Would you?

Christ of Saint John of the Cross

Here's an open letter to SSM and SL that is 20+ years in the making.

Dear SSM and SL,

How are you? Long time no talk.

I was writing in regards to a meeting we had a little over 20 years ago. It was when I left the convent and we just had a face-to-face to kind of wrap things up, I suppose. Oh my, did I leave that meeting angry. But, I drove off in my brand new VW Jetta, my freedom mobile, you might say.

The thing is, I did leave that meeting angry, but then went on with the rest of my life. I didn't realize just how much things said in that meeting really cut me to pieces. Shamed me is probably a good way to put it. But, the other day, I saw a picture of you, SSM, at a fundraising event for the community that was posted on social media. I did not expect to have such a visceral response. It was like I was punched in the gut and blown away at the sight of you. Bam! I was back in that meeting in that room with the crucifix on the wall and the two of you on one side of table facing me.

I don't think, or at least I hope, you didn't intend to shame me.

Mental health crises are real. The struggle people like me go through are not choices. In my case, my mom stepped in to get me truly life saving care from a psychiatrist because of the deep depression and anxiety I was experiencing while in the convent. Part of that care was to leave. I told you I was leaving. And, right now I remembered another thing that pained me. It seems my leaving was not communicated to others as it should have been. As I was packing, the other postulant came at me because she did not know about the situation. She proceeded to tell me I was in the wrong for just getting my stuff and going. She was not told that I was coming to do that. She and I already had our struggles, so this just added to that whole experience.   

Back to mental health and suffering now. Being told that your own suffering is not real suffering because real suffering was what Christ experienced on the cross. Here's the thing, though. From what the story says, Christ chose to suffer. The details about what crucifixion entails are horrifying, I will admit. That is some hardcore pain and anguish. But he did choose it. I did not choose to have major depressive disorder or anxiety. 

Let me ask you this, would you:

• Tell someone who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer to look at the cross and see what true suffering is?
• Ask a child who is in the foster system after surviving the terrible abuse inflicted upon them by the parent(s) who should have loved and protected them to look at the cross and see what true suffering is?
• Say to a legal citizen of this country who was "deported" to a prison and torn from their family to look at the cross and see what true suffering is?

I'm working on not to "should" myself anymore. I'm trying not to tell myself that I "should" be over things. It is time that I stop minimizing my experiences with my mental health because someone else has great suffering. 

I'm trying recognized that one's suffering isn't negated because another has it worse. That game serves no one well. My hope is that you try not to play that game, too.

With the sincerity I am able to offer at this time,

Meg

What to do? What to do?

 I've made no secret of my past life as a Roman Catholic. You can find posts about it on this very blog.

Lately, the trauma of that time has been creeping up - it's been over 20 years. I've been having lots of thoughts about my time (brief though it may have been) joining a religious order. The thoughts are more about my post-exit. My first major depressive episode was while I was in the convent. The psychiatrist my mom took me to told me to move out as soon as possible. I did. He started me on some meds and things started to turn around. A month or two after leaving the convent, I had to meet with the two sisters who were in charge of my formation as a postulant. I left that meeting angry and hurt. Frankly, I think that may have been when the actual trauma of that whole time of my life hit.

I value that religious community and the role it has played throughout my life. The have a page on Facebook, which I follow. It allows me to see what they are up to. For the most part, it's good to see. But, every so often I will see pictures with those two specific sisters from that meeting. Sometimes, especially lately, seeing them takes me back to that room, back to being told, while pointing back at the wall, that my suffering is nothing compared to the true suffering of Jesus Christ on the Crucifix. What. The. Actual. Fuck?

Is this why people shouldn't seek out exes on social media? Is this a bad idea? Should I stop following the group that means so much because of these two popping up in my feed occasionally? 

I just don't know.    

The elephant on the arm

I love elephants. In my opinion, they should be called elovephants. These giant creatures are so amazing. I mean, how can you keep scrolling if a reel pops up showing a baby elephant learning how to elephant; trying to get itself out of a mud bath? Or, how about a video with a guy who had been working in human prosthetics who decides to venture out to create prostheses for animals AND does it for an elephant!!! 

Elephants have been known for not forgetting. A strong memory helps them survive. They are also highly intelligent, emotional, and social animals. Because of the observations of elephant behavior, they have become a symbol for mental health. They are known to experience joy and are playful. They also recognize emotional behaviors and offer comfort to those in need. Sadly, they also suffer from things like depression, grief, anxiety, and even PTSD. These experiences increase when placed in zoos or when used for entertainment in circuses and festivals. It is heartbreaking.

