I am a drug addict.

I am a drug addict.

I have been on Percocet for well over a year. It was never supposed to be a permanent solution to my back problems. I was supposed to get surgery to fix my back, and then wean off the drugs slowly. When my insurance company repeatedly, and then permanently denied my appeal for coverage, I was left with no recourse except for the drugs.

Until December, I was fine. Then, something just switched in my head, and I started taking more than prescribed. I left a message telling my doctor about it, that I wanted to wean off, but I didn't have  enough left to do so. All I was told was to break the pills in half. At this point, I only had about three days worth left, and another week after that left until I could fill my new prescription.

Then, my kidney stone happened. If you've never had one, I can tell you that it is probably one of the most painful things someone can experience. They gave me drugs at the hospital, and a prescription for fifteen Percocet at half my usual dose.

I called my pain doctor and told him about this in a message. The next call I got was from an office assistant to inform me that, because I sought drugs elsewhere, I had broken the patient agreement and would no longer be prescribed any pain medication. "You were told over and over again not to overuse your medication," she said, in a tone usually reserved for a disobedient child.

I swore at her and hung up, just like the horrible, less-than-human drug addict I am.

I never wanted to be dependent on these drugs. Now, I am facing withdrawal. It terrifies me. That little bottle of half-strength Percocet is to be my only means of weaning off, and it won't even last a week even if I take half a pill at a time.

What kind of a system is this, that creates addicts, then leaves them abruptly to fend for themselves without even the means to control withdrawal symptoms? I've made an appointment at a rehab place, but they couldn't fit me in until January 15. By then, I suspect I will be in full withdrawal, unless I can somehow beat it with willpower and Benadryl. It occurs to me that this must happen every day, reducing chronic pain patients to common criminals, with no recourse but to seek outside help.

And if I go into rehab, that's forever. I was in drug rehab, so I must be a certain kind of person. A person who is weak and takes drugs to avoid responsibility. The lowest of the low, except for ex-cons. And I am in a stable relationship and living situation, with family and friends who love me. If it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

I curse the system. I curse my body for the pain. I curse myself for not being more careful. I am sick with grief, and I am embarrassed. I don't want to put Matt through what my withdrawal will probably be like. I don't have a choice.

Holiday stress

I haven't written about this yet because it was too painful, but I am ready to talk about it now. Family Thanksgiving with the Wagners turned out to be a disaster. I was in pain the entire time. I was triggered by many things. I tried hard to socialize, and I thought I was doing okay, but then, the worst case scenario happened. Matt's grandmother took my behavior as a snub to her hospitality. Without saying a word to me, she took him aside and told him that, since I obviously didn't want to be there, he should leave me at home for family functions in the future. Faced with feeling as if he was being made to choose between his wife and his family, Matt became furious. We left immediately. I had never seen him so angry, and I was a little afraid to be in the car with him on the way home.

This harkened back to my chilrhoodt, when every holiday was marred by arguments and passive-aggressive sniping. (I remember one Christmas morning that was ruined entirely because my mother left a price tag on a summer sausage in my father's stocking, just as an example.) I was starting to relax around Matt's family, but it is still hard for me to interact appropriately and participate in a family dynamic. I had, that weekend, reverted to my childhood defense of finding a quiet place and hiding, even though there were no arguments happening at the time. My therapist says that I do not yet have the social skills I need to contribute to a situation such as this one.

The thing that hurts the most right now is that, after two weeks, there have been no conversations about the incident, and certainly no apologies. Matt's mother, while agreeing that Matt's grandmother was out-of-line, still insists there are things we aren't seeing. I have pleaded my case and done my best to help them understand my triggers, and my mother-in-law is sympathetic, but I don't even know what she has told Matt's grandmother. I would talk to Matt's grandmother myself, but I am simply too hurt and too intimidated by the woman.

So, as Christmas approaches, there is an enormous pachyderm in the room, and no one is talking about it. I have zero desire to go to my grandparents-in-law for Christmas, and I am not even sure I would be welcome. I feel I was treated like a disobedient child, or worse yet, a non-person- simply "Mrs. Matthew Wagner," an accessory to a grandson who is taking up too much of Matt's life.

I am glad that Matt defended me the way he did, but I am worried that he might have made some things worse by our hasty exit. I keep thinking that maybe if I could have talked to his grandmother and tried to explain... Then again, she might have said something to make me very angry and the whole thing could have turned out worse.

Keep in mind that I barely know this woman. She doesn't talk much about her interests or emotions. She talks about the past, and makes general smalltalk. I don't do so well with smalltalk. It always feels contrived, to me. I don't feel like I have anything in common with her. I don't know how to bridge the gap and create some sort of friendship. She and mymy sister-in-law are extremely close- maybe I could talk to Alison about it? I don't know.

Anyway, beyond this issue, my mood has been generally good. We decorated the apartment for the holidays and there are presents under the tree for the people who matter. And, I have a new casual romantic interest- an old friend of Matt's who has been coming over to watch movies and play games. Last night, he and I went Christmas shopping for Matt's gift at the toy store, and had a really great time together. He has been a fun surprise, and definitely good for my mood.

Climbing out

I figured out why my depression attacked me with homicidal and suicidal thoughts. It's because my life is so good, and so stable, it would take me doing something that heinous to mess it up. And my depression likes to convince me that the other shoe is going to drop any moment. When the monster can't grab onto anything real, it makes stuff up. Well, fuck the monster. I am going to fight it.

Aside from the recent episode, my major problem continues to be constant physical pain. It is a fact of my life. There are a lot of things I can't do because of the pain I feel. I can't hold a real job. I can't do a lot of stuff around the house that requires bending, lifting, et cetera. I've been hyper-focused on all of the things I can't do, and it spiraled out of control when I got the news that I was not going to get my back surgery. I feared I had become a drug addict and that there was no end in sight. (I'm not. I was able to step down my meds on my own.) I allowed terrible thoughts to take over. It was as if my mind was simply picking out the absolute most horrifying things that could happen to me and the most heinous things I could do to obsess over. So I came up with a few ideas as to how to change my thinking and behavior.

First, I've made a concerted effort to stop exposing myself to things that trigger suicidal and homicidal thoughts. I was watching a lot of true crime shows, to the point of obsession. I think I wanted to desensitize myself, but in the midst of a major depressive episode, it did exactly the opposite. I think I have been experiencing a kind of obsessive compulsive thought process. I know that the awful things I think of when I am depressed have absolutely no basis in reality. The thoughts aren't actually connected to anything. They're just the Worst Thing I Can Think Of, so I think it. I am not going to kill anyone. I am not going to hurt my pets. I am not going to suddenly go insane and destroy my whole life and everyone in it. That's fear, not reality. The thoughts are intrusive and disruptive, but they have no more power over me than I give them. I've been giving them too much power, and too much significance.

So, anyway, I've changed my TV watching habits. I've started to watch movies I like, comedies, and documentaries about subjects other than crime. It's like I forgot that I have interests, or something. Depression is such a bitch. It makes me forget that I'm a whole person and not just a "sick" person. When I start having intrusive, crazy thoughts, I distract myself by running through a song from my favorite movie, or concentrating on the things that I have to be grateful for.

I have also decided to make two lists. First, a list of all the stuff I used to do before I was cripplingly depressed, and another list of things I can do to have more responsibility around the house and structure in my life. I'm not pressuring myself to do all of the things at once, but I am going to read the lists every day and try to do something on one of them every day. (I haven't made the lists yet. I'm working on it.)

And maybe I shouldn't be messing with my meds on my own, but I have stopped taking gabapentin. Guess what? It's like part of that "everything is awful" cloud has lifted. I honestly think that being on such a hefty dose of it (1800 mg per day) has been contributing to my depression, fatigue, and even weight gain. Since I stopped taking it, I have been able to think much more clearly, at least clearly enough to take these first steps, and I have lost a couple of pounds (at least, judging by how my clothes fit.)

Over the past week I have made more of an effort to get out and do things and live my life. There was an impromptu trip to the zoo on Wednesday, and we went to a show last night. I went even though I wasn't sure I wanted to go. I won't lie, it was exhausting, but I did it, and I'm proud of myself. Last week, I even cooked chicken soup and baked pumpkin bread, and interacted socially with a guest who was a near-stranger. Even two weeks ago, I couldn't imagine doing that.

I feel I am climbing out of this on my own. I am still skeptical of how useful partial hospitalization will be for me. I am actually worried it might be more triggery for me than useful. I will go to my evaluation and see what they say. I truly feel that my time would be better spent finding alternative pain management anf learning meditation techniques. In the mean time, I have lists to write.

This and that.

(I've started this entry several times over the last week, and I have only just now finished it up.)

When did I become such a hermit?

I don't leave the house, anymore, unless it is absolutely necessary. I don't necessarily like being home all the time, especially not home alone, but slowly, I have stopped doing all the things I used to do. What is stopping me from taking the bus to the coffee shop? What is stopping me from going out with friends? What is stopping me from going to the store with Matt? I think it's a lot of things, really. Pain, anxiety (or fear of it), not feeling like I look good, not having the spoons to take a shower without being exhausted from the effort (it's very painful for me)... all sorts of little things.

