This morning, I woke up in a serious funk. I didn't oversleep, but I was late for work. I just couldn't move. I looked at my closet, and hated all of my clothes. When I was in the shower, I got soap in my eyes. I haven't had soap in my eyes since... well, ever. I looked in the mirror and felt disgust with my hair. I was dissatisfied with my face.
The drive to work, and the walk in the building, was surreal. I just didn't want to do it today. Luckily I have cool co-workers and enjoy being around them, but I had zero passion for my work. The eight hours I spent in the office felt like an eternity.
I went to the gym, but didn't see the point. I didn't even get my usual rush when I was done.
Sorry to be all doom and gloom, this is not normal for me. I think I need to get back into therapy. Or get a drastic hair cut. Or both.
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
I've been dumped
The therapist that written much about in several previous posts, that I worshipped and adored, has dumped me. :( Not really... her office is set up for short term help, and she said it was clear that I needed someone long term. Sadly, I have to move on.
She was amazing. She helped me learn so much about myself. She was able to clearly see some inner workings of my brain that I was never able to make sense of before. She helped me discover that writing (physically writing, not typing) is a lost art that I love.
I meet with a new woman this afternoon. Long term therapy, here I come!
She was amazing. She helped me learn so much about myself. She was able to clearly see some inner workings of my brain that I was never able to make sense of before. She helped me discover that writing (physically writing, not typing) is a lost art that I love.
I meet with a new woman this afternoon. Long term therapy, here I come!
Monday, May 07, 2007
The Banana Incident
In my previous post, I mentioned a banana incident. It's probably one of those situations that you had to be there to appreciate, but I'm going to tell the story anyway. I still giggle about it.
My second to last day in the hospital, I was sitting at a table in our dining area, with Zane and Scott. We were reading the paper, snacking, and having idle chit-chat. Scott got up to get some coffee, and Zane looks at me and says "Hey, check this out. I have no gag reflex!" He proceeds to unpeel a 9 inch banana, sticks it in his mouth and all the way down his throat, then pulls it back out, completely intact. My jaw dropped, I was in awe! Scott, the former police officer, raised his eyebrows and said "Just don't go walking around any SLC parks doing that, alright?" and left the room. As I was laughing at Scott's statement, Zane looked at me confused.
"Why can't I do that in any parks?"
"You know... SLC parks? Teehee! Wink Wink, nudge nudge!"
"I don't get it, can you spell it out for me?" Thank goodness, Scott walked back in. "Scott, Zane doesn't get your last statement, will you please explain it to him?"
Scott says "Look. When you go to certain areas of some of the larger SLC parks, like Fairmont or Liberty, it is notorious for closted gay men to park their cars and hook up. Some back in, some park forward, depending on their preference. If you walk in front of their cars sticking a banana down your throat like that, they're going to think you want a date. If that's not your thing, I suggest you don't do it." I had seen a few stories on the news over the years to know what Scott was talking about. Also, Scott used to patrol these areas.
Zane looked shocked, and we were laughing about it. As people came in the room, I said "Guess what! Zane can stick an entire banana down his throat and pull it back out!" The looks on their faces were priceless.
I gave it up. It was funny while it lasted, but I could tell that Zane was annoyed, I had told enough people, so I was done. At dinner time, Evan sat down next to me. I looked at his tray, and saw a large banana. I said:
"Evan, don't ask me any questions, but when Zane sits down, offer him your banana."
"Why?" Evan said.
"Don't ask questions! Trust me, just offer your banana to him. I'lll explain later. TRUST ME!"
Zane sat down at the table next to us, his back faced Evan's back. I couldn't have more perfectly planned their sitting.
After Zane sits down, Evan leans backward with his banana in hand and said "Hey Zane, would you like my banana?"
A bunch of people (that I had told the story to) start laughing. Zane laughed and gave me a dirty look. He then grabbed Evan's collar, grabbed his banana off his tray, and says "I've got my own, BITCH!" Both tables bursted with laughter. I was pretty proud of myself, thinking that there was no way I could have planned the entire situation better.
Then. Zane's mom comes out of the blue. "Hi Zane! I wanted to see how you were doing. Apparently you're just fine!"
You just can't plan these things.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The People
"In a sky full of people, only some learn to fly. Isn't that Crazy" ~Seal
I want to write about some of the people that I met at the crazy place. None of their names are the actual names. These characters will likely come up in future blog posts. The following post was written for purely selfsih reasons, I don't expect anyone to really pay attention to it. I just didn't want to forget these details.
The first person I met was John. He is the man who came up to me my first night and told me that I was going to be okay. The next morning I was sitting on the couch in the dining area, and he sat next to me. He asked me if I was a cutter. I asked him if I looked like a cutter, and he said yes. I told him no, and told him what happened. He told me that he drove his car into a concrete wall on the freeway going 115 MPH. The airbags saved his life, and broke his ribs. John and I clicked immediately, he became one of my favorite people. He never got to move up to my unit but was given cafeteria priveleges, so I got to see him every day. Every time he saw me, he told me I looked 100 times better than I did the day before. Later he told me that my first night there I was so roughed up, I looked like a wrestler. We joked about that ever since.
After I moved into the adult unit, I met TJ. TJ seemed like a typical boyscout, and for some reason I felt safer having him there. He became my hero after he gave me one of his disposable razors so I didn't have to be an amazon woman anymore. (we were trusted with razors in the shower, but had to give them back). TJ also told me I looked better every time I saw him. One night we had a fire alarm go off at 3AM, and he was running up and down the halls banging on everyones door making sure they were awake (fals alarm). He was there for two weeks, and I never knew why.
Stuart. I could write poetry about Stuart. Possibly the most beautiful soul I have ever met. He is active LDS, has an adorable wife and baby son. He was very sad. For absolutely no reason. He said he's always suffered with depression. He was there for electric shock treatment. My first day there, I was napping in my room, and heard music down the hall. I thought it was the radio, so I went to see what was up. It was Stuart playing his guitar and singing "The World I Know" by Collective Soul. When he was done I asked him if he took requests, but unfortunately he didn't know anything by U2. He introduced himself to me, and after that, for some reason was comfortable with me. I found out later that he was excruciatingly shy and didn't introduce himself to anyone. He sat by me at group therapy sessions and at mealtimes. He played his guitar for us every night, it was a major mood boost. He was discharged the day before I was, and he was terrified to go home and face his reality. Such talent in this beautiful soul, such kindness. So much sadness. I don't get it. I just don't get it. I will always have a part of Stuart in my heart.
Sammie, my roommate. She is a southern belle that swears like a sailor, we got along great. She had some of the funniest sayings and was hilarious without trying. Sammie has lived alone most of her life. Her family lives across the country, and she has two cats for companions. She OD'd on over the counter pills with whiskey, because tired of her sad, lonely, and also overwhelming life. Going to this place was heaven for her. She was constantly surrounded by people who understood her, talked to her, and laughed with her. This was like a vacation at a restort for her. At night time, she would talk and talk and talk my ear off. One time I got up to go to the bathroom and closed the door. She kept talking to me. I shouted through the door "Sammie, I don't mean to be rude, but I have a shy bladder and can't talk and pee at the same time." And she said "oh, ok." then continued talking. *sigh* My last night there I tried going to bed after she was already asleep, but as soon as I entered the room, she started talking. No sleep for Christy.
