(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.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Ain't Mania Grand?
Yep, I'm not completely, perfectly, faithfully taking my meds. Today the sun is shining and I am attributing my hovering a few inches above the sidewalk mood to the weather. But I know the truth.
The truth is that today at church I became engaged in one of the most stimulating conversations I've had in decades. I've felt entrenched in middle-age malaise headed rapidly toward senior slumber.
I could use this blog to explore more issues related to mental health. I could use this blog to invite people into my mind, to form new connections, to fight atrophy and apathy. Time to broaden my narrow worldview.
The important thing is that today I experienced an awakening of a long slumbering part of myself.
(writing interrupted by panicked search for possibly lost wallet)
I think I'm on a pretty even keel today.
I've thought of becoming more vocal about the proposal to develop a list of people with mental illness as a tool to prevent gun purchases by individuals who are perceived as potential killers. The list would be very, very long. Such a list would have included my father who was in law enforcement and who only occasionally accepted help for depression. He may have killed in the Korean War, he was prepared to kill -- if deemed necessary -- in the course of his employment, and he kept a gun and special bullets that he used to kill himself.
Do I stay silent due to cowardice or just because fear is my old companion and therefore easier to embrace?
This post is taking an unusually long time to write because there is a parade of dog walkers passing by outside my window. Then there are these lovely hills that I can see just over the tops of the mobile homes that surround me. And I don't know what kind of bush it is that's starting to bloom outside my window and as much as I'd enjoy seeing that I'm worried about it blocking my view and adding to my feelings of being jailed. I want to go out, but really just want to curl up and dream while doing web searches of all the new things I learned of today. If I can remember all the words that sent me hovering. If I can shift into a slower gear without coming to a full halt.
And the mood shifts.
The truth is that today at church I became engaged in one of the most stimulating conversations I've had in decades. I've felt entrenched in middle-age malaise headed rapidly toward senior slumber.
I could use this blog to explore more issues related to mental health. I could use this blog to invite people into my mind, to form new connections, to fight atrophy and apathy. Time to broaden my narrow worldview.
The important thing is that today I experienced an awakening of a long slumbering part of myself.
(writing interrupted by panicked search for possibly lost wallet)
I think I'm on a pretty even keel today.
I've thought of becoming more vocal about the proposal to develop a list of people with mental illness as a tool to prevent gun purchases by individuals who are perceived as potential killers. The list would be very, very long. Such a list would have included my father who was in law enforcement and who only occasionally accepted help for depression. He may have killed in the Korean War, he was prepared to kill -- if deemed necessary -- in the course of his employment, and he kept a gun and special bullets that he used to kill himself.
Do I stay silent due to cowardice or just because fear is my old companion and therefore easier to embrace?
This post is taking an unusually long time to write because there is a parade of dog walkers passing by outside my window. Then there are these lovely hills that I can see just over the tops of the mobile homes that surround me. And I don't know what kind of bush it is that's starting to bloom outside my window and as much as I'd enjoy seeing that I'm worried about it blocking my view and adding to my feelings of being jailed. I want to go out, but really just want to curl up and dream while doing web searches of all the new things I learned of today. If I can remember all the words that sent me hovering. If I can shift into a slower gear without coming to a full halt.
And the mood shifts.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Is my brain growing or do I have a concussion?
I really did think for a moment that my brain might be growing. Well, one part of my head was certainly swollen. And the scalp was red. And hot.
Moving was a rough experience for me, but I had two friends who helped me through it. I also learned that walking backward while carrying furniture is never a good idea. Not a horrible fall, but one that left a hole in the parking lot where my head hit it....well, at least I don't recall seeing a hole there before my head hit the surface.
Bump growing larger. Head feels like it's in a vise. Sinus headache everywhere. Mild confusion. Vertigo when I looked down. Ditzier than usual. Based on my experience with prior head injuries, my self-diagnosis: Mild concussion. Plan of Care: Sleep. No elopements. Sleep. Reducing my workload (that hurt the workaholic node of my things that are bad for me zone). Sleep. Dark chocolate in moderation. Sleep so much that moderation not an issue.
Today my old head feels like the epoxy has set and I'm ready to take my brain out for a test drive. And that's what I did.
I went to church for the first time in over a month. My knee hurt, my jaw hurt, I had a mild headache, and people were nice to me. Damn it. I would have been okay if they hadn't been nice to me. After the first bucket full of tears, I realized that I missed taking my happy and stable pills many times over the past few weeks. However, I had been protected by my lovely night med, so all was not lost. I felt broken inside, but reassured that resuming my meds would help me get back to my safe zone.
Lot of paranoia right now, too. I have a roommate in my new location and, thanks to my very high stress level, hearing her in the distance becomes the seed for paranoid thoughts. And I'm hiding in my rooms (one for all my stuff and one for sleeping). I am not properly caring for myself. I have not yet used the kitchen, but I have eaten cold toaster pastries in the car. I will be extra gentle with myself and allow myself time to adjust to my new surroundings before taking any action...before running away. I am out of places to find shelter.
Not at point zero, but definitely at the lower end of the scale. Sleep. Rest. Eat. Breathe.
Moving was a rough experience for me, but I had two friends who helped me through it. I also learned that walking backward while carrying furniture is never a good idea. Not a horrible fall, but one that left a hole in the parking lot where my head hit it....well, at least I don't recall seeing a hole there before my head hit the surface.
Bump growing larger. Head feels like it's in a vise. Sinus headache everywhere. Mild confusion. Vertigo when I looked down. Ditzier than usual. Based on my experience with prior head injuries, my self-diagnosis: Mild concussion. Plan of Care: Sleep. No elopements. Sleep. Reducing my workload (that hurt the workaholic node of my things that are bad for me zone). Sleep. Dark chocolate in moderation. Sleep so much that moderation not an issue.
Today my old head feels like the epoxy has set and I'm ready to take my brain out for a test drive. And that's what I did.
I went to church for the first time in over a month. My knee hurt, my jaw hurt, I had a mild headache, and people were nice to me. Damn it. I would have been okay if they hadn't been nice to me. After the first bucket full of tears, I realized that I missed taking my happy and stable pills many times over the past few weeks. However, I had been protected by my lovely night med, so all was not lost. I felt broken inside, but reassured that resuming my meds would help me get back to my safe zone.
