A Funeral, A Novella, A Niece, and A Revalation

I went to a funeral yesterday. He was the son of a very good friend. Her family and my family have been friends for 30 years. Her mom and my mom used to call each other Laverne and Shirley. I used to babysit her and her brothers. At 20-years-old, this young, man committed suicide. During the service, I realized that I was really angry at him. I was angry at what he put his mother and grandmother and brother and sister through. I was angry at what his son was going to have to deal with when he became old enough to understand what his father did. I'm pretty sure that most of the tears I shed yesterday were tears of anger, rather than sadness. All I could think was, "The selfish, little bastard killed himself. Typical." Life didn't turn out the way he planned when he was 14, so he killed himself. Perhaps you think I am being harsh. Perhaps I am. But I can't help the way I feel about what he did.

These feelings reminded me of when I studied the novella The Awakening by Kate Chopin in college. I was just as angry, if not more so, at the protagonist in the story. She committed suicide, too.

Taking place around the turn of the 20th century, The protagonist was given a choice of staying with a husband who thought of her as property for the sake of her sons, or divorcing him to become the woman she wanted to be and never seeing her sons again. I was angry at the character for not actually making a choice. It was argued in class that suicide was a third choice, but I was never able to accept that. Who did suicide help? Her sons were still without her: the sons she felt she couldn't abandon through divorce. It didn't actually do anything to fight against what was causing the torment, either. (You know, the fight for women's equality.) In fact, the only purpose it served was to run away from a conflict, and that made me mad, mad, mad!

I guess it's natural to assume that because of my reaction to these two situations, I don't think suicide is the answer to anything. You would be wrong. Sometimes, I do think it is the right answer.

My niece, the one who had the heart transplant, chose to die. She was almost 12-years-old, and she had spent more than half of her life in a hospital room. By the time she decided she had had enough, her body was rejecting her heart, again, and most of her other organs were failing, as well. Were there things that could have been done to extend her life? Maybe. But she would have been hooked up to machines and in constant pain. She didn't want to do that, so my brother granted her request to be taken off all of her medications. She never would have seen 20. She probably wouldn't have even seen 13. She was tired, and forcing her to stay alive only served the purpose of keeping her around for us, her family. That didn't make her death any harder to bear, but I don't feel that her decision was a cop-out. I don't feel like she was running away from difficulties.

I'm not saying that I wasn't angry at my niece. I was. It's part of the grieving process. But as I moved through my grief, I realized that I wasn't really angry at her. I was angry that I would never get to see her, or hold her hand, or study with her, or tuck her in, or go to the Renaissance Festival, or do a million other things with her ever again. I wasn't angry at her for choosing to end the pain. I was angry that she had to make that decision. Maybe I'm angry at God, or the universe, or whatever, but I'm not angry at her, anymore. I just miss her.

There is a time to fight, and a time to give up. Elizabeth fought as long and as hard as she could, and she only gave up when there really wasn't a reason to fight anymore. That's why my friend's son's death angers me so much! He was healthy, young, and intelligent, but he was also spoiled, selfish, and entitled. (I'm not going to sugarcoat his defects just because he is dead, so don't yell at me for it.) His death feels useless, meaningless, like he was running away from something rather than putting an end to something. Maybe that's why I'm so angry.

Or maybe it's because I spend every day clawing myself through every hour trying not to think about how easy it would be to kill myself. Trying not to think about how much I want my pain to end, but don't want to increase the pain of my family and friends. They say that if you have a plan to kill yourself, you're more likely to do it. Well, I have several plans. I've thought of various ways to kill myself for over 25 years. I've even gathered what I needed once or twice, but I never did it. I believe that suicide for no reason other than to escape, to cause pain to someone else to alleviate my pain, is selfish. You may not agree with me, but that's okay. You don't have to. This way of thinking, though, keeps me from taking my own life every time. It doesn't, however, stop me from wanting to die.

As I'm writing this, I find that I have thought of another reason for being angry. I'm angry at my friend and her family for not recognizing that her son was in so much trouble. Heck, I'm angry at MY family for continuing to not recognize the struggle I face every day. I've talked to them about my disease, disorder, situation, illness, whatever you want to call it, but still they make comments and jokes about things that they seemingly don't realize I am going through. Yesterday my mother said something to me and got offended when I didn't laugh. She asked me why I didn't laugh, and I told her that I would have if she hadn't been talking about something I was going through. My Swiss cheese slab of a brain won't let me remember what she said, just that it hurt knowing she didn't realize what she was talking about was something that affected me, and it wasn't funny.

Is that what was going on with my friend's son? Did he have severe depression and generalized anxiety disorder, too? Did no one try to get help for him, get him diagnosed? Did anyone bother to try to understand his disorders? Did people tell him to just "get over it," or to grow up because life wasn't fair? Did his friends and family make comments and jokes about mental illness that made him feel like he couldn't be open with them? Did they know that he was ill and still make those jokes? Did he feel like no one cared, too?

Maybe I'm not really angry at my friend's son, after all. 

On Writing, Job-Seeking, and Feeling Like Crap!

So, I figured out one of the problems I have trying to write every week. I don't have appointments every week, so I don't have much to report, accept for my daily struggle with uncontrollable emotions. (And that gets boring hearing about after a while.)  Before I started therapy, I thought it would be on a regular schedule. Maybe I watched too many movies or something, but I really thought that I would get assigned a therapist, and then I would be assigned a day and time to see that therapist every week or every other week. But it's not like that. I see my therapist anywhere between every 3 to 6 weeks, depending on her schedule. I feel like I need more structure in my therapy. I mean, I already feel like life is just tossing me around, and I can't grab hold of a rescue rope. It would help if that rescue rope were being thrown to me at regular intervals. I don't know. Maybe I've just been watching too much T.V.. Maybe this is the way therapy really works.

Anyway, I mentioned in my last post that I'm seeing an employment councilor. Right now, she's seeing me every week, and this past week she gave me a couple of job leads. I've heard back from one of them already. You guessed it. "Thanks, but no thanks." Hey, at least they actually let me know I was out of the running. None of the other jobs I have applied for over the last 2 years has done that. So, if nothing else, working with an employment councilor has led me to more polite employers.

I also applied to teach for a non-traditional school that utilizes online courses with one-on-one teacher time. I was really excited about that one. I had the interview 2 weeks ago. They said they would be making a decision last week. I guess I didn't get it, because they haven't called me. I was supposed to do a follow up call last week, but I didn't. I started to, but when I tried to find the correct phone number to call, not only did the website not have the number I needed, but I couldn't remember the name of any of the 4 people I interviewed with. I cried. Then I looked up memory loss and menopause and found out that it's pretty darn common for women who have surgically induced menopause to have major memory problems for the first year afterward. Apparently it starts to get better again after that first year. Now...if I can only hold on until October...

So...what else is going on? Hmmm. Oh, yeah.  I feel like crap physically and mentally. Everything hurts, and I wake up feeling more tired than when I went to sleep. While I don't cry at the drop of a hat anymore, I still cry every day, sometimes more than once, and for weird things. For example, the other day, I started thinking about my niece coming home on leave this week and started to cry. Not happy tears, even though it makes me happy that she's coming home, but big, ugly, pain-filled tears. AND I DON'T KNOW WHY! While I was crying I was saying to myself, "You're happy she's coming home! Why in the hell aren't your tears happy, too?" I kept trying to convince myself that they were happy tears, but I know how happy tears feel, and this wasn't it. WTF!

Anyway, my doctor and I have decided to address the sleep issue, since nothing else is helping all that much, and studies have shown that poor sleep can be a major factor in physical and mental health issues. He asked me when the last time was that I woke up feeling refreshed. I told him I couldn't remember. I can't. For all of my adult life, and at least some of my teen life, I only remember waking up feeling like I hadn't slept, feeling in pain. In fact, a lot of times, the reason I can't get to sleep is knowing that I'm going to wake up feeling worse than when I went to sleep! He thought it was time for me to do a sleep study. I think so, too. I'll be doing an at-home study next week. That should give a preliminary diagnosis and determine whether  I need to do a full study in a sleep lab. I'll let you know later.