Evan, former high school jock in his mid 20's. Alcoholic, drug addict, depressive. Very attractive guy, but was mostly stand-offish. However, once in awhile he would completely blow me away by sharing some deep, personal secrets. He had a great soul, just didn't want it to be widely known. He is staying there to detox, then entering a 30 day program to help him overcome his addictions. I admire him for having the strength to seek help at such a young age. He has a lot of bravery and I cross my fingers that he will make it.
Danny is 22, formerly in the Navy. Tall, thin, shoulder length curly dark hair with shine to make any girl green with envy. He also had tattoo's all over his body. I like to call him "Drama Queen". Every group session, we would brace ourselves for Danny to talk because he would go on and on and tell the same stories every time. He loved being the center of attention, loved being dramatic, loved the drugs he was getting (valium) to help him overcome anxiety and depression. He was a good guy, we had some good conversations. I don't know how he'll handle life in the real world, I'm afraid he'll go back to his old ways. He thought I was his age. Heh.
Hannah is also 22, she had been in the facility for two weeks, was still there when I left. This poor girl has experienced more pain and anguish in her life than anyone should ever have to in a million years. She watched her father kill her little brother when she was 4 and her brother was 18 months. He went to prison for 7 years then her mom welcomed him back home. She married her high school sweetheart when she was 18, he passed away in his sleep when they were 20. She has a quietly optimistic attitude. She was real.
Janet is a BYU student about to graduate, married in the temple with two kids, and is addicted to pain pills. She left the same day I did and is headed to a wilderness program in southern Utah for 35 days to overcome her addiction. She and I connected right away. After I was finally granted access to walk around without an escort, she and I went for a walk together. She told me "Christy, I just wanted to share something with you. Whenever people get up in sacrament meeting and say 'I know the church is true', I think that I just want to get up there and say 'the gospel of the church is true, but the people are not'". I just smiled and nodded, it wasn't the time to blow up and say "I didn't leave because I was offended! It was the history!".
Zane is a cool punk kid, and was kicked out of 3 universities for dealing drugs such as heroine, cocaine, and meth out of his dorm rooms. He dressed ultra hip and had gauges in his ears, with black spikey hair streaked with bright colors. This was his second attempt at detoxing. When his meds weren't kicking his ass and forcing him to sleep, he was funny, articulate, and intelligent. He is also the instigator of "The Banana Incident" that will deserve its own blog entry in the future. The night before I left, his friends called him and had relapsed. They said "Zane, you've relapsed before, you can relapse again! Fake it and get out of there and come do meth with us!" This devistated Zane and the doctors decided not to release him until he finds other methods of support when he leaves. When I left he gave me a big hug and wrote his number down and said "You better call me!".
Bob was a big brother/father figure to me. He is a rugged truck driver with a rough exterior but has the softest, most tender insides. He and I joked around a lot and had a lot of laughs together. Not once but twice he tried to force me to watch "Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy"... ugh! He's been unhappily married for 20 years, really wants a divorce, but has two daughters that he doesn't want to disappoint. One of his daughters was raped on easter two years ago, and he has a lot of residual anger from that. This recent easter, it all became too much for him, so he put a gun to his head and tried to pull the trigger, but it didn't go off. So then he took some anti anxiety meds with some whiskey. My last night there he banged on my bedroom door after I was asleep and said "GOODNIGHT!", reminding me of a pesky older brother.
The last person I'll write about is Scott. Scott is a former police officer for one of SLC's toughest neighborhoods. He was very attractive, in extremely great physical condition. His wife looked like a barbie doll and he had four above average looking children. You would never expect to see someone like him suffer with such severe depression. Scott was shot in the line of duty a few years ago, and had to medically retire. He told me that there is so much going on in our communities that doesn't make the 6 or 10 o'clock news.
There were many others. A retired school teacher. And alcoholic single mother. An alcoholic stay at home mom of four children. A beauty queen who suffers from narcotics addiction. A woman whose husband was leaving her after his 16th affair. The day before I left, two women detoxing from meth were admitted. I've never seen anyone detox before, it was quite the reality check. I never want to forget those images.
So many different people, so many different paths in life. Somehow, we all ended up at the same place at the same time, and had no masks to hide behind. Depression and addiction does not discriminate.
"Imagine all the people living for today" ~John Lennon
I want to write about some of the people that I met at the crazy place. None of their names are the actual names. These characters will likely come up in future blog posts. The following post was written for purely selfsih reasons, I don't expect anyone to really pay attention to it. I just didn't want to forget these details.
The first person I met was John. He is the man who came up to me my first night and told me that I was going to be okay. The next morning I was sitting on the couch in the dining area, and he sat next to me. He asked me if I was a cutter. I asked him if I looked like a cutter, and he said yes. I told him no, and told him what happened. He told me that he drove his car into a concrete wall on the freeway going 115 MPH. The airbags saved his life, and broke his ribs. John and I clicked immediately, he became one of my favorite people. He never got to move up to my unit but was given cafeteria priveleges, so I got to see him every day. Every time he saw me, he told me I looked 100 times better than I did the day before. Later he told me that my first night there I was so roughed up, I looked like a wrestler. We joked about that ever since.
After I moved into the adult unit, I met TJ. TJ seemed like a typical boyscout, and for some reason I felt safer having him there. He became my hero after he gave me one of his disposable razors so I didn't have to be an amazon woman anymore. (we were trusted with razors in the shower, but had to give them back). TJ also told me I looked better every time I saw him. One night we had a fire alarm go off at 3AM, and he was running up and down the halls banging on everyones door making sure they were awake (fals alarm). He was there for two weeks, and I never knew why.
Stuart. I could write poetry about Stuart. Possibly the most beautiful soul I have ever met. He is active LDS, has an adorable wife and baby son. He was very sad. For absolutely no reason. He said he's always suffered with depression. He was there for electric shock treatment. My first day there, I was napping in my room, and heard music down the hall. I thought it was the radio, so I went to see what was up. It was Stuart playing his guitar and singing "The World I Know" by Collective Soul. When he was done I asked him if he took requests, but unfortunately he didn't know anything by U2. He introduced himself to me, and after that, for some reason was comfortable with me. I found out later that he was excruciatingly shy and didn't introduce himself to anyone. He sat by me at group therapy sessions and at mealtimes. He played his guitar for us every night, it was a major mood boost. He was discharged the day before I was, and he was terrified to go home and face his reality. Such talent in this beautiful soul, such kindness. So much sadness. I don't get it. I just don't get it. I will always have a part of Stuart in my heart.
Sammie, my roommate. She is a southern belle that swears like a sailor, we got along great. She had some of the funniest sayings and was hilarious without trying. Sammie has lived alone most of her life. Her family lives across the country, and she has two cats for companions. She OD'd on over the counter pills with whiskey, because tired of her sad, lonely, and also overwhelming life. Going to this place was heaven for her. She was constantly surrounded by people who understood her, talked to her, and laughed with her. This was like a vacation at a restort for her. At night time, she would talk and talk and talk my ear off. One time I got up to go to the bathroom and closed the door. She kept talking to me. I shouted through the door "Sammie, I don't mean to be rude, but I have a shy bladder and can't talk and pee at the same time." And she said "oh, ok." then continued talking. *sigh* My last night there I tried going to bed after she was already asleep, but as soon as I entered the room, she started talking. No sleep for Christy.
Evan, former high school jock in his mid 20's. Alcoholic, drug addict, depressive. Very attractive guy, but was mostly stand-offish. However, once in awhile he would completely blow me away by sharing some deep, personal secrets. He had a great soul, just didn't want it to be widely known. He is staying there to detox, then entering a 30 day program to help him overcome his addictions. I admire him for having the strength to seek help at such a young age. He has a lot of bravery and I cross my fingers that he will make it.
