It was almost 27 years ago. It was May. I remember it being May because my cousin's twin daughters were making their First Communion, which typically happens in May, and I was missing the party. I remember it being around Mother's Day. Can I give you an exact date? No. It's all just ballpark.
There was a school's boys lacrosse trip. The coach, the school chaplain, with whom I was quite close, were there. And, obviously the team. There was the only other girl and me, who were the bookkeepers. There was a bus ride. There was a hotel stay. There was drinking in one of the rooms. There were the shakes and nausea I feel from guilt, not from drinking. There was exhaustion from not sleeping. There was a bus ride home. There was a return to school. There was the chaplain coming up to me and asking me if I knew anything about things going on that may have included drinking. There was me telling him there was because I couldn't look him in the eye. There was him being surprised that I was actually involved. There was punishment from the school, mine doubled by the anger of the other kids. There was religion class with a game called Scruples being played. There was a kid asking me a made up question in the game of moral dilemmas about whether or not I would drink on a school trip. There were the really pissed girlfriends/dates of some of the guys involved because the guys couldn't go to prom. There was me telling my mom before the school could and dealing with that punishment --- the punishment of the silent treatment, which was far worse than the taking away of my license.
So what?
There's a story in that general list of things that happened. Actually, there are 5 stories. One-fifth of those stories is mine.
I'm going to go with the proverbial renaming of the other girl in this story as Jane. We'll go with Joe, Jack, and John for the guys. And me, I'll stay as I am. So, there's the 5, Jane, Joe, Jack, John, and me.
Jane and I shared a room at the hotel. We were the only females, so that was given. Joe, Jack, and John were sharing a room. People gathered in their room. They were a pretty big deal. Real jocks.
Out came the booze. There were the makings for a generic Screwdriver, a gallon of orange drink mixed with vodka. To continue to keep it a teenage drinking party was some MD 20/20 Banana Red. It may not be good, but it will get you drunk. I don't remember when the other guys left and if they were there for the drinking, but at some point the only people left were the 5 of us.
Joe passed out, which gave me a sense of relief. He was a really built and strong guy. Jack went and pissed in the sink, which is out in the open as is common in middle of the road kinds of hotels and motels. I didn't see his penis, but I was really starting to stress out. I really wanted to go back to our room, but I didn't want to leave Jane, who I knew wasn't going to come with me easily. So, I just laid down on the bed with the passed out Joe. The other bed had Jane, Jack, and John. They were under the bedspread. There was a lot of giggling on Jane's part and some laughing on Jack's and John's.
At some point, Jane and I returned to our room. I did not sleep. I was filled with guilt about being in that room and drinking. I just laid there shaking and nauseous. When it was time to go, I was a hot mess of exhaustion. The others didn't look bad at all. They were experienced with partying and late nights. Then you go back up to the above list with the bus ride home, etc.
Through the years, I have found myself wondering what went on with Jane, Jack, and John. Did my staying in the room protect her from something terrible happening? Did something terrible happen under the covers? Was she drunk to the point of not knowing what she was doing?
As I hear about Kavanaugh and his cronies, I immediately think of Joe, Jack, and John. Then I think about Jane and other girls from high school and what may have happened to them.
Sunday, September 30, 2018
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
It's not going away
In the early 1990s, I was a pretty conservative kid in some ways. In September of 1991, I was a junior in high school and 16-years-old. The SCOTUS confirmation hearings for Clarence Thomas were taking place and I gave no shits, as far as I recall. Then, in October of 1991, Anita Hill started to testify about being sexually harassed by him. That's when I started to pay attention in my young, naive, conservative way.
I called bullshit. How in the world was this woman coming forward after all that had been done? His confirmation was practically a done deal. This seemed so ridiculous to me. I thought that if things were that bad, she would have done something about it.
I was everything that disgusts me today.
I really should have known better. When I was a kid, I had experienced some sexual curiosity, I guess you could call it. This is nothing like assault. I wasn't a victim of something. It gave me horrible guilt and anxiety, in part because of who I was with. I'm leaving that out because they have the right to privacy, and, like I said, it wasn't an assault or anything like that. However, I carried it in the pit of my stomach for close to 20 years. I was afraid of getting in trouble and having people looking at me with disgust.