One thing is for certain: I need to get out more. I am not doing the things I used to that I enjoyed before I moved here. I guess I just got into this routine of pain and pills and feeling sorry for myself. Matt says I need to reach out to my friends, but I always feel like such a bother to them because I don't drive and usually can't give them gas money. It's not that my friends are money-grubbers, it's just that most of them are worse off than I am.

I wish I could hold a real job. Working at the shelter once a week has helped a little, but I don't get paid for it, obviously. I'd like to do more there, too, than work for the second-hand shop that supports the cat shelter next door. I want to get my hands on. Next week, I need to ask if I can come in and give the cats their medications. That would be valuable in terms of becoming a vet assistant someday, once my back is fixed...

"Once my back is fixed." I keep saying that like it's just going to happen overnight, when I know it's going to be a slow and agonizing process of painful physical therapy and healing. I just wish I could get it done already. We just finally got all of my medical records together, so now we have to make copies of everything and send them off to an independent auditor to (hopefully) get the insurance company's denial overturned. Nothing is guaranteed. We can't even move forward with that until we have the money for the copies... which is another triggery thing.

We are almost out of money and it isn't even the second week of the month. There are many reasons for this, including the fact that Matt replaced my computer two weeks ago. Most of the reasons aren't "my fault," but every time we get into a situation like this, I feel as though I am an undue financial drain on Matt. My medications are expensive. He pays all my medical bills. He buys me everything I need, and some things I want. I know he doesn't think of me as a financial drain, but when I'm depressed, I do get into this mode of self-doubt and loathing because I haven't worked in six years and I have no ability to contribute to the household financially.

I've been doing slightly better the last few days since I started taking Latuda again. It's expensive, but it really is the only thing that has made a difference for me. I wish my psychiatrist wasn't on maternity leave. Argh.

It just seems like I have a lot of the same small aggravations, which alone are not much of a big deal, but taken together are a lot to handle. I worry that Matt is suffering for it, too. He's been dealing with a lot of stress at work, and has been withdrawing into hobbies. That isn't necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes, I am concerned he is starting to get depressed, too.

Mental illness is a bitch, no matter who you are.

Depression sucks.

I tried going to bed, but my brain won't shut the fuck up, so I'm writing this instead.

Been dealing with a bout of depression lately, and since this is my therapy journal, you get to read about the reasons why I'm depressed. Lucky you.

Robin Williams. Robin fucking Williams lost his battle with depression and left the fucking planet. I know it might seem like a strange thing to be depressed about. It isn't as if I knew him personally. It isn't even as if I was crazy-obsessed with him as a fan. Yet, he's a personality I grew up with, ever since "Mork and Mindy" when I was a kid. To hear of his suicide was a kick in the teeth. The subsequent explosion of posts on Facebook about his death, and about suicide-in-general, touched off my depression.

Said depression was exacerbated by running out of pain medication and ending up in withdrawal from Percocet for three days. To make matters worse, my primary computer died, and I am left with just my netbook. (She's practically indestructible, but she's small and slow.) All these things in addition to the stuff that has happened to my friends in the last few weeks has made for a particularly irritating bout of depression that I would very like much to end now, please.

I've been dealing with it pretty much the way I always deal with depression: sleeping it off. I'm still not sure if this is healthy. I sleep a lot during the day when I get like this, and I'm utterly unmotivated to do anything else. It sucks. That's what depression does. It sucks the life right out of you, and that can be terrifyingly literal in cases such as Mr. Williams.

I haven't had actual suicidal ideation as of late, but my subconscious has been flirting with it. I've had dreams about it. I wake up and I realize that I am, in fact, okay, but it's still disconcerting to dream about suicide. I never, ever want to put Matt through that. I don't even want to put the cats through that. I'm not that selfish, am I? I'm not that weak.

But if someone like Robin Williams can sink that low... well, you can guess the rest of the thought process. So many times we put celebrities on pedestals and forget that they are, in fact, human. We do the same thing with ourselves. It's really important for someone with depression to remember that being human is okay. That being weak and selfish sometimes is okay. That being sad sometimes is, also, okay. It's depression that holds us to impossible standards. "You must always be happy. You must always put others before yourself. You must always be strong. If you are not, you are defective. If you are defective, then you should just give up now."

Well, I'm not giving up. This is not a severe depression. I've been through much worse. It's more of an annoyance than anything. Yet, I still get angry at myself for it. "Aren't you over this by now? You've got medication, you've got friends, you've got a wonderful husband, you've got a roof over your head and food to eat and a high-speed internet connection. You have nothing to be depressed about." But that's the point. Depression doesn't make any damn sense, and it tries to convince you that you're broken.

I try really hard not to think of myself as broken. Broken means I need to be "fixed," and I'm not a dead laptop or an un-neutered pet. What I need is to know what I need, and depression makes that difficult. I feel like what I need right now is motivation, something to look forward to, and a reason to get up in the morning. Guess what? I have those things. Now I just need to realize that I have them, and take action.

Things are looking up.

One of my best friends is about to lose her leg. Blood clots. Matt and I went to see her in the hospital yesterday, and brought her a hydrangea plant. She really loved the indigo blossoms, and it made her happy. She seems to be very Zen about the whole thing, but we talked, and she knows that once it actually happens, it will hit her hard. When I think of L. being wheelchair bound, it makes me sad. I hope she can get a good prosthesis and is able to walk again, someday.

Another friend's daughter just lost a baby. She carried the child for 37 weeks with no complications, but her daughter suddenly died in the womb. I don't know why it happened. I didn't ask questions. I figured my friend would tell me about it if and when she's ready. The reasons why don't matter, in the end. My heart aches for her and her family.

Both of these things make me so grateful for the things I have. I keep looking at my own two legs, and it puts my pain into perspective. Yes, I have a bad back and it is hard to walk sometimes, but I can walk. I think about my ever-conflicted emotions regarding having a child, and I am very glad that my miscarriages were all early on, and I didn't have a chance to get emotionally attached. I am grateful that I have a husband and friends who would be with me until the end no matter what happens to me. Still, it's been a rough week.

On the upside, I've been more active. This past weekend, I went to the fair, visited Matt's family in Wooster, saw L. in the hospital, and had dinner and saw a movie with friends I don't get to see often. I'm proud of myself for not backing out of anything because of the pain or depression. It feels pretty good, even though I'm really tired.

About two weeks ago, I became a student again. I started an online program to become a veterinary assistant. The program is entirely self-paced, and I'm already way ahead of even the accelerated program suggested dates for completion of the lessons. I'm enjoying having something to put my mind to, again. I realize that this is not a degree, just a diploma, and that it does not, in any way, guarantee me a job, but I don't care. I'm doing it for personal enrichment. I am hoping that once I finally get my back fixed, this will get me a foot in the door at a veterinary practice. Hopefully, it will be somewhere that is willing to pay for additional coursework so that I can become a veterinary technician, not just an assistant. I feel pretty good about it, though, because starting out as an assistant is how a lot of people break into the veterinary field.

I've also been volunteering at a local cat shelter. I can't do a lot of the bending and lifting required for cleaning and maintaining the facility, but next door, there is a second-hand shop that brings in money for the shelter. I've been working there. I've also been going in and "socializing" the cats - that just means I play with them. Yes, playing with cats is an actual job at the shelter, and it's important, because they want all their adoptable cats to be well-socialized and playful. I get to sit in a room full of kittens and play with them, brush them, and occasionally clip claws if they'll let me. I may, in the future, give the cats medication and feed orphan kittens.

I've cut down on cigarettes to the point of only smoking on the weekends. I am still using my vape during the week. It is a step in the right direction, considering I had gotten to the point of smoking a pack a day.

All in all, things are looking up, and I'm really proud of myself.

Cigarette soliloquy

There are a ton of scary, scary ads out there right now promoting quitting smoking. They depict people who have had horrifying things happen to them because they smoked cigarettes. They are followed by the message, "You can quit. Contact blah blah blah..." If you think you need chemicals to help you, there's a pill on the market that will reduce your urge to smoke, but might also make you suicidal. Yeah, that's appealing.

Everyone knows that smoking is bad. Everyone knows it's hard to quit. What these ads don't tell you is just how hard it is to quit, and why. Here's what nobody wants to tell you about quitting cigarettes: Cigarettes are your friend, and quitting smoking is like losing your best buddy.

When you smoke, cigarettes are always with you. They're part of your (un)balanced breakfast. They're your bus stop buddies. They're an after-dinner conversation partner, and they're always there when something stressful happens, to ease your frustration. Cigarettes soothe you when you're in pain, and they pick you up when you're down. A nice, refreshing smoke is also a great reward after you've accomplished something, like doing the laundry, cleaning the litter box or writing a journal entry. Everything reminds me of smoking! Coffee, being outside, writing, being on the phone- all of these are things I usually do when smoking.

I'm cheating, though. I'm using an e-cigarette. It curbs the nicotine fits, but it's not like smoking. It makes me crave a real cigarette. (Nobody at the vape shop will tell you about that phenomenon.) I've had limited success with going outside with my vape the way I would with a cigarette, and pretending I'm smoking, but I'm still pretending I'm smoking. It's only a temporary fix, too, because it's the nicotine that slows bone healing, so I'm going to have to wean myself off the nicotine liquid, as well. Look, I'm even doing it now. I vape more often than when I would smoke, because I can vape indoors, and I never smoked indoors. Gods. I'm pathetic.

