I question everything now.
I am clinically depressed.
How much of each thought, each action, is the real me, and how much is the distortion of the depression?
I get so easily irritated, I am so quick to blow up. I give up on things so quickly... it's just not worth the effort. But would the real me - without the filters of depression - be irritated by this, or angry at that? Would the real me give up, or is it really something that should be pursued, something I should try to fix.
My husband came home from nightshift this morning. He was being sweet, trying to rub my shoulders. I was just irritated that he was in my way - couldn't he leave me alone until I finished what I was doing? But I have to question... reacting this way is not going to lead where I am trying to steer this marriage. Maybe the real me isn't irritated, maybe it's just the depression talking. Or maybe the real me just needed a few moments to finish what I was doing?
He left something on the counter. Should I complain? If I do, he will get defensive. If I don't, there is no way for him to know this bothers me. I don't have the time or energy for an argument... but this is another barrier between us. What would the real me do? What is the best answer to get me where I want to be?
Oh my god, for someone with so little spare energy I spend an awful lot of it fighting with myself. Fuck I hate this.
My kids were arguing tonight. I intervened once, but the argument flared again almost immediatedly. I intervened a second time, but they continued to bicker. I had no patience. I shouted, I sent them to bed early - more than half an hour before the regular bedtime. My youngest was very upset... disappointed that he lost his story. I already feel bad for shouting. I know that I am too crabby tonight, but I am also so tired, so worn out. I said goodnight anyways and left him feeling torn. Did I overreact? But backing up on a punishment is not a good precedent to set. And I did give them chances. But I still feel worse than before. I want to cry.
Fuck this is a shitty place to be. And I HATE that I can't even trust what's inside my own head.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Depression is the reverse of Amnesia
Maybe I need to post more Happy stuff.
But hey, since no one is reading this anyways, it doesn't really matter - right??
But hey, since no one is reading this anyways, it doesn't really matter - right??
So, in the past 3 months I have been diagnosed with Depression, refused to take medication for it, and begun both counselling and marital counselling sessions.
It is difficult... things in my marriage are improving, slightly, it seems maybe just because we are attending the counselling sessions. I don't know if anything actually IN the sessions is doing anything. Maybe it is just the idea that we are focussing harder on trying to make things work.
Part of the difficulty is me. The counsellor began the very first marriage session by telling us we had to figure out what we thought was wrong, and then identify what our partner could do to fix it. If no action that the partner takes can repair what is wrong, then it is not a problem with the other person, it is a problem with us.
So I begin to see that a lot of what I see as wrong with our marriage may be caused by, or complicated by, the things that are wrong inside my own head.
I don't feel the connection with him anymore, I wonder if I even know who he is anymore... but I have completely lost track of who I am inside.
I have difficulty trusting him, believing in his motivations for change... but right now I am having trouble trusting anything that goes on inside my head. If I can't decide what I believe about my own thoughts, what can he do to make me believe him?
How do I aim for a happy marriage if I can't figure out what happy looks like for me?
Depression is like the opposite of Amnesia. Amnesia takes the past away from you. You cannot remember what happened yesterday, last month, or last year. Depression takes away the future. You cannot envision what you want to happen tomorrow, next month, or next year.
Friday, October 7, 2011
This is SO FUCKING HARD.
I never realized before how almost-impossibly fucking hard it can be to ask for help.
When I went back to seeing a diabetes team (nurse, dietician and endocrinologist) over two years ago, they asked me if I thought it would be helpful to see a psychologist.
At first I resisted - resisted for nearly a year - but eventually agreed, so they put in a referral.
The first referral fell thru completely.
I missed the phone call looking to book me the first appointment. When I called back, the receptionist couldn't find the info for the referral, and I didn't know how to explain what it was supposed to be for.
The nurse persisted, and eventually got me a few appointments with one psychologist (who had to go on maternity leave after about 4 visits) and then another one. We explored the issues. I very slowly and gradually began to open up.
From the very beginning both psychologists asked if I was depressed, suggested medication. I vigorously denied it. Yeah, I get upset sometimes. Doesn't it make more sense for it to happen more office in front of a psychologist who is asking the tough questions about emotional issues?
I explored the idea that there are problems in my marriage. I have been feeling more and more distant, more disconnected with my husband for quite some time now. The more I investigated my feelings, the more obvious the problems there seemed.
But along with the marriage dynamic other problems, other issues that had always been present were dragged to the forefront.
I have never been a social butterfly. Issues with bullying long in my past have left me uncomfortable with strangers, and I don't make friends easily. Questions from therapy began to make me see how I avoid social situations - and becoming more concious of how I avoid them did not make it any easier to confront this, or to take part in gatherings I might have tolerated briefly, uncomfortably before.
Feelings of stress from work, from home, from kids, from school began to pile up on me. I found myself near tears for seemingly no reason, and it recurred over and over for more than a week. In a moment of despair, I found enough clarity to realize that even though I loved my job I desperately wanted less of it, at least for this period. So I reduced my hours from full-time to 3 days/week, and bought myself a reprieve.
But the reduced stress did not bring back the balance and clarity I was hoping for. I found myself constantly irritable. My sleep was suffering - it took forever to fall asleep, I slept very restlessly, and it took more and more effort to drag myself out of bed every morning. I had heart palpitations, and stomach issues, and often felt like I could not breathe.
My psychologist told me he thought I was depressed. Faced with the mounting evidence not only in my state of mind, but the reactions of my body I felt compelled to agree. He then told me gently that this was more than he felt qualified to deal with - his mandate was to help people make the positive changes required to better deal with a metabolic illness (diabetes). He was not a counsellor specializing in depression or anxiety issues, and I would likely deal better with a psychiatrist or an MD who could prescribe medication. He is still following me to make sure I get the help that I need, but this was where the REALLY HARD part started.
He told me a psychiatrist would require a referall from an MD, and told me to go through my family doctor. I have a family doctor, but do not feel it is a very good relationship. She is not someone I feel comfortable talking with, and I have some leftover resentment from over a year ago when I went to her about the first of my heart palpitations and chest pain. All I really wanted was reassurance that this was nothing to worry about. Instead, she suggested that it was panic attacks (Not really what I was feeling in my head at the time. In retrospect it may have been the first harbinger of my current mental crisis, but at the time I was not willing to admit that it had anything to do with my mental health, and I resented her implication. Still do - perhaps even more if it means she may have been correct!) tried to give me a prescription for it, then nailed the coffin shut by finishing the exam with "you know these are signs of a heart attack. If it happens again, go to the ER." which provoked a thoroughly embarrasing emergency visit where I was diagnosed with heartburn (also something I don't - or at least didn't tend to suffer from).
So I made an appointment with my family doc. It surprised me how much a struggle it was to call to make the appointment, and how much my heart pounded and my head hurt in showing up for the visit. I managed to mumble out that my psychologist thought I was depressed and I should look for drugs or a referral to a psychiatrist. She asked if I wanted drugs. I told her that I would very much prefer to avoid that route. So she checked my symptoms and agreed that I was depressed, and wrote me a very nice letter confirming that fact.
I left the office, and slowly the results soaked in. The appointment was the exact opposite of anything I had hoped to get there. I didn't need a letter saying I was depressed. In fact one of the reasons I had resisted acknowledging for so long that I was depressed was because I was afraid of the possible repercussions of being diagnosed with a mental illness. What I needed was for someone to find me a psychiatrist and make me an appointment with them so I could begin to fix the problems in my head. And there was no way I would be able to go back to my doctor and ask her to do that. I was screwed there. On to plan B.
MORE FUCKING HARDER AND HARDER.
Plan B. He gave me a phone number for a service called 'Access Mental Health'. Telephone services for people in crisis. Was I in crisis? I didn't feel like I was in crisis yet, but I could feel myself getting closer and closer to a breaking point.
Sweating and shaking and feeling like I was swimming through drying cement, I called the number. It led to a recorded, voicemail message - if you need immediate help, call 911 or go to emergency. Then a voicemail menu to wade thru, then I was put on hold.
To be quite honest, the first time I called I hung up before speaking to anyone.
Then I called my family doctor and made the appointment for the stupidly unhelpful visit described above.
