Okay, in MY mind, I have a tame sense of humour. I'm just saying.
This may sound like an obvious statement, but the human body is just weird. It has thrown me some curveballs in the past, and the latest is just fascinating, frankly.
First of all I would like to add how refreshing it was to go and see a doctor today about something *other* than my mental health. Why? Because I'm not used to ailments people can see. No wonder I constantly feel like a hypochondriac! Usually it's all "I FEEL sad, I'm currently FEELING like I'm dying from panic even though I'm sitting here functioning... kinda." My doctors have to give me the benefit of the doubt. I won't go onto my usual rant about how people living with mental health disorders are often marginalized because one can't see their disability. Because to some people, it is in fact an extreme disability. But I digress, again.
Fourteen years ago I noticed a small flat mass on my chest that I presumed was the way my muscle mass just... grew. My friend urged me to go get it checked out and *surprise* it was a very rare and scary tumour the size of a navel orange, growing all over the nerves on my clavicle region. I had it taken out, got a lot of attention from the neurologists in the hospital because they'd never seen anything like it, and once my 15 minutes of fame was up and they did surgery, I was out and have been fine since. I've tried not to let that experience send me to "the bad place" when I have minor and odd body stuff going on.
A few years ago, my optometrist discovered "something" and sent me to a neuro-opthamologist, who diagnosed me as having a large blind spot in my left eye caused by some thing I can't pronounce that basically means my optic nerve has scar tissue and damage on it. He sent me off, not too concerned, because if I have vision in both eyes, my vision makes up for a blind spot and I don't notice it. I think he said something about checking it out in a few years to make sure it doesn't get any worse.
Fast forward to last week. Now I have blurry, fuzzy vision in the bottom of my left eye. I sat with it for a week, but now that it's affecting my reading (it makes me feel kinda queezy to focus on words) I decided maybe it was time to check it out. I saw the doctor, he looked at my eye and noticed my optic nerve is chunky with nerve damage (scarring) and has re-referred me to neuro guy. He noted that he's glad I came in to get it checked out right away.
Since I seem to think I'm really funny even when others don't, I made some comment along the lines of: "yeah, after that whole tumour thing I figured it be best to come in and make sure I didn't have a minor stroke last week!" (as I chuckle away).
He didn't laugh.
Moral of the story? Strokes are nothing to joke about! Unless, of course, you've had a large neurological tumour. After all, I had to listen to all those damn "it's not a tumour" jokes fourteen years ago.
Ringing in the New Year with a wonky optic nerve...
PS
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
There's no place like home. But guess what - other places can be just as fun!
Pyjama Smoker Travel Log - Part Two, Three, and Four.
I am home. I arrived yesterday morning, and said goodbye to my wonderful sister and her friends this morning. Needless to say, I already miss them terribly. The trip was so much fun, but pretty challenging to say the least. I have decided that the past five days have been like an episode of Fear Factor - scary and unappealing in many ways, but worth it in the end. Instead of buckets of money, I emerged with a sense of personal pride and more good times and laughs in one week than I've had in a year. I think the title of this blog summarizes my lesson well - there is no place like home, but until I remove myself from my safety zone, I continue to miss out on a whole lot of good times.
For the record, Fear Factor (Pyjama Smoker Edition) includes riding on four ferries in stormy west coast winter weather, eating out at a restaurant (eating food that hasn't been prepared by myself), eating refrigeratables that have been unrefrigerated for a few hours (ooh, daring!) and sleeping in unfamiliar places. It may not include lying in a bathtub of centipedes or eating the raw nutsack off a mountain goat, but it's scary shit to me.
So I arrived in one piece, and was immediately barraged by a plethora of unresolved SHIT (for lack of a more eloquent term) from EI, Student Loans, my mother's bank, and human resources at my previous employer. It's surprising how quickly the vacation glow can disappear when faced with bills, bills, and more overdue bills.
EI finally came back with the pay they have owed me from the past two months, after one more two-hour sit in the Service Canada office yesterday afternoon. Student Loans has accused me of missing two payments besides the fact that I worked out an agreement with them to give me interest relief until they receive the paperwork application for interest relief, which is mysteriously... missing! Colour me shocked. Human Resources for my previous employer charged me $500 for health care benefits for the entire month of December, despite the fact that I resigned mid-month and am not receiving benefits (oh, and when they tried to take the $500 from my bank account, the payment bounced and they charged me a $40 fee). Today I sat in the HR office and had a chat with the employee who said that they will continue to take $500 per month until they receive notice of resignation from my supervisor, and that when they do receive notice, they will refund me for all payments past mid-December. I find that to be kind, though I did mention that if they remove $500 of money that I in fact don't owe, on January 1st as planned, that my RENT will bounce. I'm questioning this logic.
As I drove around for the day, writing cheques and bartering overdue payments, I couldn't help but pinpoint a feeling I have had for about two months now. My medical leave - the leave that I took to work on my depression and anxiety symptoms - has been focused *entirely* on paperwork, lengthy phone calls, office visits, bounced cheques and overdue bills, and scraping together (read: borrowing) money just to make ends meet. I am... angry. Unfortunately, I'm angry at that broad-spectrum "system" over which I have no power. On a micro level, each little hoop-jump and systematic screw-up is not enough to push me over the edge, but from a macro perspective, from the sum of all micro parts, I have decided that our system is heavily flawed. I think that's putting it mildly, and kindly. That being said, our Canadian system is not the worst.
I'm getting tired, however, of saying to myself "hey, there are places out there where I wouldn't be getting any support or benefits, I should just sit on my hands and stay silent, and be happy for what I have." I am happy for what I have, but I gotta say - this system of disability benefits and medical employment insurance, HR medical benefits and student loans... it is CRAZY-MAKING. I am shocked that to date, there has been no report of some nutjob like myself taking a flame-thrower to a few government offices. Come to think of it, if I hadn't borrowed money to pay for my meds, it could have been a hop, skip and a jump to flame-throwing crazyville for Pyjama Smoker and her pugly sidekick.
Ahh well. I went and saw the ladies who lunch today at the pavillion, and served my mother stewed strawberry and rhubarb. Life could be a lot worse than having free time to enjoy a little dessert with my mother.
Signing off with love to all you other pyjama smokers...
PS
I am home. I arrived yesterday morning, and said goodbye to my wonderful sister and her friends this morning. Needless to say, I already miss them terribly. The trip was so much fun, but pretty challenging to say the least. I have decided that the past five days have been like an episode of Fear Factor - scary and unappealing in many ways, but worth it in the end. Instead of buckets of money, I emerged with a sense of personal pride and more good times and laughs in one week than I've had in a year. I think the title of this blog summarizes my lesson well - there is no place like home, but until I remove myself from my safety zone, I continue to miss out on a whole lot of good times.
For the record, Fear Factor (Pyjama Smoker Edition) includes riding on four ferries in stormy west coast winter weather, eating out at a restaurant (eating food that hasn't been prepared by myself), eating refrigeratables that have been unrefrigerated for a few hours (ooh, daring!) and sleeping in unfamiliar places. It may not include lying in a bathtub of centipedes or eating the raw nutsack off a mountain goat, but it's scary shit to me.
So I arrived in one piece, and was immediately barraged by a plethora of unresolved SHIT (for lack of a more eloquent term) from EI, Student Loans, my mother's bank, and human resources at my previous employer. It's surprising how quickly the vacation glow can disappear when faced with bills, bills, and more overdue bills.
EI finally came back with the pay they have owed me from the past two months, after one more two-hour sit in the Service Canada office yesterday afternoon. Student Loans has accused me of missing two payments besides the fact that I worked out an agreement with them to give me interest relief until they receive the paperwork application for interest relief, which is mysteriously... missing! Colour me shocked. Human Resources for my previous employer charged me $500 for health care benefits for the entire month of December, despite the fact that I resigned mid-month and am not receiving benefits (oh, and when they tried to take the $500 from my bank account, the payment bounced and they charged me a $40 fee). Today I sat in the HR office and had a chat with the employee who said that they will continue to take $500 per month until they receive notice of resignation from my supervisor, and that when they do receive notice, they will refund me for all payments past mid-December. I find that to be kind, though I did mention that if they remove $500 of money that I in fact don't owe, on January 1st as planned, that my RENT will bounce. I'm questioning this logic.
As I drove around for the day, writing cheques and bartering overdue payments, I couldn't help but pinpoint a feeling I have had for about two months now. My medical leave - the leave that I took to work on my depression and anxiety symptoms - has been focused *entirely* on paperwork, lengthy phone calls, office visits, bounced cheques and overdue bills, and scraping together (read: borrowing) money just to make ends meet. I am... angry. Unfortunately, I'm angry at that broad-spectrum "system" over which I have no power. On a micro level, each little hoop-jump and systematic screw-up is not enough to push me over the edge, but from a macro perspective, from the sum of all micro parts, I have decided that our system is heavily flawed. I think that's putting it mildly, and kindly. That being said, our Canadian system is not the worst.
I'm getting tired, however, of saying to myself "hey, there are places out there where I wouldn't be getting any support or benefits, I should just sit on my hands and stay silent, and be happy for what I have." I am happy for what I have, but I gotta say - this system of disability benefits and medical employment insurance, HR medical benefits and student loans... it is CRAZY-MAKING. I am shocked that to date, there has been no report of some nutjob like myself taking a flame-thrower to a few government offices. Come to think of it, if I hadn't borrowed money to pay for my meds, it could have been a hop, skip and a jump to flame-throwing crazyville for Pyjama Smoker and her pugly sidekick.
Ahh well. I went and saw the ladies who lunch today at the pavillion, and served my mother stewed strawberry and rhubarb. Life could be a lot worse than having free time to enjoy a little dessert with my mother.
Signing off with love to all you other pyjama smokers...
PS
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sisterhood of the Travelling Pyjama Smoker - Part One
Hello friends, and Happy Holidays to all.
Well, I bravely went where Pyjama Smoker has never gone before: riding a ferry during a severe wind warning. Shall I paint you a picture? Friday morning - Christmas Eve day. I arrive at the terminal at 11:00 am after laying awake all night, listening to the gale-force winds pummelling my little apartment. I pop an Ativan, take two ginger pills (anti-nauseants), and drive onto the car deck convincing myself that I'm over-reacting.
In retrospect I'm just gonna say - I don't think I was! A vomit-phobic, anxiety-raddled woman on a ferry while the captain announces over the PA that he recommends everyone stays in their seats and that there are white bags placed throughout the ship if one feels the "urge to purge" - why, only my personal HELL. Keeping in mind, this was aptly timed for one hour after the breakfast buffet was served. Ew.
I was too anxious to go anywhere near a roomful of people, nor was I risking being around a reenaction of the pie-eating competition fantsy from "Stand By Me." I stayed on the car deck - standing at the front of the ship (looking forward where we were going, I heard that's helpful) and trying to stay on my feet. I wrapped a blanket around my body, ignored the fact that I was being pelted with rain and wind, and stood there for the duration of the trip.
I marched proudly back to my car as the ship docked, and breathed my first (of many) sighs of relief of the day.
... After careful consideration, I have decided to, for the first time, edit the events in my blog. I will not be writing about the 24 hours I spent with a close relative, before my sister arrived on Christmas Day. Perhaps for another time, but for now I will simply say that it was a bittersweet visit and I was quite relieved to be moving on to my next part of the journey - Christmas and Boxing Day with my sister at her friend's house.
So here I am. Waistband and fancy-free. I believe I have consumed five types of cheese since my arrival, and I slept in the most comfortable bed I have ever encountered. My Christmas evening was all about good food (spaghetti!) good friends, and an awesome interview of Fran Lebowitz by Martin Scorcese. I'm starting to unwind a wee bit. Leg one of the journey is complete, and it's time to start preparing for the next challenge. Tomorrow. TWO ferry trips in one day.
Why the hell is it taking so long for the creation of my personal teleportation system?
A girl can hope...
Stay Tuned - PS.
Well, I bravely went where Pyjama Smoker has never gone before: riding a ferry during a severe wind warning. Shall I paint you a picture? Friday morning - Christmas Eve day. I arrive at the terminal at 11:00 am after laying awake all night, listening to the gale-force winds pummelling my little apartment. I pop an Ativan, take two ginger pills (anti-nauseants), and drive onto the car deck convincing myself that I'm over-reacting.
In retrospect I'm just gonna say - I don't think I was! A vomit-phobic, anxiety-raddled woman on a ferry while the captain announces over the PA that he recommends everyone stays in their seats and that there are white bags placed throughout the ship if one feels the "urge to purge" - why, only my personal HELL. Keeping in mind, this was aptly timed for one hour after the breakfast buffet was served. Ew.
I was too anxious to go anywhere near a roomful of people, nor was I risking being around a reenaction of the pie-eating competition fantsy from "Stand By Me." I stayed on the car deck - standing at the front of the ship (looking forward where we were going, I heard that's helpful) and trying to stay on my feet. I wrapped a blanket around my body, ignored the fact that I was being pelted with rain and wind, and stood there for the duration of the trip.
I marched proudly back to my car as the ship docked, and breathed my first (of many) sighs of relief of the day.
... After careful consideration, I have decided to, for the first time, edit the events in my blog. I will not be writing about the 24 hours I spent with a close relative, before my sister arrived on Christmas Day. Perhaps for another time, but for now I will simply say that it was a bittersweet visit and I was quite relieved to be moving on to my next part of the journey - Christmas and Boxing Day with my sister at her friend's house.
So here I am. Waistband and fancy-free. I believe I have consumed five types of cheese since my arrival, and I slept in the most comfortable bed I have ever encountered. My Christmas evening was all about good food (spaghetti!) good friends, and an awesome interview of Fran Lebowitz by Martin Scorcese. I'm starting to unwind a wee bit. Leg one of the journey is complete, and it's time to start preparing for the next challenge. Tomorrow. TWO ferry trips in one day.
Why the hell is it taking so long for the creation of my personal teleportation system?
A girl can hope...
Stay Tuned - PS.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
A brief tribute...
My last grandparent, Grandpa, passed away this March. His wife, my Nanny, and my namesake, passed over a decade before him.
Outside Grandpa's church, there is a small tree that was planted by his quartet friends, complete with a plaque of dedication.
I wasn't sure how to honour my first Christmas without my Grandpa - my mother's father, and MY biggest supporter as I have been supporting Mum. I didin't know how to honour my Nanny, and I guess in some spiritual way (if I can believe in it), the first Christmas in a long time that Nanny and Grandpa have been together.
So I knit the tree.
Merry Christmas, Nanny and Grandpa. I miss you and love you forever.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
With great powerlessness comes great responsibilities.
Hey all.