Right now, it seems hopeless. I have a lot of friends telling me it gets better and stuff, but I don't believe them. I'm mourning the loss of my good friend, Ciggy. Yes, seriously, it's a mourning process. Anyone who tells you it's not has never been a regular smoker. I figure maybe, just maybe, if I treat it like a mourning process rather than a punishment (Shame on you for being an addict!), I might be able to get through this, but I'm not confident.

Consider this entry to be the first of many on the subject.

Breaking the pattern

A few days ago, I asked Loki to break the things that are holding me back. He said to be careful what I wish for. Well, today, I am happy that I wished for it. I broke my pattern. It's not for all-time and it may not even be for this week, but just for today, I broke my pattern of lethargy. It started with a very intense dream in which I was transfiguring objects into beautiful sculptures. I was in the Harry Potter 'verse, and Professor McGonagall was helping me find my way at a wizarding college. She said I had dragon magic, and that I'd been a dragon in a past life. Anyway, none of that really matters. What matters is that I woke from the dream, got out of bed, didn't even check to see what time it was, got dressed, and went outside for something other than a cigarette. In fact, I didn't even bring my cigarettes with me. I went for a walk in the woods by our apartments, and took pictures. I found an easier way down to the creek than the one I'd been using, though it is a bit more covered in brush. I found otter tracks, which made me smile. I enjoyed the cool, morning air and the sweet of honeysuckle and bitter of walnut. I came back, and edited a couple of the pictures I took with my phone.

Started this entry, took a shower, finished this entry. I'm contemplating going back to bed. Even if I go back to bed now and don't get up for the rest of the day (which is unlikely), I will have accomplished more than I have in many of my "normal" days combined, and further, done something I haven't done in a very, very long time. (I don't even get up this early for conventions.)

I'm feeling pretty good right now. Here's hoping it lasts.

I love you too, Tom!

I had a lovely dream last night. Tom Hiddleston took me out to dinner. Then, we went back to his place, and cuddled on the couch watching clips of his really early acting career. We laughed, we made out, and he told me he loved me.

Then, people started coming into the apartment, one after another. All of them said they had a good reason to be there, and I didn't want to step on Tom's toes, so I said nothing. Then, Tom left. That's when I realized I was dreaming. I stood on top of the coffee table and yelled, "This is my dream! All of you, get the fuck out! Tom, get your ass back here!" And they did. And he did. The rest of the dream was, well, just what you'd expect.

It was my ridiculous fangirl-crush dream! How dare all these other people take it away? I think the random people that filled up Tom's apartment represented my fears and anxieties, and all the little thoughts that come up during periods of depression that destroy my will to do anything. Usually, I let those thoughts crowd out anything good. In this dream, I told them to fuck off. I think this lucid dream is a really good sign. I think it means that I just may be turning the corner on this bout of depression.

The details of the dream don't matter. What matters is that I realize that I have the capacity to take control of my own thoughts and not let them trample on my happiness. All of those random people are thoughts like, "It hurts to much. What if I get too tired? What if I have a panic attack? I can't go out today. It's too bright. It's too hot. It's too loud. There might be people I don't know." On and on and on. I need to realize in my conscious state that I have the power to tell all those thoughts to take a hike. I can enjoy my life. I can get what I want.

This is the second day in a row I've gotten out of the house. Matt is at therapy right now, and he dropped me off at Panera. I didn't have to come with him, but I decided to do so, and this is more than I could have done a week ago. Last night, Matt and I spent time with friends we rarely get to spend time with, and I was okay through the whole thing. I considered it an accomplishment. I think it helps that Matt helped me rearrange my room. I also smudged my room with sage, and re-dedicated my altar. I think it helped to get a lot of the stale energy out so that new stuff can come in.

Earlier in the day, I made an appointment with a new therapist at a cognitive behavioral therapy center. I know CBT has worked for me before, and I'm sure it will again. (Seriously, there is only so far inner child work can take me.)

[TMI] I also made an appointment to talk to my gynecologist about an IUD. It's clear to me, now, that the sudden urge to procreate was, in large part, a symptom of a manic episode. I hate admitting that, but it's true. However, I don't want to take the drastic measure of tubal ligation yet. I'm trying to strike a balance between the screeching of my biological clock and the practical considerations. It's true, I don't have a lot of time to consider it, but I'm still waiting to see the geneticist, and I obviously can't care for a child when I can't care for myself. Also, do I really want my breasts to get bigger? [/TMI]

I think I should start making lists of my daily accomplishments again, the way I did when my previous therapist used some CBT techniques with me. I also think that I will employ some of what my most recent former therapist impressed on me, and make lists of things I'm grateful for. Of course, I'm grateful for all my accomplishments, because it means that I had the strength to push through pain, depression, fatigue and anxiety to do something positive, so those lists might end up being very similar.

Maybe I should also make a list of things I'd like to accomplish, you know, beyond the normal daily tasks that just make me feel like a somewhat-functioning human being. One of the things on that list is to learn some form of martial art. With my body as screwed up as it is, I don't think I'll be doing Aikdo any time soon, but Tai Chi might be something to consider. I dunno. Just typing out whatever comes into my head for now. I'm not ready to start making hard-and-fast goals like that, yet. Most days, it's still an accomplishment for me to get out of bed, get dressed, and leave the house.

A note about meds: It really doesn't seem like Provigil is doing a damn thing either way. Though it's supposed to be a stimulant, I seem to be able to fall asleep during the day on it just as readily as without it. I don't know, I think I need a new psychiatrist as well. Starting fresh seems to be the theme of recent events in the Life of Morgan.

Anyway, brain, can I please have some more dreams like that? Because, damn.

He loves me.

People do things. I don't.

I watch TV. I see people doing things. I read blogs. I read about people doing things. I read comics. Even fictional people are doing things. I don't do anything. I am paralyzed. I am numb. I feel trapped in my own body. I feel stuck in my own thoughts. Some days, I don't even have the energy to go online and talk to friends, much less actually meet them in person. I strike up potential friendships, then never follow through. I pet my cats, a lot. They love me. I spend a lot of time with my husband. He loves me, but I know it hurts him to see me like this. It hurts me to see me like this. And all the pills, all the therapy sessions, right now, they seem like they do nothing to help. I just don't have the spark of energy to break through it. During the day, I wait for night. At night, I feel better, but I still don't do anything. What's wrong with me?

I want to do things. I want to go out with friends. I want to do yoga. I want to go out on my own, like I used to, spend hours at the coffee shop drawing or writing. I want to go to the mall, hike in the woods, or explore parts of town I've never been to. I want to go on midnight adventures with new friends. I want to draw more, and make things, and feel accomplished. I know I am the only thing standing in my way, and that is what hurts the most. I feel broken. I can't even make good on promises I've made to do work for friends, even with the prospect of pay. I am dreading the convention next week, even though it is normally something I look forward to all year long. I am dreading anything that takes me out of the safety of my home, and yet I can't stand being here.

It takes an enormous amount of effort to get up, to take a shower, to get dressed. I don't do any of those things every day. Some days, I don't get up at all. Some days, I am glued to the sofa. Like today. I managed to go out, for a little while. Matt bought me some "new to me" shirts at a thrift store, ones that fit, so I feel like I have some clothes I'm not uncomfortably stuffing myself into.

I was supposed to be with Matt in Pittsburgh today for a baby shower. I was supposed to be meeting new friends. I wanted to look forward to it. Instead, I dreaded it all week. Right now, on the other side of the wall, in the next apartment over, a couple are having a birthday party for their two-year-old daughter. A couple of months ago, this would have excited me. I'd have asked to join in. I wanted a baby, didn't I? I still want a baby. Or do I? I can't be sure. I think now that the whole "I want a baby" thing was some kind of manic episode, and I feel ashamed by it. I have gone back to thinking that I can't possibly take care of a child. Look at me. I can't even take care of myself. I am a mess. Again.

I need to call my gynecologist, to talk about an IUD. I need to start shopping around for a new therapist, because I can't go this alone, and it isn't fair to expect Matt to take on my illness by himself. I need to get that work done for my friend, but I just can't wrap my head around it, and I think I'm going to have to bail on him, because my brain just can't handle it. I need to reclaim my room, which is now littered with clothes, bed unmade, altar neglected. I feel like I want to rearrange everything. Clean everything out. Like I need to do spring cleaning in my head.

I look back at some of my entries, and it seems like I've made progress- yet, I am still fighting the same old battles. I still can't seem to get better for long. I'm backsliding, and I don't know what to do. I just want to be some kind of normal. Well, normal for me. I hate that even my good feelings are part of my pathology. "Oh, that burst of creativity you had? It was just manic. It wasn't real." Seems like the only thing that is "real" is my depression, and the manic stuff is always fleeting and unsustainable. Why can't it be the other way around? Why can't my depression be the part that isn't real?

I'm tired and I want to take a nap. Matt wants to help me clean my room, and I feel guilty for even asking, even though he is completely willing and able to help me. I feel like a little kid who needs constant supervision. "Clean your room and we'll go out for ice cream." Except, you know, I don't even want to go out.

Sick of this shit. So sick of it.

Reclaim my space. Get my physical belongings in order. Recreate a haven for myself. Maybe that will help. Now if I could just get off my ass.

I broke up with my therapist today.

I'll still be seeing her for marital sessions with Matt, but I told her today I felt I'd hit a wall in terms of what she can do for me. I think I made a decent amount of progress with her, but ... well. Now I can vent.

