(Well, they're not exactly readers, but they do provide the stats that provide the illusion of someone occasionally reading my rantings and perhaps profiting from the experience. But the best part is just knowing that when I visit Romania, the Ukraine, Ghana, or other exotic locales I will feel that I am among friends, or at least acquaintances, or perhaps I will just once more feel used and abused. I can't wait! It should only take me 37.5 years to accumulate enough airline miles to make this dream a reality!)
There are good reasons for not having written for so long and most of them are attached to people who have trusted me to care for them. Yes, I am still a workaholic. But this time around I am not working around the clock to increase the profits of a company, My wages are small, but I receive smiles, lovely stories, and occasionally homemade baked goods.
There are little healthy patches developing in my brain. Slippery slopes are spotted quickly and a STOP RIGHT NOW sign pops up. Sometimes the sign needs some reinforcing, but for the most part I am feeling the possibility of having control. I see chances for change to be achieved.
I have ups and downs, but they aren't as steep or as deep. I spend more time in the present. I am still safely in my closet, but have begun opening the door just a crack to see who might be near.
I know how to BREATHE.
Meds can help. Now on the 6th or 7th system of tracking and reminding. At least I now can connect non-compliance with resurfacing symptoms.
When the amount of oil and dirt in my hair can be measures in cups, I know I will find my way to the shower. When the refrigerator starts talking, I say these words out loud: You're not real!
My world is still very small and I am still cautious about opening the door to let others in. But I do know that there are safe people. I still feel alone, but I now know that I'm not ever alone. I have only to drop in to the NAMI support group to find members of my tribe. I know who I can trust.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Tomorrow starts a new year
Every now and then I recognize that something I say may actually be rather profound. Not profound enough to use language that would convey my faith in the profundity of the utterance, but more a tentative "it's okay."
This New Years Eve I kept wondering why all the fuss? Why do some people insist on being awake at 1:01 am on January 1? Sure, we start using a new calendar, unless we have several that begin at different points in the year and last any where from 12 to 18 months to several years. I used to have an issue with calendars and clocks. I always had at least one of each in every room of any place I lived. And, yes, that included the bathroom where I had to make sure the clock could withstand the steam. I now have a clock in one of my two rooms, no calendar on any wall, a single calendar in my bag (but it's BIG -- both the calendar and the bag), and I have restrained myself from using the calendar on my phone, but have found it useful to use the clock and use the scheduling feature so that I arrive at appointments on time. And now I can program up to 15 snoozes before I drag myself out of bed!
Any day can mark the beginning of a new year if you mark the passage of milestones or anniversaries or birthdays or any other high point, low point, or random point in life. I like to mark the beginning of another adventure, and since I believe anything and everything can be an adventure, there is always a reason to celebrate a new start.
Yes, I am back on my meds and probably in a mania type state that induces the creation of run-on sentences, despite my usually overwhelming urge to edit myself down to the most succinct phrasing of any concept.
Tomorrow I wake up to a new year, one in which I take better care of myself, and keep making good choices. If that doesn't work, I'll reset for the next day. I'll keep trying. And maybe switch to decaf.
This New Years Eve I kept wondering why all the fuss? Why do some people insist on being awake at 1:01 am on January 1? Sure, we start using a new calendar, unless we have several that begin at different points in the year and last any where from 12 to 18 months to several years. I used to have an issue with calendars and clocks. I always had at least one of each in every room of any place I lived. And, yes, that included the bathroom where I had to make sure the clock could withstand the steam. I now have a clock in one of my two rooms, no calendar on any wall, a single calendar in my bag (but it's BIG -- both the calendar and the bag), and I have restrained myself from using the calendar on my phone, but have found it useful to use the clock and use the scheduling feature so that I arrive at appointments on time. And now I can program up to 15 snoozes before I drag myself out of bed!
Any day can mark the beginning of a new year if you mark the passage of milestones or anniversaries or birthdays or any other high point, low point, or random point in life. I like to mark the beginning of another adventure, and since I believe anything and everything can be an adventure, there is always a reason to celebrate a new start.