So after striking out with the doctor, I called again. I waited for a time and place I could be alone, fairly certain no one would interrupt or overhear. I used my cellphone, trying to keep my home line and my home life away from this thing. The physical symptoms of terror were absolutely present throughout the call. I don't know why but it was as if my mind and body were fighting against me taking these steps, against me trying to overcome the darkness that was invading my mind and creepingly consuming my life. The call itself was relatively ordinary, aside from trying to find the words to explain why I was seeking help, what I hoped to accomplish. The result of the call was another phone number, to be called to try to book an appointment with the local mental health services. They also gave info about urgent appointments, available for walk-ins on various dates and times.
I didn't feel (yet) that I needed an urgent appointment. I tried calling the phone number but it led to another voicemail menu, and not a real person to talk to but a voicemailbox, with the note that calls would be returned within 3 days. I just could not handle the thought of the message at that point, so I hung up without leaving one.
All of this seemed to be surrounded by deteriorating mental and physical health. The realization that I was depressed - not just sad, not just going through a phase, but a diagnosed, definite mental disorder - had thrown my precarious mental balance completely off-kilter. I did not feel I could talk to anyone about it. The problems with my husband were worsening, I did not want to burden my kids or other family members, I did not have any friends close enough to disclose this secret. So I tried - and I think, failed miserably - to continue as best I could with a day to day life that felt increasingly out of control.
I took several long walks, not for exercise but simply to escape from home, family, and as much as I could from all the things I couldn't face, couldn't handle.
On one of these walks, I plunged forward far enough to actually leave a message - name, city, and phone number (cell phone of course). The phone call did not feel easy to make, but afterward it was somewhat of a relief, knowing that the next step was now somewhere within 3 days away, and for the moment, not my responsibility.
Only, there was no return phone call. I knew it was possibly my fault - maybe I had not been clear enough in the message I left, maybe there was a problem in the cell reception. But it was another body-blow in a process that was already one of the most difficult things I had ever done. I wanted to just simply give up so often. I'm not even certain exactly why I kept trying, but there didn't seem to be much for alternatives, and I wasn't quite ready for suicide yet, although thoughts of death recurred over and over, and I found myself oddly hopeful for a serious traffic accident or other physical health crisis to give me a different reason to take a break from reality.
I ended up at one of the urgent, walk-in appointments for the mental health services. Once again, an action required on my part that was REALLY FUCKING HARD. Like the emotional me was battling the rational me for control. Rational me just wanted to get better. Emotional me just wanted to RUN AWAY. Run where? Anywhere. Away. Hide in a corner. Drive where no one could find me. Just get into a spot walled off from everyone else and stay there. Not a sustainable course of actions, but emotional me seems to be short on what comes next.
At the urgent appointment, a counsellor listened, discussed, and analysed for me. I'm not sure what I took from that appointment. I left with the feeling she was pushing an agenda that didn't really apply in my case (I have problems with my marriage, but it felt like she must specialize in abuse, because she framed it all in terms of my husband mentally abusing me, which I still feel is not completely accurate, and not what I see in terms of his motivation) but she brought me to a point of decisions and actions with regard to my marriage that I had not reached before.
Frustrating once more, I could not progress from an urgent appointment to regular appointments. I had to call the number, and leave a message, and wait for a call-back to get a regular appointment. Why the hell is everything SO FUCKING HARD??
At least this time, leaving a message resulted in a return phone call. I had a small breakdown at work, and was sent home for the rest of the day betweent the urgent appointment and the return phone call. But I now have an appointment for follow-up mental healthcare. And I am moving forward.
I am cautiously optomistic. My mood seems to have temporarily risen back above the darkest depths that I reached in this struggle. I try not to consider whether this might be only temporary, or how much of an internal struggle it might become to show up for the appointment I have booked, or the last follow-up with my original psychologist to reassure him that I am getting the help that I need.
I just needed to vent on the struggle to get this far. Because it really was, and continues to be, VERY FUCKING HARD to reach out for mental help. And maybe some of it just shouldn't be this difficult.
When I went back to seeing a diabetes team (nurse, dietician and endocrinologist) over two years ago, they asked me if I thought it would be helpful to see a psychologist.
At first I resisted - resisted for nearly a year - but eventually agreed, so they put in a referral.
The first referral fell thru completely.
I missed the phone call looking to book me the first appointment. When I called back, the receptionist couldn't find the info for the referral, and I didn't know how to explain what it was supposed to be for.
The nurse persisted, and eventually got me a few appointments with one psychologist (who had to go on maternity leave after about 4 visits) and then another one. We explored the issues. I very slowly and gradually began to open up.
From the very beginning both psychologists asked if I was depressed, suggested medication. I vigorously denied it. Yeah, I get upset sometimes. Doesn't it make more sense for it to happen more office in front of a psychologist who is asking the tough questions about emotional issues?
I explored the idea that there are problems in my marriage. I have been feeling more and more distant, more disconnected with my husband for quite some time now. The more I investigated my feelings, the more obvious the problems there seemed.
But along with the marriage dynamic other problems, other issues that had always been present were dragged to the forefront.
I have never been a social butterfly. Issues with bullying long in my past have left me uncomfortable with strangers, and I don't make friends easily. Questions from therapy began to make me see how I avoid social situations - and becoming more concious of how I avoid them did not make it any easier to confront this, or to take part in gatherings I might have tolerated briefly, uncomfortably before.
Feelings of stress from work, from home, from kids, from school began to pile up on me. I found myself near tears for seemingly no reason, and it recurred over and over for more than a week. In a moment of despair, I found enough clarity to realize that even though I loved my job I desperately wanted less of it, at least for this period. So I reduced my hours from full-time to 3 days/week, and bought myself a reprieve.
But the reduced stress did not bring back the balance and clarity I was hoping for. I found myself constantly irritable. My sleep was suffering - it took forever to fall asleep, I slept very restlessly, and it took more and more effort to drag myself out of bed every morning. I had heart palpitations, and stomach issues, and often felt like I could not breathe.
My psychologist told me he thought I was depressed. Faced with the mounting evidence not only in my state of mind, but the reactions of my body I felt compelled to agree. He then told me gently that this was more than he felt qualified to deal with - his mandate was to help people make the positive changes required to better deal with a metabolic illness (diabetes). He was not a counsellor specializing in depression or anxiety issues, and I would likely deal better with a psychiatrist or an MD who could prescribe medication. He is still following me to make sure I get the help that I need, but this was where the REALLY HARD part started.
He told me a psychiatrist would require a referall from an MD, and told me to go through my family doctor. I have a family doctor, but do not feel it is a very good relationship. She is not someone I feel comfortable talking with, and I have some leftover resentment from over a year ago when I went to her about the first of my heart palpitations and chest pain. All I really wanted was reassurance that this was nothing to worry about. Instead, she suggested that it was panic attacks (Not really what I was feeling in my head at the time. In retrospect it may have been the first harbinger of my current mental crisis, but at the time I was not willing to admit that it had anything to do with my mental health, and I resented her implication. Still do - perhaps even more if it means she may have been correct!) tried to give me a prescription for it, then nailed the coffin shut by finishing the exam with "you know these are signs of a heart attack. If it happens again, go to the ER." which provoked a thoroughly embarrasing emergency visit where I was diagnosed with heartburn (also something I don't - or at least didn't tend to suffer from).
So I made an appointment with my family doc. It surprised me how much a struggle it was to call to make the appointment, and how much my heart pounded and my head hurt in showing up for the visit. I managed to mumble out that my psychologist thought I was depressed and I should look for drugs or a referral to a psychiatrist. She asked if I wanted drugs. I told her that I would very much prefer to avoid that route. So she checked my symptoms and agreed that I was depressed, and wrote me a very nice letter confirming that fact.
I left the office, and slowly the results soaked in. The appointment was the exact opposite of anything I had hoped to get there. I didn't need a letter saying I was depressed. In fact one of the reasons I had resisted acknowledging for so long that I was depressed was because I was afraid of the possible repercussions of being diagnosed with a mental illness. What I needed was for someone to find me a psychiatrist and make me an appointment with them so I could begin to fix the problems in my head. And there was no way I would be able to go back to my doctor and ask her to do that. I was screwed there. On to plan B.
MORE FUCKING HARDER AND HARDER.
Plan B. He gave me a phone number for a service called 'Access Mental Health'. Telephone services for people in crisis. Was I in crisis? I didn't feel like I was in crisis yet, but I could feel myself getting closer and closer to a breaking point.
Sweating and shaking and feeling like I was swimming through drying cement, I called the number. It led to a recorded, voicemail message - if you need immediate help, call 911 or go to emergency. Then a voicemail menu to wade thru, then I was put on hold.
To be quite honest, the first time I called I hung up before speaking to anyone.
