Today, I am feeling pretty exhausted from our trip. It was a pretty mixed bag of good and bad experiences. The wedding was simple and lovely, a little preachy but not overly-so, and the venue was outdoors in a beautiful vineyard. The weather was unseasonably cool, windy and autumn-like, which some people complained about, but I found quite to my liking. The light rain did hold off until after the ceremony was over. My sister-in-law and her new husband looked besides themselves with happiness, and they're ridiculously adorable together. I also find myself suddenly an auntie to three teenagers from the groom's previous marriage. The boy and I chatted about the finer points of surviving the zombie apocalypse. I think that earns me the "cool auntie" card from him, at least. A bonus for me was getting to spend a little bit of time with an old friend I hadn't seen in five years. We went out for bubble tea. She got to meet Matt, and I got to meet her kitty.
The not-so-good things were largely related to the stress of traveling. It has been a long time since I have had to deal with any sort of travel with elder folks, and at times, Matt's grandmother, in particular, drove me batty. She wasn't being mean or anything. She just seemed to continually ask the same questions, or talk a lot about really obvious stuff, like how McDonald's was so crowded at lunch time. Matt's grandfather is a quiet sort. I like him, but I can't say that I really know much about him. His wife's the talker. Good luck getting a word in edgewise, and sometimes, she says things that really irk me. For instance, we drove past a homeless guy holding a sign that said "Single father of 4, please help," and her reaction was, "And whose fault was that? Go get a job," or something to that effect. She ignored me when I attempted to point out that many homeless people do have jobs and work hard... yeah, it wasn't going anywhere, so I just changed the subject. I think her reaction would have been slightly different had the gentleman's complexion been lighter, if you catch my drift.
There were other annoyances. The hotel was awful, the beds were hard and the pillows felt like something that came off an old sofa. I saw a cockroach in the sink. The drive from Minneapolis to Rochester was long and difficult, especially after just having gotten out of the airport circus. I was in pain for most of the trip and I only had a few percocet, so I had to use them strategically. I had a few panicky moments because of my irrational fear of turbulence, mostly on the way there. Oh, and we lost the grandparents at the airport on the way back. Grandpop didn't have his cell phone on, and the last we saw of them, they were on the wrong escalator. We had them paged three times. Turned out they'd gone through security ahead of us and couldn't hear the pages anyway.
The worst part of the trip for me, though, was going to the groom's conservative Baptist church for Sunday morning services. It was a nice-looking church on a wooded plot, and the people seemed friendly enough. The pastor leading the service was the same one who had performed the ceremony the day before. I told Matt before we left for church: "If he starts in on gay people or abortion, I'm walking out." Matt supported this idea.
The first twenty minutes or so of the service was filled with announcements that were of no concern to anyone outside the church, so I zoned out. Then the pastor stepped up. He made it clear that this was a church that took the Bible as the literal, unalterable word of God. Oh boy. Well, at least he isn't saying anything about -- and then, wouldn't you know it, he decided to take pot-shots at other local churches who were trying to make changes in order to allow gay marriages. "Why would anyone want to do something like that?" he said. And then he moved on. I was instantly sickened by my polite $2 contribution to the offering plate. Honestly, if I had not been sitting right next to Matt's grandmother, I would have left. Instead, I grabbed the handle of my cane and white-knuckled it through the rest of the service. It wasn't a celebration. The pastor was simply leading a one-sided Bible study. His focus seemed to be that good works don't matter unless you're saved, and of course, there is only one way to be saved. And it's not just accepting Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior. It is, apparently, being a Baptist. And the closing prayer?
"We pray that if there is one among us who is not saved that they come to the light." And I could swear he was staring straight at me. Maybe it was our whole row of Episcopalians plus one closet Heathen. It definitely made my skin crawl.
What bothered me most was that Alison's groom seemed to buy into this guy completely. I do not know Alison as well as I would like to, but I now fear that she is going to be pulled into something dangerous. That the family may end up divided. That Alison will be convinced to be baptised into this narrow doctrine of judgmental asshattery. But there is nothing I can do or say. Even if I were Alison's parent, what could I do? How could I stand in the way of her happiness because of my own fear and loathing of this kind of religious organisation? She has her own mind, she will make her own choices. I just hope they aren't ones that create a rift between us.
In other words, I spent four days in Minnesota biting my tongue so hard I'm surprised it isn't cleft in two. Hail to you, Scar-Lip. I feel you today.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
The wanderer
The Hávamál, the words of Odin found in the Poetic Edda, is probably the closest thing to scripture we Heathens have. It's not like the Ten Commandments or the Code of Hammurabi. Odin isn't telling us He'll smite us for not following His advice -- but it is, nonetheless, advice. Verses 1-9 are referred to as "Words for Wanderers and Counsel to Guests." Odin, Himself, is often depicted as a wanderer, taking refuge in the homes of mortals, gathering wisdom and knowledge wherever He goes. There is advice for guests and hosts alike. It stresses the importance of hospitality to weary travelers, and proper behaviour for those who are guests in other's homes. It is not a message of universal kindness; Odin counsels such wanderers to be wary of those who offer shelter, and those who offer shelter to be wary of visitors. In other words, always keep your wits about you. What I took from it (among other things) was not to give trust too easily, not to give so much as to be taken advantage of, and, when I am in the guest(as I have often been in my life,) it is important to show gratitude for what is given and to do nothing to disrupt the household where I'm staying.
I wasn't sure why I was compelled to read this last night, but I had a feeling the gods had a reason, and so They did. I encountered such a wanderer today. I was sitting on my porch smoking when a young man came to me and politely asked if he could use my phone. I agreed, and he made the call. I overheard him saying that he had left an unsafe environment at his apartment in a hurry and had taken nothing with him. He'd lost his mobile phone and his wallet in the process. He was trying to get a ride to somewhere he could rest.
He gave me back the phone, and asked if I knew of any homeless shelters in the area. I said I didn't, but could look them up on my phone. I found a number for one of the local shelters, which he called, but didn't have any success in getting a place to sleep for the night.
"I have a few more people I could call," he said. He was very soft-spoken and seemed embarrassed to have to ask for help like this.
"How long have you been walking?" I asked.
"For about fifteen miles," he said.
"Do you want some water?" I asked.
He just nodded his head.
I went inside to get him some water. My gut told me he wasn't going to try anything funny, but I was wary, and kept an eye on him through the window. After all, he could have just taken off with my phone, used it himself or sold it to get some money. He didn't.
"Thanks for not taking off with my phone," I said, as I handed him the water.
He laughed. "I would never do that to you, miss," he said. We then exchanged first names (his is Muhammad), and the thanked me very much for my help.
He called a few more people, and we talked for a while longer. I shared some of my cigarettes with him. At long last, he found someone who was willing to let him spend the night, but it was all the way across town.
"Do you have bus fare?" I asked.
"No," he said.
Muhammad had been polite and humble, so I felt comfortable offering a bit more help. I knew I didn't have any cash on me, but I had planned to walk to the corner store to buy cigarettes anyway. I invited him to walk with me, and told him that I'd get some money out of my account, buy my smokes, and give him enough for bus fare. He was so happy I thought he was literally going to jump for joy.
On the way there, we talked. He said that he had just gotten a new job in construction and that he was waiting on his first paycheck. He said he used to work at Starbucks, and that he really loved coffee. He talked about how his mom always used to buy him coffee ice cream. I laughed and told him I was a coffee addict, too.
He waited outside the store while I got the money and paid for the smokes. I also bought us each a bottle of Starbucks iced coffee. I gave him the money first, and he was so happy to see that five bucks he might as well have been a kid on Christmas. When I pulled the iced coffee out of the bag and handed it to him, he literally clasped his hands and bowed his head. "Morgan, you are a wonderful, wonderful lady. I will never forget this," he said.
I gave him a hug. "Just pay it forward when you can," I said. He smiled. Then we went our separate ways, and that was that.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am, how happy it made me, to be able to help this young wanderer today. Because I helped him, he has a place to sleep tonight and the means to get there. I'm not talking about this to brag, though it does make me feel good about myself. I wanted to share it because I am so grateful for everyone in my life who have helped me through my most difficult times-- everything from letting me bum a smoke to giving me a place to stay and food to eat when I couldn't provide those things for myself. I remember that things could always be better, but they could always be worse, and I am so glad for what I have right now, what I've been given, what I've earned, and what I'm able to give others.
Wandering brings hardship, but it can also breed kindness. This is the kind of person I am, and it's the kind of person I always want to be.
I wasn't sure why I was compelled to read this last night, but I had a feeling the gods had a reason, and so They did. I encountered such a wanderer today. I was sitting on my porch smoking when a young man came to me and politely asked if he could use my phone. I agreed, and he made the call. I overheard him saying that he had left an unsafe environment at his apartment in a hurry and had taken nothing with him. He'd lost his mobile phone and his wallet in the process. He was trying to get a ride to somewhere he could rest.
He gave me back the phone, and asked if I knew of any homeless shelters in the area. I said I didn't, but could look them up on my phone. I found a number for one of the local shelters, which he called, but didn't have any success in getting a place to sleep for the night.
"I have a few more people I could call," he said. He was very soft-spoken and seemed embarrassed to have to ask for help like this.
"How long have you been walking?" I asked.
"For about fifteen miles," he said.
"Do you want some water?" I asked.
He just nodded his head.
I went inside to get him some water. My gut told me he wasn't going to try anything funny, but I was wary, and kept an eye on him through the window. After all, he could have just taken off with my phone, used it himself or sold it to get some money. He didn't.
"Thanks for not taking off with my phone," I said, as I handed him the water.
He laughed. "I would never do that to you, miss," he said. We then exchanged first names (his is Muhammad), and the thanked me very much for my help.
He called a few more people, and we talked for a while longer. I shared some of my cigarettes with him. At long last, he found someone who was willing to let him spend the night, but it was all the way across town.
"Do you have bus fare?" I asked.
"No," he said.
Muhammad had been polite and humble, so I felt comfortable offering a bit more help. I knew I didn't have any cash on me, but I had planned to walk to the corner store to buy cigarettes anyway. I invited him to walk with me, and told him that I'd get some money out of my account, buy my smokes, and give him enough for bus fare. He was so happy I thought he was literally going to jump for joy.
On the way there, we talked. He said that he had just gotten a new job in construction and that he was waiting on his first paycheck. He said he used to work at Starbucks, and that he really loved coffee. He talked about how his mom always used to buy him coffee ice cream. I laughed and told him I was a coffee addict, too.
He waited outside the store while I got the money and paid for the smokes. I also bought us each a bottle of Starbucks iced coffee. I gave him the money first, and he was so happy to see that five bucks he might as well have been a kid on Christmas. When I pulled the iced coffee out of the bag and handed it to him, he literally clasped his hands and bowed his head. "Morgan, you are a wonderful, wonderful lady. I will never forget this," he said.
I gave him a hug. "Just pay it forward when you can," I said. He smiled. Then we went our separate ways, and that was that.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am, how happy it made me, to be able to help this young wanderer today. Because I helped him, he has a place to sleep tonight and the means to get there. I'm not talking about this to brag, though it does make me feel good about myself. I wanted to share it because I am so grateful for everyone in my life who have helped me through my most difficult times-- everything from letting me bum a smoke to giving me a place to stay and food to eat when I couldn't provide those things for myself. I remember that things could always be better, but they could always be worse, and I am so glad for what I have right now, what I've been given, what I've earned, and what I'm able to give others.
Wandering brings hardship, but it can also breed kindness. This is the kind of person I am, and it's the kind of person I always want to be.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
As predicted
The crash came yesterday. I think I'm finally coming out of it, but for the last 48 hours or so I have been useless. The pain is definitely part of it, but it's mostly psychological. I'm feeling pretty overwhelmed by the prospect of this trip I don't want to take, and all the shit that has to be taken care of as soon as we get back. Among other things, my consult for the results of my MRI is the day after we get back. My suspicions are confirmed. I have degenerative arthritis in both my cervical and lumbar spine. At least I have enough pain meds to last me through the trip.
Today, therapy was the only thing that got me out of bed. Just the prospect of venting about stuff was motivation enough to push through the pain. It doesn't really take a lot to motivate me, which is good.
I've been having nightmares about college. You know, the kind were somehow I didn't go to any classes the whole semester, and I'm failing. Not sure what that has to do with anything right now, except that I keep seeing "back to school" sales and I wish I was going back. I miss academia. It was predictable, provided me with a schedule, and regular encouragement and feedback from professors. Maybe just missing that, and feeling sad that I know I can never go back because I defaulted on my loans.
I'm grateful for the cooler weather, the rains and the pleasant nights. I'm grateful that I am finally getting validation for my pain beyond "it's fibro and you're fat." I'm grateful for my therapist who actually seems to give a shit. So many I have been to in the past haven't seen me as a person, just a diagnosis.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Extroverted introversion, with a dash of genius
How about a little introspection to break up the bitchfest about all the annoying shit going on right now? Sounds good to me, and this is my blog, so read it. Or not. I don't care. Except, I do. I really, really do. I need you to understand me, total stranger reading my blog, because I do not even fully understand myself. That's the whole point of this thing. Catharsis. Spilling words instead of blood.
So, since we've been on the subject of catch phrases, let's examine another one. I admit that I throw this one around quite casually:
"I don't play well with others."
Now, some people will wear this on a T-shirt, and think it's clever or funny, and usually the person wearing the shirt is neither clever, nor funny, and not someone I would wish to play with to begin with. In fact, I would most often like to punch them right in their smarmy faces. Not that I'm that violent. I mean, if I went around punching everyone who annoyed me, I'd be sitting in a little white room somewhere.
When I say that I don't play well with others, I am referring to the fact that I am an introvert. In terms of participating in shenanigans with other humans, there are several factors that must be taken into consideration, including, but not limited to:
I have no trouble with public speaking. I enjoy contributing ideas in formal settings. In bye-gone days, I was quite the spotlight hog. I am extremely talkative once you get me going on a subject that interests me. (Whether it interests you is inconsequential. I will do my best to make it interest you, and if you aren't interested, I ignore you. This really only happens on the Internet.)