So, what does this have to do with the elephant on my arm? It's quite a tale.

About nine years ago, my psychiatrist of many years decided to retire. I knew this wasn't great, but little did I know just how bad things would get.

The person I started to see for my medication needs was a psychiatric nurse practitioner. I heard she was known for using the least amount of drugs possible to help her patients. At this point, I was on very few meds and wanted to keep it that way. I scheduled my first appointment and away we went. Shawn came with me to appointments because I felt it was helpful to have his point-of-view on my behaviors. The very first appointment should have been a bit of a red flag. She was technology averse, she had no computer so the thumb drive I brought with my records from my previous psychiatrist was of no use. She asked a bunch of questions to do an assessment. Next thing I know I'm being diagnosed as bipolar and being put on lithium in combination with the other meds I was taking. So, this brought me up to 4 psych meds.

Now, my first major depressive episode was when I was 28. That was 12 years before I started going to her. I had three psychiatrists in that time. The first doctor was when I lived in Cleveland. Then I found someone when I moved to Colorado. I wasn't with her long before changing to the guy who retired on me. None of these three ever brought up bipolar, EVER!

But, I needed help. Shawn and I both were like, okay, this is different, but she did her assessment, so what do we know. After a few months of taking lithium and changing other meds, she suggests electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). Well, shit. Things got really serious, really fast. I mean, the first image that comes to mind is Jack Nicholson's character R.P. McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Rest easy, my friends, it is not like that.

We went for a consult at the clinic where I would end up going. I went through assessments and tests. The idea was this could reboot my brain in a sense. It could help improve the efficacy of the drugs. The expectation was about 6-8 weeks of treatments, starting with 3 times a week and then reducing the number based on what progress was being made. My first treatment was April 18, 2016. My final treatment was December 23, 2016. Not quite the 6-8 weeks we were planning on.

While I was going through this, I was 100% dependent on Shawn, especially on treatment days. We were fortunate enough that Shawn had a company willing to let him work from home. The office was only three miles away, so if he needed to run in on a non-treatment day, it wouldn't be too big an issue. My life was quite restricted. I couldn't work. Driving was not allowed at all. Jarvis and I couldn't take walks by ourselves. I was pretty much required to have supervision if I were to leave the house, even on non-treatment days. All of this is because your memory gets FUUUUUUCKED! On treatment days, I was super useless. Shawn would bring me home and put me to bed. Then, I'd get up at some point and have dinner and watch something with Shawn. Seeing my therapist was kind of pointless because not much was going on with my brain being so messed up. I think I wasn't seeing the PsychNP, either. My ECT doc was my mental health provider for the course of the treatments. I didn't know it at the time, but Shawn was able to meet with the clinic's social worker as she was there to provide support to caregivers. I'm glad to know he had that. I did go down to a couple times a week to once a week at some point. When treatments became fewer and further between, some restrictions were lifted. I could drive, but had to have an adult with me. I could venture out for walks with Jarvis. Eventually, I was able to drive alone. But, come December, it was frustrating because things really weren't having the results we were hoping for. Shawn thought it was time to stop. I had no reason to disagree. So, we stopped.

Here's the thing, what I didn't realize was that I lost a year of memories. We've come to refer to 2016 as the "lost year" because I have almost no memory of that year. There are some flashes every so often. It even took away those few months of 2016 before treatment even started. When I see pictures from that time, they mean nothing. They look like I was having a good time. I hope I was. My dad had such a hard time understanding how this could be. He would talk to me about something and I would tell him I had know memory of it. Whatever it was, he thought it was so significant an event that surely it would have stuck out. At this time Captain America: Civil War came out. We saw it a couple of times, so I'm told. Shawn said that my chosen "side" changed with different viewings. When it came out on DVD, I think it was the fourth time watching, it was like the very first time seeing it and retaining it. So, yes, my memory was seriously FUUUUUUCKED by ECT.

I continued with my PsychNP after this. I stuck with her for far too long. But, the idea of starting over with someone else just stressed me out. The person who was known for prescribing the least amount of meds as possible, kept adding meds and/or changing my dosages. For sure I had gotten up to six medications, but I think it may even had gotten to seven. She checked my blood regularly because lithium is a real motherfucker. Side effects suck. I developed tremors, common for lithium users. One of the meds she added messed with my sleep. I also had one that gave me these weird jerky movements. We dropped those and moved to something else. 