Then I called my family doctor and made the appointment for the stupidly unhelpful visit described above.
So after striking out with the doctor, I called again. I waited for a time and place I could be alone, fairly certain no one would interrupt or overhear. I used my cellphone, trying to keep my home line and my home life away from this thing. The physical symptoms of terror were absolutely present throughout the call. I don't know why but it was as if my mind and body were fighting against me taking these steps, against me trying to overcome the darkness that was invading my mind and creepingly consuming my life. The call itself was relatively ordinary, aside from trying to find the words to explain why I was seeking help, what I hoped to accomplish. The result of the call was another phone number, to be called to try to book an appointment with the local mental health services. They also gave info about urgent appointments, available for walk-ins on various dates and times.
I didn't feel (yet) that I needed an urgent appointment. I tried calling the phone number but it led to another voicemail menu, and not a real person to talk to but a voicemailbox, with the note that calls would be returned within 3 days. I just could not handle the thought of the message at that point, so I hung up without leaving one.
All of this seemed to be surrounded by deteriorating mental and physical health. The realization that I was depressed - not just sad, not just going through a phase, but a diagnosed, definite mental disorder - had thrown my precarious mental balance completely off-kilter. I did not feel I could talk to anyone about it. The problems with my husband were worsening, I did not want to burden my kids or other family members, I did not have any friends close enough to disclose this secret. So I tried - and I think, failed miserably - to continue as best I could with a day to day life that felt increasingly out of control.
I took several long walks, not for exercise but simply to escape from home, family, and as much as I could from all the things I couldn't face, couldn't handle.
On one of these walks, I plunged forward far enough to actually leave a message - name, city, and phone number (cell phone of course). The phone call did not feel easy to make, but afterward it was somewhat of a relief, knowing that the next step was now somewhere within 3 days away, and for the moment, not my responsibility.
Only, there was no return phone call. I knew it was possibly my fault - maybe I had not been clear enough in the message I left, maybe there was a problem in the cell reception. But it was another body-blow in a process that was already one of the most difficult things I had ever done. I wanted to just simply give up so often. I'm not even certain exactly why I kept trying, but there didn't seem to be much for alternatives, and I wasn't quite ready for suicide yet, although thoughts of death recurred over and over, and I found myself oddly hopeful for a serious traffic accident or other physical health crisis to give me a different reason to take a break from reality.
I ended up at one of the urgent, walk-in appointments for the mental health services. Once again, an action required on my part that was REALLY FUCKING HARD. Like the emotional me was battling the rational me for control. Rational me just wanted to get better. Emotional me just wanted to RUN AWAY. Run where? Anywhere. Away. Hide in a corner. Drive where no one could find me. Just get into a spot walled off from everyone else and stay there. Not a sustainable course of actions, but emotional me seems to be short on what comes next.
At the urgent appointment, a counsellor listened, discussed, and analysed for me. I'm not sure what I took from that appointment. I left with the feeling she was pushing an agenda that didn't really apply in my case (I have problems with my marriage, but it felt like she must specialize in abuse, because she framed it all in terms of my husband mentally abusing me, which I still feel is not completely accurate, and not what I see in terms of his motivation) but she brought me to a point of decisions and actions with regard to my marriage that I had not reached before.
Frustrating once more, I could not progress from an urgent appointment to regular appointments. I had to call the number, and leave a message, and wait for a call-back to get a regular appointment. Why the hell is everything SO FUCKING HARD??
At least this time, leaving a message resulted in a return phone call. I had a small breakdown at work, and was sent home for the rest of the day betweent the urgent appointment and the return phone call. But I now have an appointment for follow-up mental healthcare. And I am moving forward.
I am cautiously optomistic. My mood seems to have temporarily risen back above the darkest depths that I reached in this struggle. I try not to consider whether this might be only temporary, or how much of an internal struggle it might become to show up for the appointment I have booked, or the last follow-up with my original psychologist to reassure him that I am getting the help that I need.
I just needed to vent on the struggle to get this far. Because it really was, and continues to be, VERY FUCKING HARD to reach out for mental help. And maybe some of it just shouldn't be this difficult.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
A question of honesty.
My marriage is being eroded by questions I am afraid to ask.
I've complained before about my husband and his smoking.
The smoking bothers me, but there is also the question of trust.
We have had fights, when I ask if he has smoked in the house. There are little things that make me think that maybe he has. He swears up and down that he hasn't.
Today, I saw an empty pack in the kitchen garbage. We were away all afternoon while he was home by himself. He says he only smokes in the garage. There is a giant garbage can right in the garage, beside the door into the house. Why would he walk all the way to the kitchen garbage to toss the empty pack??
But I realized today, that it serves no purpose to ask him. The problem comes because the question even occurs to me. He can say yes, he smoked in the house. Then I am left with the choice to make a big stink about it, or to ignore it. Neither one feels like a win to me.
But the other option is for him to say no, it was an accident, there was no smoking going on in the house. Then I either have to believe him and drop it, or disbelieve and start a fight. The problem is, if I have to ask the question then I have a reason to disbelieve him already.
And I also find that I have another question I want to ask him. Unfortunately, I find myself in the same kind of dilemma, and that scares the shit out of me.
I've complained before about my husband and his smoking.
The smoking bothers me, but there is also the question of trust.
We have had fights, when I ask if he has smoked in the house. There are little things that make me think that maybe he has. He swears up and down that he hasn't.
Today, I saw an empty pack in the kitchen garbage. We were away all afternoon while he was home by himself. He says he only smokes in the garage. There is a giant garbage can right in the garage, beside the door into the house. Why would he walk all the way to the kitchen garbage to toss the empty pack??
But I realized today, that it serves no purpose to ask him. The problem comes because the question even occurs to me. He can say yes, he smoked in the house. Then I am left with the choice to make a big stink about it, or to ignore it. Neither one feels like a win to me.
But the other option is for him to say no, it was an accident, there was no smoking going on in the house. Then I either have to believe him and drop it, or disbelieve and start a fight. The problem is, if I have to ask the question then I have a reason to disbelieve him already.
And I also find that I have another question I want to ask him. Unfortunately, I find myself in the same kind of dilemma, and that scares the shit out of me.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
I Don't Care.
I don't care.
It's hard to think of another sentence in the English language that is used as often, and almost never means what it semantically says.
More often it means "I don't want to care."; "I care too much."; or just "This hurts."
It is a defense mechanism. A blanket of distance enfolding a wound, containing painful truths. It means "I don't want to fight about this." Or maybe "I can't talk rationally about this because I am so emotionally invested right now."
I don't care because I want to shut down and not hurt anymore. I'm building a wall to keep the ugliness away from the world where it will splash out and create more ugliness.
But what do I do if the festering mess inside presses too hard against the barriers, oozes out of all the cracks. Maybe I need to walk away from everyone and everything and just be more alone.
I don't care.
Note: This post was originally written July 19. I saved it, not sure I should publish right then. Now?? I don't care. :P
It's hard to think of another sentence in the English language that is used as often, and almost never means what it semantically says.
More often it means "I don't want to care."; "I care too much."; or just "This hurts."
It is a defense mechanism. A blanket of distance enfolding a wound, containing painful truths. It means "I don't want to fight about this." Or maybe "I can't talk rationally about this because I am so emotionally invested right now."
I don't care because I want to shut down and not hurt anymore. I'm building a wall to keep the ugliness away from the world where it will splash out and create more ugliness.
But what do I do if the festering mess inside presses too hard against the barriers, oozes out of all the cracks. Maybe I need to walk away from everyone and everything and just be more alone.
I don't care.
Note: This post was originally written July 19. I saved it, not sure I should publish right then. Now?? I don't care. :P
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Me and Nicki
There is another woman in my husband's life. She was there before he met me, and I told him I wouldn't hold it against him. Maybe I lied.
But he married ME. Although he kept seeing her. He broke it off for a while, when my first child was born, but that didn't last long. And it drove me nuts to find him sneaking off to see her.
There have been other times he has given her up, but he never seems too serious about it.
Maybe it's me. I have certainly never been accused of being a sexy, addictive bitch like she is.
I can't win when I'm pitted against nicotine for his affection.
We went out for dinner tonight, just the two of us (three of us), and left the kids with a sitter. He can sit through a movie in the theatre without sneaking out to be with Nicki. But in the less than 90 minutes we spent at the restaurant, he had to leave twice for a moment with her.
I just can't compete.