I write copiously about my mental processes, how I view the world, my spirituality, my perception of my current position in life, and the pain of my past. People perceive me as very trustworthy. For some reason, I am often privy to things that no one else knows. It's a talent of mine, I suppose. Total strangers tell me things they have never told anyone. I suppose it's because, at this point, I am nigh un-shockable. I have even had a man confess to me a murder. I did not turn him in. For all I know, he could have been schizophrenic, and the incident in question never happened at all. People tell me the damndest things at bus stops...
Yet, for all this, I am a ravening introvert. A while back, I found a fantastic illustration of what this means. I'm posting it here for posterity.
It may seem paradoxical, but I've known quite a few people who fall into this category of "extroverted introverts," with a bit of ADD and hypomania tossed into the mix. And I'll tell you a secret: No matter how animated I become, or how fast I talk, my mind is operating at at least twice the observable speed. Sometimes there is simply too much I want to express, and not enough time in which to do it. I often wish I could simply link my mind with the people people I'm talking to, so we did not have to be burdened with the tedium of language. This leads to a deficit in terms of information I wish to exchange and the capacity to exchange it in a limited space of time, which, in turn, leads to anxiety, until the point at which I drift away from the group and sit by myself. I go back to my safe place. I sink into my own thoughts, work out problems, play games, or write long, narcissistic entries like this, to be read to my therapist at a later date.
I'm actually a raging Aspie, but I'm so damned good at faking it, no one can tell. Usually.
I worry sometimes that people read my behaviour as odd at best, snobby or cruel at worst. I don't mean to be, I honestly don't. I don't know if this is something I can really change, or that I want to change. This is why jobs that involve dealing with human beings all day long are so draining for me. Is it arrogant of me to say that I feel that 90% of the people I meet doing a retail job are inconsiderate, privileged, ignorant morons? I have so little tolerance for it that one eight-hour shift at a customer service position leaves me feeling like I need a stiff drink. And I don't drink. Much. Except if it's mead. And it's sulfite-free.
I think I've drifted off-topic here, but it's some stuff, anyway. Needed to get it off my chest.
So, since we've been on the subject of catch phrases, let's examine another one. I admit that I throw this one around quite casually:
"I don't play well with others."
Now, some people will wear this on a T-shirt, and think it's clever or funny, and usually the person wearing the shirt is neither clever, nor funny, and not someone I would wish to play with to begin with. In fact, I would most often like to punch them right in their smarmy faces. Not that I'm that violent. I mean, if I went around punching everyone who annoyed me, I'd be sitting in a little white room somewhere.
When I say that I don't play well with others, I am referring to the fact that I am an introvert. In terms of participating in shenanigans with other humans, there are several factors that must be taken into consideration, including, but not limited to:
- What "others" we are talking about
- How many "others" are involved
- How long I am expected to "play" with these "others"
- Whether or not "playing well with others" is a requirement
- How much coffee I've had, how many cigarettes I have left, and whether I brought my clonazepam with me.
I have no trouble with public speaking. I enjoy contributing ideas in formal settings. In bye-gone days, I was quite the spotlight hog. I am extremely talkative once you get me going on a subject that interests me. (Whether it interests you is inconsequential. I will do my best to make it interest you, and if you aren't interested, I ignore you. This really only happens on the Internet.)
I write copiously about my mental processes, how I view the world, my spirituality, my perception of my current position in life, and the pain of my past. People perceive me as very trustworthy. For some reason, I am often privy to things that no one else knows. It's a talent of mine, I suppose. Total strangers tell me things they have never told anyone. I suppose it's because, at this point, I am nigh un-shockable. I have even had a man confess to me a murder. I did not turn him in. For all I know, he could have been schizophrenic, and the incident in question never happened at all. People tell me the damndest things at bus stops...
Yet, for all this, I am a ravening introvert. A while back, I found a fantastic illustration of what this means. I'm posting it here for posterity.
It may seem paradoxical, but I've known quite a few people who fall into this category of "extroverted introverts," with a bit of ADD and hypomania tossed into the mix. And I'll tell you a secret: No matter how animated I become, or how fast I talk, my mind is operating at at least twice the observable speed. Sometimes there is simply too much I want to express, and not enough time in which to do it. I often wish I could simply link my mind with the people people I'm talking to, so we did not have to be burdened with the tedium of language. This leads to a deficit in terms of information I wish to exchange and the capacity to exchange it in a limited space of time, which, in turn, leads to anxiety, until the point at which I drift away from the group and sit by myself. I go back to my safe place. I sink into my own thoughts, work out problems, play games, or write long, narcissistic entries like this, to be read to my therapist at a later date.
I'm actually a raging Aspie, but I'm so damned good at faking it, no one can tell. Usually.
I worry sometimes that people read my behaviour as odd at best, snobby or cruel at worst. I don't mean to be, I honestly don't. I don't know if this is something I can really change, or that I want to change. This is why jobs that involve dealing with human beings all day long are so draining for me. Is it arrogant of me to say that I feel that 90% of the people I meet doing a retail job are inconsiderate, privileged, ignorant morons? I have so little tolerance for it that one eight-hour shift at a customer service position leaves me feeling like I need a stiff drink. And I don't drink. Much. Except if it's mead. And it's sulfite-free.
I think I've drifted off-topic here, but it's some stuff, anyway. Needed to get it off my chest.
A tempest of turds
Today, I'll start with grateful, since I think I missed a couple of days in the midst of all the fecal-fan-flinging. I am grateful that Matt is home and safe, and that he gets a half-day off tomorrow that we can spend together relaxing. I am grateful that progress is being made on the homefront war-zone. I am grateful that I have at least one girly friend who can show me how to properly apply eyebrow makeup. I am infinitely grateful that I have a husband who is open and honest with me, who listens to my worries and concerns, and who compliments and congratulates me on my accomplishments. I'm thankful for air conditioning. I'm thankful for fizzypop incense, which is sparkly-green and smells like concentrated mischief.
But now, let's play a little game of "What is Morgan Feeling Right Now?"
I am feeling frustrated, to the point of anger.
My sister-in-law's wedding is in nine days. In Minnesota. I was just informed that we are leaving on Thursday and returning on Monday. A five-day odyssey for a wedding that will probably last about an hour. Oh, and by the way? The family had about three weeks to plan for this. Three weeks. Expecting everyone in the family to be able to front the money for plane tickets and hotels on three weeks' notice is, in my opinion, rude and presumptuous and generally ridiculous.
I admit that some of this fear is coming from the week-long panic episode I suffered (with no meds) the first time I went to a family wedding with Matt. It was three years ago now, before he and I were even engaged to be married. The entire trip was a nightmare for me. I didn't know anyone. I felt trapped. I was trapped in a car for hours, shuttled around to family functions, stuffed into an uncomfortable (but really sexy) dress and forced to endure a very formal, very Christian wedding, with all the typical upper-middle-class trappings. I don't have any indication that this wedding will be the same, but it's the same time of year, and it's in a place I've never been before. I don't know if I want to test myself with something so challenging quite so soon after a major panic event, medicated or not.
Look, I want to be there for the only sister I've ever had. I am genuinely happy for her and her fiance, even if I personally feel the wedding is a bit rushed (on multiple levels.) I would like to be there to support her. However, we have battles to be fought here, in our own home. We have exterminators, cleaners and carpet cleaners to schedule so that we can stay in our home without being harassed by the rental company. This stuff needs to be done ASAP, and as much as Matt and I need a vacation, this is definitely not the time to take one. Matt and I need to be home to get things scheduled, let people in, prepare for the exterminators, and figure out what to do with the cats. Matt has been traveling so often that it feels to me like a luxury to have him home for more than a week at a time, and I know he must be more exhausted than he's admitting.
Bottom line: I don't want to go to Minnesota for five days. I want to stay here and get shit done. Even if I did go, I would be worried about what's happening back at the apartment the entire time, since it seems the rental company will let exterminators or whomever into our apartment whenever they damn well feel like it even if we don't see their so-called "24-hour notice" until the next day.
If, by some chance, we can get all of this stuff taken care of before we are meant to leave for the wedding, I might feel better about it. However, places seem to like to schedule about two weeks out. And I don't want to deal with something the day after we get back, either. I know that I will be too exhausted from travel, to glad to be sleeping in my own bed (even if it does have bugs in it) to have the will to let a bunch of strangers into our home again. A five-day trip to Minnesota, at great cost to Matt's folks (gas, rental car, hotel), seems laughably impractical when, if there is money to spare, we need it for other things.
But this decision is not mine. I remember telling Alison that because of all of our medical bills and such that it might not be realistic for us to come, and she assured me that she was fine with that and would not take it personally. My honest opinion on the matter is that we should take her at her word, and pour our energies into taking care of our home, not planning a trip.
And then, there's the supposed trip to Norway in September. As it gets closer and closer to September, I am less and less convinced that it's going to happen. I think Matt's grandparents want to do this. I don't think they are looking at it realistically. We still have no dates, no details, and they seem to be waiting for Matt's uncle's health to improve before making plans. The thing is... his health may not improve. He may not be medically cleared to fly. And they don't want to leave him behind. There may be other issues, but from where I stand, that seems to be the major one. It's a touchy family subject that I do not want to stick my nose into, but at least I can get my opinion heard "through the grapevine."
I can talk to Matt, Matt can talk to his parents, and his parents can talk to their parents. And as unbelievably much as I want to see Norway, the land of my gods, I have similar travel anxieties with that trip as I do with the potential Minnesota trip. Stuck in an unfamiliar place, 8 people crammed in a car driving for hours and hours, getting to see what they want to see and hanging out with their old friends, but not actually getting any time to appreciate the place the way I want to. With Matt. And alone. So a thing that I was looking forward to has become yet another source of stress, primarily because of the lack of realistic plans and the fear that I will go completely insane in the absence of familiarity and time to myself.
I am feeling anxious.
Instead of shutting down yesterday, I sprang into action. I told Matt I was going to take a klonopin, lie down, and cry it out. Instead, I immediately got on the phone and started planning. I also cleaned the kitchen. Yes. I cleaned the damn kitchen. My back is killing me today, but whatever. I think that I have handled the stress better over the past couple of days than I would have just a few weeks ago. However, as it is with all who suffer from PTSD or anxiety disorders of any kind, I am dreading the inevitable crash. I kicked into crisis mode, which is kind of like manic without the mild euphoria. It's the kind of mindset you need for a job as an EMT or a firefighter. I've always had it in me. (Were it not for other factors, I might have ended up in a profession like that, but that's neither here nor there.) I'm actually kind of proud of my ability to switch into that mode when I'm really up shit creek. The downside is that there always comes a point when the adrenaline stops and I collapse from exhaustion. That has not happened yet, but the longer I'm "up", the closer it comes, and the worse it will be. Adjusting my meds may be helping a bit, though it's really too early to tell; I've been on the higher dose of lexapro for less than a week.
I am feeling completely overwhelmed.
I don't think I need to explain why.
But now, let's play a little game of "What is Morgan Feeling Right Now?"
I am feeling frustrated, to the point of anger.
My sister-in-law's wedding is in nine days. In Minnesota. I was just informed that we are leaving on Thursday and returning on Monday. A five-day odyssey for a wedding that will probably last about an hour. Oh, and by the way? The family had about three weeks to plan for this. Three weeks. Expecting everyone in the family to be able to front the money for plane tickets and hotels on three weeks' notice is, in my opinion, rude and presumptuous and generally ridiculous.
I admit that some of this fear is coming from the week-long panic episode I suffered (with no meds) the first time I went to a family wedding with Matt. It was three years ago now, before he and I were even engaged to be married. The entire trip was a nightmare for me. I didn't know anyone. I felt trapped. I was trapped in a car for hours, shuttled around to family functions, stuffed into an uncomfortable (but really sexy) dress and forced to endure a very formal, very Christian wedding, with all the typical upper-middle-class trappings. I don't have any indication that this wedding will be the same, but it's the same time of year, and it's in a place I've never been before. I don't know if I want to test myself with something so challenging quite so soon after a major panic event, medicated or not.
Look, I want to be there for the only sister I've ever had. I am genuinely happy for her and her fiance, even if I personally feel the wedding is a bit rushed (on multiple levels.) I would like to be there to support her. However, we have battles to be fought here, in our own home. We have exterminators, cleaners and carpet cleaners to schedule so that we can stay in our home without being harassed by the rental company. This stuff needs to be done ASAP, and as much as Matt and I need a vacation, this is definitely not the time to take one. Matt and I need to be home to get things scheduled, let people in, prepare for the exterminators, and figure out what to do with the cats. Matt has been traveling so often that it feels to me like a luxury to have him home for more than a week at a time, and I know he must be more exhausted than he's admitting.
Bottom line: I don't want to go to Minnesota for five days. I want to stay here and get shit done. Even if I did go, I would be worried about what's happening back at the apartment the entire time, since it seems the rental company will let exterminators or whomever into our apartment whenever they damn well feel like it even if we don't see their so-called "24-hour notice" until the next day.
If, by some chance, we can get all of this stuff taken care of before we are meant to leave for the wedding, I might feel better about it. However, places seem to like to schedule about two weeks out. And I don't want to deal with something the day after we get back, either. I know that I will be too exhausted from travel, to glad to be sleeping in my own bed (even if it does have bugs in it) to have the will to let a bunch of strangers into our home again. A five-day trip to Minnesota, at great cost to Matt's folks (gas, rental car, hotel), seems laughably impractical when, if there is money to spare, we need it for other things.
But this decision is not mine. I remember telling Alison that because of all of our medical bills and such that it might not be realistic for us to come, and she assured me that she was fine with that and would not take it personally. My honest opinion on the matter is that we should take her at her word, and pour our energies into taking care of our home, not planning a trip.
And then, there's the supposed trip to Norway in September. As it gets closer and closer to September, I am less and less convinced that it's going to happen. I think Matt's grandparents want to do this. I don't think they are looking at it realistically. We still have no dates, no details, and they seem to be waiting for Matt's uncle's health to improve before making plans. The thing is... his health may not improve. He may not be medically cleared to fly. And they don't want to leave him behind. There may be other issues, but from where I stand, that seems to be the major one. It's a touchy family subject that I do not want to stick my nose into, but at least I can get my opinion heard "through the grapevine."