Lot of paranoia right now, too. I have a roommate in my new location and, thanks to my very high stress level, hearing her in the distance becomes the seed for paranoid thoughts. And I'm hiding in my rooms (one for all my stuff and one for sleeping). I am not properly caring for myself. I have not yet used the kitchen, but I have eaten cold toaster pastries in the car. I will be extra gentle with myself and allow myself time to adjust to my new surroundings before taking any action...before running away. I am out of places to find shelter.
Not at point zero, but definitely at the lower end of the scale. Sleep. Rest. Eat. Breathe.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Stress and disorganization when moving
The title just about says it all.
This is the first time that I've moved since I was diagnosed and, as I stand back from the process, I realize the impact of being bipolar on this task.
I've attributed some of the reluctance to do the necessary work to the fact that I really don't want to make this move. I know I can no longer afford to stay in this apartment where I feel part of a community (although not much of a participant), where I feel safe, and where I selected to live even before I relocated to this city. Some of my moves were self-destructive in some respects, but each led to leaps and bounds in my growth and advancement as a person, mother, woman, girlfriend, friend, and every other role that I've accepted. I anticipate the same results this time.
This move involves significant downsizing again as I'm moving from an apartment to a set of rooms. I've made four moves that entailed crossing an ocean or crossing a continent. Each move meant that I had to assess the value of the objects in my life. The irony of the timing of each is that they occurred right about the time that things were pretty good and I had all the things I needed and some of the things I wanted. A pretty vase is not a necessity, but it can hold beautiful flowers that brighten a room and help elevate my mood. At my destination, I usually end up replacing most of the items I had to abandon. Sometimes it costs less to replace items than to move them.
I'm more aware of the move specific stress this time. Accompanying that is the stress of having a job with an irregular schedule and irregular salary. Money is already tight. Energy is already low. But I'll have a significant decrease in living expenses, be close to my two true friends, and be in a community of people near my own age. I'll have a non-family member roommate for the first time in decades. The scales don't seem balanced to me.
Then there is the cleaning. I know from my support group that I'm not the only bipolar person who has problems keeping a clean and organized residence. I wish there was a clean bomb -- a sort of bug bomb that eradicates the dirt and leaves a fresh clean smell after the deed is done.
The coffee overload doesn't help. Missing meds doesn't help. Forgetting to eat good food doesn't help. Time to use my whiteboard again and break this project down into bite-sized pieces and hope that I don't break. I've had a few of my warning signs, but so far I've been able to stay calm about them and that seems to help.
I have good support, but I won't call for help or accept help until I know that I can't go forth without it. I want to do this on my own and yet stay realistic about how much I can do.
I'll be fine as long as the stores don't run out of deep, dark, delicious, and medicinal chocolate.
This is the first time that I've moved since I was diagnosed and, as I stand back from the process, I realize the impact of being bipolar on this task.
I've attributed some of the reluctance to do the necessary work to the fact that I really don't want to make this move. I know I can no longer afford to stay in this apartment where I feel part of a community (although not much of a participant), where I feel safe, and where I selected to live even before I relocated to this city. Some of my moves were self-destructive in some respects, but each led to leaps and bounds in my growth and advancement as a person, mother, woman, girlfriend, friend, and every other role that I've accepted. I anticipate the same results this time.
This move involves significant downsizing again as I'm moving from an apartment to a set of rooms. I've made four moves that entailed crossing an ocean or crossing a continent. Each move meant that I had to assess the value of the objects in my life. The irony of the timing of each is that they occurred right about the time that things were pretty good and I had all the things I needed and some of the things I wanted. A pretty vase is not a necessity, but it can hold beautiful flowers that brighten a room and help elevate my mood. At my destination, I usually end up replacing most of the items I had to abandon. Sometimes it costs less to replace items than to move them.
I'm more aware of the move specific stress this time. Accompanying that is the stress of having a job with an irregular schedule and irregular salary. Money is already tight. Energy is already low. But I'll have a significant decrease in living expenses, be close to my two true friends, and be in a community of people near my own age. I'll have a non-family member roommate for the first time in decades. The scales don't seem balanced to me.
Then there is the cleaning. I know from my support group that I'm not the only bipolar person who has problems keeping a clean and organized residence. I wish there was a clean bomb -- a sort of bug bomb that eradicates the dirt and leaves a fresh clean smell after the deed is done.
The coffee overload doesn't help. Missing meds doesn't help. Forgetting to eat good food doesn't help. Time to use my whiteboard again and break this project down into bite-sized pieces and hope that I don't break. I've had a few of my warning signs, but so far I've been able to stay calm about them and that seems to help.
I have good support, but I won't call for help or accept help until I know that I can't go forth without it. I want to do this on my own and yet stay realistic about how much I can do.
I'll be fine as long as the stores don't run out of deep, dark, delicious, and medicinal chocolate.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
I have a mindache.
My mind's not broken, but it sure feels stressed. My body is not providing the support needed to keep the cogs well oiled. It's just a little off and I can't nudge it where I want it to go. I would like to visit normal for a while, just a little while. I'm weary.
I have decisions to make, but I hide under the covers rationalizing that if I get more rest, all will be well. Just postponed until I have to jump or be pushed in a direction not of my choosing.
Overwhelmed. Insufficiently medicated...I miss the thyroid medication! Unwilling to commit. Unwilling to trust my own instincts. Wanting to stay inside. Putting on my work face so I can make some money, then putting it in my pocket until it is next needed. My real face feels long, stretching down to the ground, in danger of being tread upon. I don't care if you tread on me! I just don't care right now! I just want to be someplace safe where I can step outside the world for a bit! If I had money, I'd take a vacation, if my workaholic ways permitted. If I allowed myself to feel joy.
This isn't holiday stress/melancholy/blues. This is a different size and a different flavor. I liberated myself from celebrating holidays I no longer wish to acknowledge. There is no pressure, no stress, no drive to create a perfect memory of a perfect day.
Nothing tastes good. Nothing is funny. The outfit I liked no longer appeals to me. The book I was reading has been cast aside. I no longer have a crush. I don't care about taking care of myself right now.