One other thing that I have to talk about is how horrible I feel to complain about my life when I have a very dear friend who has so many more problems than I do. Her life has been so hard. She's one of the smartest people I know, and like many smart people, high school bored her. But because of the time and place we grew up in, rather than help her, society told her she wasn't worthy. She dropped out of school and became a bit of a party animal. After a couple years of parties, she decided to take control of her life and joined the Job Corps, where she was raped so brutally, she was told she would never have children.

But then came a son from a truly horrible boyfriend. She got rid of the boyfriend, but kept her miracle child. She moved in with her parents, and has been with them ever since, but they had major health problems, so she spent as much time looking out for them as she did for herself and her son. Of course, they looked out for her, too, though. While her son was still a baby, she mangled her dominant hand in an industrial accident and has never regained full use of it, even with multiple surgeries.

Things went okay for a while after that. We lost touch due to a misunderstanding, my fault, but came back together around 2004 when we were brought back together by a mutual friend at college. (I'll forever be grateful to our mutual friend for that!) After graduation, we ended up working for the same soul-sucking pharmacy benefits management company.

Shortly after I left the company, she suffered a debilitating stroke that put her on social security benefits. While she eventually recovered much of her functioning, she still had speech issues and some slight motor issues. But then she and her father were in a major traffic accident. They both survived, but her father was placed in a care facility that neglected him. He passed away after being in the facility only a couple months.  It took a big toll on the family. On top of that, while my friend was in the hospital from the accident, they discovered that she had a softball-sized malignant tumor on one of her kidney's. They removed the kidney, and after about a year of radiation treatment, declared her cancer free, though they will be keeping a close eye on her other kidney.

Through all of this, she has been MY rock. She has been the up-beat one. She has been the one that tells me it's okay to be who I am. It's okay to not be okay. And then last week she had another stroke. This one was much worse than the first. I went to see her on Monday, and she can barely speak. She understands, but only a handful of words come out of her mouth sounding like words. She is also paralyzed on her right side. But she still smiles when anyone comes in the room. She still gets excited when she sees the flowers and gifts her family and friends bring her. She still has positive things to say. It makes me feel so angry that life has beaten her up so much. Of all the people I know, she has had the hardest life, but she has remained the most positive. She is my hero, and I wish I could be more like her.

But I also feel guilty. I think to myself, "What are my problems compared to hers? Why do I have depression and anxiety when she is the one who is actually having the shit kicked out of her by life?" I start to question why I can't be more positive, why I can't just pull myself up by the boot straps and soldier on? I know it's because her brain is not wired like mine is, but that doesn't make me feel any less guilty. I know that what I have is a chronic illness. I know that my illness is legitimate. I know that my life hasn't really been easier than hers, just different. I know all of this, but I still feel guilty. Did society do this to me? Do I feel this way because people who don't have psychological illnesses don't understand how my illness works? Or is it my illness that makes me feel this way? Is my illness simply perpetuating itself by feeding my guilt? Or is it a combination of both? I don't know. I don't know. All I know is that I'm having a hard time understanding myself, right now. I kind of hate me because I can't be more like my friend. I kind of hate her because she can't be more like me. 

The In Between Time or Waiting for the Next Step

I had to stop going to the Mindfulness Stress Reduction class a couple of weeks ago. My mom has been having eye problems, and since my dad is an on-the-road trucker, she needed me to drive her to her appointments. Unfortunately, her eye surgeon only has office hours on Wednesdays in a town 40 miles away from us. He's a pretty busy guy, so morning appointments weren't guaranteed, and there was no way I could get back in town in time for my 2:30 class. I had to make a choice: class or my mom. I chose my mom. Honestly, I'm really not upset about it. I enjoy the class, but I'm having a really hard time in it. It's the yoga aspect. I'm really not comfortable with yoga, yet. It's painful on my joints, and I'm so fat, I can't get anything where it's supposed to be.

I know, I know. Yoga isn't about doing it. It's about doing it the best that you can. That's all well and good when you're doing it at home with no on watching you, but it really sucks when you're doing it in a class. I'm not a fan of crying in public, and knowing that I can't bring my knee into the same zip code as my chest makes me cry, especially when it was only 2 years ago when I would have been able to do it. (Not that I was skinny then, but I was skinnier and more bendy.) Until I can do yoga without crying because of shame or pain, I will stick to doing it in private. On to the next!

I've started seeing an employment councilor, Kelsey. She's very nice, and I like her. However, she seems a bit stuck on my teaching credentials and keeps asking me about what I liked and didn't like about teaching. It's so hard to put it into words. I loved talking about literature with the kids. I hated everything else: grading papers, talking to parents, learning the standards, dealing with the administration, discipline, having to buy the supplies for my classroom, etc. (I only had to deal with large class size for 2 of my 6 classes. That was lucky, I guess.) But I really liked talking literature with the kids. I'm think that teaching in a traditional setting isn't for me. Unfortunately, I'm so confused right now that I'm not sure what IS for me. I feel bad for Kelsey. She's got her work cut out for her.

About 7 weeks ago, I asked Meredith about putting me on an antidepressant. It took a lot for me to admit that I need one, but I'm having a really hard time motivating myself to do everything I need to do to get well. I think medication will help me find that motivation. Like I mentioned in my last post, medication may be a necessary component to reaching wellness. However, it shouldn't be the first choice. I knew from the start that I would probably need an antidepressant, but I wanted to try doing it without pharmaceuticals first. I wanted to see if just talking and relaxing/meditating would help. While both do help, they aren't enough. I don't know how to explain why, but I'll try.

Talking with someone who isn't judging me or judging her own past behavior with me is wonderful. I've started to recognize my negative self-talk when it happens. I've even started to give myself pep talks. So that's good. Purposeful relaxing and being mindfully in the present is also helping. While I'm still not very good at either, I can see improvement from how I was before. What's causing the problem is that I have no desire, no get-up-and-go, no passion, no purpose. Every day I still wish I had died in my sleep. Every day I still want to cry, not as often each day, but still every day. I still don't know what the point of me is, and that's okay. The problem is that I'm not really motivated to look for the point of me. I've been on medication before, and it made me feel a lot better. However, at the time, I wasn't in therapy, so I never developed the tools to cope off of medication. This time, the whole point of the medication is to help me develop those tools, not just get me through this episode.

At my appointment last week, Meredith asked if the clinician had called me yet to set up an appointment to evaluate me for medication. They hadn't. She said she would contact them again. I hope they call me soon. It's going to take about 6 weeks for it to start working, so I'm looking at another 2 months, at least, before my will-to-work kicks in. That makes it really hard when you're looking for a job. Speaking of which, I'm supposed to be filling out job applications for my appointment with Kelsey tomorrow. I really don't want to, but I guess I should.

Negative Self-Talk or The Mean Girl in Your Head

I know I haven't been seeing a therapist for long, but I have had enough therapy to have learned that the most harmful thing to someone with depression, and the most difficult thing to change, is negative self-talk. It's also the difference between having a depression disorder and being depressed.

Everyone, EVERYONE, gets depressed. When something bad happens in your life, depression is a normal reaction. (NOT being sad when your favorite aunt dies is a symptom of a different, much more scary disorder.) There is not a single person on this planet who can claim they have never been depressed, never been sad. Sadness is a normal, healthy part of life. Depression, however, is not normal, nor is it healthy.

So, what changes to make "being depressed" become "depression?" I think you may remember a couple months ago that I drove to Seattle with my father for my uncle's funeral. On our trip, my father asked me to explain depression to him. Unlike my mother, he doesn't suffer from this disorder, so he doesn't understand that I'm not just sad. Before I explained how I felt, I asked him what he thought about the disorder. This is what he told me.

