My own worst enemy

I may only be able to think about you and wonder how you are.

Maybe the best I can manage is to reach out, just a little, by text or by email, just to let you know you're part of me in some meaningful way.

But then again, maybe I can bring you a Diet Coke, or chicken noodle soup, or lasagna. I want you to be okay. 

But maybe I'm scared. Afraid of what I might see, think. Feel. Oh, feelings are so hard. Especially when I love you. It might be easier for me to play ostrich; stick my head in the sand. Pretend there isn't anything wrong. Doesn't mean it's the right thing. The fair thing. But what if that's the reason I don't call? Visit?

I want to help, but I'm overwhelmed with my own awfulness. My own drama. My own self-imposed and selfish issues. My own brain gets in the way. 

Except you matter. I might not do the right things. Say the right words. Be who you expect me to be. Be who I expect me to be. I am who I am. Right or wrong. Love me or hate me.

I've been more disappointed in myself than you could EVER be with me.

But oh, the green of the sky after sunset, before full night takes over to make us wait for the rising of another day. That green means opportunity. It means I have a chance tomorrow. To succeed. To fail. To just barely make it through. 

I hate failing. So I'll be here tomorrow. Pushing forward. Even if forward is only an inch. Even if I only think...and don't act. 

TTFN

JMS

Tidbits

Yesterday, Co-worker came to my office to talk to Boss. Boss told Co-Worker to wait a minute, he was finishing something up. Co-Worker paced in front of my desk...waiting, expectantly.

Me: Did Boss make you wait?

Co-Worker: Yes, he had to give birth to a thought.

****

Girl-child grounded the cat. Why? Because Wendy (cat, a.k.a. "The Tiny Furry Dictator") has a habit of using her paw to snag a piece of fabric - crocheted blanket, a sweater, a towel - use said paw to bring fabric to her mouth, and then will spend minutes on end simply licking the fabric. It's akin to thumb-sucking in children, I think. Anyway - Wendy had been licking a crocheted blanket for almost 10 minutes and Girl-child had had it. She said, "That's it! Wendy! Enough! You're grounded!" then went over, picked the little fuzzball up, and relocated her to another part of the house.

It didn't work. As a friend said, "Grounding a cat is like trying to give a cat a Time Out" - which, of course, wouldn't work, either.

Still, it was amusing.

****

At work, trying desperately to attach a required form to a foreign trip request for a co-worker. Form. Will. Not. Attach. Three separate people tried and failed, including me. Finally, I hollered at Boss. "Boss! Would you come out here for a minute please?"

I explain the situation. Boss says, "Make the document into a PDF and try again."

Which, of course, worked like a charm. Now I feel like an idiot.

And...another clear reason why Boss is the Boss.

****

Last night, Girl-child had gotten ready for bed. I'd just finished showering so I had a towel on my head. It was late. Girl-child really should have already been in bed, but instead, she was in my room fussing over the fur babies. I took the towel off my head and intended to give her a light smack on the backside with it, but - not considering that Wet Towel = Heavy Towel = Doesn't Work Like a Dry Towel managed to actually snap the towel at Girl-child's backside. **POP!**

It hurt. She cried. I felt so awful because I truly didn't mean it to snap her like that. But then we both looked at each other and began to laugh like loons. She said, "Mom, I know you didn't mean to do that and I forgive you. I love you SO much!" I think I kinda love her, too. Goober.

****

TTFN
JMS

PS: A little levity today was necessary. I'm an emotional wreck so I'm trying to make myself (and maybe you, too?) feel better. Did it help?

Wormholes of Lost Time and Anxiety Attacks

I learned a lesson last night. Walks down Memory Lane are, for the most part, not the most prudent of ideas for me. Especially when I let my brain run away with my thoughts. When my brain eventually returns, it brings baggage. It's difficult to explain the baggage, though, because not all of it is bad, or sad, or hard. Some of it is okay. Not happy, exactly, but okay. It's just stuff I'd forgotten. And for whatever reason, those things brought with them hitching, gasping breaths, giant tears, and vomit. I literally made myself sick. Full-blown anxiety attack at 10:30 PM. It was awesome.

