9 posts tagged “depression”
I feel completely disconnected from my writing right now. Which is so unfortunate as I have so much to write about. New marriage. New job. New experiences and growth and change and joy. There is a lot of wonderful available and I should be tapping into it, but I can't. I'm trying to live instead of write, experience instead of overanalyze, and exist in the joy/worry/anger/love/humor of the moment as it happens instead of obsessing about it endlessly.
I don't know if this is a good thing. Sometimes I think it is. It's good to stop and live. It's kind of like the difference between photographing a memorable even and just watching it. I don't think it's a permanent condition. In fact, I sense it's nearly over and I have a lot churning in my head right now. I guess I just need to verbalize and rationalize to myself how I went from writing and photographing everyday to almost not at all.
I love and miss you, writing. I'll be back before you know it.
Wake reluctantly.
Trudge to computer desk in hopes that email will wake me more effectively.
Begin to apply make-up.
Am uncertain which shade of eyeshadow to apply.
Will I look too made up?
Not made up enough?
Dress with equal amounts of uncertainty.
Loathe clothing for being too casual.
Until the weekend when I will loathe it all for being too dressy.
Hug and kiss the girls and Ron, longing for another hug as I walk to my car.
Reverse out of parking spot, hoping I'm not in anyone's way.
Drive to work.
Am I driving purposefully enough?
Do I change lanes like everyone else?
Maybe use a little less blinker; a little more brake.
Miss turn while wondering if my turning technique is up to par.
Pull into parking garage.
Did I swipe my card the right way?
Sure, the barrier raised, but was there an authoritative wrist flick?
Find a parking spot.
Why was that so easy?
Maybe I shouldn't park here.
Tenatively leave car, wondering if it will be towed.
Elevator takes me to the tunnels under downtown.
Hope I'm turning the right way as I step off the elevator.
See sign confirming that I am going the right way.
Wonder if anyone noticed me looking at the sign.
They'll know that I don't know where I'm going and they'll think less of me.
The tunnels are deserted this early in the morning.
A long white corridor begs to be photographed.
I think of what angle I would shoot from, and what settings I would use.
I notice that they are pumping in air from above, and simulating light from outside.
I can almost believe there are windows, and I have a fabulous photograph in my head.
The straight corridor ends and I'm at an intersection.
Turn down the left tunnel, hoping it's the right direction and hoping that I didn't look hesitant.
Wonder if my heels are clicking too loudly.
Try to walk more softly.
Wonder if left heel makes a different noise than right heel.
Try to walk more firmly on the left heel.
Fear I have forgotten to walk.
Concentrate on not tripping.
Oh shit. An escalator.
Count my steps in rhythm with the escaltor and hope I have timed it correctly.
Time it incorrectly and have to pause for a step to rise.
The person in front of me is walking up the escalator.
Should I walk too?
Try to walk but feel unsteady.
Can't stop walking because will then be the girl on the escalator who started walking and then stopped.
Awkardly exit moving staircase.
Aim roughly towards elevator bank.
Arrive at wrong elevator bank and keep walking.
Wonder how I'm going to turn around in the middle of the lobby.
Don't want to be the girl who turned around in the middle of the lobby.
Also don't want to go outside and walk all the way around block.
Fumble in purse for cell phone.
Feign receiving a text message that requires me to stop in my tracks and reverse direction.
Navigate to correct elevator bank.
Push button.
Light dings to announce elevator, so I walk over to it.
But it takes awhile for the elevator to arrive and the doors to open.
Did I walk over too soon?
Should I uncross my arms?
Do I get my access card out yet?
Are they all looking at me?
Elevator purges its passengers and accepts me among the new ones.
Beautiful natural wood lines each elevator car.
Try to see which wood is in this car and observe the grain.
Wonder if I could get a photo.
Remember that I can't even stand in a crowd without hyperventilating.
Chances of me randomly photographing (while unmedicated) are therefor slim to none.
Wonder if I could come on the weekend or after hours to shoot the elevators.
Arrive at 47.
Doors open and I don't know which way to turn.
Turn the wrong way.
Turn around and head the other way while silently cursing myself.
Realize someone is walking behind me.
Wonder if I'm walking fast enough.
Fear I'm walking too fast.
Will they think I think they're chasing me?
Walk slower.
Forget how to walk.
Arrive at elevator.
Push button and fumble in purse to find access card.
Zipper is stuck on purse threads and I wonder if they're watching me.
Door opens and I insert access card to get to my floor.
Access card doesn't work.
Re-insert.
Re-re-insert.