What he said was that he didn't understand why I couldn't just put on a smile, and go do something. Doing that always makes him feel better, always actually cheers him up. He wasn't trying to be offensive, or to hurt me, but it did hurt. I told him that if doing that worked for me, wouldn't I do it? I asked him if he thought I enjoyed feeling useless and sad and angry and worthless all the time? He shut up, and I silently cried for a while. Once I gathered myself enough to talk some more, I apologized.

I told Dad that I knew he wasn't trying to be hurtful, but this disorder blows everything up and makes it hard to talk about, which also makes it hard to get help with it...figures! Anyway, I tried to explain what it feels like to have depression, tried to explain negative self-talk. I think it helped him to understand me a little better. For those of you reading who suffer from depression, I write this to let you know you aren't the only one. For those of you reading this to understand someone with depression, I hope this helps.

Negative self-talk is the thing that affects a person with depression the most. In fact, I might venture to say that the reason we suffer from depression is because we can't control our negative self-talk. Everyone calls themselves an idiot for doing something stupid, but most people can move on afterwards. People with depression can't move on. We become fixated on that mistake, and idiot is the least of the names we call ourselves for it. Here are some of the things I call myself when I make a mistake, little or big:

stupid, worthless, ugly, fat, know-it-all, loser, soul-sucker (yes, I actually call myself this,) drain on your family, unworthy, unemployed, lazy, bitch, useless, hopeless, unwanted, not able to hold a man or a job, unable to make a good decision, poser, freak, smelly, hairy, incontinent, unwomanly, half-woman, infertile, hag, spinster, FAKER!

I call myself every single one of these things, and more, EVERY TIME I make a mistake, no matter what the mistake is, no matter whether it's actually a mistake or just something unfortunate that has happened. In my mind, all the bad things that happen to me are my fault, whether they actually are or not (kind of like the opposite of entitlement.) Can you see how this could become a problem? What does being hairy have to do with dropping a spoon? (Yup, I run through this list when I drop a spoon.) I can't stop calling myself names! As I explained to my father, imagine having a bully following you around all day long, every day, saying the most horrible things possible to and about you. After a while, it wears you down. Now, imagine that the bully is your own brain. My father asked me why I didn't just tell my brain to shut up? (It's a valid and intelligent question.) I told him that I do tell my brain to shut up, all the time! But it doesn't listen to me. It won't shut up, and it won't turn off. I told him that for people with depression, our own brains are our worst enemy. While I don't think he really understands what I go through, I think he understands that an "attitude adjustment" isn't going to be a quick fix for me or others like me.

And that leads me to something else I want to talk about. You know all those cute, little memes on social media that talk about changing your attitude, that say all you need to feel better is to take responsibility for your own happiness, and make yourself feel better? Well, they really piss the fuck out of me! (And there's the non-obligatory cursing.) Yes, to a certain extent these memes are right. The only person who can make you happy is you, and in order help yourself, you must help yourself. But they are so, so simplified and patronizing! Grrrrrr! They make it sound like all you have to do to fight depression is slap on a smile, or go fishing, or commune with nature, or grab a friend and go dancing, or whatever else is being proposed on the meme. 

For norms, this might work. People who are sad can often be cheered up by a quick change of location, situation, frame of mind, etc. But people with a depression disorder have to work a lot harder to make these kinds of things work. JUST spending some time at the beach isn't going to fix everything. It may help to get that vitamin A, but it's not a quick fix-all. (Emphasis on the quick part.) The only things that can help someone with depression get better is therapy, learning positive coping techniques (which include, but are not limited to the above quick changes,) and sometimes, medication.

Which leads me to the most important part of recovering from depression: be patient. You must understand that it takes time to learn new behaviors, to apply the new behaviors, and to believe in the new behaviors. Like I said earlier, there is no quick fix, so patience is the only thing that is going to keep you going. Medications may help, but even they require up to two months to kick in. Once they do, you will feel better, but pharmaceuticals are not an actual cure. They WILL become ineffective over time. If you have not learned what is at the root of your depression, and how to cope with the problems that arise from your depression, you will be right back where you started. Medication is only a tool to give you time to learn what you need to learn. While it is an effective tool, ultimately it is a temporary one. 

Please, please, please, be patient! You deserve to get better! I deserve to get better! No one, I don't care what your faith or your politics say, NO ONE deserves to feel like their brain is bullying them. NO ONE deserves depression. No one.

I Just Don't Feel Like It

Wow! It's been a while since I wrote, and I think an apology is in order. I'm sorry. I said I would write at least on a weekly basis, but I haven't written in almost a month. What? Oh my god! I didn't realize it had been that long. I wish I could say it was because I'm all better now, and I was just too busy having fun to write, but that would be a lie...mostly. I was busy, but only having a little fun, not a lot. Memorial Day was nice, and the following weekend I visited my parents for the day while they were camping at Lake Deweese. (I don't camp. I don't like it. I think I mentioned it previously as one of the things I DON'T have in common with the rest of my family.) Other than that, I've been busy making sure family members get to doctor appointments, working on crochet patterns to sell (gotta make money somehow,) and losing my mind reading about U.S. current events. (I internalize a lot of external issues. It's part of my problem, part of the reason I have such high anxiety levels. I'm working on it.)

But don't let me fool you. While all of what I mentioned above kept me from writing, the biggest thing that has kept me away is that I really haven't felt like writing. I haven't felt like sitting in front of my computer and putting pen to paper, figuratively speaking. I haven't felt like exposing myself, again. I haven't felt like agonizing over every word I use. I haven't felt like taking time away from computer games, crochet, my dog, cooking, and various other stalling tactics I have been using to keep myself away from my blog.

I'm tired. I'm sure you understand what I'm talking about. I'm ass-draggingly tired. All I really want to do is lie in my bed with my dog and my Netflix while I create the crochet pattern that will ease my money problems. (I don't need to be rich. I just need to make enough money to support myself!) But this isn't going to happen. We all know that this is just a symptom of my depression. Right now, I count it as a victory that I actually get out of bed in the morning. I count it as a victory that I make it into the office to answer phones, to get in my car to take my dog for a walk by the river (which I haven't done in a week.) I count it as a victory that I cook dinner for myself and my brother. I count it as a victory that I'm still here. It makes me question if I'm about to start another down cycle. But then I hang with my dog, and she makes me so happy that I think that there is no way a down cycle is starting. But why, then, am I so freaking tired?

I'm already on thyroid medication, and my levels are looking very good, so I don't think I need a medication adjustment. My estrogen levels are good, too, so I don't think hormones are to blame. I am still overweight, though. In fact, I think I'm getting fatter, even though I exercise more! (Don't talk to me about muscle weighing more than fat, because when I talk about getting fatter, I don't just mean I weigh more, I'm bigger, too, and I don't get it.) I'm working very hard on not eating processed food and actually becoming a healthier cook. I know I should cut out soda, but I'm not quite ready for that. I have 1 or 2 sodas a day. I will eventually stop drinking soda, except for the occasional cook out. (I don't actually believe in completely cutting anything out of your diet unless you are allergic to it, or it's on the "if you eat this, it will kill you" list. If you know you can have it occasionally, you're less likely to overindulge when it crosses your path.) Anyway, my diet is infinitely more healthy now than it was last year! So what gives? Never mind, I'll deal with it later.