Danny is 22, formerly in the Navy. Tall, thin, shoulder length curly dark hair with shine to make any girl green with envy. He also had tattoo's all over his body. I like to call him "Drama Queen". Every group session, we would brace ourselves for Danny to talk because he would go on and on and tell the same stories every time. He loved being the center of attention, loved being dramatic, loved the drugs he was getting (valium) to help him overcome anxiety and depression. He was a good guy, we had some good conversations. I don't know how he'll handle life in the real world, I'm afraid he'll go back to his old ways. He thought I was his age. Heh.
Hannah is also 22, she had been in the facility for two weeks, was still there when I left. This poor girl has experienced more pain and anguish in her life than anyone should ever have to in a million years. She watched her father kill her little brother when she was 4 and her brother was 18 months. He went to prison for 7 years then her mom welcomed him back home. She married her high school sweetheart when she was 18, he passed away in his sleep when they were 20. She has a quietly optimistic attitude. She was real.
Janet is a BYU student about to graduate, married in the temple with two kids, and is addicted to pain pills. She left the same day I did and is headed to a wilderness program in southern Utah for 35 days to overcome her addiction. She and I connected right away. After I was finally granted access to walk around without an escort, she and I went for a walk together. She told me "Christy, I just wanted to share something with you. Whenever people get up in sacrament meeting and say 'I know the church is true', I think that I just want to get up there and say 'the gospel of the church is true, but the people are not'". I just smiled and nodded, it wasn't the time to blow up and say "I didn't leave because I was offended! It was the history!".
Zane is a cool punk kid, and was kicked out of 3 universities for dealing drugs such as heroine, cocaine, and meth out of his dorm rooms. He dressed ultra hip and had gauges in his ears, with black spikey hair streaked with bright colors. This was his second attempt at detoxing. When his meds weren't kicking his ass and forcing him to sleep, he was funny, articulate, and intelligent. He is also the instigator of "The Banana Incident" that will deserve its own blog entry in the future. The night before I left, his friends called him and had relapsed. They said "Zane, you've relapsed before, you can relapse again! Fake it and get out of there and come do meth with us!" This devistated Zane and the doctors decided not to release him until he finds other methods of support when he leaves. When I left he gave me a big hug and wrote his number down and said "You better call me!".
Bob was a big brother/father figure to me. He is a rugged truck driver with a rough exterior but has the softest, most tender insides. He and I joked around a lot and had a lot of laughs together. Not once but twice he tried to force me to watch "Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy"... ugh! He's been unhappily married for 20 years, really wants a divorce, but has two daughters that he doesn't want to disappoint. One of his daughters was raped on easter two years ago, and he has a lot of residual anger from that. This recent easter, it all became too much for him, so he put a gun to his head and tried to pull the trigger, but it didn't go off. So then he took some anti anxiety meds with some whiskey. My last night there he banged on my bedroom door after I was asleep and said "GOODNIGHT!", reminding me of a pesky older brother.
The last person I'll write about is Scott. Scott is a former police officer for one of SLC's toughest neighborhoods. He was very attractive, in extremely great physical condition. His wife looked like a barbie doll and he had four above average looking children. You would never expect to see someone like him suffer with such severe depression. Scott was shot in the line of duty a few years ago, and had to medically retire. He told me that there is so much going on in our communities that doesn't make the 6 or 10 o'clock news.
There were many others. A retired school teacher. And alcoholic single mother. An alcoholic stay at home mom of four children. A beauty queen who suffers from narcotics addiction. A woman whose husband was leaving her after his 16th affair. The day before I left, two women detoxing from meth were admitted. I've never seen anyone detox before, it was quite the reality check. I never want to forget those images.
So many different people, so many different paths in life. Somehow, we all ended up at the same place at the same time, and had no masks to hide behind. Depression and addiction does not discriminate.
"Imagine all the people living for today" ~John Lennon
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
And so it goes....
You don't find your identity, you create it. ~James, Psychotherapist
20 years after being diagnosed with depression, it finally happened. I wound up in the looney bin. Crazy place. Mental Hospital. Psych Ward. For my friends that sent me emails, phone calls, text messages, voicemails, etc., now you know why. Also, now that I've been to the looney bin, I can finally make looney bin jokes, so it's all been worth it! It's like being jewish, a dentist, or black. You can only make the jokes if you are of that persuasion. I am officially a mental case! I can make fun of crazy people any time I want. YES!!!
If Dooce can blog about it, then so can I!
Last friday (the 13th, ironically enough), I reached the darkest, saddest, scariest moment of my life. I didn't really want to kill myself, I just wanted to sleep for a very, very, very, VERY long time. I didn't have my kids last weekend, and hadn't stopped crying for 3 days. I saw my therapist, and she suggested that I call my psychiatrist ASAP to ask for a medicine increase. I called on my drive away from her office, but couldn't get in until the next afternoon.
That was just too long for me.
I went to work on Friday morning and was felt so overwhelmed. With everything. I've been so sad and lonely lately. I've been overwhelmed with work, life, kids, seperation/pending divorce, lack of computer at home (have I mentioned that this is being typed on my brank spankin' new HP Laptop with a 17 inch hi-def widescreen monitor and 240 gig hard drive?), lack of interaction with my friends and family, etc. etc. etc. I couldn't function anymore. I was getting nothing done. So, I went home.
When I got home, I grabbed a bottle of water and my bottle of anti-anxiety meds. I took one, and started journaling my thoughts. I was still in pain. So I took another, continued to write. Still in pain. I took another, and yup, still in pain. Soon enough, I felt ready to sleep. I sent Jer a text asking him to cancel my dr. appointment for the afternoon, and to arrange pre-school pick up for the girls. I told him I was going to sleep. Because of some previous conversations and fights we had over the day prior, he knew something was up. He called my parents, the paramedics, and my apartment manager. By the time they all got there, I was pretty out of it. I was immediately taken to the ER. At this point I was pissed and angry at Jeremy. How dare he do this to me! I sent some super nasty texts to him, was not very responsive to the ER techs (I had just taken a few anti anxiety meds!), so I was admitted to the psych ward for imprisonment... er, I mean, observation.
This place truly was crazy, and I was still pissed. I wasn't allowed bedsheets or pillowcases, not even a hair brush, or my own clothes. I was in scrubs with a plastic comb and slept between two blankets. There was one dude walking up and down the halls in his flip flops yelling at everyone he saw. He would flip his lunch and dinner trays. He would listen to others phone calls and yell out his own answers. There was another dude there who didn't stop talking, ever. A girl who would complain over everything, including possibly losing an eyelash. This place was not for me. I only felt more lonely and isolated. This place was dark, sad, and depressing beyond anything I've ever seen before. I sat and contemplated my escape. I didn't care if I had to walk 20 miles home, I was getting out of there. I went to group therapy that night, and told them on a mood scale of 1-10, I was a 2. In reality, I was a negative 10. This was the worst night of my life. After therapy, the only other seemingly "normal" person came up to me and touched my shoulder and he said "Hey, I've been where you are. You're going to be okay." and left. Later that night I would proceed to call Jeremy and tell him I hope he dies and goes to hell, yelled at a nurse for berating me and told him to never deal with me again, and cried to my mom on the phone because she was "too tired" to visit me that night. The night I needed her the most.
