Oooooh Funseekers. What a week it has been. A slight warning, I'm feeling tremendously selfish and sorry for myself at this moment, so please understand that most of the time, I'm not this much of a sad sack.
This is the one place where I have vowed to write truthfully. Some days, I feel inspired and courageous, some days I feel like a loser. Really - who CAN'T relate to that. It's just the natural process that people go through every day. With that, I hope people forgive some of my whining, because I really just need to let some shit out. It feels like forever since my group therapy ended, but I have to say, today I missed it. A lot. I took for granted the opportunity to meet twice a week and speak with people who face some of the same challenges regarding depression and anxiety. It was different than talking with friends, because I could really open up without fear of hurting someone, or making them worry about me. I love my friends, and I rely on them for love, support, laughter. I miss my group though.
This past week was my Mother's birthday, and (in the same day) the one year anniversary of the last day I saw my Grandpa, who died a year ago this upcoming week. Last year, I went to see Mum on her birthday, then Grandpa in the hospital. He died ten days later when I was up island at a conference for work. He was old, but he was supposedly getting better, so I wasn't prepared. But really - are we ever prepared? I like to say I'm prepared for Mum's death, but I know, I just know, that it will knock me over when it happens.
It wasn't a good birthday visit. (note - I didn't say this was going to be a fun post). I went to see Mum for her lunch, and tried to feed her as I do every time I visit. That day, though, she couldn't wake up. Keep in mind, she is on no sedatives or sleeping meds. She just... nodded off. Before lunch, I held her hand and watched her sleep in her wheelchair, telling her that it was her birthday, and goddammit she could sleep if she wants to!! :) I told her why I thought she deserved the rest - being a mother and a wife - constantly giving. Lunchtime came and she woke up for a moment. I began feeding her as usual, but she fell asleep with the food in her mouth. The staff told me this was unusual - she's usually so alert during the days. We put aside her lunch for later, when she was more awake. The staff member produced a lovely piece of black forest birthday cake - especially for Mum. She suggested I try that - a bit more sugar and taste - might perk her up. She again, fell asleep with that in her mouth. I wiped the drool off, held her hand and watched her sleep some more. Then I left. It was her 66th birthday.
I tried to imagine what would have happened if Mum hadn't gotten sick. My parents were separated when I was 15, but I thought that if she hadn't gotten sick, she might have met and married a lovely gentle man sometime in her 60s. Maybe, maybe not. She would have moved out of the big old family house, and into a condo... provided it had garden space. She would have gray hair, but she would maintain her trademark haircut (inverted bob with bangs) and she would still be working out at the gym and walking for an hour each day. She may have gotten a cat. Mum would have me over for tea and laugh at my stories and tell me that I should do stand-up (she used to say that to me). She would hug me goodbye every time, telling me she loves me, and asking that I check in via email - because she would have inevitably tackled that and gotten herself an account. She probably would have taken a community class to learn about the internet. She would still go to church occasionally, and she would have friends. She would send out Christmas cards, and get the same cabin every summer and wear her sensible Speedo one-piece (no frills). She would volunteer at a library. She would be sad sometimes, but joyous others.
I feel like I'm watching my family drift away one by one, and I feel like I'm left over, still 15 and dancing and trying to win at competitions and trying to make everyone happy... overachiever and so naive.
I competed this weekend as well. It went far better that the competition two weeks ago - I wasn't nauseous or having any tummy problems. I walked up on stage confident and strong for each dance. I didn't place, and I was disappointed. That being said, however, I feel it was my personal best for performances since I've gotten back into it. I allowed myself a five minute pity party regarding the loss, and have left it behind me. Three weeks from now, I hope to redeem myself. I'm certainly not going to lose momentum after one lousy but well-danced competition!!
Lastly. This is the hardest to address, because it inadvertently addresses many of my friends. My wonderful, amazing friends. This past week, via Facebook, I have witnessed the celebration of many, many Valentine's Days by many, many of my friends. I have so many friends who are discovering love, or have recently discovered love. That includes one newly engaged, and four married within the past year. I count these people as close friends, not just "Facebook friends". There are also the number of friends who are maintaining strong and committed relationships, and one who is discovering loss, freedom, and the newness of love all within one year. Love is, quite literally, all around me. You know what? I wouldn't have it any other fucking way. You know what else? I am starting to lose hope that it's in the cards for me.
Yeah yeah yeah. HOW many women have blogged about THIS. Not to mention the movies, TV shows, and so on addressing this highly cliched issue. Everyone has felt like they've been there, most people have. This is one feeling I do not get to have on my own, that is for sure. I have to say, I have never really been struck with this feeling before, though, and it's icky. Downright icky.
I need to stop thinking about life as being about fate, or karma, or any of that other bullshit. I need to stop looking at it as one big score sheet. No, I'm not the best dancer out there, despite the work I put in. No, I'm not meeting new available men and going on dates. No, I'm not gainfully employed, or capable of being so at this time. No, my mother can't hug me. That all being said, that last point really pisses me off - because if we're talking karma or fate, FUCK YOU.