She stopped taking my insurance so we decided to spread out appointments and pay out-of-pocket. Then COVID hit and in person visits were out. Like I mentioned, she has some weird issues with technology, so I bit the anxiety bullet and found someone else.

I really didn't think it possible to go from worse to worst. This guy, thankfully is now retired. But not soon enough for me. He decided to just go the bipolar route without really doing any kind of assessment. To him, lithium was the end all be all; an oldie but a goodie. I really should have stopped seeing him when he asked about my weight and said he may have to send his orc he found in a dumpster after me so that I would run to get more exercise. Again, I hate doc shopping, so I stuck with him. Also, he didn't have me get regular blood work. I didn't think much about it until my physical health started to get messed up. I was seeing my primary care doctor for something. He ordered blood work and was concerned, so he ordered more bloodwork for lithium levels. I was in lithium toxicity. 

I brought this to my psychiatrist who was like, it's just a tiny amount over the line. But, there is a line and it exists for a reason. Meanwhile, my tremors were so severe I couldn't do so many things like write; insert my debit card into the slot; use a pin pad or touch screen; turn pages; and, at times feed myself. I was dealing with incontinence, both bladder and bowel. There were times when, thankfully I was at home, I just surrendered and pissed myself and flooded the floor. My calcium levels were also getting out of control. My parathyroid glands, which I didn't even know were a thing, were not functioning correctly. If they suck, you have to have surgery. There isn't medication for it. So last September, I had surgery to remove the two funky glands, move the less funky one to my chest so that if it gets worse it'll be a simple outpatient procedure to remove it, and the good one was left in it's proper place. Thankfully, my thyroid is able to be controlled with medication. My kidney function and my liver are both being monitored on a regular basis. I had another surgery last year for a growth on my ovary that went through torsion. The ER was convinced I had cancer and within two days I was seeing an oncologist. So, that was it, all female reproductive organs were gone and I woke up in menopause. Not entirely sure if lithium can be ruled out for that, but it could be on the list. I also have curly hair. So many things. 

I got off of the lithium in September. It was my decision against the advice of the doc. He did a nine day taper. That is ridiculous! Then, October comes and I'm asking him for changes to be made. He swears by the lithium. He tells me I'm difficult patient who is beyond his skill set; that I refuse his recommendations; I care too much about side effects and therefore limit his medication options; tells me again to go to a certain depression clinic, which I already told him had a six month waiting list. This isn't my first rodeo when it comes to meds. I understand side effects are part of the game. But, when the side effects are severe and intolerable, I'm not going to take that medication. He then referred to treatment resistant depression instead of bipolar. So, what was I really being treated for? I laid into him. I raised my voice. He told me we should meet in person because the phone call had gone too long. I told him I was done and would no longer be using him for my care. He tried to talk me out of it. I stood my ground. He said something about enjoying having me as a patient. I hung up (not as satisfying with a cell phone, but still).  He was retiring, so I was going to need someone new anyway.  

So, I lost what little mind I had left. Once again, dependent on Shawn, he found someone new. Her take is:

Moderate recurrent major depressive disorder.

Panic disorder, also known as episodic paroxysmal anxiety.

Chronic post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

This feels like we're getting back to Miller time (the name of the retired guy from years ago, not the beer). A little more like where I was before late 2015. I'm on a slow taper of one drug. The plan is to go through the dark to get to the light; to start fresh with medications. I'm down to only three medications. However, she's leaving the practice...so, in July, I will start seeing someone else in the practice. So, here's hoping for a better mental health journey.

Back to the elephant on the arm. I decided I need this tattoo to remind me where I've been. It's on my arm where I can look at it easily and often. The thought bubble is a play on elephants never forgetting, but for this one, 2016 is lost (not quite visible in the picture is a "?"). And the elephant itself is a symbol of mental health; of the good and the bad experienced in life; and, my simple love for elephants.

*Tattoo credit goes to the amazing Britton Dixon at Coven Tattoo.

This didn't really come out right

I don't know what has happened to me when it comes time to blog. There is plenty going on in my head - too much, really.

My current state is extra hot mess. I am physically and mentally all over the place. So many things are breaking me down. 

Recently, my dad's death has been hitting me hard. It's been harder than it was in the beginning months. It's just this weird feeling that it's not real. I think about it and wonder what will make it seem real? Will it be the first time I go to Cleveland since his death? Will it be seeing his grave in person?