Well, today was certainly D-Day when it comes to stress levels. I know what some may be thinking "Oh yes, Christmas is the most stressful time of year, all that last minute shopping and Christmas mailings and so forth." Well, this actually has nothing to do with Christmas. It just happens to fall in the same time frame.
I will not go into gory details as I don't want people to start petering out after the fifth ranty paragraph. Long story short, my (recently-ex) place of employment fucked up so amazingly and royally, that I am left in fairly financial dire straits for... who knows how long. My favourite quote of the day from the umpteenth person I talked to in person or on the phone was "well, our hands are kinda tied." And to paraphrase the many conversations I had with the finances woman for my employer who made said boo-boo? "Oops."
So there I am, bursting into tears in a government cubicle. On a side note - do all government offices have the same damn kleenex boxes? My therapist has the same abrasive, thin, pink kleenexes that I found myself shedding tears in ONCE again. It's been a while since I've walked down the street trying to sob subtly (there's an oxymoron) but for the record, it's still embarassing.
I know, what does this have to do with the title of my blog? Well, I'm also my mother's power of attorney and as soon as I got home from my watery stroll, I got three seperate phone calls regarding her finances, business, blah, blah, blah. I think it was the final straw. Especially when I realized with great shame that I'm envious of my demented mother for actually having stable enough finances with which to live comfortably. There I am, preparing to re-invest with Mum's portfolio, and I had to use my laundry coins to buy cigarettes. Now I just have to figure out how to pay for the three loads of laundry I need to do.
Yup, having (albeit a fairly brief in the grand sceheme of things) financial crisis really does make one feel powerless. It could also be freeing, having no money, but I have the added bonus of having the responsibility of handling money - without the money.
So I was feeling awfully darned sorry for myself. Is this where I have an epiphany and realize that I may have no shoes but there's a man out there with no feet and so on and so forth? No, I actually selfishly and thoughtlessly wallowed far longer than I'd like to admit. And then it hit me. No, not that someone out there has no feet, but that I will be okay, and I have good friends and family, and it will never get as bad for me as it does for masses of people around me who feel far less sorry for themselves than I did today. Phew! That was a big thought bubble. Though that being said, I still think that the guy with no shoes may be sadder than the guy with no feet. I mean, how do we *measure* sadness, when it's fluid and different for everyone? It's like saying that someone who is healthier, more financially well off, and blessed with more family than I should be happier...
... when really, I think Angelina Jolie looks truly miserable most of the time.
PS
Well, today was certainly D-Day when it comes to stress levels. I know what some may be thinking "Oh yes, Christmas is the most stressful time of year, all that last minute shopping and Christmas mailings and so forth." Well, this actually has nothing to do with Christmas. It just happens to fall in the same time frame.
I will not go into gory details as I don't want people to start petering out after the fifth ranty paragraph. Long story short, my (recently-ex) place of employment fucked up so amazingly and royally, that I am left in fairly financial dire straits for... who knows how long. My favourite quote of the day from the umpteenth person I talked to in person or on the phone was "well, our hands are kinda tied." And to paraphrase the many conversations I had with the finances woman for my employer who made said boo-boo? "Oops."
So there I am, bursting into tears in a government cubicle. On a side note - do all government offices have the same damn kleenex boxes? My therapist has the same abrasive, thin, pink kleenexes that I found myself shedding tears in ONCE again. It's been a while since I've walked down the street trying to sob subtly (there's an oxymoron) but for the record, it's still embarassing.
I know, what does this have to do with the title of my blog? Well, I'm also my mother's power of attorney and as soon as I got home from my watery stroll, I got three seperate phone calls regarding her finances, business, blah, blah, blah. I think it was the final straw. Especially when I realized with great shame that I'm envious of my demented mother for actually having stable enough finances with which to live comfortably. There I am, preparing to re-invest with Mum's portfolio, and I had to use my laundry coins to buy cigarettes. Now I just have to figure out how to pay for the three loads of laundry I need to do.
Yup, having (albeit a fairly brief in the grand sceheme of things) financial crisis really does make one feel powerless. It could also be freeing, having no money, but I have the added bonus of having the responsibility of handling money - without the money.
So I was feeling awfully darned sorry for myself. Is this where I have an epiphany and realize that I may have no shoes but there's a man out there with no feet and so on and so forth? No, I actually selfishly and thoughtlessly wallowed far longer than I'd like to admit. And then it hit me. No, not that someone out there has no feet, but that I will be okay, and I have good friends and family, and it will never get as bad for me as it does for masses of people around me who feel far less sorry for themselves than I did today. Phew! That was a big thought bubble. Though that being said, I still think that the guy with no shoes may be sadder than the guy with no feet. I mean, how do we *measure* sadness, when it's fluid and different for everyone? It's like saying that someone who is healthier, more financially well off, and blessed with more family than I should be happier...
... when really, I think Angelina Jolie looks truly miserable most of the time.
PS
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Allergic to the stench of failure (or are those dust mites...?)
Hello Funseekers!
Well, after three weeks of waking up, sneezing eighty times consecutively and then blowing my nose into three rolls of TP, I decided to brave the free medical clinic. Free, but not without paying in my time of course. Two hours later, my worst suspicion was cleared - I do NOT have a sinus infection, and I was sent away with nasal spray with a vague explanation that perhaps I'm allergic to something.
Well, I'm allergic to a lot of things, but most of them are food related. However, I (somewhere in the past ten years) developed a fairly harsh allergy to cats, and now I'm wondering what else there could be. After all, I am almost completely certain I am not housing an infestation of domestic felines.
I've narrowed it down to my apartment. So I have decided there can only be ONE explanation. I am allergic to the stench of failure and wasted opportunities. I'm sure that once I become again a productive citizen of society, I will no longer have sneezing attacks and random body itching.
Okay, oooor it's my apartment. Someone suggested dust mites. Yum! The thing that really picks my bum is that I am *constantly* cleaning my damned apartment. Something's definitely amiss though. I officially live in a "sick" apartment, which is just way to fitting. I couldn't make that shit up. It's also a little ironic considering I refer to my apartment as my "haven" and lock myself inside so I can be alone with my icky-poo thoughts. My haven of cognitive distortions, black mould, dust mites, and other allergens.
For those who will suggest it, YES, I use my neti pot and "nasal lavage" every day. That's fancy French for "warshing yer nostrils", dontcha know. Now I also have a steroidal nasal spray that works like a hot damn! All that is left is to... investigate for the culprit.
I looked for any hidden cats, but found nothing. Dust - I did my old fashioned best by dusting with a wet cloth and vacuuming with hepa-filter bags. I guarantee I'm the only person in my apartment who regularly cleans my ceiling fan and under my refrigerator. So what's left? Let's just hope I figure it out before my sinuses dry up and fall out.
On a related topic, I have had my annual notice of rent increase. In a moment of crankiness, I decided to give my building manager a deal - keep rent the same, or raise it and give me new carpet. I figure that whatever is causing my nasal woes must be related to the decade old carpet - and whatever may live underneath (let's just not go there.) I'm taking a stand! I pay way above price for a glorified shoebox with a refrigerator that freezes milk, a bathroom drain that doesn't drain, cigarette-burnt carpet, 1970's ceiling fan which is not only hanging on by one screw, but which has also been TAGGED by a past tenant, and a medley of contruction work right outside my window, day after day, year after year.
I love my little home and I don't want to give it up. If they keep increasing the rent, however, I'm going to have to start claiming Dora as a dependent and collecting unemployment on her behalf. It's hard to find a job without opposable thumbs, you know.
I could go so much further with this financial rant, because rent increase is actually the least of my worries. But I honestly don't have the energy to get into the medical employment insurance rant today. All I will say is that if they don't come through in the next three days, I will be wandering the streets with my bedraggled mutt, my red curly hair and nothing to survive on but my impish street sense.
Daddy Warbucks' may apply within.
PS
Well, after three weeks of waking up, sneezing eighty times consecutively and then blowing my nose into three rolls of TP, I decided to brave the free medical clinic. Free, but not without paying in my time of course. Two hours later, my worst suspicion was cleared - I do NOT have a sinus infection, and I was sent away with nasal spray with a vague explanation that perhaps I'm allergic to something.
Well, I'm allergic to a lot of things, but most of them are food related. However, I (somewhere in the past ten years) developed a fairly harsh allergy to cats, and now I'm wondering what else there could be. After all, I am almost completely certain I am not housing an infestation of domestic felines.
I've narrowed it down to my apartment. So I have decided there can only be ONE explanation. I am allergic to the stench of failure and wasted opportunities. I'm sure that once I become again a productive citizen of society, I will no longer have sneezing attacks and random body itching.
Okay, oooor it's my apartment. Someone suggested dust mites. Yum! The thing that really picks my bum is that I am *constantly* cleaning my damned apartment. Something's definitely amiss though. I officially live in a "sick" apartment, which is just way to fitting. I couldn't make that shit up. It's also a little ironic considering I refer to my apartment as my "haven" and lock myself inside so I can be alone with my icky-poo thoughts. My haven of cognitive distortions, black mould, dust mites, and other allergens.
For those who will suggest it, YES, I use my neti pot and "nasal lavage" every day. That's fancy French for "warshing yer nostrils", dontcha know. Now I also have a steroidal nasal spray that works like a hot damn! All that is left is to... investigate for the culprit.
I looked for any hidden cats, but found nothing. Dust - I did my old fashioned best by dusting with a wet cloth and vacuuming with hepa-filter bags. I guarantee I'm the only person in my apartment who regularly cleans my ceiling fan and under my refrigerator. So what's left? Let's just hope I figure it out before my sinuses dry up and fall out.
On a related topic, I have had my annual notice of rent increase. In a moment of crankiness, I decided to give my building manager a deal - keep rent the same, or raise it and give me new carpet. I figure that whatever is causing my nasal woes must be related to the decade old carpet - and whatever may live underneath (let's just not go there.) I'm taking a stand! I pay way above price for a glorified shoebox with a refrigerator that freezes milk, a bathroom drain that doesn't drain, cigarette-burnt carpet, 1970's ceiling fan which is not only hanging on by one screw, but which has also been TAGGED by a past tenant, and a medley of contruction work right outside my window, day after day, year after year.
I love my little home and I don't want to give it up. If they keep increasing the rent, however, I'm going to have to start claiming Dora as a dependent and collecting unemployment on her behalf. It's hard to find a job without opposable thumbs, you know.
I could go so much further with this financial rant, because rent increase is actually the least of my worries. But I honestly don't have the energy to get into the medical employment insurance rant today. All I will say is that if they don't come through in the next three days, I will be wandering the streets with my bedraggled mutt, my red curly hair and nothing to survive on but my impish street sense.
Daddy Warbucks' may apply within.
PS
Monday, December 20, 2010
Much like an avacado... I just don't travel well.
Welcome to this year's travel edition!
If I'm lucky, I manage to go about a year without any travelling (Gulf Islands are always excluded). 2010 however, has been a doozy! For the first part of the year, I was dating someone who lived across the ocean, so I managed to get over every two or three weeks without too much anxiety and drama. Well, without *too* much. Needless to say, there were the crippling moments of anxiety and bad nights where I just wanted to click my ruby shoes and be transported back to my safe little haven, but I sucked it up for the good of my personal life. I fear, however, I have reverted.
I have avoided travelling since June, and this month, I'm diving in again.
I feel I need to pause and address those who are thinking to themselves: "are you INSANE? I want to travel the world! See the sights! I want to drink wine and eat cheese in Italy, I want to climb the pyramids (except you aren't allowed to any more) and see the fashion and art in Paris!" Yeah. You know what? I do too. Desperately. If I could somehow do all that and click my ruby red slippers every night, back to my home then start again in the morning, I would.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm like an avacado. Or perhaps a soft tomato or peach. I simply do not travel well. First of all I have a crippling phobia of throwing up (apparently Brooke Shields does as well, so I'm in good company) AND to boot I get motion sick. Then I have a panic disorder. Roll those into one and you have a girl who would be comfortable (not happy, but comfortable) within walking distance of her world. I know, I know... why do I have to be comfortable all the time? Step outside of that comfort zone! Well, that's like asking a dog to be a cow. It just ain't ever gonna happen. I can paint spots on my pug and teach her to Moo, but who are we kidding? She'll never be the real deal. And because i don't think I will EVER feel comfortable travelling, I just have to suck it up, face my WORST fears, and pretend.
So to anyone out there who doesn't really understand not enjoying travelling, I know it must seem strange. But think of your worst, deep down fears. Think of that thing people do where you say "I don't think I could do that even if you paid me a million bucks". Now put yourself in my shoes.
This Christmas, I am going over the water, on a ferry, for the best, most wonderful reason imaginable - to see my big bad sister!! I'm SO excited to see her, and I miss her like I would miss my eyes or my legs. It physically hurts to not have her around. The thing is, I have to travel and spend days in someone else's apartment to do so. Very, very scary. I've already decided my computer is coming with me so I can document the good, the bad, the ugly. Hopefully more of the former.
Don't get me wrong. There will be good times - wonderful times. When I put myself in that scarier-than-life position and get myself there is when I socialize the most with some of the people I love the most in this world. Worth it? Absolutely. Am I dreading it? More than I could ever explain. Quite the basket of emotions.
Well, this is the introduction, this weekend will be the test. Stay tuned, and please - wish me luck.
PS
If I'm lucky, I manage to go about a year without any travelling (Gulf Islands are always excluded). 2010 however, has been a doozy! For the first part of the year, I was dating someone who lived across the ocean, so I managed to get over every two or three weeks without too much anxiety and drama. Well, without *too* much. Needless to say, there were the crippling moments of anxiety and bad nights where I just wanted to click my ruby shoes and be transported back to my safe little haven, but I sucked it up for the good of my personal life. I fear, however, I have reverted.
I have avoided travelling since June, and this month, I'm diving in again.
I feel I need to pause and address those who are thinking to themselves: "are you INSANE? I want to travel the world! See the sights! I want to drink wine and eat cheese in Italy, I want to climb the pyramids (except you aren't allowed to any more) and see the fashion and art in Paris!" Yeah. You know what? I do too. Desperately. If I could somehow do all that and click my ruby red slippers every night, back to my home then start again in the morning, I would.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm like an avacado. Or perhaps a soft tomato or peach. I simply do not travel well. First of all I have a crippling phobia of throwing up (apparently Brooke Shields does as well, so I'm in good company) AND to boot I get motion sick. Then I have a panic disorder. Roll those into one and you have a girl who would be comfortable (not happy, but comfortable) within walking distance of her world. I know, I know... why do I have to be comfortable all the time? Step outside of that comfort zone! Well, that's like asking a dog to be a cow. It just ain't ever gonna happen. I can paint spots on my pug and teach her to Moo, but who are we kidding? She'll never be the real deal. And because i don't think I will EVER feel comfortable travelling, I just have to suck it up, face my WORST fears, and pretend.