I started a mindful meditation class 3 weeks ago. It's going all right, but I had to miss this week's class so that I could take my mom to her eye appointment. According to the instructor, though, I should be okay missing just the one class. If I miss anymore, I'll have to quit and take a different class. So what is this class about? Well, it's about teaching yourself to pay attention to your body, your surroundings, what's going on right now where you are. Sure, that sounds easy, but do you know how hard it is to meditate and be mindful of your big toe without falling asleep? (Did I mention that I'm really freakin' tired?) What keeps me awake is my mind thinking and thinking and thinking. With mindful meditation, the goal is to move away from "thinking" to live in the moment. Thinking usually takes you to the past or the future. Again, this sounds easy, but do you realize that following the presidential candidates, being aware of current events, tends to make you think about the future rather than present? Yeah, it's a conundrum. Anyway...I'm not really very good at this mindful meditation thing, right now. I may never be good at it, but I'm going to stick it out and learn more. I'll fill you in later.

That's pretty much what's been going on over the last 3 weeks. I don't know if I'm getting better or worse. I don't know if my depression and anxiety is coming or going. (Heck, I don't know if I'm coming or going.) I do know that I'm back, though, whether I feel like it, or not.

Today I Hate Everyone

 I will not be posting anything to help you through your illness today. Today is only about how I feel. And today I hate everyone.

I hate corporations that want to have "human rights" when they are not humans; they are only run by humans. I hate the government who gave them those rights. I hate the government that wants to take them away from me. I hate every employer who won't hire me because of my degrees or because of my poor credit rating. I hate everyone who looks down on me because of my mental and physical health, my obesity, my age, my sex, my liberal beliefs, my I.Q., my compassion, and about a hundred other things I don't want to list. I hate them all.

I hate my friends, the ones I love and the ones that are just Facebook friends. I hate the friends who are only my friends because we went to high school together. I hate the friends who are shocked when they find out that I believe love is love, everyone deserves to feel comfortable in a bathroom, no one should go hungry, everyone deserves shelter and health care. I hate the friends who say they understand and then post horrible memes about my beliefs. I hate the friends who claim to believe as I do, but get angry when I disagree. I hate the friends I love because I feel undeserving of them.

I hate my family. I hate my extended family because they don't know me and really don't want to know me, just look down on me. I hate my extended family because I once believed that they weren't racist or homophobic or xenophobic or misogynistic, but they are. I hate my extended family because the ones who aren't like this, do nothing to stand up for me when the others are horrible.

I hate my niece. I hate her because I have been helping to raise her since she was 3-years-old, but she only thinks of my mother as a mother figure to her. I hate that she had a boyfriend in high school who told her ugly things about me and the rest of our family to keep her away from us.  I hate her for believing him. I hate her because, on some level, she still believes the stuff about me. I hate her for sending flowers to my mom on Mother's Day, but not even sending me a hello message on Facebook. I hate her for making me cry.

I hate my brother. I hate him because when I said I was going to be "all in" to help him with his business, he decided to drop out of making any decision concerning it. I hate him because he doesn't realize that though I accept only a $100.00 a week allowance to help him in the office and cook and clean, it's not enough to live. I hate that he thinks that the only reason I don't have a life is because of my health, instead of my desire to be as small a financial burden on him as possible. I hate that he is an alcoholic. I hate that he spends so much money on booze, and doesn't see how it is hurting him and the business. I hate that he wants me to make the business decisions, but then doesn't follow my advice or the protocols I put into place. I hate that he puts me on ignore.

I hate my father. I hate him because he doesn't understand how he sometimes hurts me with the jokes he makes to cheer me up. I hate him because he doesn't understand how embarrassing it is and how much like a failure I feel when I ask him for financial help: he just thinks he's taking care of his family, doing his job. I hate that at 45 I am still his "little girl."

I hate my mother. I hate her because I have been suffering from depression and anxiety since I was 17 years old, and she never realized it. I hate that she never saw through the acting to the real person within. I hate that she suffers from the same illnesses, but she never saw them in me. I hate that every time I try to talk to her about my therapy, she changes the subject. I hate that she, inadvertently, makes me feel ashamed to be me. I hate that she tries to make me "feel better" when what I need to do is just acknowledge my feelings and work through it, use the tools I am learning. I hate that she is the best friend I have, the only one I want to talk to about what's going on, but now I feel uncomfortable doing so. I hate her because I feel like I make her uncomfortable when I mention therapy or depression or anxiety or my emotions or my "tools" or anything that has to do with anything not good. I hate her because when I confronted her last week about her ignoring my therapy, she said, "I always thought you were stronger." I hate her because I know she meant stronger than she is, but that's not what she said.

The only things I don't hate right now are my animals. Duke, Castiel, and especially Hermione keep me alive.

Hermione, Mother's Day, and Mom

While I'm writing this, I am watching "Once Upon a Time" on Netflix, playing 3 different worlds in Elvanor, and trying not to disturb Hermione sleeping on my chest as I crochet her new sweater. (Yup. Leaning back in my chair and writing is not very comfortable. But I'm not going to wake the dog up. No way.) Remember me talking about doing a lot of stuff to keep my mind out of the present and off the crazy? Yup! I'm a multi-tasker. And apparently, I'm not doing well with the mindful meditation exercises.  

I'm still not at 5 minutes of meditation, but I'm not sure whether I'm bothered by it, or not. Why? Because most of the reason why I'm unable to do it is because Hermione keeps interrupting me. Now that she is becoming more comfortable with me and her new home, her personality is revealing itself. She's very eager and mischievous. And sneaky. Whether it's knocking over the kitchen garbage can to get in it more easily, or sticking her tongue up a nostril in a surprise licking attack, she has a way of grabbing my full attention whenever she wants it. Apparently, she feels that mindful meditation time is time that would be better spent loving on her, and honestly, I tend to agree.

Yesterday was a really hard day for me, and if it weren't for the antics of my beloved Hermione, I'm not sure I would have made it through the day as well as I did. Mother's Day has always been a difficult day for me. I've always wanted kids, but I didn't have them. It's not solely because I never married. After all, at the tender age of 18 I told my mom that when I thought I was ready to have children, I was going to have them, husband or no. For me, being ready to have a child included 3 things: wanting them, being ready emotionally and mentally to make them the first priority in my life, and being financially able to support them. A husband was optional.

By my late 20s early 30s, I had met the first two criteria, so I started working on the third. Unfortunately, that's about the time that a single person started to have a hard time supporting him or herself in this country. There was no way I was going to be able to support a family alone. I let the child dream rest until I could find a partner to share the joy with. I still haven't found one. Mother's Day became a little bittersweet. This year was especially hard. It's the first Mother's Day after my hysterectomy.

Until this year, there was still the hope that I would find "the one" and start a family. I was a little worried about infertility, but knew that with the right person, I could get through that. Now, the hope that I will ever give birth is gone, and it really, really hurts. I know there's adoption, and I've always said that I wanted to adopt whether I could give birth or not, but I'm still not financially able to support a child.  No one in their right mind would give me one, right now. So, yesterday, seeing all of the Mother's Day posts on Facebook, reading all of the Mother's Day news articles, scrolling through the Spoiling-Mom-on-Mother's-Day pins on Pinterest really messed me up. Throw on top of that seeing the lovely flowers my niece sent to my mom to thank her for being "like a mom to her," whilst said niece ignored me, who also helped to raise her, and I felt like the only thing I could do was curl up in a ball and cry until my sinuses became so full they exploded and took my head with them. My niece is the closest I will probably ever come to being a mother, and she didn't even acknowledge me as being such. It hurt.

But then...Hermione. She sat on my lap all morning and kept me grounded. I cried, Don't get me wrong. I cried a lot. But her unconditional love helped me to just feel sad, not suicidal. Her patience with me, allowing me to dress her up, cuddle her, and take care of her, gives me just enough mom feels to make not really being a mom not okay, but livable. I worry, though, that I'm going to over-do everything, and she will end up spoiled and bad tempered. I don't want to become that fur-mommy who lets her dog control every aspect of her life. I want to find the balance between crazy dog lady and loving fur-mommy. But for this Mother's Day, I was the crazy dog lady, and it's exactly what I needed to be to get through the day.