I guess I needed to get that all out. Because as I write all of that down, with the intention of it going public, I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed because of the things I really do have. I have family - they may be far away (in more ways than one!) but they love me. I have friends. In fact, I have the best friends in the world. I'm just saying - I'm so lucky in that department. I have my dog, my knitting, my home and food. I have luxuries. I have an education. I have books. Once again, I bump up against the old "I had no shoes and then I met a man who had no feet." I may have no shoes but I certainly have my feet. I appreciate my feet, I do. I appreciate so many things in my life.
So why am I so sad?
Picking myself, dusting myself off, and definitely starting all over again...
xo-PS
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Thirtysomething 2.0
Okay, so I'm not going to lie, I've spent most evenings watching the show "Thirtsomething" on Netflix. Some of you may remember it - it was a show in the 80s. I missed out entirely because it was on past my bedtime and was a bit too mature for my taste. I was probably about six at the time. I took a chance and watched the pilot last week, and couldn't stop thinking to myself... "this has the *flavour* of 'My So-Called Life', and I love it." Not until the credits did I realize it was done by the same creators of MSCL. They did "Thirtysomething", it was a success, and then they came up with MSCL. Even the introductions, music, lighting, all have the same feel. I have this huge soft spot for MSCL, so I'm quite happy to be watching it's predecessor.
I remember recently rewatching "My So-Called Life" and thinking to myself - when this show first began, I was in Junior High and I related, epically, to the teenager characters. All teenage girls who watched that show could relate to someone - Angela, maybe Rayanne for the more rebellious girls. I felt like an Angela, because I always had a complicated cruch on a boy (the Jordan Chases of the world) who never appeared to be interested. Then of course, the show ends with promise of a relationship, and girls like myself could pretend that maybe, just maybe, those boys actually *would* take notice. Maybe, just maybe, that boy I had a crush on would take my hand and walk with me down the hall as a swell of music rings in my ears.
For the record, no such luck. My first kiss was a pity kiss by a boy I was hopelessly in love with... who ended up dating my best friend for four years. That teenage sting never really goes away, you know.
What was my point. Ah yes. I used to relate to the teenagers. When rewatching, however, I couldn't help but relate far more to the parents in the show. Not because of their relationship or parenting dilemmas... perhaps more their maturity, jobs, and life-views. I wonder when I crossed over from feeling like an Angela, to feeling like a Patty.
So, "Thirtysomething". I am completely fascinated with this show, because it was giving a fairly accurate view of people in their thirties - in the early 1980s. Almost three decades ago (does anyone else feel a little old as I say that? I had to do the math twice, it seemed so wrong.) One thing is for sure. Some things never change, and others do. Could I vague that statement up a little more?
What do I mean. Just like three decades ago, people in their thirties still place value on the same things - love, careers, babies, marriage, personal success (defined by what is most important to us...). Cheating, birth, sickness, death... the topics are timeless. That being said, other than the glaringly obvious (FASHION), there are some interesting differences.
First of all, case in point. When I watch these shows, I can't help but think to myself "why are all these actors so OLD, they aren't in their thirties!!" Newsflash - they are. I simply can't see past the high heel pumps, pink lipstick, pantyhose, shoulderpads and silk scarves. All the women dress like how my mother dressed in the 80s. When I was a child, my Mum was old. Not really, but babies think grown-ups are ancient. Actually, Mum was close to the age of the actors and actresses, and she was in her thirties. As am I, now.
Woah.
I was inspired to write this after watching one of the episodes covering a hard hitting topic - the scandal involved with a single woman, in her thirties, looking at buying her apartment. On top of the usual scandal of a woman buying before marriage (and her buying, not the man) this was particularly scandalous because it was *gasp* a ONE-BEDROOM. In other words, no place to put the baby.
She didn't have a baby. But you know, you can't buy a place without a room for the inevitable baby!!
I watched this episode, has a cocktail and a cigarette. I knitted a few more rows on a scarf, cuddled with my puppy. I felt a little lonely, because I don't have a partner. But then again, neither did the fabulous Ellen on Thirtysomething, and she seems to be doing okay. And I guess, to summarize in as succinct a way possible... I feel very glad that in my group and in society in general, my lifestyle is not generally questioned. Who knows, maybe one day I'll buy this apartment. I doubt anyone would question me about it. Of course, if I then have a baby, I'll simply have to convert the bathtub into a crib, and store the stroller on the roof of the Noodle Box.
Bringing a new attitude to Thirtysomething...
PS
I remember recently rewatching "My So-Called Life" and thinking to myself - when this show first began, I was in Junior High and I related, epically, to the teenager characters. All teenage girls who watched that show could relate to someone - Angela, maybe Rayanne for the more rebellious girls. I felt like an Angela, because I always had a complicated cruch on a boy (the Jordan Chases of the world) who never appeared to be interested. Then of course, the show ends with promise of a relationship, and girls like myself could pretend that maybe, just maybe, those boys actually *would* take notice. Maybe, just maybe, that boy I had a crush on would take my hand and walk with me down the hall as a swell of music rings in my ears.