So to anyone out there who doesn't really understand not enjoying travelling, I know it must seem strange. But think of your worst, deep down fears. Think of that thing people do where you say "I don't think I could do that even if you paid me a million bucks". Now put yourself in my shoes.
This Christmas, I am going over the water, on a ferry, for the best, most wonderful reason imaginable - to see my big bad sister!! I'm SO excited to see her, and I miss her like I would miss my eyes or my legs. It physically hurts to not have her around. The thing is, I have to travel and spend days in someone else's apartment to do so. Very, very scary. I've already decided my computer is coming with me so I can document the good, the bad, the ugly. Hopefully more of the former.
Don't get me wrong. There will be good times - wonderful times. When I put myself in that scarier-than-life position and get myself there is when I socialize the most with some of the people I love the most in this world. Worth it? Absolutely. Am I dreading it? More than I could ever explain. Quite the basket of emotions.
Well, this is the introduction, this weekend will be the test. Stay tuned, and please - wish me luck.
PS
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Misery Loves Company (or do we really just want to be left alone...)
Hello World.
Not such a great weekend. Some good times, some not so good times, but I'm left with lingering sadness, and dread. Dread for the forthcoming Christmas Travel! But THAT, I will save for another post.
Douglas Coupland, my literary idol, once wrote: "Remember: the time you feel lonely is the time you most need to be by yourself. Life's cruelest irony."
Is it true? Because I've been feeling awfully lonely, and I really just want to be left alone. Yet I have this gut feeling (okay, it's the therapist in me) that it's not the best idea for me right now. Cognitive behavioural therapists will say that in this situation, I must do the opposite of how I feel. Want to push people away? Don't. Take the risk and bring them in closer. I guess that's where the real work is done, because all I want to do is stay home where it is safe, and predictable. The outside world, the social world, is a scary place. Yet inside my safe haven of an apartment, I can control everything. The downside, of course, is that I'm left with my own thoughts. Ahh yes. My thoughts - not a particularly good friend for me to be hanging out with these days.
I saw a close friend yesterday for coffee. It was hard for me to do on many levels. Ex-love, public place, commitment (a time and a place set). I can't describe how much commitment scares the shit out of me. What if I can't make it? What then? What if I can't make it and someone gets mad at me or judges me? Why wouldn't I be able to make it, you ask? A plethora of reasons - panic attacks, anxiety, bad stomach (due to anxiety, of course). So committing means I'm saying that I will be there at a certain time and place, and I HAVE to be there. If not, it could be messy. Years of my body and mind having control over ME, and not the other way around, have taught me that if I dress up and march out that door with the intention of having a good, pre-planned time, something will go wrong and I will wind up back at home at 8:30, feeling so, amazingly disappointed in myself. For letting down others and myself.
Yes, so coffee with a close friend. He said two things that struck me (and if you are reading this, close friend, I hope you don't mind me divulging these two phrases for the purpose of discussion. I think they were very insightful. If you do mind, email me and I'll erase this entry and not do it again.)
One, was he said that I looked happier. This shocked me. He meant it, and it was such a kind thing to say because he also said that I was looking really good, which I take as a sign that I look healthy and relatively relaxed. I guess it struck me, because I don't FEEL happier. And I desperately want to. What did I do? What I do best - start crying. I had to do the obligatory 'duck to the bathroom and dab the eyes' which of course he would never fall for because he knows me to well. Then I came home, and cried all night. I miss having someone to be with, in a relationship. To look me in the eyes and make me think of all the times I felt safe and warm.
Ugh. So sad.
One other thing. The other question he posed, which I have been trying to avoid, but feel it was good for him to ask so I could face it. "Why are you depressed?"
Not a bad question... very good question, actually! I would rather someone close to me ask than not try to understand. Problem is, I just don't have an answer. There are so many gradients of sadness. There's feeling blue, feeling sad... but when does the sadness turn chronic and become "depression"? Different for everyone, I suppose, and also, depression is simply a medical term for excessive sadness, from what I can tell. Those doctors have to find fancy words for everything - makes them feel smart. The thing is, I've always defined "addiction" not as when someone is doing "too much" of something (because that's a different measurement for all) but instead - it occurs when the drugs or alcohol or behaviour are causing serious negative effects on his or her life. I suppose depression and anxiety are the same. It's sadness, it's fear, until it causes daily negative effects. Suddenly it's depression, anxiety.
I'm depressed and sad because I feel all alone. But I'm all alone because of me, getting too comfortable with my depression and sadness. I'm giving it more life every day that I avoid seeing the people I love.
Just a few thoughts for the day.
Sleep well, world,
PS
Not such a great weekend. Some good times, some not so good times, but I'm left with lingering sadness, and dread. Dread for the forthcoming Christmas Travel! But THAT, I will save for another post.
Douglas Coupland, my literary idol, once wrote: "Remember: the time you feel lonely is the time you most need to be by yourself. Life's cruelest irony."
Is it true? Because I've been feeling awfully lonely, and I really just want to be left alone. Yet I have this gut feeling (okay, it's the therapist in me) that it's not the best idea for me right now. Cognitive behavioural therapists will say that in this situation, I must do the opposite of how I feel. Want to push people away? Don't. Take the risk and bring them in closer. I guess that's where the real work is done, because all I want to do is stay home where it is safe, and predictable. The outside world, the social world, is a scary place. Yet inside my safe haven of an apartment, I can control everything. The downside, of course, is that I'm left with my own thoughts. Ahh yes. My thoughts - not a particularly good friend for me to be hanging out with these days.
I saw a close friend yesterday for coffee. It was hard for me to do on many levels. Ex-love, public place, commitment (a time and a place set). I can't describe how much commitment scares the shit out of me. What if I can't make it? What then? What if I can't make it and someone gets mad at me or judges me? Why wouldn't I be able to make it, you ask? A plethora of reasons - panic attacks, anxiety, bad stomach (due to anxiety, of course). So committing means I'm saying that I will be there at a certain time and place, and I HAVE to be there. If not, it could be messy. Years of my body and mind having control over ME, and not the other way around, have taught me that if I dress up and march out that door with the intention of having a good, pre-planned time, something will go wrong and I will wind up back at home at 8:30, feeling so, amazingly disappointed in myself. For letting down others and myself.
Yes, so coffee with a close friend. He said two things that struck me (and if you are reading this, close friend, I hope you don't mind me divulging these two phrases for the purpose of discussion. I think they were very insightful. If you do mind, email me and I'll erase this entry and not do it again.)
One, was he said that I looked happier. This shocked me. He meant it, and it was such a kind thing to say because he also said that I was looking really good, which I take as a sign that I look healthy and relatively relaxed. I guess it struck me, because I don't FEEL happier. And I desperately want to. What did I do? What I do best - start crying. I had to do the obligatory 'duck to the bathroom and dab the eyes' which of course he would never fall for because he knows me to well. Then I came home, and cried all night. I miss having someone to be with, in a relationship. To look me in the eyes and make me think of all the times I felt safe and warm.
Ugh. So sad.
One other thing. The other question he posed, which I have been trying to avoid, but feel it was good for him to ask so I could face it. "Why are you depressed?"
Not a bad question... very good question, actually! I would rather someone close to me ask than not try to understand. Problem is, I just don't have an answer. There are so many gradients of sadness. There's feeling blue, feeling sad... but when does the sadness turn chronic and become "depression"? Different for everyone, I suppose, and also, depression is simply a medical term for excessive sadness, from what I can tell. Those doctors have to find fancy words for everything - makes them feel smart. The thing is, I've always defined "addiction" not as when someone is doing "too much" of something (because that's a different measurement for all) but instead - it occurs when the drugs or alcohol or behaviour are causing serious negative effects on his or her life. I suppose depression and anxiety are the same. It's sadness, it's fear, until it causes daily negative effects. Suddenly it's depression, anxiety.
I'm depressed and sad because I feel all alone. But I'm all alone because of me, getting too comfortable with my depression and sadness. I'm giving it more life every day that I avoid seeing the people I love.
Just a few thoughts for the day.
Sleep well, world,
PS
Saturday, December 18, 2010
We all think you're ugly and stupid (and other cognitive distortions)
grump grump grump.
One thing right off the bat - Julie Andrews and The Sound of Music BEFORE coffee is not one of a few of my favourite things.
I had a shit sleep and woke up feeling like shit. This is me in my most eloquent state - shit shit shit. I'm just brewing some coffee (no, I haven't had my coffee yet) and taking a gander at my homework for the weekend! A few things first before the homework. To start, my mind races ALL night in the forms of dreams. I generally wake up feeling like I ran a cognitive marathon. Also, some mornings my meds hit me differently (I still haven't been able to predict when and why) and I am CONKED OUT. Highly sedated. In a state of hazy hazy bliss. Tripping the light fantastic.***
***(On a complete side note, I just looked up that saying to make sure I had it right, and the definition is "a journey, a stumble or a fall". Well, that's boring and has nothing to do with drug abuse. Trust Milton to make a poetic phrase like that mean something dull and literal. Luckily McCartney jazzed it up and re-defined it, writing it to define "dancing". Also nothing to do with drug use. So basically, nobody meant drug use. Huh. Where did I get that from??)
Okay, waaaay off tangent. Reel it in, nutter.
Right. Weekend homework. This weekend, I am to be addressing my "cognitive thought distortions". Basically - icky thoughts that we think about ourselves that nobody believes but us. People with depression looooove sitting around and thinking these thoughts. It's actually quite alarming. I was told last week to write five good things about myself, no matter how small. I kept writing something down, and then thinking "well, except for that time" or "but sometimes..." and then erasing it. I ended up bursting into tears. Five good things about myself? Fuck you! Why couldn't you have given me an easy job, like a 25 page essay on how I believe I've screwed up my life (and others'...)?
How does one try to address and redirect icky thought patterns? Well, we're starting with the basics - writing them down. Eventually, we're supposed to be able to come up with this more realistic thinking inside our heads. By us, I mean myself and my group therapy members, by the way. We, the pyjama smokers.
It's easy! Just follow these basic steps. It's as easy as 1, 2, 3!
1. Think of a specific situation where you felt a negative feeling, and rate that feeling. Me? I cracked a (possibly cheeky) joke to a friend who was standing next to me, and he didn't respond. I felt... embarassed. On a scale of 1-10? Embarassed: 8/10.
2. Think of reasons why he didn't respond that PROVE I SHOULD feel embarassed. This is where you get to write down all those irrational places you go to in your brain when you feel hurt and defensive: 1) It was a joke at the expense of my medical problems, and he may have thought it was inappropriately personal. 2) He doesn't find the topic of suicide to be something to joke about. 3) He doesn't find the topic of sacrificing pointsettias to be something to joke about. 4) He thinks I'm crazy and inappropriate.
3. Think of reasons why he didn't respond that PROVE I should not feel embarassed. What am I missing? 1) He may not have heard me! 2) He may not have gotten the joke (ie - doesn't know that pointsettias are poisonous). 3) He may have wanted to laugh, but wasn't sure if it was appropriate to do so.
4. Now, think of a reasonable and *balanced* explanation based on numbers 2 and 3, and re-rate your feeling (embarassment).
Okay. Here goes. When I didn't win the pointsettia in the door prize and said to my friend next to me: "It's probably a good thing I did't win. It may not be the best idea to give the clinically depressed girl a pointsettia plant to get her through the holidays" my friend probably didn't respond because he didn't get the joke and wasn't sure how to respond. Based on that rational explanation, I only feel embarassed on a level of 5/10 now.
Ta da! See? Now I feel better! What I did is I wrote down all the places my brain automatically jumped to (default: you're ugly and stupid) and then I wrote down the more balanced and realistic explanations.
Try it sometime! It's kind of like inserting a rational and kind voice (maybe my best friend's voice?) into my own crazy, irrational, judgemental, hurtful inner voice.
And on that note, my coffee is ready, and I'm ready to start demantling the opinions I've had of myself since childhood. Wee! This should only take... a lifetime.
Later alligators,
PS
One thing right off the bat - Julie Andrews and The Sound of Music BEFORE coffee is not one of a few of my favourite things.
I had a shit sleep and woke up feeling like shit. This is me in my most eloquent state - shit shit shit. I'm just brewing some coffee (no, I haven't had my coffee yet) and taking a gander at my homework for the weekend! A few things first before the homework. To start, my mind races ALL night in the forms of dreams. I generally wake up feeling like I ran a cognitive marathon. Also, some mornings my meds hit me differently (I still haven't been able to predict when and why) and I am CONKED OUT. Highly sedated. In a state of hazy hazy bliss. Tripping the light fantastic.***
***(On a complete side note, I just looked up that saying to make sure I had it right, and the definition is "a journey, a stumble or a fall". Well, that's boring and has nothing to do with drug abuse. Trust Milton to make a poetic phrase like that mean something dull and literal. Luckily McCartney jazzed it up and re-defined it, writing it to define "dancing". Also nothing to do with drug use. So basically, nobody meant drug use. Huh. Where did I get that from??)
Okay, waaaay off tangent. Reel it in, nutter.
Right. Weekend homework. This weekend, I am to be addressing my "cognitive thought distortions". Basically - icky thoughts that we think about ourselves that nobody believes but us. People with depression looooove sitting around and thinking these thoughts. It's actually quite alarming. I was told last week to write five good things about myself, no matter how small. I kept writing something down, and then thinking "well, except for that time" or "but sometimes..." and then erasing it. I ended up bursting into tears. Five good things about myself? Fuck you! Why couldn't you have given me an easy job, like a 25 page essay on how I believe I've screwed up my life (and others'...)?
How does one try to address and redirect icky thought patterns? Well, we're starting with the basics - writing them down. Eventually, we're supposed to be able to come up with this more realistic thinking inside our heads. By us, I mean myself and my group therapy members, by the way. We, the pyjama smokers.
It's easy! Just follow these basic steps. It's as easy as 1, 2, 3!
1. Think of a specific situation where you felt a negative feeling, and rate that feeling. Me? I cracked a (possibly cheeky) joke to a friend who was standing next to me, and he didn't respond. I felt... embarassed. On a scale of 1-10? Embarassed: 8/10.
2. Think of reasons why he didn't respond that PROVE I SHOULD feel embarassed. This is where you get to write down all those irrational places you go to in your brain when you feel hurt and defensive: 1) It was a joke at the expense of my medical problems, and he may have thought it was inappropriately personal. 2) He doesn't find the topic of suicide to be something to joke about. 3) He doesn't find the topic of sacrificing pointsettias to be something to joke about. 4) He thinks I'm crazy and inappropriate.