Re-re-re-insert and remember to breathe.
Access card works and I make it to my floor.
Head down hallway to office.
Wish I could make it all day without having to talk to anyone or walk anywhere.
It's only 7:30am.
I am anxious and exhausted and terrified.
It happens everywhere.
Grocery store.
Mall.
Church.
Restaurants.
I'm tired of fighting it everyday.
I'm tired.
I want it to go away.
Show us something that is standing in your way.
Me. I'm my own obstacle and enemy and defeater. But I'm working on that, I promise.
... hardly blogging anymore. I'm too afraid to open my brain up for all the scary stuff that might pour out. I can't stop it once it does, so let's just keep it all shut in there for now, shall we? Meanwhile, I borrowed this from another blog because I thought it was pretty clever and unusual. Or maybe I'm just easily impressed....
i am: finding that if you fake cheerfulness long enough, you can attain it.
i think: way too much for my own good.
i know: great things are about to happen. (my fortune cookies said so)
i want: peace.
i have: amazing people in my life.
i wish: i had all the answers.
i hate: limbo.
i miss: my grampsy, but you already knew that.
i fear: talking to people.
i feel: unsettled, but very lucky somehow.
i hear: high school musical songs in my head.
i smell: everything incredibly well.
i crave: chips and salsa and/or guacamole.
i search: for jobs constantly.
i wonder: why the IRS hates me so.
i regret: often, though i try not to.
i love: my children and family.
i ache: in my shoulder from doing a cartwheel without stretching. (30 hurts!)
i care: too much about what people think of me
i always: think i sound like an asshat when i talk.
i am not: adequately medicated.
i believe: my children keep me sane and insane simultaneously.
i dance: not enough. i miss it terribly.
i sing: in the car with the girls.
i don't always: email people back promptly. bad ashley.
i fight: with myself. i hate fighting with anyone else.
i write: in my head CONSTANTLY.
i win: word games. i love my words.
i lose: track of time quite easily.
i never: thought i would find love this amazing.
i confuse: other people with my unecessarily large words.
i listen: better than i talk.
i can usually be found: doing laundry, chauferring children, or on the computer.
i am scared: of talking to people. still.
i need: to win the lottery, but i'd settle for just finding a job.
i am happy about: my wedding in June and seeing all my friends and family.
You?
edited to change "happiness" to "cheerfulness". clearly i am very happy.... i'm just not always all that cheerful. there's a difference :)
For Lent, I'm giving up employment. Actually, I think for good I'm giving up regular employment. Too much is pointing me in another direction, not the least of which is the fact I was "let go" on Tuesday. I say I was fired, but Ron says "let go" sounds much better. He was actually "laid off" on Tuesday. But he doesn't even need air quotes, because he work in the homebuilding industry and his was a true layoff. Mine was more of a "Hi, you missed a lot of work lately and we don't want to work with you anymore. Here's a box. Get your shit and get out."
And I know it's easy to act blameless and shocked when you get fired. It's easier to make excuses for why they hated you and were out to get you, than to admit that you might have actually fucked up. I guess I actually fucked up. Hats off to working, single moms who do it successfully. Avery's asthma has been so bad since the start of the new year that I was out of the office several hours a week. I worked from home to make sure that I stayed on top of my assignments and ensured that no one else was picking up my slack. But they still felt they wanted someone who could be more reliable. I can't be reliable I guess. I can't tell my 4 year old to suck it up and figure out her breathing problems on her own. I can't tell her to walk herself to the ER, or have her hitch a ride to doctor's appointments. I can't even get her father to do it, because he lives 3 hours away. It's on me and there it will remain.
So. I'm not supposed to work a "typical" job. I get that. Instead, Ron and I are embarking on starting our own freelance company. We'll specialize in writing, business writing, technical writing, writing web content, limericks, grocery lists.... anything that will pay us to write, we will do. It's terrfying. He's been an executive at a Fortune 200 company, so he knows all the business shit. We've got business plans and marketing strategies and cash flow projections and pretty pretty colorful graphs. I mostly just make funny jokes and correct his spelling. But there's a partnership in there somewhere and once there is writing to be done, I'll be sure to do it.
Meanwhile I'm deciding how exactly I'm supposed to go about planning a wedding when we don't even know what the next couple of months hold. We've got the church for June 7, and people are buying plane tickets. Hell, I've got 20 pounds worth of dupioni silk and fluted tulle in the form of a wedding dress hanging in my mom's closet. So somehow, I'm prancing around in that thing on June 7. There may not be much else, but by golly, I'll have my pretty dress.