I can talk to Matt, Matt can talk to his parents, and his parents can talk to their parents. And as unbelievably much as I want to see Norway, the land of my gods, I have similar travel anxieties with that trip as I do with the potential Minnesota trip. Stuck in an unfamiliar place, 8 people crammed in a car driving for hours and hours, getting to see what they want to see and hanging out with their old friends, but not actually getting any time to appreciate the place the way I want to. With Matt. And alone. So a thing that I was looking forward to has become yet another source of stress, primarily because of the lack of realistic plans and the fear that I will go completely insane in the absence of familiarity and time to myself.
I am feeling anxious.
Instead of shutting down yesterday, I sprang into action. I told Matt I was going to take a klonopin, lie down, and cry it out. Instead, I immediately got on the phone and started planning. I also cleaned the kitchen. Yes. I cleaned the damn kitchen. My back is killing me today, but whatever. I think that I have handled the stress better over the past couple of days than I would have just a few weeks ago. However, as it is with all who suffer from PTSD or anxiety disorders of any kind, I am dreading the inevitable crash. I kicked into crisis mode, which is kind of like manic without the mild euphoria. It's the kind of mindset you need for a job as an EMT or a firefighter. I've always had it in me. (Were it not for other factors, I might have ended up in a profession like that, but that's neither here nor there.) I'm actually kind of proud of my ability to switch into that mode when I'm really up shit creek. The downside is that there always comes a point when the adrenaline stops and I collapse from exhaustion. That has not happened yet, but the longer I'm "up", the closer it comes, and the worse it will be. Adjusting my meds may be helping a bit, though it's really too early to tell; I've been on the higher dose of lexapro for less than a week.
I am feeling completely overwhelmed.
I don't think I need to explain why.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Don't tell me about how the rain pours.
"When it rains, it pours." Adages like that really piss me off. Know why? Well, first off, it's patently untrue. Assuming rain is a metaphor for something bad, well, rain can come in many forms. It can be drizzle, it can be mist, it can be a cool shower to break up a heatwave. Rain can soak you to the skin or flood your backyard or alter your plans for a hike. Notice that I say alter, not ruin. I mean, what's the worst that happens when it rains on a day you were going to spend outdoors? You plan to do it another day, because even if you live in a tropical rainforest, it eventually stops raining.
Second, it's that pat little phrase everyone seems to like to toss your way when a lot of annoying shit happens at once. Like saying that is somehow going to make it better, or worse, imply that you're complaining about nothing. Maybe it's the Law of Attraction, maybe it's payday cycles, maybe it's Mercury in retrograde, maybe it's a natural progression of events you just didn't plan well enough for. And maybe you didn't plan for it because you really didn't see it coming, or maybe you just didn't have the resources, physically, financially, mentally or spiritually, to prepare for the oncoming storm. When people tell me, "Oh, you know, when it rains, it pours," I feel like they're simultaneously minimising my suffering and telling me they really don't want to hear about it.
So don't fucking tell me that.
(art by teralilac)
I've already written about the bedbug problem. I'm truly fed up with bugs invading my home, in general. What I find a thousand times more irritating are humans invading my home with little or no notice, to spread chemicals I'm not sure are safe for the cats, for a problem we don't have. Apparently, our new neighbours in the other half of our duplex saw some cockroaches in their kitchen. They called the rental company, and the rental company sent the exterminators out. I got a notice in my mailbox when I got home last night at 23:30 advising me that I needed to do approximately sixty-three-billion different things to prepare for the exterminators to come into my home. Today. Remove everything from the cabinets, clear off the countertops, seal all food in airtight containers, vacuum, put all dishes away (but not in cardboard boxes), and move all the furniture away from the walls. Yes, basically clean and rearrange the entire house, which I am not physically capable of doing even on my best days. Oh, and lock up the cats. They did not even mention what time this would be happening.
When I was done flipping out, I called the rental office and explained my situation. After all, I'd never complained of cockroaches. The lady I talked to told me that I should just do as much as I could, which I did. I cleaned the kitchen countertops, moved stuff away from the baseboards, sealed up all the food, and put all the dishes away. They showed up just as I was rounding up the cats.
And who should be accompanying the nice Orkin man but our rental agent, who took it upon himself, while he was there, to observe that we had four, not three cats, and that the carpet was "absolutely covered" in cat fur. He also noted that the kitchen floor wasn't clean, and said that there would now be regular inspections in our home to make sure we were keeping our end of the rental agreement. Unfortunately, there is a clause in the rental agreement that the company can revoke permission to have pets at any time, for any reason they want.
We pay an extra $150 per month in rent for the cats, and we understood when we signed the lease that we would be responsible for cleaning when we moved out, including repairing any damage the cats might have done. So, to me, this feels like an unnecessary invasion of privacy. We will be getting "housekeeping notices" soon, he said, and we'd have to discuss the terms of the lease. Our rent may go up even higher now, and we cannot get out of the lease until November.
Oh, and we still have bedbugs.
I immediately felt like this was all my fault, because I'm admittedly a terrible housekeeper. I keep my room neat and tidy because I need it to be that way for emotional and spiritual reasons, but the rest of the house overwhelms me. Because of chronic back pain and fatigue, I am just not able to do a whole lot, so much of it falls to Matt. But Matt is the breadwinner, and he shouldn't have to keep house, too. Isn't that what a wife is supposed to do? Initiate guilt spiral ... now.
I did what I could today. I called the bedbug exterminator (again), and he agreed to come out and do an inspection tomorrow at 10:30. I also got estimates from three different places for carpet cleaning, and the housecleaning service we used when we lived in the old house is coming tomorrow to give us an estimate. I suggested to Matt that the most logical way to do this was to have the cleaning service come out first, then the carpet cleaners, and finally the exterminators. Matt suggested we get plastic carpet protector mats to put under the bedroom doors so that Mr. B doesn't try to dig a hole through the floor to get into our rooms at night.
Who the fuck knows where all the money is going to come from... oh, wait. Remember that credit card I was going to use to start my business? If all else fails, we have that. It won't cover the exterminator, but it should cover the cleaning. So there's that. Matt does not like the idea of using it for that purpose, but hey, maybe it was serendipitous that I got approved for it right now. When the annoying shit is over, then I can use it for its original intended purpose.
Once Matt and I discuss the estimates and dates for service, I'll call the rental office and let them know exactly what we plan to do. I will even offer to show them the receipts for the work done. I hope that will be enough to get them off our backs. I really don't relish random home inspections, even if they do, by law, have to give us 24 hours notice.
I am sick to death of feeling like the place I live is under siege. Essentially, we have gone from dealing with a slum lord to dealing with a large, prestigious rental company, and the agents probably expect everyone, even those of us who are renting their restored properties in the "bad part of town," to behave as proper Nordstrom-shopping, middle-class thirty-somethings. (Our new neighbours? I peeked into their house once. They are absolute neat freaks. Of course, if we're going to be compared to them, we look like slobs.) I think next time, we need to find a happy medium. Despite the fact that I have more independence here, I am really starting to wish we had never sold the house. At this rate, the expense of staying here is approaching the house payment, and we still have medical bills to deal with, not to mention vet bills. Poor Radar has been de-prioritised because of necessity.
So what can I take from this? Well, I have done absolutely everything I can do about the situation today, with Matt gone. I have tried my best not to let my anxiety get the better of me. I got a clean(er) kitchen out of the deal, even if my back hurts like hell. I hate calling businesses on the phone, but I took the initiative and made the calls and got the estimates. I'm still frustrated, but not as overwhelmed as I felt when the shit first hit the fan this afternoon. When it first happened, I actually felt like cutting. Instead, I took positive action.
Oh, and now it looks like Matt is going to be stuck in Chicago overnight! Great.
Okay, Loki ... I've done my part. How about a hand up, love?
Second, it's that pat little phrase everyone seems to like to toss your way when a lot of annoying shit happens at once. Like saying that is somehow going to make it better, or worse, imply that you're complaining about nothing. Maybe it's the Law of Attraction, maybe it's payday cycles, maybe it's Mercury in retrograde, maybe it's a natural progression of events you just didn't plan well enough for. And maybe you didn't plan for it because you really didn't see it coming, or maybe you just didn't have the resources, physically, financially, mentally or spiritually, to prepare for the oncoming storm. When people tell me, "Oh, you know, when it rains, it pours," I feel like they're simultaneously minimising my suffering and telling me they really don't want to hear about it.
So don't fucking tell me that.
(art by teralilac)I've already written about the bedbug problem. I'm truly fed up with bugs invading my home, in general. What I find a thousand times more irritating are humans invading my home with little or no notice, to spread chemicals I'm not sure are safe for the cats, for a problem we don't have. Apparently, our new neighbours in the other half of our duplex saw some cockroaches in their kitchen. They called the rental company, and the rental company sent the exterminators out. I got a notice in my mailbox when I got home last night at 23:30 advising me that I needed to do approximately sixty-three-billion different things to prepare for the exterminators to come into my home. Today. Remove everything from the cabinets, clear off the countertops, seal all food in airtight containers, vacuum, put all dishes away (but not in cardboard boxes), and move all the furniture away from the walls. Yes, basically clean and rearrange the entire house, which I am not physically capable of doing even on my best days. Oh, and lock up the cats. They did not even mention what time this would be happening.
When I was done flipping out, I called the rental office and explained my situation. After all, I'd never complained of cockroaches. The lady I talked to told me that I should just do as much as I could, which I did. I cleaned the kitchen countertops, moved stuff away from the baseboards, sealed up all the food, and put all the dishes away. They showed up just as I was rounding up the cats.
And who should be accompanying the nice Orkin man but our rental agent, who took it upon himself, while he was there, to observe that we had four, not three cats, and that the carpet was "absolutely covered" in cat fur. He also noted that the kitchen floor wasn't clean, and said that there would now be regular inspections in our home to make sure we were keeping our end of the rental agreement. Unfortunately, there is a clause in the rental agreement that the company can revoke permission to have pets at any time, for any reason they want.
We pay an extra $150 per month in rent for the cats, and we understood when we signed the lease that we would be responsible for cleaning when we moved out, including repairing any damage the cats might have done. So, to me, this feels like an unnecessary invasion of privacy. We will be getting "housekeeping notices" soon, he said, and we'd have to discuss the terms of the lease. Our rent may go up even higher now, and we cannot get out of the lease until November.
Oh, and we still have bedbugs.
I immediately felt like this was all my fault, because I'm admittedly a terrible housekeeper. I keep my room neat and tidy because I need it to be that way for emotional and spiritual reasons, but the rest of the house overwhelms me. Because of chronic back pain and fatigue, I am just not able to do a whole lot, so much of it falls to Matt. But Matt is the breadwinner, and he shouldn't have to keep house, too. Isn't that what a wife is supposed to do? Initiate guilt spiral ... now.
I did what I could today. I called the bedbug exterminator (again), and he agreed to come out and do an inspection tomorrow at 10:30. I also got estimates from three different places for carpet cleaning, and the housecleaning service we used when we lived in the old house is coming tomorrow to give us an estimate. I suggested to Matt that the most logical way to do this was to have the cleaning service come out first, then the carpet cleaners, and finally the exterminators. Matt suggested we get plastic carpet protector mats to put under the bedroom doors so that Mr. B doesn't try to dig a hole through the floor to get into our rooms at night.
Who the fuck knows where all the money is going to come from... oh, wait. Remember that credit card I was going to use to start my business? If all else fails, we have that. It won't cover the exterminator, but it should cover the cleaning. So there's that. Matt does not like the idea of using it for that purpose, but hey, maybe it was serendipitous that I got approved for it right now. When the annoying shit is over, then I can use it for its original intended purpose.
Once Matt and I discuss the estimates and dates for service, I'll call the rental office and let them know exactly what we plan to do. I will even offer to show them the receipts for the work done. I hope that will be enough to get them off our backs. I really don't relish random home inspections, even if they do, by law, have to give us 24 hours notice.
I am sick to death of feeling like the place I live is under siege. Essentially, we have gone from dealing with a slum lord to dealing with a large, prestigious rental company, and the agents probably expect everyone, even those of us who are renting their restored properties in the "bad part of town," to behave as proper Nordstrom-shopping, middle-class thirty-somethings. (Our new neighbours? I peeked into their house once. They are absolute neat freaks. Of course, if we're going to be compared to them, we look like slobs.) I think next time, we need to find a happy medium. Despite the fact that I have more independence here, I am really starting to wish we had never sold the house. At this rate, the expense of staying here is approaching the house payment, and we still have medical bills to deal with, not to mention vet bills. Poor Radar has been de-prioritised because of necessity.
So what can I take from this? Well, I have done absolutely everything I can do about the situation today, with Matt gone. I have tried my best not to let my anxiety get the better of me. I got a clean(er) kitchen out of the deal, even if my back hurts like hell. I hate calling businesses on the phone, but I took the initiative and made the calls and got the estimates. I'm still frustrated, but not as overwhelmed as I felt when the shit first hit the fan this afternoon. When it first happened, I actually felt like cutting. Instead, I took positive action.
Oh, and now it looks like Matt is going to be stuck in Chicago overnight! Great.
Okay, Loki ... I've done my part. How about a hand up, love?
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Money ... just... fuck money
I had a day out with my friend Noelle, whom I do not spend nearly enough time with. We went to the mall and I argued with dresses and outfits for Alison's wedding, and Noelle snarked at me. She took me to my therapy appointment, then picked me up, and we went to yet another mall to check out Sephora, since, according to Noelle, I need serious help with make-up. Afterwards, we chilled at her house for a bit, and I hung out with her and her husband, Dave. It was a good time.
I got home and was a little keyed up, so I called Matt, who is in Cedar Rapids on business. While I was going through the mail, I found an overdraft notice for Matt's account. I asked if I should just throw it away, since I figured he knew what it was about, and it was his business anyway. But then, I opened it while I was on the phone with him. I immediately regretted it. The overdraft was significant. I'm not going to mention how much it was here, because this blog is fairly public. The point is, it was alarming. I asked him if our rent check had bounced or something. He could not tell me exactly what had happened. So I asked, as gently as I could, how this could happen. Even with the tiny amount of money I deal with, I use the banking app on my phone and the text service my bank offers to check my account daily, and after every purchase, to make absolutely sure I can cover what I'm buying. Since I do not write checks, it's probably a little simpler, but it worried me that Matt didn't seem to be taking as much care with his account as I do with mine.