3. Think of reasons why he didn't respond that PROVE I should not feel embarassed. What am I missing? 1) He may not have heard me! 2) He may not have gotten the joke (ie - doesn't know that pointsettias are poisonous). 3) He may have wanted to laugh, but wasn't sure if it was appropriate to do so.
4. Now, think of a reasonable and *balanced* explanation based on numbers 2 and 3, and re-rate your feeling (embarassment).
Okay. Here goes. When I didn't win the pointsettia in the door prize and said to my friend next to me: "It's probably a good thing I did't win. It may not be the best idea to give the clinically depressed girl a pointsettia plant to get her through the holidays" my friend probably didn't respond because he didn't get the joke and wasn't sure how to respond. Based on that rational explanation, I only feel embarassed on a level of 5/10 now.
Ta da! See? Now I feel better! What I did is I wrote down all the places my brain automatically jumped to (default: you're ugly and stupid) and then I wrote down the more balanced and realistic explanations.
Try it sometime! It's kind of like inserting a rational and kind voice (maybe my best friend's voice?) into my own crazy, irrational, judgemental, hurtful inner voice.
And on that note, my coffee is ready, and I'm ready to start demantling the opinions I've had of myself since childhood. Wee! This should only take... a lifetime.
Later alligators,
PS
Friday, December 17, 2010
Quesadillas and a Mariah Carey Christmas - oh my.
Hey all,
Well, energized by my very first supporters (and my first comment - shout out to Bethy!!) I had a fairly productive day. One, it was sunny, which helped a lot. Two, I started the day off with a long walk, which helped as well. Did some grocery shopping, a little cooking for the next few meals. I then decided to give my Mum a visit, as I haven't seen her in about a week.
A few things about my Mum. Well, despite the fact that she's always been an amazing mother... also kind, articulate, and gorgeous. My Mum has early-onset Alzheimers, and lives in a care facility. I did make mention of this a few posts ago, as those of you who have read on may know. Mum was diagnosed around ten years ago, at age 55. I moved in and lived with her / cared for her until about five years ago, when she moved to the place where she is now. I love the care home in which she lives - the staff are wonderful, she gets great care, and she appears to like it there. I love visiting her. I know! It seems really depressing, and yes, the *idea* of her being sick is depressing, but good public care homes can be pretty fun places in which to hang. It helps that these days, it feels to be juuuust about my pace. Mum lives on the unit with about seven other ladies - the eight of them are in the last "stages" of Alzheimers, meaning they generally can't feed themselves, chew food, walk, talk, nor any other care you could imagine. They are... trapped inside their minds, and because their minds control their bodies, their bodies slowly go as well.
Sounds sad, yes. Is sad, yes. But these women are just as alive as anyone walking around these streets. The newest member lives with Downs Syndrome *and* Early Onset Alzheimers, which I naively had never thought possible. Why? I'd never seen it. That realization was a lesson for me, actually. Just because i haven't seen it doesn't mean it doesn't exist! Yes... Life Basics 101. Anyhoo. The only explanation I have for this woman's situation? Shitty fucking luck. Seriously. This woman is warm, smiley, and loves to give hugs and kisses on the cheeks. She also likes to steal everyone else's juice. I like her - she brings a bit of sunshine to the place. Another one of the women never opens her eyes, but I think she's more aware than people could make her out to be. She's super easy to feed (ie - she lets me feed her without pushing me away), but her body is always shaking and quivering, so I've been known to drop food on her -- after all people, I am NOT a professional.
One day, I was knitting, and one of my favourite, quiet ladies was sitting there, very slowly moving her hands as though she too was knitting. I was just a beginner at the time, and I'm convinced there was a former-knitter side of her trying to show me what the hell I kept doing wrong. Which was a lot. I was probably butchering that piece in front of her poor, experienced eyes! At the time I remember desperately wishing she could speak so I could ask her how to K2Tog. Lastly, there's the Portuguese lady who speaks (apparently gibberish English mixed with) Portuguese, but went into overdrive when she saw the tattoo of a sacred heart on my leg. She kept touching it and putting her hands in the prayer position.
Speaking of Christ (how's that for a segue?)-- one downside to the care home is that around this time of year, it's all Christmas tunes, all the time. I keep envisioning my mother: quiet, kind demeanor on the outside, inwardly screaming for someone to turn off the fucking Mariah Carey "Santa Baby" that was playing for I'm sure the fortieth time that day.
I like to visit at dinnertime (4:30. Kinda brings new meaning to "Early Bird Special"). It gives me something to do whilst talking to Mum, which makes things feel a bit more two-sided. I also generally feed the person on the other side of Mum at the same time, because they only have two care attendants, and dinner can be a bit of a production; Between the juice-bandit, the woman who LOVES to tip over any cup you give her (generally into her mashed potatoes) and my mother, who is always, always, the last person to finish. Actually, my mother was always the last person at the table to finish her meal, so I think some things never change.
This evening was a treat - Quesadillas! Rather, pureed quesadilla innards (and pureed three bean and corn salad) for the chokers and those with no teeth, and a non-pureed meal for my mother, who still has all her teeth and the ability to chew and swallow. That's one of the last functions people with Alzheimers will lose. Mum's kind of in between, so usually Mum's meal will be whole-ish food, covered in either gravy, or soup, to soften it up. For the record, if I get older and unable to feed myself, please pour gravy or cheese sauce over everything I eat. I would like to go out fat and happy. Since there was no gravy or soup, Mum and I had to muddle through whole food, which took about an hour, and involved me making a complete mess of her.
That's the only thing I don't like about feeding Mum... when she has food on her mouth and down her front, it reminds me of the lack of dignity in disease and dying. You know how we get embarassed if we're around people and find out there was a big chunk of spinach in our teeth? Or maybe half our lunch staining the front of our shirt? Well, imagine if you couldn't control that, or everyone saw it, but you didn't realize it. I always make sure before I go that Mum has a wiped clean face and no corn kernels in her lap.
I feel like this may be an opportunity to kind of cover the whole "mother has Alzheimers", "I used to take care of her", "she's really damned young" and "wow. that must be really hard" aspect of things. Mostly because I would like to be able to write about other experiences that may need a little pre-explaining.
Alzheimers. Well, there's a bitch of a disease. First you lose memory function, then the ability to do tasks, speak, and so on, until you're left with instinctive functioning like taking in food fed to you and excreting. It is, quite literally, the only disease that kind of... anti-ages a person. It's all very Benjamin Button, only without the heartwarming bits. The person is left in baby form - can't walk, talk - just eating and pooping. Sorry to be blunt, but life is rather blunt, isn't it?
Fun fact - of the diagnosed Alzheimers "cases" (read: PEOPLE) out there, 95% have Alzheimers, and 5% have "Early Onset Alzheimers (EOA)" - which is defined by its distinctive genes, and the fact that it hits people before the age of 65. It has been generally assumed that Mum has EOA, as she showed symptoms from 55 onward, and went downhill quite rapidly, which is not generally the case with "regular" Alzheimers. Here's the wrinkle. EOA is highly, HIGHLY genetic. 50% of offspring will get it. Other parent not a factor... 50% of the offspring WILL inherit the disease. Soooo what. Do my sister and I flip a coin?
For the record, the worst part of all this is *no one told me* this fact. I had to learn it from a damned episode of Grey's Anatomy. You know - Merideth and her Mum... Derek desperately trying to find a cure, yada yada yada, wank wank wank. Yeah. Where's MY fucking Derek?
I feel as though I'm getting off topic here. I did freak out and call my sister, who has a PhD in the sciences therefore she's my on-call Bill Nye. And basically my best friend and twin, though we are five years apart. She assured me that because Mum didn't *appear* to inherit the disease, that we should be okay in regards to the 50% inheritance rate, but that she did, as well as me, think about the genetic testing that tells you whether or not you carry the gene. We both nixed that idea immediately. Her words were comforting, though I, and I know my sister, can't help but think about the contradiction. It's either regular 95% of the time Alzheimers and Mum has some rare, undiscovered form, or she has EOA which fits the profile, and she was just... the first one in the line to get it. After all, even inherited diseases have to start somewhere, don't they?
I'd just like to pause here for a moment and say: WELCOME TO MY HEAD.
So that's the Alzheimers story. i guess the reason I wanted to blurt it all out (besides the fact that I like to think that if I did, maybe I'd stop thinking about it as much) is because I would like to address some time the idea of Caregiver Burnout. A very real occurence that I think explains a lot in our society.
Well! Woosh! That was a long rant! I think I'm going to make a drink and watch an episode of "Intervention", that should lift my spirits...
(PS - That was sarcasm)
Thanks for reading - to whoever may have actually made it through this tedious diatribe. For the record, I always wanted to write something that made me sound smart - like the phrase "tedious diatribe". Now I just feel pretentious. And kinda dirty.
Lots of Love out there to you -- PS
Well, energized by my very first supporters (and my first comment - shout out to Bethy!!) I had a fairly productive day. One, it was sunny, which helped a lot. Two, I started the day off with a long walk, which helped as well. Did some grocery shopping, a little cooking for the next few meals. I then decided to give my Mum a visit, as I haven't seen her in about a week.
A few things about my Mum. Well, despite the fact that she's always been an amazing mother... also kind, articulate, and gorgeous. My Mum has early-onset Alzheimers, and lives in a care facility. I did make mention of this a few posts ago, as those of you who have read on may know. Mum was diagnosed around ten years ago, at age 55. I moved in and lived with her / cared for her until about five years ago, when she moved to the place where she is now. I love the care home in which she lives - the staff are wonderful, she gets great care, and she appears to like it there. I love visiting her. I know! It seems really depressing, and yes, the *idea* of her being sick is depressing, but good public care homes can be pretty fun places in which to hang. It helps that these days, it feels to be juuuust about my pace. Mum lives on the unit with about seven other ladies - the eight of them are in the last "stages" of Alzheimers, meaning they generally can't feed themselves, chew food, walk, talk, nor any other care you could imagine. They are... trapped inside their minds, and because their minds control their bodies, their bodies slowly go as well.
Sounds sad, yes. Is sad, yes. But these women are just as alive as anyone walking around these streets. The newest member lives with Downs Syndrome *and* Early Onset Alzheimers, which I naively had never thought possible. Why? I'd never seen it. That realization was a lesson for me, actually. Just because i haven't seen it doesn't mean it doesn't exist! Yes... Life Basics 101. Anyhoo. The only explanation I have for this woman's situation? Shitty fucking luck. Seriously. This woman is warm, smiley, and loves to give hugs and kisses on the cheeks. She also likes to steal everyone else's juice. I like her - she brings a bit of sunshine to the place. Another one of the women never opens her eyes, but I think she's more aware than people could make her out to be. She's super easy to feed (ie - she lets me feed her without pushing me away), but her body is always shaking and quivering, so I've been known to drop food on her -- after all people, I am NOT a professional.
One day, I was knitting, and one of my favourite, quiet ladies was sitting there, very slowly moving her hands as though she too was knitting. I was just a beginner at the time, and I'm convinced there was a former-knitter side of her trying to show me what the hell I kept doing wrong. Which was a lot. I was probably butchering that piece in front of her poor, experienced eyes! At the time I remember desperately wishing she could speak so I could ask her how to K2Tog. Lastly, there's the Portuguese lady who speaks (apparently gibberish English mixed with) Portuguese, but went into overdrive when she saw the tattoo of a sacred heart on my leg. She kept touching it and putting her hands in the prayer position.
Speaking of Christ (how's that for a segue?)-- one downside to the care home is that around this time of year, it's all Christmas tunes, all the time. I keep envisioning my mother: quiet, kind demeanor on the outside, inwardly screaming for someone to turn off the fucking Mariah Carey "Santa Baby" that was playing for I'm sure the fortieth time that day.
I like to visit at dinnertime (4:30. Kinda brings new meaning to "Early Bird Special"). It gives me something to do whilst talking to Mum, which makes things feel a bit more two-sided. I also generally feed the person on the other side of Mum at the same time, because they only have two care attendants, and dinner can be a bit of a production; Between the juice-bandit, the woman who LOVES to tip over any cup you give her (generally into her mashed potatoes) and my mother, who is always, always, the last person to finish. Actually, my mother was always the last person at the table to finish her meal, so I think some things never change.
This evening was a treat - Quesadillas! Rather, pureed quesadilla innards (and pureed three bean and corn salad) for the chokers and those with no teeth, and a non-pureed meal for my mother, who still has all her teeth and the ability to chew and swallow. That's one of the last functions people with Alzheimers will lose. Mum's kind of in between, so usually Mum's meal will be whole-ish food, covered in either gravy, or soup, to soften it up. For the record, if I get older and unable to feed myself, please pour gravy or cheese sauce over everything I eat. I would like to go out fat and happy. Since there was no gravy or soup, Mum and I had to muddle through whole food, which took about an hour, and involved me making a complete mess of her.
That's the only thing I don't like about feeding Mum... when she has food on her mouth and down her front, it reminds me of the lack of dignity in disease and dying. You know how we get embarassed if we're around people and find out there was a big chunk of spinach in our teeth? Or maybe half our lunch staining the front of our shirt? Well, imagine if you couldn't control that, or everyone saw it, but you didn't realize it. I always make sure before I go that Mum has a wiped clean face and no corn kernels in her lap.
I feel like this may be an opportunity to kind of cover the whole "mother has Alzheimers", "I used to take care of her", "she's really damned young" and "wow. that must be really hard" aspect of things. Mostly because I would like to be able to write about other experiences that may need a little pre-explaining.
Alzheimers. Well, there's a bitch of a disease. First you lose memory function, then the ability to do tasks, speak, and so on, until you're left with instinctive functioning like taking in food fed to you and excreting. It is, quite literally, the only disease that kind of... anti-ages a person. It's all very Benjamin Button, only without the heartwarming bits. The person is left in baby form - can't walk, talk - just eating and pooping. Sorry to be blunt, but life is rather blunt, isn't it?
Fun fact - of the diagnosed Alzheimers "cases" (read: PEOPLE) out there, 95% have Alzheimers, and 5% have "Early Onset Alzheimers (EOA)" - which is defined by its distinctive genes, and the fact that it hits people before the age of 65. It has been generally assumed that Mum has EOA, as she showed symptoms from 55 onward, and went downhill quite rapidly, which is not generally the case with "regular" Alzheimers. Here's the wrinkle. EOA is highly, HIGHLY genetic. 50% of offspring will get it. Other parent not a factor... 50% of the offspring WILL inherit the disease. Soooo what. Do my sister and I flip a coin?
For the record, the worst part of all this is *no one told me* this fact. I had to learn it from a damned episode of Grey's Anatomy. You know - Merideth and her Mum... Derek desperately trying to find a cure, yada yada yada, wank wank wank. Yeah. Where's MY fucking Derek?