I did tell someone, finally. The very first psychiatrist/therapist I saw. I was 28-years-old revealing something from when I was about 12. He told me it was entirely normal behavior. He told me kids do that, they are curious, and they do it with whomever they are hanging around at the time. I had a sense of relief and told a couple other people, including my mom. Everyone's reaction was pretty much "that's it?" kind of vibe. I still have moments of feeling terrible, though, and try to work my way through by remembering the reactions of others.
What does this have to do with Anita Hill or #MeToo or Kavanaugh? I was not a victim. I was not abused. I was not assaulted. I was not harassed. Without all of those things being a part of my story, I was still afraid of revealing it to anyone for well over a decade. So, if I wasn't victimized and had no fear of the person I was with coming after me in some way, how can I possibly have the mindset of my 16-year-old-Anita-Hill-is-full-of-shit self? How can I expect women to report the crimes against them right away? How can I not #BelieveAllWomen #BelieveWoman #BelieveSurvivors?
I called bullshit. How in the world was this woman coming forward after all that had been done? His confirmation was practically a done deal. This seemed so ridiculous to me. I thought that if things were that bad, she would have done something about it.
I was everything that disgusts me today.
I really should have known better. When I was a kid, I had experienced some sexual curiosity, I guess you could call it. This is nothing like assault. I wasn't a victim of something. It gave me horrible guilt and anxiety, in part because of who I was with. I'm leaving that out because they have the right to privacy, and, like I said, it wasn't an assault or anything like that. However, I carried it in the pit of my stomach for close to 20 years. I was afraid of getting in trouble and having people looking at me with disgust.
I did tell someone, finally. The very first psychiatrist/therapist I saw. I was 28-years-old revealing something from when I was about 12. He told me it was entirely normal behavior. He told me kids do that, they are curious, and they do it with whomever they are hanging around at the time. I had a sense of relief and told a couple other people, including my mom. Everyone's reaction was pretty much "that's it?" kind of vibe. I still have moments of feeling terrible, though, and try to work my way through by remembering the reactions of others.
What does this have to do with Anita Hill or #MeToo or Kavanaugh? I was not a victim. I was not abused. I was not assaulted. I was not harassed. Without all of those things being a part of my story, I was still afraid of revealing it to anyone for well over a decade. So, if I wasn't victimized and had no fear of the person I was with coming after me in some way, how can I possibly have the mindset of my 16-year-old-Anita-Hill-is-full-of-shit self? How can I expect women to report the crimes against them right away? How can I not #BelieveAllWomen #BelieveWoman #BelieveSurvivors?
Sunday, September 16, 2018
Searching
It's been a while since I've posted anything. I've had some thoughts, so it wasn't for lack of things to say. This is probably a good example of what depression can do. It wasn't that I didn't have anything to say; it was that I didn't have the will or the energy to do it.
Anyway, that's not the focus of this post.
What I'm dealing with right now isn't really a unique thing to those of us with mental health issues. I can imagine that many with chronic illnesses have a similar experience. There are certainly varying degrees.
I have come to a point where I need to find a new psychiatrist. Things have just not been working. Plus, my current doctor is no longer on our insurance, so that's a practical reason for change. Shawn and I are on the same page with needing to make a break and move on. Actually, it was time a while ago.
So, why would I stay? A psychiatrist isn't like a primary care doctor who you see for a flu shot, a cold, or a basic physical. Yes, you do have a relationship with a PCP. For someone like me, a psychiatrist is deeply involved in my life. There's a level of intimacy that I don't share with some of my family. My psychiatrist is treating what is her best guess as to what is wrong with me. It's using her notes, whatever history I have given her, and playing with combinations of medications to try to get me well.