The next day I talked to a psychiatrist, who told me that I scared him, but he knew I didn't belong in the ward. He said that if I promise not to hurt myself or try to escape, he would move me to the next unit up, where I would have more freedoms and be surrounded by more like-minded people. I promised him, and was transferred right away.
In the next few days, I will blog more about this experience. It is something I never want to forget. I will blog about the people that I met... it's amazing how all different walks of life are affected by depression. How people from such different backgrounds can all end up at the same place at the same time. I will also blog about my learnings, in hopes that they will perhaps help others.
Until then, I'm not ashamed to admit that I spent a few days in "The Crazy Place". I'm just glad the help was there.
Oh, and I'm not mad at Jer anymore.
20 years after being diagnosed with depression, it finally happened. I wound up in the looney bin. Crazy place. Mental Hospital. Psych Ward. For my friends that sent me emails, phone calls, text messages, voicemails, etc., now you know why. Also, now that I've been to the looney bin, I can finally make looney bin jokes, so it's all been worth it! It's like being jewish, a dentist, or black. You can only make the jokes if you are of that persuasion. I am officially a mental case! I can make fun of crazy people any time I want. YES!!!
If Dooce can blog about it, then so can I!
Last friday (the 13th, ironically enough), I reached the darkest, saddest, scariest moment of my life. I didn't really want to kill myself, I just wanted to sleep for a very, very, very, VERY long time. I didn't have my kids last weekend, and hadn't stopped crying for 3 days. I saw my therapist, and she suggested that I call my psychiatrist ASAP to ask for a medicine increase. I called on my drive away from her office, but couldn't get in until the next afternoon.
That was just too long for me.
I went to work on Friday morning and was felt so overwhelmed. With everything. I've been so sad and lonely lately. I've been overwhelmed with work, life, kids, seperation/pending divorce, lack of computer at home (have I mentioned that this is being typed on my brank spankin' new HP Laptop with a 17 inch hi-def widescreen monitor and 240 gig hard drive?), lack of interaction with my friends and family, etc. etc. etc. I couldn't function anymore. I was getting nothing done. So, I went home.
When I got home, I grabbed a bottle of water and my bottle of anti-anxiety meds. I took one, and started journaling my thoughts. I was still in pain. So I took another, continued to write. Still in pain. I took another, and yup, still in pain. Soon enough, I felt ready to sleep. I sent Jer a text asking him to cancel my dr. appointment for the afternoon, and to arrange pre-school pick up for the girls. I told him I was going to sleep. Because of some previous conversations and fights we had over the day prior, he knew something was up. He called my parents, the paramedics, and my apartment manager. By the time they all got there, I was pretty out of it. I was immediately taken to the ER. At this point I was pissed and angry at Jeremy. How dare he do this to me! I sent some super nasty texts to him, was not very responsive to the ER techs (I had just taken a few anti anxiety meds!), so I was admitted to the psych ward for imprisonment... er, I mean, observation.
This place truly was crazy, and I was still pissed. I wasn't allowed bedsheets or pillowcases, not even a hair brush, or my own clothes. I was in scrubs with a plastic comb and slept between two blankets. There was one dude walking up and down the halls in his flip flops yelling at everyone he saw. He would flip his lunch and dinner trays. He would listen to others phone calls and yell out his own answers. There was another dude there who didn't stop talking, ever. A girl who would complain over everything, including possibly losing an eyelash. This place was not for me. I only felt more lonely and isolated. This place was dark, sad, and depressing beyond anything I've ever seen before. I sat and contemplated my escape. I didn't care if I had to walk 20 miles home, I was getting out of there. I went to group therapy that night, and told them on a mood scale of 1-10, I was a 2. In reality, I was a negative 10. This was the worst night of my life. After therapy, the only other seemingly "normal" person came up to me and touched my shoulder and he said "Hey, I've been where you are. You're going to be okay." and left. Later that night I would proceed to call Jeremy and tell him I hope he dies and goes to hell, yelled at a nurse for berating me and told him to never deal with me again, and cried to my mom on the phone because she was "too tired" to visit me that night. The night I needed her the most.
The next day I talked to a psychiatrist, who told me that I scared him, but he knew I didn't belong in the ward. He said that if I promise not to hurt myself or try to escape, he would move me to the next unit up, where I would have more freedoms and be surrounded by more like-minded people. I promised him, and was transferred right away.
In the next few days, I will blog more about this experience. It is something I never want to forget. I will blog about the people that I met... it's amazing how all different walks of life are affected by depression. How people from such different backgrounds can all end up at the same place at the same time. I will also blog about my learnings, in hopes that they will perhaps help others.
Until then, I'm not ashamed to admit that I spent a few days in "The Crazy Place". I'm just glad the help was there.
Oh, and I'm not mad at Jer anymore.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Ethnocentric Darkness and the Postmodernity of Orgasmic Penetration in Christy's Following my Energy
Warning: The following writing is self indulgent. Hell, who am I kidding? This entire blog is self indulgent, that's why I started it.
How do you like my title? I need to give nods to my super fantastic friend Meg Slate, she pointed me in the direction of a title generator. I shall never have boring titles again!
I'm going to blog about the therapy appointment I had today. I feel so very fortunate with this therapist that I found, and hope that in sharing some of what I'm learning, I can help other people.
Today, my therapist told me to follow my energy. Since leaving mormonism, I no longer have any kind of spiritual guidance. In place of that, I have become too needy and dependant on other people. I have, in a sense, made other people to be my "gods", and have given them my core. It's either created a great imbalance for me, or else I've stagnated. Regardless, I need to work on centering my core within myself.
I am an extrovert. Any of you who know me in real life can say "duh!" to that. I get my energy by being around other people. I feel most alive when I come to work first thing in the morning and cheefully say "Good Morning!" to my co-workers. When I'm alone, I don't know what to do with myself. I don't really like who I am. I feel lazy and boring. I can look back on my life and count on one hand how many times I have truly enjoyed an evening to myself. So, I need to work on that. I need to love myself, and be at peace with me. Not to the point where I shy away and become reclusive, but I need to accept myself for who I am.
I discovered that I feel like a fraud. I feel like people get to know me and are attracted to my outgoing, positive, confident, friendly nature, but I'm afraid the novelty of that will wear off and people will see that I really am insecure and unaware. This causes me to shy away and possibly damage potential relationships and friendships. Granted, I do believe that I am authentic, I don't think that I intentionally put on a facade for people, I just fear that they think I am. If that makes any sense at all!
She gave me two sheets of prompts for writing assignments, as I wrote about here, and I love that. Blogging is fun and theraputic and all, but these are meant to be intensely private, provoking questions. If anyone would like some of these I'd be happy to share, but I'd rather do that in email, or a more private setting.
Her next assignment for me is to give myself 10 minutes every day, where I sit alone where I won't be interrupted. Also, set a timer so that I don't have to think about the time while I'm there, but I won't lose track of it, either. She said that for 10 minutes, I am to just sit and let my feelings bottom out. Just let myself think or feel however it is that I'm feeling at that moment... don't try to supress anything. Whether it's sadness, anger, happiness, frustration, anxiety, etc. This sounds very interesting, and I look forward to seeing how this helps me.
I don't have another appointment with her until the 30th... ugh, that seems like such a long time!
Thanks for reading. Sorry that the contents of this post weren't as orgasmic as my title! :)
How do you like my title? I need to give nods to my super fantastic friend Meg Slate, she pointed me in the direction of a title generator. I shall never have boring titles again!