I feel like her methods centered almost entirely around inner child work are good for working through the past, but I really hated it when she applied it to the present. Any time I would present with any negative emotions, she would say, "See, you're in your child now," the connotation being that I was acting immature. She told me that my "real age" was somewhere in my early 20s, and she did not mean that flatteringly. Given the fact that I often feel shame for not having accomplished enough in my adult life, it never went over well. I tried to understand that she was only trying to get me to a place where I could be more functional, but the metaphor itself is triggers for me, and I need a fresh perspective.  I felt she relied far too much on the inner child stuff and didn't help me to implement real change in my life.

I may never find another therapist with whom I can talk freely about my spirituality. My spirituality isn't a problem, but it has become a huge part of who I am. I need a therapist who isn't going to assume that I am Christian or want to be Christian (I've run into that before.) I need to find one who is by-the-book enough to employ some discipline into my treatment, but not so rigid as to define me by my diagnoses. It's going to be a difficult path, I'm sure, but I need a fresh start.

Therapy burnout, and some other stuff

I don't want to go to therapy today.

Don't get me wrong. I really like my therapist, but I have been seeing her an average of once per week for well over a year, and I feel I'm getting burned out. She's also my husband's therapist, and my in-laws' therapist, and the therapist of a friend I had a falling-out with. She maintains perfect professional distance, but after all this time, it's starting to feel a little incestuous. I think I want to continue to see her for marital sessions with Matt, but I'm thinking of finding another practitioner for myself. I feel kind of bad. She's worked really hard with me, and I have made progress, but I've been stagnating. I think a fresh start with someone else might help me. After all, I'm moving on with my life, and my priorities are changing. I hope she understands. I think she will.

So I'm convinced this depression stuff over the last couple of months has been entirely chemical. I'm on three different medications that make me sensitive to sunlight, and oh, look, it's been sunny most of the time. I have no energy to do stuff during the day, and at night, when Matt goes to bed, I tend to just screw around on the computer.

There is hope, though. I have started up physical therapy again, and this helps both the pain and with having a routine. I always feel so accomplished when I finish a workout. I also have a couple of friends who want me to do some work for them. One friend wants me to do some more clerical work for him. I had flaked out on it because of the depression, but he is entirely understanding. We had lunch on Sunday, and I explained to him that I need the work broken down into bite-size chunks, and reminders to get it done. We agreed that's what he'd do for me. The other friend wants me to restore a damaged vintage photo in Photoshop, and I'm really looking forward to working on that. It's been some time since I've gotten to put my artistic skills to good use.

Marcon (a science fiction convention) is coming up in a couple of weeks, and it's a place I always feel at home. It's great to see old friends and make new ones. Then, a couple weeks after that, I get to see my girlfriend for the first time since Christmas. So, I have quite a bit to look forward to. I just need to concentrate on one thing at a time, instead of letting everything get to me.

A few things have happened to upset me in the last few days. My mother adopted a couple of kittens, and they both died. I feel kind of angry, because I'm almost certain I could have saved at least one of them, but I also feel bad for her, because she really tried. She called me last night just as Matt and I had gotten to the pub to watch what would be the final Blue Jackets game of the season. I'm actually surprisingly sad about them being out of the playoffs. I've never gotten quite this emotional over a sports team before. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I associate hockey with Matt, and the time we spend together. It's been quite an emotional roller-coaster, during the playoffs. So much excitement, and then, bam, it's over. Kaput. Am I weird? At least hockey season is ridiculously long, and off-season only lasts until September.

I haven't thought much about theoretical baby as of late. It's like I pulled back into my child mode for a while, but I am starting to come out of it again. Hey, making a human is scary as shit. All the changes that will take place, all the things I will have to change about my lifestyle are intimidating. But I'm not even pregnant, yet, and as I've said before, I'm leaving it in the hands of the gods, and not trying too terribly hard until I find out what's up with my back surgery.

I guess that's it for now.

Why I hate Easter.

There were two things that were always guaranteed at Easter in my youth: arguments, and my mother's shitty potato salad. Every year, my parents would get me up to go to church. They'd argue on the way there. They'd argue on the way back. We'd go to my paternal grandmother's house, and my mother wouldn't want to be there, and she'd let everyone know about it. We'd go to my great grandmother's house for dinner, and there would be ham, and more shitty potato salad, and more arguing. At least at Christmas, there were gifts to distract everyone from sniping at each other, and I could stay in my pajamas all day (we'd usually go to church the night before) and no one would care. On Easter, I had to get all dressed up in uncomfortable clothes, and dragged around by the adults. Ugh.

This year, I made a point to celebrate Ostara when it's meant to be celebrated, so my spring holiday was more than a month ago already. Matt is out driving today. I'm actually both relieved and annoyed by this. On one hand, I don't have to pretend to celebrate a holiday that is meaningless to me. On the other hand, most other people are celebrating while I am home alone in my pajamas watching things go terribly wrong for Manchester United. I guess I can't win.

At least all the chocolate and Peeps will go on sale tomorrow. And there's no shitty potato salad.

The spirit is willing ... (TMI warning)

I went back to physical therapy today. I think a regular schedule of physical therapy (twice a week) is going to be challenging for me, but I did it before, so I know I can do it. What frustrates me is that my insurance wants three months of intensive therapy before they will consider my surgery again, and both my surgeon and my physical therapist agree that I absolutely need surgery. I haven't thought about the surgery for a while, probably because the idea still scares me, and I need to face facts. As I've said before, all the physical therapy in the world isn't going to make my disk grow back, and if I don't get the surgery, the stress on the surrounding disks is only going to get worse. And, when I finally get the surgery I need, I will have to start physical therapy all over again. It will take a long time to heal.

The most difficult part of this is that I know I need to put any thoughts of trying for a baby on hold until I am fully recovered from surgery, and that could be over a year. After my physical therapist finished my evaluation, I realized that I am in no shape to be carrying a child right now. My range of motion has again diminished, and my core strength is poor. Adding the strain of a pregnancy is clearly not in my best interest, or in the child's best interest. I suppose I could go ahead with my pregnancy plans and, assuming I got pregnant within a couple of months, put off the back surgery until after I had the baby, but that would come with a whole host of other problems. No, it seems that the most reasonable course of action, for the moment, is to resume "safe sex" until I get my spine sorted out. I can't take any kind of hormonal birth control, but I'm not willing to go back to condoms, so I guess I'll just avoid sex on my fertile days, which I've been keeping track of.

I'm extremely frustrated right now. I had geared myself up, almost a year ago, for the possibility of surgery. I jumped through the required hoops. Then, I was denied. I mentally breathed a sigh of relief, because I am afraid of the procedure, but the result was that I ignored the pain and lapsed on my exercises. (No wonder I haven't felt like doing much.) Then, I had an epiphany that I want to have a baby with Matt, and I further pushed my physical well-being out of my mind. I never discussed my degenerative disk disease at length with my gynecologist, only the medications I was on. I wasn't thinking. Smack. Another reality check.

I suppose all I can do is make a plan. If I want to be healthy for my theoretical child, and I want to have a healthy baby, I need to take care of myself, first. If that means waiting longer, that's what I need to do. But the screech of my biological clock is becoming deafening. I really feel like I don't have a lot of time to waste. At this point, I'd probably be looking at giving birth at the age of 38 or 39, and I am thinking, "Do I really want to be a senior citizen by the time my child graduates high school?" Matt is younger, of course, but I am really feeling my age.

I'm fighting the urge to hate myself. How dare you think you could ever have a baby? How dare you think you could ever be normal? What were you thinking, you idiot!? I feel stupid. I feel disappointed in myself, angry at my body, annoyed at my inconvenient urges and shortening time on this earth. I don't know what else to do but trust in the gods. If it's meant to be, it's meant to be. If not, there's nothing I can do, and I must find other things to be grateful for.

Why I'm depressed.

I have been dealing with a depressive episode... again. It isn't as striking or severe as the one I had before starting Latuda, but it's an annoying reminder that even when meds are working, they aren't going to fix everything. I've been extremely tired, and have lacked motivation to get out and do things. I've pushed myself to do things anyway, but I've still canceled as many things as I've completed. This includes my physical therapy evaluation. When I start to put off or neglect things that will help me in the long run, I am in danger of backsliding. I can't let that happen. In fact, I am going to call them right now to reschedule. RIGHT NOW. Hold on. BRB.

...

Okay. Rescheduled for Monday the 14th at 11:45. Anyway. I'm having body image problems. I'm a fat girl, and that doesn't usually bother me much, but my new meds have caused me to gain even more weight, and this is not cool. I'm fat, but my weight has been stable for years. Anyone will tell you that when your clothes stop fitting, and there's not a really good reason for it (like pregnancy or getting really buff or turning into a dragon), it's depressing. I need to get out and exercise more, I need to walk, I need to get into the pool, I need to get back to physical therapy, I need to do all this stuff, and it's overwhelming. I can't just sit on my ass getting fatter, especially not when I'm trying to have a baby.