I feel as though I'm getting off topic here. I did freak out and call my sister, who has a PhD in the sciences therefore she's my on-call Bill Nye. And basically my best friend and twin, though we are five years apart. She assured me that because Mum didn't *appear* to inherit the disease, that we should be okay in regards to the 50% inheritance rate, but that she did, as well as me, think about the genetic testing that tells you whether or not you carry the gene. We both nixed that idea immediately. Her words were comforting, though I, and I know my sister, can't help but think about the contradiction. It's either regular 95% of the time Alzheimers and Mum has some rare, undiscovered form, or she has EOA which fits the profile, and she was just... the first one in the line to get it. After all, even inherited diseases have to start somewhere, don't they?
I'd just like to pause here for a moment and say: WELCOME TO MY HEAD.
So that's the Alzheimers story. i guess the reason I wanted to blurt it all out (besides the fact that I like to think that if I did, maybe I'd stop thinking about it as much) is because I would like to address some time the idea of Caregiver Burnout. A very real occurence that I think explains a lot in our society.
Well! Woosh! That was a long rant! I think I'm going to make a drink and watch an episode of "Intervention", that should lift my spirits...
(PS - That was sarcasm)
Thanks for reading - to whoever may have actually made it through this tedious diatribe. For the record, I always wanted to write something that made me sound smart - like the phrase "tedious diatribe". Now I just feel pretentious. And kinda dirty.
Lots of Love out there to you -- PS
William Tell Overature (and other stuff.)
Hello Readers!! *happy bum-wiggle pyjama dance* Readers!!
How can one feel dreary when the sun is out and the William Tell Overature is playing on CBC Tempo? Any of you CBC geeks like listening on Friday mornings? I'm a big fan of Friday's "music that rocked my world" because it inevitably includes the more inspirational classical tunes. If I listen long enough, I'm bound to hear cannons, and who doesn't love music with cannons? (embarassing fact: I wrote my story behind the music that rocks my world and sent it in about a year ago, and it got PLAYED! *adjusts her nerd glasses*)
I managed to get up around 10:00, which is fairly good for me, considering I don't sleep between the hours of 1:00 am and 6:00 am. Those hours are saved for restless random dreams and intermittent reading/pug cuddling/eating/music listening. I like cuddling with my dog in these hours because she's SO asleep that I can stick my finger in her mouth, pull her tail, roll her over and pick her up by all her legs and she is completely pliable. One of these days I'm going to muster up the energy to brush her teeth at 4:00 in the morning - the only time I believe it could be done.
So. I woke up this morning to... 158 page views! Woah Nelly!! Hence the happy bum-wiggle dance. Now, keep in mind that half of those are me, since I *still* can't figure out how to get from my blog main page to the button that lets me write a new post. I feel like I'm the rat that didn't develop a response to Pavlov. But I digress, and feel I should explain the recent blog-related developments.
With two cocktails in my system and a feeling of creative recklessness, last night I decided to put my blog up on my Facebook page. I had been wavering for a while, and ultimately I was against the idea. I don't know why. I guess I liked the idea of sharing my story anonymously but as it turns out, being anonymous kinda means that no one knows you and therefore doesn't bother to read what you say. Funny, I hadn't really thought of that wrinkle in the plan. I knew that posting this on Facebook would mean that people who access my account would read about some of the more private (and quite embarassing) aspects of my life. So I created a compromise. I went through my Facebook page and cleaned up. I hacked through my Friends list and kept those near and dear, and some who may not be so near, but who I certainly respect in one form or another. After that, I felt a bit safer sharing this with my newly limited world.
I have received nothing but positive support, words of kindness and love, and praise, for what I have written so far. Thank-you to those who reached out and made me feel like maybe I made the right decision by sharing this. For the record, I have always felt like I share WAY too much information in all aspects of my life. Like there's people out there who often think "does this woman have no sense of privacy? Or dignity for that matter??" Yeah, apparently not. The thing is, I know the stigma is out there, but I honestly don't understand the stigma around a clinical depression and anxiety diagnosis - not in my life, anyways. I'm priviledged to have the support of people who understand that mental illness (for lack of a better term) is just shit that happens. That's it - shit happens. For me, it's always been in my life, it's my experience, and it's always been in my work -- it's all around me. It's normal. That's why it feels normal to talk about it as though I was talking to friends about that bad cold I had last week, or the story behind how I broke my leg on a ski trip.
To summarize, I feel inspired, and maybe even a little energized. Something I haven't felt in a while, actually. I will continue to write as though no one is reading... I will continue to share the truths of my experiences - the good, the bad, and indeed - the UGLY.
Thanks Funseekers!
PS
How can one feel dreary when the sun is out and the William Tell Overature is playing on CBC Tempo? Any of you CBC geeks like listening on Friday mornings? I'm a big fan of Friday's "music that rocked my world" because it inevitably includes the more inspirational classical tunes. If I listen long enough, I'm bound to hear cannons, and who doesn't love music with cannons? (embarassing fact: I wrote my story behind the music that rocks my world and sent it in about a year ago, and it got PLAYED! *adjusts her nerd glasses*)
I managed to get up around 10:00, which is fairly good for me, considering I don't sleep between the hours of 1:00 am and 6:00 am. Those hours are saved for restless random dreams and intermittent reading/pug cuddling/eating/music listening. I like cuddling with my dog in these hours because she's SO asleep that I can stick my finger in her mouth, pull her tail, roll her over and pick her up by all her legs and she is completely pliable. One of these days I'm going to muster up the energy to brush her teeth at 4:00 in the morning - the only time I believe it could be done.
So. I woke up this morning to... 158 page views! Woah Nelly!! Hence the happy bum-wiggle dance. Now, keep in mind that half of those are me, since I *still* can't figure out how to get from my blog main page to the button that lets me write a new post. I feel like I'm the rat that didn't develop a response to Pavlov. But I digress, and feel I should explain the recent blog-related developments.
With two cocktails in my system and a feeling of creative recklessness, last night I decided to put my blog up on my Facebook page. I had been wavering for a while, and ultimately I was against the idea. I don't know why. I guess I liked the idea of sharing my story anonymously but as it turns out, being anonymous kinda means that no one knows you and therefore doesn't bother to read what you say. Funny, I hadn't really thought of that wrinkle in the plan. I knew that posting this on Facebook would mean that people who access my account would read about some of the more private (and quite embarassing) aspects of my life. So I created a compromise. I went through my Facebook page and cleaned up. I hacked through my Friends list and kept those near and dear, and some who may not be so near, but who I certainly respect in one form or another. After that, I felt a bit safer sharing this with my newly limited world.
I have received nothing but positive support, words of kindness and love, and praise, for what I have written so far. Thank-you to those who reached out and made me feel like maybe I made the right decision by sharing this. For the record, I have always felt like I share WAY too much information in all aspects of my life. Like there's people out there who often think "does this woman have no sense of privacy? Or dignity for that matter??" Yeah, apparently not. The thing is, I know the stigma is out there, but I honestly don't understand the stigma around a clinical depression and anxiety diagnosis - not in my life, anyways. I'm priviledged to have the support of people who understand that mental illness (for lack of a better term) is just shit that happens. That's it - shit happens. For me, it's always been in my life, it's my experience, and it's always been in my work -- it's all around me. It's normal. That's why it feels normal to talk about it as though I was talking to friends about that bad cold I had last week, or the story behind how I broke my leg on a ski trip.
To summarize, I feel inspired, and maybe even a little energized. Something I haven't felt in a while, actually. I will continue to write as though no one is reading... I will continue to share the truths of my experiences - the good, the bad, and indeed - the UGLY.
Thanks Funseekers!
PS
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Pulled from the archive.
I found something I wrote before I created a blog - something that made me want to write more. If I could go back, this would have been my first blog entry.
I walked towards the building with no expectations, no hope. I was a wrung-out dishcloth of sadness, an exhausted shell of apathy and, let’s face it, self-pity. Despite my Ativan haze, I suddenly saw my experience through someone else’s eyes – the eyes of my clients. I wondered if they entered my workplace with the same feeling, the same sadness, same exhaustion. Of course, the irony hadn’t escaped me. Earlier that day I had sent my sister an email asking her if she too saw anything inherently wrong about a youth mental health and addictions counsellor going to an assessment by an adult mental health and addictions counsellor, and then returning to work for the afternoon. I had been assured by the soft-spoken intake worker on the telephone that my identity would be kept hidden – that my file would hold a number and not a name. That there would be no different treatment despite the fact that our offices worked in tandem to treat all my fellow wrung-out dishcloths in our community – young and old.
There was a group of men standing outside the adjoining building. Withdrawal Management, or adult detox. Sucking back their last comfort before continuing on a path of detoxification of illicit substances and some not-so-illicit substances. I had just finished my cigarette in my car, a reliable tan sedan that I had recently inherited after my Grandpa’s death. Every time I lit up in his car I felt a sense of child-like shame, the same feeling one might get after stealing two dollars from her mother’s purse. My Grandpa, a gentle and supportive man, hadn’t known I was a smoker, and the guilt I felt continuing to smoke after my Nanny’s fatal bout of lung cancer 15 years earlier had never really escaped me. These days however, I was of the, “do what you have to do to get through” mentality, and because smoking got me through this appointment, this workday, this evening, I was buying my ultra milds in cartons.
I entered the building and smiled at the only other person in the waiting room, a well-adjusted looking woman in her thirties. I wondered, with the usual nosey judgement, what was “wrong” with her. At least she looked as though she had combed her hair that day. I felt suddenly shabby and poorly dressed. She caught me looking at her and I diverted my eyes as if to say, “yup. Not my business.”
“---?” I was approached by a young woman with kind eyes and a funky business-wear outfit.
I got up and followed her through what she described as the “maze”. The building, I was told (though I already knew the story) used to be the youth custody center, with an adjoining youth court. As a result, the building was your standard institutional brick, though paintings and wall mountings had been hung as if to say that yes, youth were locked up here, but now this is a place of healing and rehabilitation. I wasn’t quite convinced. The woman, who I was soon to learn would be my therapist for the duration, led me into a room where I was offered a comfortable chair and an introduction to my psychiatrist, an intellectually styled woman with salt and pepper hair. Perhaps I was feeling particularly vulnerable, but I instantly liked these women, and wondered if they would be the key to my wellness. Whatever that would look like. Once again I mentally zipped back to my own office, my own work space. I realized how important my first impression was on the youth who I was working with. Did they get that same supported feeling? Did they too, look at me and think, as naively as I had, that perhaps I was the key to their wellness? The thought scared the shit out of me, and I pulled myself back to my own present situation.
The two women looked at me intently, waiting for me start. I didn’t.
“This is Linda,” Salt and Pepper pointed at the therapist, “and I’m Dr. Stewart. Thank-you so much for joining us today. We’ve read your file, but really, we want to hear why you have come here today, and we want to know that the two of us are here to support you completely. It looks like you’ve been having a hard time.”
That was it, I was in. These women had achieved the heralded “therapeutic alliance” that I had spent years trying to achieve in my own office, my own work, with each youth. I felt slightly cheap as I realized that they had my respect and trust after two minutes – usually my youth put up more of a fight and I wondered where that fight in me had gone. They had spoken the words I had needed to hear throughout my life. The black hole of hopelessness I had been feeling had been acknowledged in those words, and I reacted with my dreaded default emotion. I burst into tears, and didn’t stop crying for the two hour duration of the assessment.
I felt like such a cliché.
I walked towards the building with no expectations, no hope. I was a wrung-out dishcloth of sadness, an exhausted shell of apathy and, let’s face it, self-pity. Despite my Ativan haze, I suddenly saw my experience through someone else’s eyes – the eyes of my clients. I wondered if they entered my workplace with the same feeling, the same sadness, same exhaustion. Of course, the irony hadn’t escaped me. Earlier that day I had sent my sister an email asking her if she too saw anything inherently wrong about a youth mental health and addictions counsellor going to an assessment by an adult mental health and addictions counsellor, and then returning to work for the afternoon. I had been assured by the soft-spoken intake worker on the telephone that my identity would be kept hidden – that my file would hold a number and not a name. That there would be no different treatment despite the fact that our offices worked in tandem to treat all my fellow wrung-out dishcloths in our community – young and old.
There was a group of men standing outside the adjoining building. Withdrawal Management, or adult detox. Sucking back their last comfort before continuing on a path of detoxification of illicit substances and some not-so-illicit substances. I had just finished my cigarette in my car, a reliable tan sedan that I had recently inherited after my Grandpa’s death. Every time I lit up in his car I felt a sense of child-like shame, the same feeling one might get after stealing two dollars from her mother’s purse. My Grandpa, a gentle and supportive man, hadn’t known I was a smoker, and the guilt I felt continuing to smoke after my Nanny’s fatal bout of lung cancer 15 years earlier had never really escaped me. These days however, I was of the, “do what you have to do to get through” mentality, and because smoking got me through this appointment, this workday, this evening, I was buying my ultra milds in cartons.
I entered the building and smiled at the only other person in the waiting room, a well-adjusted looking woman in her thirties. I wondered, with the usual nosey judgement, what was “wrong” with her. At least she looked as though she had combed her hair that day. I felt suddenly shabby and poorly dressed. She caught me looking at her and I diverted my eyes as if to say, “yup. Not my business.”
“---?” I was approached by a young woman with kind eyes and a funky business-wear outfit.
I got up and followed her through what she described as the “maze”. The building, I was told (though I already knew the story) used to be the youth custody center, with an adjoining youth court. As a result, the building was your standard institutional brick, though paintings and wall mountings had been hung as if to say that yes, youth were locked up here, but now this is a place of healing and rehabilitation. I wasn’t quite convinced. The woman, who I was soon to learn would be my therapist for the duration, led me into a room where I was offered a comfortable chair and an introduction to my psychiatrist, an intellectually styled woman with salt and pepper hair. Perhaps I was feeling particularly vulnerable, but I instantly liked these women, and wondered if they would be the key to my wellness. Whatever that would look like. Once again I mentally zipped back to my own office, my own work space. I realized how important my first impression was on the youth who I was working with. Did they get that same supported feeling? Did they too, look at me and think, as naively as I had, that perhaps I was the key to their wellness? The thought scared the shit out of me, and I pulled myself back to my own present situation.
The two women looked at me intently, waiting for me start. I didn’t.
“This is Linda,” Salt and Pepper pointed at the therapist, “and I’m Dr. Stewart. Thank-you so much for joining us today. We’ve read your file, but really, we want to hear why you have come here today, and we want to know that the two of us are here to support you completely. It looks like you’ve been having a hard time.”