There are blank spots in my memory. Black, gaping holes of time I can no longer pin down; time leading up to, and immediately following, the death of my mother, Mary, back in June of 1989. And, if I'm being honest, I don't really start having full, in-Technicolor memories again until about 1993 or '94, when I moved to Mystic, CT.  I was definitely in a dark place for a long time. I'm not entirely sure how I didn't get myself into a ton of trouble; I'm convinced there were plenty of opportunities. Somehow, I managed to...for want of a better word...survive. 

No matter how dark things got, though, I never, ever considered removing myself from this mortal coil. I did some self-destructive things, but I don't think those things were ever life-threatening. Stupid? Absolutely.

But when my thoughts wander into the wormholes of lost time, sometimes they unearth things which I'm not ready to examine. I can't steel myself against, or prepare myself for, what memories will hitch a ride back to my conscious mind. And that's what happened last night. I dug up stuff that I would have preferred stayed buried.

Mostly because of the mental and emotional state I was in during those times. I'd lost my mother. I was a teenager. I was hurting and destructive and was convinced no one cared or understood or wanted to help. It was those feelings that resurfaced last night. That desperate pain of grief and loss and of being lost. 

So I cried. Long and loud and hard. It was awful. I don't recommend it.

The lesson I learned is sometimes, those blank spots are blank for a reason. It's usually self protection. And to shed light on them - even a dim light - can be...not exactly detrimental, but certainly not helpful, either.

I feel better this morning. I do. Yesterday was not a good day anyway so I was already fragile and my barriers were down. Today, aside from seriously puffy eyes and some post-crying jag congestion, I feel better.

I believe getting better - trying to find that emotional upward swing in a downward spiral - is a game. Like two steps forward and one step back. Progress. Set back. Progress. Setback. I'm not sure you're ever really...there. Done. 100%.

But I'll take better. That will do for now.

TTFN
JMS

How are you?

I hurt today.

Aside from an extremely stiff neck and aching shoulders, I've got this deep ache inside my chest. (No, it's not a heart attack.) You know that place just above where your sternum ends? There. Deep. Like something oily and heavy and dark has lodged itself in that spot. (No, Supernatural fans; I'm not possessed, either.) It's a multifaceted ache. Sadness. Stress. Pain. Exhaustion. Anger. Frustration.

I've often wondered why it is we get angriest with those whom we love the most? Why it is that they can hurt us more than anyone else we know? Why we will work our hardest to make them happy and do what we can for them - with little to no acknowledgement of the sacrifices we make for them - and yet, we continue? Death by 1000 cuts. Little, tiny hurts over an extended period of time can result in the same "death" as outright murder. Why? Why do we continue to do unto others even when they won't do the same unto you?

Because it's the right thing, that's why. No matter the hurt. No matter the sacrifice. Those we love, naturally, can hurt us the most because we love them the most. They're thoughts and opinions and deeds - misdeeds? non-deeds? - can injure us far more than anyone else's.

But when asked, "How are you?" your automatic response is, "Fine! How are you?" Deflection. I'm great, but let's talk about you now.

Wanting to have the energy - physical, emotional, and mental - to do all the things which need to be done, with a smile on my face, isn't too much to ask, is it?

TTFN
JMS

Depression and Tattoos

I sat down today with the goal of pouring my heart out. But, now that I'm here, I don't quite know where to begin.  The last couple of weeks have been kind of a whirlwind; so much has happened and yet, with everything going on, not too much has changed. I'm not sure I can explain it any better than that.

Girl-child turned 10 on March 8th. Official double digits. We honestly didn't do very much, which makes me feel like a horrible mother, but I just couldn't get my act together. We did, however, have a huge sheet cake at the Wednesday night supper at church (which corresponded very nicely with her actual day of birth) and everyone who was there sang Happy Birthday to her - to her high embarrassment. But she thanked me later. And everyone had birthday cake, which is always a good thing.

The next day, I had my very first appointment with my new doctor, and that was an unexpected experience in itself. To begin with, I hadn't been to just a regular primary care physician in over a year; for any reason. Filling out all that new patient paperwork made me realize just how sorely lacking my self-care had been. I could not remember how long it'd been since my last [fill in the blank] on just about any of it. Sad, sad, sad. Anyway, when the nurse called me back, she spent almost 30 solid minutes going over my health history with me. She was kind, thoughtful, insightful, non-judgmental, took her time and didn't make me feel as if she had somewhere else to be. She put me right at ease. When all that was said and done, she said the doctor would be right in and, my cynical self thought, "Yeah, right!" Because, let's be honest, who hasn't heard that before and then waited 20, 30, sometimes even 40 minutes before the doctor came right in.