Do I really, really want a baby? I've been wondering about that, too. This month, I was relieved I wasn't pregnant. I think I'm still not ready. Then again, I'm also not ready to start treating sex like a sterile operation again. I don't know. My head is in a million different places. I look at people with children, and my inner reaction vacillates between adoration and disgust. It's like the old me is trying to break through, and ruin everything. Or save me. I'm honestly not sure. This all became awfully real awfully fast. Maybe I need more time to think about it. At any rate, I'm definitely not pregnant right now, so I still have the option to sort things out. It's funny, because when I talk about it, I get excited about the prospect of having a child with Matt, and being pregnant. When I am alone, though, even for a minute, all the old fears come back. My private brain still wants to sabotage any chance I have of being a parent. Despite all of this, I see it as a journey I need to take. Even if I never get pregnant, I need to reconcile the idea of me being a mother.

Mother. What a word. Until that word no longer makes me cringe, I am still going to have issues with the idea of parenthood. Maybe it will take the personal experience of actually raising a child to break me out of the ideas that limit me. It's all just fear, anyway. Some of it is justified, most of it isn't, but all of it can be dealt with. I feel like I need to talk about it more. I feel like I need to talk about it with Matt, and not just keep my fears inside. Yet, fear, by its very nature, hides like a creeping demon, protecting itself with its victim's own anxiety. Well, I don't want to give birth to a demon, or feed it with my worry. So I need to drag it into the open.

What does the word "mother" mean to me?

Oppression.
Repression.
Authoritarian.
A domineering attitude.
Smothering.
Passive-aggressive behavior.
Anxiety.
Worry.
Sadness.
Anger. So much anger.
Shame and guilt.
The child being a burden.

When I associate all of these negative things with motherhood, why would I want to be one? The obvious answer is that I know these things don't have to be true. Maybe if I work on consciously countering these things with positive ideas, I can get over it.

Openness.
Nurturing.
Friendship.
Respect.
Protection.
Communication.
Calm.
Concern.
Happiness.
Love.
Encouragement.
The child being a gift.

I'll work on it.

On to a different topic. When I was 12 years old, I went to a community theatre camp. It was the one thing I was allowed to do every summer that I truly enjoyed. The camp was a place where I felt free to be myself and explore my talents. It was also the place where I first fell in love. Oh, it was unrequited, just the sort of love you'd expect an overly-sheltered, over-sexed 12-year-old girl to be afflicted with. His name was Rick. He was sixteen, and he was perfect. He played the piano, and danced, and sang. He was brilliant. He was on his way to college when the drunk driver hit his car head-on, and paralyzed him from the neck down. I never forgot him. I never stopped being angry at the driver, who was out of jail and driving less than two years later. That man had taken away Rick's life. He'd taken away my ideal. At the time, I did everything I could to support him. There was a special production put on that year, in order to raise money for a van that would accommodate Rick's wheelchair. I got the word out, ushered at the performances. No one knew the extent of my pain, because, being too young, no one took my adoration for Rick seriously.

My mother emailed to tell me that Rick died on Friday. And I keep thinking, the drunk driver who hit him is still living out his life. Can it be considered murder, now? Can we go back and charge him with Rick's death, and throw him in jail, or at least prevent him from ever driving again? Of course not. And it's none of my business. It was twenty-two years ago.

For twenty-six years, I have thought of Rick every day, in one way or another. He never knew how much he meant to me, how much of an inspiration he was. After the accident, he became very bitter for a while, but eventually decided to give his life to the Church. He joined the parish I had been a part of when I was little. I saw him maybe twice after the accident. I remember his smile. Smiling was the only thing he could do, but he was still really good at it. Despite the pain in his eyes, despite the sadness and bitterness, his smile shone on. It shines now in my memory.

I'm glad he's at peace, now. I wish I could do something, reach out to his family, but they wouldn't know me at all. I don't want to be a creep. It was bad enough when I sent him a picture of myself back when he was in the hospital. Way back when I thought he'd just get better, and learn to walk and dance and sing and play the piano again. I like to think that his spirit is dancing again. That his spirit-body is perfect and beautiful, just as it once was. But I am still having trouble letting go of the anger at the man, whose name I don't even know, who took Rick's life. That incident contributed to my own fear of driving, and is the reason I have zero sympathy for anyone who gets behind the wheel impaired by alcohol or any other substance.

Anyway, I think I've done a pretty good job at getting all the stuff down that's contributing to my depression at the moment. There are a few other things, but I've hit my limit.

Blah... Sex!... Blah...

So. Tired.

I've been going through this thing where I get up and feel okay, but by around 3:00 P.M. my body aches and I feel very restless but lacking in energy at the same time. It really sucks. I don't know if that's just when my morning Percocet wears off, or what, but it's getting super-annoying. I have had an increase in baseline pain and physical discomfort since I started taking Latuda, which sucks, because it does what it needs to do otherwise.

There have been some good things. I'm doing some freelance administrative work for a friend who will pay me for my time. (Though, I might ask him for more than $50, as I'm not even halfway-done and it has already taken me a solid 4 hours. We'll see. It just feels good to have something to do.)

The additional sex has been nice, now that Matt and I aren't treating semen like a deadly toxin. I always feel better after sex (go figure.) It kinda feels like we're newlyweds all over again, or maybe for the first time. I am thrilled at the effect trying for a kid has had on our intimacy in and out of the bedroom.

Still, this daily date with restless fatigue is getting me down. I've been so uncomfortable during the day that I can't even handle being in the car for more than a few minutes. It's like my fibromyalgia has gotten ratcheted up to 11.

In other medical news: Since our insurance denied my back surgery for a second time, I really need to get my butt scheduled for more physical therapy. Especially if I might be carrying a child anytime soon, I need to get my body in some kind of shape. The other thing that was suggested was a spinal stimulator, an electrical device that would be implanted in my back. I'm not too keen on it. They are mostly used for people for whom spinal fusion surgery hasn't worked. I'm not sure if I want to go the route of putting a foreign object in my body that might work, and might not cause additional trauma and pain. I also don't know what that would mean for carrying Potential Child.

Ugh. There is so much on my mind, but I can't seem to articulate any of it today. And my IBS is acting up. Fantastic.

A baby in the works.

He wants to have a baby with me. My husband really wants to have a baby with me, and I want to have a baby with him. I never thought I'd want to have a child again, after so many ups and downs, after I convinced myself it would be a bad idea for all kinds of reasons. I went into the doctor's office feeling shame, honestly expecting the doctor to tell me I had no business trying to get pregnant. How dare you?

As it turns out, most of my fears- the medical ones, anyway- are unfounded. Matt and I went to pre-conception counseling today, and the doctor said that on a scale of 1 to 10, he would put my risk at about a 3. Despite my age, my weight, all of my medical problems, Matt's family history of genetic joint problems, and all the drugs I'm on, the doctor said that we still have a very good chance of having a healthy baby. It put my mind at ease, and made me happy. Matt and I have been talking about all the details, all the potential problems and joys, and we are incredibly excited.

This is how it should be. Even if we don't succeed in getting pregnant, the fact that it's okay, medically, to try, makes me feel a whole lot better. Actually, it makes me feel whole. I really am an adult who can handle parenthood. I am in a stable, healthy marriage, with a solid network of friends and family to help us out in the tough times. And the look on Matt's face when the doctor said it was okay- it was priceless. He looked so happy. It was like a preview of how he will glow when he looks at our child for the first time.

We are going to go for further genetic testing, just to be prepared for anything that might be passed on. I have long been concerned I might have some latent genetic issue that accounts for my joint problems. This won't stop us from trying- it will just give us a heads-up. We will, of course, be doing every pre-natal test we can to ensure the health of the baby once we get pregnant. There are risks, because of my weight, of gestational diabetes and hypertension, but I already knew that, and I'm prepared to do whatever I need to do in order to minimize the risks. You know, like quit smoking. It seems really hard right now to think about quitting completely, but I believe that once I know I have a little person growing inside me, that will be some serious motivation.

I just can't believe how all of this is making me feel. I have never felt like this before. I've tried to get pregnant with partners in the past, but I have never felt so confident that everything will be okay. And that's huge. Huge. HUGE.

As for how I'm doing otherwise, I pulled myself out of a depressive episode last night. Matt went to his second job, and instead of sitting around like a lump on the couch, I got dressed and played with make-up even though I wasn't going out. Then I had a one-woman party. A party, for me, consists of listening to my favorite music as loud as I like and dancing to it, chatting online, and making art. I've made a bunch of art in the past week, including three pendants and one digital drawing.

On an unrelated note, I get my CPAP machine, so that should be another step in getting healthier and improving my quality of life.

Yeah, I'm feeling pretty good right now.

To my theoretical child.

Dear Theoretical Child,

I don't know your name, whether you will be a boy or a girl, or even if you will be conceived at all. I don't know if I will carry you to term and hold you in my arms for the first time, with your dad by my side, tears in his smiling eyes. I don't know if I will watch you learn to talk, walk, read, make friends, and love others. But I do know some things I want to tell you, and I'm writing them down, so I don't forget.

I will protect you, but I will never shelter you from life's lessons. I want you to skin your knees and fall off your bike and get a bad grade because you were playing video games instead of studying. I want you to know what it's like to be jealous, hurt, angry, and sick, because I want you to know that those things are all temporary, and that things like love aren't. I will always be there to listen. Always. Band-aids and herbal tea. Warm blankets and ice cream. Hugs and kisses, as many as you'll tolerate. Your mom will be there for you when you want her, and do her best to back off when you need your space.