For the record, no such luck. My first kiss was a pity kiss by a boy I was hopelessly in love with... who ended up dating my best friend for four years. That teenage sting never really goes away, you know.
What was my point. Ah yes. I used to relate to the teenagers. When rewatching, however, I couldn't help but relate far more to the parents in the show. Not because of their relationship or parenting dilemmas... perhaps more their maturity, jobs, and life-views. I wonder when I crossed over from feeling like an Angela, to feeling like a Patty.
So, "Thirtysomething". I am completely fascinated with this show, because it was giving a fairly accurate view of people in their thirties - in the early 1980s. Almost three decades ago (does anyone else feel a little old as I say that? I had to do the math twice, it seemed so wrong.) One thing is for sure. Some things never change, and others do. Could I vague that statement up a little more?
What do I mean. Just like three decades ago, people in their thirties still place value on the same things - love, careers, babies, marriage, personal success (defined by what is most important to us...). Cheating, birth, sickness, death... the topics are timeless. That being said, other than the glaringly obvious (FASHION), there are some interesting differences.
First of all, case in point. When I watch these shows, I can't help but think to myself "why are all these actors so OLD, they aren't in their thirties!!" Newsflash - they are. I simply can't see past the high heel pumps, pink lipstick, pantyhose, shoulderpads and silk scarves. All the women dress like how my mother dressed in the 80s. When I was a child, my Mum was old. Not really, but babies think grown-ups are ancient. Actually, Mum was close to the age of the actors and actresses, and she was in her thirties. As am I, now.
Woah.
I was inspired to write this after watching one of the episodes covering a hard hitting topic - the scandal involved with a single woman, in her thirties, looking at buying her apartment. On top of the usual scandal of a woman buying before marriage (and her buying, not the man) this was particularly scandalous because it was *gasp* a ONE-BEDROOM. In other words, no place to put the baby.
She didn't have a baby. But you know, you can't buy a place without a room for the inevitable baby!!
I watched this episode, has a cocktail and a cigarette. I knitted a few more rows on a scarf, cuddled with my puppy. I felt a little lonely, because I don't have a partner. But then again, neither did the fabulous Ellen on Thirtysomething, and she seems to be doing okay. And I guess, to summarize in as succinct a way possible... I feel very glad that in my group and in society in general, my lifestyle is not generally questioned. Who knows, maybe one day I'll buy this apartment. I doubt anyone would question me about it. Of course, if I then have a baby, I'll simply have to convert the bathtub into a crib, and store the stroller on the roof of the Noodle Box.
Bringing a new attitude to Thirtysomething...
PS
Monday, February 14, 2011
You're nobody till somebody loves you.
Happy V-Day, Bitches.
I find that this appears to be a day of extremes - either people go all out and enjoy the day with or without a partner, or they a) are in a relationship and call it a stupid money-making holiday created by Hallmark or b) are single and whine about how they have no one to spend it with.
I fall somewhere in between amusement/annoyance and just not really caring. Whether I'm with someone or not. I would like to say, however... CBC Radio 1? I'm disappointed in you. It has been nothing but vomitous cheesy love songs all day, and I don't care how much anyone can be in love - it's just waaaaay too much for a person to take. I have decided to celebrate V-Day by making a pot full of chili and then joyfully passing gas all evening (aimed directly at the dog, as penance for the many dog farts I endure on a daily basis).
I'm not particularly stoked about this week, and here's why.
Well, first of all, I had to pay my car insurance, but to make matters worse, as I was leaving the office the mid-thirties insurance agent (crinkled black shirt, Tazmanian Devil neck tie, male-pattern baldness, dandruff, sensible black Walmart sneakers) wished me a Happy Valentine's Day. I responded with, "Valentine's Day! Yes." He then said, "well, be sure to call someone special at least. Perhaps your mother?" If he wasn't already the saddest specimen, I would have taken sick pleasure in turning around and saying, "I'm sorry, due to the Alzheimers, she can't pick up the phone..."
I had a Doctor's appointment today, to renew my many prescriptions. After learning that I had quit my well-paying, adult, secure position (with benefits) my Doctor asked me, "so... do you know what you want to be when you grow up?" I replied, "No, but it looks as though I'll be working at the bar until I figure it out." He replies, "... as a dancer?"
As I was leaving the office, I ran into an ex-client, who assured me that he and his daughter are doing well, and that they actually prefer the counsellor who took over my work with them.
Tomorrow, I have been invited to go to my last workplace for a sort of goodbye party - cake, coffee, and apparently a gift. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to seeing my co-workers, because I genuinely miss them. A lot, actually. I'm NOT, however, looking forward to bursting into tears, which is completely inevitable. At the merest modicum of kindness, I turn into a premenopausal, hormonal teenage girl locked in her room and listening to Taylor Swift's "Back to December." It's going to be a messy reunion, peeps. Though, one that I think will be good for me - it's time to really move on.
Well, off to make some chili and ponder the implication of my wacky-ass dream last night. It involved Dr. Phil (morphed with one of my exes - covered in tattoos and rather handsome, actually!), lying naked in my bed, analyzing my relationship with my father. As he got up to leave, he collected his keys, wallet, cigarettes, lighter, and a potato, off the night stand.