But, miracle of miracles, five minutes later there was a knock on the door and in came my new doctor and an assistant.  He, too, took his time with me. He, too, was thoughtful, respectful, responsive, insightful, and didn't make me feel like he had somewhere else to be. What a different experience from what I'd become used to. We started going over my health - the usual stuff - but then he paused, looked me straight in the eye, and said, "So...how's your stress level?" And I lost it.

Really lost it.

I cried like an idiot in front of my new doctor.

I fully expected him to find an excuse to leave the room, but he just laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and said, "It's OK. This is a safe place to cry. Take as long as you need."

Once I'd calmed down some, we spent an extremely long time talking about my stress, emotions, moods, etc. In detail. It was simultaneously embarrassing, uncomfortable, gratifying and freeing. To talk about stuff I hadn't talked about in any real way for...well...ever.

In the end, I left with new prescriptions for my asthma (which I was out of, and, other than establishing myself with a new physician, was the primary purpose of my visit), as well as an anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety, and a scheduled follow-up visit for a week later to see how things were going.

Well...if I'm being honest...I don't remember much about the following week. The anti-anxiety medicine basically made me into a semi-conscious zombie. I was a good patient, and took the medicine as it was prescribed, but it was - clearly - too much. Finally, the day before my follow-up visit, I didn't take my morning or afternoon doses because I was practically narcoleptic. That seemed to help. So by the time my follow-up appointment arrived, I felt mostly human again.  I relayed my situation to the doctor and he agreed; too much meds. We lowered the dose significantly and I've been fine ever since.

Also, my blood work indicated (as we suspected) very out-of-whack hormones and a severe vitamin D deficiency. So I am now also on a hormone creme which is supposedly going to "change my life" and extra doses of vitamin D.

All-in-all, I do feel better. I couldn't tell right away, but as the anti-depressant builds in my system I find myself feeling clearer and clearer. I'm still not "there" yet - wherever "there" is - but I am on my way. I think.

Which brings me to - at least partially - what I was originally going to write about. This depression thing has been going on since I was 13 or 14. I've either been seeing some form of therapist, or taking some form of medication, almost as long as I can remember. But, I've been without (by choice) either therapist or medicine for several years now. I guess I thought maybe I was as good as I'd ever be, things wouldn't get better, and I might as well get used to things as they were because...well...it is what it is, right? I mean, at some point I guess I must have consciously decided to just deal with it, the depression, that is. And truthfully, I thought I was doing alright.

But lately, I began to realize I was not doing alright. That I needed help. And I remembered all the times I've said to others that it's OK to ask for help, so why did I feel that it was not OK for ME to ask for help, too? Stubbornness? A desire to be OK even if I wasn't? To not be a failure to myself? To others? The incorrect belief that if I looked OK on the outside, I might fool myself (and others) into believing I really was OK on the inside, too?  I've got people counting on me! I've got a good job, thank God! I've got responsibilities! I cannot, NOT be OK! It was simply unacceptable for me to show weakness - either to myself or to others.

But when my doctor asked, "So...how's your stress level?" it provided an unexpected opportunity to ask for the help I needed, even though I wasn't really sure what I needed. I know now that this, more than anything, was why I broke down and cried in his office.

Another thing. Last night was my monthly Girl's Night with my girlfriends. Truthfully, they're more my Soul Sisters. The 5 other women in my life who have held me together more times than they even realize. And we got to talking about tattoos (our conversations are always all across the map and are sacred and not to be repeated in most cases) and wouldn't it be neat if we - the sisters - could come up with a tattoo that represented all of us and we would each get one. Yes, I'm all for that. (Another story for another time, really.)  But, during that conversation, one friend asked us about our own personal symbols - a symbol that we each, individually, felt inextricably linked to. Something that we felt defined us, in a way. And though I had a symbol, I felt more linked to a particular phrase: "Do it anyway."