Your childhood will not be like mine. It will be better -- but it won't be perfect. I will get frustrated and make mistakes, and so will you. We will fight, but we will always, always work it out. I want you to know that, right now. I want you to know that even if I get mad at you for pulling the cat's tail, leaving the milk out, or staying out too late, I will never stop loving you. I'll feel bad for losing my patience, raising my voice, and taking away your mobile phone. I'll apologize, and we'll talk about it. I won't shut you out, and I won't let my own fear be a reason to hold you back.

I won't give you everything you want (though I will really, really wish I could). I will do my very best, with the resources I have, to give you everything you need. There are going to be times when it won't be easy. I've got a lot of stuff to deal with, like depression and chronic pain, two things I hope you never experience. We aren't wealthy, and there may be times we all have to make sacrifices. It won't be easy for you to understand, at first, but I hope you will come to see that I'm trying my best.

I promise to respect you as the person you grow to be. I promise to respect your privacy. Your space will be your own. If you keep a diary, I will never read it unless you share it with me. I promise not to discipline you with my hands. I promise not to control you with fear. I want you to respect me, not be afraid of me. I promise to make sure your emotional and physical well-being come first, and are never ignored because of issues I and your father might be having at the time. I promise to include you in family decisions, even when you are young. I promise to listen to your concerns, even if they might seem small or silly, because what might be insignificant to me could be very important to you. If you do something you aren't proud of, I want you to feel like you can talk to me about it without fear that I will lash out at you in anger.

Most importantly, you will always be loved. You might question it, sometimes, when it seems like we don't understand you- all children question their parents, sometimes. You are not an accident or an inconvenience. You were not brought into this world for the purpose of bringing your father and I closer together- though I am sure you will do just that. I will make certain you know that you are loved and explain to you why we might ask you to do things you don't want to do, or ask you not to do things you might want to do. I want to be a friend to you, as well as a parent.

School will be hard. When others taunt you, as they will, because children can be cruel and thoughtless, I will be there to defend you. When adults don't take your needs into consideration, I will be there to help make it right. I'm always going to be in your corner, no matter what. I don't ever want you to feel like you're alone in life, like I did. I also will encourage you to put yourself into their shoes, so that you may be instilled with empathy and understanding towards others, even if you don't like them.

I won't be a perfect mother, theoretical child, but I will do everything in my power to be a good one.

Love,

Morgan, your mother

Late-night rambling.

Dammit.

I thought I had my sleep schedule back to something that could almost be considered human, but I messed it all up. I slept all afternoon, today. I feel icky about it, like I wasted the entire day. I did manage to be creative the night before, with inspiration from my friend Laurel, and motivation for an actual project. I'm working on a logo for a local literary convention, on which Laurel is staff. When I am working, I completely lose track of time. I forget to eat, and I can't sleep until I have something either finished or in pieces that can easily be combined for a finished project. I lose my head in that kind of work. It isn't a bad thing, but my timing is wrong. My timing is always, always wrong.

What the fuck am I doing, anyway? I'm 36 years old, but I'm barely out of my teens in terms of doing the things an adult should do, like household chores and being married and not sitting in my room like a hermit or a prisoner all day and night. I'm in a really strange state of mind, right now. I'm not depressed. I'm not happy. I just am.

What should I be?

Where should I be?

Those are dangerous questions to ask, because they imply, in my twisted little head, that if I should be something and somewhere I'm not, it means I've done absolutely everything wrong up until now. So I have to ask myself, "Where, and whom, do I wish I was?"

There are a million billion answers to that question. I am acutely aware of all of them. This may sound strange to some, but I am consciously aware of every single time a choice I have made in my life has drastically changed my fate. I could have been this if I'd done that. I could have been there if I hadn't done this. All of these possibilities swirl inside my head and make "now" muddy and difficult to pinpoint. My future, it seems, is still uncertain, in many respects. I have stability and security in terms of a relationship and a home, but... now what? I have the potential to follow any of the threads I abandoned earlier in life, but which should I choose?

Here is a list of those threads, in no particular order.

• Artist
• Political Activist
• Jounralist
• Nurse
• Optician
• Ophthalmic Medical Technician
• Veterinary Technician
• Poet
• Singer
• Actor
• Social Worker
• Counselor
• Holistic Practicioner
• Business Administrator
• Sociologist

This is not a complete list. It reads like a goddamn college course catalog, because that's basically what it is. These are all the things I've started, but never finished. All of my "almosts, but not quites". I was able to pursue all of them at one point with some success, at least academically, but I could never make the transition out of academics into the real world. Now, I am left with enough college credits and life experience to be ... nothing in particular.

I know a little bit about a lot of things, and a lot about some things. I can pursue things with sincere passion for a short time, before I burn out and succumb to physical or mental issues.

At least, that's how it's always been, before.

I want to go back to school, at some point, and follow one of those threads, and finish at least one thing I started, and get a degree and a job. It's just so damned daunting when I know my pattern, and it's so damned easy to give up when my body hurts and my brain betrays me. I'm brilliant, and I have nothing to show for it.

Well, nothing except friends who believe in me, which are, of course, invaluable, but I have a deep desire to be taken seriously. To be respected for something. To be considered an expert at something, and to be lauded on my own merits and ideas pertaining to whichever path I choose. I want to be someone out there, not just in my insular group of friends (all of whom, I feel, have accomplished a great deal more of those all-important "adult things" than I have.)

As to how I'm going to accomplish this, or where to even start in terms of which path to follow, I am absolutely stumped. As I said, I always start out with passion and enthusiasm, regardless of what I'm trying to accomplish, and I end up falling victim to myself. I want to end that pattern, and in order to do that, I have to finish something, and in order to finish something, I have to start something.

Start what?

I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't follow any of those threads. Maybe I should find something entirely new. Maybe I should be content to be a wife and possibly a mother. Maybe I should just learn to like who I am, and be thankful I never killed anyone in the process of becoming that person. But I feel that part of me is languishing. I need direction and routine and a schedule and a set of goals.

I guess my first goal ... is to find a goal.

Burning my fear.

My head started to go to a dark place last night while Matt was out at his second job. I started thinking about my past, and what would happen if that beast got loose again. I was suddenly fearful that I would lose my mind and physically harm myself, or my cats, or my theoretical baby, or even my husband. The visualization was gruesome and terrifying. I did not act on any of it, and tried not to entertain those thoughts. I played a game on my phone for two hours to make my brain concentrate on something else.

Then, a friend pinged me on Facebook, and I started talking to her, and I came back to myself very quickly. I told her about all of the positive changes I have been making, both in thought and action, and she was very proud of me. I explained that I had been doing inner child work, both with my therapist and on my own. I told my inner child that I would protect her and take care of her. I told him that he could still come out to play, and didn't have to die, even if I was a grown-up. That helped.

All of the negative thoughts are rooted in one simple and counterproductive emotion: fear. Fear makes me forget who I am, where I am, the work I've been doing and the progress I've made. Fear is an asshole. So, in order to rid myself of it, I went outside in the middle of the night, and spoke to the only star I could see. "Burn my fear!" I said, three times. Then I came back inside, and drew the word "FEAR" in giant, angry letters. I burnt it on my altar. I asked Loki to devour it.

BURN MY FEAR.
I left the ashes of my fear on my altar. I will leave them there for a little while, before I wash them away, and prepare for my next objective. That objective is getting that job I applied for. Tonight I'll make an offering and throw positive energy at it. I'll keep doing that until I get a call.

On a different note, Matt and I have been talking a lot about our theoretical child. The pregnancy "scare" and the resulting epiphany has changed the way I interact with the world around me. For instance, we were in Target, and instead of pathologically avoiding the baby aisle as I used to, I took Matt over to look at a convertible crib I had put on my theoretical baby wish list. We saw some onesies that made us go, "awww!"- little superhero costumes, complete with capes. Yes, our theoretical baby would be a geeky baby. My fear of being a parent has been replaced with thoughts of enriching a child's life with the knowledge I have accumulated in my life. Our kid would be raised on art and music and hockey and Doctor Who and Star Wars.

But I don't necessarily consider having a child to be a goal to actively work towards. Truthfully, it's unlikely I'll be able to get pregnant easily. I'm 36 and I started my period at 9. I don't imagine I have a lot of viable eggs left. The entire point of this experience has been to make me realize that I am capable of raising a child because I am an adult. Being a parent doesn't mean I would have to stop being who I am. I had this image for a long time of getting pregnant and becoming a mom-zombie who wears frumpy flower-print dresses and writes a blog about how her baby is her whole world and talks of nothing but binkies and breast-feeding and poo poo. I know now it would not happen. I know that Matt and I would make great parents- not perfect parents, of course- but nurturing, caring parents mindful of the mistakes our own parents made. We could do it. We aren't making it a priority, but we're preparing mentally and financially, just in case.

Oh, and, TMI WARNING...

... Matt and I are going to stop having sex like terrified teenagers shrink-wrapping their genitals in case that one little drop gets through, and start rutting like a married couple for which children are a welcome possibility. I am sick of condoms.

Changes.

Last night, I had my second sleep study. They woke me up at 6 a.m. and I was back home by 7. Instead of going back to sleep, I decided to stay up. Instead of doing what I usually do with free time (which is screwing around on the Internet or watching TV), I decided to do something constructive.