Yes, I am back on my meds and probably in a mania type state that induces the creation of run-on sentences, despite my usually overwhelming urge to edit myself down to the most succinct phrasing of any concept.
Tomorrow I wake up to a new year, one in which I take better care of myself, and keep making good choices. If that doesn't work, I'll reset for the next day. I'll keep trying. And maybe switch to decaf.
Friday, November 15, 2013
It was a dark and stormy day....
and now it is a dark and stormy night. But it's dry inside. I had the day off and I've been lounging in my bed with the sound of wind and wind driven rain in the background. And I've not allowed any other sounds into my day.
I only looked at the clock once. I think that time is moving at a slower rate today because it has to battle it's way through the storm.
It's cold in my rental room. Staying in bed has been a treat and a necessity.
I've been off my morning meds for a few weeks and have had a rough few days of withdrawal symptoms. The mediset is reloaded and I'm getting back on track. I didn't miss my evening dose of the magic potion that strips away all those behaviors that used to keep me awake. While I sleep, the brain maid comes in and tidies up.
Bits of paranoia and anxiety have found me again, but despite that, I challenged myself. I drove on the freeway! Not far. Not fast. But I drove at the speed limit and trusted that I would not panic when I saw cars moving down the ramp toward the highway.
But I feel overwhelmed about work, dealing with the bureacracy of exploring the possibility of obtaining some assistance in improving my work and living situations, and applying for insurance. If I am working full-time, although it is detrimental to me, can I be classified as disabled? I have to quit pushing myself or I will have another break.
The NAMI support group that I've been attending has not met for about a month. I miss it. Going to group allowed me to shed dead skin, shake off the worries and fears that had latched on to me, and, at least for a little while, feel safe and a little less lonely.
I've had very little contact with my tribe at the Unitarian church because I've been working on Sundays. I take my client to his church, a small evangelical congregation that is beginning a second life. Most of the songs are foreign to me, but occasionally they include one of the old hymns that echo in the dark Southern Baptist corner of my brain. Being off my meds allowed me to re-experience some of the vulnerability I felt when I was young, the fear of falling under the spell of those who wish to save my soul, and the deep sadness of knowing that no matter how much they called me forward, I would eventually be cast aside due to my possession by the devil as manifested by my continuing sorrow, fear, and inability to trust. I wanted to control myself, not surrender control to another father that I feared. (There was a lot of smiting in the Old Testament!)
And, for the first time, I'm considering coming out of the mental illness closet. If I don't take good care of myself, I may lose my footing and slide into another break which would throw the closet door wide open. So I stay in my room today knowing that I will be stronger tomorrow.
I only looked at the clock once. I think that time is moving at a slower rate today because it has to battle it's way through the storm.
It's cold in my rental room. Staying in bed has been a treat and a necessity.
I've been off my morning meds for a few weeks and have had a rough few days of withdrawal symptoms. The mediset is reloaded and I'm getting back on track. I didn't miss my evening dose of the magic potion that strips away all those behaviors that used to keep me awake. While I sleep, the brain maid comes in and tidies up.
Bits of paranoia and anxiety have found me again, but despite that, I challenged myself. I drove on the freeway! Not far. Not fast. But I drove at the speed limit and trusted that I would not panic when I saw cars moving down the ramp toward the highway.
But I feel overwhelmed about work, dealing with the bureacracy of exploring the possibility of obtaining some assistance in improving my work and living situations, and applying for insurance. If I am working full-time, although it is detrimental to me, can I be classified as disabled? I have to quit pushing myself or I will have another break.
The NAMI support group that I've been attending has not met for about a month. I miss it. Going to group allowed me to shed dead skin, shake off the worries and fears that had latched on to me, and, at least for a little while, feel safe and a little less lonely.