If you read my blog regularly, I think I've talked about this before, so you'll understand. However, to me, "Do it anyway," is my way of forcing myself to be OK. To force myself to get up in the morning, to take a shower, to drive to work and work all day, to do the laundry...sometimes to go tuck my kids in and kiss them and tell them I love them even though I've already gotten in bed.  To do all the little things I'd just rather not do because it would be easier to stay in bed all day and just give in to the blackness I feel. Don't want to do something? Do it anyway! (Within reason, of course, because it certainly cannot apply to everything!)

So I tried very hard to explain to my sisters what I envision when I think about this phrase: "Do it anyway."

Basically what I said was, when I think about a "normal" person - someone who doesn't suffer from depression and anxiety and constantly questions their self-worth - I think of a clear pane of glass, or a beautiful crystal bowl. Perfect. Lovely. Together. Transparent. Unblemished. But when I think about me and how I feel - how my depression and all the rest of it feels to me - I feel broken. Like shards of glass, or shattered crystal. And I see my mantra, "Do it anyway." written in pieces of glass.

It's hard to explain. I certainly wouldn't know how to take this image I see so perfectly in my mind and transfer it into a vision suitable for a tattoo. But you know what? I think I'm going to try.

One of my sisters said, "You know, that kinda shows your strength, actually." (I might be paraphrasing, but essentially that was it.) And I think maybe she might be right.

I want those words - where I can see them and remember what I've suffered through - clear for the world to see, too. I want someone to ask me about it. What does it mean?

For folks who live in their unblemished, clear-pane-of-glass worlds (not a judgment, I promise, just an observation), it might be hard to understand the struggle it is to live with depression and anxiety (among other things).  But for those who know...well, maybe they'll see my tattoo and they'll just GET IT. They'll understand. And they'll know I'm safe, that I'm someone they can talk to about their own struggle. And maybe, just maybe, they'll feel a little bit better.

Again - I feel like I'm having trouble explaining things. I suppose you can take all this (the words of this unbelievably long blog post) however you wish. Bottom line for me, though? I'm finally getting help and I have a vision I'd like to realize in the form of a tattoo. Now, I just need to save up the money.

Really? That's the summary of this long post? Well...I might have follow-ups in the future, but yes, for now, that's it.

I hope this post helps you in some small way. Because if it helps you - even if I don't know it - it will help me, too.

TTFN
JMS

My Current "Shiny Squirrel"

Is everyone as obsessed with April the Giraffe as I am?  You know, April the pregnant giraffe? It seems the whole world is holding their breath waiting for her to give birth. The world seems like it's falling apart (in my small, humble opinion), and everyone is watching a giraffe's hoo-hoo looking for signs of new life. Is this a metaphor?

I feel awful, mentally, right now and it seems that April is a mindless escape. I mean, I don't have the camera trained on the live feed all the time (ain't nobody got time for that!), but I do check in a couple of times a day.

I've learned a few things, too.

Bull giraffes aren't as docile as their female counterparts.  Not mean, exactly, but - as the YouTube, Animal Adventure Park live feed info says, "A bull is a bull is a bull." Infer what you will.

The things on their heads are called ossicones. Who knew? They are ossified cartilage covered with skin and fur and, as far as I can tell, have no purpose. The only other animal to have ossicones are Okapis. Huh? I'd never heard of an Okapi before, but they're an endangered species, related to the giraffe, and look like a deer mated with a zebra.

Anyway, when April finally begins to birth her baby, we'll see the baby's front hooves first, then the snout, then the rest will follow. A baby giraffe weighs, on average, 150 lbs, and is, on average, 6ft tall. A giraffe is pregnant for 15 months.

Wait! 15 months? Seriously? I absolutely cannot imagine being pregnant for 15 months. That little tidbit just blew me away! And imagine, a 150 lb, 6ft baby? I'm baffled. But then again, I'm not a giraffe, either. (Thank God!)

I would very much like to pet one, though. Hug it and squeeze it and call it Georgina? (Not George, because that would infer a male giraffe and, as we've already established, they're not much on the hugging and the squeezing.)