I don't know why, but the potato really stuck with me.
xo-PS
I find that this appears to be a day of extremes - either people go all out and enjoy the day with or without a partner, or they a) are in a relationship and call it a stupid money-making holiday created by Hallmark or b) are single and whine about how they have no one to spend it with.
I fall somewhere in between amusement/annoyance and just not really caring. Whether I'm with someone or not. I would like to say, however... CBC Radio 1? I'm disappointed in you. It has been nothing but vomitous cheesy love songs all day, and I don't care how much anyone can be in love - it's just waaaaay too much for a person to take. I have decided to celebrate V-Day by making a pot full of chili and then joyfully passing gas all evening (aimed directly at the dog, as penance for the many dog farts I endure on a daily basis).
I'm not particularly stoked about this week, and here's why.
Well, first of all, I had to pay my car insurance, but to make matters worse, as I was leaving the office the mid-thirties insurance agent (crinkled black shirt, Tazmanian Devil neck tie, male-pattern baldness, dandruff, sensible black Walmart sneakers) wished me a Happy Valentine's Day. I responded with, "Valentine's Day! Yes." He then said, "well, be sure to call someone special at least. Perhaps your mother?" If he wasn't already the saddest specimen, I would have taken sick pleasure in turning around and saying, "I'm sorry, due to the Alzheimers, she can't pick up the phone..."
I had a Doctor's appointment today, to renew my many prescriptions. After learning that I had quit my well-paying, adult, secure position (with benefits) my Doctor asked me, "so... do you know what you want to be when you grow up?" I replied, "No, but it looks as though I'll be working at the bar until I figure it out." He replies, "... as a dancer?"
As I was leaving the office, I ran into an ex-client, who assured me that he and his daughter are doing well, and that they actually prefer the counsellor who took over my work with them.
Tomorrow, I have been invited to go to my last workplace for a sort of goodbye party - cake, coffee, and apparently a gift. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to seeing my co-workers, because I genuinely miss them. A lot, actually. I'm NOT, however, looking forward to bursting into tears, which is completely inevitable. At the merest modicum of kindness, I turn into a premenopausal, hormonal teenage girl locked in her room and listening to Taylor Swift's "Back to December." It's going to be a messy reunion, peeps. Though, one that I think will be good for me - it's time to really move on.
Well, off to make some chili and ponder the implication of my wacky-ass dream last night. It involved Dr. Phil (morphed with one of my exes - covered in tattoos and rather handsome, actually!), lying naked in my bed, analyzing my relationship with my father. As he got up to leave, he collected his keys, wallet, cigarettes, lighter, and a potato, off the night stand.
I don't know why, but the potato really stuck with me.
xo-PS
Friday, February 11, 2011
It's hard to say goodbye.
Hello Funseekers, it's been a while.
I'm beginning a new journey as the Pyjama Smoker you all know and love - I call her "back to work" Pyjama Smoker. Though I believe this to be a good thing, I think my body is rebelling. Perhaps I'm just... allergic to the idea of work? I'm sick with some kind of chesty flu thing, and remembering what it was like to deal with this AND work. I haven't really gotten physically (virally) sick since I took my leave, so this is the first time I've really had time to ponder the time I've had off, the time before I had time off, and so on. That, and my sister has been as sick as a dog for about a week, and is still going to work because she is one fucking badass scientist. Makes a gal think.
I used to get so, so sick, for months at a time. SICK. I mean, the way I feel today is childs' play next to what I used to go through. First of all, there was the impending doom with oncoming illness. It's the "oh shit I have to cancel all my client work tomorrow what are they going to do, when am I going to be better so I can reschedule next week is going to be doubly hard because I'm taking this day off" feeling. Holy SHIT I don't miss that feeling.
Then we go back a few years when I was taking care of Mum. That was the "motherfucker I have to work at the bar tonight because there's no one to cover for me oh wait, my best friend who also works there will cover for me tonight god bless him, okay tonight I'm going to collapse but I have a paper due tomorrow afternoon and Mum will be up at 7 am and if I sleep tonight maybe I can skip class tomorrow and get Mum off to her day program and write the paper during the skipped class and get it in on time and then work tomorrow night" era.
Which begs the question - why am I surprised I used to be sick for weeks at a time??
I am now, officially, employed. I start working at a bar in the next few weeks. I have made the decision not to go back to work in my destined field (social work, outreach work, counselling) until after this summer is over. I call that my "destined" field of work because despite the fact that I'm not currently *in* it, I still feel passionate about it, love it, and yes, very much miss it. That being said - I am sick, it is winter, and I am taking care of my body. No, I mean, I'm taking CARE of myself. And it's something I have finally decided to prioritize. I think I remember how to do it, it's just been so long since I've allowed myself to do so and (more importantly) had the privilege and freedom to do so.