I finally called the bank about my student loans. I didn't really make any progress with them, but I did find out what needed to be done to rehabilitate the loans. Because Matt and I filed our taxes jointly, they are using his income to calculate the monthly payment, and it is far beyond what we can afford. Then, I called to see if we can re-file our 2014 taxes as Married but Separate. If we're successful, the loan company will use only my income, and the payment will be reduced from $300-400 monthly to $50-100 monthly.

I also called about my past-due credit card account and made arrangements to make payments. I didn't do any of this stuff before because I just couldn't handle it. I hid from it, and ignored all the collections calls. I couldn't deal with the idea of Matt paying for stuff I got myself into before we were married, or under the assumption that I would be working, when I am obviously not bringing in any money. I guess I finally realized that it's okay for him to help me, because we're married, and I would do the same for him if the situation were reversed. That's the kind of couple we are. We take care of each other.

Last week, I went to order a new pair of glasses. I started talking to the optician about how I used to be an optician, myself. Long story short, he asked if I would fill out an application. I was upfront about my disability and the fact that my last job in the industry ended badly. He seemed to appreciate that. I'm confident that if I can get an interview with the manager, I can get him to give me a chance. If he gives me a chance, I can start to rebuild my resume in an industry I already know and am passionate about. It would be an enormous step forward.

When I dropped off my resume, I decided to get my hair done. I cut it extremely short in the back and had it dyed bright red on top, burgundy underneath. The new haircut makes me feel sharp and sexy instead of old and frumpy. I think the dye has gone to my head, because something is changing, or already has changed. It isn't just that I'm suddenly taking an interest in making up for past mistakes. I'm starting to think of myself as a capable adult who can handle more than I ever gave myself credit for, and that is leading to some interesting thought processes.

I was talking to an old friend last night, someone I used to live with. She was telling me about my ex-boyfriend, his girlfriend and their baby. The baby was born 10 weeks premature, but survived and is healthy. Unfortunately, my ex isn't doing very well as a father, apparently, screaming and yelling at her when all she wants to do is be picked up, ditching her with my friend to babysit all the time. I almost had a child with this man. It was one of my miscarriages. I'm so glad it didn't happen, then. It would have been wrong. I'd have ended up a single mother, and I would not have been able to deal with it back then. I still don't think I could make it as a single mom, but I looked at Matt, and thought, "Wow. I'm not alone. And Matt would make a wonderful father, even if he doesn't think so. And my period is four days late, and my pants don't fit, and ... shit. Am I pregnant?"

We went to the dollar store today to get a couple of tests. Far from the feeling of dread I have experienced every other time I've had a pregnancy scare, I was almost giddy. I was almost hoping it would be positive. No. Not almost. Suddenly, the thought of carrying this wonderful man's child in my body made me feel wonderful. Maybe it's just the spring, or my new meds, or something. When the test was negative, I was actually more disappointed than relieved. So it's just as well that my sterilization surgery has continued to be delayed. I don't want it anymore. At least, not yet. I made an appointment with my gynecologist to discuss the risks of pregnancy in my current state of health. I went on some online message boards to find out if other women had given birth to healthy children while still taking their psychiatric meds. What I found was that, yes, it is absolutely possible to have a healthy pregnancy while taking the psychiatric drugs I am on. In my case, the risks of stopping the medication would certainly be greater than any possible risk to the baby.

Until now, I have only been thinking about all the terrible things I didn't want to pass on to the child. From Matt's side, there is the possibility of Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and depression. From my side, there is mental illness, bad joints, allergies, asthma and issues with substance abuse (My only issue is nicotine, but that wasn't the case for my father.) Both of us are obese, and our theoretical child may well have problems with his or her weight. I'm quite aware of these risks, but I hadn't thought of all the good things we could pass on, too. Strength of character. Self-awareness. Resilience. Intelligence. Creativity. Gorgeous eyes. The love Matt and I share for each other. Any kid of ours would be loved and accepted for whoever they turned out to be. We would nurture their imagination and encourage them to pursue what they love. Our kid would have a better childhood than we did, and we both know it.

But, wait! I hate babies! Babies are disgusting and stinky and loud and annoying. Toddlers are even worse. They screech at pitches capable of shattering windows. I really don't want one of those, do I? They're gross. And the world doesn't need any more kids, especially ones with problems. Or is this all sour grapes, denial spewed by someone who has secretly wants to be a parent, but never believed they could, because she hadn't grown up, herself, and children aren't capable of being good parents? It is enough food for thought for me to reconsider getting a tubal ligation. I've cancelled it, indefinitely.

Maybe I'm just manic. Maybe I'm letting my usually-hidden idealism get in the way of my better judgment. Whatever it is, it's kind of awesome, and I don't want it to stop. Maybe being an adult isn't so bad. As an adult, I'm not afraid of being a parent (any more than anyone else is.) I'm not even afraid of money or work, at least, in concept. The actual application of these things is another matter, but I won't know if I don't try. Stay tuned, true believers.

Coming back to myself

Today marks one week since I started taking 20mg of Latuda per day. It hasn't been a great week, but it hasn't been a bad week, either. I've dealt with some expected side-effects, including an increase in body aches and some reflux, but those seem to be starting to ebb. Today, I feel more like "me" than I have in several weeks, perhaps months. I don't know if that can be attributed to the new medication, yet, but I am hopeful. Matt observed that despite the fact that it's been hard for me to do things, I've still been doing things, and that's good. I'm certainly not looking for, nor expecting, a magic pill. I know from experience that any adjustment in medication comes with a tough period of adjustment for me. I am cautiously optimistic that Latuda will ultimately benefit my quality-of-life.

There has been an significant development in my personal life. Two nights ago, I spoke to a friend I'd had a serious falling-out with back in October. This was done against my better judgment, yet also at the behest of my therapist, who also happens to be her therapist. I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it. However, what does make me feel better is that we actually apologized to each other, and, at least in theory, have forgiven one another. It's a start, but trust takes a very, very long time to rebuild. I remain very guarded. I still do not feel confident that we will ever have the same level of intimate trust we once shared. I'm not ready to confide too many things, and we did not discuss any of the more recent events that have placed me in the middle of a conflict between her and another friend of mine. I'm allergic to drama. It makes me cranky and prone to smash things.

Yesterday, I saw my pain management doctor's assistant. I much prefer to deal with her than the doctor himself, since he has a stiff, emotionless demeanor that rubs me the wrong way. His assistant, however, is personable and caring, and listens to my concerns without seeming to pass judgment. I had run out of pain medication, and that day I was dealing with pain levels between 7 and 9. I was having trouble sitting up straight and holding up my head. She gave me new scripts, and praised me for getting down to an average two Percocet per day (as opposed to three or four.) I explained to her that, though I was seeing her for my low back pain, I have many other sources of pain that need to be dealt with. She said that she understood that physical and psychological pain directly affect each other, and empathised with my situation. She was even kind enough to give me the names of a couple of doctors who may be able to help with my shoulders and my knees. It's little things like that that give me confidence in my care providers.

On the way out the door, I ran into my physical therapist, whom I haven't seen in a couple of months because I have been waiting for health insurance approval of further treatment, including my surgery. I told him that if they drag their feet for much longer, I'm going to request another script for PT. He could tell I was in monstrous amounts of pain, since I wasn't even holding my head up straight. I got the feeling that he really, really wanted to help me, and he would have dropped everything to work with me then and there if it weren't impossible because of protocol. I miss going to see him. He has fantastic instincts when it comes to pain and working through it. After my surgery, I will definitely request to work with him again.

To have my pain legitimized makes a huge difference in the way I handle it psychologically. After so many years of having my pain downplayed, blamed on being overweight, or relegated to hypochondria, it is refreshing to actually receive treatment and empathy.

Matt and I have recovered nicely from our concurrent breakdowns. Sex has returned to the relationship, after months of near-celibacy. Between our illnesses, psychological issues and just plain business, there wasn't much room for it. What this means in my own head is that I am starting to like myself again. I am starting to come back to myself, and to like who Morgan is and will become if I keep working at it.

I am okay.

Bad emo poetry

It's never a good sign when it's been this long between entries. Writing is how I most effectively deal with what is going on inside and outside my head. I began a depressive spiral a little more than three weeks ago, and this was compounded by an illness that forced me to postpone a lot of things that needed to be done.

This entry is likely to be very triggering for certain people, as it contains an account of self-harm, so take that warning accordingly.

There are thirteen neat, parallel scratches on my right arm from where I dragged the dull blade across my skin until beads of blood oozed forth. I didn't count the scratches as I was doing it, or anything, but now that I look at my arm, it's like bad emo poetry. I am pleased to say that the shame that led to cutting is, for now, merely a cardboard cut-out of a concept in the back of my mind. The guilt for having done it dissipated more quickly than it would have in the past. Still, I have not harmed myself this way in seven years. The last time I did, I ended up in a mental hospital for four days.

The same argument that culminated in this stupid, selfish act of self-loathing ironically led to Matt resorting to the same behaviour, simultaneously, in another room. I think that bothers me more than anything else- the fact that I drove him to it. If I am not careful, if I think too much about it, I will be standing exactly where I was three days ago, screaming and ranting and throwing my wedding ring at my husband, because I don't deserve him, because he will just tire of me anyway, because everything I touch turns to shit.