So, as the world waits with bated breath for April the gentle giant to have her huge baby, I am enthralled. Am I somehow hoping I'll be the first viewer to spot something happening? Nope. Do I expect anyone else to be interested? Nope. Is this a way to post an entry on my blog without having to talk about anything personal? Absolutely.

Am I OK?  Yes. Is anything really wrong? No. Am I in a funk? Yupperdoodle. And I'll get over it.

For now, I'll look at a giraffe's hoo-hoo along with the rest of the world.

TTFN
JMS

Catching up with Tangent

Wait!  What?  I haven't posted anything since MAY?  You're kidding, right?

Um...apparently not.

There's just been SO MUCH happening and I haven't felt like writing.  I still don't feel like writing.  And, quite frankly, you won't really want to hear anything I have to say anyway.

Booker T. Jet Black Alley Cat (affectionately "Boo" for short) is awesome and has become a real member of the family.  His Glorious Fuzziness is such a wonderful addition and so much fun.  He is friends to adults and kids alike.  But he is my special buddy.

Recently, we added (maybe temporarily, maybe permanently) Gammy's cat, Wendy.  Without going into detail about the whys and wherefores, we are still in the Kitty Integration Phase.  There are twice-daily supervised visits between them and we're still dealing with the hissy-pissy, grumble and groan phase of things.  Once all the vocal whining stops - and they stop taking half-hearted swipes at each other - we'll let her out of quarantine.  She's a little instigator.  Boo is kind of chill about the whole thing and, truth be told, probably kinda likes her.  He's at least interested.  Unless he's pretending to be disinterested.  It's been a journey.

There's so much other stuff, but I have decided to keep this light.  Once I have the emotional capacity to delve deeper, I'll share.  But not right now.

Stay tuned?

TTFN
JMS

PS: Sorry for the hiatus.  I've missed you guys!

Raw

I suppose I should begin this post with another disclaimer to let you know this is soul-bearing, raw, and completely honest.  It's somewhat cathartic, although I know it really won't fix anything.  And I know this is a side of things some people will say shouldn't be shown to the public, but...

I sat on the floor in the bathroom last night at 11 o’clock and leaned against the bathroom sink and just cried.  Sobbed, really.  I think I need a break.  A real one.  One where I'm not worrying about my kids and if they're okay or what they’re thinking, doing, saying, eating, if they’re warm and comfortable or need me.  One where I’m not worrying about cleaning my house or figuring out what to put into a yard sale or about keeping up appearances or saying the right thing.  One where I can have the squishy floor in the bathroom fixed without breaking a sweat over finances.  One where I don’t have to worry about money or how I’m going to put gas in my car so I can get to work or where I don’t have to scrounge around for something to take for my own lunch so the kids can have a decent lunch at school.  One where I wish I could be truly selfish, just for once.  One where I don't have to worry about getting up if I'd rather sleep until noon.  One where no friends are dying and where people aren't saying or doing hurtful things.  One where if I ask someone to do something they'll do it, with no questions asked and I won't have to repeat myself.  One where when I say something, it will actually be heard and no one will later say, “You never told me that!”

I guess I'm just tired in my body and in my soul.

I wish I didn't have to be ON all the time.  That I didn't have to force myself not to cry at work when my "upset" has nothing to do with work.

I don't think the tears are done yet.

Bear with me.

TTFN

JMS

Random Rant *or* Angry At The World

I know when someone is mad at me.  I may not always understand the reasons why, but I have no doubt I messed up somewhere.  I just wish, when I've hurt or offended someone in some way, they’d tell me what I've done.  If I don’t know what I’ve done to hurt you, I can’t make it right.  It bothers me deeply to know I've hurt someone, but not know how or why.  I dislike hurting people, immensely, and I certainly don’t wake up in the morning and think, “Hm…who can I mess with today?”  And please don’t tell me, “You know what you did!” expecting me to know, because half the time I can’t remember my own name and the other half I can’t remember what I had for dinner the night before.  I’m not trying to be flippant, or glib, but I think we’d all be much better off if we communicated with one another; especially when an offense is involved.

Hubby seems to think I worry too much about people being mad at me.  When I ask, “Are you mad at me?” he gets upset and says, “Why do you always think you’re the one I’m upset with?” Mainly because he’s always mad at me for one thing or another (that's marriage, I guess) but also because body language speaks volumes and the silent treatment doesn't usually happen unless there’s an issue.