I'm going to blog about the therapy appointment I had today. I feel so very fortunate with this therapist that I found, and hope that in sharing some of what I'm learning, I can help other people.
Today, my therapist told me to follow my energy. Since leaving mormonism, I no longer have any kind of spiritual guidance. In place of that, I have become too needy and dependant on other people. I have, in a sense, made other people to be my "gods", and have given them my core. It's either created a great imbalance for me, or else I've stagnated. Regardless, I need to work on centering my core within myself.
I am an extrovert. Any of you who know me in real life can say "duh!" to that. I get my energy by being around other people. I feel most alive when I come to work first thing in the morning and cheefully say "Good Morning!" to my co-workers. When I'm alone, I don't know what to do with myself. I don't really like who I am. I feel lazy and boring. I can look back on my life and count on one hand how many times I have truly enjoyed an evening to myself. So, I need to work on that. I need to love myself, and be at peace with me. Not to the point where I shy away and become reclusive, but I need to accept myself for who I am.
I discovered that I feel like a fraud. I feel like people get to know me and are attracted to my outgoing, positive, confident, friendly nature, but I'm afraid the novelty of that will wear off and people will see that I really am insecure and unaware. This causes me to shy away and possibly damage potential relationships and friendships. Granted, I do believe that I am authentic, I don't think that I intentionally put on a facade for people, I just fear that they think I am. If that makes any sense at all!
She gave me two sheets of prompts for writing assignments, as I wrote about here, and I love that. Blogging is fun and theraputic and all, but these are meant to be intensely private, provoking questions. If anyone would like some of these I'd be happy to share, but I'd rather do that in email, or a more private setting.
Her next assignment for me is to give myself 10 minutes every day, where I sit alone where I won't be interrupted. Also, set a timer so that I don't have to think about the time while I'm there, but I won't lose track of it, either. She said that for 10 minutes, I am to just sit and let my feelings bottom out. Just let myself think or feel however it is that I'm feeling at that moment... don't try to supress anything. Whether it's sadness, anger, happiness, frustration, anxiety, etc. This sounds very interesting, and I look forward to seeing how this helps me.
I don't have another appointment with her until the 30th... ugh, that seems like such a long time!
Thanks for reading. Sorry that the contents of this post weren't as orgasmic as my title! :)
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless (?) Mind
I must preface this post by saying I have not seen this movie since it's theatrical release. It's been a few years, and while my memory is top notch, it's not perfect.
This was one of those movies that has stuck with me. When I saw it I loved it, and it's clear that I need to see it again, very soon. I found it heartbreaking, heartwarming, and mesmerizing at the same time.
I've been thinking about my own life lately, and the recent roller coaster of emotions that I've had, my being in therapy, learning to discover who I am and really loving myself. I'm so far off from it, but I do see a light at the end of the tunnel.
There are moments in my life that I have loved, and often replay them in my mind over and over again. It makes me sad that with time, parts of the memories fade... sometimes it's the exact look of the person involved, the voice, the surroundings... eventually all that's left is the specifics of the moment in and of itself, and the details are hazy. I wish that the opposite of mind erasing were possible, where we could record these moments and replay them in their entirety, and get all of those feelings back again. It's these moments in life that I look back on with such fondness, and they really pull my out of my darker times. I need these incredible moments.
There are moments in my life that I loved while in the moment, but replaying them in my mind brings too much pain. I do my best to try to ignore and forget about these moments, but it's not possible. It's moments like this that make me wish that mind erasing were indeed possible. If I could forget that certain things were said or done in my life, then I could avoid heartbreak altogether, and more easily move on. I hate heartbreak with a passion.
I suppose heartbreak is necessary. Without heartbreak, you're not able to really enjoy and appreciate something good when you have it. If everything in life comes to you easily and without any effort or work, then what's the point? But where is the line when you're able to trust again, or allow your heart to open and accept again? At what point are we sabotaging ourselves and forcing a life of misery, when not necessary? As my mom says often, we tend to cut off our noses to spite our face.
My point to this, is that broken hearts suck. Healing takes a long time. Memory erasing is not possible. Permanent memory is not reachable. I guess it's true when they say that you can't appreciate the sweet without the bitter.
But it still hurts.
This was one of those movies that has stuck with me. When I saw it I loved it, and it's clear that I need to see it again, very soon. I found it heartbreaking, heartwarming, and mesmerizing at the same time.
I've been thinking about my own life lately, and the recent roller coaster of emotions that I've had, my being in therapy, learning to discover who I am and really loving myself. I'm so far off from it, but I do see a light at the end of the tunnel.
There are moments in my life that I have loved, and often replay them in my mind over and over again. It makes me sad that with time, parts of the memories fade... sometimes it's the exact look of the person involved, the voice, the surroundings... eventually all that's left is the specifics of the moment in and of itself, and the details are hazy. I wish that the opposite of mind erasing were possible, where we could record these moments and replay them in their entirety, and get all of those feelings back again. It's these moments in life that I look back on with such fondness, and they really pull my out of my darker times. I need these incredible moments.
There are moments in my life that I loved while in the moment, but replaying them in my mind brings too much pain. I do my best to try to ignore and forget about these moments, but it's not possible. It's moments like this that make me wish that mind erasing were indeed possible. If I could forget that certain things were said or done in my life, then I could avoid heartbreak altogether, and more easily move on. I hate heartbreak with a passion.
I suppose heartbreak is necessary. Without heartbreak, you're not able to really enjoy and appreciate something good when you have it. If everything in life comes to you easily and without any effort or work, then what's the point? But where is the line when you're able to trust again, or allow your heart to open and accept again? At what point are we sabotaging ourselves and forcing a life of misery, when not necessary? As my mom says often, we tend to cut off our noses to spite our face.
My point to this, is that broken hearts suck. Healing takes a long time. Memory erasing is not possible. Permanent memory is not reachable. I guess it's true when they say that you can't appreciate the sweet without the bitter.
But it still hurts.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
More about my therapy
As I mentioned in a previous post, I've recently started therapy again. Lemon Blossom kindly asked me for an update, and I thought I'd just dedicate an entire entry to depression/therapy experience.
It's no secret to any readers of my blog that I heart Dooce. Other than the fact that I believe she and I are total soul sisters, I so greatly admire how Dooce puts a human face to depression. She is living proof that depression does not discriminate based on race, religion, sex, upbringing, etc. It can happen to anyone, anywhere, I am SO glad to live in a generation where there is professional help readily available. I look at the way my father grew up and the way his father was, and it's clear he had depression too, but it wasn't widely talked about or treated back then.
I was first diagnosed with depression when I was 12. It was the weirdest thing-- I had a picture perfect childhood. I had siblings that I got along with, parents who provided all of my needs and most of my wants and gave me a lot of love, and opportunities to do anything I wanted to do. The biggest challenge of my childhood was the fact that my dad worked for the US government so we had to move between Utah and Germany a couple of times... but that wasn't much of a challenge. Yes it was difficult to say goodbye to friends and family for a few years, but the experiences I had living in a foreign country were well worth it and I always appreciated that. So here I am, 12 years old and in seventh grade, and suddenly feeling like I was taking up too much space and probably ought to jump off of a bridge. I mentioned this to my parents during dinner one night, and thank GOD they didn't take it lightly and got me into a therapist and a psychiatrist in lightning fast speed.