None of my friends know how much I wanted kids. Most of them actually believe it when I say, "I love children, as long as I can return them to their mother." The ones that don't believe that, think that I don't really like children. I think my mom was the only one who knew I actually wanted kids, but I don't think she understood how much it hurt me to lose the opportunity forever. Until Saturday.

On Saturday, we spent the evening together. I went to her house to pick her up to take her to a get together we had been invited to, and she immediately pointed out her flowers from my niece and started gushing about what a surprise it was to get them, and how pretty they were, and how much my niece loves her and considers her more of a mother than a grandmother, and on and on. I did very well and just smiled. I couldn't say anything, because if I did, the tears would start, and I didn't want to start our fun mother/daughter evening that way. So, smiling and just making positive sounds was all I could do to acknowledge her wonderful gift.

She finally stopped talking about it, and we made our way to the car. We were going to a girls only party about 45 minutes away, so we had a lot of time to just talk. I love driving with my mom because I love talking to my mom, but about 15 minutes out of town, she started in on the flowers, again. I just smiled and nodded and felt thankful that I had my glasses on so the thick handles could hide my eyes. She went on and on and never noticed that I wasn't saying a word. Then she asked me a question. She waited for my reply, but I just couldn't. If I opened my mouth, I felt like the only sound that would come out was the keening of grief. She asked the question again. When I didn't answer this time, she asked if I was all right. I whispered, "No." And then I spent a minute composing myself so that I could speak.

I said, "I'm really happy that Alicia loves you and sent you those flowers to say thanks, but when you talk about it, it makes me feel like crap. She's the closest thing I will ever have to a daughter, and she doesn't see that. She doesn't even want to be around me." My mom then interrupted and asked, "What makes you think that." And I told her, "Because she doesn't want to hang out with me anymore. She has her friends she would rather be with, and I understand, I was a young Airman and wanted to spend my leave with my friends. But she never even acknowledges how much like a mom I was to her: driving her to school, cooking her meals, buying her health and hygiene products, supporting and cheering her at school events, buying her clothes and teaching her how to size herself for a bra, helping her choose a prom dress and hundreds of other little things." Mom tried to interrupt again with, "She does that because...," but I stopped her. "I don't care why she does it. It makes me feel like garbage. I will never be a mom. Before I had hope, but now I don't, so Al not acknowledging me hurts more." During this whole thing, tears were running down my cheeks, snot was running out of my nose, and I was driving. Mom was quiet. I think that was when she realized how much I wanted kids.

It's now the day after Mother's day, and I'm still a bit wrecked. I look at my brother's girlfriend and wonder why the hell does she get to have 3 children and 1 grandchild (with another on the way,) and I get nothing? She's a horrible mother! She doesn't even like her children. She's off Saturdays and Sundays and spends every minute of those days, up until Monday morning, when she has to take her youngest child to school, with my brother at our house! Her middle child dropped out of school and does online school now, but rather than go back home on Monday after dropping the youngest off, she comes back to our house! My brother has gone to work, and I'm in the office, and she just hangs out watching T.V. here, because she doesn't want to go home and "deal" with her child! Then I look at all the news articles and stories about women who are even worse than she is who get to be moms. Why didn't I get to be one? Why?

And Then I Got A Dog

Yet again I have been procrastinating. I think that's the hardest part of my illness. I want to do stuff, but I don't want to do stuff. I get really excited about something, but lose the will to complete it part way through, sometimes before I even start. I'm just chock full of ideas that never materialize. And that makes me feel like garbage.

This blog is something that excited me more than anything has in a very long time. Don't get me wrong, I love writing it. I just feel like I'm a big complainer. I don't want this to be a "how to survive depression and anxiety" blog, but I do want it to be informational. I don't want it to be a "poor me" confessional, but I know that I have to share my life, feelings, and thoughts. I'm having a difficult time figuring out how much of my story to add without it sounding whiney, because it all sounds whiney to me. I guess I'll just write and try not to edit my thoughts too much, and if it all comes out sounding whiney to you, you can tell me. I can't guarantee that will make me change how I write, but I will read what you say and take it into consideration. (Of course this excludes anything written by trolls. Trolls will be ignored with extreme prejudice.) 

During this week's therapy session, Meredith and I discussed where I fit into my own life. What life? I spend most of my time thinking about and doing for others. I feel like I'm being selfish all the time, though. I feel like all I ever do is crochet and watch Netflix. I know I do more, but that's not how I see myself. I feel I could/should be doing more. At the same time, I get frustrated because I can't get appreciation for what I do. I don't need flowers or cards or presents, I just need my brother and his girlfriend to not put dirty dishes in the sink when the dishwasher is empty. Or, and this has happened more than once, not leave the dishes they just used to heat up their lunch sitting on the counter while I'm standing at the sink washing the dishes. BRING THE DISHES TO ME! When they do these things, I feel like a maid. I know I'm unemployed and earning my room and board by cooking and cleaning, but you don't have to make me FEEL like that's what I'm doing.

It makes me cry. It makes me feel like a loser because I do these things for a brother and his girlfriend instead a husband and children. It makes me feel like a freeloader because I do this instead of contribute financially, especially during the winter when my brother's window cleaning business drops down to almost nothing. I already feel broken by my illness, I don't need to feel worthless, too.

Which leads me to the second thing Meredith and I talked about: being in the moment. I am always doing, reading, or watching something. I'm never just "being." I never just sit alone with my thoughts. I can't. It hurts too much, like way too much.

I used to have quiet contemplation time when I was younger. I'm not sure when I stopped doing it, but I did. I don't even know what exactly made me stop. When I try now, not only does the negative self-talk intrude, but images of bad things happening to my loved ones do, too. These things are usually what trigger anxiety attacks. I'm constantly worried that something will happen to take a loved one away. I worry about how I'll survive without them. I worry about how my other loved ones will handle the loss. I worry that no one actually needs me, and that I'm just a big ol' burden on everyone. And that if I die, it won't matter. And then I start making fun of myself for these thoughts. I pretend like they're silly instead of terrifying. In other words, I make myself feel like a loser because the fear of loss is so great.

So, what she wants me to do to combat this is to start practicing mindful meditation. (See the link titled "Mindful" in the links section for an interesting website on the subject.) What is mindful meditation. Basically, it's turning everything off and sitting, looking down at nothing, and paying attention to everything and nothing at the same time. There's no special breathing, the only positioning requirement is that you sit comfortably with your knees lower than your hips. The goal is to be in the moment. If your mind wanders, that's okay, but you gently bring it back to the moment when you catch it. If you fidget a bit, that's okay, too. It's a lot harder than it sounds. I've tried it once, so far. I could only last a couple minutes before I just had to stop. I'm going to keep trying. My goal for now is 5 minutes. I'll increase the time as I can, but 5 minutes is challenging enough for now. 

On another note, one my therapist is excited about, I got a small dog. I already have a cat and a large dog, Duke and Castiel. I love them both, but neither of them cuddle, and I really need cuddles, right now. My first cat was a major cuddler, and she spoiled me. Cleo was what kept me going through my other episodes.

My new dog is a Maltese, and I named her Hermione. My aunt found her wandering the streets and picked her up. I guess Hermione was matted so badly my aunt's groomer decided to just shave all of her hair off. Also, the gunk under Hermione's eyes was so thick, the groomer had to spend over an hour soaking and pulling it all off. Anyway, after they did all this, my aunt called me and asked if I wanted the dog. After seeing Hermione's picture, it only took me about 3 minutes to say yes. I'm worried about taking on the expense of a high maintenance animal, but the benefits of the constant adoration and cuddles takes some of that worrying away. (I'll figure something out about the money. See, she's helping me worry less already!)