And of course the stress. The lovely lovely lovely stress. I don't know how to deal with it, so I internalize it. Which shortens my patience, especially with the girls. I need to verbalize my stress more. I need to let people support me. I just don't want to answer the 4,927 questions that follow when I reach out. Or the assumptions that I'm over-reacting and being dramatic. Or the statement that I'm clearly stressing about the wrong thing and need to stress about something else instead. Or the silence. The fucking accusatory silence. I can seriously not handle that.
Anyway, I'm totally not whining or being dramatic. Please don't think I am. Clearly things could always be much worse. In fact, part of what made Tuesday excruciating was the death of my friend's mom. I was floored by it and sobbing the whole way to work as soon as I found out. I was making arrangments to take over her work load and contribute to the flower arrangement, when HR busted in and fired me. I thought of her a lot today as I was at my nephew's birthday party. My friend's daughter had her birthday party today as well... the first one without her grandmother. So yeah, things could be worse. But still, they're kind of scary for me. Prayers, good vibes, and/or voodoo chants are welcome.
We interrupt the march of the creepy babies for this profound thought: It is okay to be average.
Groundbreaking, I know. But it's something I've been struggling with, and when this article popped up on my Yahoo this evening, I decided to pay attention. It details the link between depression and perfectionists, and it makes a frightening amount of sense.
I've been accused of being a perfectionist, but I usually deny it. My mom feels responsible for expecting too much of me, and claims she shouldn't have incessantly told me that there was no limit to what I could acheive. (Yeah, that kind of encouragement is super-bad parenting, Mom.) What others characterize as perfectionist ideals, I describe as simply knowing what I'm capable of and holding myself to that standard.
The article says:
Some researchers divide perfectionists into three types,...: Self-oriented strivers who struggle to live up to their high standards and appear to be at risk of self-critical depression; outwardly focused zealots who expect perfection from others, often ruining relationships; and those desperate to live up to an ideal they’re convinced others expect of them, a risk factor for suicidal thinking and eating disorders.
As a mother, I've noticed that I'm becoming that other kind of perfectionist... the kind who begins to set high standards for other people. Mostly, the girls bear the brunt of that. I exhaust myself sometimes trying to enforce behavior that isn't possible, and I'd be much more relaxed if I just resigned myself to the fact that family meals will feature burping and fart noises for a least a couple more years. That they're not going to always use their "inside voice" at the movies. That standing still on both feet for more than 2 consecutive seconds is maybe just too lofty a goal for Avery. And the biggest expectation that I need to relax is that my children are not me.
I think every parent dreams of having a little version of them running around. When I was pregnant with Allie, I just knew she would look just like me, act just like me, have the same interests, sense of humor, and the same gifts. And for the most part, I've been right. Even she can't tell the difference between pictures of her, and picture of me at the same age. She's got my strange sense of humor, my shyness and sensitivity, and my creative flair. I assumed that she'd have my brains too and couldn't wait for her to start kindergarten so that I could find out just how smart she really was.
I thought she would learn how to read quickly and easily. (Because I was reading at the age of 4.) I thought she would be recommended for the gifted program. (Because I could read 6th grade level in the 1st grade and was skipped to 2nd.) I thought she would breeze through her lessons and come home begging for more challenging assignments. (Because I started writing my first novel in 2nd grade.) I thought she would be like me. I thought she would be a genius. I know every parent thinks their kid is special and smart and above average. But I just knew that I was actually right. That all my brains had been passed on to her and she would use them better than I ever did.
She got her first report card right before Thanksgiving. She mostly got "S" which is average. She got an "E" in one area. She had several "N" marks which indicate a need for improvement. Her teacher even wants her to do in class tutorials on a few points. I freaked. I felt like I had failed. I felt like I had messed something up and that something was wrong with her. I called my mom crying, worrying that I didn't start flash cards early enough, or that I should be reading more books to her, or maybe all the trauma of divorce and moving and life had stunted her intellectual growth. I didn't expect her to be typical. I expected her to be like me.
Mom told me "This is what you want. This is easier. You don't want her to be like you." She reassured me that Allie was normal, but I emailed the teacher anyway. I asked what I could do to help. Did she need to be enrolled in Kumon? Should I purchase special software or workbooks? Would practicing with her 2 hours a night help? Is she normal? Is she going to repeat kindergarten? Did I fail?
Know what I found out? She's normal. She's average. She's learning things at her own pace and it is perfectly within the range of what a kid her age should know. She's not at the top of her class, but she's not at the bottom. No great measures are required on my part beyond what I'm already doing. Except maybe taking a big fat chill pill and getting over it.
