, that it is dawn and I’m still drinking.

I’ve been up most of the night doing stuff. Cleaning things intermittently, arguing with people on YouTube about women’s reproductive rights, and then realizing after FaceTiming with my daughter that I am an annoying person.

I told myself that I wasn’t going to talk anymore. I told myself that I wasn’t going to drink anymore. Clearly, I failed.

But, I’m okay. I’m just going to try to do better later. In the meantime, I’m glad that I’m a mellow, happy drunk person. It could be worse.

February, 2022

Haven’t been here in over a year. Wish I could say that things are MUCH MUCH better.
I can’t.

For a minute, I thought I could…
Husband is gainfully employed at a job that he actually likes. He is feeling useful and helpful and better. He is earning more than he ever has. There is a sense of purpose in his new job. He is a part of helping others in their lives in important ways. He is feeling a little bit more hopeful; less depressed. And that is an incredible relief.

Our son, however….

I am not sleeping tonight because I am worried about his state of mind.
This FUCKING depressive gene…..

We tried to admit him to a psychiatric hospital today. They were full.

We are supposedly going to be able to admit him tomorrow.

This FUCKING depressive gene!!!!!…….

And this STUPID American political and economic and social system!!!…..

And I’m a mom.

Everyone keeps telling me not to beat myself up….But frankly, that’s what the majority of mothers are trained to do. It’s what the majorities of mothers are going to do. It comes with the position.

New Year’s Eve 2021

3:44 a.m.
Still drinking.
Feeling an obligation to finish off this bottle of Prosecco.
Reflecting on a shitty year.
A shitty past five years, actually, but 2020 by all accounts has taken the cake.
I know that a lot of people have their own lists of truly crappy, tragic, awful things that have taken place in 2020, and since misery loves company, here’s what’s happened in ours:

Amex suing us.
Husband unemployed for most of year.
Husband battling a depression so deep and persistent that he attempts suicide.
Son begins self-harming.
My father dies after a lengthy battle with Mesothelioma.
Pets developing weird lumps and bumps and in need of veterinary care, but we can’t afford it.
Daughter off in college out of state. (Which is both great and also stressful.)
All of this during a worldwide pandemic and political turmoil.
There’s tons of other factors – mishaps, things falling apart, mental health issues, family dysfunction issues, financial straits, COVID stress – that have been playing out as well, which I’m not sure where to even start with.

Haven’t written anything in what seems like forever.
And yet, here I am.
I guess I’m here testifying that all of this won’t actually make your head explode, surprisingly enough.
I’ve been waiting.
I’m tentatively on alert though.
Some days I kinda wish it would.

I’m nothing if not honest.