But here's the current issue that's plaguing me: I don’t understand all this anger I've got within myself right now.  I’m FURIOUS AT EVERYTHING!  I’m trying not to be.  I’m making a concerted effort to speak kindly or at least politely.  Counting to ten when I feel myself on auto-response and leaning toward pissed off.  I’m trying to temper…uh…my temper.  I’m trying to clear my mind of all the nasty things rolling around inside of me, without much luck. 

The other day, I was drinking a nice glass of white wine from a lovely winery in Townsend, TN (Cades Cove Winery).  I don’t remember exactly what else I was doing – cleaning, I think – but I was so angry!  Everything I saw, everything I touched just made me mad.  I was slamming around and snapping at everyone.  My poor family was hiding from me.  Eventually, hubby confiscated my glass of wine (which made me mad) and replaced it with a large mug of freshly-brewed chamomile tea (which confused me, and pleased me all at the same time).  I guess it was bedtime for Bonzo.  

I’m still mad.  I still want to lash out.  I don’t feel like being pleasant and friendly.  I want to rail against the universe and I can’t understand why.  Folks may say it's grief talking, which is a possibility, though I think probably unlikely.  Or the depression which has been setting in for a while now and which I’m fighting tooth and nail.  Which is probably why I’m angry.  But it doesn't matter.

And, since we were just discussing cleaning while angry, I need to say I would very much like to get one of those small bobcat bulldozer thingies and ‘doze everything (EVERYTHING) out of my house and start over.

TTFN
JMS

From dogs to depression and back again

Sometimes a thought runs through my head like an errant squirrel which tumbles me back through a couple of decades or more of memories which, quite frankly, are too painful to spend too much time thinking about.  It’s not that I’m denying my past; it’s more that I’m preserving my present.

For example, yesterday a friend Tweeted something about the dog down the street from her who howls every time it hears a siren.  That small comment catapulted me back to childhood and our Shetland Sheepdog, Trevor, who would howl for the same reason.  He also "sang" along to Happy Birthday whenever it was sung.  He loved to be brushed.  He did tricks.  He was as sweet as he could be.  And just thinking about him brought back all kinds of other stuff, too, so my brain said, "ENOUGH!" and shut the door soundly in the face of those memories.

When memories hit me in such a way I start feeling kind of hollow inside, like something very large is missing from me.  My heart beats faster and I can feel the cadence of it in my throat.  Thump, thump!  Thump, thump!  Thump, thump!  The pit of my stomach turns to acid.  My throat gets tight.  I feel like I’m having trouble breathing.  I become hypersensitive not just emotionally, but all over; I can sometimes feel my elbows.  (That sounds silly, but it’s true.)  Once these reactions start, if I let them go on I’m going to (without fail) have a little bit of a breakdown.  Said breakdown could be as small as a few stray tears squeezing themselves from the corners of my eyes to as large as a full-scale anxiety attack including walls closing in and running to the nearest open, outdoor space so I can breathe.  Therefore, if I tamp down on some of the most painful memories of the past, I have a better present. 

I guess you could call it self-preservation.

And really, most days I get along just fine.  But when I feel the emotions ratcheting up again, and I find that things (memories, feelings, those errant squirrel thoughts) are cropping up more and more often, I typically find it better for not only myself, but for those around me, to go back on an antidepressant.  It’s been a while now since I the last time I took such medication on any kind of regular basis, but I’m thinking it’s probably a good idea to start down that road again.  Of researching someone to talk to and possibly getting myself headed back toward emotional well-being.  I know I’m stronger, and really, I think I’m mostly doing OK, but the signs are there.  I know if I let things go it will just get worse and it will be harder to find my center again.

I must say here that I know there are people out there who are completely and totally against any kind of help in this regard.  They are against the therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists; against the mood-boosting medications which guard against depression (mild to severe).  In my opinion these tend to be the same folks who are against medications in general, really.  I am not one of them.  I believe in getting the help you need, however that may look.  I believe that you can live a happy and productive life, but I also believe that sometimes you may need a little extra help to get you there.  And that’s OK.

TTFN
JMS