That was it, I was in. These women had achieved the heralded “therapeutic alliance” that I had spent years trying to achieve in my own office, my own work, with each youth. I felt slightly cheap as I realized that they had my respect and trust after two minutes – usually my youth put up more of a fight and I wondered where that fight in me had gone. They had spoken the words I had needed to hear throughout my life. The black hole of hopelessness I had been feeling had been acknowledged in those words, and I reacted with my dreaded default emotion. I burst into tears, and didn’t stop crying for the two hour duration of the assessment.
I felt like such a cliché.
Gumboot wearing, alpaca farming fromagier.
Well hey there readers! Haha. See how it was like I was pretending I had readers? That joke never gets old.
Well, it's 6:30 pm on a Thursday night. I seem to have myself prepared for the night ahead - already in my pyjamas (plaid bottoms and a NIN "With Teeth" tour t-shirt), I have "The Truth About Cats and Dogs" cued up on my laptop, drink not yet made, but after this, and some fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. And my knitting. I'm like an MC Escher painting of cliches -- a cliche within a cliche within a cliche.
Not much on my plate today - the low point would have been when we were doing deep breathing exercises in group therapy and I had to unbutton my jeans under the table because I couldn't manage to do "belly breathing" within the confines of my "fat pants." Definitely sweatpants on Monday. I felt so insecure that I came home and emailed an aquaintence who does minor fashion photography, seeing if he ever needs an "alternative" (tattooed, partially shaved head) model. He said that he would keep me in mind, based on past experience of being an amateur model and burlesque dancer. Amateur model screams "NAKED" to me, but most of it actually wasn't!
High point of my day? Hard to say... perhaps now. I feel so bland about everything that I do, that it's difficult to find a high point per say. Definitely NOT the two emails from two seperate ex-boyfriends. Definitely not that.
Weekly update? I quit my job. Yes indeedy! When I return to work in February, I will be looking for something outside of the clinical counselling field. I celebrated my first day of unemployment in style, by bouncing a $550 cheque, and receiving a letter increasing my rent. I feel like a true, unemployed hooligan. Now, I was figuring I would go into something in the area of street outreach, but upon further consideration, I'm wondering. Why limit myself?? In celebration of my newfound freedom, I have comprised a list of occupations that perhaps I will pursue. Take a gander - what do you think?
1. Fromagier. It's a fancy French word for someone who sells and knows all about, you got it - CHEESE. I actually have a friend who was a fromagier, and it was quite a lucrative position. The only downside is that she actually had to eat some of those cheeses that you mistake (sight AND smell) for a pile of dog vomit you'd avoid in the park. I came up with this idea as I unwrapped a block of cheese before climbing in the shower and actually bit a piece off before returning it to the fridge.
2. Kareoke Video Star. I've been keen on this one for ages. You know how they can't use real music videos for kareoke, so all videos star one man and one woman in various situations - on a swing in the park, washing a car (and having a playful game of throwing sponges at one another), a restaurant intimate dinner, and so on. I want to be that uninteresting, forgettable face of kareoke!!
3. Alpaca farmer. Now, originally I wanted this profession because it meant I could live on a small gulf island, wear gumboots, drive without a seatbelt, and sell my alpacas' shit to gardeners for a FORTUNE. (seriously... fortune). Now that I am a knitter, however, the possibilities are endless! I can spin and knit their wool. And am I mistaken, or do alpacas produce milk? I'm thinking I can somehow work cheese into this situation, as well.
4. Writer. Hmm, wait. I can't even get people to read my blog for free. Scratch that.
5. Personal organizer. Ahh yes. Now, seeing as I scored fairly high on the OCD scale whilst having my psychiatric evaluation, this one has my name all over it. My ex used to tease me by putting one thing in my apartment out of place before leaving. I would return, and find, for example, the places switched of two of my snow globes, the coffee table moved one inch outward from the couch (I noticed that immediately) and the books on the table NOT at a perfect ninety degree angle. My idea of a fun day is cleaning and organizing my refrigerator. Nuff said.
6. Last but not least, professional Medical EI collector, knitter, bad television watcher, casserole making, group attending NUTJOB!
... well, one out of six ain't bad!
xoxo-PS
Well, it's 6:30 pm on a Thursday night. I seem to have myself prepared for the night ahead - already in my pyjamas (plaid bottoms and a NIN "With Teeth" tour t-shirt), I have "The Truth About Cats and Dogs" cued up on my laptop, drink not yet made, but after this, and some fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. And my knitting. I'm like an MC Escher painting of cliches -- a cliche within a cliche within a cliche.
Not much on my plate today - the low point would have been when we were doing deep breathing exercises in group therapy and I had to unbutton my jeans under the table because I couldn't manage to do "belly breathing" within the confines of my "fat pants." Definitely sweatpants on Monday. I felt so insecure that I came home and emailed an aquaintence who does minor fashion photography, seeing if he ever needs an "alternative" (tattooed, partially shaved head) model. He said that he would keep me in mind, based on past experience of being an amateur model and burlesque dancer. Amateur model screams "NAKED" to me, but most of it actually wasn't!
High point of my day? Hard to say... perhaps now. I feel so bland about everything that I do, that it's difficult to find a high point per say. Definitely NOT the two emails from two seperate ex-boyfriends. Definitely not that.
Weekly update? I quit my job. Yes indeedy! When I return to work in February, I will be looking for something outside of the clinical counselling field. I celebrated my first day of unemployment in style, by bouncing a $550 cheque, and receiving a letter increasing my rent. I feel like a true, unemployed hooligan. Now, I was figuring I would go into something in the area of street outreach, but upon further consideration, I'm wondering. Why limit myself?? In celebration of my newfound freedom, I have comprised a list of occupations that perhaps I will pursue. Take a gander - what do you think?
1. Fromagier. It's a fancy French word for someone who sells and knows all about, you got it - CHEESE. I actually have a friend who was a fromagier, and it was quite a lucrative position. The only downside is that she actually had to eat some of those cheeses that you mistake (sight AND smell) for a pile of dog vomit you'd avoid in the park. I came up with this idea as I unwrapped a block of cheese before climbing in the shower and actually bit a piece off before returning it to the fridge.
2. Kareoke Video Star. I've been keen on this one for ages. You know how they can't use real music videos for kareoke, so all videos star one man and one woman in various situations - on a swing in the park, washing a car (and having a playful game of throwing sponges at one another), a restaurant intimate dinner, and so on. I want to be that uninteresting, forgettable face of kareoke!!
3. Alpaca farmer. Now, originally I wanted this profession because it meant I could live on a small gulf island, wear gumboots, drive without a seatbelt, and sell my alpacas' shit to gardeners for a FORTUNE. (seriously... fortune). Now that I am a knitter, however, the possibilities are endless! I can spin and knit their wool. And am I mistaken, or do alpacas produce milk? I'm thinking I can somehow work cheese into this situation, as well.
4. Writer. Hmm, wait. I can't even get people to read my blog for free. Scratch that.
5. Personal organizer. Ahh yes. Now, seeing as I scored fairly high on the OCD scale whilst having my psychiatric evaluation, this one has my name all over it. My ex used to tease me by putting one thing in my apartment out of place before leaving. I would return, and find, for example, the places switched of two of my snow globes, the coffee table moved one inch outward from the couch (I noticed that immediately) and the books on the table NOT at a perfect ninety degree angle. My idea of a fun day is cleaning and organizing my refrigerator. Nuff said.
6. Last but not least, professional Medical EI collector, knitter, bad television watcher, casserole making, group attending NUTJOB!
... well, one out of six ain't bad!
xoxo-PS
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Putting on the fat pants.
Hey there,
I haven't felt very inspired to write lately since, well, no one reads this. On the other hand, that's not what this is about. What did I expect? That my words would be wisdom to someone else?
I've been going to group therapy and doing my "homework" like a good girl. I'm starting to hate not working. You know those stories you read about actors who get a movie part where they have to gain forty pounds and they wind up sitting around eating ice cream and butter? Yeah, well, I'm there. I just made my second macaroni and cheese casserole of the week. I bought a pair of pants at the thrift store a month ago because I wasn't fitting into my (albeit SKINNY) jeans. Now I barely fit in the new pants. This is keeping in mind that I actually exercise regularly, and have never been above 120 pounds in my life. I can actually feel my stomach shaking as I walk. Although, I can't complain about this to any of my girl friends, because they'd just get pissed that I'm "so skinny" and have nothing to complain about. I don't, image wise, but it doesn't change the fact that I feel like I'm carrying around 20 pounds of unnatural weight for ME.
I actually can't believe I just wrote a paragraph about feeling fat. WHO HAVE I BECOME??? Ugh, shoot me.
I think I just don't have enough to do. I just eat, sleep, and have terrible nightmares (they're BAAAA-AAAACK.) Maybe it's the meds, maybe it's my head. Regardless, night-time is no fun any more.
On a gross note, part of the dreams I had last night (the less disturbing part, believe it or not) was about me getting my THIGHS pierced. I used to work as a body piercer, and I also have many piercings, but this was a bit much. I dreamt that my mother (who was trying to kill me and had no pupils) and I went to a mall and ended up in some super pagan ritual where I got an 8 guage needle pierced through each inner thight. I had a chain attached to the two needles. I remember asking: "How am I supposed to wear pants??" and someone responded, "you don't. You wear a skirt." The feminist in me is itching to analyse the whole "thighs chained together, can't wear anything but a skirt" situation, but I digress.
Fast forward to my dance lesson. In the old studio I went to when I was eight. I realized immediately that I couldn't dance with my thighs chained together, and entered a porta-potty which was something out of "The worst toilet in Scotland" from Trainspotting. There was shit particles everythere, and the sink was full of shit as I attempted to wash my hands around it so I could remove these GIANT needles. The last part of the dream was me putting a hot soaked ball of TP over the piercing, and pulling out each needle. I can handle a lotta gore, but this dream was heinous. On a funny note, I think that despite the fact that this was not the part of my dreams that I would have classified as a "nightmare", that an ex-piercer's TRUE nightmare would be removing fresh piercings in a shit-coated porta potty. Just saying.
Hopefully I will be able to sleep tonight without being haunted by the pupil-less relatives who are trying to slaughter me.
xoxo-
PS
I haven't felt very inspired to write lately since, well, no one reads this. On the other hand, that's not what this is about. What did I expect? That my words would be wisdom to someone else?
I've been going to group therapy and doing my "homework" like a good girl. I'm starting to hate not working. You know those stories you read about actors who get a movie part where they have to gain forty pounds and they wind up sitting around eating ice cream and butter? Yeah, well, I'm there. I just made my second macaroni and cheese casserole of the week. I bought a pair of pants at the thrift store a month ago because I wasn't fitting into my (albeit SKINNY) jeans. Now I barely fit in the new pants. This is keeping in mind that I actually exercise regularly, and have never been above 120 pounds in my life. I can actually feel my stomach shaking as I walk. Although, I can't complain about this to any of my girl friends, because they'd just get pissed that I'm "so skinny" and have nothing to complain about. I don't, image wise, but it doesn't change the fact that I feel like I'm carrying around 20 pounds of unnatural weight for ME.
I actually can't believe I just wrote a paragraph about feeling fat. WHO HAVE I BECOME??? Ugh, shoot me.
I think I just don't have enough to do. I just eat, sleep, and have terrible nightmares (they're BAAAA-AAAACK.) Maybe it's the meds, maybe it's my head. Regardless, night-time is no fun any more.
On a gross note, part of the dreams I had last night (the less disturbing part, believe it or not) was about me getting my THIGHS pierced. I used to work as a body piercer, and I also have many piercings, but this was a bit much. I dreamt that my mother (who was trying to kill me and had no pupils) and I went to a mall and ended up in some super pagan ritual where I got an 8 guage needle pierced through each inner thight. I had a chain attached to the two needles. I remember asking: "How am I supposed to wear pants??" and someone responded, "you don't. You wear a skirt." The feminist in me is itching to analyse the whole "thighs chained together, can't wear anything but a skirt" situation, but I digress.
Fast forward to my dance lesson. In the old studio I went to when I was eight. I realized immediately that I couldn't dance with my thighs chained together, and entered a porta-potty which was something out of "The worst toilet in Scotland" from Trainspotting. There was shit particles everythere, and the sink was full of shit as I attempted to wash my hands around it so I could remove these GIANT needles. The last part of the dream was me putting a hot soaked ball of TP over the piercing, and pulling out each needle. I can handle a lotta gore, but this dream was heinous. On a funny note, I think that despite the fact that this was not the part of my dreams that I would have classified as a "nightmare", that an ex-piercer's TRUE nightmare would be removing fresh piercings in a shit-coated porta potty. Just saying.
Hopefully I will be able to sleep tonight without being haunted by the pupil-less relatives who are trying to slaughter me.
xoxo-
PS
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Hello to... you.
Hello to you, you who is reading this,
I'm not a computer savvy person. I don't know how my computer works, and I don't know how cyberspace works, exactly. I took a computer science class that was required to complete my Bachelor in Social Work, but otherwise (unless you count osmosis through dating two computer engineers), I'm pretty helpless at this whole internet thing.
I'm going to move away from the whole mental health thing for a moment, and talk about Alzheimers. Haha - bet you thought I was going to throw something uplifrting out there! Yeah, no.
My mother has Alzheimers, and if you check my age (31) that's pretty young. She's only 65 now, and started getting sick at 55. That means she lives with Early-Onset Alzheimers. She doesn't appear to understand what I'm saying any more, nor does she appear to know who I am. She lost the ability to speak about 8 years ago, so I can't ask her.
This is the thing. What if there's another way of reaching her brain? She's off in another mental world. She's not dead, so it's not the after-life (Heaven, reincarnation, what-have-you). She's not here, though, either. And all those stupid movies like the fucking "Notebook" that imply that she comes into reality now and then is bullshit. It doesn't fucking happen. And if it does, you have no way of knowing cause she can't talk. It's not like occasionally, if I sit around long enough, my mother comes back.
This is where I start thinking about cyberspace and the internet. Cosmic space appears to be ongoing. We don't know how big it is. And if it doesn't go on forever... what is behind it? I feel like it must go on forever. I feel like cyberspace is kind of the same. So what if space, and cyberspace are somehow interconnected? Could I contact my mother through my blog? Could I contact her through space? Where is her mind if it's not... here?
If I could contact her through cyberspace, I'm sending this to her. After all, no one is reading this blog. Maybe it's just some way for me to put it all out there, and maybe somehow she knows. If that's the case:
Mum. I love you, which I think you know because wherever you are, you probably see that I visit you every week, at least. And when I don't, I'm very sorry, but it's because I'm too panicky or phobic to see you, or I'm sick. And I know you get that, because you remember me as a child.