I was told that I had a chemical imbalance, which didn't make sense to me until many years later. I finally came to terms with the fact that depression is not just a mental thing, it's also a physical ailment. From agest 12-20 I was off an on several different types of anti-depressants. I probably should have continued on the meds after 20, but I didn't think I needed them, and after that I went through about 8 dark years. Of course this is all hindsight. By the time I was 28, I had finally adjusted well to my life and made several positve (although difficult!) changes, and was at last happy with the skin I was in. But it's kinda like changing a lightbulb. You can change it and it burns brightly for a period of time, but if you don't change it again when the light dims out, you're left in the dark.
I'm at a point in my life where I'm able to see the signs that tell me when I need to seek professional help. Sometimes, we just can't make it on our own. There's no shame in that. It's not that YOU did anything wrong, or even necessarily because someone wronged you. It's because sometimes shitty things happen, sometimes they don't. Sometimes there's absolutely no reason for you to be sad, sometimes there are. Regardless of the reasons, coping with life can be difficult.
I'm not saying that medication is for everyone, clearly it's not. I am saying that it can be very beneficial for anyone to talk to an unbiased, professional source. I didn't click with my first therapist, then clicked immediately and amazingly with my second. For me, the key to successful therapy is to be completely and brutally honest. They're not there to judge you, they're there to help. Anything you could possibly tell them, I can almost guarantee that they've heard worse. I had my second appoinment with my therapist today, and I went over the history of my last 10-15 years. She brought into light all that I've had to deal with, all the changes I've made, all that I've experienced, in a one hour session. She gave me some assigments before I see her again. I have to buy an artists book with a hardbound cover with a spiral attachment. I can use this to write in, draw in, scribble, do whatever I want. She gave me one artistic assigment (I'm not an artist, but she believes this task will uncover some of what's underneath) as well as 5 writing assigments. I told her "Oh, I blog! I blog! I write all the time" She thought that was great, but wants these writings to be so intensely private, that she won't even read them. It's all for me, in an effort to really discover myself.
There can't be any shame in the fact that I'm giddy with excitement over this. She is not only listening to me without judgment, but she understands me. She gets what I'm saying. She is giving me physical, not just mental suggestions. I am going to find myself, and I'm going to like it.
It's no secret to any readers of my blog that I heart Dooce. Other than the fact that I believe she and I are total soul sisters, I so greatly admire how Dooce puts a human face to depression. She is living proof that depression does not discriminate based on race, religion, sex, upbringing, etc. It can happen to anyone, anywhere, I am SO glad to live in a generation where there is professional help readily available. I look at the way my father grew up and the way his father was, and it's clear he had depression too, but it wasn't widely talked about or treated back then.
I was first diagnosed with depression when I was 12. It was the weirdest thing-- I had a picture perfect childhood. I had siblings that I got along with, parents who provided all of my needs and most of my wants and gave me a lot of love, and opportunities to do anything I wanted to do. The biggest challenge of my childhood was the fact that my dad worked for the US government so we had to move between Utah and Germany a couple of times... but that wasn't much of a challenge. Yes it was difficult to say goodbye to friends and family for a few years, but the experiences I had living in a foreign country were well worth it and I always appreciated that. So here I am, 12 years old and in seventh grade, and suddenly feeling like I was taking up too much space and probably ought to jump off of a bridge. I mentioned this to my parents during dinner one night, and thank GOD they didn't take it lightly and got me into a therapist and a psychiatrist in lightning fast speed.
I was told that I had a chemical imbalance, which didn't make sense to me until many years later. I finally came to terms with the fact that depression is not just a mental thing, it's also a physical ailment. From agest 12-20 I was off an on several different types of anti-depressants. I probably should have continued on the meds after 20, but I didn't think I needed them, and after that I went through about 8 dark years. Of course this is all hindsight. By the time I was 28, I had finally adjusted well to my life and made several positve (although difficult!) changes, and was at last happy with the skin I was in. But it's kinda like changing a lightbulb. You can change it and it burns brightly for a period of time, but if you don't change it again when the light dims out, you're left in the dark.
I'm at a point in my life where I'm able to see the signs that tell me when I need to seek professional help. Sometimes, we just can't make it on our own. There's no shame in that. It's not that YOU did anything wrong, or even necessarily because someone wronged you. It's because sometimes shitty things happen, sometimes they don't. Sometimes there's absolutely no reason for you to be sad, sometimes there are. Regardless of the reasons, coping with life can be difficult.
I'm not saying that medication is for everyone, clearly it's not. I am saying that it can be very beneficial for anyone to talk to an unbiased, professional source. I didn't click with my first therapist, then clicked immediately and amazingly with my second. For me, the key to successful therapy is to be completely and brutally honest. They're not there to judge you, they're there to help. Anything you could possibly tell them, I can almost guarantee that they've heard worse. I had my second appoinment with my therapist today, and I went over the history of my last 10-15 years. She brought into light all that I've had to deal with, all the changes I've made, all that I've experienced, in a one hour session. She gave me some assigments before I see her again. I have to buy an artists book with a hardbound cover with a spiral attachment. I can use this to write in, draw in, scribble, do whatever I want. She gave me one artistic assigment (I'm not an artist, but she believes this task will uncover some of what's underneath) as well as 5 writing assigments. I told her "Oh, I blog! I blog! I write all the time" She thought that was great, but wants these writings to be so intensely private, that she won't even read them. It's all for me, in an effort to really discover myself.
There can't be any shame in the fact that I'm giddy with excitement over this. She is not only listening to me without judgment, but she understands me. She gets what I'm saying. She is giving me physical, not just mental suggestions. I am going to find myself, and I'm going to like it.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Oops, I originally published this without a title!
It's been two years since I admitted to myself that I no longer believed in mormonism. The doubts and questions were there for at least two years prior, but it was two years ago this month that I officially stopped paying tithing and said "Joseph Smith is full of shit!"
At this same time I found The DAMU, (although my preference is now the new and improved New DAMU AKA FLAK), and soon after that I found a non-advertised underground DAMUU that I would link to, but I think they like it small and want to keep their privacy.
The owner of the board at that time was Voodew (who has posted comments to this very blog from time to time!). Voodew was trying to get some new posts going on the board so he gave us all thread assigments. Mine was something to the effect of "I may have left mormonism behind but I still act like one in these ways...."
My response was along the lines that I was worried about lightning striking since I recently stopped paying tithing (lightning did strike, my entire department was layed off within a few months. Then I ended up with a great promotion within the same company immediately after!). My other sentiments were that I was always wondering what I could do to help others. Mormonism was all about serving everyone, sacrificing yourself, give give give, go go go, collapse at the end of the day, wake up and do it all over again. You can never give enough.
Nurturing is natural for me. It is innate for me to want to take care of and rescue people. There is nothing wrong with assisting or helping others, but not at the risk of losing myself. Mormonism made me feel that if I did what I wanted to do for me, I was selfish and self-serving. I am in the process of breaking that cycle!
It's no surprise to some of my blog readers that I'm in therapy, although it may be a surprise to others. I had been seeing a therapist who wasn't really clicking with me. At my wits end I called the place that I have to go through for insurance purposes, and demanded someone different. I saw a woman yesterday who provided an amazing sense of clarity for me, and who really understood where I was coming from and very intune to what I need help with. For so long I have done what other people want me to do or think I should do, so I'm being introspective and yes... some may call it selfish. It's impossible for me to grow and thrive if I'm depending on everyone around me being okay, in order for me to be okay.
So, that's where I am right now. I've been going through some tough shit lately, a bunch of stuff that I don't want to blog about. I have neglected responding to all of my blog comments, because I simply haven't had the energy. Thanks to everyone who continues to read and respond... each time I get a message in my inbox saying that I have a new response, I get a little excited. No need to worry about me, I'm going to be just fine. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and I am going full steam ahead.