There are a dozen things that I need to finish or start. I don't care. If I had a traditional job, I'd call in with a "flu thing" and hide under the covers a bit longer.
But I drag myself out every day, put on my work face, do what has to be done, then put the work face away. And then crawl back under the covers and pray that this ache will end.
I have decisions to make, but I hide under the covers rationalizing that if I get more rest, all will be well. Just postponed until I have to jump or be pushed in a direction not of my choosing.
Overwhelmed. Insufficiently medicated...I miss the thyroid medication! Unwilling to commit. Unwilling to trust my own instincts. Wanting to stay inside. Putting on my work face so I can make some money, then putting it in my pocket until it is next needed. My real face feels long, stretching down to the ground, in danger of being tread upon. I don't care if you tread on me! I just don't care right now! I just want to be someplace safe where I can step outside the world for a bit! If I had money, I'd take a vacation, if my workaholic ways permitted. If I allowed myself to feel joy.
This isn't holiday stress/melancholy/blues. This is a different size and a different flavor. I liberated myself from celebrating holidays I no longer wish to acknowledge. There is no pressure, no stress, no drive to create a perfect memory of a perfect day.
Nothing tastes good. Nothing is funny. The outfit I liked no longer appeals to me. The book I was reading has been cast aside. I no longer have a crush. I don't care about taking care of myself right now.
There are a dozen things that I need to finish or start. I don't care. If I had a traditional job, I'd call in with a "flu thing" and hide under the covers a bit longer.
But I drag myself out every day, put on my work face, do what has to be done, then put the work face away. And then crawl back under the covers and pray that this ache will end.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
And there's quicksand at the bottom of the hole
It's pretty clear from the title of this post that I'm not in a celebratory mood nor feel like giving thanks for anything. This year I am alone -- my son no longer lives in the same town, extended family is on the other side of the country, and friends have their own families or friends with whom they have a tradition of sharing Thanksgiving day. Kinda feeling on the outskirts here, but don't really mind all that much.
So I lie to people about how I spent the holiday. "I wasn't alone. I spent the day with some friends." And my nose grows longer with each telling.
I worked part of the day and was on call for the remainder. There is a sad, sad couple who both have dementia and some physical limitations. Thursday morning I helped them get their day started and put together a nice meal for them. They were grateful and that made me feel good, but the holiday pay rate was my focus. Just a mean old mercenary. But that attitude protected me from feeding the depression monster inside me.
At church today we had a guest minister who told a series of anecdotes involving people who learned they were terminally ill and how they died. ARGH!!!!!! I think the point was that we all benefit from living in a state of mindfulness, but I couldn't wait for the sermon to end so that I could give thanks that it was over and run out of the building as fast as possible!
I made the decision to eliminate a significant amount of stress by finding a less expensive place to live. Fortunately, I connected with another woman who lives alone and who has a room that I can rent. I don't know which makes me feel saddest -- the fact that I really can't afford to keep my apartment or the fact that the best I can do is rent a room. I think I mourn both. My friends say that things could be much worse. I know that. I would love to have someone acknowledge the fact that I am experiencing a loss. I am once again shedding belongings. I feel like I am losing my autonomy.
So I fell into this hole. The sides are slippery and water trickles down. It's miles deep, unlit, and there isn't even an echo in here. And there's quicksand at the bottom of the hole.
Plan of action: use the GLAD light, take my meds, blog, go to NAMI support group, find some seriously dark chocolate (medicinal)and mindfully stuff my face!
So I lie to people about how I spent the holiday. "I wasn't alone. I spent the day with some friends." And my nose grows longer with each telling.
I worked part of the day and was on call for the remainder. There is a sad, sad couple who both have dementia and some physical limitations. Thursday morning I helped them get their day started and put together a nice meal for them. They were grateful and that made me feel good, but the holiday pay rate was my focus. Just a mean old mercenary. But that attitude protected me from feeding the depression monster inside me.
At church today we had a guest minister who told a series of anecdotes involving people who learned they were terminally ill and how they died. ARGH!!!!!! I think the point was that we all benefit from living in a state of mindfulness, but I couldn't wait for the sermon to end so that I could give thanks that it was over and run out of the building as fast as possible!
I made the decision to eliminate a significant amount of stress by finding a less expensive place to live. Fortunately, I connected with another woman who lives alone and who has a room that I can rent. I don't know which makes me feel saddest -- the fact that I really can't afford to keep my apartment or the fact that the best I can do is rent a room. I think I mourn both. My friends say that things could be much worse. I know that. I would love to have someone acknowledge the fact that I am experiencing a loss. I am once again shedding belongings. I feel like I am losing my autonomy.
So I fell into this hole. The sides are slippery and water trickles down. It's miles deep, unlit, and there isn't even an echo in here. And there's quicksand at the bottom of the hole.
Plan of action: use the GLAD light, take my meds, blog, go to NAMI support group, find some seriously dark chocolate (medicinal)and mindfully stuff my face!
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Anxiety Attack, Seroquel, Going Forward
It's been a long time since I've had an anxiety attack. Today's episode was clearly the result of my aversion to visiting one of my clients. I don't like him. I hate going to his house. I would really like to ask that I be reassigned to someone else. But I don't speak up. I'm afraid of not being called for available assignments if I ask to be released from this one.
In a very short period of time I went from thinking about how much I dreaded going to his house to throwing up. Then more nausea. Throwing up again. More nausea. Finally calling the office to ask to reschedule. Permission granted. Now I am calm, no nausea, just slightly shaken.
I've been going through a little rough spell brought on by reverting to my old workaholic habits. Yet I acknowledge that I really need to cut back on the hours that I work. I can't sustain a 40+ hour work week. I've started the process of obtaining help from the government.
Voices and paranoia came back briefly. I asked for help and am now taking Seroquel. It's a lovely fit for me and I have rested so well -- refreshing, deep sleep. Bad stuff now gone.
