re mental illness, meds, & visibility

I'm struggling with my medication right now.

If I take the lower dose of welbutrin, the anxiety isn't so bad ...because I can't feel anything at all.
If I take the higher dose of welbutrin, the anxiety is uncontrollable and I have panic attacks even in the best circumstances.

If I take the prozac to augment the higher welbutrin dose, the anxiety is controllable but I basically can't get up off my ass. It's like there's a layer of not-yummy jello between me and the world.

If I take the prozac with the lower dose of welbutrin, I'm a zombie. And not the runner type, more the dazed-and-confused-moaner type.

If I don't take the prozac with the lower dose of welbutrin, I don't sleep. Ever. That makes me cranky. (Okay, not not ever but it sure feels like it.)

For now, in case you're wondering, I'm doing the lower dose of welbutrin with no prozac, and reducing my caffeine intake while putting several anti-insomnia tactics to work each night. So far, I've slept at least a little for 3 out of 4 nights.

~~~

That said, I've decided not to hide my mental illness from potential employers. I'll probably regret that.

Also, that sounds bad but it's not like anyone would go into an interview and be like, "yeah, I'm basically not functional 50% of the time, but I'm totally capable of pushing through that and getting the job done, it'll just hurt while I'm doing it. A lot. And I'll be irritable and apathetic, but I'll hide that really well because I have a TON of practice. No worries."

And what I really mean is that I'm not going to attempt to minimize my mental health conversations online (on fb, twitter, and my blogs) in order to present a "normal" image.

I hesitated to post about my medications - even though that's exactly the sort of thing I started this personal blog for - because I know that some of my potential future colleagues (i.e., other academics) might see this blog. Some of them are on my fb. Some of them are on my twitter feed.

So yeah, it has occurred to me that I shouldn't post *this thing about major depressive disorder* or *that thing about ptsd* but then I remind myself that if I want this stigma to ever end, someone has to take the risk of being honest about the realities of (my) mental illness. And I'm actually okay with being that person. It's just my socialization-derived instincts that fear being truthful about uncomfortable stuff.

I see you, fear. I'm just not gonna let you make my decisions. Cuz I got TONS of practice with pushing through bullshit emotions. 

ground work

Dash and I are learning to do ground work. "It's all about energy," my trainer says.

Dash works harder than she asks: he canters when she asks for a trot. He does this four, five times. She doesn't try to stop him, but she changes her posture - lets her arms hang at her side, stands relaxed, calm. He gets tired eventually, and trots. She praises him. The next time she asks for a trot, it takes him only one round at a canter before he slows. 

His canter is fast. I know, that should be obvious since he's an old racehorse. This was one of those things I knew before I ever rode him, but I didn't really have a context for that knowledge; I couldn't picture just how fast his "fast" would be. The other day, he and I cantered around in the round pen for the first time and I finally got a feel for his speed. I've ridden a gallop before - speed on a horse is not new to me - but Dash's canter felt like I'd straddled a Ferrari.

Watching M do ground work with Dash, I got to see how very long his strides are at every gait. I commented on it, and M reminded me that -duh, he's a thoroughbred. I've been on a lot of different breeds of horses before, and I've seen huge differences between individual horses, but looking back, they all seem slow in comparison. Dash is the first OTTB (off-track thoroughbred) I have ridden, and the difference is huge. It's like going from a moped to a Maserati... after spending a lifetime thinking that mopeds were maybe a bit too fast sometimes.

I'm not sure I shouldn't be switching out my riding helmet for a motorcycle helmet.

Even his trot is fast and long; he extends his forelegs with a natural and commanding step. M wants to do dressage with him because he has such wonderful extension, but he doesn't like the dressage saddle. Dash prefers his western saddle, heavy beast that it is. I keep feeling like I should replace it with a lighter saddle, but I'm not sure whether he'd appreciate the gesture. 

Starting ground work now is going 'back to the drawing board,' after I skipped the sketch and went straight to execution in the beginning. Not in a bad way, though.

I haven't done ground work in a round pen since I was a teenager, working with my first horse (a Polish Arabian called Goldy). Dash hasn't worked in a round pen at all, except those couple of rounds of cantering the other day. It's an entry level tool for working with horses, but we managed to skip that until now.

There's an metaphor to be pointed out here... Something about the parallels between doing ground work with Dash and the 'ground work' I've been doing with my therapist, who's bringing my thoughts back to who I was before - eveything - and figuring out how to be who I want to be now... But all this ground work has me tired of heavy introspection, so I'll just say: it's fun, learning with Dash. He's a sweety. 

some thoughts from today's travels

The dew evaporated like an unwritten thought.

If it weren’t for extroverts, I’d have no friends. Thanks y’all. You’re cool.

I find it far easier to meet and interact with new people when I’m otherwise alone. If I’m accompanied by someone I know, I’m too focused on supporting that relationship to expend additional energy on trying to manage a multi-party interaction between myself, the person I know, and the new person. The more people involved, the more complicated the exchange becomes, and the more likely I am to be overwhelmed. But if I’m alone, I have the benefit of anonymity. I don’t owe anyone anything other than basic courtesy. That is so much easier.  