I want to say that I'm sorry for the time that you told me not to climb down the treehouse ladder forward, and I did anyways. You were right to ground me - I don't even know why I did it. I never would have thought of doing it if you hadn't told me not to. I also want to say that I know you didn't mean to tell me to "fuck off" the ONE time you did when we were having that fight in the car before dance. For the record, I have never forgotten that moment. I could have never imagined you would have sworn at me. Lastly, I'm sorry for getting frustrated at you when I was taking care of you, before the care home. I know you often thought you were a pain, or that I was making fun of you. I can be an asshole... I'm sorry. I was just so tired and scared. I didn't have any help and I resented that. But I never resented you.
Sleep well Mum - you are always in my heart, and you will always be my Mummy.
xoxo-L
I'm not a computer savvy person. I don't know how my computer works, and I don't know how cyberspace works, exactly. I took a computer science class that was required to complete my Bachelor in Social Work, but otherwise (unless you count osmosis through dating two computer engineers), I'm pretty helpless at this whole internet thing.
I'm going to move away from the whole mental health thing for a moment, and talk about Alzheimers. Haha - bet you thought I was going to throw something uplifrting out there! Yeah, no.
My mother has Alzheimers, and if you check my age (31) that's pretty young. She's only 65 now, and started getting sick at 55. That means she lives with Early-Onset Alzheimers. She doesn't appear to understand what I'm saying any more, nor does she appear to know who I am. She lost the ability to speak about 8 years ago, so I can't ask her.
This is the thing. What if there's another way of reaching her brain? She's off in another mental world. She's not dead, so it's not the after-life (Heaven, reincarnation, what-have-you). She's not here, though, either. And all those stupid movies like the fucking "Notebook" that imply that she comes into reality now and then is bullshit. It doesn't fucking happen. And if it does, you have no way of knowing cause she can't talk. It's not like occasionally, if I sit around long enough, my mother comes back.
This is where I start thinking about cyberspace and the internet. Cosmic space appears to be ongoing. We don't know how big it is. And if it doesn't go on forever... what is behind it? I feel like it must go on forever. I feel like cyberspace is kind of the same. So what if space, and cyberspace are somehow interconnected? Could I contact my mother through my blog? Could I contact her through space? Where is her mind if it's not... here?
If I could contact her through cyberspace, I'm sending this to her. After all, no one is reading this blog. Maybe it's just some way for me to put it all out there, and maybe somehow she knows. If that's the case:
Mum. I love you, which I think you know because wherever you are, you probably see that I visit you every week, at least. And when I don't, I'm very sorry, but it's because I'm too panicky or phobic to see you, or I'm sick. And I know you get that, because you remember me as a child.
I want to say that I'm sorry for the time that you told me not to climb down the treehouse ladder forward, and I did anyways. You were right to ground me - I don't even know why I did it. I never would have thought of doing it if you hadn't told me not to. I also want to say that I know you didn't mean to tell me to "fuck off" the ONE time you did when we were having that fight in the car before dance. For the record, I have never forgotten that moment. I could have never imagined you would have sworn at me. Lastly, I'm sorry for getting frustrated at you when I was taking care of you, before the care home. I know you often thought you were a pain, or that I was making fun of you. I can be an asshole... I'm sorry. I was just so tired and scared. I didn't have any help and I resented that. But I never resented you.
Sleep well Mum - you are always in my heart, and you will always be my Mummy.
xoxo-L
Friday, December 03, 2010
Top Ten Reasons why being "mentally ill" CAN be fun and beneficial...
Hey Funseekers,
So it's Friday night and I'm feeling a little kooky, so I've decided to have a little fun. After my last post, I realized that I need to embrace my differences and remember that there are positives to living with clinical anxiety and depression.
Okay, I have devised a list of ten reasons why being mentally ill CAN be fun and beneficial. Note - Most of them simply center around being able to fly our freak flags high, without falling prey to social norms. Read and enjoy!
****
10. It's considered normal to spend all my sleeping and waking hours with my pet (I have a pug, she is my life). Bonus points for pretending she's human and dressing her as such.
9. It's expected and accepted to have a random hobby. After all, no work! This is my time to explore the things I've always wanted to do, but haven't had time. Knitting, being the obvious. Also, perhaps building ships in bottles, learning to play the accordian, or perhaps growing and maintaining bonsai! Bonus points for taking up a hobby that is usually reserved for geriatrics.
8. Throw that workplace wardrobe away! I have semi-retired my skinny jeans, line-less panties and bras for a package of 4 boys' tank tops, a package of 4 boys' boxers, and a pair of overalls that I found at Value Village for $5. This way, I can save my work clothes for work, and walk around in glorified pyjamas every day. Bonus points for *actually* wearing pyjamas every day. I won't lie - I walk my dog in my jams. Does it have a waistband? Throw it away! (Note - this can also be handy because of the random weight gains and losses that occur as medication side effects).
7. Nervous twitches and/or socially inappropriate behaviour. This is less of a "why it is fun" explanation and more why we should just laugh at it and poke fun at ourselves. Hey, shit happens! Sometimes my hands shake, I yawn constantly as a random side effect of my medication, and I always pick at my fingers. Sometimes my eyes roll up and to the corner and it's hard to stop myself. Oh, not to mention my way-too-loud laughter (I can't help it, I just laugh that loudly!) When I'm with my people, no one questions this. In public - fuck anyone who does! Feel free to be you and me, people. This of course includes smoking. Smoking all the time. Touchy subject - Terrible for my health, and something I do want to quit, but outside any kind of mental health building is basically the one place where no one is judging you for puffing away. Let's just get past the suicide risk, THEN you can berate us for smoking. I'd like to say that number 7 is a big shout out to those strong men and women living with schizophrenia. Schizophrenia meds are notoriously brutal, particularly ones from the 60s and 70s. These meds, combined with the nature of the disorder can sometimes cause varying degrees of nervous behaviour or "inappropriate/strange" attire and personal hygiene. More power to you for living through that shit, people. Seriously. So it may be harder to take as lighly as I'm taking this post, but remember that there are some people, like myself, who understand that it's just a part of you, and we love you for it!!
6. Great alternatives to (public) social functions. Okay, I hate not being able to make it through social functions because of my anxiety. But you know what? Sometimes I DO actually want to sit at home, knit, and watch crap TV. And guess what - so does everyone else! I have understanding friends who love that this is all I do, because my home is now a getaway for the ones who want to relax after a hard work day. I keep a constant stock of drinks and snacks, I always have good movies downloaded, a Scrabble board, and I host a stitch and bitch night of a few friends right here in my oasis. I used to feel obligated to dress up and go to a bar every night off. Now I've found creative ways to relax and include my peeps.
5. Bit more of a serious one here - you find out who your true friends are. I'm at that pivotal age - 31, where I've gone from having hundreds of aquaintances, to a few good friends. A lot of this is because when I was particularly struggling with my mental health, I would disappear for months on end. Ignore people's calls... fall off the radar. Well, as long as I was honest with those few tried and true friends, they actually understood! And those who didn't - fuck them. Life is too short. Now I know that I can cancel on my besties if I'm having a bad anxiety day, and they know that I will always understand if they have to cancel because of life stuff that inevitably happens. It creates a more honest and nurturing environment of friendship. My best friend, sister and I all have an understanding: "do what you need to do, no judgement!!!" I need to tap out halfway through my sister's birthday party? She's not going to get all bitchy on me - she gets it, because I helped her get it!
4. We are living now, and not ten, twenty, thirty... eighty years ago. Get it? Got it. We're lucky.
3. A hyper-awareness of others "like us". How many of you living with panic or anxiety disorders have sat in a meeting, lecture, movie, and seen someone get up and walk out a particular way and you think to yourself, "yup. panic attack." Well, I was that girl in a work meeting once (surrounded in strangers) - I was speaking publically and I had up and go sit outside. Just - walked out. A wonderful woman came out, sat next to me quietly, and told me the only reason she noticed my exit was anything other than a "normal" excuse like a coughing fit or phone emergency was because she, too, has panic attacks. She let me know that I had exited gracefully, and that she would sit with me quietly and then walk back in with me in solidarity. How cool was that??
2. Amazing coping capabilities. If we're anything, we're resilient, creative, and capable! I can't tell you how many times I have come up with the best on-the-spot and graceful ways to remove myself from a panicking situation. It's like I could write a book on Discrete Panic Attack Exits.
1. We have gained a better acceptance and understanding of others and the world around us. Hey, I can be a big fat judgy pants. But in all seriousness, everywhere I see someone living on my streets, unsupported by our system, unmedicated (maybe self-medicating), people passing by presuming s/he is on drugs, looking down, and judging. Judging with all that terrible shit that's pushed into our brains from childhood. I look at that person and I feel more compelled to change our system, and really fucking privileged - because change my luck or circumstances slightly, and that would easily be me.
Thanks for reading. I hope I was able to give someone a chuckle or a smile.
xoxo
PS
So it's Friday night and I'm feeling a little kooky, so I've decided to have a little fun. After my last post, I realized that I need to embrace my differences and remember that there are positives to living with clinical anxiety and depression.
Okay, I have devised a list of ten reasons why being mentally ill CAN be fun and beneficial. Note - Most of them simply center around being able to fly our freak flags high, without falling prey to social norms. Read and enjoy!
****
10. It's considered normal to spend all my sleeping and waking hours with my pet (I have a pug, she is my life). Bonus points for pretending she's human and dressing her as such.
9. It's expected and accepted to have a random hobby. After all, no work! This is my time to explore the things I've always wanted to do, but haven't had time. Knitting, being the obvious. Also, perhaps building ships in bottles, learning to play the accordian, or perhaps growing and maintaining bonsai! Bonus points for taking up a hobby that is usually reserved for geriatrics.
8. Throw that workplace wardrobe away! I have semi-retired my skinny jeans, line-less panties and bras for a package of 4 boys' tank tops, a package of 4 boys' boxers, and a pair of overalls that I found at Value Village for $5. This way, I can save my work clothes for work, and walk around in glorified pyjamas every day. Bonus points for *actually* wearing pyjamas every day. I won't lie - I walk my dog in my jams. Does it have a waistband? Throw it away! (Note - this can also be handy because of the random weight gains and losses that occur as medication side effects).
7. Nervous twitches and/or socially inappropriate behaviour. This is less of a "why it is fun" explanation and more why we should just laugh at it and poke fun at ourselves. Hey, shit happens! Sometimes my hands shake, I yawn constantly as a random side effect of my medication, and I always pick at my fingers. Sometimes my eyes roll up and to the corner and it's hard to stop myself. Oh, not to mention my way-too-loud laughter (I can't help it, I just laugh that loudly!) When I'm with my people, no one questions this. In public - fuck anyone who does! Feel free to be you and me, people. This of course includes smoking. Smoking all the time. Touchy subject - Terrible for my health, and something I do want to quit, but outside any kind of mental health building is basically the one place where no one is judging you for puffing away. Let's just get past the suicide risk, THEN you can berate us for smoking. I'd like to say that number 7 is a big shout out to those strong men and women living with schizophrenia. Schizophrenia meds are notoriously brutal, particularly ones from the 60s and 70s. These meds, combined with the nature of the disorder can sometimes cause varying degrees of nervous behaviour or "inappropriate/strange" attire and personal hygiene. More power to you for living through that shit, people. Seriously. So it may be harder to take as lighly as I'm taking this post, but remember that there are some people, like myself, who understand that it's just a part of you, and we love you for it!!
6. Great alternatives to (public) social functions. Okay, I hate not being able to make it through social functions because of my anxiety. But you know what? Sometimes I DO actually want to sit at home, knit, and watch crap TV. And guess what - so does everyone else! I have understanding friends who love that this is all I do, because my home is now a getaway for the ones who want to relax after a hard work day. I keep a constant stock of drinks and snacks, I always have good movies downloaded, a Scrabble board, and I host a stitch and bitch night of a few friends right here in my oasis. I used to feel obligated to dress up and go to a bar every night off. Now I've found creative ways to relax and include my peeps.
5. Bit more of a serious one here - you find out who your true friends are. I'm at that pivotal age - 31, where I've gone from having hundreds of aquaintances, to a few good friends. A lot of this is because when I was particularly struggling with my mental health, I would disappear for months on end. Ignore people's calls... fall off the radar. Well, as long as I was honest with those few tried and true friends, they actually understood! And those who didn't - fuck them. Life is too short. Now I know that I can cancel on my besties if I'm having a bad anxiety day, and they know that I will always understand if they have to cancel because of life stuff that inevitably happens. It creates a more honest and nurturing environment of friendship. My best friend, sister and I all have an understanding: "do what you need to do, no judgement!!!" I need to tap out halfway through my sister's birthday party? She's not going to get all bitchy on me - she gets it, because I helped her get it!
4. We are living now, and not ten, twenty, thirty... eighty years ago. Get it? Got it. We're lucky.
3. A hyper-awareness of others "like us". How many of you living with panic or anxiety disorders have sat in a meeting, lecture, movie, and seen someone get up and walk out a particular way and you think to yourself, "yup. panic attack." Well, I was that girl in a work meeting once (surrounded in strangers) - I was speaking publically and I had up and go sit outside. Just - walked out. A wonderful woman came out, sat next to me quietly, and told me the only reason she noticed my exit was anything other than a "normal" excuse like a coughing fit or phone emergency was because she, too, has panic attacks. She let me know that I had exited gracefully, and that she would sit with me quietly and then walk back in with me in solidarity. How cool was that??
2. Amazing coping capabilities. If we're anything, we're resilient, creative, and capable! I can't tell you how many times I have come up with the best on-the-spot and graceful ways to remove myself from a panicking situation. It's like I could write a book on Discrete Panic Attack Exits.
1. We have gained a better acceptance and understanding of others and the world around us. Hey, I can be a big fat judgy pants. But in all seriousness, everywhere I see someone living on my streets, unsupported by our system, unmedicated (maybe self-medicating), people passing by presuming s/he is on drugs, looking down, and judging. Judging with all that terrible shit that's pushed into our brains from childhood. I look at that person and I feel more compelled to change our system, and really fucking privileged - because change my luck or circumstances slightly, and that would easily be me.
Thanks for reading. I hope I was able to give someone a chuckle or a smile.
xoxo
PS
Nobody cares about your Blog.
Okay, so I'm not going to lie. I did wake up this morning and immediately log on to see if *anyone* read my very first blog posts. Not surprisingly, no one did. So I'm left writing to - well - that big empty chasm of cyber space. Floating around for all to read, but to small to be discovered. I'm sure that has to be a metaphor for something.