The world and all it's changes get me to stay in bed. COVID, Texas laws, Afghanistan are all more than I can think about right now. I get choked up over the news. 

Work has me stressed out. There are changes that I don't know how to handle. My anxiety at the idea of certain tasks is manifesting itself physically. I'm not cut out for certain things. I'm not a people person.

I should be able to get my shit together. I used to accomplish things with less anxiety issues. Now, I tend to isolate and it's not because of COVID. Nausea is a constant and diarrhea is regular (so far no vomiting). Headaches and muscle aches are common. I'm quite tired. It's all part of the mess.

I have an appointment coming up with my shrink. I'm not all that optimistic right now. There are probably going to be med changes and that is a whole other thing I don't look forward to.

I'm just so tired.    

In a World

You know when you see a movie trailer and it starts with, "In a World" being said in a dramatic voice?  It's not usually the kind of thing said before a rom-com. So, if 2020 was to be a movie trailer, it would most certainly start with "In a World."

In a world where a president fails his country by not addressing the heads up on a virus, over 180,000 people have died.   

In a world where a president contradicts all the safety precautions to help lower the spread of the virus, six million cases have been reported.

In a world where a president "doesn't see" a report that Russia was paying bounties to the Taliban to kill American troops, American troops were killed.

In a world where a president says there were good people on both sides of an alt-right rally, the floodgates of racism burst open.

In a world where cops and racist civilians are killing POC, Black Lives Matter.

In a world of all these things, stress, anxiety, and depression can really take over. It seems hopeless.

But, in a world where a stepdaughter is pregnant, a baby boy will be born, and hope and love will rise.

There must be someway out of here

Anxiety has been an issue for me as far back as I can remember. There's the whole having a tummy ache every time we ate at a restaurant situation. Then taking a standardized test in 3rd grade and almost peeing my pants because I was afraid to ask to go to the bathroom. We were told there could be no disruptions. The list goes on all the way to this very moment.

I was thinking about all of this today while talking to my therapist. A lot of the situations when anxiety kicked in had to do with making an exit. I was looking for physical exits. But, also looking for how I would excuse myself; how to leave.

A couple weeks ago, when I was already in bad shape, there was an event at work. I wasn't going to go, but a friend was going to be in town and would be at the event. COVID issues were certainly on my mind, but that really wasn't the biggest cause of stress. I was anxious about being around a lot of people and most of them being strangers. I had my usual anxiety induced talking too much. I started to think it would be a good time for me to leave. Then, of course, a storm blows in. Major rain and wind causing people to come inside. So, the crowd anxiety grew. I was parked in a field and trying to get to my car through the wind and rain didn't seem like a good idea.

There I am, my exit plan foiled. 

I ended up staying much longer than I intended. A little ceremony started and that sealed the deal that I was going to be staying. 

When that ended I tried to make my move. I knew it was about to get bad. And...I get stopped by a couple of coworkers. They wanted to get a group picture since my friend was in town. I was having a hard time getting out of this conversation. I kept feeling like they thought I was being a bitch because I wasn't wanting to stay. I could feel the anxiety welling up and exiting through tears. They know I'm pretty strict about masks and distancing, but that wasn't what this was about. One said that we could do one the next time my friend visited. I was on the edge of full on crying. I wanted her to understand that it wasn't a mask issue or a being too close issue. This really was, strictly about my general anxiety issues. 

I leave the building and there is someone I really needed to say goodbye to. She was right there, otherwise I wouldn't have sought her out when I was such a wreck. But, she was there. Then I went to my car and was able to get relief. 

I made my exit, in one of the worst ways possible for me, but I got out.

Things need to get better as my last entry shows. Things need to improve. But, I can't force things to happen. My head doesn't work that way. Until everything is figured out, I'm stuck in this hell in which I'm pulling back, isolating, and avoiding.

I'm bad, but not in the good "Bad" way

I'd say it's been a month of dealing with the mess of mental illness, probably longer. I've pulled back, retreated, isolated and not for COVID. The world is, in fact, too much and I can't tell you how this ride is going to go. This is going to be a trip in my head as it has been recently.

I'm afraid, like seriously afraid of 45 winning in November. I'm not thrilled at the idea of Biden, but I would say, "President Biden" with ease. I don't think I've actually ever referred to 45 as "President". I'm concerned the Bernie people will do a protest "vote" by not showing up and, therefore, voting in the incumbent. 