I've had very little contact with my tribe at the Unitarian church because I've been working on Sundays. I take my client to his church, a small evangelical congregation that is beginning a second life. Most of the songs are foreign to me, but occasionally they include one of the old hymns that echo in the dark Southern Baptist corner of my brain. Being off my meds allowed me to re-experience some of the vulnerability I felt when I was young, the fear of falling under the spell of those who wish to save my soul, and the deep sadness of knowing that no matter how much they called me forward, I would eventually be cast aside due to my possession by the devil as manifested by my continuing sorrow, fear, and inability to trust. I wanted to control myself, not surrender control to another father that I feared. (There was a lot of smiting in the Old Testament!)
And, for the first time, I'm considering coming out of the mental illness closet. If I don't take good care of myself, I may lose my footing and slide into another break which would throw the closet door wide open. So I stay in my room today knowing that I will be stronger tomorrow.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
I don't procrastinate, I'm just very, very slow following through
Once again I am trying to identify why I continue to refuse to seek out any form of public assistance.
There is a fierce spirit of independence that has surfaced in every generation of my family. No matter how bad things get, we endure, we survive, we give our place in line to others who really need help. We accept our situations, work hard, and just focus on survival.
Right now I'm surviving, but failing to thrive.
Each time I brace myself to wade into the bureaucratic swamp, I step back before my boots even get wet. In the support group I attend, I speak about my cold feet. The regulars have taught me that when we share, regardless of what we share, we are disclosing what is foremost on our minds or in our hearts. Week after week my sharing includes something about my reticence to seek help.
Then I was reminded of what happens when the care that is needed is not given.
During this past month, my car had a major breakdown (as opposed to my minor breakdown), and I have a hefty bill to pay. Fortunately, I received help in the form of support from people at church and friends. When I picked the car up, I learned that an anonymous donor had paid about a third of the bill.
I was overwhelmed with gratitude.
My landlady/roommate has been flexible with my payment of the rent as I've sorted out paying for my car repairs, but it looks like that is tightening up again. I am constantly asking for more hours at work, taking shifts that no one else wants. I'm not taking particularly good care of myself and I don't want to end up in the hospital like my car. Although I'd benefit from a tune-up.
However, no matter how many hours I work each week, I get more from my job than just a salary. Many of the clients I work with have exercises that they need to do and I exercise with them. They have special diets and, because we are encouraged to eat with our clients, I eat what they eat. Good habits and positive results. I can see that my presence makes a difference in the life of someone else and that feeds my soul.
I know all the things that I can't do. I think I know what I can do. Accepting limitations is actually setting healthy boundaries. And I've never cared for "limitations" or "boundaries."
I'm taking one step forward this week -- seeing my prescriber/therapist.
Boundaries. Limitations. Obligations to myself and others. Caring for myself first, then (in no particular order) my son, my friends, my church, my clients, other family members, those to whom I owe a debt, etc. Keeping UU principles in mind. Keeping recovery and support principles in mind. Keeping myself in mind.
There is a fierce spirit of independence that has surfaced in every generation of my family. No matter how bad things get, we endure, we survive, we give our place in line to others who really need help. We accept our situations, work hard, and just focus on survival.
Right now I'm surviving, but failing to thrive.
Each time I brace myself to wade into the bureaucratic swamp, I step back before my boots even get wet. In the support group I attend, I speak about my cold feet. The regulars have taught me that when we share, regardless of what we share, we are disclosing what is foremost on our minds or in our hearts. Week after week my sharing includes something about my reticence to seek help.
Then I was reminded of what happens when the care that is needed is not given.
During this past month, my car had a major breakdown (as opposed to my minor breakdown), and I have a hefty bill to pay. Fortunately, I received help in the form of support from people at church and friends. When I picked the car up, I learned that an anonymous donor had paid about a third of the bill.
I was overwhelmed with gratitude.
My landlady/roommate has been flexible with my payment of the rent as I've sorted out paying for my car repairs, but it looks like that is tightening up again. I am constantly asking for more hours at work, taking shifts that no one else wants. I'm not taking particularly good care of myself and I don't want to end up in the hospital like my car. Although I'd benefit from a tune-up.
However, no matter how many hours I work each week, I get more from my job than just a salary. Many of the clients I work with have exercises that they need to do and I exercise with them. They have special diets and, because we are encouraged to eat with our clients, I eat what they eat. Good habits and positive results. I can see that my presence makes a difference in the life of someone else and that feeds my soul.