I admit that I grieved for a bit. Then I realized how stupid that was. She is normal! How many parents pray for that exact same thing? She's healthy, happy, and she gets to be a kid! She gets to learn 5-year-old type things. She gets to be friends with other 5-year-old kids without worrying about alienating them. She won't get bored with school because she'll always be learning. She'll get to ask me for help with her homework and I'll actually be able to help her. I've always said I wanted her to have a normal, stable life and she'll have it. No shuffling her around, trying to figure out what the hell they can actually teach her. She gets to be a real, live, normal kindergartener. I never had that, but she will.
And on further reflection, what good has my big ol' IQ done me? Not much. I was miserable in school, never finished college, and I'm certainly not using my much heralded intelligence in my work. It always felt like a blessing to be above average and special, but I'm beginning to see how it hurt me as much as it helped me. I don't know that I'll ever feel like I'm living up to my potential. I'll always know that I could have done more with my gifts, had I applied myself more. I'm that perfectionist who is expecting herself to live up to ideals I believe others expect of me. And that, frankly, is just stupid.
I always make a New Year's resolution to not be so hard on myself. To not expect perfection. I never would have thought that my expectations were contributing to my depression, but it makes a lot of sense. If it's okay for Allie to be average, then it's okay for me to be average too. I know I'll need some help in adjusting my expections of myself (and other's), but she's helping me already. After all, she is the absolute BEST average kid in her whole class.... ;)
So, is it possible to have 2 full weeks of PMS, keep it during the "M" part of the syndrome, and then for like a week afterwards? Is that still PMS if it's before, during, and after? Can we change the P to "perpetual"? Or is it possible that I need to get back on my meds? Hmmmmm.
While we all contemplate that possibility, I'm going to list some things I'm grateful for to see if it doesn't shake me out of this foul mood.
1. My mom surviving her aneurysm. And still being an all around badass chick.
2. My girls being so absolutely sweet and selfless. When I was stressing about money tonight, Allie offered me her piggy bank and Avery "pinky squared" to quit asking me for new toys.
3. Wholly Guacamole. I hate pre-packaged guacamole, as a rule, but this stuff is addictive. It's been dinner for 3 out of 5 nights this past week.
4. My sense of humor. Because it must be really awful and painful to go through life without the ability to laugh at yourself. Or at other people.
5. My family. They're just crazy enough to be interesting, but not so crazy that I'd pretend to not be related to them. I hope they think the same of me.
6. Bunny rabbits. Like at the pet store? The cute ones that stand on their back legs and groom their ears then go for the water bottle with a twitchy nose? Wow. I know rabbits are usually assholes in real life (well, the one I owned was) but these buggers were so cute that I couldn't help but smile.
7. Wireless internet. For yays!
8. Pharmacology. For hope.
9. R. Because he always makes me smile. Even if he's not doing anything to intentionally make me smile. Just knowing that at some point in the near future he is going to make me laugh, is enough to make me smile in anticipation.
10. No 10. Because I hate even numbers. (Take that, Missy!)
A quote from the inimitable Heather Armstrong (of dooce.com)
"I don't think they make a capsule strong enough that it could totally stand up to the wrath of the female hormone. One minute I'm perfectly fine, sipping a cup of coffee, flipping through a magazine filled with photos of meticulously art-directed living rooms, thinking I'd very much like thosesquare acrylic tables or that pillow covered in suede. An hour later I'm having a panic attack at the thought of taking a shower, the energy it would require, how it seems so dumb that we keep having to do it over and over again, and then extrapolating that to every task in day-to-day life, making the bed or washing the dishes, it never ends. It just keeps going on and on, there is no destination, just the work of trying to get there. Maybe I'm just too sad to push that rock up the hill today.
And then I'm all, shut up. You smell. Go wash your hair.
I shit you not, that is the title of the song that was being played in the waiting room of my psychiatrist's office last Thursday. It made me laugh and I flipped to the back page of my book to write it down so I wouldn't forget the hilarity. Then I realized that I had actually come to my appointment toting the "Unabridged Journals of Syliva Plath" which was just sad and trite of me.
I was gearing myself up to actually speak to my doctor. I'm sort of horrible at communicating sometimes. I see my psychiatrist once a year, and my other visits are with his nursing staff. At my last appointment, I told the nurse that my Keppra was exacerbating my depression, adding rage to the mix, and that I might need a medication adjustment on my anti-depressant and anti-anxiety meds, and possibly an Adderall tweak. She encouraged me to speak up immediately when I met with the DOCTOR (that's how she said it; all caps) because he has a tendency to run people over if they don't speak up immediately. What a wonderful trait for a mental health professional to have.