I attended an anti-harassment training event tonight. Here’s my takeaway:

There’s an element of awareness or symbolism to prejudice: I wear my hair covered frequently, but in a style that is different from the well-known hijab. The style of hair covering I wear is also used by Muslim women, but it is not recognized as such. So the question is: if a Muslim woman wears her hair like mine, is she harassed as often as Muslim women who wear the hijab? I think the answer is no, because in American culture only the hijab style is associated with Islam. This means that Islamophobic behaviors are not necessarily triggered by Islam’s symbols (as interpreted by the Muslim person), but by the symbols of that religion as interpreted by the harasser. Ergo, Islamophobia is a function of the perpetrator’s cognitive processes.

I believe: White supremacy (or bigotry, or Islamophobia, or nativism, or…) does not coexist with self-awareness in the mind of an individual.

When you call 911 (to report hate crimes/harassment), you get your local emergency services involved and on record. This forces acknowledgement of hate crimes at an institutional level, allows for the possibility of federal government attention. This also keeps the reality of hate crimes personally relevant for your local law enforcement personnel because it gives them direct experiential knowledge that it’s happening in their town. Those individuals are then more likely to correct the dismissal of such happenings in their daily conversations. They are more likely to speak up and say ‘this is happening, this is real.’ They are less likely to repeat or tolerate the hate crimes or even microaggressions they encounter in their jobs and homes.

If it is the silence of the powerful that does the most damage, if that silence is what allows hate to fester, then we need every voice – especially the powerful voices – to speak up against hate.

Why is speaking up or intervening a successful way of stopping hate crimes? How does this function on a psychological level to change the cognitive process of the perpetrator? Is it because intervention reveals the perpetrator’s behavior to be socially unaccepted – that of a demonized outgroup rather than the dominant ingroup they had thought to represent? Is this also why ignoring the perpetrator (a social indicator of insignificance or disapproval) is so effective, even though it goes against our common instinct to confrontation?

The police chief of Tucson, Chris Magnus, said tonight that “When it comes to immigration, we are unwilling to operate as an arm of the federal government… not one of our officers will ever ask the victims or witnesses of a crime about their immigration status… We are here to serve our community. That means everyone in our community.” 

Historically, the people who have stood up against genocide have shared these traits: high empathy and a high sense of connectedness to other people.

If you don’t understand what’s meant by “microaggressions” or don’t understand why they’re bad, you should watch this very short and humorous video: If Microaggressions Happened to White People – Decoded – MTV

climbing the valley walls

It was bound to happen. I've been riding the wave of horseriding-excitement for three months.

Every high has its low. Yesterday, I just wasn't feeling it. Life piled up. I'd had three nearly-sleepless nights in a row, I'd worked almost 30 hours in those three days, it was a particularly stressful work week, I was barely keeping up with my homework (thanks to the gracious acceptance of a late assignment by one of my professors), and I'm low on the cash flow this month. So when my alarm went off yesterday morning, I snoozed it for about 30 minutes. Then I got up and drove my kiddo to school, came back home and went back to bed.

I could have stayed in bed all day, comfortably if not happily.

When I could no longer sleep, I still laid in bed, not feeling like moving despite my plans to ride that morning. Eventually, I realized what was happening. I've been maxed out recently, and depression was sinking in. But I know the signs of anhedonia and I wasn't about to let that cycle get a foothold. I forced myself to get out of bed and go to the barn. To be fair, it was a lot easier to keep going once I started, and I was at least happy to be at the barn once I got there.

I had planned to work with Dash on our walk-trot transitions again, but something was off from the moment I got there.

I assumed it was just me and my depression, so I let the awareness just stay on the back burner, not fully ignoring it, but not paying it any attention, either. Then I went about my routine.

Get the tack out of the shed.
Put a treat in my pocket for later.
Grab Dash's halter and lead rope.

Dash seemed quiet when I led him out of the pasture - this is unusual for him.
He does usually stand quietly while tied, though, and this time he started shaking his head. Up and down, repeatedly. There were flies buzzing around; the day was oddly still for our windy autumn season. I got the fly spray out and gave him a good layer. The head tossing stopped. Well, that's that, I thought.

He didn't toss his head when I went to put the bit in his mouth - that's unusual for him. We usually have at least two head tosses before he takes the bit.

Hmm.

All tacked up, he followed me almost meekly to the arena. Again, uncharacteristic. He's usually excited.

As soon as I turned to close the arena gate behind us, the wind picked up.
The wind always makes Dash antsy, but this time he seemed half asleep.

He dragged his feet and half-stumbled several times in our first five minutes in the arena.
I dismounted, concerned. I led him around to see if he looked lame - he wasn't. He perked up a bit while we walked around, and even head-butted me like normal as he followed along behind me. But he was still oddly quiet.

I led Dash back out of the arena, untacked him, and just walked around the yard with him.