I am working out the details of a new living arrangement. I advertised through my church newsletter and a member's friend responded. It looks like I will soon be living in one end of a large mobile home. The owner and I got along and I think, personality wise, this could work. She was upfront about a health issue that she has and how she welcomed having a caregiver in her home. I told her about riding the roller coaster; she didn't hesitate. Her sister shares the diagnosis. As long as I take my meds, I'm welcome to live in her home. The challenge for me is just living with someone else (other than my son). I've told her I need my alone time, that I spend a good deal of time sleeping, and that I'll be respectful. Her only concern was how we might handle having an overnight guest! How I'd love to have a man in my bed! I think this will work and the savings for me are significant. But I wonder how well I'll adjust.
I love the NAMI support group! It's so nice to not feel alone any more. It's a pleasant surprise to discover that a member of the group also attends my church!
Next challenge: Purging my stuff and not creating chaos in my new environment.
In a very short period of time I went from thinking about how much I dreaded going to his house to throwing up. Then more nausea. Throwing up again. More nausea. Finally calling the office to ask to reschedule. Permission granted. Now I am calm, no nausea, just slightly shaken.
I've been going through a little rough spell brought on by reverting to my old workaholic habits. Yet I acknowledge that I really need to cut back on the hours that I work. I can't sustain a 40+ hour work week. I've started the process of obtaining help from the government.
Voices and paranoia came back briefly. I asked for help and am now taking Seroquel. It's a lovely fit for me and I have rested so well -- refreshing, deep sleep. Bad stuff now gone.
I am working out the details of a new living arrangement. I advertised through my church newsletter and a member's friend responded. It looks like I will soon be living in one end of a large mobile home. The owner and I got along and I think, personality wise, this could work. She was upfront about a health issue that she has and how she welcomed having a caregiver in her home. I told her about riding the roller coaster; she didn't hesitate. Her sister shares the diagnosis. As long as I take my meds, I'm welcome to live in her home. The challenge for me is just living with someone else (other than my son). I've told her I need my alone time, that I spend a good deal of time sleeping, and that I'll be respectful. Her only concern was how we might handle having an overnight guest! How I'd love to have a man in my bed! I think this will work and the savings for me are significant. But I wonder how well I'll adjust.
I love the NAMI support group! It's so nice to not feel alone any more. It's a pleasant surprise to discover that a member of the group also attends my church!
Next challenge: Purging my stuff and not creating chaos in my new environment.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Recreating Myself?
It was way overdue. I finally made the appointment to see the medical professional who arrives at the magical mixture of pills that assists in my management of my silly brain.
What we talked about has shattered my self image. I'm contemplating life changes that feel foreign to me. Control. I think I would have to surrender control.
Hi. I'm a workaholic and I've been in overdrive lately, especially the past two weeks. Last week I worked 76 hours; 48 of those were 12-hour shifts on consecutive nights. To this was added my usual 4 hour shifts and some odd hours here and there. This week I worked 60 hours; 24 of those were 12-hour shifts on consecutive nights. The frightening part is that I'm physically tired, but feeling a little high, too. It's hard to determine if my willingness to work so much was tied to my fear of not surviving or tied to the high that comes from pushing myself. From past experience, I know that this behavior results in a crash-and-burn -- what my prescriber called a psychotic break.
Prior to this work binge I was already experiencing paranoia and hearing voices. I have arrived at a few ways of lessening the impact of these symptoms -- reminding myself that without evidence in support of negative "talk" that I hear, the voices are not real. It keeps the anxiety down, but is exhausting. Besides, by the time I am experiencing the symptoms, I'm past the point where I should have asked for help.
The Zyprexa has helped in the past. Although the sleep is deep and cleansing, it feels like it takes forever to fully awaken. The language issues (the wrong words keep coming out of my mouth -- like "mouse" for "mouth")are not very helpful when working with my clients.
So we begin trying out new drugs. And scheduling enough sleep time to allow them to work.
Meanwhile, I've had to admit that the maximum time that I can work without feeling overwhelmed is a mere four hours. If I have a break of several hours, I can work another shift without problems. The trouble is that I've accepted consecutive shifts where there has only been 30 - 45 minute breaks and those were for travel.
Working 4 hours a day, or possibly a few hours more, means that I can't support myself. Tomorrow I begin knocking on doors. I go to agencies that can help me explore housing options, medical care options, and the possibility of disability.
"Disabled" is not a term I'm comfortable applying to myself. No matter how difficult life has been, I've always been able to get through tough times. Of course, then I collapse. I've always taken care of myself and others. Well, maybe taken care of others more than myself. Taken care of others at the expense of my own wellbeing.
Time to re-examine my core self. Who am I? What are my goals? What are realistic expectations? Is it realistic to expect to have a life of prosperity, filled with true friends, good health, and love (my declaration of New Year's Day)? What is a realistic housing situation for me? Must I always be alone?
Pondering.
What we talked about has shattered my self image. I'm contemplating life changes that feel foreign to me. Control. I think I would have to surrender control.
Hi. I'm a workaholic and I've been in overdrive lately, especially the past two weeks. Last week I worked 76 hours; 48 of those were 12-hour shifts on consecutive nights. To this was added my usual 4 hour shifts and some odd hours here and there. This week I worked 60 hours; 24 of those were 12-hour shifts on consecutive nights. The frightening part is that I'm physically tired, but feeling a little high, too. It's hard to determine if my willingness to work so much was tied to my fear of not surviving or tied to the high that comes from pushing myself. From past experience, I know that this behavior results in a crash-and-burn -- what my prescriber called a psychotic break.
Prior to this work binge I was already experiencing paranoia and hearing voices. I have arrived at a few ways of lessening the impact of these symptoms -- reminding myself that without evidence in support of negative "talk" that I hear, the voices are not real. It keeps the anxiety down, but is exhausting. Besides, by the time I am experiencing the symptoms, I'm past the point where I should have asked for help.
The Zyprexa has helped in the past. Although the sleep is deep and cleansing, it feels like it takes forever to fully awaken. The language issues (the wrong words keep coming out of my mouth -- like "mouse" for "mouth")are not very helpful when working with my clients.
So we begin trying out new drugs. And scheduling enough sleep time to allow them to work.
Meanwhile, I've had to admit that the maximum time that I can work without feeling overwhelmed is a mere four hours. If I have a break of several hours, I can work another shift without problems. The trouble is that I've accepted consecutive shifts where there has only been 30 - 45 minute breaks and those were for travel.