I'm surprisingly not as scared about COVID as people think or expect. I'm just frustrated that there are people who aren't taking it seriously. I'm also annoyed that wearing a mask is such an issue. Just wear it. Protect people, loved ones or not.

So, Shawn kind of put a suggested ban on me watching MSNBC. 

That stuff is so minor compared to how really bad things are.

I don't want to leave the house. Not because of COVID. I don't want to go out except when I walk Jarvis. I have to really work on convincing myself to do it. I put everything off. I need Shawn to be with me. I suck it up for work...that's because Shawn and Jarvis coming to work with me didn’t work out well. We thought Jarvis would love to have a yard to play in, but he knew I was in the building and that didn't work for him. Shawn takes me to the bank. He goes grocery shopping with me. The anxiety is so much. We shopped at Costco the other day and I cried in the Fish Oil section because none of the brands had the right potency. And, if I bought enough to make up the difference, the cost would be too much.

I get my shit kind of together to do work, respond to work emails, update our account on a pet search site. Otherwise, I don't communicate much with anyone but Shawn, Jarvis, my mom, and my BFF - Shawn and Jarvis being the most. I just can't right now with so many things.

My bedtimes vary. Super early some days and really late on others. I sleep late and stay in bed a lot.

The anxiety is terrible and the meds aren't working. A change to the meds is being worked on. As many who deal with mental illness know, med changes are tough. They can take a long time to start working. It can be a couple months. I'm not sure I have that in me right now. 

Shawn is amazing. He is super talented and I'm not going to deny that I'm jealous - or envious - whichever sounds less like an asshole. He just has so much going on in his life and that's not including taking care of me.

I used to be proud of myself, I think. Maybe I just used to be less hateful toward myself. I had a real, significant income that helped us out. I mean, I was making double payments on our fertility treatments to get them paid down as quickly as possible. Now, I can't imagine what I could possibly do. 

I cry. I cry about all the things. I can't tell you what it will be about. I mean, I cried in public about Fish Oil. I cry at TV shows and movies. I cry taking a bite of dinner. I cry in bed while using my coloring app on my phone. I cry when I fail at something, like spilling something. I cry at moments of pride about Conner, so that's kind of an okay thing to choke up over. I cry.

Lately, I've been thinking that ECT fucked me up. That it made me worse. My anxiety leads to vomiting and diarrhea (TMI?). I don't remember that before. But, I don't remember a lot of things from that time. 

My avoiding messages and not being active on social media is not you, it's me. It is really me. I can't handle myself right now and so I can't handle things and people outside of myself. I'm sorry if that is hurtful, but truly, I mean it, it's not you, it's me.

I don't know when I'll be back. There is so much more to everything in my head than what I've written here. Too much, really. I need to figure things out.

Through my struggles, I can breathe. There's the difference.

It's been my experience that people who have a hard day or are struggling for some reason will tell me that they know it is nothing like what I live with regularly. Comparing struggles, I guess I would call it, is something I've touched on before. I try to tell them that my struggles don't minimize theirs, that struggles are relative. I try to really believe that. I have to admit, though, that there are times when I think, "IT'S A FUCKING HANGNAIL!" 

Lately, my struggles have been real. There's been major anxiety with physical manifestations. A lot of tears of both sadness and anger. Then some pretty high moments, for a little while, only to crash. So, I'm struggling and having a hard time listening to some people with theirs.

And then...I'm pretty sure events of the world are putting me in my place and saying, "You think you're struggling, well, hold my beer."

I turn on the TV, I go on social media and I'm overwhelmed. I see:

George Floyd.

Breonna Taylor.

Ahmaud Aubery. 

And so on.

And so on.

And so on.

Hate crimes toward all people of color.

Throughout the history of this country.

No boundaries are set where anxiety goes

Things have been all over the place, still, since my last post. Lots of crying, some anger. Down and down with little up.

The other day I was so upset with dealing with passwords I bounced between tears and anger. I actually threw my phone. This, no matter what I'm feeling, has never been a thing. I can't think of a time when I've thrown something in anger.

Today, serious emotional hot messiness. I cried about going to the bank. This is something I do every week (going to the bank, not the crying about it). There is a branch that is more practical for me to go to than the one I already use. It is so dumb to cry over, but it was really stressing me out. Shawn was telling me just to keep going where I go. That it isn't so far that going to the other matters so much. It isn't worth the anxiety. He's right, but I want to be a grown-up. I want to not have these feelings of panic and stress over something that any normal person does everyday.