One of the drawbacks of my condition, or perhaps the medication for my condition, is the complete inability to sleep for longer than an hour. Don't get me wrong, I can sleep forever. I just wake up every hour. I am also plagued with INSANE nightmares and at the very least, disturbing dreams, which leave me waking and wondering if it actually happened. Did I hook up with Jim Carrey in a Miami hotel room and then forget about the child I was babysitting who then almost died of an asthma attack? That was actually one of the least traumatic ones... at least it included a bit of intimacy. Jim, if you're out there... Brav-O!
One of these days I'll blog about a nightmare, but (as I told my friend who believes I should keep a "dream diary") - why the fuck would I want to write it down? It sucked enough the first time around!
If there's one thing I lack, it's patience. I just want to be back at work, living the life of a productive human being. Is that too much to ask? Well, apparently it is at this point in time. I can't sleep through the night and I wake up feeling grumpy, depressed, and completely lacking the motivation to, well, live. When I am feeling okay, I run the risk of having a huge panic attack in the middle of, well, anywhere where one does not want to be having an anxiety attack. Grocery store, local park whilst walking the dog, dance lesson, Bar or pub (yikes, those are the worst). You name it. Part of the reason I love the people in my therapeutic group is because they may be the only people out there who understand that walking into Walmart is something I just CAN'T DO. That place is like the universal panic attack trigger. Too. Much. Stimulation.
Ahhh well. Today is one of the few days that I have nothing scheduled - which is toxic for someone living with depression. That's part of the reason I'm writing this. If I wasn't, I would be laying in bed staring at the ceiling and listening to CBC Tempo. Now it's like I'm actually doing something. I have a 'no laptop in bed' rule to assist myself in getting out and at least exploring the world vicariously from my wee apartment.
I guess before I go, I have a little more to say. Some of these posts may seem a little "poor me". Well, they're all certainly self-indulgent. The thing is, no matter how low I feel, no matter how hard it may be for me to imagine ever feeling joy again, I realize that I am one of the lucky, privileged ones out there. And I don't mean in that wanky "I cried because I had no shoes, then I saw a man with no feet" sense. I mean... maybe I do. I live in a country that will help pay my living expenses because I am currently unable to function in a workplace. I live with "mental illness" (Christ, can we come up with a better term? PLEASE?) but there are people out there who live with far worse mental illness, physical illness, and so on. Don't even get me started on the marginalization of certain groups of people in our society. That's another rant from my passionate social worker place. I just want it to be said for the record, that I do not cry because I have no shoes, or because I have to take icky meds to stabilize my mood, or because I can't work right now. Sure, I cry sometimes, but it's because a lot of the time I can't SEE joy, and I kind of remember what it was like to see joy in the world, and I miss that so much. And sometimes it's because I really just want to go out with a few friends and have a drink in a public place, but I'm so scared because I'm afraid that if I have a panic attack, people will think I'm crazy. So I stay in. And yes, I may be wanking on about how much it sucks, but I am also working to *change* all of this. I am going to my group, I'm doing my cognitive behavioural exercises. I'm trying different medications to find the right one.
Why? Because you heard it here first, folks. Mental illness ain't no fucking vacation!
Later, Funseekers,
PS
One of the drawbacks of my condition, or perhaps the medication for my condition, is the complete inability to sleep for longer than an hour. Don't get me wrong, I can sleep forever. I just wake up every hour. I am also plagued with INSANE nightmares and at the very least, disturbing dreams, which leave me waking and wondering if it actually happened. Did I hook up with Jim Carrey in a Miami hotel room and then forget about the child I was babysitting who then almost died of an asthma attack? That was actually one of the least traumatic ones... at least it included a bit of intimacy. Jim, if you're out there... Brav-O!
One of these days I'll blog about a nightmare, but (as I told my friend who believes I should keep a "dream diary") - why the fuck would I want to write it down? It sucked enough the first time around!
If there's one thing I lack, it's patience. I just want to be back at work, living the life of a productive human being. Is that too much to ask? Well, apparently it is at this point in time. I can't sleep through the night and I wake up feeling grumpy, depressed, and completely lacking the motivation to, well, live. When I am feeling okay, I run the risk of having a huge panic attack in the middle of, well, anywhere where one does not want to be having an anxiety attack. Grocery store, local park whilst walking the dog, dance lesson, Bar or pub (yikes, those are the worst). You name it. Part of the reason I love the people in my therapeutic group is because they may be the only people out there who understand that walking into Walmart is something I just CAN'T DO. That place is like the universal panic attack trigger. Too. Much. Stimulation.
Ahhh well. Today is one of the few days that I have nothing scheduled - which is toxic for someone living with depression. That's part of the reason I'm writing this. If I wasn't, I would be laying in bed staring at the ceiling and listening to CBC Tempo. Now it's like I'm actually doing something. I have a 'no laptop in bed' rule to assist myself in getting out and at least exploring the world vicariously from my wee apartment.
I guess before I go, I have a little more to say. Some of these posts may seem a little "poor me". Well, they're all certainly self-indulgent. The thing is, no matter how low I feel, no matter how hard it may be for me to imagine ever feeling joy again, I realize that I am one of the lucky, privileged ones out there. And I don't mean in that wanky "I cried because I had no shoes, then I saw a man with no feet" sense. I mean... maybe I do. I live in a country that will help pay my living expenses because I am currently unable to function in a workplace. I live with "mental illness" (Christ, can we come up with a better term? PLEASE?) but there are people out there who live with far worse mental illness, physical illness, and so on. Don't even get me started on the marginalization of certain groups of people in our society. That's another rant from my passionate social worker place. I just want it to be said for the record, that I do not cry because I have no shoes, or because I have to take icky meds to stabilize my mood, or because I can't work right now. Sure, I cry sometimes, but it's because a lot of the time I can't SEE joy, and I kind of remember what it was like to see joy in the world, and I miss that so much. And sometimes it's because I really just want to go out with a few friends and have a drink in a public place, but I'm so scared because I'm afraid that if I have a panic attack, people will think I'm crazy. So I stay in. And yes, I may be wanking on about how much it sucks, but I am also working to *change* all of this. I am going to my group, I'm doing my cognitive behavioural exercises. I'm trying different medications to find the right one.
Why? Because you heard it here first, folks. Mental illness ain't no fucking vacation!
Later, Funseekers,
PS
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Cipralex and Ativan and Vodka... Oh My!
Anyone else out there ignoring those little labels telling you not to combine alcohol and medication? Welcome to my existence.
To be fair, my prescribed meds have little red labels that state that alcohol *may* intensify the effect of my pills. Intensify? Yes please! Oh, I'm also not supposed to be operating heavy machinery. So long as that excludes laptop, space heater and lighter, I'm in the clear.
Okay, so this post is about therapeutic lies. Those little white lies we all tell our "helping" professionals.
As a semi-retired alcohol and drug counsellor, I tend to operate under the assumption (to quote House) - that "everybody lies". This is particularly relevant when working with people who use alcohol and drugs. I try to preserve the benefit of the doubt, but I also have to remember that it is so ingrained in our culture to be ashamed of our substance use, that when we are asked how much we use, we lie. Okay, perhaps bend the truth. But potato, potato... you know what I mean. (That saying doesn't translate so well in print, by the way).
I, knowing and understanding this concept, am faced with a conundrum when sitting across from my GP, my counsellor, my psychiatrist, my gyno, whoever. When asked how many drinks I consume per week, my mind immediately goes into therapist-versus-client overdrive. Option A - I tell the truth and my helping professional presumes I'm lying and multiplies what I drink by three, leading him or her to internally ponder how I am functioning well enough to stand. Option B - I lie and divide my consumption by approximately three, presuming they will then mentally multiply by three, coming to an accurate (and still troublesome) conclusion. Option C - Deny, deny, deny. I state that - of COURSE I don't drink, because I too am a helping professional and should therefore completely understand that alcohol is a depressant and, as I am currently battling depression, should have absolutely nothing to do with the evil drink. To boot, they all have my patient history and LOVE to bring up that there is some proof that alcoholism can be genetic and that, given my family history, I am predisposed to the nasty disease/habit/disorder (the last word depends on what century the helping professional appears to be functioning in).
Food for thought. Or, consequently, single vodka and soda with a twist of lemon for thought.
Cheers.
PS
To be fair, my prescribed meds have little red labels that state that alcohol *may* intensify the effect of my pills. Intensify? Yes please! Oh, I'm also not supposed to be operating heavy machinery. So long as that excludes laptop, space heater and lighter, I'm in the clear.
Okay, so this post is about therapeutic lies. Those little white lies we all tell our "helping" professionals.
As a semi-retired alcohol and drug counsellor, I tend to operate under the assumption (to quote House) - that "everybody lies". This is particularly relevant when working with people who use alcohol and drugs. I try to preserve the benefit of the doubt, but I also have to remember that it is so ingrained in our culture to be ashamed of our substance use, that when we are asked how much we use, we lie. Okay, perhaps bend the truth. But potato, potato... you know what I mean. (That saying doesn't translate so well in print, by the way).
I, knowing and understanding this concept, am faced with a conundrum when sitting across from my GP, my counsellor, my psychiatrist, my gyno, whoever. When asked how many drinks I consume per week, my mind immediately goes into therapist-versus-client overdrive. Option A - I tell the truth and my helping professional presumes I'm lying and multiplies what I drink by three, leading him or her to internally ponder how I am functioning well enough to stand. Option B - I lie and divide my consumption by approximately three, presuming they will then mentally multiply by three, coming to an accurate (and still troublesome) conclusion. Option C - Deny, deny, deny. I state that - of COURSE I don't drink, because I too am a helping professional and should therefore completely understand that alcohol is a depressant and, as I am currently battling depression, should have absolutely nothing to do with the evil drink. To boot, they all have my patient history and LOVE to bring up that there is some proof that alcoholism can be genetic and that, given my family history, I am predisposed to the nasty disease/habit/disorder (the last word depends on what century the helping professional appears to be functioning in).
Food for thought. Or, consequently, single vodka and soda with a twist of lemon for thought.
Cheers.
PS
Welcome to my pint-sized living room!
Good evening avid readers. Well, I have no readers, so it would be presumptuous to hope they could be avid. Arguably I have nothing to say that hasn't been said before, but I've always thought blogging to be one of those experiences that someone my age should try in her life. Kind of like listening to Nirvana for the first time in one's room in the parent's basement, buying and subsequently junking one's first automobile, drinking a shot of jager, wearing an outfit made of PVC and dancing in a club to Marilyn Manson (hello, early 2000s...), joining Facebook, leaving Facebook, joining Facebook again, dressing Goth, dressing Rockabilly, dressing Hipster, dying one's hair blonde, and getting a dog.
Now that you know everything about my past...
I am a 31 year-old woman currently living on Medical EI. In Canada, that means I am on a leave of absence my job because of "illness", and the government pays 60% of my wages whilst I recuperate. Why 60%? Beats me. Possibly because it's JUST enough to pay rent so that I have an address at which to collect bills, rent increase notices, harassing mail from Provincial and National Student Loans, and undecipherable mail from my benefits provider, asking me to pay $500 a month if I wish to remain medically covered. Of course, I can opt out and pay nothing, I mean... that is an option, as I'm unable to work and may not be able to afford it. Of course, I'm unable to work because of a medical issue, so needless to say, I'm scraping the cash in case I happen to need MEDICAL COVERAGE.
I am not currently employed at my job as a clinical counsellor. However, I like to say that I'm a full time employee of collecting government money and shuffling my finances. It takes skills to stay afloat whilst on sick leave. One has no time to be sick... Just the other day, as I was standing in line at the pawn shop with my two-year old flat-screen computer monitor (purchased at $250, sold for $25) I thought to myself, "I need a vacation!" I immediately then spent the afternoon pondering the painful depreciation of computers and electronics.
I have time to do that now. Ponder. I ponder a lot of random things. I wonder if there could be a new, simple dating rule that says if you and the guy you're sleeping with use up an entire box of condoms, that is the point at which you are considered to be in a relationship. 20 fucks? Sure, sounds about right. That way, we can eliminate the whole "are we, aren't we" debacle.
I also thought about my recent illegal download of "The Social Network." I noticed that Trent Reznor did the music, and I thought about all the kooky shit Trent gets up to. Then I had a moment where I thought - what if Trent has hacked his way into my computer *through* the illegal download and is now going to crash my computer as some kind of punishment.
Trent - if you're reading this, I really don't think you're evil. Oh, and I caught your water bottle at the SOFA show, and there is now officially no degree of separation between our lips. Heart!
Ahhh well. Off to fill out my Cognitive Behavioural group therapy worksheets. I can now tick off the box that asks if I completed one "small task or goal". Although instead of rating my mood, I feel I should be rating my level of self-absorption.
Signing out from my den of slack-
PS
Now that you know everything about my past...
I am a 31 year-old woman currently living on Medical EI. In Canada, that means I am on a leave of absence my job because of "illness", and the government pays 60% of my wages whilst I recuperate. Why 60%? Beats me. Possibly because it's JUST enough to pay rent so that I have an address at which to collect bills, rent increase notices, harassing mail from Provincial and National Student Loans, and undecipherable mail from my benefits provider, asking me to pay $500 a month if I wish to remain medically covered. Of course, I can opt out and pay nothing, I mean... that is an option, as I'm unable to work and may not be able to afford it. Of course, I'm unable to work because of a medical issue, so needless to say, I'm scraping the cash in case I happen to need MEDICAL COVERAGE.
I am not currently employed at my job as a clinical counsellor. However, I like to say that I'm a full time employee of collecting government money and shuffling my finances. It takes skills to stay afloat whilst on sick leave. One has no time to be sick... Just the other day, as I was standing in line at the pawn shop with my two-year old flat-screen computer monitor (purchased at $250, sold for $25) I thought to myself, "I need a vacation!" I immediately then spent the afternoon pondering the painful depreciation of computers and electronics.
I have time to do that now. Ponder. I ponder a lot of random things. I wonder if there could be a new, simple dating rule that says if you and the guy you're sleeping with use up an entire box of condoms, that is the point at which you are considered to be in a relationship. 20 fucks? Sure, sounds about right. That way, we can eliminate the whole "are we, aren't we" debacle.
I also thought about my recent illegal download of "The Social Network." I noticed that Trent Reznor did the music, and I thought about all the kooky shit Trent gets up to. Then I had a moment where I thought - what if Trent has hacked his way into my computer *through* the illegal download and is now going to crash my computer as some kind of punishment.
Trent - if you're reading this, I really don't think you're evil. Oh, and I caught your water bottle at the SOFA show, and there is now officially no degree of separation between our lips. Heart!
Ahhh well. Off to fill out my Cognitive Behavioural group therapy worksheets. I can now tick off the box that asks if I completed one "small task or goal". Although instead of rating my mood, I feel I should be rating my level of self-absorption.
Signing out from my den of slack-
PS
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