Working 4 hours a day, or possibly a few hours more, means that I can't support myself. Tomorrow I begin knocking on doors. I go to agencies that can help me explore housing options, medical care options, and the possibility of disability.
"Disabled" is not a term I'm comfortable applying to myself. No matter how difficult life has been, I've always been able to get through tough times. Of course, then I collapse. I've always taken care of myself and others. Well, maybe taken care of others more than myself. Taken care of others at the expense of my own wellbeing.
Time to re-examine my core self. Who am I? What are my goals? What are realistic expectations? Is it realistic to expect to have a life of prosperity, filled with true friends, good health, and love (my declaration of New Year's Day)? What is a realistic housing situation for me? Must I always be alone?
Pondering.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Good Week and New Moon
The new moon is the time when I set intentions, not only for the rest of the month, but I also reaffirm intentions that I previously expressed to the universe. It's also a time for reflection and review. I've had a good week!
I met three new clients. It is always an interesting adventure meeting someone new. I have a good attitude about my job!
Today I saw the man I used to have a crush on (note past tense) and we had a quick catch-up conversation, followed by a hug. My heart didn't flutter. Without waiting for him to ask, I shared a few things going on in my life. When he shared, I didn't care if he was telling me the truth or not. I am very pleased with myself -- no words of insanity came out of my mouth, no apologies for any previous behavior, no actions that I may later regret. I am calm, cool, and collected!
There are 5% fewer dirty dishes on my kitchen counter. I am a good housekeeper! (Okay, perhaps I am exclaiming about this a bit prematurely, but I figure any size improvement deserves some applause.)
I went to a meeting of the Depression and Bipolar Support group at the local NAMI chapter. Although it wasn't what I expected in that the group consisted of caregivers, loved ones, and interested parties in addition to those of us living the roller coaster life, it was a good experience. It felt so good to feel safe to be myself. NAMI also provides a weekly peer-to-peer group that I will try this week. I am not alone!
On Friday, my church is having a coffee house. I am putting the finishing touches on a short short story that I plan to share. There are some butterflies in my stomach that are emerging from their cocoons. I am proud of myself for doing a reading when I haven't done one in 30 years!
When I went grocery shopping today, I only placed one chocolate item in my buggy. I purchased healthy food. Next week I plan to drop in at the fitness center that I used to belong to and see if I can barter membership again. I am taking good care of my body! (I failed to mention that the wrapping fell off the chocolate item as I walked through my doorway and that lovely dark chocolate morsel has satisfied this hour's sugar craving.)
I discovered that by taking all of my meds at bedtime, I don't have to worry about the possibility of missing them in the morning. So far, so good. I am taking my meds!
Tonight I will light a candle, read my intentions aloud, and head to bed with sweet thoughts that will become sweet dreams. I will sleep well and have lovely, lovely dreams!
I met three new clients. It is always an interesting adventure meeting someone new. I have a good attitude about my job!
Today I saw the man I used to have a crush on (note past tense) and we had a quick catch-up conversation, followed by a hug. My heart didn't flutter. Without waiting for him to ask, I shared a few things going on in my life. When he shared, I didn't care if he was telling me the truth or not. I am very pleased with myself -- no words of insanity came out of my mouth, no apologies for any previous behavior, no actions that I may later regret. I am calm, cool, and collected!
There are 5% fewer dirty dishes on my kitchen counter. I am a good housekeeper! (Okay, perhaps I am exclaiming about this a bit prematurely, but I figure any size improvement deserves some applause.)
I went to a meeting of the Depression and Bipolar Support group at the local NAMI chapter. Although it wasn't what I expected in that the group consisted of caregivers, loved ones, and interested parties in addition to those of us living the roller coaster life, it was a good experience. It felt so good to feel safe to be myself. NAMI also provides a weekly peer-to-peer group that I will try this week. I am not alone!
On Friday, my church is having a coffee house. I am putting the finishing touches on a short short story that I plan to share. There are some butterflies in my stomach that are emerging from their cocoons. I am proud of myself for doing a reading when I haven't done one in 30 years!
When I went grocery shopping today, I only placed one chocolate item in my buggy. I purchased healthy food. Next week I plan to drop in at the fitness center that I used to belong to and see if I can barter membership again. I am taking good care of my body! (I failed to mention that the wrapping fell off the chocolate item as I walked through my doorway and that lovely dark chocolate morsel has satisfied this hour's sugar craving.)
I discovered that by taking all of my meds at bedtime, I don't have to worry about the possibility of missing them in the morning. So far, so good. I am taking my meds!
Tonight I will light a candle, read my intentions aloud, and head to bed with sweet thoughts that will become sweet dreams. I will sleep well and have lovely, lovely dreams!
Friday, September 7, 2012
Welcome back, Zyprexa!
The evidence that I need to be back on Zyprexa continues to accumulate daily.
Yesterday evening someone knocked at my door, I looked out the peephole and didn't recognize the person. Then I heard them go upstairs and I realized it was my neighbor. When she was outside my door I heard her say something along the lines of "her car is here so she must be here."
Where was I? I was in the dark, being as quiet as possible. To my little mind, the only reason that I could think of that a neighbor would reach out to me would be to complain. Something had to be wrong. Maybe I parked too close to their car (can't happen -- there is a barrier between them). Maybe I've been loud when I come in from work late at night (not likely). Maybe I've been making too much noise down here (HA! I watch tv using closed captioning only, use earphones to listen to clips on my computer, and go into the most remote corner of the apartment when I am talking on the phone). And still I worry about disturbing someone and being forced to move. Or worse. Sheesh
Guess whose car wouldn't start this morning because the interior light had somehow been left on? Yep. I have a good Samaritan neighbor and I am a creature who hides in the dark, slinking away to avoid any possible contact with any other living thing. One of the reasons I remain in this apartment complex is because people are so friendly and helpful. But I am hiding out again. I am not using the common facilities. I am not attending the community events. I am in my cave wondering why no one likes me and how I can make amends for wrongs I've done -- or not done. Amends are always seen as unnecessary by other people and I want to slink away. Yes, I've shown my crazy.