I've also been dealing with anxiety over things much larger than my small bubble of life. In my white, middle-aged woman life, I can go out with very little worries about my safety. It gets to be too much when I see vile treatment toward minorities. I feel like I should watch the videos. That I should see what happened because what happened was too much to be ignored. But, I also know the limits of my emotional and mental tolerance...

I woke up to the Christian Cooper/Amy Cooper video. The WHITE woman was in the wrong. The BLACK man felt the need to record the incident. This woman is a terrible person. She knew the power she has over a black man. The way she made the call and the escalation and exaggeration in that call should make all people angry. As a white woman, I need to look at this woman's behavior so as not to be complacent, to never let it happen in front of me. In this story, Christian Cooper is the very lucky survivor of what could possibly have been much worse. 

There are the other racist actions...much worse results, but the racism is still racism. The names people should know are Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd. Racism buried them and many more. So many names should be listed here. These are the most recent in the news cycle that I get my news from. I can't imagine a life in which I have to fear the things that killed each of these people. My heart goes out to all of those who have lost people to the overwhelming evil that is racism.

Shawn wrote a great reflection on racism that I wanted to share:

"The word "racist" has done a lot of harm to white people.

No, not because it's hurtful or inaccurate or undeserved. It's harmed us because it lets us off the hook.

Most white people think of "racist" as a binary. Either you are one or you're not. That makes it really easy for us to form a very clear picture of what a racist is -- a Klan member, a Nazi, someone who uses racial slurs, etc. -- and proudly proclaim that we are not that. Who, me? I can't be a racist; I never use the "n" word!

Having absolved ourselves, we dust our hands and feel good about being so woke. There's no need for self reflection, no need for personal growth. We aren't that bad thing, so let's think about something more pleasant.

The problem is, no one is 100% free of racial biases (or gender, sexuality, class, or any other kind of bias). Biases are hammered into us from the day we're born by our friends and family, pop culture, religion, politicians, society itself. We spend our whole lives marinating in a soup of biases, some fairly benign, some decidedly not. So how could we avoid picking some of them up?

It's not enough to simply be "not racist". We have to do more; we have to dig deeper. We have to examine our biases honestly and work to educate ourselves. Because what is bias but applied ignorance? The only way to unlearn a bad lesson is to learn a good one. And there are plenty of good lessons out there, for those who are willing to learn.

Am I a racist? I try not to be, but it's a work in progress."

So, my anxiety knows no boundaries. Personal to worldwide issues, I will always find stressors. I'll have to figure some things out, but as Shawn says, "...it's a work in progress."

Anxiously anxious

The other day I had a phone appointment with my psychiatrist. I was telling her about my anxiety and the physical manifestations I've been having when it's at its worst. She asked when I'm feeling the anxiety. Shawn is in my appointments a lot of the time to give a realistic perspective. So, when she asked this, he said that I feel anxiety daily. Some level of anxiety is my baseline of existence. I told her that when it is higher than normal I have diarrhea. There are nights, maybe once a month, where I have both diarrhea and vomiting.

Here's the stream lately. Not knowing how to do certain technological things. Freaking out and needing Shawn to come help. Work - stress having me go from one extreme to another as far as roles and feeling deemed lesser. Money. We are okay, but not okay enough to be able to do remodeling and landscaping. People not wearing masks to protect others, especially when I'm wearing one to protect them. The president, always. A friendship I don't understand the status of and so I've withdrawn and am sick to my stomach regularly. Not feeling like I can do anything. Stressing over trying to practice mindfulness because my mind is full. So, my attempts to relax my way out of anxiousness have led me to greater anxiousness. I feel like I don't follow the rules of the experience, which misses the point, in a way.

So, what's next? Blood work. Results that will be used to determine what to do about my meds. Will my thyroid be the problem? Will my Lamictal level show that a change in that med is necessary? Will Paxil, in a very low dose, be added to help with the anxiety in addition to the Ativan I already take? Will that small dose of Paxil have the effect that it tends to have for Bi-Polar patients? So many questions. What will the answers be?

Excuse me while I go deal with my anxious stomach.

The 7 year bitch

Every year, around this time, is a bitch. It’s not because of my birthday. I don’t meet that age denying female stereotype. I’m more of a “meh” person about my age. This is a deeply painful time of year.