The wind was getting ridiculous at this point. I talked to M about Dash's mood and health; she thinks (and she would know) that he's just out of sorts. There are two new horses at the barn and the weather's been changing rapidly lately (cue gust of wind). There was no sign of poor health, but Dash is a worrier. She always keeps a close eye on him, so I'm not really worried, but I felt bad for the big goof ball. He hadn't even asked for a treat until after his saddle was off. That's usually the first thing he communicates to me when I show up.

The weather got weird, then. It was calm but windy and the birds were going crazy. It felt like a storm, but one never came.

I went home pensive.

I took today off. I still didn't feel rested when I woke up, and I just felt crappy. I guessed that Dash and I could both use a day off. I'm going tomorrow, though, even if I don't ride. I can't let the depression win.

I've been coasting on the excitement of getting back to horseback riding. Now, I've reached the low point, but that's okay. I know how to climb up out of the valley.

One day at a time. 

Stillness

The other day I posted a link to the 'crane cam' at Whitewater Draw.

But it was late when I posted and the crane cam only showed the night.

I went back to it this morning, out of curiosity.

I watched it, fascinated, for I don't know how long.

This is my new stillness.


Whitewater Draw

morning
prairie grass murmurs
cranes flutter, tumble
and call




Shared with the imaginary garden's real toads.


I wish I knew html well enough to load up that feed on this post, but I don't so you'll have to visit their site.
https://www.azgfd.com/wildlife/viewing/webcamlist/sandhillcrane/cranecam/

on Depression

I know why I like music so much: It makes me feel something.

Depression sucks all the color out of experiences. Depression is apathy, it is lethargic, it is inertia. In the grip of depression, I feel nothing. I feel no hate, no anger, no love, no pleasure. Nothing.

Music lends me emotions. I borrow them until I can feel my own. 

Depression has led me to allow a lot of abuse in my life. It kept me from leaving an emotionally abusive ex-husband. Eventually he left me. I filed for divorce two years after he said goodbye. Depression kept me from fighting that rapist; I was emotionally paralyzed, mentally separated from my body; nothing mattered. 

Depression has prohibited me from expressing emotion, because I had none to express.

Is emotion the primary source of human motivation? You'd think so if you could watch the reel of my life. I never accomplished much that I wanted to accomplish. My ambitions have been stymied by involuntary inertia.

Depression has kept me from laughing at my son's jokes. It has kept me from hugging my husband back when he comforts me. Later, these memories fuel the guilt-laden loneliness that precedes a new cycle of apathy. 

I understand the appeal of masochism: when your emotions are blank, physical pain is a blessing because it's reassuring to know you can still feel something. 

Depression is mental paralysis. 

The Room, by Jonas Karlsson [a book review]

This is the best depiction of mental illness in fiction that I have read. Ever. Yet. Et cetera.

And yet, I've had a hard time beginning this review. I read the book two weeks ago and have stared at this mostly blank post every day for at least a few minutes.

I'm just not sure how to express the emotions stirred by this book.

Tell you what, I'll just start here: the description on the Blogging for Books website says -

Bjorn is a compulsive, meticulous bureaucrat who discovers a secret room at the government office where he works--a secret room that no one else in his office will acknowledge. When Bjorn is in his room, what his co-workers see is him standing by the wall and staring off into space looking dazed, relaxed, and decidedly creepy. Bjorn's bizarre behavior eventually leads his co-workers to try and have him fired, but Bjorn will turn the tables on them with help from his secret room.
      Debut author Jonas Karlsson doesn't leave a word out of place in this brilliant, bizarre, delightful take on how far we will go--in a world ruled by conformity--to live an individual and examined life. 

I believe that's the publisher's blurb.

Over on goodreads.com, the reviews seem to divide into those who got that Bjorn was mentally ill, and those who didn't. At least one (that I read) pinpointed Bjorn's mental illnesses as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and a form of Autism. Neither of those is something I know enough about to validate - or invalidate - that diagnosis, but it seems apt from what I do know. (Feel free to enlighten me if you are better versed in these.)

Those reviewers who didn't get that Bjorn had some sort of mental illness were either entertained by the potential magic of the story (Bjorn is, without a doubt delusional), or were irritated with the inconclusiveness of his characterization - that is, they thought he was just a jerk.

Except, in his own mind, Bjorn is perfectly reasonable. Polite. Nice even, though only as kind as might be appropriate for his aims.

Okay, seriously, I'm going to stop myself right here. See, the thing is, this character just straight up fascinates me. This depiction of mental illness from the inside - this flawless depiction - fascinates me. I could talk about the content of the story for... well, pages. But this isn't a book report. It's a review. So instead of going on about the intricacies of Bjorn's character development, I'll just tell you this: if you have any interest in mental illness - if you are curious about how delusion sounds on the inside - you should read this book.

It's a quick, fast-moving, somewhat surreal, infinitely fascinating look at the inner workings of a delusional mind. Just go for it. If you don't like it - this book isn't for everyone, for sure - you won't have lost much time because it's only 125 pages, and they're not even all full.

Bonus: the book includes study questions at the end. If you're into that sort of thing.