But he married ME. Although he kept seeing her. He broke it off for a while, when my first child was born, but that didn't last long. And it drove me nuts to find him sneaking off to see her.
There have been other times he has given her up, but he never seems too serious about it.
Maybe it's me. I have certainly never been accused of being a sexy, addictive bitch like she is.
I can't win when I'm pitted against nicotine for his affection.
We went out for dinner tonight, just the two of us (three of us), and left the kids with a sitter. He can sit through a movie in the theatre without sneaking out to be with Nicki. But in the less than 90 minutes we spent at the restaurant, he had to leave twice for a moment with her.
I just can't compete.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Where is this coming from?? (from 6-23-11)
Have you ever cried for no reason? Not just for very little reason at all... Most of us agree is seems a bit silly to cry at a sappy comercial, or a sad song, or to cry the ugly cry because of one of those sentimental chain e-mails. I have cried real tears at sad movies... Beaches, My Life, Philadelphia and Dying Young are just a few examples.
And I know I am not the only one who has been hormonal while pregnant - my husband still teases me about the day I burst into tears after dropping my french fries all over the food court. I think I scared the poor girl behind the fast food counter, but at least I was visibly ready to pop and my outburst could easily be explained as hormones.
I even know that I am more susceptible to sappy emails at certain times of the month.
But I recently found myself in a place where I could stop at a stop light, and be on the edge of tears for no apparent reason. I could not even explain to myself WHY it might be necessary to cry, I only knew that I was on the verge of tears and there seemed to be no provocation whatsoever. Any quiet moment could find me fighting to contain the moisture. A few seconds wait for a computer program to load, or the moment after locking the bathroom door.
The most frightening part about it was not being able to pinpoint a cause. These were all random moments throughout my daily routine. They had nothing in common except that extra moment of inattentive thought, and I began to suspect that I was losing my mind. As I became more aware of these moments, they seemed to be more frequent. Did this mean that I was always on the verge of crying and just not paying attention to it?
The feelings continued for at least a week before I became desperate to understand what was going on. I searched the internet and found information on depression, recommendations for drugs and therapy, meditation, too much information and most of it the wrong kind (what else is new?). I am already seeing a mental health professional, who is supposed to be helping with issues regarding my health condition and supporting succesful management of the disease.
I resolved to present him with this problem at the next visit (luckily scheduled early the following week). I began to visualize the session, what I would tell him, and how he would respond. I envisioned everything from a response that this was normal, to an insistence on psychiatric hospitalization. The 'aha' moment came when I pictured him taking me off work for a medical leave. I realized that this was very nearly what I WANTED to happen. I love my job, I do not want to quit, but suddenly I realized that I wanted - I NEEDED - less of this job that I love.
It was still not an easy decision. Circumstances at work are already difficult. I love my job, I love my coworkers, but there was already more work than the available staff could easily accomplish. I knew that if I cut back my hours it would be like dumping more of that impossible load on friends I didn't want to hurt. But in the end I had to admit that the workload was harming me, and the alternative to cutting back would be to quit completely, which would be even worse for my friends than the choice I was making.
This is now my second week of reduced hours (3 days per week instead of 5). I appreciate the extra time for ME, although all the extra hours often evaporate into appointments and phone calls and things that need doing. But it is a relief to be able to find time for things that need doing, and not feel so often that I am sacrificing something else...
And I know I am not the only one who has been hormonal while pregnant - my husband still teases me about the day I burst into tears after dropping my french fries all over the food court. I think I scared the poor girl behind the fast food counter, but at least I was visibly ready to pop and my outburst could easily be explained as hormones.
I even know that I am more susceptible to sappy emails at certain times of the month.
But I recently found myself in a place where I could stop at a stop light, and be on the edge of tears for no apparent reason. I could not even explain to myself WHY it might be necessary to cry, I only knew that I was on the verge of tears and there seemed to be no provocation whatsoever. Any quiet moment could find me fighting to contain the moisture. A few seconds wait for a computer program to load, or the moment after locking the bathroom door.
The most frightening part about it was not being able to pinpoint a cause. These were all random moments throughout my daily routine. They had nothing in common except that extra moment of inattentive thought, and I began to suspect that I was losing my mind. As I became more aware of these moments, they seemed to be more frequent. Did this mean that I was always on the verge of crying and just not paying attention to it?
The feelings continued for at least a week before I became desperate to understand what was going on. I searched the internet and found information on depression, recommendations for drugs and therapy, meditation, too much information and most of it the wrong kind (what else is new?). I am already seeing a mental health professional, who is supposed to be helping with issues regarding my health condition and supporting succesful management of the disease.
I resolved to present him with this problem at the next visit (luckily scheduled early the following week). I began to visualize the session, what I would tell him, and how he would respond. I envisioned everything from a response that this was normal, to an insistence on psychiatric hospitalization. The 'aha' moment came when I pictured him taking me off work for a medical leave. I realized that this was very nearly what I WANTED to happen. I love my job, I do not want to quit, but suddenly I realized that I wanted - I NEEDED - less of this job that I love.
It was still not an easy decision. Circumstances at work are already difficult. I love my job, I love my coworkers, but there was already more work than the available staff could easily accomplish. I knew that if I cut back my hours it would be like dumping more of that impossible load on friends I didn't want to hurt. But in the end I had to admit that the workload was harming me, and the alternative to cutting back would be to quit completely, which would be even worse for my friends than the choice I was making.
This is now my second week of reduced hours (3 days per week instead of 5). I appreciate the extra time for ME, although all the extra hours often evaporate into appointments and phone calls and things that need doing. But it is a relief to be able to find time for things that need doing, and not feel so often that I am sacrificing something else...
Friday, May 13, 2011
What the hell am I doing?
Still around, still moving forward, one second at a time. There doesn't seem to be much of an alternative, although a particularly persistent form of tunnel-vision might make that alternative seem more attractive than it actually is.
I still often feel empty... pointless. I have so much of everything I ever wanted, but it just doesn't seem to make me happy anymore. And I feel guilty that I am not happy with everything I have been blessed with. And it is really hard to talk to anyone about this... even my husband, even my friends, even someone whose job is to listen to shit like this all the time.
It doesn't help that I am sick again. Just another cold - stuffy nose, scratchy throat, and tired because it interferes with my ability to sleep. But it is starting to feel like I am almost never feeling well, and that sucks too.
It's hard to search for answers, something that will bring meaning back into my life, when I can't find the energy to do much of anything. It's been months since I cleaned my bathroom, where the fuck am I going to find the energy to search out the answers to questions I'm not even sure I can ask?
Books and movies make it seem easy. In a well-crafted plot, this is the point where my months and years of ennui would be compressed into a few paragraphs or a beautifully-scored montage, and then something special would happen and the story would begin to flow again. If I sit here drifting aimlessly from website to website, do you think that will happen to me?
I still often feel empty... pointless. I have so much of everything I ever wanted, but it just doesn't seem to make me happy anymore. And I feel guilty that I am not happy with everything I have been blessed with. And it is really hard to talk to anyone about this... even my husband, even my friends, even someone whose job is to listen to shit like this all the time.
It doesn't help that I am sick again. Just another cold - stuffy nose, scratchy throat, and tired because it interferes with my ability to sleep. But it is starting to feel like I am almost never feeling well, and that sucks too.
It's hard to search for answers, something that will bring meaning back into my life, when I can't find the energy to do much of anything. It's been months since I cleaned my bathroom, where the fuck am I going to find the energy to search out the answers to questions I'm not even sure I can ask?
Books and movies make it seem easy. In a well-crafted plot, this is the point where my months and years of ennui would be compressed into a few paragraphs or a beautifully-scored montage, and then something special would happen and the story would begin to flow again. If I sit here drifting aimlessly from website to website, do you think that will happen to me?
Monday, April 4, 2011
On Fairness.