Sunday is the beginning of the church year, the ingathering of my Unitarian family. I don't want to go. I want to hide out. I feel that I have let people down. I haven't been able to tithe. I haven't been able to help with any projects or provide assistance in any way. I don't want to see or be seen by the man I had (still not sure about that tense since I can't get him out of my mind) a crush on -- he's seen my hypomania in action "I haven't seen you in soooo long!(putting my hand in his) I'll save our seats. Hey, I want my hug! (putting my all into my half)" I feel like people are mad at me and there's really no reason. I am amazed when people speak with me, but I shouldn't be surprised. I don't want people to feel sorry for me. I don't feel like I belong although I have incredible friends there who go out of their way to let me know that they care. I've used the flimsiest of excuses to flake out on a meeting with friends -- the excuses were valid, but I could have pushed myself. I'm ashamed to show my face. They have stood by me when no one else would and I..sheesh.
My father always worked in law enforcement and was subject to changing shifts every few months. At a very early age I learned how to be quiet -- not seen or heard. If I caused a disturbance, if the bear was awakened, I would be punished - spanked with a belt or a switch - hit if I didn't cry and hit if I did. I knew where to hide, knew how to be quiet, and have been spending most of my adult life trying to unlearn those skills that helped me survive. That wasn't paranoia.
Continuing to be fearful is a separate issue and is groundless. Being fearful when there is no evidence that I am in danger or in trouble is sick. I am sick and need my medicine to help me heal.
Tomorrow I get to sleep in late and don't have to work. I have already taken the half tablet (5 mg) of Zyprexa and I'm determined to sleep as long as needed for the drug to work its magic.
Will I be able to continue this? Not sure. It costs so much. Taking it will interfere with being available to work night shifts. I will have to make sure that I have 8 - 12 hours available for sleeping. In a way I will once again feel imprisoned, sentenced to be apart from everyone else because my brain has betrayed me, a prisoner of my meds. But I know that it will help free me from anxiety, worry, fear, terror, the dark thoughts that lead me to seek the dark places.
Yesterday evening someone knocked at my door, I looked out the peephole and didn't recognize the person. Then I heard them go upstairs and I realized it was my neighbor. When she was outside my door I heard her say something along the lines of "her car is here so she must be here."
Where was I? I was in the dark, being as quiet as possible. To my little mind, the only reason that I could think of that a neighbor would reach out to me would be to complain. Something had to be wrong. Maybe I parked too close to their car (can't happen -- there is a barrier between them). Maybe I've been loud when I come in from work late at night (not likely). Maybe I've been making too much noise down here (HA! I watch tv using closed captioning only, use earphones to listen to clips on my computer, and go into the most remote corner of the apartment when I am talking on the phone). And still I worry about disturbing someone and being forced to move. Or worse. Sheesh
Guess whose car wouldn't start this morning because the interior light had somehow been left on? Yep. I have a good Samaritan neighbor and I am a creature who hides in the dark, slinking away to avoid any possible contact with any other living thing. One of the reasons I remain in this apartment complex is because people are so friendly and helpful. But I am hiding out again. I am not using the common facilities. I am not attending the community events. I am in my cave wondering why no one likes me and how I can make amends for wrongs I've done -- or not done. Amends are always seen as unnecessary by other people and I want to slink away. Yes, I've shown my crazy.
Sunday is the beginning of the church year, the ingathering of my Unitarian family. I don't want to go. I want to hide out. I feel that I have let people down. I haven't been able to tithe. I haven't been able to help with any projects or provide assistance in any way. I don't want to see or be seen by the man I had (still not sure about that tense since I can't get him out of my mind) a crush on -- he's seen my hypomania in action "I haven't seen you in soooo long!(putting my hand in his) I'll save our seats. Hey, I want my hug! (putting my all into my half)" I feel like people are mad at me and there's really no reason. I am amazed when people speak with me, but I shouldn't be surprised. I don't want people to feel sorry for me. I don't feel like I belong although I have incredible friends there who go out of their way to let me know that they care. I've used the flimsiest of excuses to flake out on a meeting with friends -- the excuses were valid, but I could have pushed myself. I'm ashamed to show my face. They have stood by me when no one else would and I..sheesh.
My father always worked in law enforcement and was subject to changing shifts every few months. At a very early age I learned how to be quiet -- not seen or heard. If I caused a disturbance, if the bear was awakened, I would be punished - spanked with a belt or a switch - hit if I didn't cry and hit if I did. I knew where to hide, knew how to be quiet, and have been spending most of my adult life trying to unlearn those skills that helped me survive. That wasn't paranoia.
Continuing to be fearful is a separate issue and is groundless. Being fearful when there is no evidence that I am in danger or in trouble is sick. I am sick and need my medicine to help me heal.
Tomorrow I get to sleep in late and don't have to work. I have already taken the half tablet (5 mg) of Zyprexa and I'm determined to sleep as long as needed for the drug to work its magic.
Will I be able to continue this? Not sure. It costs so much. Taking it will interfere with being available to work night shifts. I will have to make sure that I have 8 - 12 hours available for sleeping. In a way I will once again feel imprisoned, sentenced to be apart from everyone else because my brain has betrayed me, a prisoner of my meds. But I know that it will help free me from anxiety, worry, fear, terror, the dark thoughts that lead me to seek the dark places.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
My brain was vacuumed overnight
Now that it appears possible that I may be able to afford all my meds (just not all in the same month), I am trying to establish a minimum effective dosage. The Zoloft is best every day, the Lamictal works if only taken every other day, and the Zyprexa is the only unknown factor of my magic mind formula.
A couple of nights ago I took a dose of the Zyprexa and slept deeply. I had trouble awakening at my scheduled time, but managed to get up and muddle through the morning. What lovely, satisfying, issue resolving, liberating dreams I had! Such incredible cleansing sleep!
The down side is that it knocks me out and keeps me out for 10 - 12 hours. If I try to cheat myself of those hours of rest, I spend the day in zombie mode.
So frustrating! I am able to maintain employment, but mostly that is due to the fact that I work short shifts and can control the amount of stress to which I'm exposed. I'm almost in workaholic mode; if I'm offered hours, I almost always accept them. It's the only way I can afford meds. I'm in survival mode and that's enough stress.
But I do need that lovely nocturnal cleanse.