So here I am, day two of doing preeeeetty much nothing. I'm smoking very minimally (just enough to keep me from getting cranky and restless - yes, I'm an addict) and not drinking. I'm taking in fluids, emergen-C, eating steamed veggies and rice, using my nasal lavage, steaming my head with hot water and tiger balm. I am going to recover in a predictable period of time, goddammit, if it kills me in the process! I have no excuse - no work, minimal obligation. It's like being a fucking kid again! Only without my Mum here making orange Jell-o and setting me up in the den in front of the TV. My version is natural fruit juice, knitting, and ongoing episodes of the TV show "Thirty Something"
Anyways, the next few weeks are going to be quite the flux for Miss PJ. I'm going to shed the actual PJ's and re-enter the workplace, only in a very part-time and "my terms" basis. This year has to be... HAS to be... less about me fulfilling my dreams of creating change through work, and more about me creating change in myself so that I can once again work in my preferred field.
But I digress.
The topic of this blog was "It's hard to say goodbye". One of the first posts in this blog was about my first experience meeting with my therapist and psychiatrist, and the struggles I had even walking in that door. Some things have changed so much, some have changed not much at all. I still wake up most days with sadness, depression, the inability to see my future being more than this sheltered, safe but lonely life. I still have nightmares every night. That being said, I have learned so much about coping, and being gentle towards myself.
Today, I had my very last appointment with my therapist and psychiatrist, and I had to say my goodbyes. If I have ever written anything of any kind of significance, the following is the most important thing I have ever written and acknowledged. And as I write it, I cry.
My therapist and psychiatrist's departing words, jointly, were as follows. And I don't think I will ever forget them: "Don't settle. Don't settle in life if because you know when you need or deserve more than what you are settling for. Take such care of yourself, physically and mentally, and be gentle on yourself, because you deserve kindness. You are one of the most unusual people I have met - and I mean that in a good way. I hope that you will be able to continue to push the depression further away, and live your life with love for yourself."
They left me with the name of a woman they both agreed will be a good long-term private therapist, if I can afford it. I have already decided that paying for this private therapist will be a priority in my financial planning. I trust both of them to have referred me to someone who will suit me.
To the two people I said goodbye to today. I cannot reveal your names, but just so you know, I will never forget you - the kindness you have given me will forever be etched in my brain. You, perhaps not physically, but emotionally, wrapped your arms around me and gave me true unconditional love and support. I know that as a counsellor, that is real. It's not something you do because you're paid to do it, you do it because it's real. Thank-you for everything, and I promise you that I will be kind and gentle to myself. And on the days it is difficult to do so, you will pop into my head and remind me. I am truly honoured to have been cared for by two inspiring, kind, loving, professional women such as yourselves.
xo
PS
I'm beginning a new journey as the Pyjama Smoker you all know and love - I call her "back to work" Pyjama Smoker. Though I believe this to be a good thing, I think my body is rebelling. Perhaps I'm just... allergic to the idea of work? I'm sick with some kind of chesty flu thing, and remembering what it was like to deal with this AND work. I haven't really gotten physically (virally) sick since I took my leave, so this is the first time I've really had time to ponder the time I've had off, the time before I had time off, and so on. That, and my sister has been as sick as a dog for about a week, and is still going to work because she is one fucking badass scientist. Makes a gal think.
I used to get so, so sick, for months at a time. SICK. I mean, the way I feel today is childs' play next to what I used to go through. First of all, there was the impending doom with oncoming illness. It's the "oh shit I have to cancel all my client work tomorrow what are they going to do, when am I going to be better so I can reschedule next week is going to be doubly hard because I'm taking this day off" feeling. Holy SHIT I don't miss that feeling.
Then we go back a few years when I was taking care of Mum. That was the "motherfucker I have to work at the bar tonight because there's no one to cover for me oh wait, my best friend who also works there will cover for me tonight god bless him, okay tonight I'm going to collapse but I have a paper due tomorrow afternoon and Mum will be up at 7 am and if I sleep tonight maybe I can skip class tomorrow and get Mum off to her day program and write the paper during the skipped class and get it in on time and then work tomorrow night" era.
Which begs the question - why am I surprised I used to be sick for weeks at a time??
I am now, officially, employed. I start working at a bar in the next few weeks. I have made the decision not to go back to work in my destined field (social work, outreach work, counselling) until after this summer is over. I call that my "destined" field of work because despite the fact that I'm not currently *in* it, I still feel passionate about it, love it, and yes, very much miss it. That being said - I am sick, it is winter, and I am taking care of my body. No, I mean, I'm taking CARE of myself. And it's something I have finally decided to prioritize. I think I remember how to do it, it's just been so long since I've allowed myself to do so and (more importantly) had the privilege and freedom to do so.