Scott Adams (the guy who writes the Dilbert comics) is a blogger I follow sporadically. I missed the original, later deleted Men's Rights post, but stumbled on this post today. I was not offended by it. I accept that there are certain un-changeable reasons why men and women are different. And I also accept that these differences logically lead to some occasions where it makes sense to treat men differently than women. It may not always seem fair to those who wish to be treated differently, but then again there is the common quote "Life isn't fair." I always assumed that accepting that fact would be part of growing up. Then I suddenly remembered how I discovered the real truth about my inability to create fairness, even when I devoutly wished to, and the power rested with me if it rested with anyone: Every child has uttered the cry "That's not fair!" and vowed to change the source of the unfairness if such power is ever granted to them. Obviously I was no exception, and growing up in a family of 7 children, I witnessed many perceived instances of unfairness, and vowed to right the wrongs in my own parenting later on. Child number one arrived, and fairness was easy. Child number two followed eventually, and suddenly I realized the error in my thinking. Child number one had my undivided attention for the first 3 years of his life. It was impossible by all laws of the universe to provide the same to child number two. Child 1 suddenly faced a much limited attention share, compared to child 2. Was this more fair to child 2 (who received a great deal more attention) or child 1 (who still overall received more than child 1 would ever attain)? Even in the simplest of tasks of fairness I was defeated. Buy the 2 children identical toys. Sooner or later, one was broken or lost. Now prove who really owns the undamaged toy. Or deprive the other child of the undamaged one, when he did nothing wrong?? Solve this by buying one red and one blue toy, otherwise the same. A basic law of the universe (I believe Murphy was the first to define it) states that both children will prefer the red one, and scorn the blue one. How to solve that 'fairly'?? I believe that the only way to 'win' (defined in the loosest sense) is to try and balance for each individual that the number of good (i.e. unfair in my favor) times with the number of bad (i.e. unfair in the other guy's favor). Of course, for me, that means I get to hear the cry of "It's not fair!!" an equal number of times for both children. Which probably balances karmically somehow with the number of times my own parents heard it from me.
Friday, March 18, 2011
When did it slip through my fingers???
I have been married now for very close to 15 years.
I still love my husband very much, but I have become slowly more aware that the marriage I have now is not the marriage I had then, and is not really the marriage that I want...
We are not as close as we once were. Some of this, I think, is normal. The insatiable hunger to be together, to touch, to commune, is somewhat satisfied over time. The relationship evolves, expands, and other things can take up time/space/attention - not neccessarily in a bad way, but kids and jobs and life can sort of get in the way.
But I realized something this morning that disturbed me a bit. I censor my conversations with him. I am afraid ... of offending him, of his reactions to some of my thoughts and feelings, of the possibly negative interactions that may follow if I say what I am thinking.
When did this happen??
I know there were times that I could not wait to tell him anything and everything that swirled through my brain. I know we had fights, but he also surprised me, reassured me, with how accepting he was of the private person I had never shared to that extent with anyone else before.
Now, all I can see is how touchy he has become. I compliment him daily, and thank him without reservation for all that he does and has done. He has done quite an amazing amount lately, taking up without complaint the lions share of the housekeeping, meal prep and childcare, as I have felt overall fairly crappy and incapable for several weeks. But it seems that if I only make a comment that may possibly be interpreted negatively he snaps at me and rants about constant criticism. I try not to take it personally, but it hurts, and it makes me less likely to say anything at all. If I am bothered or irritated by something he does, I am more likely to bottle it inside. I guess that is easier to bear than a giant argument over how critical I am??
And with that subtle barrier, I guess other barriers have grown. I no longer feel as comfortable, as open with him as I used to. I don't want to lay my burdens on him, if his own are growing larger. I don't want to bare my wounds to him, because I am no longer certain that he will offer salve instead of vinegar.
The two of us trudge along, side-by-side, each slowly crushed by the weight of our own baggage. It seems ironic that the loads may each be lightened by being shared, but instead we flinch away from the sharing.
Even recognizing the problem does not seem to do much to help it. I could reach out to him, ask about counselling, even just make the effort to talk to him frankly again. But I don't. If I know I am holding back, why don't I try harder to breach that wall and share? But it is so hard. And I don't know if I have the energy to deal with the consequences, good or bad, of that looming attempt.
I still love my husband very much, but I have become slowly more aware that the marriage I have now is not the marriage I had then, and is not really the marriage that I want...
We are not as close as we once were. Some of this, I think, is normal. The insatiable hunger to be together, to touch, to commune, is somewhat satisfied over time. The relationship evolves, expands, and other things can take up time/space/attention - not neccessarily in a bad way, but kids and jobs and life can sort of get in the way.
But I realized something this morning that disturbed me a bit. I censor my conversations with him. I am afraid ... of offending him, of his reactions to some of my thoughts and feelings, of the possibly negative interactions that may follow if I say what I am thinking.
When did this happen??
I know there were times that I could not wait to tell him anything and everything that swirled through my brain. I know we had fights, but he also surprised me, reassured me, with how accepting he was of the private person I had never shared to that extent with anyone else before.
Now, all I can see is how touchy he has become. I compliment him daily, and thank him without reservation for all that he does and has done. He has done quite an amazing amount lately, taking up without complaint the lions share of the housekeeping, meal prep and childcare, as I have felt overall fairly crappy and incapable for several weeks. But it seems that if I only make a comment that may possibly be interpreted negatively he snaps at me and rants about constant criticism. I try not to take it personally, but it hurts, and it makes me less likely to say anything at all. If I am bothered or irritated by something he does, I am more likely to bottle it inside. I guess that is easier to bear than a giant argument over how critical I am??
And with that subtle barrier, I guess other barriers have grown. I no longer feel as comfortable, as open with him as I used to. I don't want to lay my burdens on him, if his own are growing larger. I don't want to bare my wounds to him, because I am no longer certain that he will offer salve instead of vinegar.
The two of us trudge along, side-by-side, each slowly crushed by the weight of our own baggage. It seems ironic that the loads may each be lightened by being shared, but instead we flinch away from the sharing.
Even recognizing the problem does not seem to do much to help it. I could reach out to him, ask about counselling, even just make the effort to talk to him frankly again. But I don't. If I know I am holding back, why don't I try harder to breach that wall and share? But it is so hard. And I don't know if I have the energy to deal with the consequences, good or bad, of that looming attempt.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
A Purpose in Life.
I think I used to feel a purpose in life, but lately I have been floating... drifting... unsure anymore why I'm here, or what I want.
I am still a mom, a wife, an insurance sales associate, but I reject the idea that any of these are the whole of my existence, my only reason for being.
I used to dream of finding Mr. Right, getting married, having a family. I did not dream of selling insurance, but I did envision, in a foggy sort of way, having a job that I enjoyed and being successful at it. Now I have these things, to a greater or lesser degree, and I find that I am not ready to end here. To just be 'happily ever after'. But I look up from where I find myself, and suddenly the direction is not clear, I don't know where I'm going or what I should do to get there. There are so many directions I could look, but none of them really feel right.
I used to daydream about going into space, building rockets. I also loved (still love!) to read, and imagined I could write a novel. The attraction of those dreams is still present, but the obstacle of practicality has become suddenly more visible, more of a barrier. I do not feel that these are real goals anymore.
Searching for a goal without any real direction is a very listless, dreary place to be.
Hey anonymous internet, does anyone know what my purpose in life really is??
I am still a mom, a wife, an insurance sales associate, but I reject the idea that any of these are the whole of my existence, my only reason for being.
I used to dream of finding Mr. Right, getting married, having a family. I did not dream of selling insurance, but I did envision, in a foggy sort of way, having a job that I enjoyed and being successful at it. Now I have these things, to a greater or lesser degree, and I find that I am not ready to end here. To just be 'happily ever after'. But I look up from where I find myself, and suddenly the direction is not clear, I don't know where I'm going or what I should do to get there. There are so many directions I could look, but none of them really feel right.
I used to daydream about going into space, building rockets. I also loved (still love!) to read, and imagined I could write a novel. The attraction of those dreams is still present, but the obstacle of practicality has become suddenly more visible, more of a barrier. I do not feel that these are real goals anymore.
Searching for a goal without any real direction is a very listless, dreary place to be.
Hey anonymous internet, does anyone know what my purpose in life really is??
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Why am I following???
At the moment, I am more of a blog reader than a blog writer (hence the sparse and widely-spaced posts.) I recently found a new blog, following from one of my favorites:
http://thebloggess.com/
through a link to a new blog:
http://www.rrsahm.com/
The old blog I followed because her quirky sense of humor delighted me, following threads into zany depths beyond any train-of-thought derailments I had ever dreamed. And sometimes she posts utterly serious things that resonate deeply, and make me want to applaud.
The new blog was linked in a post about mental illness, and described fleetingly the story of a mother with two young children whose husband recently had a psychotic break and killed himself.
I followed the link, and read the first few posts... I guess in an effort to try to understand the meaning of psychotic break, and find out what, why, how this had happened. I got some of that information, along with a lot of the authors raw, uncensored grief and pain.