If you’ve kept up with this blog you should already know about my fertility issues. Seven years ago we went through around of IVF. We only got to do one round. My eggs were few and quality was low. The embryos were implanted just around my 38th birthday (just got off the phone with my dad and he mentioned he was 38 when I was born. Just thought it was interesting) and the implantation failed. I saw the blood and knew it was over. Those few days were terrible and are forever connected to my birthday.

This year, I’m ringing in 45 with a stressful time at work and the COVID-19 pandemic. No birthday date night with dinner at a restaurant of my choosing. I should, however, mention the positive side of things with Facebook birthday well wishes.

Should you go back again?

I've been having some real moments lately. Crying spells and exhaustion. Sometimes I think about ECT. Thoughts sometimes that maybe I should revisit, even with the amnesia experience, I sometimes wonder if I should. Shawn tells me that it didn't do what we had hoped the first time, so why would we go through it again? Why? Well, it's a legit reason to sleep the day away. At least treatment days. The amnesia sucks, but sometimes, not so much.

Sometimes.

Shaky McShakesmore

It's been going on for quite a while. I have shaky hands, particularly the right, of course. It has to be my dominant one. I've looked up the side effects of my various drugs and from my ECT treatments. I couldn't find anything about it being from ECT. Lithium seems to be the likely culprit. Lithium also can contribute to my memory issues, more short term, minor things than ECT has caused. This can hopefully get worked out with new medical insurance and a new psychiatrist.

Last weekend and this week have hit me particularly hard when it comes to the fine motor skill trouble. I've been pretty down for a while now, but more so this last week. I found some art supplies that I haven't used in years. I thought maybe I should try to do some stuff, do more than sit around with my laptop and the TV. So I picked up the pens and the pad of drawing paper to get going. I was trying to go back to my days of abstract design.

I couldn't do it. The right hand wouldn't allow a straight line. I couldn't make a shake-less arch or loop. It brought me to tears of frustration. I can't imagine that I would be able to do a portrait such as this again:

I also tried to paint the way I used to. I did a water effect with a wide sponge-brush, but I haven't had it in me to really try to paint the fish I want to do. Smaller details are so difficult.

There are many other things. Things that you probably take for granted. Things that start to make me cry or to make me extremely frustrated. Sometimes, using a fork is a challenge. Not for big things that you stab, like a piece of meat. But, trying to eat something like rice or something like coleslaw can be a really annoyance. Scooping with a spoon isn't too bad, but getting the spoon to my mouth can be tough sometimes. Pouring things can sometimes be a problem, but not always. 

Trying to turn pages or separate pieces of paper can make me seize up and want to throw the things across the room. Writing isn't always a problem, but there are moments. This week I used a drill and screwdrivers. While holding the tool with my right hand, I need my left hand to hold the end to place it into the head of the screw. Once I do that, my right hand can handle the turning, for the most part. But, if the screwdriver slips, I need my left hand to swoop in and grab the end and place it in the screw head again. 

I know it could be worse, a lot worse. But, that doesn't change how bad I feel when facing these things. It sucks. Among many other things, it makes me cry and can cause me to fall into one of my lows. 

Maybe it's the Lithium. Maybe the new insurance will lead to a better doctor who can come up with a better treatment.

Until then, I'll be Shaky McShakesmore.

Oh, what a mental health day....life

It's World Mental Health Day and I feel a sense of obligation to write today. I'm just not sure what to say.

Over the last two months, I feel like my mental health has been challenged, but I haven't necessarily been up for the fight. I've been tired, not just sleepy, but tired in my bones, my muscles, and my ability to handle my stress and emotions. My level of frustration and guilt has lead me to extra Ativan in the hopes of easing my anxiety and the extreme nausea it brings. I feel overwhelmed about leaving next week. I desperately want to see Shawn and, of course, Jarvis. The hope I have is that they will bring me relief and calm, they will distract me from my sense of worry.

On the topic of mental health, but not really like what I've written above, my mom and I had an interesting conversation. We both suffer from mental health issues. Her meds seem to work pretty well, so perhaps I'm the one suffering. Anyway, the other day we had a conversation which is probably not a typical one for mothers and daughters. We talked about suicide. We talked about our thoughts, our ideations. One of hers was terribly violent, if you ask me. She was young, still living at home, dealing with depression in an era in which you didn't, and saw a letter opener...to shove...in her neck. It made my car crash, overdosing, car running in the garage thoughts seem really calm. For both of us, they were suicidal ideations, they weren't actual plans. We're both still here. For me, I can't exactly say why, but I am.