And then I spiralled into guilt again. How much of that money was "my fault"? How much of it could have been avoided? Is Matt giving me more money than we can really afford? Do I need to sacrifice going out during the week? It just baffled me. We've even cut the car payment by over $100 and given up satellite TV and Sirius radio, which is about another $100 per month. Where is the money going? I just can't live like this. I really don't want to be all up in his business, since it's his money, that he earns through hard work, but this is getting serious. I'm terrified of this, but I feel like I need to be more involved. I always did really well in my business classes in college. Maybe I could help by applying some of that knowledge and making up a realistic budget, taking the medical bills and such into account. Matt gets a lot of overtime, but we need to make a budget that assumes no overtime.
I know that more sacrifices are going to have to be made, probably by me. Cut down on cigarettes. Cut down on trips to the coffee house. Cigarettes and coffee add up, especially if I'm buying 3-4 packs per week at approximately $5/pack and spending about the same amount on coffee. If I just cut back to 3 packs per week and two coffee house trips at about $5 each, I could potentially "live on" $25/week. But, wait, there's bus fare...that's about $10 per week. And if I want to buy lunch, that's ... you get the idea. Matt gives me about $100 every paycheck to do whatever I want with. I feel like the only way I can help is to give that up. Quit smoking and quit going out during the week. I don't know if I can handle that, but I don't know what else to do.
Maybe if I can get my business up and running. Start making stuff and selling it at some of the places that sell stuff made by local artists. Get a website up, and the money I make is mine, and Matt doesn't have to give me anything. But that's not going to happen overnight. And he's going to have to help me make payments on my start-up costs until I start making a profit.
I'm feeling overwhelmed.
At least the tablet/netbook debacle has been resolved, since a dear friend has offered to send me one he isn't using for free. Hail Loki and His gifts! He is an unexpected gift-giver. Perhaps He will help me grow my wealth. Or maybe I should talk to Njord. He's got stuff. I don't know. I'm at a loss. I'm just praying to the gods in general for a solution to this latest problem, one that will not be too painful for either Matt or me.
I am still grateful. Grateful for good friends, days out, beautiful clouds at sunset, lime in my ice water, finding my favourite incense, my relative lack of anxiety today, and for cats, because they make me calm and happy.
I got home and was a little keyed up, so I called Matt, who is in Cedar Rapids on business. While I was going through the mail, I found an overdraft notice for Matt's account. I asked if I should just throw it away, since I figured he knew what it was about, and it was his business anyway. But then, I opened it while I was on the phone with him. I immediately regretted it. The overdraft was significant. I'm not going to mention how much it was here, because this blog is fairly public. The point is, it was alarming. I asked him if our rent check had bounced or something. He could not tell me exactly what had happened. So I asked, as gently as I could, how this could happen. Even with the tiny amount of money I deal with, I use the banking app on my phone and the text service my bank offers to check my account daily, and after every purchase, to make absolutely sure I can cover what I'm buying. Since I do not write checks, it's probably a little simpler, but it worried me that Matt didn't seem to be taking as much care with his account as I do with mine.
And then I spiralled into guilt again. How much of that money was "my fault"? How much of it could have been avoided? Is Matt giving me more money than we can really afford? Do I need to sacrifice going out during the week? It just baffled me. We've even cut the car payment by over $100 and given up satellite TV and Sirius radio, which is about another $100 per month. Where is the money going? I just can't live like this. I really don't want to be all up in his business, since it's his money, that he earns through hard work, but this is getting serious. I'm terrified of this, but I feel like I need to be more involved. I always did really well in my business classes in college. Maybe I could help by applying some of that knowledge and making up a realistic budget, taking the medical bills and such into account. Matt gets a lot of overtime, but we need to make a budget that assumes no overtime.
I know that more sacrifices are going to have to be made, probably by me. Cut down on cigarettes. Cut down on trips to the coffee house. Cigarettes and coffee add up, especially if I'm buying 3-4 packs per week at approximately $5/pack and spending about the same amount on coffee. If I just cut back to 3 packs per week and two coffee house trips at about $5 each, I could potentially "live on" $25/week. But, wait, there's bus fare...that's about $10 per week. And if I want to buy lunch, that's ... you get the idea. Matt gives me about $100 every paycheck to do whatever I want with. I feel like the only way I can help is to give that up. Quit smoking and quit going out during the week. I don't know if I can handle that, but I don't know what else to do.
Maybe if I can get my business up and running. Start making stuff and selling it at some of the places that sell stuff made by local artists. Get a website up, and the money I make is mine, and Matt doesn't have to give me anything. But that's not going to happen overnight. And he's going to have to help me make payments on my start-up costs until I start making a profit.
I'm feeling overwhelmed.
At least the tablet/netbook debacle has been resolved, since a dear friend has offered to send me one he isn't using for free. Hail Loki and His gifts! He is an unexpected gift-giver. Perhaps He will help me grow my wealth. Or maybe I should talk to Njord. He's got stuff. I don't know. I'm at a loss. I'm just praying to the gods in general for a solution to this latest problem, one that will not be too painful for either Matt or me.
I am still grateful. Grateful for good friends, days out, beautiful clouds at sunset, lime in my ice water, finding my favourite incense, my relative lack of anxiety today, and for cats, because they make me calm and happy.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Why I can't have nice things
It's actually pretty simple: I don't have any money of my own to buy nice things. Everything I buy, I buy with Matt's money. And I'm mostly okay with this, until there is something that I want that is expensive (over $100) and not a necessity. I'm going to try to break down the thought process.
In this case, I think that the whole cascade of events happened when Matt got a new car. He got something shiny. Why can't I have something shiny? My original plan was to convince Matt to get me a netbook. A small, light computer that would allow me to write and chat and do everything I do on my laptop without breaking my back would be ideal. I've had one before. I sold it because I was poor and desperate for money. I miss it. Anyway. We went to the store, and ... this is the part that I'm still trying to figure out.
I had a very clear idea in my head about what I wanted. What I wanted, they did not have. We started looking at tablets instead. Matt has one that he likes very much. I got dazzled by all the bells and whistles, and Matt seemed willing to spend the extra money. So I went home with an Android tablet. And it was shiny and fun. And yet, it wasn't actually quite what I wanted to begin with. The tablet and its case cost almost $500. I was looking for something more like a $200 netbook. And the tablet, as awesome as it was, lacked a comfortable keyboard. Writing is the most important thing I do! So it was shiny, and it had a lot of awesome features, but it couldn't do the very simplest thing I originally needed a device for. What I don't get is how I went from $200 netbook to $500 tablet. Maybe it was the desire for instant gratification, which, I admit is very strong. However - and I hate saying this- I actually feel that Matt was nudging me in the direction of the tablet based on some stuff that I had said before, and perhaps based on his usage of his own tablet. And he was the one with the money. So I got a tablet. I'm not saying I don't feel I had a say in it, nor am I saying that I wasn't starry-eyed when I saw the pen tool and the art programs on the tablet- but I'm still not quite sure what happened in that exchange.
What I do know is that I should have put my foot down. I should have treated this purchase as if it was money out of my own pocket. "No. A tablet is not what I need, and it's more expensive. I want a netbook. They don't have them here. Let's wait." That was my own fault, and I own up to it. If they'd had what I was looking for, we would have walked out the door with it, and I probably wouldn't be writing this entry.
There are reasons I feel a netbook would be good for me. First of all, my full-size laptop is very heavy (comparatively), and it hurts my back to walk a mile or more with it to get to where I need to go. Second, the outer casing is cracked, and the more I move it around, the worse the damage gets. I really, really, really like this computer, and it's only about a year old. I don't want anything to happen to it. Third, I can carry a netbook around with me everywhere. I can sit down and write if I am in a situation that causes anxiety. That sounds weird, but it works. And I can't really do that on my phone.
I don't need a tablet. I've never needed a tablet. We even had to buy a special keyboard to make the thing usable for what I wanted it for. What the hell was I thinking? I still don't get what happened. And I still feel guilty for conning Matt out of $500 when we needed it for other things (even though it was on an established line of credit.) And I still want a goddamn netbook, like, right now.
So... yeah. There's one more thing I need to talk about. My apparent ability to get whatever I want, whenever I want, without even trying. I think it started when I was a little kid. I would go to my great grandmother's house. She had many pretty things. Figurines and jewellery boxes and dolls. I would say something was pretty, or I liked it, and she would give it to me to take home. Then, later, she would tell me that I "wangled it out of her." But really, when I had said "That's pretty!" that's all I'd meant. I started to learn that all I needed to do to get what I wanted was to compliment whatever it was. It was a really weird dynamic, especially since I was later berated for doing it.
Is that what was happening? Am I manipulating Matt all the time? Did he misconstrue my admiration of the tablet and its capabilities as "I want that" instead of "That's cool, but I still want a netbook"? Was I misreading Matt's eagerness? I mean, there was a moment there when I almost felt I was going to disappoint him if I didn't get the tablet. I mean... wait, what? And then, understandably, he was angry when I suggested we get a netbook to replace the tablet right away. Well, I guess I'd be frustrated too, but there's that "instant gratification" childish bullshit coming back again.
Matt is worried that I feel that I don't deserve nice things, so he tries to give me nice things. I am worried that Matt is overcompensating for the bullshit I grew up with. This combination is leading to all kinds of miscommunications, guilt and regret. I feel it can be stopped by careful planning. When I want something that would make my life easier but is not an immediate, dire need, I need to research exactly what it is I want. If it's a computer, for instance, I need a model number and a price and a vendor. (This was Matt's suggestion.) We talk about it. We discuss whether we can cover the cost. We buy it. We don't take it back to the store a week later because I feel guilty, and it wasn't really what I needed to begin with.
This entire thing has exhausted me emotionally, caused another anxiety event, and made me feel like a failure for not having my own money. And I still want a goddamn netbook.
- I see something I want. It is not a necessity like clothing, food, or bus fare, and it is not a minor luxury like coffee or cigarettes.
- I think about how said item could make my life easier, and how nice it would be to have it. I convince myself that it falls into the category of "necessity."
- I express the desire for the item to Matt, framing it as something that will make my life easier and help me to be more productive.
- After some negotiation, Matt agrees to buy me the item.
- I enjoy the new thing I got, but I quickly succumb to guilt for manipulating my husband into spending money (using credit) to buy me something that I didn't really need.
- I convince myself that I acquired said item through manipulation, and thus, do not deserve it.
- My guilt is only allayed if the item is taken back to the store.
- Well, crap. I actually could have used that item after all, and now I miss it, and I want something to replace it, right now. A less-expensive version, something more practical.
- I don't get anything, and reason that I didn't deserve it anyway.
In this case, I think that the whole cascade of events happened when Matt got a new car. He got something shiny. Why can't I have something shiny? My original plan was to convince Matt to get me a netbook. A small, light computer that would allow me to write and chat and do everything I do on my laptop without breaking my back would be ideal. I've had one before. I sold it because I was poor and desperate for money. I miss it. Anyway. We went to the store, and ... this is the part that I'm still trying to figure out.
I had a very clear idea in my head about what I wanted. What I wanted, they did not have. We started looking at tablets instead. Matt has one that he likes very much. I got dazzled by all the bells and whistles, and Matt seemed willing to spend the extra money. So I went home with an Android tablet. And it was shiny and fun. And yet, it wasn't actually quite what I wanted to begin with. The tablet and its case cost almost $500. I was looking for something more like a $200 netbook. And the tablet, as awesome as it was, lacked a comfortable keyboard. Writing is the most important thing I do! So it was shiny, and it had a lot of awesome features, but it couldn't do the very simplest thing I originally needed a device for. What I don't get is how I went from $200 netbook to $500 tablet. Maybe it was the desire for instant gratification, which, I admit is very strong. However - and I hate saying this- I actually feel that Matt was nudging me in the direction of the tablet based on some stuff that I had said before, and perhaps based on his usage of his own tablet. And he was the one with the money. So I got a tablet. I'm not saying I don't feel I had a say in it, nor am I saying that I wasn't starry-eyed when I saw the pen tool and the art programs on the tablet- but I'm still not quite sure what happened in that exchange.
What I do know is that I should have put my foot down. I should have treated this purchase as if it was money out of my own pocket. "No. A tablet is not what I need, and it's more expensive. I want a netbook. They don't have them here. Let's wait." That was my own fault, and I own up to it. If they'd had what I was looking for, we would have walked out the door with it, and I probably wouldn't be writing this entry.
There are reasons I feel a netbook would be good for me. First of all, my full-size laptop is very heavy (comparatively), and it hurts my back to walk a mile or more with it to get to where I need to go. Second, the outer casing is cracked, and the more I move it around, the worse the damage gets. I really, really, really like this computer, and it's only about a year old. I don't want anything to happen to it. Third, I can carry a netbook around with me everywhere. I can sit down and write if I am in a situation that causes anxiety. That sounds weird, but it works. And I can't really do that on my phone.
I don't need a tablet. I've never needed a tablet. We even had to buy a special keyboard to make the thing usable for what I wanted it for. What the hell was I thinking? I still don't get what happened. And I still feel guilty for conning Matt out of $500 when we needed it for other things (even though it was on an established line of credit.) And I still want a goddamn netbook, like, right now.
So... yeah. There's one more thing I need to talk about. My apparent ability to get whatever I want, whenever I want, without even trying. I think it started when I was a little kid. I would go to my great grandmother's house. She had many pretty things. Figurines and jewellery boxes and dolls. I would say something was pretty, or I liked it, and she would give it to me to take home. Then, later, she would tell me that I "wangled it out of her." But really, when I had said "That's pretty!" that's all I'd meant. I started to learn that all I needed to do to get what I wanted was to compliment whatever it was. It was a really weird dynamic, especially since I was later berated for doing it.
Is that what was happening? Am I manipulating Matt all the time? Did he misconstrue my admiration of the tablet and its capabilities as "I want that" instead of "That's cool, but I still want a netbook"? Was I misreading Matt's eagerness? I mean, there was a moment there when I almost felt I was going to disappoint him if I didn't get the tablet. I mean... wait, what? And then, understandably, he was angry when I suggested we get a netbook to replace the tablet right away. Well, I guess I'd be frustrated too, but there's that "instant gratification" childish bullshit coming back again.