So here I am, day two of doing preeeeetty much nothing. I'm smoking very minimally (just enough to keep me from getting cranky and restless - yes, I'm an addict) and not drinking. I'm taking in fluids, emergen-C, eating steamed veggies and rice, using my nasal lavage, steaming my head with hot water and tiger balm. I am going to recover in a predictable period of time, goddammit, if it kills me in the process! I have no excuse - no work, minimal obligation. It's like being a fucking kid again! Only without my Mum here making orange Jell-o and setting me up in the den in front of the TV. My version is natural fruit juice, knitting, and ongoing episodes of the TV show "Thirty Something"
Anyways, the next few weeks are going to be quite the flux for Miss PJ. I'm going to shed the actual PJ's and re-enter the workplace, only in a very part-time and "my terms" basis. This year has to be... HAS to be... less about me fulfilling my dreams of creating change through work, and more about me creating change in myself so that I can once again work in my preferred field.
But I digress.
The topic of this blog was "It's hard to say goodbye". One of the first posts in this blog was about my first experience meeting with my therapist and psychiatrist, and the struggles I had even walking in that door. Some things have changed so much, some have changed not much at all. I still wake up most days with sadness, depression, the inability to see my future being more than this sheltered, safe but lonely life. I still have nightmares every night. That being said, I have learned so much about coping, and being gentle towards myself.
Today, I had my very last appointment with my therapist and psychiatrist, and I had to say my goodbyes. If I have ever written anything of any kind of significance, the following is the most important thing I have ever written and acknowledged. And as I write it, I cry.
My therapist and psychiatrist's departing words, jointly, were as follows. And I don't think I will ever forget them: "Don't settle. Don't settle in life if because you know when you need or deserve more than what you are settling for. Take such care of yourself, physically and mentally, and be gentle on yourself, because you deserve kindness. You are one of the most unusual people I have met - and I mean that in a good way. I hope that you will be able to continue to push the depression further away, and live your life with love for yourself."
They left me with the name of a woman they both agreed will be a good long-term private therapist, if I can afford it. I have already decided that paying for this private therapist will be a priority in my financial planning. I trust both of them to have referred me to someone who will suit me.
To the two people I said goodbye to today. I cannot reveal your names, but just so you know, I will never forget you - the kindness you have given me will forever be etched in my brain. You, perhaps not physically, but emotionally, wrapped your arms around me and gave me true unconditional love and support. I know that as a counsellor, that is real. It's not something you do because you're paid to do it, you do it because it's real. Thank-you for everything, and I promise you that I will be kind and gentle to myself. And on the days it is difficult to do so, you will pop into my head and remind me. I am truly honoured to have been cared for by two inspiring, kind, loving, professional women such as yourselves.
xo
PS
Saturday, February 05, 2011
It's not whether you win or lose...
... it's whether or not you manage not to faint and/or vomit on the judge.
Anxiety and sports, people. A fine line between being good for the mental health, or just a bad time overall.
As many of you know, I'm a competitive dancer. I love competing because it gives me a drive to work harder and longer than I would if I didn't have a personal goal set for myself. And this month, I have been working harder and longer than I have since I started dance again (two years ago), with hopes of doing well in the next four competitions - two in February, and two in March. The first was today, and oh, what a day it was.
First of all, I've been dancing so much that I lost a toenail. Yes, gross, I'll leave it at that. Needless to say, it is painful. Not pain that I can't handle, but mother-fucking painful nonetheless. Do I let this get me down? Hell NO. Last night I had everything packed up and ready to go for a competition up island today. I had the gatorade mixed, the toe taped, I was ready to go and feeling strong! And then, well, there were a few hiccups.
Hiccup #1 - I had the worst sleep I've had in weeks, and it included nightmares about my Grandpa (deceased a year ago this month) and my sister. I kept waking up in cold sweats. So, I woke up feeling pretty underslept. But was I going to let that get me down? Hell NO! Bad sleep be DAMNED! I was alert, and ready to win this bitch.
Mistake #1 - So I don't really 'do' breakfast. The problem is, I recognize that I need to have some sort of meal before delving into competition. This morning, I made eggs on bagel - a meal I quite enjoy at about 11:00 am. 8 am, however, is another story. I ate my brekkie, made my coffee, and departed - hoping for the digestive best.
Mistake #2 - My teacher and I showed up *just* in time for me to change and make it up for the first dance. How were we to know they would skip the lunch break and actually be efficient at sticking to the schedule! For the record, that never happens. I wound up doing my first dance (the most strenuous of all, and the hardest on my toe) without warming up. At all. But was *I* going to let that get me down? Hello NO! I went up there, danced cold, and figured that although it wasn't my best performance, I did well considering, and I could write it off and concentrate on the next five.
Hiccup #2 - One can imagine the adrenaline rush of realizing you're late, then doing an extremely strenuous dance cold. For those of us who are physically delicate to anxiety, this is a recipe for disaster. Well, that and the eggs. Within five minutes of finishing the first dance, I sure did regret that breakfast. Yes indeedy I did...
Insert ten minutes of me experiencing intense problems with my, ahem, "guts". However... was I going to let this get me down? Hell NO! I popped an immodium (carried with me in my little anxiety rescue pack at all times) and off I went. Yes, lying in the fetal position would have been more comfortable, but what's a little bit of jumping? Pshaw.