And I followed deeper, and stayed, and linked, and now I follow the new blog.
But I keep asking myself .... Why do I follow? Is my interest, my fascination, a normal and healthy thing? Or is it sick and twisted to keep coming back, immersing myself in the horrible truths of her pain and suffering? Is this the same as the contemptible urge to gawk at a traffic accident? Am I accomplishing any good by continuing to follow this story? Is it possible I am causing any harm, to my own mental health or that of anyone else by exposing myself repeatedly to this kind of sadness, this deeply resonant mental anguish?
I want to reach out to her, to tell her how I admire her courage, and wish that there was anything I could do to help, to make things better. But there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of other followers, most of whom probably followed before and perhaps have a better right to be there, to know her and offer comfort. And I am thwarted by the fear that I do not know what to say, or how to offer anything to this virtual stranger.
But I cannot tell if it is good or bad, only that I want to keep following. So I will follow, and see where it leads, and pay attention to how it affects me. And hopefully if it turns out that it is for the wrong reasons I will see for certain and stop before it is too late.
http://thebloggess.com/
through a link to a new blog:
http://www.rrsahm.com/
The old blog I followed because her quirky sense of humor delighted me, following threads into zany depths beyond any train-of-thought derailments I had ever dreamed. And sometimes she posts utterly serious things that resonate deeply, and make me want to applaud.
The new blog was linked in a post about mental illness, and described fleetingly the story of a mother with two young children whose husband recently had a psychotic break and killed himself.
I followed the link, and read the first few posts... I guess in an effort to try to understand the meaning of psychotic break, and find out what, why, how this had happened. I got some of that information, along with a lot of the authors raw, uncensored grief and pain.
And I followed deeper, and stayed, and linked, and now I follow the new blog.
But I keep asking myself .... Why do I follow? Is my interest, my fascination, a normal and healthy thing? Or is it sick and twisted to keep coming back, immersing myself in the horrible truths of her pain and suffering? Is this the same as the contemptible urge to gawk at a traffic accident? Am I accomplishing any good by continuing to follow this story? Is it possible I am causing any harm, to my own mental health or that of anyone else by exposing myself repeatedly to this kind of sadness, this deeply resonant mental anguish?
I want to reach out to her, to tell her how I admire her courage, and wish that there was anything I could do to help, to make things better. But there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of other followers, most of whom probably followed before and perhaps have a better right to be there, to know her and offer comfort. And I am thwarted by the fear that I do not know what to say, or how to offer anything to this virtual stranger.
But I cannot tell if it is good or bad, only that I want to keep following. So I will follow, and see where it leads, and pay attention to how it affects me. And hopefully if it turns out that it is for the wrong reasons I will see for certain and stop before it is too late.
Friday, December 17, 2010
...with visions of broomsticks, stuck in his head.
So it's almost Christmas, and the Christmas specials abound. The other day, 'Frosty the Snowman' was on TV.
My oldest turned to me and said "You know, Mom, I always thought the song was 'with a broomstick in his head'."
"Why on earth would you think the broomstick should be in his head?"
"I dunno. Maybe he was being chased by a lady who got creeped out by him when she was sweeping."
I couldn't help it. I giggled. Maybe this is just part of the mindset when raising boys?
And for the rest of the day, I could crack everyone up by singing absently "...with a broomstick in his head..."
Admit it, you know you've got the tune running through your head now. With visions of broomsticks.
My oldest turned to me and said "You know, Mom, I always thought the song was 'with a broomstick in his head'."
"Why on earth would you think the broomstick should be in his head?"
"I dunno. Maybe he was being chased by a lady who got creeped out by him when she was sweeping."
I couldn't help it. I giggled. Maybe this is just part of the mindset when raising boys?
And for the rest of the day, I could crack everyone up by singing absently "...with a broomstick in his head..."
Admit it, you know you've got the tune running through your head now. With visions of broomsticks.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Keep moving forward.... The alternative is to stop.
Well, haven't updated in a while.
I think I mentioned before that I never promised to, and since no one really reads this anyways, it shouldn't matter.
We are back from Disneyworld. Had a marvellous time, reduced the stress levels a bit, maybe, for a while, but I think I still get way too stressed way too easily.
Still working on the diabetes, have decided to ignore the other health issues. My doctor seems to think that since she's run some tests and ruled out some big stuff there's no reason to try and figure out what's going on. Her favorite theory seems to be that it's all in my head. I tend to disagree, but since arguing and fighting and chasing more inconclusive tests does not help my stress level, and raising the stress level does not seem helpful in any way, I am going to ignore the rest of it until it prevents me from carrying on with other aspects of my life.
Love my kids, they are both growing up way too fast, and deliberately each had an additional birthday in the past few months just to rub it in my face.
I think I mentioned before that I never promised to, and since no one really reads this anyways, it shouldn't matter.
We are back from Disneyworld. Had a marvellous time, reduced the stress levels a bit, maybe, for a while, but I think I still get way too stressed way too easily.
Still working on the diabetes, have decided to ignore the other health issues. My doctor seems to think that since she's run some tests and ruled out some big stuff there's no reason to try and figure out what's going on. Her favorite theory seems to be that it's all in my head. I tend to disagree, but since arguing and fighting and chasing more inconclusive tests does not help my stress level, and raising the stress level does not seem helpful in any way, I am going to ignore the rest of it until it prevents me from carrying on with other aspects of my life.
Love my kids, they are both growing up way too fast, and deliberately each had an additional birthday in the past few months just to rub it in my face.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Updates.
I am still struggling with issues related to my health, while adding a few new wrinkles to the mix, but I don't fell like talking about that now.
Just wanted to brag that we are going to Disneyworld tomorrow, and staying for a whole week!! I might let you know about the trip after we get back, or I may go several more months without blogging and never mention it again. I'll decide later.
:raspberry:
Just wanted to brag that we are going to Disneyworld tomorrow, and staying for a whole week!! I might let you know about the trip after we get back, or I may go several more months without blogging and never mention it again. I'll decide later.
:raspberry:
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Stress. Stress?? Maybe not.
There is a lot of talk about stress, de-stressing, effects on your mood, your health, your well-being.
What types of things stress you out?
For health and other reasons, I have been trying to evaluate the stresses in my life, but I seem to just get more confused.
Stress can be good, or bad. Too much stress is definitely a bad thing, but then probably too little stress is not good either.
My workload on the job lately has been very erratic - lots of long, slow periods with nothing much to do, and then bursts of a bunch of things to do all at once. The slow times seemed nice at first, and after a real rush of busyness it helps to have a few moments to relax again. But when the slow periods go on for too long the day seems to drag by and take forever. A certain amount of workload (I guess I'm relating workload to stress, here) helps because I feel productive and valuable and challenged. But too much workload especially with deadlines added in obviously equates to negative stress. Failure to meet those deadlines, unhappy clients, not producing my best work because I'm rushed, - all of these negatively impact my mood, my self-image, and ultimately my health.
But so much of stress - at work, as well as outside of work - is related to mood, self image, all these mental processes that should be ultimately in my control.
As I have been trying to catalogue and quantify the stresses in my life, I find myself over and over thinking "that's not really that bad", "in the long run that's not going to matter much" , or "but this good thing and this good thing really outweigh the negative there".
I guess what I'm thinking is that things can only stress me out if I let them. There are definitely some that are harder than others to just let go of, or find the good in. But overall, I think the quality of my life would greatly improve if I made more of a conscious effort to direct my thoughts in positive directions.
Have a good night, and enjoy your weekend!!
What types of things stress you out?
For health and other reasons, I have been trying to evaluate the stresses in my life, but I seem to just get more confused.
Stress can be good, or bad. Too much stress is definitely a bad thing, but then probably too little stress is not good either.
My workload on the job lately has been very erratic - lots of long, slow periods with nothing much to do, and then bursts of a bunch of things to do all at once. The slow times seemed nice at first, and after a real rush of busyness it helps to have a few moments to relax again. But when the slow periods go on for too long the day seems to drag by and take forever. A certain amount of workload (I guess I'm relating workload to stress, here) helps because I feel productive and valuable and challenged. But too much workload especially with deadlines added in obviously equates to negative stress. Failure to meet those deadlines, unhappy clients, not producing my best work because I'm rushed, - all of these negatively impact my mood, my self-image, and ultimately my health.
But so much of stress - at work, as well as outside of work - is related to mood, self image, all these mental processes that should be ultimately in my control.