Trying to find a new psychiatrist is stressful. It fills me with anxiety. It means finding someone I am comfortable with. It also means that I have to remind myself that just because I meet with a psychiatrist, that doesn't mean I have to make that person my new doctor. I can go through an "interview" process with them. Then, once I select the doctor I will see, I have to go back to the beginning. It's the re-telling of my story. I have to go through my medication history, which quite frankly, I don't have the best recall of that list. Whatever files the new doc get transferred to him will have my best guess as to my history. Also, what happens if this doctor looks at my current diagnosis and says, "Oh, fuck no! Not even close!"? I mean, my current doctor is the first of 4 who came up with a bipolar depression diagnosis. Where the others wrong? Will the new doc agree? There is no blood test to diagnose these things. If the new doctor disagrees with the diagnosis or the medications, that means a pretty significant change. Changes in medications are difficult. The side effects can be so horrible and it can take a few weeks to even know if the drugs are working. So, you may suffer through some side effects, which may wane after your body adjusts, only to have the medication prove to be in effective. It's a lot of work physically and mentally.
And that is why it sometimes seems better to stay put.
Anyway, that's not the focus of this post.
What I'm dealing with right now isn't really a unique thing to those of us with mental health issues. I can imagine that many with chronic illnesses have a similar experience. There are certainly varying degrees.
I have come to a point where I need to find a new psychiatrist. Things have just not been working. Plus, my current doctor is no longer on our insurance, so that's a practical reason for change. Shawn and I are on the same page with needing to make a break and move on. Actually, it was time a while ago.
So, why would I stay? A psychiatrist isn't like a primary care doctor who you see for a flu shot, a cold, or a basic physical. Yes, you do have a relationship with a PCP. For someone like me, a psychiatrist is deeply involved in my life. There's a level of intimacy that I don't share with some of my family. My psychiatrist is treating what is her best guess as to what is wrong with me. It's using her notes, whatever history I have given her, and playing with combinations of medications to try to get me well.
Trying to find a new psychiatrist is stressful. It fills me with anxiety. It means finding someone I am comfortable with. It also means that I have to remind myself that just because I meet with a psychiatrist, that doesn't mean I have to make that person my new doctor. I can go through an "interview" process with them. Then, once I select the doctor I will see, I have to go back to the beginning. It's the re-telling of my story. I have to go through my medication history, which quite frankly, I don't have the best recall of that list. Whatever files the new doc get transferred to him will have my best guess as to my history. Also, what happens if this doctor looks at my current diagnosis and says, "Oh, fuck no! Not even close!"? I mean, my current doctor is the first of 4 who came up with a bipolar depression diagnosis. Where the others wrong? Will the new doc agree? There is no blood test to diagnose these things. If the new doctor disagrees with the diagnosis or the medications, that means a pretty significant change. Changes in medications are difficult. The side effects can be so horrible and it can take a few weeks to even know if the drugs are working. So, you may suffer through some side effects, which may wane after your body adjusts, only to have the medication prove to be in effective. It's a lot of work physically and mentally.
And that is why it sometimes seems better to stay put.
Thursday, August 16, 2018
I'm Jessica
Shawn and I went on a road trip for our 10th Anniversary. This was from our first night, Sunday, August 5th, 2018. I posted this on Facebook while we were on the road:
Night one of our trip was quite something. We had a long day of driving and tourist-ing (I know it's not a word, let me be). We were so close to our hotel, but I hadn't packed ibuprofen and also had developed sinus congestion so we had to stop at the gas station next to the hotel. There wasn't another option close by. I had to pee and I knew I wasn't making it to the hotel.
Seeing as it was me heading to a public restroom, something odd happening was not unlikely. I'm all about in and out as fast as possible in a public bathroom. I could hear stuff happening from the stall next to and I tried even harder to pee and flee. Then, I hear talking. In the age of cellphones, I assumed I was not part of this. Wrong. "I don't know who is in here right now, but I want someone to know my name. I'm Jessica" said the voice from the stall. In my anxiety-induced-socially-awkward state, I said, "Um. Okay." Washed my hands and left.
I told Shawn about it and that I didn't know what to do. I decided to tell the attendant. He said that he'd check in and that the graveyard shift see a lot of things.
We get to the hotel and check-in. Shawn heads back to park the car which had been sitting by the main entrance while we unloaded. It took him awhile to come back. I came to the lobby to get ice and saw Shawn standing by a window. He is talking to someone who was crying. I went back to the room.