A couple of nights ago I took a dose of the Zyprexa and slept deeply. I had trouble awakening at my scheduled time, but managed to get up and muddle through the morning. What lovely, satisfying, issue resolving, liberating dreams I had! Such incredible cleansing sleep!
The down side is that it knocks me out and keeps me out for 10 - 12 hours. If I try to cheat myself of those hours of rest, I spend the day in zombie mode.
So frustrating! I am able to maintain employment, but mostly that is due to the fact that I work short shifts and can control the amount of stress to which I'm exposed. I'm almost in workaholic mode; if I'm offered hours, I almost always accept them. It's the only way I can afford meds. I'm in survival mode and that's enough stress.
But I do need that lovely nocturnal cleanse.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Paranoia, my old friend...
It's time to talk of you again.
Time to get back on the Zyprexa.
I used a client's computer to write a post and didn't think about clearing the browser's history. ARGH!
So I've begun to worry that someone else who may have used the machine (another caregiver perhaps) has discovered my little secret. This being in the closet business is hard to maintain and keeps me on edge. I worry that people who know me will suddenly treat me differently. Fear me. Reject me. Ignore me. Shun me. Close the door and throw away the key. There's nothing I can do.
How do I explain that the day I learned my diagnosis and the day my son was born have been the two happiest days of my life?
How do I say that the medication just smooths out the ragged edges of my personality? That I am only able to leave home every day because I take my meds? That the world is no longer a terrifying place? That those super enthusiastic, pun cracking, mind-going-mile-a-minute, demonstrably affectionate, face lifted up to soak in the light of the sun or the moon, really excited to be here moments are hypomania? That I am only a danger to myself, not to others? That without the meds I will come up with any excuse to stay away from everyone, to stay in the bed, to ignore the phone and email, to sit in a dark corner hugging my knees or curl up as though awaiting a rebirth? That I was sketched in pencil and the best thing that could happen is to be erased?
Things are starting to get better. And I have committed self-sabotage. I thought I was past that.
Time to get back on the Zyprexa.
I used a client's computer to write a post and didn't think about clearing the browser's history. ARGH!
So I've begun to worry that someone else who may have used the machine (another caregiver perhaps) has discovered my little secret. This being in the closet business is hard to maintain and keeps me on edge. I worry that people who know me will suddenly treat me differently. Fear me. Reject me. Ignore me. Shun me. Close the door and throw away the key. There's nothing I can do.
How do I explain that the day I learned my diagnosis and the day my son was born have been the two happiest days of my life?
How do I say that the medication just smooths out the ragged edges of my personality? That I am only able to leave home every day because I take my meds? That the world is no longer a terrifying place? That those super enthusiastic, pun cracking, mind-going-mile-a-minute, demonstrably affectionate, face lifted up to soak in the light of the sun or the moon, really excited to be here moments are hypomania? That I am only a danger to myself, not to others? That without the meds I will come up with any excuse to stay away from everyone, to stay in the bed, to ignore the phone and email, to sit in a dark corner hugging my knees or curl up as though awaiting a rebirth? That I was sketched in pencil and the best thing that could happen is to be erased?
Things are starting to get better. And I have committed self-sabotage. I thought I was past that.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Night Shift Thoughts
Tonight is the first time I have worked an overnight shift. It is not even completely dark outside and I am the only one still awake. There is a motion sensor in my client's room so I will know when his feet hit the floor and can run into the room and assist him in safely standing and in toileting. I've brought a couple of books, have plans to do some work online, and will probably watch a little television. Ideally, I should be napping so that I am conserving my energy for the times when my client will need me. Of course, I will probably be wide awake until 30 minutes before the shift ends.
Thoughts that are running through my head:
I need to quit worrying about future encounters with the man I had a crush on. Just let it go. I have worried that I have been a pest, that I have... I just worry. Stay in now. What's done is done. But I still feel sad. And embarrassed. I am socially inept and have not been faithfully taking my medications. That's a loaded combination. Although I want to send him a birthday greeting, I won't because I don't want to be perceived as a pest.
I need to get back on my meds. Today I purchased two of the three meds that I should be taking. They are now a permanent part of my budget. With the help of the Zoloft and Lamictal, I should get back on an even keel. However, I am having some troubling symptoms and I recognize that I would really benefit from getting back on the Xyprexa. That one little pill would really help lower my level of worry, fear, near-paranoia, and self-doubt. Of course, I need to do other work to support the meds, but there is no denying that my quality of life improves when all three drugs are used.
I want to spend more time with my son. Since I started working seven days a week I have spent very little time in contact with him. I miss him. I'll keep trying to find time for us, but I won't pester him.
I will remind myself that loneliness doesn't have to last forever. Although I've made a couple of good friends, I find that the circumstances of my work lends itself to feeling lonely. Most of my clients are alone. They are glad to see me and I am glad to exchange their trust for my companionship. Professionalism dictates that this should be a one-way exchange. I often find myself feeling lonelier after a visit. I dwell on the fact that so many of us are alone, will end each day alone, will wither and die alone. I see what an important role that community plays in our lives. My work schedule leads to isolation -- tonight's a great example. It feels like more and more we are all moving toward a life of isolation.
I have to take good care of myself. I've had many bad thoughts lately. What's the use in trying? Does anything I do make a bit of difference? How can I escape from this life? I know these thoughts won't last and that the meds will help keep them at bay, but I need to be honest with myself and acknowledge that these feelings exist. I'm trying to ride them out and remind myself that I will be stronger when this phase passes.
Thoughts that are running through my head:
I need to quit worrying about future encounters with the man I had a crush on. Just let it go. I have worried that I have been a pest, that I have... I just worry. Stay in now. What's done is done. But I still feel sad. And embarrassed. I am socially inept and have not been faithfully taking my medications. That's a loaded combination. Although I want to send him a birthday greeting, I won't because I don't want to be perceived as a pest.
I need to get back on my meds. Today I purchased two of the three meds that I should be taking. They are now a permanent part of my budget. With the help of the Zoloft and Lamictal, I should get back on an even keel. However, I am having some troubling symptoms and I recognize that I would really benefit from getting back on the Xyprexa. That one little pill would really help lower my level of worry, fear, near-paranoia, and self-doubt. Of course, I need to do other work to support the meds, but there is no denying that my quality of life improves when all three drugs are used.