Matt is worried that I feel that I don't deserve nice things, so he tries to give me nice things. I am worried that Matt is overcompensating for the bullshit I grew up with. This combination is leading to all kinds of miscommunications, guilt and regret. I feel it can be stopped by careful planning. When I want something that would make my life easier but is not an immediate, dire need, I need to research exactly what it is I want. If it's a computer, for instance, I need a model number and a price and a vendor. (This was Matt's suggestion.) We talk about it. We discuss whether we can cover the cost. We buy it. We don't take it back to the store a week later because I feel guilty, and it wasn't really what I needed to begin with.
This entire thing has exhausted me emotionally, caused another anxiety event, and made me feel like a failure for not having my own money. And I still want a goddamn netbook.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Money guilt
I have decided that the only way I can allay my guilt in terms of buying gadgets with money that is not mine is to take said gadgets back to the store. So, that's what I'm doing.
That's all for now.
That's all for now.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Eliminating unnecessary stress/ Money and possessions
Today, I had to make a really hard decision. I have been involved in a friend's improv theatre group, mostly because I care deeply about her and I wanted to be there for moral support. However, I realised that going to her rehearsals each Saturday evening was becoming more stressful than fun. It went from, "Cool, we get to go to rehearsal" to "Damn, we have to go to rehearsal." Matt is still more enthusiastic about the group, and I have no problem with him going to rehearsals without me if he feels like it.
I sat down and talked with Isa, and explained that it just wasn't a priority for me anymore. It was painful to do this, because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. But, because she is a good friend, she understood. At this point, my baseline anxiety level is so ridiculously high, I just can't deal with any extraneous stressors. Though I still want to participate in the group behind-the-scenes, and help her whenever I can, I am basically on indefinite leave. I feel this will help me, not only because I just don't have the energy, but because it will no longer impact my Saturday evenings with Matt. One of the things that stressed me out was the fact that 5:30 p.m. rehearsals every Saturday meant sacrificing time together with him.
I had an appointment with my therapist earlier today. I told her all about the crazy panic episodes of the last week, and the changes in my meds. She reassured me that it is okay to take the clonazepam whenever I feel I need it, and recommended that I take it three times a day for a little while until I can get stuff under control. I don't know if I will do that for more than a few days, and I need to keep communications open with my psychiatrist about whatever I am doing, but right now I am definitely taking my therapist's advice to heart.
Money is still a scary, scary thing for me. After talking with our mutual therapist, Matt suggested we open a savings account. They are both concerned that my opening a credit account in order to finance a start-up for my Etsy business could turn into a disaster. There is so much guilt attached to money, and I feel so bad about opening the account (even though it is only in my name) without asking Matt (since he is my only source of income) that, at this point, I am considering just not activating the card at all when it arrives. Problem solved.
Since I did not elaborate on my plan here, I'll explain. I was approved for a $500 credit limit. I was surprised that it was approved, but decided that it would be a good opportunity to buy art and craft supplies, tools, and shipping materials for the Etsy shop I have been meaning to open for years. I want to start out making trinket boxes and some jewelry, using bulk unfinished wooden boxes and scrap fabric to line them, and embellish them with various fantasy/steampunk motifs. I realise these are a dime-a-dozen on Etsy, but I think I could get mine to stand out.
Or not. I don't know. Maybe it was just a bad idea. I should not have done something like this without asking Matt, and now I feel terrible. At this moment, I feel like cutting up the card as soon as it gets here and forgetting the whole thing.
Add more guilt... I convinced Matt to get me a wireless keyboard for my tablet today. We should have waited. I am being so selfish. I am feeling like I am just grasping at these new things for comfort rather than need, even though I can explain very effectively why I "need" said items at the time. Granted, I really like this keyboard, and it was on sale, and it allows me to type on my tablet at a normal speed, but ... did I really neeeeeeed it?
My logic in getting the tablet was:
1. I don't want to take my laptop on long trips, because it has some cosmetic damage, is heavy, and can't be concealed in a carry-on.
2. Because it's heavy, it's difficult for me to carry around town with me, due to my back problems.
3. It's a compromise to getting a new phone. I wanted an Android phone, but now I have an Android tablet instead, and there is no need to replace my phone.
My logic in getting the wireless keyboard was:
1. Part of the reason I got the tablet was so that I could carry it with me easily and get writing done. Typing on the touch-screen is very difficult for me and hurts my hands.
2. This particular keyboard is solar-powered and does not require a charger or replacement batteries.
3. Instant gratification.
I feel like Matt should have said "no." I feel like he never does anything fun for himself, and is always buying me things. And guilt just leads to resentment, and more depression, and more anxiety. I don't really know what to do about it. Take all the stuff back? But ... then I wouldn't have it anymore.
The self-depricating part of me is saying these things:
You are so selfish.
You are manipulative. You get what you want no matter what, and you've always been that way.
You should be happy just to have a roof over your head. You do not deserve luxuries.
Sometimes, I think I have more issues with money and possessions and "deserving" than I do with my parents. Oh, "deserve" is such a dirty word. I constantly question whether I deserve good things, while I rarely question what I did to deserve bad things. (Isn't it obvious? I brought the bad things upon myself.) Mind you, I have done my best to eradicate this kind of thinking, but as soon as something like this comes up, it comes back to haunt me. It is probably because I was constantly reminded by family members and former partners of how much of a burden I was, and because I am so afraid of "becoming my mother," who only ever had relationships with people for as long as they were useful to her. And it always, always came down to money. Maybe that's why I hate money so much. For my mother especially, it was never anything more than a tool of manipulation.
My fears are not facts. Just because I am afraid I am taking advantage of Matt's kindness (and store credit) does not mean that I actually am, right? I just feel like I had a plan going into MicroCenter today, and I was going to get that keyboard no matter what, and Matt caved. And now I feel awful. Yet, I'm typing this on my new keyboard.
Should I go wallow in guilt? Probably not. Should I stop asking for things until I have a means to pay for them myself?Absolutely. Matt is my husband, not my parent, not my meal ticket, not my butler. I feel I have been treating him poorly. Maybe it's because getting new stuff makes me feel better (temporarily) when I am under stress. That is really not a good reason to get new stuff. Ever.
I don't know how to resolve this without either beating myself up and insisting everything gets returned to the store (even though I really don't want to give the stuff up.)
Right now, I really feel like a terrible person, even though I am grateful for my new toys.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Aftermath
My doctor called me back today. I told her about the epic panic attack yesterday, and asked if it was possible I had a paradoxical reaction to the propranolol. She said that anything is possible, but her gut feeling is that it was a fluke. That does not mean, however, that the new medication did not trigger the attack. She explained that my anxiety level is so high that any change may have the potential to trigger panic. She really took her time to listen to me, and had no problem refilling my clonazepam and upping my dose of that from .5 to 1 mg. (Half a milligram isn't cutting it anymore.) Moreover, she says that she trusts me. That means so much. I have, in the past, had so much trouble with my psychiatrists in terms of prescribing benzos that this is a welcome change. We had, during my appointment, discussed upping my escitalopram as well. It's off-label to take more than 20 mg daily, but I have been on up to 40 mg previously. After talking with me today, she decided to up my dose to 30 mg daily. Her main concern was that it could trigger manic episodes, but I don't remember that happening even when I was on 40 mg. (At the time, I was not on any mood stabilisers either.) She called it into my pharmacy, and Matt picked it up on the way home.
Also good news: we are making some headway with the bed bugs. We are going to get another estimate tomorrow, and it will likely be a much more reasonable price than the ones we have been given so far. Also, we will have the option to make payments. This will make things much more manageable. They're still only in Matt's room (knock-on-wood), and hopefully we will be able to take care of things pretty quickly now. I know that having the little fuckers invading our space has seriously impacted my baseline anxiety and depression. I'm hoping that getting it taken care of will allow me to relax.
Today was a wash in terms of productivity, and that's okay. I fought -- and won -- a major battle yesterday, and exhaustion is to be expected. After the exterminator left, I slept most of the afternoon and evening. Matt says he came in to check on me when he got home from work, and that I smiled at him, but I have no memory of that at all. Nonetheless, I am here at a coffee house now, writing this entry. Matt was good enough to realise that I needed to get out of the house, so we did. This entry, at least, is an accomplishment.
I can't begin to describe the intense relief I feel when a GMPA is over. Even without drugs, it's almost euphoric. I suppose it's endorphins replacing the adrenaline. I don't want or expect euphoria, but I would love to feel that calm all the time, or at least most of the time, without having to fight a war with my brain to do it. I think that my ultimate goal, through meds and therapy, is to get my baseline to that point. Clear head, with enough energy to do things. That's all I really want.
Today I am grateful for better living through chemistry. I'm grateful for my psychiatrist. I'm grateful for headway made with the bedbug situation. I'm grateful for the peaceful sleep I got this afternoon. I'm grateful for this moment with Matt at Cup'O'Joe, just hanging out, drinking a frozen chai (I'm laying off the coffee for a little while), and our plans to meet friends at North Market for breakfast tomorrow. I'm grateful that I have an appointment with my therapist tomorrow afternoon. I'm also grateful for my friends, who do their best to encourage me when the shit hits the fan.
Anyway, coffee house is closing soon, so I'm gonna wrap up.
Also good news: we are making some headway with the bed bugs. We are going to get another estimate tomorrow, and it will likely be a much more reasonable price than the ones we have been given so far. Also, we will have the option to make payments. This will make things much more manageable. They're still only in Matt's room (knock-on-wood), and hopefully we will be able to take care of things pretty quickly now. I know that having the little fuckers invading our space has seriously impacted my baseline anxiety and depression. I'm hoping that getting it taken care of will allow me to relax.
Today was a wash in terms of productivity, and that's okay. I fought -- and won -- a major battle yesterday, and exhaustion is to be expected. After the exterminator left, I slept most of the afternoon and evening. Matt says he came in to check on me when he got home from work, and that I smiled at him, but I have no memory of that at all. Nonetheless, I am here at a coffee house now, writing this entry. Matt was good enough to realise that I needed to get out of the house, so we did. This entry, at least, is an accomplishment.
I can't begin to describe the intense relief I feel when a GMPA is over. Even without drugs, it's almost euphoric. I suppose it's endorphins replacing the adrenaline. I don't want or expect euphoria, but I would love to feel that calm all the time, or at least most of the time, without having to fight a war with my brain to do it. I think that my ultimate goal, through meds and therapy, is to get my baseline to that point. Clear head, with enough energy to do things. That's all I really want.
Today I am grateful for better living through chemistry. I'm grateful for my psychiatrist. I'm grateful for headway made with the bedbug situation. I'm grateful for the peaceful sleep I got this afternoon. I'm grateful for this moment with Matt at Cup'O'Joe, just hanging out, drinking a frozen chai (I'm laying off the coffee for a little while), and our plans to meet friends at North Market for breakfast tomorrow. I'm grateful that I have an appointment with my therapist tomorrow afternoon. I'm also grateful for my friends, who do their best to encourage me when the shit hits the fan.
Anyway, coffee house is closing soon, so I'm gonna wrap up.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
"Grand mal" panic attack
I did well today, considering the usual poor sleep. I didn't freak out when Matt couldn't give me a ride to the doctor. I got up, ate, got dressed, and got myself where I needed to go. Buses can be stressful for me at times, but I had my music, so I was okay.
When I got to the office, I had a good talk with my psychiatrist. We discussed new medication options to get my anxiety in check. She suggested I go on very small dose of a beta-blocker, propranolol, which is a heart medication that stops the fight-or-flight response in people with anxiety disorders. The therapeutic dose for people with high blood pressure is 40-90 mg, and I was prescribed only 10 mg. I was given the option to modify my dose as I saw fit. It made a lot of sense, and I was enthusiastic about trying it. I left with the prescription, and high hopes. We picked up the pills at the pharmacy, and I took one in the car on the way home.
Ten minutes later, I had the worst panic attack I've had in at least two years. Chills, sweats, nausea, rapid heartbeat, feeling of impending death and/or doom, the whole nine yards. It lasted for more than an hour and took four times my usual dose of klonopin to bring me down.
I still found the fortitude to do what I needed to do even during the ebb and flow of the ordeal. I called the 24-hour advice nurse hotline provided by my insurance, and explained what was going on. I asked if I might be having a paradoxical reaction to the medication. The RN I spoke with did not really know, but suggested that I call a pharmacist and ask, so I did. The pharmacist did her best, but was little help, because she didn't have enough information.
I called and left a message for my prescribing psychiatrist, explaining what had happened. Then I collapsed. Well, not literally. I just sort of shut down. So tired. These things take so much out of me. I cried, I trembled, I felt lost. Matt was a great help, and so were my gods. I'm better, now, but I am incredibly frustrated. Right now I feel calm, with my brain back at normal operating capacity, and I am wondering exactly what went wrong.
It does not make any damn sense that propranolol should cause or exacerbate panic symptoms. This medication is used to slow and regulate the heartbeat, and interfere with the hormones that contribute to the fight-or-flight response. Was this a coincidence? Was I secretly terrified of an adverse reaction, and thus caused one to occur? Was it just bad timing? Was it the fact that I took it with a frozen mocha? (Some forums suggested that stimulants can mess with the effects, but I haven't yet found any legitimate studies that link normal consumption of caffeine with problems with propranolol.)
According to Wikipedia, peak plasma levels occur between 1 and 3 hours after ingestion, and bioavailability is increased if it is taken with food. So perhaps the reaction ten minutes after I took the pill was not connected after all. At the one-hour mark, I was still in the throes of panic, but by the three-hour mark, approximately one hour ago, I was more-or-less symptom free. (Granted, it took 2 mg of clonazepam to get there.)
Was there was some other trigger I was not consciously aware of? Even if I am hopeful that a new medication will help, I am often initially fearful of side-effects. Maybe I just psyched myself out. I'm laying off any more research for now. I am willing to explore any and all explanations, but I am not going to take another dose, and lay off the research until I talk to both my psychiatrist and my therapist.
Now that I'm done bitching about medication, I want to talk about panic attacks: what they are, and how I experience them. Conventional wisdom claims that a panic attack rarely lasts for more than 7 to 10 minutes, because the body can't keep dumping adrenaline at that rate indefinitely. This is sometimes true for me, but not in cases like this. It's not just "the jitters." It's not just vague mental agitation. It has nothing to do with fear of a specific thing or situation.