Shawn came to the room. I asked him who he was talking to and he said it turned out to be Jessica...gas station bathroom Jessica. He was going to take her to Walmart, which was a good 10 minutes or so away, and wanted me to come for various reasons. She was a mess. Quite possibly a drugged out mess, but a mess just the same. He had given her our leftover pizza. She was so hungry. He gave her the cash that he happened to have. The trip to Walmart was to put the cash on her debit card in order to use an app that would get her a bus back to where she needed to be. When we dropped off, I gave her the fruit we had and a small package of Kleenex. She confessed to us that she did steal the energy drink from the gas station and knew it was wrong.
There were several "Sirs" and "Ma'ams". Some were with "Thank yous" and some were with "Yeses" or "Nos" in response to questions or instructions.
In the end, like the lost duckling we found about a month ago, we found a place for her to go and all we can do is hope for the best outcome of safety and being reunited with her friends and family.
Shawn is loving and compassionate and will go out of his way to help someone/thing in need and I am lucky to have him as my husband.
Night one of our trip was quite something. We had a long day of driving and tourist-ing (I know it's not a word, let me be). We were so close to our hotel, but I hadn't packed ibuprofen and also had developed sinus congestion so we had to stop at the gas station next to the hotel. There wasn't another option close by. I had to pee and I knew I wasn't making it to the hotel.
Seeing as it was me heading to a public restroom, something odd happening was not unlikely. I'm all about in and out as fast as possible in a public bathroom. I could hear stuff happening from the stall next to and I tried even harder to pee and flee. Then, I hear talking. In the age of cellphones, I assumed I was not part of this. Wrong. "I don't know who is in here right now, but I want someone to know my name. I'm Jessica" said the voice from the stall. In my anxiety-induced-socially-awkward state, I said, "Um. Okay." Washed my hands and left.
I told Shawn about it and that I didn't know what to do. I decided to tell the attendant. He said that he'd check in and that the graveyard shift see a lot of things.
We get to the hotel and check-in. Shawn heads back to park the car which had been sitting by the main entrance while we unloaded. It took him awhile to come back. I came to the lobby to get ice and saw Shawn standing by a window. He is talking to someone who was crying. I went back to the room.
Shawn came to the room. I asked him who he was talking to and he said it turned out to be Jessica...gas station bathroom Jessica. He was going to take her to Walmart, which was a good 10 minutes or so away, and wanted me to come for various reasons. She was a mess. Quite possibly a drugged out mess, but a mess just the same. He had given her our leftover pizza. She was so hungry. He gave her the cash that he happened to have. The trip to Walmart was to put the cash on her debit card in order to use an app that would get her a bus back to where she needed to be. When we dropped off, I gave her the fruit we had and a small package of Kleenex. She confessed to us that she did steal the energy drink from the gas station and knew it was wrong.
There were several "Sirs" and "Ma'ams". Some were with "Thank yous" and some were with "Yeses" or "Nos" in response to questions or instructions.
In the end, like the lost duckling we found about a month ago, we found a place for her to go and all we can do is hope for the best outcome of safety and being reunited with her friends and family.
Shawn is loving and compassionate and will go out of his way to help someone/thing in need and I am lucky to have him as my husband.
Abby Cat
From a Facebook post on Monday, August 6th, 2018:
I have posted pictures of the Queen Bee, Office Diva, Abby. The 16-year-old seal point who ran the show. She assigned you paperwork when she felt like getting up from atop it. She’d take it upon herself to make attempts at rebooting or reprogramming or just typing some kind of mess on your laptop. I swear she came very close to changing my passwords at times. She also enjoyed licking condensation from my giant, ice filled, water jug.
She was particular about her surroundings, her diet, her water bowl, and her people. Morgan was her person, no one could compare. She was so connected to Morgan that she shared her ringworm with her TWICE! The rest of the office was second tier for sure. Some of us aren’t cat people. I mean, we’ll rescue them, but we don’t have them as pets. But with Abby’s 4 months with us we didn’t really become cat people, but we did become Abby people.
Friday morning was probably the most difficult time I’ve had since joining Life Is Better. Abby, who had been through ringworm and food strikes had been diagnosed with renal failure earlier in the week. It was decided that, at 16, it was best to let her go. So, I drove specifically to see her one last time. I’m glad I was there and I’m glad I was with Abby’s #1 and the rest of the 2nd tier crew as we watched her slowly leave us.