I want to spend more time with my son. Since I started working seven days a week I have spent very little time in contact with him. I miss him. I'll keep trying to find time for us, but I won't pester him.
I will remind myself that loneliness doesn't have to last forever. Although I've made a couple of good friends, I find that the circumstances of my work lends itself to feeling lonely. Most of my clients are alone. They are glad to see me and I am glad to exchange their trust for my companionship. Professionalism dictates that this should be a one-way exchange. I often find myself feeling lonelier after a visit. I dwell on the fact that so many of us are alone, will end each day alone, will wither and die alone. I see what an important role that community plays in our lives. My work schedule leads to isolation -- tonight's a great example. It feels like more and more we are all moving toward a life of isolation.
I have to take good care of myself. I've had many bad thoughts lately. What's the use in trying? Does anything I do make a bit of difference? How can I escape from this life? I know these thoughts won't last and that the meds will help keep them at bay, but I need to be honest with myself and acknowledge that these feelings exist. I'm trying to ride them out and remind myself that I will be stronger when this phase passes.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
What's my 25 year plan? - Part 1
It occurred to me today that it is likely that I will live into my mid-80's. That's when my grandparents died, my mother is in that range and receiving hospice care, and my aunts and uncle also died during those years.
What's my 25 year plan?
Planning is not my strong suit. When I'm not functioning within a highly structured organization (school, work, etc), I flounder. Heck, I turn to stone. A square stone anchored in the earth, incapable of moving unless acted upon by earthquake force.
I want to flourish, thrive, live life with gusto! As I said on New Year's Day, I am welcoming prosperity, good health, true friendship, and love into my life. Very large welcome mat needed for all of that!
Prosperity is closer. I am working enough hours on a regular basis that I can do budget projections. I know that I need to find a less expensive place to live in order to cut my monthly expenditures. I have credit card debt that I need to deal with, but don't see the possibility of resolving it any time soon. I need to put meds at the top of my expenses. I need to keep finding ways to reduce my gasoline use and still be able to accept work assignments that are offered to me. I need to store something more than ice cubes in my freezer. I've been in tough financial situations before so I feel most capable of doing the necessary work toward achieving prosperity.
Good health is visibly in progress. I've lost 50 pounds as the result of physical labor and consuming less food. Although I'm often tired, I am taking time to rest when my body demands that I sleep. Getting back on meds (taking them as prescribed) is the most important next step that I can take.
True friendships exist in my life for what feels like the first time ever. My friends all appear to accept me just as I am. No one seems to want to change me. This is evidence that I'm allowing access to the right people. I don't hesitate to ask when I am in need, share when I have a cupful of joy, and they understand that I'm just beginning to figure out friendships. This is all new to me and I am so grateful that I finally feel accepted.
Love. I want to be married or in a long term committed relationship with a man who wants me. A man who loves me. I want a home that is our sanctuary. While I don't want to have my whole life revolve around the man of my dreams, I do want both of us to want to give our relationship priority. I don't feel closer to this goal, but I have received some excellent advice on the subject. My older gentlemen, my male clients, have done so much to help me see my good qualities. They sometimes lecture me, but in a way that I feel nurtured and valued. And they all have romantic notions. They tell me that I will know the "right" man when he enters my life and that Mr. Right will recognize me and will not rest until he has captured my heart. That meshes with my "Some Enchanted Evening" perspective. I've become quite pragmatic through the years, but there is still a romantic spark that I hold to tightly. I want to feel that electricity, that connection, that desire to surrender to the magnetism.
Then I remind myself that, until I take better care of myself in every possible way, I won't be able to maintain prosperity, share true friendships, maintain a loving relationship, and be both physically and mentally healthy. I now allow myself to be my best ME.
NEXT CHAPTER: Plotting a course
What's my 25 year plan?
Planning is not my strong suit. When I'm not functioning within a highly structured organization (school, work, etc), I flounder. Heck, I turn to stone. A square stone anchored in the earth, incapable of moving unless acted upon by earthquake force.
I want to flourish, thrive, live life with gusto! As I said on New Year's Day, I am welcoming prosperity, good health, true friendship, and love into my life. Very large welcome mat needed for all of that!
Prosperity is closer. I am working enough hours on a regular basis that I can do budget projections. I know that I need to find a less expensive place to live in order to cut my monthly expenditures. I have credit card debt that I need to deal with, but don't see the possibility of resolving it any time soon. I need to put meds at the top of my expenses. I need to keep finding ways to reduce my gasoline use and still be able to accept work assignments that are offered to me. I need to store something more than ice cubes in my freezer. I've been in tough financial situations before so I feel most capable of doing the necessary work toward achieving prosperity.
Good health is visibly in progress. I've lost 50 pounds as the result of physical labor and consuming less food. Although I'm often tired, I am taking time to rest when my body demands that I sleep. Getting back on meds (taking them as prescribed) is the most important next step that I can take.
True friendships exist in my life for what feels like the first time ever. My friends all appear to accept me just as I am. No one seems to want to change me. This is evidence that I'm allowing access to the right people. I don't hesitate to ask when I am in need, share when I have a cupful of joy, and they understand that I'm just beginning to figure out friendships. This is all new to me and I am so grateful that I finally feel accepted.
Love. I want to be married or in a long term committed relationship with a man who wants me. A man who loves me. I want a home that is our sanctuary. While I don't want to have my whole life revolve around the man of my dreams, I do want both of us to want to give our relationship priority. I don't feel closer to this goal, but I have received some excellent advice on the subject. My older gentlemen, my male clients, have done so much to help me see my good qualities. They sometimes lecture me, but in a way that I feel nurtured and valued. And they all have romantic notions. They tell me that I will know the "right" man when he enters my life and that Mr. Right will recognize me and will not rest until he has captured my heart. That meshes with my "Some Enchanted Evening" perspective. I've become quite pragmatic through the years, but there is still a romantic spark that I hold to tightly. I want to feel that electricity, that connection, that desire to surrender to the magnetism.
Then I remind myself that, until I take better care of myself in every possible way, I won't be able to maintain prosperity, share true friendships, maintain a loving relationship, and be both physically and mentally healthy. I now allow myself to be my best ME.
NEXT CHAPTER: Plotting a course
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