I know all the things that I can't do. I think I know what I can do. Accepting limitations is actually setting healthy boundaries. And I've never cared for "limitations" or "boundaries."
I'm taking one step forward this week -- seeing my prescriber/therapist.
Boundaries. Limitations. Obligations to myself and others. Caring for myself first, then (in no particular order) my son, my friends, my church, my clients, other family members, those to whom I owe a debt, etc. Keeping UU principles in mind. Keeping recovery and support principles in mind. Keeping myself in mind.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
July is going to be the month!
The month for what?
That's the question that I'm pondering.
Will it be the month in which I finally complete the process of applying for Medicaid? I certainly hope so. I'm not exactly sure why I've been slow to follow up on the previous application. I know that my financial situation has certainly changed since that application was submitted and I want to be sure that I'm responding with accurate information. At least that's the excuse I'm using right now.
I think it goes deeper though. There weren't many things that my father tried to impress upon my sister and me. The big one was never to seek out charity, accept charity, or give anyone the impression that help is needed. Of course, this is also the man who started a dinner time conversation by asking if we'd rather die from being too cold or too hot (we all agreed that we'd rather have our eternal slumber occur as a humansicle). He also told me that shooting into the roof of the mouth into the brain was a more effective method of suicide than shooting a bullet into one of the temples. He explained how a special bullet would further increase the odds of blowing out the brains rather than causing an injury that would only cripple. He was also responsible for the poster of what I believe was Custer's last stand that hung on my bedroom wall when I was very young. Scalps on the ground. Indian about to remove another one. It was a great source of nightmares.
Fear. Fear has been the driving force behind many of my actions. It's also been the weight that supported not taking action. I offered to submit a modified version of a previous post to our local NAMI chapter to be used in the bulletin. I was afraid it would not be good enough. I was afraid that I couldn't publish it anonymously. I was afraid to let it reach an audience, to no longer be safely hidden in the realm of published posts that go unread. Here there is the satisfaction of having said my piece, but the reassurance that no one will ever associate it with me.
I'm not ready for a cold eternal slumber. Besides July is not exactly conducive to that option. July is going to be the month I abandon inertia and start traveling at a snail's pace. It's the best I can do right now.
That's the question that I'm pondering.
Will it be the month in which I finally complete the process of applying for Medicaid? I certainly hope so. I'm not exactly sure why I've been slow to follow up on the previous application. I know that my financial situation has certainly changed since that application was submitted and I want to be sure that I'm responding with accurate information. At least that's the excuse I'm using right now.
I think it goes deeper though. There weren't many things that my father tried to impress upon my sister and me. The big one was never to seek out charity, accept charity, or give anyone the impression that help is needed. Of course, this is also the man who started a dinner time conversation by asking if we'd rather die from being too cold or too hot (we all agreed that we'd rather have our eternal slumber occur as a humansicle). He also told me that shooting into the roof of the mouth into the brain was a more effective method of suicide than shooting a bullet into one of the temples. He explained how a special bullet would further increase the odds of blowing out the brains rather than causing an injury that would only cripple. He was also responsible for the poster of what I believe was Custer's last stand that hung on my bedroom wall when I was very young. Scalps on the ground. Indian about to remove another one. It was a great source of nightmares.
Fear. Fear has been the driving force behind many of my actions. It's also been the weight that supported not taking action. I offered to submit a modified version of a previous post to our local NAMI chapter to be used in the bulletin. I was afraid it would not be good enough. I was afraid that I couldn't publish it anonymously. I was afraid to let it reach an audience, to no longer be safely hidden in the realm of published posts that go unread. Here there is the satisfaction of having said my piece, but the reassurance that no one will ever associate it with me.
I'm not ready for a cold eternal slumber. Besides July is not exactly conducive to that option. July is going to be the month I abandon inertia and start traveling at a snail's pace. It's the best I can do right now.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Stigma: Encouraging Words
Vice President Joe Biden
Patrick Kennedy
My words aren't as powerful nor as well crafted. Nor do I have a name recognized by every household in the country. I use a nom de blog because I have experienced stigma. I fear I could lose my job. I fear I might lose the relative peace and safety I currently feel. A relative peace and safety just discovered in my late 50's.