#queenabby #proudtobeanabbyperson #adoptdontshop#rescuedismyfavoritebreed #thatrescuelife
I have posted pictures of the Queen Bee, Office Diva, Abby. The 16-year-old seal point who ran the show. She assigned you paperwork when she felt like getting up from atop it. She’d take it upon herself to make attempts at rebooting or reprogramming or just typing some kind of mess on your laptop. I swear she came very close to changing my passwords at times. She also enjoyed licking condensation from my giant, ice filled, water jug.
She was particular about her surroundings, her diet, her water bowl, and her people. Morgan was her person, no one could compare. She was so connected to Morgan that she shared her ringworm with her TWICE! The rest of the office was second tier for sure. Some of us aren’t cat people. I mean, we’ll rescue them, but we don’t have them as pets. But with Abby’s 4 months with us we didn’t really become cat people, but we did become Abby people.
Friday morning was probably the most difficult time I’ve had since joining Life Is Better. Abby, who had been through ringworm and food strikes had been diagnosed with renal failure earlier in the week. It was decided that, at 16, it was best to let her go. So, I drove specifically to see her one last time. I’m glad I was there and I’m glad I was with Abby’s #1 and the rest of the 2nd tier crew as we watched her slowly leave us.
#queenabby #proudtobeanabbyperson #adoptdontshop#rescuedismyfavoritebreed #thatrescuelife
 |
| Abby on a pile of paperwork as she ponders assigning it to me. |
 |
| Attempting to reboot and then change passwords. |
 |
| Thirsty kitty is thirsty. |
 |
| The thirst is real. |
Monday, July 23, 2018
Tick Tock, I still keep track
It's that time of year again. I'm recalling the day of my hysterectomy (I spelled it right all on my own). I'm still waiting for the year that it's," Hey, that happened and we've moved on. We are too old for that having babies shit, anyway." Guess what? Big surprise coming! This is not that year.
Just to be clear, this may be TMI
Thoughts-ectomy
Things still aren't how they were supposed to be
The right thing sometimes sucks
Unhappy Anniversery
2nd surgeversary
Three years since the day I thought I stopped being a woman
I have come to realize that in all of this time, I have not been physically around a pregnant acquaintance (okay, I need the little, red, squiggly line to help me spell that one) or friend. There's been FB stuff, but no reach-out-and-touch (not that I'm touching) someone proximity.
Now, that I am around someone pregnant. Someone I see a couple times a week, I realized just how hard it can be at times. I'm happy for her and her husband. I wouldn't want her to change any of her experience around me. Life goes on and there is a bittersweet feeling I hold inside, but that is not for her to worry about.
What got me recently was her describing the feeling of pregnancy. I don't remember exactly what was happening. I just remember finding myself wonder what it felt like from the inside. What happens when the baby moves? Kicks? Hiccups? All those things. The curiosity I have that will never be sated.
So, there are the 4th anniversary thoughts. Below are other related posts.
Just to be clear, this may be TMI
Friday, July 20, 2018
"Besides what you see I [don't] have confidence in me."
People have told me that what I'm courageous or brave for writing the things I do on this blog. Even if that is the case, even if I'm doing more than screaming into the void, I am far from having confidence. And, maybe those things are not the same thing.
My major depression, treatment-resistant depression, bipolar depression, whichever-diagnosis-is-on-the-table depression and my anxiety have stolen things from me. The greatest theft has been my confidence.
There is very little I have confidence in about myself. It's a terrible thing to believe yourself to be incapable of doing most anything. I have lost confidence in the idea that I could get a job, a full time, little to no anxiety, contribute to our household job. I cannot envision such a thing.
So, I sit with my anxiety and lack of confidence. I sleep until my anxiety and lack of confidence messes with it. I do not adult. I cannot adult.
My major depression, treatment-resistant depression, bipolar depression, whichever-diagnosis-is-on-the-table depression and my anxiety have stolen things from me. The greatest theft has been my confidence.
There is very little I have confidence in about myself. It's a terrible thing to believe yourself to be incapable of doing most anything. I have lost confidence in the idea that I could get a job, a full time, little to no anxiety, contribute to our household job. I cannot envision such a thing.
So, I sit with my anxiety and lack of confidence. I sleep until my anxiety and lack of confidence messes with it. I do not adult. I cannot adult.
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