As I have been trying to catalogue and quantify the stresses in my life, I find myself over and over thinking "that's not really that bad", "in the long run that's not going to matter much" , or "but this good thing and this good thing really outweigh the negative there".
I guess what I'm thinking is that things can only stress me out if I let them. There are definitely some that are harder than others to just let go of, or find the good in. But overall, I think the quality of my life would greatly improve if I made more of a conscious effort to direct my thoughts in positive directions.
Have a good night, and enjoy your weekend!!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
I'm trying...
Last time, I posted about diabetes.
I tried to give you some idea of what kind of balancing act it is, and how sometimes it can be really, really shitty trying to hold that thin balance between 'really dangerous and you could die right now' and 'uncomfortable now and will still kill you someday.'
And sometimes you just get really, really tired of balancing. So you say 'Fuck it' and go lay down on the uncomfortable side, because it is so much bigger, and easier, and less work.
But unfortunately, once you have taken that break in the land of discomfort and future death, it gets even harder to return to the balancing act, and then the wobbles get bigger and more difficult to control.
I have spent long enough resting on this bed of rocks, they are really pointy and beginning to leave dents in my spine. But I have to re-learn the balance, and remember to forgive myself when it is not perfect, and not overcorrect when the wobbles come.
Wish me luck.
I tried to give you some idea of what kind of balancing act it is, and how sometimes it can be really, really shitty trying to hold that thin balance between 'really dangerous and you could die right now' and 'uncomfortable now and will still kill you someday.'
And sometimes you just get really, really tired of balancing. So you say 'Fuck it' and go lay down on the uncomfortable side, because it is so much bigger, and easier, and less work.
But unfortunately, once you have taken that break in the land of discomfort and future death, it gets even harder to return to the balancing act, and then the wobbles get bigger and more difficult to control.
I have spent long enough resting on this bed of rocks, they are really pointy and beginning to leave dents in my spine. But I have to re-learn the balance, and remember to forgive myself when it is not perfect, and not overcorrect when the wobbles come.
Wish me luck.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Diabetes - it sucks.
I know there are many diseases in the world that are worse. Since Banting and Best discovered insulin (Go Canada!!) it is not a death sentence, but it is still a life sentence, and anyone battling chronic illness knows it can be exhausting and frustrating even when things are going well. And when they are not going well, it seems really unfair how easily the rest of the world (or so we perceive it) has it in their unmedicated, uncomplicated lives.
I also know that compared to many others who share the same disease, I have had a relatively easy time of it. I have type I diabetes - what used to be called juvenile diabetes, because so many with this type are first diagnosed when they are children - which means my pancreas does not produce any insulin. The only way to control it is by taking injections of insulin several times a day. Unlike most, I was not diagnosed until I was 20 years old and able to understand and treat the disease myself, and I was gifted with a childhood free of shots and pain and complications.
I have had two healthy children, without any of the major complications that are so much more prevalent in diabetic pregnancies.
I have now lived almost 15 years with this disease, and so far I have avoided any of the major complications which the disease tends to bring.
But at this point in time, there are therapies and no cures. The complications - including such things as blindness, nerve damage, amputation, heart disease, stroke, kidney failure, etc. - are not to be avoided entirely, but merely postponed. And after 15 years, it feels like I am coming to the end of the carefree invincibility I felt at the beginning of this journey.
I am not entirely blameless, either. When I was first diagnosed, this disease was new, and scary. The doctors gave me the rules for how to manage the disease, and I followed them religiously - because in my mind, if I didn't, I would die. There was a strict schedule - eat this, at this time, and take these shots, at these times. And it worked really well.
But real life does not always allow for clock-regimented meals and shots, so I learned some flexibility - how to adapt if lunch was late, or how to compensate for a slice of birthday cake for a special meal. I needed to learn these things to avoid life-threatening episodes of low blood sugar when food was going to be late, and adjust for uncomfortable but less-dangerous* episodes of high blood sugar if I ate more than the specified amount.
*Notice I said less dangerous, not un-dangerous. High blood sugar will not kill you immediately, but high blood sugar is a cumulative threat that over time will bring about all of the most unpleasant complications of diabetes.
Diabetes is a constant balancing act. When the body does not produce insulin, it cannot break down the sugar you eat to provide the energy your cells need to function. Diabetics take injections of insulin, but it is a guessing game to get the right amount. Too much will mean all of the sugar is used up too quickly. Too little will leave excess sugar behind.
Excess sugar hangs out in the blood, and gets in the way of a lot of important functions. It will slowly destroy small blood vessels, killing off nerves one by one, destroying sensation and in the eyes, sight. It helps out the plaque buildup that leads to heart disease and stroke. And it gets in the way of immune function, making you more susceptible to any germ you come in contact with. Unless it gets very, very high, high blood sugar has very few immediate effects other than increased thirst and urination as your kidneys try to filter and flush out the extra sugar - which, by the way, eventually causes kidney disease, too. If you bring the blood sugar back down, these symptoms disappear. But the effects of high blood sugar add up over time. So a few hours of high blood sugar won't do much. But a few hours day after day, year after year, will eventually add up to irreversible damage to a lot of important body parts.
But if there is too much insulin, then you get immediate bad consequences. Once the sugar has all been used up, there is nothing to power important cells that need constant energy - like your brain. You get shaky, and weak, and then stupid, then quickly lose consciousness and go into a coma. If no one is around, you can die right there. If you are very lucky, someone around you will figure things out and feed you sugar before you lose consciousness, or medical personnel will be available to get you IV sugar, hopefully before the coma is irreversible.
I have had a few episodes get to the stupid stage (not enough brain power left to feed myself sugar) and only a couple got far enough to require medical intervention. It is not an experience I want to repeat (for myself, or the people around me that I scared spitless!), so it should be pretty obvious why I make a lot of effort to stay away from that extreme.
But like I said it is a balancing act. Picture it as a road, with a very narrow but windy path - say, barely as wide as the width of your foot. On one side is a cliff that falls millions of stories to certain death. On the other are some really sharp, nasty rocks covered with dirt and germs and crap. Now walk this blindfolded. Obviously, you want to stay on the path, but if you have to step off, even if the rocks are gonna hurt, it's gotta be better than certain death.
If it was a straight road, it would be easier right? But that's the other fun (hear my sarcasm here) part about diabetes. Besides the fact that it can be very difficult to calculate the amount of sugar (carbohydrates) a given food contains, it's not just a direct relationship between the food you eat and the insulin you need. There are a million other factors that can bump it one way or another, and they are all invisible. More exercise usually lowers the amount of insulin needed. But then occasionally vigorous exercise can cause the body to excrete extra sugar it had stored in the liver. Alcohol? Can make the insulin work better than normal, or might just boost blood sugar because of the extra carbs it usually contains. Stress? Can cause sugar to either raise or lower. Illness? Can also cause problems, but you guessed it - may push the sugars either direction. Hormones? Insulin will work better or worse depending on a woman's time of the month.
It's complicated, and occasionally frustrating, depressing and infuriating. But I have no choice, so I have to keep playing even if the game is rigged.
That's enough of a lesson today class. I've probably bored to tears anyone who stumbled across this post. Anyway, thanks for reading.
I also know that compared to many others who share the same disease, I have had a relatively easy time of it. I have type I diabetes - what used to be called juvenile diabetes, because so many with this type are first diagnosed when they are children - which means my pancreas does not produce any insulin. The only way to control it is by taking injections of insulin several times a day. Unlike most, I was not diagnosed until I was 20 years old and able to understand and treat the disease myself, and I was gifted with a childhood free of shots and pain and complications.
I have had two healthy children, without any of the major complications that are so much more prevalent in diabetic pregnancies.
I have now lived almost 15 years with this disease, and so far I have avoided any of the major complications which the disease tends to bring.
But at this point in time, there are therapies and no cures. The complications - including such things as blindness, nerve damage, amputation, heart disease, stroke, kidney failure, etc. - are not to be avoided entirely, but merely postponed. And after 15 years, it feels like I am coming to the end of the carefree invincibility I felt at the beginning of this journey.
I am not entirely blameless, either. When I was first diagnosed, this disease was new, and scary. The doctors gave me the rules for how to manage the disease, and I followed them religiously - because in my mind, if I didn't, I would die. There was a strict schedule - eat this, at this time, and take these shots, at these times. And it worked really well.