So after smirking at myself in the waiting room for an hour, I was finally ushered down the horribly lit hallway, which was decorated by innumerable pharmacy representatives. Appropriate decor for what I have dubbed the "pill mill", but it gave me hope that the DOCTOR might be an expert in all the neurological chemicals filling up the wrinkly parts of my brain. His TWO assistants directed me to a couch (oh dear Lord a couch) and took their places dutifully on an adjacent couch, pens poised to collect any wisdom he might accidentally drop. (They need not have bothered.)
I checked out the decor while waiting for him to join us. There was a collection of KISS memorabilia lining the bookshelves, Harley Davidson merchandise, autographed pictures from Hooters girls. At first glance, I saw a magnet on the file cabinet that said "Shooting is cheaper than a psychiatrist" which I thought was kind of inappropriate. My eyes focused more clearly and I realized it encouraged shopping and not shooting, but I still thought it was kind inappropriate, now that compulsive shopping might have its own entry in the DSM-IV
The DOCTOR swaggered into his cushy chair, opened my file and began writing, then asked me "So, how are you?" which I declare the most asinine and ridiculous question ever asked of a person in a psychiatrist's office. I'm charted with ADHD, Major Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Panic Disorder with Agoraphobia. How the hell do you think I am? Given that I'm a born communicator, I answer "Good!" and then remember that I can't pretend here. So I tear up a little and say "Well, no, not really."
I then begin the speech I rehearsed in the car for a full week before this appointment, hoping to highlight how bad the Keppra makes me feel, how it's better when I take it with my Adderall, how I'd like my Adderall dose raised and split in two so that I can take it with my Keppra, and how I'd like to change to a new antidepressant and a separate anxiety med. I get as far as "I'm on Keppra now because my seizures have worsened and it makes my depression worse..." when he interrupts with "Keppra doesn't do that. It's a mood stabilizer."
Is that a fact? Even the little print out from CVS details that Keppra can cause changes in mood including depression and anxiety. But his tone of incredulity let me know that he thought I was full of shit and just inventing side effects for my own personal benefit. This of course makes me angry, and the first part of my body to react to anger is my tear ducts. They respond by copiously leaking and then my voice runs back down my trachea, leaps over to my heart, and quivers there in hiding. I'm a crying mute. DOCTOR goes on to tell me that I should discuss this with my neurologist. I inform DOCTOR that when I tried, the neuro just switched me to Depakote without reading my chart to see how horribly I react to Depakote. DOCTOR gives me a referral to a new neurologist and leaves the rest of my meds unchanged.
The voice in my heart screams at him, rants and stomps about angrily; it's pissed at me too. It tries to explain how scary it is to not want to live, to plan out how much life insurance my girls would get and who would best take care of them. It protested that I can reel myself back in now, with the thought of Allie crying for me, but that reel is getting longer and harder to pull back. It complains of the numbness most of all and the sense of futility that accompanies waking up in the morning, the immense effort required to get out of bed, put on the act, droning away at work under the Damoclean watch of my superiors. It wonders at how heavy the facade has become when it was once a weightless accoutrement that enabled me to function. Where I could once mask the grief and continue on in spite of it, sometimes because of it, the pretending is adding to the burden and has become harder to bear than the grief itself.
But I quietly file out of his office. Assistant #1 escorts me through another pharmaceutically incined passageway to the check out desk. She hands me my prescriptions and I start to cry again. I'm frustrated with the DOCTOR and also with myself. I am given the neuro referral and a slip for some lab work, and wait to book my next appointment in one month's time. I'm trying to not cry and to regain some control when the evil lady behind the frosted glass yells at me to "Stand in line over there, where the sign says to stand in line". Order which take me 3 steps to the left and 3 notches up on the hysterically crying scale. I take a tissue from the less evil lady who offers me one, and promise to come back in April.
I cry the whole way home. I cry after Mom drops off the girls. I take a bath and cry some more. I cut myself in the tub while shaving which triggers several macabre fantasies, none of which I can act on. I know that I can't because I don't have that cruelty in me. The girls and I go to the store for jelly beans. I let them bring their sleeping bags in the living room to watch The Wizard of Oz. I double my Lexapro dose, against medical advice, and fall asleep soon after. I know it won't be like this forever. It's just the part of me that knows that has shrunk to a splinter size lately. But it's enough of a splinter to aggravate and inflame and it promisesto infect and spread soon if I let it. And I promise to let it.