I think the rest of the story writes itself. The competition was hard, the 6 dances I did (in under two hours - unprecendented and very difficult) were the most difficult, physically, of all the dances to choose from. The next five dances went as follows:
... clench stomach, swallow bile, get up to dance and pretend my toe doesn't feel like it's falling off and that I'm going to lose my eggs on the floor. Do dance. Walk off the floor, race outside, push down the nausea, burst into tears, dry my eyes, go in, warm up for the next dance.
Hiccup #3 - Due to the nausea, I danced six dances without a snack in between, and probably about four tablespoons of Gatorade. By the last dance I was seeing stars and my vision was starting to tunnel. Did I let that get me down? Hell... no?
Before I knew it, I was done. The day was a haze, but I made it through. God knows I wanted so badly to curl up and die in the change room and withdraw from the competition. Needless to say, I didn't place. I didn't do my best, and I know it. I allowed myself a small weep in the change room (alone, as the members of my class accepted their awards on stage), and rewarded myself by taking off my dance slippers and letting my toe breathe, and bleed, freely. Did I let it get me down? Well, yeah. It was a shitty fucking day, and I basically limped my way through the competition.
So here's the deal. I don't lose well, and I never have. I am my most brutal critic, and I always will be. If there's anything I've learned after working on myself and going through group, it is to give myself *sigh* "accurate credit." (I roll my eyes as I say this). But no. Dammit, this time I'm going to do it, and you all are my witnesses.
Accurate credit. I didn't give up. I didn't give up in the beginning, middle, or even the end - the last step of the last dance. I may not have placed, but I didn't let my performance anxiety or my anxiety around stomach problems get the best of me, and I took a risk that felt very risky and scary indeed. For this, I will go to bed proud, and sore.
Because really. It's not whether you win or lose, it's whether you manage not to faint and/or vomit on the judge. I may have come close, but dammit, I persisted.
Rest in peace, big toenail. Sure did miss you today...
PS
Anxiety and sports, people. A fine line between being good for the mental health, or just a bad time overall.
As many of you know, I'm a competitive dancer. I love competing because it gives me a drive to work harder and longer than I would if I didn't have a personal goal set for myself. And this month, I have been working harder and longer than I have since I started dance again (two years ago), with hopes of doing well in the next four competitions - two in February, and two in March. The first was today, and oh, what a day it was.
First of all, I've been dancing so much that I lost a toenail. Yes, gross, I'll leave it at that. Needless to say, it is painful. Not pain that I can't handle, but mother-fucking painful nonetheless. Do I let this get me down? Hell NO. Last night I had everything packed up and ready to go for a competition up island today. I had the gatorade mixed, the toe taped, I was ready to go and feeling strong! And then, well, there were a few hiccups.
Hiccup #1 - I had the worst sleep I've had in weeks, and it included nightmares about my Grandpa (deceased a year ago this month) and my sister. I kept waking up in cold sweats. So, I woke up feeling pretty underslept. But was I going to let that get me down? Hell NO! Bad sleep be DAMNED! I was alert, and ready to win this bitch.
Mistake #1 - So I don't really 'do' breakfast. The problem is, I recognize that I need to have some sort of meal before delving into competition. This morning, I made eggs on bagel - a meal I quite enjoy at about 11:00 am. 8 am, however, is another story. I ate my brekkie, made my coffee, and departed - hoping for the digestive best.
Mistake #2 - My teacher and I showed up *just* in time for me to change and make it up for the first dance. How were we to know they would skip the lunch break and actually be efficient at sticking to the schedule! For the record, that never happens. I wound up doing my first dance (the most strenuous of all, and the hardest on my toe) without warming up. At all. But was *I* going to let that get me down? Hello NO! I went up there, danced cold, and figured that although it wasn't my best performance, I did well considering, and I could write it off and concentrate on the next five.
Hiccup #2 - One can imagine the adrenaline rush of realizing you're late, then doing an extremely strenuous dance cold. For those of us who are physically delicate to anxiety, this is a recipe for disaster. Well, that and the eggs. Within five minutes of finishing the first dance, I sure did regret that breakfast. Yes indeedy I did...
Insert ten minutes of me experiencing intense problems with my, ahem, "guts". However... was I going to let this get me down? Hell NO! I popped an immodium (carried with me in my little anxiety rescue pack at all times) and off I went. Yes, lying in the fetal position would have been more comfortable, but what's a little bit of jumping? Pshaw.
I think the rest of the story writes itself. The competition was hard, the 6 dances I did (in under two hours - unprecendented and very difficult) were the most difficult, physically, of all the dances to choose from. The next five dances went as follows:
... clench stomach, swallow bile, get up to dance and pretend my toe doesn't feel like it's falling off and that I'm going to lose my eggs on the floor. Do dance. Walk off the floor, race outside, push down the nausea, burst into tears, dry my eyes, go in, warm up for the next dance.
Hiccup #3 - Due to the nausea, I danced six dances without a snack in between, and probably about four tablespoons of Gatorade. By the last dance I was seeing stars and my vision was starting to tunnel. Did I let that get me down? Hell... no?