~~~

Bloggingforbooks.org sent me a review copy, in exchange for the review. It's a cool site if you're into getting free books and don't mind giving them a few words back in exchange. Check it out.

promises

I broke a promise to myself.
When I knew your life began,
Never had I believed.
I could make it right. 

We started out hard
with my broken promises cracking under our feet.

Your tiny infant feet.
My never-a-mother feet.

I made a promise to you.
When I knew your life began,
That though I couldn't believe,
I would make it right. 

Every joyful jump you made
left my broken promises crushed under your feet.

I can't keep up.
You wait for me.

I hope I make it right.

~~~

"There's this fallacy in my head that I think, if I sacrifice enough, if I hurt myself enough, exhaust myself enough, have enough courage, I can do anything I'm supposed to be doing. That's what led to me being desperate enough to hurt myself repeatedly to get myself into an adrenaline-fueled state that only comes with physical danger, and then burning out so hard I landed in the hospital. I keep thinking that I'm just too lazy and that it's my fault; any grown woman as smart as I am should be able to remember to go to class. I've done it before; why can't I keep doing it? All those ideas come from when my mom pushed the "record" button in my brain, and they keep re-playing. Every success, in the back of my mind, implies that I could've done it all along, and so every success is a proof of laziness." - http://chaoticidealism.livejournal.com/138502.html

That is the result of growing up with an unacknowledged mental, emotional, or developmental disability, and it is devastating.

That post I quoted and linked above is a long read, about a situation that is different from either mine or my child's, but it makes a point that is important to both of us: it's okay to be labelled with a disability if you do have that disability. My child does have ADHD, and having the label has made it possible for him to get the help he needs. I do have Major Depressive Disorder, and that label has gotten me the help I need, too. In my case, it has made it possible for me to help myself. I hope that someday it helps him that way, too. Acknowledgement and acceptance of the problem really is the most important step.

~~~

Inspired by life with my child, the author of chaoticidealism, life with myself, and the imaginary garden with real toads, where I've posted a link to this entry. Because promises are about love.

bitter holiday

all rank and file
and shining brass
fruit salad on your chest
parades and poppies
get lost in the dress

hero signs hang
around your neck
hang you up
so proud on display
reminiscent
of your better days
what are you now?

that emptiness
won't guide your steps
your happy home
went on without you
getting in the way
and all the thank yous know
you've seen better days

it's done it's over
you can't go back
you can't become
something new
your pedestal clings
and chafes
and hollows you out
while rabid onlookers
won't let you down

you're just a symbol now
all your lives
all your wretched loss
a talking point
and reality is
elusive as the solid ground

and there is no moving on
for the hollow heroes left behind




This poem was inspired by American Pie in the imaginary garden, Veteran's Day, and these three articles. Actually, four. Want to help a vet? Save your thanks. Instead, help us change this. 

building happiness

I have Major Depressive Disorder.
Some of you already knew that. It's not a secret.

When my medication works: It's as though that gray cloud that's hanging over me, is just hanging there. It does not shrink or lift, but it does not rain, either. The medication removes the immediacy, the weight, of Depression, but does nothing to fill that void with happiness, or with anything at all. The happiness I must work for.