The most powerful words I've ever spoken were "Please make them stop talking about me!" delivered at my former workplace during my last break, just prior to my most recent suicide attempt, which was followed by my most recent hospitalization. Those words were stigmatizing. No way around that. But I know of at least one person who heard me that day and recognized that I was sick. Not crazy.
Forty years ago I had my first encounter with mental health care. Through all the frustrating years of seeking answers to my questions, seeking ways to eradicate the pain, seeking relief from the never ending ups and downs, I was afraid to speak up. I was afraid of possibly being warehoused in some facility. I was afraid of being ostracized. I was afraid my life would become a shambles. My inability to find answers, to find a way to treat my illness, contributed to my isolation, my pushing away everyone, my chaotic life. Effective treatment and changes to every facet of my existence have given me the potential for a life of peace, a life where I can feel happiness, and a life where I know how to care for myself. That doesn't mean I always do what I need to do. But I know how to do what needs to be done.
I'm grateful that these voices are being heard, but that doesn't mean we need to be silent.
NAMI(National Alliance on Mental Illness) provides me with community, education, peer and professional support, and tools to help me help myself. My peers have added their voices to this website. Stigma disappears when we speak boldly and listen with open minds and hearts.
Patrick Kennedy
My words aren't as powerful nor as well crafted. Nor do I have a name recognized by every household in the country. I use a nom de blog because I have experienced stigma. I fear I could lose my job. I fear I might lose the relative peace and safety I currently feel. A relative peace and safety just discovered in my late 50's.
The most powerful words I've ever spoken were "Please make them stop talking about me!" delivered at my former workplace during my last break, just prior to my most recent suicide attempt, which was followed by my most recent hospitalization. Those words were stigmatizing. No way around that. But I know of at least one person who heard me that day and recognized that I was sick. Not crazy.
Forty years ago I had my first encounter with mental health care. Through all the frustrating years of seeking answers to my questions, seeking ways to eradicate the pain, seeking relief from the never ending ups and downs, I was afraid to speak up. I was afraid of possibly being warehoused in some facility. I was afraid of being ostracized. I was afraid my life would become a shambles. My inability to find answers, to find a way to treat my illness, contributed to my isolation, my pushing away everyone, my chaotic life. Effective treatment and changes to every facet of my existence have given me the potential for a life of peace, a life where I can feel happiness, and a life where I know how to care for myself. That doesn't mean I always do what I need to do. But I know how to do what needs to be done.
I'm grateful that these voices are being heard, but that doesn't mean we need to be silent.
NAMI(National Alliance on Mental Illness) provides me with community, education, peer and professional support, and tools to help me help myself. My peers have added their voices to this website. Stigma disappears when we speak boldly and listen with open minds and hearts.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Breaks
Meds. Psychotic. Faith. Confidence.
They are all tied together for me.
I work crazy hours, mainly because I just can't make myself do the necessary work to receive some public assistance. The stigma is ingrained. Deeply. Genetically. This is my current target. My paternal branch was poor and proud. Don't ask anyone for anything. Don't accept charity from anyone. Survive on your own or fail on your own. Never be a burden to anyone.
Crazy hours have contributed to my failure to take my meds as prescribed. I accept responsibility, but do have to admit that it was easier to comply when each day started and ended at the same time. Or when my shifts did not span two days. I can fix this.
I rent a room. I stay in that room except for the times when I am away working. I'm out briefly to do laundry, but usually choose a time when my roommate/landlady is out of the house. I subsist on junk food because I have yet to become comfortable using the kitchen. Her kitchen. I have privacy behind my door, but I am vulnerable any other place in the house. I even avoid the sunny patio (and the covered patio during typical NW days).
Some of my work situations, coupled with missed meds, have left me vulnerable to having a break. Simply screaming something profane, walking out the door, slamming it loudly, and hiding out until I can find the means to relocate to a place far, far away. That's my history. I understand it now, have tools to help prevent it from re-occurring, and have support if I will ask for it.