Besides the cuddles, I now have the added bonus of new inspiration for my crocheting. Crocheting is a very important stress reliever for me. Counting stitches and relaxing my hands enough to keep the yarn tension loose enough helps to calm me. I have a problem finishing projects, though....unless I'm crocheting for someone else. I have made hats, scarves, afghans, purses, stuffed toys, and a bunch of other stuff for all of my friends and family, but I have run out of people to crochet for, and I don't crochet for me. Now I can crochet sweaters for Hermione. Don't laugh. I know you want to. I used to be a laugher, too. But that's because I didn't understand about Maltese fur. You see, their fur is much like human hair, and they don't have an undercoat. (It's the undercoat that keeps a dog warm.) A Maltese, especially one that has been shaved, needs a little help to keep warm when it gets chilly. There are a couple other breeds like this, but I'm not so worried about those breeds, just the Maltese. 

I'm sure you'll hear much more about Hermione as we go along, but for now, just know that she is helping. She loves to cuddle with mummy, and I can't help but smile when I look at her and giggle when she gets excited and gives me kisses. Is a cuddle animal right for everyone? Probably not, but taking care of her gives me a purpose that has nothing to do with "paying for my keep."

Here are some pictures of my sweet Hermione:

                                         

Her first day home last Saturday!

Getting ready to go on our first walk together. (Before the spring snowstorm rolled in, and she decided that leaving the warm house was a bad idea.)

Friday after we got home from the vet. Poor Hermione. Not only did she get her shots, but she has ear infections, so she had to take other medicine, too. Now she doesn't feel so good. 

My next therapy session isn't until the end of May (yes, 4 weeks between sessions, and I'm not very happy about that,) but I will continue to write every week. I won't leave you hanging because I feel like I have been. On the positive side, though, I will have plenty of time to practice mindful meditation.

On Feeling Like a Lump of Crazy...I Mean Lazy

I don't feel like writing today, which is exactly why I'm sitting at my computer, banging away on the keys. I haven't felt like writing all week. Since my appointment a week ago Tuesday, I haven't felt like doing anything. I've had a hard time convincing myself to take a shower or brush my teeth. I haven't made phone calls for my brother's business. I haven't even listened to the voicemail. I cook dinner and clean the kitchen, and I take care of my two animals, but the only other productive things I have done all week are 1. Clean my bedroom and 2. Go to my PCP.

About my PCP visit:  Since my blood work came back as negative for rheumatoid arthritis, we've been at a kind of loss as to why my leg joints hurt so much, especially my knees. We thought maybe it was because I have gained so much weight over the last couple years. I used to walk a lot. Now, I have a hard time walking around the store. The doctor wanted me to try walking around the block several times a week. Well, not long after he asked me to do this, I ended up in Seattle. I actually spent a lot of time walking, and I realized something. I quit walking a lot when my knees started hurting (hips, too), not the other way around, and my feet swell up like crazy when I walk a lot. I decided to do some research about foot problems affecting leg joints. This is what I found: my flat feet may be causing all of the problems.

Yes, I have flat feet. I have had flat feet, or nearly flat feet, for probably 25 years. In fact, when I started having ankle problems in Basic Training, I was nearly kicked out because of my almost flat feet. They kept me in the Air Force, but my feet got worse. Working as a pharmacy tech required I stand all day, every day in horrible shoes. I got orthopedic insoles made, but they didn't help. I left the Air Force before anything else could be done. Flash forward 20 years and I have now spent more than half of my adult life working jobs in which I stood or walked all day: waitressing, pharmacy tech, teacher, sales clerk. Soooooo, now my feet are in terrible shape.

I stopped taking walks a while back, which is one of the few forms of exercise I actually enjoy, because it hurt my knees and hips so much. Then my weight rose, which put more pressure on my feet, which caused me to compensate with my knees and hips, which made me not want to walk because of the pain, which made me gain more weight...and on and on. It turned into a cycle that feeds itself. My doctor and I have decided it is now time to consult a podiatrist. My hope is that he will be able to fix my feet by having me wear special shoes. I will then be able to start walking again. The pounds will roll off. My knees and hips will recover. And my brain will start to feel better because of the fresh air and new healthy body! That's the hope. The reality will probably be that my feet aren't what's actually causing my joint problem, and I'll need to get a referral for the orthopedist, who also won't be able to help. (Yes, that is a defeatist attitude, but have you been reading my blog? I'm not really an optimistic person. Working on it, but not there yet.) I'll let you know whether the hope comes true in about three weeks. That's when my podiatrist appointment is.

So, now I'm going to talk about cleaning my room. Why is this such a big deal? Well, it hasn't been cleaned since my hysterectomy last October. The sheets have been changed, and the trash has been taken out, but that's about it. (And the trash wasn't taken out as much as it should have been.) Needless to say, it was a mess. At first, I wasn't physically able to clean it. Then, once I was allowed to start lifting things, I just didn't have the energy to do it. I guess that's when my current depression spell really started kicking my ass. I saw the mess, was disgusted by the mess, but still let the mess hang out and watch Netflix with me. Even after I started leaving my room, the mess stayed were it was. My skin would crawl when I thought of spending time in my room to do anything, even to sleep. But I didn't clean it, and I forced myself to be there.

Why did I force myself to be in my sty of a bedroom to watch T.V., crochet, and sleep? Because I'm a pig and pigs live in sties. This is what my brain tells me every day. This is what my disease is telling my brain to tell me every day. It makes me cry that I can't fight back when it says this. I try. I tell it to stop, out loud. Really. Out Loud. It doesn't work. Every day my brain calls me names like lazy and pig and stupid and useless and worthless and ugly and fat and know-it-all and loser and and and and.... By allowing myself to live in filth I acknowledged that I didn't deserve to live better. That's why I forced myself to stay in a dirty room. But why didn't I just clean it up?

Because I was scared. I was afraid that if I cleaned my room and got my stuff in order, it would be easier for me to give up. When I go, I don't want my family to have to deal with the disorder that is my life. So, if I clean up my room, it's one less thing for them to do. After what happened to my uncle's family when they tried to get into his computer and accounts without his passwords, I thought maybe I should write down all of my accounts and their passwords for my family. But this will remove another barrier to my leaving. Every time I think about organizing and cleaning, I get anxious and have to stop. I'm afraid that once I get everything in its proper place and all of my affairs are ordered, I'll just stop existing. Every day I wish to die. Every day I stay here. I'm afraid that one day I won't. That's why it's a big deal that I cleaned my room. 

Individual Therapy Session...1

My uncle is dying. My mother called while I was in group this morning, but I didn't answer. When I called her back once I got in my car she told me. I guess he had texted her earlier and told her that she, my father, and my grandmother shouldn't wait until May to visit. As innocuous as it sounds, for my uncle to have said this was tantamount to him saying, "Hey, sis. I haven't got long, and I really want to see you and mom before I die." She and my grandmother are going to fly out of Colorado Springs on Saturday. My dad doesn't like to fly anymore, so he'll drive out to Washington after he drops them off at the airport. He's asked me if I want to drive with him. Now I have to decide whether I want to road trip with my dad or stay home, safe in my nest. *I wrote this paragraph on March 23rd. Uncle John died in the ICU on March 28th, about 11 hours after my father and I got there.*

My uncle died 3 weeks ago today. It feels weird to be writing that. I thought I would feel sadder about it. Don't get me wrong, I feel sad when I think about him, but I just don't think about him very often. It's probably because I'm not used to thinking about him. He lived half a country away, and I had other stuff to think about. In fact, pretty much the only time I thought about him before was when I was on Facebook and saw something he posted. He liked to post political articles. Since we have similar politics, I read most of them. He also liked to post funny memes and puns. They made me laugh. And he liked to post about his family. I liked those posts, too.