The ones I call "Grand Mal Panic Attacks" are like being attacked by everything around me in addition to my own thoughts. It begins with a tingling, icy chill that starts from the top of my head and pours down my body. It's like being pelted by tiny, electrified hailstones. Suddenly, my reality is warped into a waking nightmare. Everything feels threatening. Sounds are to bright, and light is too loud.
When the chill reaches my heart, it starts to pound. When it gets down to the base of my spine, I feel off-balance, nauseated and afraid to move. The most insidious part of this entire process is that it usually happens in the absence of any obvious triggers. I am attacked without warning. My mind begins to race, with all of the worst-case scenarios coming to the forefront. I am going to pass out. I am going to vomit and shit my pants at the same time. I am going to die.
Spiritually, it feels as if something is forcibly trying to pull my soul from my body. (I described it this way to my former psychiatrist, and she immediately recommended lithium and anti-psychotics.) And these suckers don't just go away after ten minutes. No, they ebb and flow. I find some relief, through steady breathing or guided thoughts, but the sensations return a few minutes later, sometimes stronger than before. Even when I take benzodiazepines, they seem to take much longer to work than they normally would, and I have to take more than I would for a simple anxiety episode. Typically, GMPAs last for an hour or more. When I finally come out of it, I am always extremely relieved, but also completely exhausted.
Is this part of my PTSD? What is hidden in the depths of my memory that might be causing this? What triggers am I not aware of? Is it entirely chemical? Is it because the doctors fucked with my hormones and screwed me over with my antidepressants when I was younger? Does it matter? Not really. I'm not interested in taking a scalpel and probe to the bits of my past I can't remember. I just want it to stop. If I could slice off a limb and be assured that I would never experience this kind of crippling terror ever again, I would do it without hesitation, and I mean that sincerely.
Let's switch gears, and talk about grateful. Matt was incredibly supportive and patient and kind throughout the entire ordeal. He knows, by now, that when I cry, it means it's almost over. It means I'm breaking through. He holds me, soothes me, brings me water and cold compresses, and doesn't question my requests. I am so goddamned lucky. I love him so much.
This time, I also appealed to my gods for help, but that is an entry better-suited to my spiritual journal. Hail Loki! Hail Odin! (I'll write that tomorrow.)
(Art by chrissiecool
I am grateful that I did not freak out when Matt couldn't give me a ride to the doctor, and I got there on my own, even though I didn't know the bus route. I am grateful that I managed to enjoy the bus ride from there to my favourite coffee house and have a tasty drink before all Hel broke loose. I am grateful for my cat, who did a wonderful job being too damn cute not to lift my mood.
So I guess that's about it for now. Isn't that enough?
When I got to the office, I had a good talk with my psychiatrist. We discussed new medication options to get my anxiety in check. She suggested I go on very small dose of a beta-blocker, propranolol, which is a heart medication that stops the fight-or-flight response in people with anxiety disorders. The therapeutic dose for people with high blood pressure is 40-90 mg, and I was prescribed only 10 mg. I was given the option to modify my dose as I saw fit. It made a lot of sense, and I was enthusiastic about trying it. I left with the prescription, and high hopes. We picked up the pills at the pharmacy, and I took one in the car on the way home.
Ten minutes later, I had the worst panic attack I've had in at least two years. Chills, sweats, nausea, rapid heartbeat, feeling of impending death and/or doom, the whole nine yards. It lasted for more than an hour and took four times my usual dose of klonopin to bring me down.
I still found the fortitude to do what I needed to do even during the ebb and flow of the ordeal. I called the 24-hour advice nurse hotline provided by my insurance, and explained what was going on. I asked if I might be having a paradoxical reaction to the medication. The RN I spoke with did not really know, but suggested that I call a pharmacist and ask, so I did. The pharmacist did her best, but was little help, because she didn't have enough information.
I called and left a message for my prescribing psychiatrist, explaining what had happened. Then I collapsed. Well, not literally. I just sort of shut down. So tired. These things take so much out of me. I cried, I trembled, I felt lost. Matt was a great help, and so were my gods. I'm better, now, but I am incredibly frustrated. Right now I feel calm, with my brain back at normal operating capacity, and I am wondering exactly what went wrong.
It does not make any damn sense that propranolol should cause or exacerbate panic symptoms. This medication is used to slow and regulate the heartbeat, and interfere with the hormones that contribute to the fight-or-flight response. Was this a coincidence? Was I secretly terrified of an adverse reaction, and thus caused one to occur? Was it just bad timing? Was it the fact that I took it with a frozen mocha? (Some forums suggested that stimulants can mess with the effects, but I haven't yet found any legitimate studies that link normal consumption of caffeine with problems with propranolol.)
According to Wikipedia, peak plasma levels occur between 1 and 3 hours after ingestion, and bioavailability is increased if it is taken with food. So perhaps the reaction ten minutes after I took the pill was not connected after all. At the one-hour mark, I was still in the throes of panic, but by the three-hour mark, approximately one hour ago, I was more-or-less symptom free. (Granted, it took 2 mg of clonazepam to get there.)
Was there was some other trigger I was not consciously aware of? Even if I am hopeful that a new medication will help, I am often initially fearful of side-effects. Maybe I just psyched myself out. I'm laying off any more research for now. I am willing to explore any and all explanations, but I am not going to take another dose, and lay off the research until I talk to both my psychiatrist and my therapist.
Now that I'm done bitching about medication, I want to talk about panic attacks: what they are, and how I experience them. Conventional wisdom claims that a panic attack rarely lasts for more than 7 to 10 minutes, because the body can't keep dumping adrenaline at that rate indefinitely. This is sometimes true for me, but not in cases like this. It's not just "the jitters." It's not just vague mental agitation. It has nothing to do with fear of a specific thing or situation.
The ones I call "Grand Mal Panic Attacks" are like being attacked by everything around me in addition to my own thoughts. It begins with a tingling, icy chill that starts from the top of my head and pours down my body. It's like being pelted by tiny, electrified hailstones. Suddenly, my reality is warped into a waking nightmare. Everything feels threatening. Sounds are to bright, and light is too loud.
When the chill reaches my heart, it starts to pound. When it gets down to the base of my spine, I feel off-balance, nauseated and afraid to move. The most insidious part of this entire process is that it usually happens in the absence of any obvious triggers. I am attacked without warning. My mind begins to race, with all of the worst-case scenarios coming to the forefront. I am going to pass out. I am going to vomit and shit my pants at the same time. I am going to die.
Spiritually, it feels as if something is forcibly trying to pull my soul from my body. (I described it this way to my former psychiatrist, and she immediately recommended lithium and anti-psychotics.) And these suckers don't just go away after ten minutes. No, they ebb and flow. I find some relief, through steady breathing or guided thoughts, but the sensations return a few minutes later, sometimes stronger than before. Even when I take benzodiazepines, they seem to take much longer to work than they normally would, and I have to take more than I would for a simple anxiety episode. Typically, GMPAs last for an hour or more. When I finally come out of it, I am always extremely relieved, but also completely exhausted.
Is this part of my PTSD? What is hidden in the depths of my memory that might be causing this? What triggers am I not aware of? Is it entirely chemical? Is it because the doctors fucked with my hormones and screwed me over with my antidepressants when I was younger? Does it matter? Not really. I'm not interested in taking a scalpel and probe to the bits of my past I can't remember. I just want it to stop. If I could slice off a limb and be assured that I would never experience this kind of crippling terror ever again, I would do it without hesitation, and I mean that sincerely.
Let's switch gears, and talk about grateful. Matt was incredibly supportive and patient and kind throughout the entire ordeal. He knows, by now, that when I cry, it means it's almost over. It means I'm breaking through. He holds me, soothes me, brings me water and cold compresses, and doesn't question my requests. I am so goddamned lucky. I love him so much.
This time, I also appealed to my gods for help, but that is an entry better-suited to my spiritual journal. Hail Loki! Hail Odin! (I'll write that tomorrow.)
(Art by chrissiecoolI am grateful that I did not freak out when Matt couldn't give me a ride to the doctor, and I got there on my own, even though I didn't know the bus route. I am grateful that I managed to enjoy the bus ride from there to my favourite coffee house and have a tasty drink before all Hel broke loose. I am grateful for my cat, who did a wonderful job being too damn cute not to lift my mood.
So I guess that's about it for now. Isn't that enough?
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Even keel
So, this time yesterday I was experiencing a hypomanic episode. I went to bed at around 05:00 and slept until about 13:00. Eight solid hours of sleep. Some weird dreams, but no matryoshka nightmares. Matryoshka Nightmare ... oooh. That sounds like a great alias for a fictional Facebook account, or something.
Anyway.
I woke feeling fairly normal, with the usual aches and pains. I got out of bed, made myself some brunch, and watched some stuff on Netflix. About half an hour after I ate, I started getting symptoms of anxiety again: dizziness, fluttering heartbeat, sense of impending doom, blah, blah, blah. I countered this with some deep breathing, music, and a small Photoshop project. The symptoms seemed to come back as soon as I stopped putting my mind to something, though. (I want to clarify that this is different than my manic state. I do not usually feel any anxiety or irritability when I'm manic.) This kind of anxiety makes me want to shut down and not do anything at all. I feel like I just want to curl up in a ball in a cool, dark room and sleep. Since I have no real schedule, I have to work very hard to resist this urge.
Today, I was helped along by a beautiful thunderstorm. I love storms. They have always made me feel good. It's better than any drug I've ever taken. I feel a little rush of adrenaline, and yet I am soothed by the sound of rain and wind and thunder. This has been true ever since I was a toddler; I was never afraid of storms. So sometimes, when anxiety hits, I try to imagine a storm. Today I actually got to go outside and dance in the rain. I'm sure the neighbours thought I was crazy. (Well, they're right, but not for that reason.) Screw what other people think. It felt wonderful to have the cool rain soaking me to the skin after so many hot and muggy days.
After the storm, I started on a drawing, but it didn't turn out the way I wanted it to, so I scrapped it. I remember when I was little and I made a mistake on a drawing. I would angrily tear up the paper. Similarly, when I was playing the piano and I hit a wrong note, I would get extremely angry. I would often bite my own hands to punish myself for making a mistake. I was four or five when I started that behaviour. I'm pretty sure no one actually taught me that. I seem to remember being discouraged from hurting myself or throwing tantrums when I made a mistake. Now, as an adult, I try to keep all my drawings, even if they're not good enough (in my opinion) to finish.
Sorry. That was random. Stream-of-consciousness writing sometimes gets that way. Let me come to the point: all I want is an even keel. I want just one day when I don't have to deal with mood swings. My cycles run on a matter of hours. It makes it really hard to get anything done when the boat keeps rocking and I'm chasing my motivation from port to starboard all day instead of being able to take the wheel. (Have I used the metaphor adequately? I think so. It's because I've been watching stuff about boats.)
Maybe I need to start doing hourly mood assessments again. When I did them before, the awareness of the cycles helped me to deal with them somewhat. I eventually found it tedious and felt that the practise had outlived its usefulness to me, but there's no reason I can't re-use old tools.
As before, I'll end with grateful. I'm grateful for the storm today. (Hail Thor!) I'm grateful for being able to write about all this stuff, because getting it out reduces my anxiety symptoms. I'm grateful for every way, shape and form that love has come to me in my life. Grateful for my sacred space. Grateful I finally get to talk to my psychiatrist tomorrow.
Good night.
Anyway.
I woke feeling fairly normal, with the usual aches and pains. I got out of bed, made myself some brunch, and watched some stuff on Netflix. About half an hour after I ate, I started getting symptoms of anxiety again: dizziness, fluttering heartbeat, sense of impending doom, blah, blah, blah. I countered this with some deep breathing, music, and a small Photoshop project. The symptoms seemed to come back as soon as I stopped putting my mind to something, though. (I want to clarify that this is different than my manic state. I do not usually feel any anxiety or irritability when I'm manic.) This kind of anxiety makes me want to shut down and not do anything at all. I feel like I just want to curl up in a ball in a cool, dark room and sleep. Since I have no real schedule, I have to work very hard to resist this urge.
Today, I was helped along by a beautiful thunderstorm. I love storms. They have always made me feel good. It's better than any drug I've ever taken. I feel a little rush of adrenaline, and yet I am soothed by the sound of rain and wind and thunder. This has been true ever since I was a toddler; I was never afraid of storms. So sometimes, when anxiety hits, I try to imagine a storm. Today I actually got to go outside and dance in the rain. I'm sure the neighbours thought I was crazy. (Well, they're right, but not for that reason.) Screw what other people think. It felt wonderful to have the cool rain soaking me to the skin after so many hot and muggy days.
After the storm, I started on a drawing, but it didn't turn out the way I wanted it to, so I scrapped it. I remember when I was little and I made a mistake on a drawing. I would angrily tear up the paper. Similarly, when I was playing the piano and I hit a wrong note, I would get extremely angry. I would often bite my own hands to punish myself for making a mistake. I was four or five when I started that behaviour. I'm pretty sure no one actually taught me that. I seem to remember being discouraged from hurting myself or throwing tantrums when I made a mistake. Now, as an adult, I try to keep all my drawings, even if they're not good enough (in my opinion) to finish.
Sorry. That was random. Stream-of-consciousness writing sometimes gets that way. Let me come to the point: all I want is an even keel. I want just one day when I don't have to deal with mood swings. My cycles run on a matter of hours. It makes it really hard to get anything done when the boat keeps rocking and I'm chasing my motivation from port to starboard all day instead of being able to take the wheel. (Have I used the metaphor adequately? I think so. It's because I've been watching stuff about boats.)
Maybe I need to start doing hourly mood assessments again. When I did them before, the awareness of the cycles helped me to deal with them somewhat. I eventually found it tedious and felt that the practise had outlived its usefulness to me, but there's no reason I can't re-use old tools.
As before, I'll end with grateful. I'm grateful for the storm today. (Hail Thor!) I'm grateful for being able to write about all this stuff, because getting it out reduces my anxiety symptoms. I'm grateful for every way, shape and form that love has come to me in my life. Grateful for my sacred space. Grateful I finally get to talk to my psychiatrist tomorrow.