My life is small. The debris of good intentions litters my physical environment and my mind. NAMI support group saves me weekly as I hear someone share a story similar to my own.
It's become easier and easier to not attend church. There's a big hole in me. I feel like a stranger there. It has changed so much in the past year. I miss people who used to attend regularly. I especially miss a man who I just can't seem to get out of my mind. It feels like a sad place. I don't have the time, energy, or funds to participate on the same level as when I began attending a few years ago. I feel like the poor relative who people would rather not see. I feel like I no longer belong. I recently attended and found myself sitting alone in the pew. I'm not sure if I can make a joyful noise in that environment.
I am identifying false assumptions and trying to find what is true for me.
***My worth as an individual is not based on my ability to work. I am multi-faceted.
***Most life questions have multiple choice answers. No black and white.
I have had some good moments lately.
***Coming back to my room in the early morning hours shows me the beauty that is often hidden by constant activity. It's nice to be awake when everyone else is asleep.
***I have found a "clearing the cobwebs" spot. A tiny place that overlooks the ocean, seldom used during the hours when I go there. A place to watch my negative thoughts go out with the tide and hope come in the as the tide returns.
***I took a short early morning walk through the neighborhood. I felt good. I can do that again.
***I used Moodscope again. I need to do that each morning as I take my meds.
First comes getting back on schedule with meds, sleep, food, exercise.
And having faith in myself.
They are all tied together for me.
I work crazy hours, mainly because I just can't make myself do the necessary work to receive some public assistance. The stigma is ingrained. Deeply. Genetically. This is my current target. My paternal branch was poor and proud. Don't ask anyone for anything. Don't accept charity from anyone. Survive on your own or fail on your own. Never be a burden to anyone.
Crazy hours have contributed to my failure to take my meds as prescribed. I accept responsibility, but do have to admit that it was easier to comply when each day started and ended at the same time. Or when my shifts did not span two days. I can fix this.
I rent a room. I stay in that room except for the times when I am away working. I'm out briefly to do laundry, but usually choose a time when my roommate/landlady is out of the house. I subsist on junk food because I have yet to become comfortable using the kitchen. Her kitchen. I have privacy behind my door, but I am vulnerable any other place in the house. I even avoid the sunny patio (and the covered patio during typical NW days).
Some of my work situations, coupled with missed meds, have left me vulnerable to having a break. Simply screaming something profane, walking out the door, slamming it loudly, and hiding out until I can find the means to relocate to a place far, far away. That's my history. I understand it now, have tools to help prevent it from re-occurring, and have support if I will ask for it.
My life is small. The debris of good intentions litters my physical environment and my mind. NAMI support group saves me weekly as I hear someone share a story similar to my own.
It's become easier and easier to not attend church. There's a big hole in me. I feel like a stranger there. It has changed so much in the past year. I miss people who used to attend regularly. I especially miss a man who I just can't seem to get out of my mind. It feels like a sad place. I don't have the time, energy, or funds to participate on the same level as when I began attending a few years ago. I feel like the poor relative who people would rather not see. I feel like I no longer belong. I recently attended and found myself sitting alone in the pew. I'm not sure if I can make a joyful noise in that environment.
I am identifying false assumptions and trying to find what is true for me.
***My worth as an individual is not based on my ability to work. I am multi-faceted.
***Most life questions have multiple choice answers. No black and white.
I have had some good moments lately.
***Coming back to my room in the early morning hours shows me the beauty that is often hidden by constant activity. It's nice to be awake when everyone else is asleep.
***I have found a "clearing the cobwebs" spot. A tiny place that overlooks the ocean, seldom used during the hours when I go there. A place to watch my negative thoughts go out with the tide and hope come in the as the tide returns.
***I took a short early morning walk through the neighborhood. I felt good. I can do that again.
***I used Moodscope again. I need to do that each morning as I take my meds.
First comes getting back on schedule with meds, sleep, food, exercise.
And having faith in myself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)