But I'm not thinking that way right now. Strangely, I feel a new kind of kinship with Matt. When I saw the scratches on his own arms, I realised that we had more in common than I gave him credit for. I know it sounds weird, but hear me out. I guess since I get along so well with his parents, and his family isn't completely broken and dysfunctional like mine was (before everyone died), I made assumptions. I assumed that he had grown up in a (comparatively) idyllic situation, with parents who loved and supported him, with friends who stuck by him, without pain or inner turmoil that even approached my own. Sure, I knew he got made fun of for being a fat kid, and I knew he and his dad had issues, but I didn't realise his pain could manifest the same way mine did. Despite his unconditional love for me, and his patience and kindness, I didn't think he could ever really understand the depth of my pain. Now, I know that he does, and can, and always will. All because we bled together, for each other, because of the fear of losing us. Yeah. Bad emo poetry.

I am in no way suggesting that screaming at each other and then going off to our separate hiding places to cut ourselves was a responsible, reasonable, healthy or mature way to handle our situation. I hope that it never, ever happens again, but the experience did bring us closer. The experience strengthened our bond. I have less fear now than I ever have that our marriage will somehow fall apart. We recovered quickly, and it wasn't by sweeping the incident under the rug. We immediately sought the help of our therapist. We talked it out. We explored why it happened, what our triggers were, and what we could do to prevent escalations like this in the future. The next day, we were being us again, making sorbet in the kitchen, talking about our favourite shows, making plans to get together with friends. We are okay. We aren't walking on eggshells, we aren't teetering on the razor's edge (pardon the pun) of another explosive argument. We're solid.

In the meantime, I am working on me. I feel much more like Morgan right now than I did three days ago. Today, I started Latuda, an atypical antipsychotic. I had a bit of a scare at first, because I got some chills about ten minutes after I took the first pill, but it could have just been a coincidence. I called a nurse hotline, and she assured me that the lack of other more serious symptoms indicated it wasn't an immediate concern. I will see if it happens again tomorrow, and if it does, I'll call my psychiatrist and ask what I should do. But I don't want to give up. I really want, really need this pill to help me. I need to believe that it will improve my ability to function in my household and in the real world. At the moment, I am feeling okay. Really okay. And that's promising.

So, onward. Last night, I finally had the sleep study done that I had to postpone twice because of a sinus infection. It wasn't an overly pleasant experience. I found it even more difficult to sleep than usual, knowing a camera was on me at all times, but I got through it. The electrode paste in my hair was the most annoying part. Eh. Conductive hair gel. Whatever. I haven't gotten the results of the study yet, but they didn't have to wake me at any point to put me on a CPAP, so that's promising. I do remember jerking awake several times, though. Maybe they can give me some insight as to why it's so damned hard for me to fall asleep.

Next Friday, I am having my tubal ligation surgery. This is a whole other subject that I am not going to get too far into right now, because I need to get some sleep, but it is a big step forward for me. Ultimately, it will free me from the anxiety of becoming pregnant, miscarrying, or having to decide whether to stop taking all of my meds in order to carry a child to term. Matt and I have discussed it at length, and both of us believe it is best.

As for my back surgery, I still have not heard back from our insurance about whether they are going to approve it, and this is definitely a source of anxiety. At least when I finally get around to it, it won't have been my first surgery.

Anyway, that's about it. I feel good for having written this. It's another step back onto the path of normalcy, at least, normal for me, and hopefully, the changes I am making are going to improve what "normal" for me is in the future.

More beautiful for having been broken

My depression is really hitting me hard. Even when I'm in relatively little physical pain, I can't seem to shake it. I can't do the things that would make me feel accomplished. The ideas in my head never come to fruition. I'm so tired of it. I'm so tired of being either tired or anxious. And, now that I am in a safe place, I know that this is all chemical. So I am considering trying Abilify to see if it will help.

One thing that has been bugging me over the past few weeks has been the constant barrage of online posts from my friends about their Amazing Weight Loss Journeys ™. I finally posted this in response:

"Friends, I know that I may seem like a hypocritical bitch for saying this, but I don't want to know about how much weight you've lost, how many jeans sizes you've dropped, or what diet you're on.

It's not only that it makes me feel bad about myself. It's that it makes me think I SHOULD feel bad about myself, because I, unlike 99.99999% of my overweight friends, did not start a goddamn diet for the new year.

I'm not being mean. I'm being honest. This is coming from a place of deep shame, bitterness and frustration. No, I can't "just be happy for you." As much as I would like to be, I can't.

I have body dysmorphia, and it is about so much more than my weight. I have chronic pain that is often severe enough to keep me from taking a shower, much less get on a treadmill. But it doesn't show on the outside, so people just think I'm a fat, lazy piece of shit.

And this doesn't even begin to touch on the gender dysphoria. I pretend that I love myself just the way I am, but I don't. And unlike most people, just going on a diet won't help. Oh, I am so blessed with these feminine curves! Except, they aren't a blessing for me.

I try to bite my tongue to keep myself from saying something unhelpful. "You're just going to gain it all back after you stop dieting," and, "Didn't you go on a diet last year?" and "Gastric bypass is risky and means you will never enjoy food ever again." But I am not always successful.

So I am begging you: please make friends lists of people who can be as supportive of you as you deserve. I have a list dedicated to queer stuff, one for spiritual stuff, et al. If someone asks not to be on one of those lists, I just don't add them.

I'm asking you not to include me in your Amazing Fitness Journey, because, right now, I can't join you, and I'm tired of pretending to be okay with that fact. I promise not to post any shit about my surgery to anyone who doesn't want to know."

I received 100% positive comments on the post, because my friends are awesome like that, but the entire thing made me realize that I need to do something about my body image. Whether that means losing weight or changing how I see myself or accepting how I am, something has to change.

It's not every day that the image in the mirror makes me want to vomit, but it is every day that I think the image in the mirror doesn't look like "me." The media would love to suggest that the reason is simply that I hate my body because I'm fat and everybody hates fat so obviously I just need to lose weight and everything will be okay. Right. It doesn't work like that. I'm sure losing weight would help certain things, like putting less pressure on my spine and making it easier to fit into clothes. What it's not going to do is actually change how I see my body, or close the gap between how I see myself and what my body looks like.

I had an appointment with a new gynecologist yesterday. He said that he would be willing to help sign off on a breast reduction surgery, given the fact that my breast tissues is very fibrocystic, and this can pose a risk in terms of breast cancer. I have mentioned breast reduction to my neurosurgeon a few times, but I've gotten the brush-off. I think that it might be good for my self-image to get this surgery, but I am already looking at back surgery (which is being delayed because of insurance bullshit), and I am also looking at a tubal ligation so I can stop worrying about getting pregnant. When all of these things are done, will I be happy with myself? Will it fix anything at all? Or will I just find more and more things about my body I don't like? I can think of quite a few right now. I hate my chin. It's too round, and even when I was thin in high school, I had a double-chin. I hate the little skin tags around my eyelids that keep getting bigger the older I get. I hate my shoulders. They're not broad enough- too round and slumped to look proportionate to the rest of my body.

Of course, all of this is coming from a place of depression, and I just started my period today, so everything seems worse. Normally, when I feel like this, I dress up and put makeup on and try to look fabulous, but I didn't even bother today. I didn't even notice there was a huge rip in the ass of my jeans. (Kinda funny because of the arctic temperatures... "Why is my ass cold? Oh...")

As a side note to all of this, I need to change my patterns of behavior. I am a night-owl and there is nothing wrong with this, but I have this weird idea in my head that I can't "do stuff" after Matt goes to bed. If I'm up until 2-4 in the morning, why shouldn't I do art or exercise or whatever else I want to do? Why shouldn't I go out and socialize with other night-owls? I don't need to be locked into Matt's schedule. I need to start using the energy I have when I get it instead of wasting it watching the Murder Channel until I fall asleep.

I will share something that has been very inspiring for me. Matt sent me a link to a Japanese fable. Kintsukuroi is the practise of repairing a broken pottery vessel with veins of gold, thus making it a unique piece of artwork. Symbolically, it is about being more beautiful for having been broken. The story touched me so deeply that I made it part of my "nickname" on Facebook, and changed my Instagram account name to "kin_tsu_ku_roi". I want it there, to look at, all the time, as an inspiration. A reminder that the things that have broken me cannot break me beyond repair, and will make me stronger and more beautiful.



Synchronistically, my Loki doll broke into pieces days after I received him. I was very upset, but as luck would have it, a lady who makes dolls was in town this past weekend, and she offered to fix him for free. And now that I've fixed him, he is definitely more beautiful. (More on that later.)

I am grateful that I have a husband who would love me if I was 100 lbs or 1000 lbs, whether I was a boy or a girl, whether I was bedridden or training for a 10k. I'm grateful that I am making progress in terms of taking the steps I need to reduce my back pain and taking charge of my reproductive health. I'm grateful that I'm taking a free online course about human evolution and having a ton of fun at it. I'm grateful that I finally had the energy to make art last night. I'm grateful that I will be getting a sleep study done next week. (It's supposed to be part of the prep for back surgery, but I am hoping it might give me some answers in terms of my bad sleep patterns.) I am grateful that I am sitting here writing this today, instead of spending the whole day in bed, like I have for the last two days. As always, I'm grateful for my gods and their love and support and constant presence in my life. I am grateful that I can still be grateful.