At this same time I found The DAMU, (although my preference is now the new and improved New DAMU AKA FLAK), and soon after that I found a non-advertised underground DAMUU that I would link to, but I think they like it small and want to keep their privacy.
The owner of the board at that time was Voodew (who has posted comments to this very blog from time to time!). Voodew was trying to get some new posts going on the board so he gave us all thread assigments. Mine was something to the effect of "I may have left mormonism behind but I still act like one in these ways...."
My response was along the lines that I was worried about lightning striking since I recently stopped paying tithing (lightning did strike, my entire department was layed off within a few months. Then I ended up with a great promotion within the same company immediately after!). My other sentiments were that I was always wondering what I could do to help others. Mormonism was all about serving everyone, sacrificing yourself, give give give, go go go, collapse at the end of the day, wake up and do it all over again. You can never give enough.
Nurturing is natural for me. It is innate for me to want to take care of and rescue people. There is nothing wrong with assisting or helping others, but not at the risk of losing myself. Mormonism made me feel that if I did what I wanted to do for me, I was selfish and self-serving. I am in the process of breaking that cycle!
It's no surprise to some of my blog readers that I'm in therapy, although it may be a surprise to others. I had been seeing a therapist who wasn't really clicking with me. At my wits end I called the place that I have to go through for insurance purposes, and demanded someone different. I saw a woman yesterday who provided an amazing sense of clarity for me, and who really understood where I was coming from and very intune to what I need help with. For so long I have done what other people want me to do or think I should do, so I'm being introspective and yes... some may call it selfish. It's impossible for me to grow and thrive if I'm depending on everyone around me being okay, in order for me to be okay.
So, that's where I am right now. I've been going through some tough shit lately, a bunch of stuff that I don't want to blog about. I have neglected responding to all of my blog comments, because I simply haven't had the energy. Thanks to everyone who continues to read and respond... each time I get a message in my inbox saying that I have a new response, I get a little excited. No need to worry about me, I'm going to be just fine. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and I am going full steam ahead.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
I'm No Superman
Or Superwoman, for that matter.
Did anyone watch Scrubs tonight? As the nature of Scrubs has been, I laughed throughout the episode and was crying by the end. The writers of this show are Pure.Genious. I could probably write a blog post about each and every episode and how it relates to my life. But that would get boring. Still, I'm going to talk about tonights episode.
Spoilers if you haven't seen it and are planning on watching it! Turn away now!
The main plot of tonights episode "My House" revolved around JD and his pregnant girlfriend Kim. Kim has a job offer in another state that would be fantastic for her career, which lasts for 4 months. So does she stay with her boyfriend (who impregnated her), or does she take the opportunity of a lifetime? JD wants her to stay. He loves her, he wants to be with her while she's carrying his child. He can't move with her. However, he can't tell her "Stay! Don't leave me!" so he acts like the supportive boyfriend and encourages her to go, even though it's killing him inside.
I've been in both sides of this scenario, and it's a tough call. You don't want to be the whiney and clingy partner, but you shouldn't be dishonest about your real feelings. Are we still in a day and age where a person needs to play "hard to get" in order to be desireable? Are humans still seeking after the thrill of the hunt? I don't know. I hated these theories when I was on the dating scene. If you can't be genuine with your potential mate, then what's the point? I don't have the answer to these questions. I would like to think I'm 100% genuine with everyone all the time, but I know that's not true. At least it's something that I'm conscientious about and work towards... that's saying something, right?
Ultimately, Kim takes the job, and JD confesses how he really feels about it, but is still supportive. I think this speaks volumes. Neither is sacrificing who they are or how they're feeling, but there is a mutual satisfaction there.
Which leads me to another point, staying true to yourself and maintaining your identity. Now that I think about it, this subject alone could be it's own blog entry, so I'll save that can of worms for another day.
Almost switching gears entirely but still talking about tonights episode of Scrubs, at the very end, we see Carla lying in bed in the maternity ward holding her baby (who was NOT a newborn but closer to 6 months--- whatEVER!) and crying. This is where I felt the tears. I have already written in length about the shock I felt after having newborn twins. I cried for 36 hours straight. I had 3 months of pure hell before I saw a light at the end of the tunnel. 5 years later, life is normal again, but damn... at the time, I thought that was the end of my world, even though I had been given the greatest of "blessings". I love that they're introducing Carla into the world of post-partum depression. I know that they'll do it in true Scrubs style... it will have an amazing sense of honesty without being too much of a downer. In my opinion, life is too short to be serious all the time.
How did this post get so long? Sorry about that. I *heart* Scrubs, if you didn't already know.
Did anyone watch Scrubs tonight? As the nature of Scrubs has been, I laughed throughout the episode and was crying by the end. The writers of this show are Pure.Genious. I could probably write a blog post about each and every episode and how it relates to my life. But that would get boring. Still, I'm going to talk about tonights episode.
Spoilers if you haven't seen it and are planning on watching it! Turn away now!
The main plot of tonights episode "My House" revolved around JD and his pregnant girlfriend Kim. Kim has a job offer in another state that would be fantastic for her career, which lasts for 4 months. So does she stay with her boyfriend (who impregnated her), or does she take the opportunity of a lifetime? JD wants her to stay. He loves her, he wants to be with her while she's carrying his child. He can't move with her. However, he can't tell her "Stay! Don't leave me!" so he acts like the supportive boyfriend and encourages her to go, even though it's killing him inside.
I've been in both sides of this scenario, and it's a tough call. You don't want to be the whiney and clingy partner, but you shouldn't be dishonest about your real feelings. Are we still in a day and age where a person needs to play "hard to get" in order to be desireable? Are humans still seeking after the thrill of the hunt? I don't know. I hated these theories when I was on the dating scene. If you can't be genuine with your potential mate, then what's the point? I don't have the answer to these questions. I would like to think I'm 100% genuine with everyone all the time, but I know that's not true. At least it's something that I'm conscientious about and work towards... that's saying something, right?
Ultimately, Kim takes the job, and JD confesses how he really feels about it, but is still supportive. I think this speaks volumes. Neither is sacrificing who they are or how they're feeling, but there is a mutual satisfaction there.
Which leads me to another point, staying true to yourself and maintaining your identity. Now that I think about it, this subject alone could be it's own blog entry, so I'll save that can of worms for another day.
Almost switching gears entirely but still talking about tonights episode of Scrubs, at the very end, we see Carla lying in bed in the maternity ward holding her baby (who was NOT a newborn but closer to 6 months--- whatEVER!) and crying. This is where I felt the tears. I have already written in length about the shock I felt after having newborn twins. I cried for 36 hours straight. I had 3 months of pure hell before I saw a light at the end of the tunnel. 5 years later, life is normal again, but damn... at the time, I thought that was the end of my world, even though I had been given the greatest of "blessings". I love that they're introducing Carla into the world of post-partum depression. I know that they'll do it in true Scrubs style... it will have an amazing sense of honesty without being too much of a downer. In my opinion, life is too short to be serious all the time.
How did this post get so long? Sorry about that. I *heart* Scrubs, if you didn't already know.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
It's all about picking your battles
Last summer, my mom had what we think is a nervous breakdown. My dad announced to her about 3 years ago, that after 40 years of marriage, he has never believed in the church. My mom is what some might call a church addict. She's struggled with serious depression ever since, although she never let on to what she was going through. She always put on a happy face and tried to ignore the feelings. Last spring, I told her that I didn't believe in mormonism anymore, and would no longer be practicing, nor would I raise my children that way. Again, she put on a happy face and said "Only you know what the best path in life is!" and the discussion was over.