Before I knew it, I was done. The day was a haze, but I made it through. God knows I wanted so badly to curl up and die in the change room and withdraw from the competition. Needless to say, I didn't place. I didn't do my best, and I know it. I allowed myself a small weep in the change room (alone, as the members of my class accepted their awards on stage), and rewarded myself by taking off my dance slippers and letting my toe breathe, and bleed, freely. Did I let it get me down? Well, yeah. It was a shitty fucking day, and I basically limped my way through the competition.
So here's the deal. I don't lose well, and I never have. I am my most brutal critic, and I always will be. If there's anything I've learned after working on myself and going through group, it is to give myself *sigh* "accurate credit." (I roll my eyes as I say this). But no. Dammit, this time I'm going to do it, and you all are my witnesses.
Accurate credit. I didn't give up. I didn't give up in the beginning, middle, or even the end - the last step of the last dance. I may not have placed, but I didn't let my performance anxiety or my anxiety around stomach problems get the best of me, and I took a risk that felt very risky and scary indeed. For this, I will go to bed proud, and sore.
Because really. It's not whether you win or lose, it's whether you manage not to faint and/or vomit on the judge. I may have come close, but dammit, I persisted.
Rest in peace, big toenail. Sure did miss you today...
PS
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Count me in.
Hola, funseekers!
It's been a while since I posted - I've been kind of busy actually. I know. Shocking. This week I've been working on a new life strategy called "accepting invitations". Maybe one of the things I have the hardest time doing. It always feels so much safer (there's that word again) staying in my comfy little cubby.
After the party I went to on Saturday night, and the FUN I had meeting new people and such, I decided that maybe I should start taking these risks a little bit more often. As a result, I have social engagements already lined up for this evening (I went and hung out with my friends after dance), tomorrow evening, Saturday evening, and Sunday. My life, once again, includes people. Scary? Yes. But I can't begin to describe how much I forgot what it was like to be a social person. I used to be so much of one. It feels good, to say the least.
Some of you may be wondering about what happened after meeting someone on Saturday. Did we get in touch? After all, it really felt like there was a new friendship or something in the works. Yeah, funny story. Turns out he doesn't remember much of the night, and as of Sunday evening, I was *officially* (confirmed by friends, not just my own paranoia) brushed OFF. For, I'm sure, some form of a good reason - complicated life, dating another person, not interested in me, whatever. I could speculate and write a story in my head about what happened (and make it the worst story possible, including some form of me making an ass of myself) but that was the old me. That's something else I am trying to change.
Now that I've begun to make more of a habit of getting myself physically out there and into others' homes and environments, I think it's time to start looking at my work situation. Well, within two weeks, my work situation will go from "needs attention" to "potentially dire", so this has to be my next goal.
I will certainly keep the world posted on the progression of employment... I have a few ideas up my sleeve.
Signing off from my first officially BORING post,
PS
Note - I've decided this post is what I shall call a "transition post". Not interesting, but brings readers up to speed so that next time I have a story-and-a-half, I don't have to blah blah on about the less interesting revelations. That and I had my third dance lesson of the week tonight, and I am so achy I can't concentrate enough to form witty sentences. I'm surprised I was able to go beyond "blah ugh A535 hot water bottle soak feet bed with book phhhht."
It's been a while since I posted - I've been kind of busy actually. I know. Shocking. This week I've been working on a new life strategy called "accepting invitations". Maybe one of the things I have the hardest time doing. It always feels so much safer (there's that word again) staying in my comfy little cubby.
After the party I went to on Saturday night, and the FUN I had meeting new people and such, I decided that maybe I should start taking these risks a little bit more often. As a result, I have social engagements already lined up for this evening (I went and hung out with my friends after dance), tomorrow evening, Saturday evening, and Sunday. My life, once again, includes people. Scary? Yes. But I can't begin to describe how much I forgot what it was like to be a social person. I used to be so much of one. It feels good, to say the least.
Some of you may be wondering about what happened after meeting someone on Saturday. Did we get in touch? After all, it really felt like there was a new friendship or something in the works. Yeah, funny story. Turns out he doesn't remember much of the night, and as of Sunday evening, I was *officially* (confirmed by friends, not just my own paranoia) brushed OFF. For, I'm sure, some form of a good reason - complicated life, dating another person, not interested in me, whatever. I could speculate and write a story in my head about what happened (and make it the worst story possible, including some form of me making an ass of myself) but that was the old me. That's something else I am trying to change.
Now that I've begun to make more of a habit of getting myself physically out there and into others' homes and environments, I think it's time to start looking at my work situation. Well, within two weeks, my work situation will go from "needs attention" to "potentially dire", so this has to be my next goal.
I will certainly keep the world posted on the progression of employment... I have a few ideas up my sleeve.
Signing off from my first officially BORING post,
PS
Note - I've decided this post is what I shall call a "transition post". Not interesting, but brings readers up to speed so that next time I have a story-and-a-half, I don't have to blah blah on about the less interesting revelations. That and I had my third dance lesson of the week tonight, and I am so achy I can't concentrate enough to form witty sentences. I'm surprised I was able to go beyond "blah ugh A535 hot water bottle soak feet bed with book phhhht."
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