Good night.
Meet Manic Morgan, now available 24 hours!
It's four-o'-fuck in the morning, and I have emerged from several days of deep depression and bouts of anxiety only to find myself in a hypomanic state. Well, I prefer this to being depressed, honestly. I'm laughing at things again. Oh, don't worry, no delusions of grandeur. No evil plans to take over the world, this time, I promise. Seriously, my manic/hypomanic never seems to result in anything more than staying up all night, smoking lots of cigarettes, dyeing my hair at 2 a.m. and making art. Okay, so I haven't made the art yet, but I'm forcing myself to wait until tomorrow- er, well, when I wake up- because if I start now, I won't sleep until it's done. And who knows when that will be. Once I get absorbed in something like that, I have absolutely no sense of time.
Okay, so I'm actually kind of afraid to go to sleep. I ended up in one of those episodes where the main character does stuff, and things happen, and they find out it's a dream, and then they wake up, but they're really still dreaming... and it goes on, and on, and on. Dream within a dream within a dream. I am no stranger to this. It's happened to me ever since I was a little kid, and I would sleep-walk and have night terrors. Each time I "wake up," I find myself somewhere else, somewhere unfamiliar, or worse, just familiar enough to convince me that I am not dreaming. In these nested nightmares, I am usually impaired in some way: paralyzed, blind, deaf, or unable to speak, the last being the most terrifying. In the dream, there is always something vital that I absolutely have to say, but when I try to speak, it's like something is holding my mouth shut, or some invisible force is absorbing my voice as I talk. I fight it, but none of the words come out intelligible. Sometimes, what I need to say is something to help someone else, or warn others of something, but often, I am being accused of something and I am trying to defend myself. Unsurprisingly, the people I am trying to talk to are usually my parents, or other people from my past, living or dead. And I have this sense that there's something in my head scripting all of it, making me go through it all again and again. Fuck that thing, whatever it is. Can I just have it surgically removed?
These are the things that bind me. My deepest fears, my rawest insecurities. I'm still fighting them. I have help, but damn it, sometimes I still fall, and I end up licking my wounds for longer than I'd prefer to.
Anyway. Dream analysis aside (because, seriously, so much symbolism it isn't even funny), what irritates me most is this hard cycling that's been happening. I know that there has been quite a bit of stress to deal with, but I'm suspecting that there is probably a chemical component as well. Maybe the gabapentin isn't agreeing with me. Maybe the escitalopram I've been on for the last ten years finally quit working. Whatever it is, I'm over it, and I want off the rollercoaster. I don't want to be medicated into oblivion. I don't want my creativity to be squelched or the voices of my gods to be silenced. I just want to be able to function on some meaningful level from day to day. I feel sabotaged by my own body.
Speaking of that, aside from my brain, my physical pain level has been ridiculous. Sciatica, neck pain, even my wrists and ankles hurt. Crawling, tingling pain, up and down my arms, like there are electric eels living under my skin. (Graphic, isn't it?)
AARGHH. I'm just. So. DONE. I want to run outside and scream. Now, some people might scream "WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY??" I've stopped asking that. The scream I'm talking about is more like a battle cry. I don't care why. I don't care how. I just want to conquer it all, and be a better and stronger and brighter person for all the anguish. There are parts that are always going to be broken, but there are ways around it. There is always some way.
And there is always something to be grateful for.
I'm grateful that I am awake and productive, not locked in a nightmare, at this moment. I'm grateful that I have energy right now. I'm grateful, ever and always, for my husband and his ability to read my mind and bring home iced coffee when I didn't even ask. I'm grateful for music that lifts my spirits and makes me feel good. I'm grateful for friends in other parts of the world whom I can chat with at... 4:29 a.m. I'm grateful for the fact that tomorrow I will not waste the day whinging about this stuff, because I'm getting out now, and I will be making art instead.
I'm grateful for my manic. I know I shouldn't be. Everyone tells me it's bad. Everyone tells me it's just another kind of destructive mood, but I really, really don't see it. So screw you, psychiatric community. I'm grateful for this madness. It keeps me sane. (I'm sure Oscar Wilde would agree.)
“Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” - Oscar Wilde
Okay, so I'm actually kind of afraid to go to sleep. I ended up in one of those episodes where the main character does stuff, and things happen, and they find out it's a dream, and then they wake up, but they're really still dreaming... and it goes on, and on, and on. Dream within a dream within a dream. I am no stranger to this. It's happened to me ever since I was a little kid, and I would sleep-walk and have night terrors. Each time I "wake up," I find myself somewhere else, somewhere unfamiliar, or worse, just familiar enough to convince me that I am not dreaming. In these nested nightmares, I am usually impaired in some way: paralyzed, blind, deaf, or unable to speak, the last being the most terrifying. In the dream, there is always something vital that I absolutely have to say, but when I try to speak, it's like something is holding my mouth shut, or some invisible force is absorbing my voice as I talk. I fight it, but none of the words come out intelligible. Sometimes, what I need to say is something to help someone else, or warn others of something, but often, I am being accused of something and I am trying to defend myself. Unsurprisingly, the people I am trying to talk to are usually my parents, or other people from my past, living or dead. And I have this sense that there's something in my head scripting all of it, making me go through it all again and again. Fuck that thing, whatever it is. Can I just have it surgically removed?
These are the things that bind me. My deepest fears, my rawest insecurities. I'm still fighting them. I have help, but damn it, sometimes I still fall, and I end up licking my wounds for longer than I'd prefer to.
Anyway. Dream analysis aside (because, seriously, so much symbolism it isn't even funny), what irritates me most is this hard cycling that's been happening. I know that there has been quite a bit of stress to deal with, but I'm suspecting that there is probably a chemical component as well. Maybe the gabapentin isn't agreeing with me. Maybe the escitalopram I've been on for the last ten years finally quit working. Whatever it is, I'm over it, and I want off the rollercoaster. I don't want to be medicated into oblivion. I don't want my creativity to be squelched or the voices of my gods to be silenced. I just want to be able to function on some meaningful level from day to day. I feel sabotaged by my own body.
Speaking of that, aside from my brain, my physical pain level has been ridiculous. Sciatica, neck pain, even my wrists and ankles hurt. Crawling, tingling pain, up and down my arms, like there are electric eels living under my skin. (Graphic, isn't it?)
AARGHH. I'm just. So. DONE. I want to run outside and scream. Now, some people might scream "WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY??" I've stopped asking that. The scream I'm talking about is more like a battle cry. I don't care why. I don't care how. I just want to conquer it all, and be a better and stronger and brighter person for all the anguish. There are parts that are always going to be broken, but there are ways around it. There is always some way.
And there is always something to be grateful for.
I'm grateful that I am awake and productive, not locked in a nightmare, at this moment. I'm grateful that I have energy right now. I'm grateful, ever and always, for my husband and his ability to read my mind and bring home iced coffee when I didn't even ask. I'm grateful for music that lifts my spirits and makes me feel good. I'm grateful for friends in other parts of the world whom I can chat with at... 4:29 a.m. I'm grateful for the fact that tomorrow I will not waste the day whinging about this stuff, because I'm getting out now, and I will be making art instead.
I'm grateful for my manic. I know I shouldn't be. Everyone tells me it's bad. Everyone tells me it's just another kind of destructive mood, but I really, really don't see it. So screw you, psychiatric community. I'm grateful for this madness. It keeps me sane. (I'm sure Oscar Wilde would agree.)
“Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” - Oscar Wilde
Monday, July 8, 2013
Grateful 7.7.13-7.8.13
Gotta keep up with these, especially on days like today, when the depression monster is sapping my strength.
I'm grateful that I was able to make some awesome lasagne that Matt and I both enjoyed. I'm grateful it didn't make my stomach too upset. I'm grateful that the bedbugs still have not breached the walls of my bedroom. I'm grateful for the rain. (Hail, Thor!) I'm grateful for a roof over my head. I'm grateful for Matt who always asks what he can do to help when I'm feeling like shit, even if there isn't anything he can do. I'm also grateful that he understands when I tell him I just need time alone.
I'm grateful that my headache is only minor. I'm grateful that my back doesn't hurt today. I'm grateful that I have new underwear. I'm grateful that I was able to push myself to write this entry despite my fatigue. I'm still grateful that I have an appointment with my prescribing psychiatrist on Thursday, because I think something needs to be done.
I'm grateful for good sex. Is that TMI? Too bad.
I'm grateful that I was able to make some awesome lasagne that Matt and I both enjoyed. I'm grateful it didn't make my stomach too upset. I'm grateful that the bedbugs still have not breached the walls of my bedroom. I'm grateful for the rain. (Hail, Thor!) I'm grateful for a roof over my head. I'm grateful for Matt who always asks what he can do to help when I'm feeling like shit, even if there isn't anything he can do. I'm also grateful that he understands when I tell him I just need time alone.
I'm grateful that my headache is only minor. I'm grateful that my back doesn't hurt today. I'm grateful that I have new underwear. I'm grateful that I was able to push myself to write this entry despite my fatigue. I'm still grateful that I have an appointment with my prescribing psychiatrist on Thursday, because I think something needs to be done.
I'm grateful for good sex. Is that TMI? Too bad.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Grateful 7.6.13/ Fucking anxiety again
I'm going to start with grateful.
Today I am grateful for being able to get myself some new clothes, open a line of credit and immediately pay off my initial purchase. It might not seem like a big deal, but this is a step in the right direction for me. I am also grateful for the fact that Matt makes sure I have money of my own. I'm grateful that we were able to get ingredients and make plans for some special meals together. I'm grateful for the fact that I was able to push myself today, despite repeated episodes of anxiety, to get things done instead of shutting down. I am very grateful for the fact that Matt told me he is proud of me for pushing past the anxiety. I am also grateful for getting to see a friend I haven't seen in quite some time, and possibly being able to see him in the near future. I'm grateful that Matt took the time to sit down with me before bed and help me do "grateful" for today, since the anxiety stuff was clouding my head. Finally, I'm grateful that anxiety and depression are temporary, though it's very hard to remember that in the middle of it.
Oh, and one more. I'm grateful I have an appointment with my psychiatrist this Thursday, because despite multiple triggers this past few weeks (illness, being alone, bed bugs), I think I have been cycling way too hard. I think there is definitely something up with my meds, and I want to talk about it and get on the road to getting back to some kind of equilibrium.
And now I'm going to vent some more about how much I hate the anxiety/depression rollercoaster I've been on for the past month. Is it actually possible that upping my dose of gabapentin did this? It's hard to say, because of so much other stuff going on. I don't want to blame something that seemed to be helping me before. I don't want to demonize the medication. But something isn't right. I've been far too dependent on my clonazepam for my liking. The day after I found the bedbugs, it took two pills (one full milligram) to calm me down. The anxiety is hitting at inopportune moments again, like out in public. I'm having more trouble than usual dealing with social situations, feeling like I need to crawl into a dark room and be alone. It tends to get better once I acclimate to new surroundings, or find someone to talk to, but even then, the anxiety creeps back. I seem to have less tolerance for it than I did even a few months ago. (I was more or less fine at the sci fi convention I attended in March.)
I'm not looking for some huge personality shift. I don't need to be the life of the party or the centre of attention, but I wouldn't mind being my old self again. Well, my more recent old self, not my old old self. I mean, it's like I'm reverting back to the way I was as a teenager and young adult, when I never used to take the initiative and introduce myself to people at a social gathering. I would sit in a corner and hope someone would take pity on me and talk to me, and then go home feeling empty because no one did. Yuck.
Same old symptoms. Started getting light-headed, fearful I was going to pass out or throw up, chills, clammy skin and hypersensitivity to sound and light. It's kind of like a migraine without the headache, though the headache does happen sometimes, too. I keep wondering if there is some kind of actual physiological cause to these symptoms besides anxiety, especially when they happen in the absence of an obvious trigger.
This is not who I want to be. I want to be comfortable in social situations, confident when going out alone, relaxed when I am home alone and productive when I have things to do. I don't think I am asking for all that much, am I? I'm doing the work. I'm actively trying to re-program my thought patterns, and I'm trying different techniques to deal with deep-seated issues. I am just so done with feeling as if it's always one step forward, two steps back.
Today I am grateful for being able to get myself some new clothes, open a line of credit and immediately pay off my initial purchase. It might not seem like a big deal, but this is a step in the right direction for me. I am also grateful for the fact that Matt makes sure I have money of my own. I'm grateful that we were able to get ingredients and make plans for some special meals together. I'm grateful for the fact that I was able to push myself today, despite repeated episodes of anxiety, to get things done instead of shutting down. I am very grateful for the fact that Matt told me he is proud of me for pushing past the anxiety. I am also grateful for getting to see a friend I haven't seen in quite some time, and possibly being able to see him in the near future. I'm grateful that Matt took the time to sit down with me before bed and help me do "grateful" for today, since the anxiety stuff was clouding my head. Finally, I'm grateful that anxiety and depression are temporary, though it's very hard to remember that in the middle of it.
Oh, and one more. I'm grateful I have an appointment with my psychiatrist this Thursday, because despite multiple triggers this past few weeks (illness, being alone, bed bugs), I think I have been cycling way too hard. I think there is definitely something up with my meds, and I want to talk about it and get on the road to getting back to some kind of equilibrium.
And now I'm going to vent some more about how much I hate the anxiety/depression rollercoaster I've been on for the past month. Is it actually possible that upping my dose of gabapentin did this? It's hard to say, because of so much other stuff going on. I don't want to blame something that seemed to be helping me before. I don't want to demonize the medication. But something isn't right. I've been far too dependent on my clonazepam for my liking. The day after I found the bedbugs, it took two pills (one full milligram) to calm me down. The anxiety is hitting at inopportune moments again, like out in public. I'm having more trouble than usual dealing with social situations, feeling like I need to crawl into a dark room and be alone. It tends to get better once I acclimate to new surroundings, or find someone to talk to, but even then, the anxiety creeps back. I seem to have less tolerance for it than I did even a few months ago. (I was more or less fine at the sci fi convention I attended in March.)