Back to the nervous breakdown. It's a really long story and I won't get into the details, but the nuts and bolts of it is that one day she started speaking really strangely, saying very odd things, and she actually sounded drunk. Her speech was slurred, she wasn't making any sense. Her body was uncontrollabley shaking, and she was hearing voices and seeing spots. After a few calls to her doctor, my dad was advised to take her to the emergency room.
To wind this up, she was put through several tests, given all sorts of medications, and her doctors were baffled. I witnessed everything first hand, and I know she wasn't faking any of it. Ever since then, I've been unconsciously detaching myself from the situation. I want to be there for her, but I don't know how to act or what to say in her presence. She's still not herself, and I'm doubtful that she ever will be herself again. She still says really odd things... for instance, after recently returning from my business trip to NYC, she said "So did you go to Florida, too?" Yeah, because it's a hop, skip, and a jump, right? This is not my mom. My mom is bright and intelligent and independant. She only has little moments that make me remember who she used to be.
Today my mom calls me and says "I found the most adorable Christmas book for the girls! It has two stories, one about how Santa knows what they're doing and loves them and gives them presents, then the other is the same story, but only it's about Jesus! Isn't that great? You still teach them about Jesus, don't you?" I hope you'll understand why I didn't have the heart to tell her no. I guess I'll let her read the girls the book when she gives it to them, then I'll put it on a shelf until it's eventually sent to the DI. (Deseret Industries... local thrift shop for you non Utahn or LDS folk)
Back to the nervous breakdown. It's a really long story and I won't get into the details, but the nuts and bolts of it is that one day she started speaking really strangely, saying very odd things, and she actually sounded drunk. Her speech was slurred, she wasn't making any sense. Her body was uncontrollabley shaking, and she was hearing voices and seeing spots. After a few calls to her doctor, my dad was advised to take her to the emergency room.
To wind this up, she was put through several tests, given all sorts of medications, and her doctors were baffled. I witnessed everything first hand, and I know she wasn't faking any of it. Ever since then, I've been unconsciously detaching myself from the situation. I want to be there for her, but I don't know how to act or what to say in her presence. She's still not herself, and I'm doubtful that she ever will be herself again. She still says really odd things... for instance, after recently returning from my business trip to NYC, she said "So did you go to Florida, too?" Yeah, because it's a hop, skip, and a jump, right? This is not my mom. My mom is bright and intelligent and independant. She only has little moments that make me remember who she used to be.
Today my mom calls me and says "I found the most adorable Christmas book for the girls! It has two stories, one about how Santa knows what they're doing and loves them and gives them presents, then the other is the same story, but only it's about Jesus! Isn't that great? You still teach them about Jesus, don't you?" I hope you'll understand why I didn't have the heart to tell her no. I guess I'll let her read the girls the book when she gives it to them, then I'll put it on a shelf until it's eventually sent to the DI. (Deseret Industries... local thrift shop for you non Utahn or LDS folk)
Thursday, October 05, 2006
I heart Dooce
I'm new to this blogging thing... can anyone tell me if I'm allowed to have two posts in one night? Anyone? Awww... to hell with it. I'm going to whether or not it's socially acceptable.
I heart Dooce. I've been reading her Blog for aobut 18 months now, I found it soon after I found the DAMU. I have loved her from the first post I read. In many ways, I feel like we are kindred spirits. She and I have so much in common, we are the same age, graduated the same year, we both loved the TV show Felicity and have dreams about Bono. I want a t-shirt that says "I heart Dooce" across my boobs. Even though I've never met her, she has a place in my heart.
My favorite Dooce posts are her monthly news letters to her daughter. I love reading about her daughter, and I think she's going to grow up and really cherish all of these posts her mother has made about her. This month it was her 32 month news letter. These monthly messagse are always HI-LARIOUS, and tie up in a very sweet, affectionate package that usually manages to bring a few tears to my eyes.
This month she ended her post with talk about depression. Apparently, Dooce is suffering pretty severely right now. As a sister in the agony of depression, she has all of my sympathy. I was diagnosed at age 12. I felt like a freak because it wasn't widely talked about at the time. I had a wonderful childhood filled with tremendous opportunities and a fun, loving family. I turned 12 and wanted to end my life. I spent the next several years on and off different medications. I have not taken anything in nearly 5 years (a few months after my babies were born), and I've been okay. But I know that at any given moment, I could find myself no longer able to cope.
I look at someone like Dooce, and part of me briefly wonders how she could be depressed. Here is a woman who has it all-- she's married to the man of her dreams, she has more intelligence and wit in the way she writes the word "is" than I have in an entire blog, she has a daughter she adores, is very close to her family, and makes a living doing what she loves, not to mention gorgeous. Then I quickly remembered, depression doesn't care about any of that. Many people don't realize that depression is not simply a mental condition, it's a physical condition as well. A person can seemingly have it all, but be torn up on the inside. I hate this ugly disease. I hate how it makes a person feel about themselves.
Now I'm trying to figure out how to end this post without being such a downer. Anyone know where I can get a t-shirt that says "I Heart Dooce" across the boobs?
I heart Dooce. I've been reading her Blog for aobut 18 months now, I found it soon after I found the DAMU. I have loved her from the first post I read. In many ways, I feel like we are kindred spirits. She and I have so much in common, we are the same age, graduated the same year, we both loved the TV show Felicity and have dreams about Bono. I want a t-shirt that says "I heart Dooce" across my boobs. Even though I've never met her, she has a place in my heart.
My favorite Dooce posts are her monthly news letters to her daughter. I love reading about her daughter, and I think she's going to grow up and really cherish all of these posts her mother has made about her. This month it was her 32 month news letter. These monthly messagse are always HI-LARIOUS, and tie up in a very sweet, affectionate package that usually manages to bring a few tears to my eyes.
This month she ended her post with talk about depression. Apparently, Dooce is suffering pretty severely right now. As a sister in the agony of depression, she has all of my sympathy. I was diagnosed at age 12. I felt like a freak because it wasn't widely talked about at the time. I had a wonderful childhood filled with tremendous opportunities and a fun, loving family. I turned 12 and wanted to end my life. I spent the next several years on and off different medications. I have not taken anything in nearly 5 years (a few months after my babies were born), and I've been okay. But I know that at any given moment, I could find myself no longer able to cope.
I look at someone like Dooce, and part of me briefly wonders how she could be depressed. Here is a woman who has it all-- she's married to the man of her dreams, she has more intelligence and wit in the way she writes the word "is" than I have in an entire blog, she has a daughter she adores, is very close to her family, and makes a living doing what she loves, not to mention gorgeous. Then I quickly remembered, depression doesn't care about any of that. Many people don't realize that depression is not simply a mental condition, it's a physical condition as well. A person can seemingly have it all, but be torn up on the inside. I hate this ugly disease. I hate how it makes a person feel about themselves.
Now I'm trying to figure out how to end this post without being such a downer. Anyone know where I can get a t-shirt that says "I Heart Dooce" across the boobs?
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Insecurity's a bitch
Do you ever have those days where you feel like you can't do or say anything right? And there's no explaining it-- you haven't royally screwed anything up or anything like that. You just feel insecure. blah. That's me, that's my day. I think I'll hybernate now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