That work involves building my home into a sanctuary, a place a feel a strong, healing connection with. I am an animist, and I feel strongly the flows of energy around me. All things have a spirit, an energy; this is the basis for my connection with my home, once it is built. This is also the way I heal best. Without my sanctuary - without a place I can go that is a safehaven, a shelter from all the hurt out there in the world - I am ungrounded. Being ungrounded unnerves me, and makes me unhappy. I learned this very recently.

When I moved into a new house at the end of August, I knew it would be tough. I did not know the move would send me into one of the most difficult depressive episodes I have experienced in recent memory. I figured out fairly soon (mid-move) that the episode was connected to the move. I thought it was just the change. The stress. The challenges. A normal reaction to a difficult time for anyone, but especially for someone with MDD (or other mental illnesses, I'm sure).

Perhaps a week ago, I had a particularly bad night. In the worst depths, I began writing down my thoughts. Understand that my thoughts when I'm in the grip of Depression are not reliable in the details, but they often reveal the underlying trigger(s) for that particular event. In this case, the thought that came out was clear: I miss my home, I wrote. I miss the safety, the sanctuary of my little house.

Just a few mornings ago, a conversation with Archer - my soulfriend - clarified my feelings for us both. I needed to feel the connection I'd had with my old house; I needed to build that connection with my new house. Without it, I feel like a stranger usurping the space within this building, intruding in the house's domain. So I will build a relationship with my new house.

This is the work of happiness.

It includes a list of things to do: hanging the rest of the pictures and art, organizing the bathroom drawers, sweep up the already-accumulating dog hair, et cetera.

It includes organizing my container garden in its new home.
A gift came from an unexpected new friend, just after our unexpected move. It was a wormwood plant, an herb sacred to Hel. It's thriving in the sunlit porch of this house. 

It also includes a ritual of bonding, in which I will introduce myself to the house-spirit, and entrust it with the protection of my self and my family. Together, the house-spirit and I will ward this space, while I weave my roots to its anchored beams. I will ground myself in this home, and create a sanctuary of it. Then, I will welcome my gods to join this bond: Sretya, who holds the luck of homes; Hel, who keeps truth and order in life and death; Bast, who brings joy to those who wait; and Odin, who guides the steps of wisdom-seekers. My altar will be built, and my guardians will be placed.

I will come home.

some non-fictional thoughts

I took a break from writing fiction today.
I had reached a 'pause' in my flow, and I had homework to do, errands to run, etc., that made pushing myself to write seem wasteful. Especially since this was one of those days that I could barely hold myself together. I had random crying going on, flat affect, and massive anhedonia. Major Depressive Disorder: it's a blast.
Actually, it was the anhedonia that clued me in to just how bad it was. Me, of all people, feeling uninterested in anthropology and wondering if I even wanted to keep studying evolutionary psychology in grad school next year? Yeah, that's a clear sign that shit is bad. It also made me realize that my hesitation over submitting my grad school app for the ev-psy program at U of A was mainly a symptom of depression, not an honest hesitation of "do I want this?" However, I still don't know if I can do it. I mean, yeah I'm capable, and I'm passionate about the subject area and all that, but... my depression has been really bad this year. So bad that I've actually failed two classes because of it (I just couldn't rouse myself to do the work), and I might fail another. I can't afford to do that in grad school, obviously, but neither is my depression just going to disappear between now and then.
I want this. Even when the depression makes me forget that there's anything in the world that I want, I want this. So I'm going to apply. And hope my brain doesn't betray me if I'm accepted into the program.

lynch mobs for the mentally ill

It happens all the time. Someone breaks the social contract, and the mobs descend like mad dogs, ready to run 'em outta town. Sometimes, they literally want them out of town. Sometimes, the result is just social ostracization. Either way, that person is outta here.

A man camps out on the mountain near my town, on BLM land that's never patrolled. He comes into town, asking for work to feed his wife and kid, who - if you ask him - are on their way to Bolivia. Or they're waiting in El Paso for him to send money. Or they're just around the bend. It doesn't matter: he believes everything he says, even the things he screams. No matter that he's screaming into cars as they pause at the stop sign where he stands. People in town share pictures with each other on Facebook - his piles of trash near where he camps, his dead dog who's still around - plenty of speculation about how the dog died. No food, no water, tied to a tree - at least that's what they say. It might be true. In the picture, the dog has been dead for a long time, a slow meal for scavengers. It's fucking horrifying. Others report being attacked by him. Stabbed, even. Have they called the police? No clear answers on that one.

The mob formed online. Someone wanted to write a petition to get him removed from town. Others didn't care how it happened, they just wanted him out. 'He's a danger - get him out of our town!' No thought for his humanity; no thought for his free will or right to self-determination; no thought, even, for the next town in his path.