So you see, I'm not really used to thinking about him now that he's gone, either. Accept... Accept when I see a political post I know he would have given a thumbs up to. Accept when I see my aunt or cousins post a memory of him, or a copy of the obituary, or picture, or a request for prayers. They're really hurting, right now. I wish I could be there for them, but I'm here. All I can do is write encouraging messages to them or post some sort of sympathetic smiley on what they have shared. It feels inadequate.

It feels wrong to be writing this post, too. I mean, this blog is about me: my feelings, my illness, my therapy, my experience. I feel selfish thinking and writing about me while my family in Washington has to go through what they are going through. I'm beginning to wonder, though, if that isn't the crux of my problems. Guilt over what I perceive as being selfish.

*   *   *

I had my first individual therapy session today. My therapist's name is Meredith. She seems like a lovely, young lady, and I think I'm going to be able to work with her. This first session was just a get-to-know-you meeting, but I still learned a little about myself. While we were talking, I heard myself talking about how I take care of others. Meredith even asked me when, recently, have I felt like I'm "better," and I said, "When I'm helping someone." Now, this isn't a bad thing, but what I realized is that I feel I NEED to help or take care of others or I'm not a good person. I feel guilty when I do things for myself, like buy books or get a manicure or talk about me. I feel selfish and uncharitable when I complain in my head about what someone else is doing, or not doing. I feel ungrateful when I have bad thoughts about family members. I feel like a horrible, horrible person when I focus on me instead of others. Needless to say, this is going to make therapy very challenging for me.

Something else that is going to make therapy a challenge for me is patience. I don't have any when it concerns myself. I need to be better NOW. As unreasonable as this is, I need it. I need to stop feeling out of control. I need to stop feeling guilty. I need to start liking myself. Having the patience to wait for therapy to help me fix all this is going to be the hardest thing I'll ever do. Waiting is going to be torture, the kind of torture you get in a Soviet GULAG. (And now I feel bad about comparing my "pain" to that of the victims of torture and the Soviet regime. No, really. That's not a joke. I thought about deleting the sentence, but I need you to see how I think, to understand that EVERYTHING I do and think makes me feel guilty! I would ask you to pray for me, but as a Deist, I don't believe in prayer. Of course, if it will make you feel better, pray away. *sigh*)

Meredith has asked that I write in a journal daily before I go to bed to try to get the bad thoughts out of my head before sleep. She also wants me to include the good things that happened to me that day. I'm not much for pen and paper. (*gasp* a writer who doesn't like pen and paper?) My thoughts tend to swirl around and out so quickly, I find that trying to write them down makes me forget half of what I wanted to say. Since I type more quickly than I write, a keyboard is much more handy. No computer in the bedroom, though. I guess I'll have to try to think slowly. (And now I have guilt because, even though I didn't write down all the political jokes that popped into my head after writing this sentence, I thought them, and that's bad enough. Oy, this is gonna be a lot of work.)

The last thing I did before my session ended was ask if I could stop going to group therapy. Meredith said that was fine. I told her I didn't think I was ready to be sharing in a group setting, yet. I love Connie, but I'm just not comfortable with everyone else. I then asked Meredith to tell Connie that she wasn't the cause of me leaving. Thus proving that one session is definitely not enough for me to stop placing the needs and feelings of others above my own. I'll find that balance eventually. I have to.

I am now very tired and in pain. Before I can go off on a tangent about my pain, though, I'm going to stop writing. Instead, I will get some dinner and go watch season 2 of Turn. (Yes, the whole season. It's that good.)

About Being Honest

Remember in my first post when I said I would call myself out when I wasn't being honest? Well, this is me calling myself out. Not for being blatantly dishonest, but for lying by omission...a lot. To be fair, if I hadn't left things out of my previous posts, those posts would have been incredibly long and probably ramble more than they already do. However, I chose to cut out things that probably shouldn't have been: my feelings. Not my thoughts, but my feelings, my emotional reactions to my experiences so far. Instead I stuck to a description of the events. It's something I've always done. I give you the facts and the description of the experience from afar, and then I let you, the reader, supply the emotion. (This may be why I enjoy reading Hemingway. He does the same thing.) Sure, I've said things like "I felt like" or "this made me feel" stuff of that ilk, but those weren't emotional reactions. They were cerebral.  I think the only actual emotion I mentioned in my last 3 posts has been fear. And then, I just barely touched on that fear and then backed off. That's not being honest with you, or myself. So, this post is about my real emotions, well, as much as I can admit right now.

Let's start with last week's post. Let's talk about my emotions during my first group session. I already mentioned that I was scared. What I didn't mention, though, was how embarrassed I was, too. Why was I embarrassed? Because the first time I opened my mouth to participate, I cried. Cried enough that I couldn't continue speaking. I took the tissue I was given and covered my face with it until I could speak again. I was mortified, I felt ridiculous and little. Not little like a child, but little like inconsequential, stupid, and silly. I don't even cry in front of my family and friends unless I have a really good reason, like when my niece died. (I've become very good at only letting one or two tears leak out while watching sad movies AND very good at wiping them away discreetly.) How could I have lost control in front of strangers? People whose names I don't even know. It's been a week, and I'm still embarrassed.

Something else I felt during the meeting was disgust and anger. I've already mentioned that I'm pretty sure almost half of the people in my group are only there because it's court ordered. How am I supposed to feel comfortable exposing myself to people who I had just heard in the lobby bad-mouthing the therapist and bitching that the court made them come? What were they going to say about me when I wasn't around. You see, I'm pretty introverted now. I don't spend very much time outside of my home. (Heck, I don't even talk to my friends very often anymore.) When I do spend time outside my home, I do everything I can to keep my contact with people minimal. If someone says something to me, I'm polite, but I don't do anything to keep the conversation going. I have been called stand-offish and stuck-up because of it. I accept that people say that about me, and I even understand why they think that way., but I don't think I could handle it if my group mates were saying those kinds of things about me when they are the ones who should know better than anyone why I sit off by myself in the lobby. (Because I will be doing that from now on. I can't bear to hear or feel the negativity they express while waiting for group to start. I'm perfectly happy spending my waiting time crocheting by myself, in a corner, on the other side of the room.)

Let's move on to the post about my intake interview. Like I said in the post, I don't remember most of the questions; however, I was dishonest about how I described what I did remember. Again, it was a lie of omission, not of fact. I told you what I remembered talking about, but not how it made me feel to talk about them. While I'm not yet ready to tell you about watching  my brother's accident, I can tell you what I didn't tell Joyce about it. I didn't tell her that my depression didn't start with this event, but it was most definitely escalated by it. I had nightmares about it for many years after it happened. I know what that means: PTSD. I learned all about PTSD while working on my Masters project. My project was about Ernest Hemingway's treatment of PTSD and gender in his novel The Sun Also Rises. I also know people who have been diagnosed with PTSD, and I, though I exhibit symptoms, don't feel like my experience deserves that diagnosis. It makes me feel like I'm trying to grab some stolen glory, some of the PTSD spotlight. It makes me feel like a fraud. So, whenever I get anywhere close to admitting that I have indicators for PTSD, I back off...way off. Do I have PTSD? I don't know. Maybe. And maybe I shouldn't feel the way I do about thinking I might have it, but that's not the point. The point is that I do feel this way, and I'm not ready to figure out why. (Honesty, man this shit is hard.)

--Oh yeah. I should have also told you that I curse...a lot. I'm pretty good at keeping it under control when it's appropriate to do so, but this is just another form of me not being honest about myself, isn't it? I'm not going to NOT curse anymore. I will, however, keep it to a minimum and only curse when I feel to not do so would be dishonest.--

I guess now I'll tell you about my niece. She died on September 9, 2008. She was exactly 2 months shy of turning 12. I'm not any more ready to talk about her life and death than I am to talk about my brother's accident, but I should have told you that I'm still devastated by her dying. I still ugly cry when I think about her. I still get angry at her for not letting me see her one more time before she left, and I feel guilty for feeling this way. I cried when I mentioned her in my interview, just like I'm crying as I write this. It's been 7 1/2 years, and I still grieve like I did the night she died. I should have told you this is how I felt when I mentioned her.