In the general sense of life, I am here. I am here and I am with Shawn.

Here I go again.

I've been binge watching Six Feet Under. I watched it years ago. I'm on the final season and it's been tough. Ruth Fisher (Frances Conroy) is married to George Sibley (James Cromwell). George is struggling with psychotic depression (not what I have, to be clear). His treatment is ECT, which, we all know, is something I am very familiar with.

The way the show's style is, there are scenes that turn out to be in someone's head. You have this moment of thinking, "Is this scene for real?" So Ruth is on her own taking care of George. They are at the kitchen table and she absolutely looses her shit! She goes on about having to be his caretaker and not having help and all of the resentments that she holds tight and the rage she feels.

Where I went for my treatments, they had a social worker who would focus on being a support for the caretakers of the patients. Shawn was seeing that social worker which I didn't know, or maybe I did know but didn't remember. I mean it was ECT.

As I watched Ruth have the meltdown in her head, I thought of Shawn. I thought of what must have been, what must be in Shawn's head when it comes to me. I wondered about his sessions with the social worker. I wonder what feelings he swallows

There's another character who takes lithium and seroquel, two of my five drugs. He decides to stop. I wonder what that would be like.

I ordered all by myself

I posted on Facebook about how I successfully ordered my food at Qdoba without having to check with Shawn. It seems like a silly thing that I may have been goofing around about. But, I have struggled with remembering something that minor. I believe it is just more effects of my ECT treatments. My brain is just fucked up in different ways.

We are coming up on 3 years since my treatments began. I talk about it probably more than people think I should. Oh well, come back to me when you've gone through it.

I had some curiosity about numbers. I wondered what the average number of treatments is. Basically found a range and the high end was 20. Three times a week seemed the norm, so we're looking at 6 weeks plus a couple days. I had double 20 treatments.

39 Treatments

I was looking through my paperwork and found 39 treatments, so that could be more if we misplaced any. I started out at 3 times a week for a couple months and then slowly spread things out. Then, Shawn finally said it was enough; things weren't changing. I went along with him since I really couldn't gauge things very well for myself. If he wasn't seeing changes, I trusted him. Through it all, I do remember the end. I remember the doctor telling us he disagreed with our decision.

So, my memory is a hot mess. Before, during, and after all the treatments, I've lost some things. I've lost a lot of things. Some things have come back, some things are fuzzy, and, so far, those things are still quite outnumbered by the losses.

UPDATE: I found another sheet from a treatment. So, it's 40 treatments.

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. 

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.

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

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

"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.

Celebricide

Not too long ago, I was living in the darkness, not saddness. There was crying, sobbing, wailing, and blurting about being done. I didn't know what done meant, exactly, but I wanted it. I had gotten into bed in an attempt to bury myself in the dark.

Shawn was having none of it. He talked of committing me (so far in this life, that has not happened). He raised his voice and cried. He told me if I chose to kill myself he would hate me forever and never forgive me. And then, somehow, he talked me down.

This is Shawn's life. His life is not #AnthonyBourdain, #KateSpade, #ChrisCornell, #PhillipSeymourHoffman, #RobinWilliams, and #AnyOtherCelebrityWhoBringsSuicideToTheNewsCycle. The celebrities bring about people sharing suicide hotline numbers and offers of being that ear that will pull you out of the darkness. People call these suicides a wake-up call...which, after a brief time of social media posts, sleep returns. Shawn lives the wake-up call without the chance to go back to sleep. Many people live wide awake everyday.

The things people want to do in the light that shines upon suicide prevention and mental healthcare when a tragedy like celebrity suicide happens are great. Lobby for better mental healthcare coverage. Post phone numbers to hotlines. Check in on friends and family who seem off. Commit someone if that seems appropriate. Come up with a code word for your person to text you when things are getting bad. Do all of the things. And, continue to do them, even when the news cycle moves onto something else.

BUT. A really big BUT. The BUT-that-is-probably-going-to-piss-off-many-people kind of BUT.

Prepare yourself. You need to know that all of those things may not work. Why won't they? Because it takes two and only one of the two is rational. I HAVE to answer my phone. I HAVE to text the code word. I HAVE to let you in.

I'm not saying don't try. Always try. I'm saying that if, despite your trying, it happens anyway, you have no guilt to carry. The guilt belongs to the irrationality that is the mental illnesses some of us have to carry.