I said, "A petition against what? To do what? I get that he's a danger/etc, but what exactly is a petition supposed to do? Run him out of town with its 'official paper'-ness? I don't know the guy, but he doesn't sound like his mental faculties are all there. How about finding out what we can do to get him the help he seems to need?"

Another individual and I found the information on how to get the man help - to have him undergo mental health screening and potentially be hospitalized either voluntarily or by court order; I asked if anyone would be willing to write a statement about the man's behavior. They wouldn't have to do anything else. I'd submit the application for them. So far, silence. 

It was hellfire and brimstone until someone stepped up to offer another solution, a solution that recognizes the man's humanity and his affliction. Mental illness and the behaviors is causes are not personality traits. Mental illness is an illness, which means it can potentially be treated. There are so many physical ailments which alter behavior, but we excuse those. The next step is to recognize the physical nature of mental illness, and treat our ill accordingly. 

happy?

I've been holding back.
I made myself catch up on my homework before I posted a blog.
           ^That's something to be proud of, eh?

I've had a post brewing since before I left the hospital.

I went in Monday morning for my surgery, got out on Thursday. Why so long? Well, I kept running fevers at night. The first painkiller they put me on was morphine. Whoa. Big mistake. It didn't actually touch my pain, but it sure did a number on my stomach. Ugh. Let's just skip over that, shall we? They switched me to percocet, and things got better from there. So I came home. Whoohoo!

I love being home.

Before I came home, I had a moment I knew I would write about.

I was laying in the hospital bed, doing a whole lot of nothing. But that's not the important part. What struck me was this: I was happy.

I was happy.

The ever-present undercurrent of depression - wasn't present.

Whoa - didn't want to get my hopes up. Maybe this was post-op elation, or post-morphine relief, or maybe it was just the percocet. No, no I knew better. I've had surgery before. I've had percocet before. The undercurrent has never left. Still. I kept it to myself.

And it happened two more times: in these little moments with nothing going on, I realized I was happy.

At home, I confided in Archer that this was happening. He said percocet is actually kinda a depressant, so it's not likely to be a result of that. I don't know about percocet being a depressant (not that I don't believe him), but I know that I've taken percocet for my back pain many times over the years, and I've never felt a difference in my depression from it. I've never felt a real difference in my depression, period. Not like this. Sure the anti-depressants help, taking it from an 8 to a 4, say, on a 10 scale. But I'm at 0. Zero! WFT?!

I haven't even taken my anti-depressants since the Saturday before the surgery.

Suck on that one a moment, Big Pharm.

Still, I don't want to believe that it could be gone. But I'm not waiting for it to show back up. I'm on guard, like a chihuahua over the last donut: vicious and vigilant. I'm watching my thoughts; when they slip toward old sad habits, I scramble to right them, to set them back on the right path. I won't let myself slide back into depression out of habit. If I do go back there, it'll be kicking and screaming.

Fuck you, Depression. Fuck you.

something

I'm not sure I should post this. It used to be easier to make these decisions, when my blog was anonymous. It didn't matter because nobody would see me later and feel the need to express some sort of sympathy or well-wishes. That's always so awkward in person, because I know this will never go away. The cycles will complete, and I'll feel better for a while, until it begins again. This is just the bottom. I hope this is the bottom.

I'm going to post this, because I want people reading to have a better understanding of what depression is from the inside. I'm posting this for the sake of those times when I feel better, and can't find the words to explain what it was like being on the bottom.

~

Right now, I feel very little. Little enough that it should frighten me, but it doesn't. It just is. Everything just is. I feel no need to get out of bed. I feel no need to leave my house. I do these things anyway, because my rational mind is still in charge, mostly. It's a cold rationality. It's empty, but it's right. I don't get up and interact with the world because I want to; I do it because there are other people I've made promises too. I know that if I break those promises, I will not be acting as the person I want to be. There's nothing in my heart that cares, but my head knows that later, my heart will care again. More than that, my need for fairness is anchored in me somewhere deeper than my heart, somewhere deeper than my depression has yet touched. For now, I feel dead.

The only spark of emotion I felt today was when I got angry with Archer. I was wrong to be angry with him, but at least I felt something. The anger was only skin deep, and it faded quickly, but it was something, and that's a good sign.

My heart still leapt to hear his voice on the other end of the phone when he called me. Not so high as usual, but still. Something.

I still felt anxious when we started talking. Not the good anxiousness I usually get, but still. Something.

I got angry when he seemed to be blowing me off. He probably wasn't, but maybe he was. I don't know. And now that the tiny burst of anger has faded, I care to find out, because I know I should. My heart doesn't care. My heart is blank.