These are some of the things I omitted in my previous posts. There's more, but I'm too tired to go on. It's time for me to use some escapism (Netflix) to bring my anxiety back down. 

The Depression and Anxiety Support Group

Hello again, and Happy St. Patrick's Day! I can't believe it's been a week since we've spoken. Several times during this week I've wanted to hop online and write you a note, but I didn't have anything to say except that I've missed writing. Well, I'm sure I could have gone on some political or activist-type rant, but that's not what this blog is about. I will only talk about those things as they relate to my disorders. In other words, I won't force my opinions on you, just the feelings they create in me. Sometimes that may require I do some explaining of the problem, but I will never proselytize. You, in return, must never turn my comment section into a political or activist debate, either. Deal? Awesome!

In the last post I said that I would start my posts by talking about things I did the previous week outside of therapy. Well, let me start by telling you what I have been doing every day of every week for the last year-and-a-half or so.

I wake up when I wake up (usually sometime between 6 am and 9 am,) make a cup of coffee, go to the home office and get on the computer to read the news and my Facebook feed. I'll play some computer games and watch some Netflix and wait for my brother's business phone to ring, make some business phone calls for him, get his financial stuff done. (I used to spend time job searching and entering applications, too, but no one ever responded, so why bother?)

Sometime during the afternoon, I go to the kitchen and clean up before cooking dinner for myself and my brother. I eat dinner in front of the computer and then do some more kitchen clean up...if I feel like it.

At 7 pm I move to my bedroom, turn on Netflix and either crochet or play more games on the iPad Grandma gave me. (It was a gift to her, but she didn't like it, so she gave it to me. Does that sound like I'm justifying being on Medicaid and having an iPad? I think it does. I'm just stating a fact, but it sounds like justifying to me. Maybe apologizing for having one? I should talk about that more later.) I used to turn the T.V. off around 9 pm and read, but I haven't felt like reading for a couple months, and that makes me sad. Anyway, my day usually ends between midnight and 3 am. See, I have to stay awake until my eyelids are literally drooping and have a hard time keeping them open. If I don't do this, my brain won't let me go to sleep. (It sucks, but it's been like that for as long as I can remember.)

So, that's a typical day for me. In future posts, I'll just talk about the stuff that doesn't include my usual routine. I think that'll be better all around.

This last week I had dinner with my mom. My dad is a truck driver, so she's alone most of the time. Her brother in Washington state is really sick, and she's having a hard time right now. We live in Colorado, so it's not like she can visit him. It's making her feel really bad, and I thought she would like a little pampering. So, I made dinner for her at her house on Monday, and we watched a movie together. It was a very nice evening, and she seemed to enjoy the movie, too. We watched The Good Dinosaur (I thought it was okay, but I wasn't really all that impressed, which surprises me. I'm a pretty pro-Disney-movie kind of gal.) I then did most of the dishes and went home.

Once I got home, I followed the after 7 pm portion of my previously mentioned schedule, with one addition.  My new schedule, which I just started on Saturday, includes spending about half-an-hour listening to some kind of wordless, or non-English speaking, soothing music in corpse pose right before I try to fall asleep. Why wordless or non-English speaking you ask? Because if I can understand the words, I focus on them instead of on my breathing and relaxing my body. Next question: Has it been working? I don't know. The first two days seemed good. I woke up the next morning feeling like I had actually slept instead of like I had spent the night running. But that hasn't been the case for the last 3 mornings. I'll keep trying, of course, but I find that I'm having a really hard time making my mind go quiet. I'll be focused on my breathing, in...out...in...out, then a random thought will pop in screw it all up. Soooo, then I'll try harder to concentrate on the breathing and my upper body will tense up. I noticed that I'll lay there breathing in and out for several minutes before I realize that my body is not relaxed. Soooo, then I'll start over. Yeah, corpse pose is turning out to be more difficult than I thought. Maybe the next pose will help. I think I'll see if my knees can handle the child's pose.

I'll let you know next week. (BTW-I'm not going to replace the corpse pose with child's pose, I'm going to do both. The goal is to create a daily relaxation routine utilizing several poses.)

And now on to my first group therapy session. Wow. Not what I expected. What did I expect, you ask? Well, I expected to be with a group of people who wanted to get better, like me. to be fair, there were people in the group like that, but there were a few who gave me the feeling that the only reason they were there was because the court said they had to be there. Since it's a very small group, those few equaled almost half the group.  It scared me a little. When people are somewhere they don't want to be, they're more likely to be judgmental and non-helpful. Also, it seemed like those same people resented the new therapist leading the group. (While we were in the waiting room, they were very vocal with each other about how much they disliked her.) Perhaps they were just upset because the previous therapist left them, and they were taking it out on the new one. I don't know, but I rather liked her. (AND I remember her name. It's Connie. Yay, me!) I think she is someone I can talk to. The trick will be whether I become comfortable enough with the rest of the group to talk to them.

So, what did I learn in group therapy? I learned about cognitive distortions or assumptions. What are cognitive distortions or assumptions? Well, they're tricks our brains play on us to make us feel like crap.  Here's a list of the ones we talked about:

·          All or Nothing Thinking

·          Over-Generalizing

·          Mental Filtering

·          Disqualifying the Positive

·          Mind Reading

·          Fortune Telling

·          Catastrophizing

·          Magnifying or Minimizing

·          Emotional Reasoning

·          "Shoulds"

·          Labeling/Mislabeling

·          Personalization

·          Maladaptive Thought

·          Compensatory Misconceptions

She gave us general overviews of each of these distorion, and I've realized that several of them apply to me. I won't go into each one right now, or even talk about the ones that apply to me. Instead, I'll do some private research on each of them and post about them later. Otherwise, this post would be the length of a magazine article instead of a blog post. Besides, the information I was given in group was really very basic, and I'd like make sure that I understand the distortions before I explain them to you. Something to look forward to. Hmmm?

We also talked about being emotionally "tipped-over" and how to bring yourself upright again. What is being emotionally tipped-over? Well, we human beings use both reason and emotion to evaluate situations and make decisions. Being emotionally tipped means that the emotion side of our brain has taken over. For example, excessive crying, irrational anger, that kind of thing. The reason side of our brain has taken a back seat, so to bring the balance back, we need to switch from emotional thinking to reasonable thinking by focusing on a task that the reasonable mind usually takes care of, like counting. Remember when your mom told you to count to 10 when you're angry? Well this is why. Apparently, you can't think emotionally while you're counting. Of course, stopping at 10 may not work. Connie advised to just count until you feel better. This is just one example, and may not work for all people and/or all emotions. There are lots of reasonable thought processes that you can use, though.  Things like grounding yourself by focusing on sensory input: sounds, smells, sights, and textures or even, wait for it...writing. (Hey, now! How about that? I'm workin' the reasonable thought processes. Go me!)

Next we talked about anger and sadness being based on feelings of helplessness. Sounds legit to me. When do we usually get depressed? When things happen that are beyond our control: death, divorce, children leaving the house, loss of a job, illness, etc. How do we feel when these kinds of things happen? We feel like we have no control over them. We feel helpless. People with depression and anxiety tend to focus on that helpless feeling and compound it by thinking that we will always feel that way, or that we deserve to feel that way. (I do that.) Connie told us all to create a list, a gratitude list, of things we feel are positive about us.  Here's mine:

I truly love my family.

I learn new things quickly.

Yeah, that's as far as I got before I started to come up with things that had qualifiers. You know, things like "I have a good singing voice, but not as good as it used to be" or "my friends tell me I'm a really nice person." This is a really hard list to create, but I'm going to set a goal for myself to come up with 10 nice/good things about me that don't contain qualifiers for next week. You can do it with me if you like.