I'm not looking for some huge personality shift. I don't need to be the life of the party or the centre of attention, but I wouldn't mind being my old self again. Well, my more recent old self, not my old old self. I mean, it's like I'm reverting back to the way I was as a teenager and young adult, when I never used to take the initiative and introduce myself to people at a social gathering. I would sit in a corner and hope someone would take pity on me and talk to me, and then go home feeling empty because no one did. Yuck.
Same old symptoms. Started getting light-headed, fearful I was going to pass out or throw up, chills, clammy skin and hypersensitivity to sound and light. It's kind of like a migraine without the headache, though the headache does happen sometimes, too. I keep wondering if there is some kind of actual physiological cause to these symptoms besides anxiety, especially when they happen in the absence of an obvious trigger.
This is not who I want to be. I want to be comfortable in social situations, confident when going out alone, relaxed when I am home alone and productive when I have things to do. I don't think I am asking for all that much, am I? I'm doing the work. I'm actively trying to re-program my thought patterns, and I'm trying different techniques to deal with deep-seated issues. I am just so done with feeling as if it's always one step forward, two steps back.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Homesick?
For the last couple of days, I have felt homesick. This confuses me and causes a lot of cognitive dissonance, so I am going to try to figure it out here. No guarantees it's going to make any sense.
It might seem natural for a person to be homesick, once in a while, for their childhood home. The thing is, I spent much of my early adulthood desperately trying to get away from that home. Perry, Ohio, and the house I shared with my mother and father, hold far more painful memories than they do happy ones. Yet, I feel a sudden, deep longing for my old bedroom, for the somewhat stressful but predictable routine of going to classes at the community college there, hell, even for the library and the mall I used to hang out in.
I also miss my field. My land. My tree. Here's a link to the story of Mother Birch.
Logically, I know that going back to my mother's house, even to stay for a little while, would only make me feel empty and sick. I made the best of what I had, then, but it wasn't good enough. I suspect that I idealise things in my past when my present feels stressful. Yes, I think that's it. I think the bedbug situation, combined with the violent neighbourhood I now live in, has made me feel unsafe in my own home, and that feeling has led to a desire to return to the familiar. I miss England, Seattle, Portland, even Cincinnati, but I didn't live in those places long. I think my brain is trying to get back to the most familiar and, ostensibly, "safe" place I know. This, combined with a desire to have warm feelings associated with a family home, is probably what is making me think a few days at my mother's house is a good idea... even though it really isn't.
"Safe" isn't synonymous with "happy." "Safe" does not mean "fulfilled," "loved," or even "content." "Safe" is absolutely necessary for those other things to happen. It is the foundation on which higher pursuits can be built. Yet, without some other catalyst, "safe" can lead to stagnation.
Maybe that's why it seems I thrive on change, sometimes. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that I handled the bedbug crisis and the forced move last year well at all -- I didn't. But as a concept, as a goal, I embrace change. Even when it's painful, I believe that it will all be worth it, somehow, even if I can't see it at the moment. Yeah, it's a big monster to fight, but it's also an opportunity to level up.
That's what my life has been. Level up, or die. Sound over-dramatic? As I told my therapist when she asked me if I believed in miracles, the miracle is that I am still here. That I have not given up. That I have persevered despite what I have endured. I'm not saying I'm ... no. I am saying I'm better than people who cowardly, selfishly take their own lives, or take other actions that hurt themselves and others around them. I have seen what suicide, self-harm, and refusal of treatment does to families. I didn't used to be better than that, but I am now. I leveled up. That's the miracle. It would have been easier to stop breathing. I didn't. So, go me.
But back to the topic at hand: "homesickness" brought about by feeling unsafe in my current environment. I am just so exhausted-- soul-tired of being uprooted and having my life turned upside-down by stuff I can't control. Yes, I know. This happens to everyone. I'm not special and it's not happening to me. I know that, in this case, it's "just bedbugs," and even my severe allergic reaction to them is easily treated. I know that our lease is up in November, and that we will be able to calmly and leisurely look for someplace that will suit us better.
Despite those things, I'm still upset, angry, and frustrated. I'm allowed to be, aren't I? I just need to remind myself that the solution is not going to come from clinging to an idealised, inaccurate conception of the past. Going back won't help me go forward. I have a home and a family of my own, now, even if the physical building Matt and I live in isn't ideal right now. My past pattern of crashing, burning, and going back to my mother's house to lick my wounds and not have any responsibilities is over. It's done. It's irrelevant. It's not conducive to progress. Nor is this a time to take a vacation, physically or mentally. I have to take care of myself, and Matt, as best I can.
But I crave comfort. Some people need comfort foods when they are stressed. I do that to some extent, but my comfort is sleep. My reaction to depression and anxiety is the same as my reaction to getting a cold: sleep it off. You'll feel better after a nice, two-day nap. This rarely works. I usually feel guilty about wasting time sleeping when I should have been doing something else, even if there really isn't anything I should or could have been doing. So I need to find some other way of comforting myself without shutting down, and I'm somewhat at a loss.
Guess I'll go have a smoke and think it over.
Grateful 7.3.13-7.5.13
Whoops. Missed a couple of days. That's okay, I slept most of the day on the 3rd, so I guess I'm grateful for my somewhat-peaceful rest that day.
I am grateful, once again, for the patience of my husband, who is learning every day how best to deal with my anxiety issues; when to push, and when not to, and to appreciate when I am pushing myself. I'm grateful that he complimented me on how well I did in a new social situation. I'm grateful that said new social situation did not affect me too badly, and that I was able to relax somewhat and have a good time for a while.
I'm grateful for coffee and kitties and good friends. I'm grateful for the Internet, which allows me to communicate, express myself, do research, and generally have fun. I'm grateful for my ability to analyse where my negative feelings are coming from so that I can deal with them appropriately.
Despite the bedbug problem, I'm grateful for nature. I actually quite like most bugs. I found a pretty beetle last night that made me smile. I took pictures, and some friends on Facebook helped me identify it. Things like that make me happy. I love noticing stuff other people often don't, and taking joy in them.
I'm still grateful the bedbugs aren't in my room.
Oh, and I'm grateful my friend Isa finally got a job! No, it's not something that happened to me, personally, but I care about her, and it's been hard watching the frustration and depression that resulted from her unemployment.
I know that I repeat myself a lot with the grateful stuff, but I don't think it hurts to remind myself of the things I'm grateful for every day, so I don't take them for granted.
I am grateful, once again, for the patience of my husband, who is learning every day how best to deal with my anxiety issues; when to push, and when not to, and to appreciate when I am pushing myself. I'm grateful that he complimented me on how well I did in a new social situation. I'm grateful that said new social situation did not affect me too badly, and that I was able to relax somewhat and have a good time for a while.
I'm grateful for coffee and kitties and good friends. I'm grateful for the Internet, which allows me to communicate, express myself, do research, and generally have fun. I'm grateful for my ability to analyse where my negative feelings are coming from so that I can deal with them appropriately.
Despite the bedbug problem, I'm grateful for nature. I actually quite like most bugs. I found a pretty beetle last night that made me smile. I took pictures, and some friends on Facebook helped me identify it. Things like that make me happy. I love noticing stuff other people often don't, and taking joy in them.
I'm still grateful the bedbugs aren't in my room.
Oh, and I'm grateful my friend Isa finally got a job! No, it's not something that happened to me, personally, but I care about her, and it's been hard watching the frustration and depression that resulted from her unemployment.
I know that I repeat myself a lot with the grateful stuff, but I don't think it hurts to remind myself of the things I'm grateful for every day, so I don't take them for granted.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
When shit happens/ Grateful 7.2.13
Shit. It happens. No stopping shit. It's a natural process. Even if you ignore the smell, you'll eventually step in it and have to scrape it off your shoe. No one is immune to shit. Wouldn't life be boring without shit? Nothing would grow, not even weeds.
Sometimes, shit happens that isn't really anyone's fault. This sort of thing always throws my mother into a tizzy, but this entry isn't about my mother. It's about me, and my worldview, and my faith. When shit seems to happen just to piss me off, or cause me misery, through no action or lack of vigilance of my own, I am sometimes tempted to blame my gods. After all, who else is there to blame? The funny thing is, my primary deity is often cast as the scapegoat for things like this. Did Loki do it? Maybe. Maybe not. Who cares? He'll take the blame, or credit. He's a trickster. Make Loki fix it. And He does fix it, usually to the benefit of everyone He's wronged, and everything ends up being as-good-as, or even better-than-new, except Loki, who oft suffers some indignity, which He accepts, because that's Who He is.
I've seen this happen in my life many times; more times than I can count, really.
Shit, I lost my keys ... Well, we needed a new lock anyway. Let's get that taken care of. Oh, look! Brand new keys.
Shit, I got my heart broken... Well, it wasn't a healthy relationship anyway. Let's move on. Oh, look! I learned a lot about myself, and now, I have a fulfilling and stable marriage!
Shit, my husband might have cancer... Well, now is a good time to talk about some hard choices we'd eventually have to deal with as a married couple. Oh, look! He doesn't have cancer after all!
Shit, all those treatments for the not-cancer are going to be expensive, because we have an HSA ... Well, at least our out-of-pocket is covered for the rest of the year. Oh, look! I can finally get an MRI and physical therapy!
Shit, we have bedbugs... again ...
The last time we had bedbugs, the pre-existing infestation was so bad that we were forced to move from the duplex we had just rented at great expense to the entire family. I'm grateful that Matt's parents were able to help us out. That was last November. We moved into a much nicer, newly-renovated duplex in another part of town, and for a while things were much, much better. Because we had to find a place so quickly, though, we didn't realise the neighbourhood we chose was notorious for violence, drugs, and other illegal activity. We decided some time ago that we would look for a better neighbourhood once our lease is up.
Somehow, despite all of our efforts to keep things clean and prevent any more bugs from coming into the house, there is a new nest of the little monsters in the master bedroom. Because we told the landlord about our bug problem when we moved in, the rental company will not pay for the extermination. We are being held accountable, and it's going to be very expensive. Money is already tight as it is. I know that we will get through this, but sometimes, in the thick of something like this, it is really difficult to find a valuable lesson or a hook in the storyline that will make it all worthwhile.
Right now, I am angry. I am frustrated. I feel helpless. And you know, I would not even care if I weren't so horribly allergic to the damn things. They don't affect Matt, and they don't affect the cats. Sometimes, I feel my allergy is the cause of all the expense. I try to arrest that thought immediately so that I don't go into a self-loathing downward spiral. It's not as if I can control what I am and am not allergic to, and in a way, it's good that I'm so sensitive, so that we can take care of this before it becomes a bigger problem.
Regardless, it's going to cost somewhere between one and two grand to get rid of these things, and of course the rental company will do nothing to help. Funny how telling the truth sometimes gets one in a lot more trouble than simply omitting a detail one may be held accountable for later... ahem... thank you, Loki.
Seriously, if you've got bed bugs, and you're looking to move, don't say a word to your landlord. Even if you had bedbugs a year ago, or your friends have bedbugs, or you think you saw a bedbug somewhere, just keep your mouth shut. The damn things are a plague. They're everywhere, and there are hundreds of avenues they can use to invade your home. If your landlord or rental company finds out you brought them in, or even thinks they might have a case against you for bringing them in, the buck passes to you, the tenant.
Anyway. As I said, I am trying to find the silver lining in this squirming, infested cloud, but right now, I can't see it. I know it may sound counterproductive, but I'm trying to stay on the side of "pissed off" rather than "anxious and depressed," because "pissed off" is a hell of a lot more productive.
Grateful. Grateful. Grateful. What am I grateful for today? Well, I'm grateful the lady who came to inspect the house confirmed that there weren't any on my mattress (yet.) I'm grateful the rental company is working with us at least somewhat to get quotes and find the best price. I'm grateful I have an appointment with my therapist this evening. I'm grateful that my back doesn't hurt too much today. I'm grateful that at least my room is clean and in order, because I get depressed when it isn't, and it gets messy when I'm depressed. Still grateful for the rain and thunder and the cooler weather. Still grateful for Matt... always grateful for Matt. He never lets me take shit all by myself.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Grateful 7.01.13
Today, I am grateful that I finally got an MRI on my cervical and lumbar spine. I am also grateful that the procedure was not nearly as unpleasant as I feared it would be. I am grateful that Matt was able to be there for me before and after the procedure. I am also grateful that he thought to put dinner in the crock pot before we left, and took me to get coffee after I was done.
Grateful 6.30.13 (late)
I forgot to do "grateful" for yesterday, so I'm doing it now.
I am grateful that my headache did not last all day. I am grateful, once again, for my patient husband, who understood that it was difficult for me to go up and down the steps at the Arena. I am grateful for the inspiration that came from touring the Blue Jackets' locker room. I saw all the physical therapy equipment, and the sign on the wall that said "You can't get much done in life if you only work on the days when you feel good." (I'm probably going to end up having to do some pretty serious PT for my back, so I'm keeping that photo as a reminder.) I am grateful for my period, because it means my gonads are working correctly, and that I am not pregnant. (I say this with my tongue firmly wedged against my cheek.) I am grateful for Jeni's Splendid Ice Cream. I am grateful for my air conditioner and my soft, and apparently (knock-on-wood) bedbug-free bed. I am grateful for my kitty who never fails to make me laugh.
Oh, and I want to clarify something. Though I do not necessarily include Deity by name in these posts, every one of my Grateful posts are dedicated to Them. This is a spiritual exercise, not just a mental one.
I am grateful that my headache did not last all day. I am grateful, once again, for my patient husband, who understood that it was difficult for me to go up and down the steps at the Arena. I am grateful for the inspiration that came from touring the Blue Jackets' locker room. I saw all the physical therapy equipment, and the sign on the wall that said "You can't get much done in life if you only work on the days when you feel good." (I'm probably going to end up having to do some pretty serious PT for my back, so I'm keeping that photo as a reminder.) I am grateful for my period, because it means my gonads are working correctly, and that I am not pregnant. (I say this with my tongue firmly wedged against my cheek.) I am grateful for Jeni's Splendid Ice Cream. I am grateful for my air conditioner and my soft, and apparently (knock-on-wood) bedbug-free bed. I am grateful for my kitty who never fails to make me laugh.
Oh, and I want to clarify something. Though I do not necessarily include Deity by name in these posts, every one of my Grateful posts are dedicated to Them. This is a spiritual exercise, not just a mental one.
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