But I know that if I could just hear a whisper of love in his voice, my heart would jump again, and everything would be a tiny bit better. And that thought, somehow, brought me a shadow of pain. I think that's a good thing.

- It's gone now. -

I'd like to apologize to him, for feeling so little. For not being supportive of him. For getting angry.
And I will, if he will pick up the phone.

Somewhere under this blanket of nothingness, I ache for him. 

Driven to Distraction - a book review about ADD and me

I started reading this book because my little Bear has ADHD, and I'm struggling to help him.

The book is Driven to Distraction: Recognizing and Coping Attention Deficit Disorder from Childhood through Adulthood, by Edward Hallowell and John Ratey. It's mostly by Edward Hallowell, but includes the ideas of Hallowell's mentor, John Ratey. Not that it really matters. Both men are well qualified to write this book.

Anyway, I started reading it so that I could better understand my child. In the very first chapter, I realized I needed to be taking notes - this was good stuff which I knew damn well I couldn't possibly retain unless I wrote it down. Correction: I started taking notes while reading the Preface, which I almost never read in any book (yes yes, bad student, blah blah... that's not the point here, not exactly).

By chapter three, I was reading the book for myself. I'm still trying to understand my child, and the book is still immensely helpful in that endeavor, but I've become completely engrossed in it because it's about me, too. I'm learning that although I thought I had a pretty good handle on what ADD is (I'm including ADHD under the ADD umbrella), I really only had a superficial understanding. ADD is a spectrum, not a single set of narrowly-variable symptoms which are either present or not. And now, I'm sorely tempted to do that cardinal sin of psychology (and psychiatry, and medicine...), and diagnose myself. The more I learn, the more I see myself. Which would explain a lot. I mean, a LOT.

The book is filled with case studies in which I've seen myself and my little Bear, and it is giving me insight into each of us. It has gone beyond just opening my eyes, and shown me new paths to take which will help us both. It's also the first non-fiction book I've ever read that I couldn't put down. I'll probably read it a couple times. I've actually been taking notes, just because I never remember what I read unless I write it down. And this, I want to remember.

The only caveat I have is that it's dated, having been published in 1995. Some of the medications the author mentions are outdated. However, medication is only discussed specifically in three of the 300+ pages of the book. So this datum is really irrelevant, in my opinion. I scanned through those three pages and went on my merry way. Also, the contact information in the appendix is probably no longer useful, either. That's what we have google for, eh?

~

I just found a couple more recent (2005 and 2010) books on this topic, by the same author. They're goin on my amazon list... right...now. And done.

Also, apparently there's a newer, revised edition of this same book. I highly recommend it, based on this earlier edition's excellence. 

suicide

It's National Suicide Prevention Week.

Did you know that? I didn't, until today.
Somebody mentioned it in one of my psychology classes.

~

I fear suicide.

For me, it isn't something that's implausible, or something that 'only happens to other people,' and that makes it a very scary thing. I don't want to die. The thing about suicidal ideation that most people don't get, is that it doesn't necessarily go hand in hand with actually wanting to die. It can, I suppose, but it doesn't always. I know, because like I said, I don't want to die. But sometimes, the impulse is very, very strong.

As I experience it, suicidal ideation not a thought or a choice; it's not a willful desire for death. Instead, it's a primal urge or an impulse that must be controlled before it can be acted upon, all while I know that my control is imperfect, and I'm always afraid of losing the race.

I don't know how to make that make sense to anybody who hasn't experienced it.

Tonight I was looking at various online sources to get an idea of general pagan viewpoints on suicide. I was disappointed by what I found; but then, I usually am in topics that require sensitivity to handle appropriately. It seems pagans are human, after all.

I found what I often find in comments, editorials, and other opinion pieces: a lot of catch phrases, and not a lot of thought. Suicide is one of those topics we humans don't like to dwell on. So we don't give it much honest thought, even those of us who venture out to shape our own religions. Too frequently, judgement was being passed down on those who "choose suicide over coping with live's difficulties," (I am not going to link or credit that quote. Cope with it.) as though suicide were a choice, and not a symptom of a terminal illness.

Depression kills.

That should be a tag line, somewhere. Maybe then people would start realizing that mental illnesses (not just depression or other suicide-related illnesses) are in fact illnesses. Nobody chooses to be mentally ill.

from The Golden Phoenix Girl

I feel like this should be shared

I wonder if people would give suicide more thought, if they considered it part of an illness, rather than a choice. I wonder, if those people were pagans, what they would decide.

~


There have been four times in my life, that I can recall off the top of my head, during which the suicidal ideation was so strong that I felt the need to close myself away from anything dangerous; I didn't trust myself. There is nothing more frightening, than yourself.