But real life does not always allow for clock-regimented meals and shots, so I learned some flexibility - how to adapt if lunch was late, or how to compensate for a slice of birthday cake for a special meal. I needed to learn these things to avoid life-threatening episodes of low blood sugar when food was going to be late, and adjust for uncomfortable but less-dangerous* episodes of high blood sugar if I ate more than the specified amount.
*Notice I said less dangerous, not un-dangerous. High blood sugar will not kill you immediately, but high blood sugar is a cumulative threat that over time will bring about all of the most unpleasant complications of diabetes.
Diabetes is a constant balancing act. When the body does not produce insulin, it cannot break down the sugar you eat to provide the energy your cells need to function. Diabetics take injections of insulin, but it is a guessing game to get the right amount. Too much will mean all of the sugar is used up too quickly. Too little will leave excess sugar behind.
Excess sugar hangs out in the blood, and gets in the way of a lot of important functions. It will slowly destroy small blood vessels, killing off nerves one by one, destroying sensation and in the eyes, sight. It helps out the plaque buildup that leads to heart disease and stroke. And it gets in the way of immune function, making you more susceptible to any germ you come in contact with. Unless it gets very, very high, high blood sugar has very few immediate effects other than increased thirst and urination as your kidneys try to filter and flush out the extra sugar - which, by the way, eventually causes kidney disease, too. If you bring the blood sugar back down, these symptoms disappear. But the effects of high blood sugar add up over time. So a few hours of high blood sugar won't do much. But a few hours day after day, year after year, will eventually add up to irreversible damage to a lot of important body parts.
But if there is too much insulin, then you get immediate bad consequences. Once the sugar has all been used up, there is nothing to power important cells that need constant energy - like your brain. You get shaky, and weak, and then stupid, then quickly lose consciousness and go into a coma. If no one is around, you can die right there. If you are very lucky, someone around you will figure things out and feed you sugar before you lose consciousness, or medical personnel will be available to get you IV sugar, hopefully before the coma is irreversible.
I have had a few episodes get to the stupid stage (not enough brain power left to feed myself sugar) and only a couple got far enough to require medical intervention. It is not an experience I want to repeat (for myself, or the people around me that I scared spitless!), so it should be pretty obvious why I make a lot of effort to stay away from that extreme.
But like I said it is a balancing act. Picture it as a road, with a very narrow but windy path - say, barely as wide as the width of your foot. On one side is a cliff that falls millions of stories to certain death. On the other are some really sharp, nasty rocks covered with dirt and germs and crap. Now walk this blindfolded. Obviously, you want to stay on the path, but if you have to step off, even if the rocks are gonna hurt, it's gotta be better than certain death.
If it was a straight road, it would be easier right? But that's the other fun (hear my sarcasm here) part about diabetes. Besides the fact that it can be very difficult to calculate the amount of sugar (carbohydrates) a given food contains, it's not just a direct relationship between the food you eat and the insulin you need. There are a million other factors that can bump it one way or another, and they are all invisible. More exercise usually lowers the amount of insulin needed. But then occasionally vigorous exercise can cause the body to excrete extra sugar it had stored in the liver. Alcohol? Can make the insulin work better than normal, or might just boost blood sugar because of the extra carbs it usually contains. Stress? Can cause sugar to either raise or lower. Illness? Can also cause problems, but you guessed it - may push the sugars either direction. Hormones? Insulin will work better or worse depending on a woman's time of the month.
It's complicated, and occasionally frustrating, depressing and infuriating. But I have no choice, so I have to keep playing even if the game is rigged.
That's enough of a lesson today class. I've probably bored to tears anyone who stumbled across this post. Anyway, thanks for reading.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Long time... no see.
Well, so I'm not such a comitted blogger, am I? Never promised to be, though.
Updates. Of the original fish, we still have the algae eater. He's (She's?) grown hella big, and seems to be thriving. Currently his (her?) only tankmate is a moonlight gourami, who apparently nibbled to death the bigger angelfish who had become the sole survivor of our previous fish... who I don't think was actually one of the original occupants of the tank, anyways. But I am proud to say that the average lifespan of a fish in that tank has to average at least 3 months. So take that fish nazi!!!
My son with the ADHD is still working to get the correct dosage of medication, but I am happy to report that he has responded extremely well to it, and does not appear to be zombified in any way, shape or form. He does seem to be very responsive to the medication, and we are cutting back to the lowest dose we can manage to try to avoid some minor sleep disruptions that have appeared. I think the lastest dose has worked very, very well, and hopefully will become permanent the next time we see his pediatrician in a couple of weeks.
My hubby still smokes. I am working very hard not to let that bother me, as I think I have to accept that I cannot control him, I can only control me. And I am the first to admit that I have issues of my own that I should work on. I have started mentally scripting a post several times about the fact that I am diabetic, but it keeps getting longer and more involved, and never quite makes it into print. But I am struggling for better control of my disease and my own health, and have taken some steps toward that goal. Hopefully I will post more about it later.
I know no one actually reads this, but just in case you found me, thanks for checking in.
Updates. Of the original fish, we still have the algae eater. He's (She's?) grown hella big, and seems to be thriving. Currently his (her?) only tankmate is a moonlight gourami, who apparently nibbled to death the bigger angelfish who had become the sole survivor of our previous fish... who I don't think was actually one of the original occupants of the tank, anyways. But I am proud to say that the average lifespan of a fish in that tank has to average at least 3 months. So take that fish nazi!!!
My son with the ADHD is still working to get the correct dosage of medication, but I am happy to report that he has responded extremely well to it, and does not appear to be zombified in any way, shape or form. He does seem to be very responsive to the medication, and we are cutting back to the lowest dose we can manage to try to avoid some minor sleep disruptions that have appeared. I think the lastest dose has worked very, very well, and hopefully will become permanent the next time we see his pediatrician in a couple of weeks.
My hubby still smokes. I am working very hard not to let that bother me, as I think I have to accept that I cannot control him, I can only control me. And I am the first to admit that I have issues of my own that I should work on. I have started mentally scripting a post several times about the fact that I am diabetic, but it keeps getting longer and more involved, and never quite makes it into print. But I am struggling for better control of my disease and my own health, and have taken some steps toward that goal. Hopefully I will post more about it later.
I know no one actually reads this, but just in case you found me, thanks for checking in.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Is that what that song really said?
I had an odd mental flash the other day, listening to the radio in the car.
It was Nickelback - and I love Nickelback - playing the song "Rockstar". The radio station did that thing where they fuzz out the lyrics when it gets to profanity. Words like f**k, s**t, and a** are muted, so you can't really hear them. Kind of dumb, really, because everyone still knows what the word is, and often it is the rhyme at the end of the line, so why bother?
But anyways, they blurred out all the words I expected, but I was singing along anyways. And then they got to the line "Hire eight bodyguards who love to beat up..." and I swear, up until that moment, I always sang the word "vassals" and thought that was it. But they blurred the word out, and it dawned on me like a bolt of lightning... lightbulb moment. They really sing "who like to beat up a**holes." And it makes so much more sense. Why didn't I think of that before? I felt really kind of stupid, but immediately began to make up this long involved explanation, because it was perfectly reasonable for me to assume the word was "vassals". Wasn't it?
Luckily, by the time I got to work, I realized that no one would really care, and it is kind of counter-productive to draw attention to my mistake if no one knew in the first place, and I already felt kind of stupid about it. But I still have this really strong urge to share the experience... which is why this is the perfect place to get it out. Because nobody reads this anyways.
It was Nickelback - and I love Nickelback - playing the song "Rockstar". The radio station did that thing where they fuzz out the lyrics when it gets to profanity. Words like f**k, s**t, and a** are muted, so you can't really hear them. Kind of dumb, really, because everyone still knows what the word is, and often it is the rhyme at the end of the line, so why bother?
But anyways, they blurred out all the words I expected, but I was singing along anyways. And then they got to the line "Hire eight bodyguards who love to beat up..." and I swear, up until that moment, I always sang the word "vassals" and thought that was it. But they blurred the word out, and it dawned on me like a bolt of lightning... lightbulb moment. They really sing "who like to beat up a**holes." And it makes so much more sense. Why didn't I think of that before? I felt really kind of stupid, but immediately began to make up this long involved explanation, because it was perfectly reasonable for me to assume the word was "vassals". Wasn't it?
Luckily, by the time I got to work, I realized that no one would really care, and it is kind of counter-productive to draw attention to my mistake if no one knew in the first place, and I already felt kind of stupid about it. But I still have this really strong urge to share the experience... which is why this is the perfect place to get it out. Because nobody reads this anyways.
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