There have been times between then and now, and between each of these events, during which the ideation was very strong, but these were the worst:

The first time, I was living with my step-mother. My father was there too, but he wasn't very involved. My step-mother was verbally abusive. I was a teenager, still unable to cope with the sexual abuse I had experienced as a child, and unable to cope with my step-mother. I spent those four years, particularly the last two, locked in my bedroom, to keep her out. During the worst of those times, I found ways to inflict pain on myself, and eased the ideations with that.

The second time, my child had been kidnapped by their paternal grandparents, and the police were unable to help. My divorce wasn't final, and the grandparents lied, saying that my child's father was living with them. Because my child was ostensibly in the care of the father, there was nothing technically illegal about it. Except, the father was living in a homeless shelter 75 miles away, when he had shelter at all. When the helplessness of the situation hit me, along with the realization that I had been betrayed by the grandparents (whom I had trusted, previously), I crumbled. I had nothing left. More than death, I wanted pain - physical pain to match the chaos in my head. I wanted the kind of pain that would end my life. The most lethal thing I had then was my truck. My truck, which wouldn't start. That truck saved my life. With the keys still in my hand, I began shaking with fear. I realized what I intended, and it scared the shit out of me. Ultimately, I didn't want to die. I stumbled back into my apartment, threw the keys behind the couch, and locked myself in my bedroom. Just like old times.
[I did, after a long court battle, get my child back.]

The third time was in the summer of last year. I had done something horrible; I had lied to Archer about another person I was dating. He was angry, and I didn't understand why I had done it. I was disgusted with myself, and he was furious, wounded, and vicious. Even then, in the early and tentative months of our relationship, I knew that losing my relationship with him would be the worst mistake of my life (and yes, I have made many, many mistakes). I was, perhaps, as low as I had been at that point in my life. It was worse, knowing that I was the cause of all our misery. I had recently been given a revolver (ironically - if this were literature - it was a gift from the person I had lied about, to Archer). I looked at that gun, laying there on my nightstand, and I began shaking from head to toe. My thoughts went into a chaotic tailspin; I was gibbering, internally. The urge to use that gun was almost overwhelming. I ran from it. I couldn't even pick it up to hide it from myself. I ran outside and sat huddled on my doorstep, Archer still yelling into the phone. Eventually, I went inside; eventually I hid the gun. And that day, Archer and I came to a somewhat better understanding of each other.

The fourth time was last Christmas. Specifically, the day after, when all the things I had held back from Archer came around to haunt me. That's putting it very mildly, but I don't know how to say it accurately because my memories shy away from the event. Essentially, Archer was, again, justifiably angry with me because I had never been completely forthright with him, and in the course of his attack, I was forced to realize how fucked up I was, really. That was the event that forced me to finally face the reality of the abuse I had experienced as a child, and all the implications of that abuse, all the effects it had on my life and my behavior. And in that moment, when I finally faced those things, I believed that my psychosis had caused me to sabotage the best chance I had ever been, or would ever be, given to experience a real relationship, with someone who actually loved me. The full force of those two aspects of my epiphany (if you will) shook me completely. I believed my relationship with Archer was over. Not only had I sabotaged it, but he was rightly going to end it. At the time, I thought that if he didn't, I would - because I could not face the possibility that I might hurt him again. That horrified me.

I was frightened, then, to tell Archer that I was afraid I would kill myself. I was afraid of how it would come across. He was already angry with me; surely saying I was suicidal would sound like an attention-seeking, or "poor me" technique - that was how my step-mother viewed my depression. But in that moment, I was more afraid of keeping information from him, any information. So I told him. At first he did get more angry, but then he stayed on the phone with me all night, just to make sure I was ok, and he kept track of my state until I could see a doctor.

I had mixed feelings about telling him, even after I did so. I was sure it would look bad, like I was trying to divert attention away from my wrong-doings. I was afraid it would look manipulative. It felt like a catch-22. It still does. Archer and I are still together, though, so perhaps that was one of some right decisions. Trust was hard to come by, for both of us, but we did find it, when we found our understanding of each other.

~

And I wish we lived in a time and place in which admitting to having suicidal ideations, for whatever reason, were not viewed as 'playing the victim,' attention-seeking, or manipulation of any sort.

~

I don't profess to know what if the souls whose bodies die from disease experience different afterlives than those whose bodies die from other causes. I doubt it, but I don't know. If anything, I think of those who have died of suicide as those who have lost the most critical race of this incarnation, and I empathize, knowing I could be one of them.

~

For more empirical information, check out this site: http://www.suicidology.org/web/guest/home