Tag: depression

The Day the Free Press Died in the US

painted grate

Free press in the United States is officially dead with the sentencing of Bradley Manning.  Obama letting him go to trial makes him complicit in punishing the kid on the playground who told on the bullies and let the bullies remain unpunished.  I have lost all respect for him.  It took a lot for that to happen because Bush was so damn evil in comparison, but this is 100% unacceptable to me.

I am a little emotional already because I tried to make chicken wings for Max today which required buying chicken wings and asking stupid questions of the meat counter guy and feeling like an idiot and then – because the whole thing was so surreal – I let loose some chatter at the checkout counter about how I have no idea what I’m doing cooking chicken wings because I’m a lifelong vegetarian and I could practically hear the checkout guy sigh with resigned irritation and I definitely saw the look on his face “Fat old hag being preciously vegetarian”.

I don’t suppose many people can understand what it means for me to buy some meat and try to cook it up for my son even though I’m completely opposed to eating meat and no matter how much I know it’s natural for most humans to eat it – what with the food chain and us being the animals at the top of it* – I still can’t stomach that people eat other animals when I am forced too close to it.  My acceptance of other people eating meat is a fragile thing.  Most of the time I want all of you to knock it off.

I’m on no high horse though.  I am complicit in the dairy trade which is responsible for the killing of millions of male calves and I wear leather that is their skin.  Some day I am going to have to square myself with this contradiction.  Something tells me it’s got to happen sooner than I’ll be ready.

I cut part of the wing off a bird carcass today.  And I almost retched.  I felt like I was cutting my own hand off my arm.  Chicken flesh is no different than human flesh to me.  It’s flesh flesh flesh flesh.  The feeling of that flesh made my own crawl.  And when the wing tip came off there was blood in the bone.  Like there’s blood in my bones.  Like there’s blood in my child’s bones.  And I looked at all the other wings and I saw beautiful birds that used to live in the wild.  My instinct is to bury the wings in the garden and mark their place with a beautiful forest stone.  I tried to brace myself to disconnect another wing tip but I knew I would throw up if I had to put my blade through that flesh again.  I couldn’t do it.

The only flesh I’ve ever willingly sliced is my own and when I did that it was because I was mentally ill and struggling to stay alive.

I don’t cut flesh.

I will never willingly cut flesh again.

Doesn’t matter if its alive or already dead.

I’m not saying I won’t let my son eat meat – he has his own choices to make and he desperately needs more things in his diet that can nourish him.  If his dietary issues weren’t so extreme I would never try cooking him meat in my house.  My kitchen feels so dirty right now even though Philip was really sweet and tried to get rid of every trace of dead animal.

My job hunt is the most depressing thing ever.

There are glitches with the house situation.  I’m not sure what the outcome will be.

I feel that my issues and challenges are misunderstood by most people I know.  I am feeling vulnerable to the sting of group “wisdom”.

I wouldn’t be so depressed if only I tried harder to elevate my mood and not dwell on the bad things.  My kid will love vegetables if I grow them in the garden.  If I didn’t LET my kid be a picky eater he wouldn’t BE one.  I’m not really mentally ill, I’m just normal with an affectation.  All this talk of having been suicidal as a teen is just melodramatic stuff.  My kid is manipulating me with all his issues – if I didn’t fall for it he’d soon learn to be like everyone else.  If I didn’t prop Max up so much he wouldn’t be weak.  If I exercised regularly the dark voices in my head would turn out to just be undissolved fat.  If I did things differently than I do (fill in the blank with YOUR WAY) then I would see how misguided I am, how much better everything would be.  If only I gave up grains I would discover that I’ve been super allergic to them my whole life.  I can’t know my own tastes until I have discovered YOURS.

So then I hear about the Bradley Manning “trial” and I feel even more sick and dejected because my country is punishing someone who told the truth, a truth that all US citizens had a right to know.  These are the thoughts that came immediately to mind:

Do you all think that when people witness pedophiles committing crimes they should keep silent about it if that person is in some kind of position of power?
Do you think it’s honorable to keep silent when you witness rape or murder? Do you think that kids who tell on bullies should be punished while the bully is not?
What kind of nation are we?
We’re a nation that punishes the kids who tell on bullies.

I haven’t always been this way – I was a bullied and scared person when I was young.  Scared of authority and of angry people and threatening people whether they were family or strangers.  But I’ve changed over time.  I won’t dismiss bullying.  I will encourage people to leave abusive situations and I have offered my apartment up as a safe place.  Many times I’ve asked myself if I could step up to the plate if I was truly called to do so.  I know one thing – people who speak out against crimes and injustice for the sake of our collective safety and freedoms are the people I want to be.  I want to be able to count on myself to always report abuses and stick out my neck when someone needs me to help them even at risk to myself.

That’s the character I model myself after.  My neighbors who grabbed hoses and ran into my burning house to do what they could to help us?  I want to be them.  To have them do that for us made me realize that, against all my fears to the contrary, there are still good people out there.  I want to be good people.

Even though I can’t bear to cut through the flesh of animals.

Lord knows I’m as flawed as people come.

I have also been having some curious revelations lately about myself.  Like – I’m a blunt person like Max is.  I guess I used to know I was blunt but over time I have come to think I’m pretty diplomatic with my truths.  I also can’t tell when people are teasing me about 50% of the time.  It makes me feel socially crippled.  I kind of knew this before but I’m realizing it’s a great source of anxiety for me.  Because when you can’t tell when people are joking you will make a complete fool of yourself all the time taking them up on what they say seriously.

I feel a fool around people most of the time.   Misunderstanding a tease or a comment is a given in any situation that involves me and other people.  But if I misunderstand that – how much more do I misunderstand?  Do I know ANYTHING about human beings?  Do I even know myself?

What if everything I’ve ever believed to be true turns out to be false?

Max’s psychologist has the best boots.  They look like they’re made of wool and they have blue laces.  I wanted to ask him what company made them but I couldn’t bear to be the frumpy fat middle aged woman ogling a pair of boots I would have worn when I was twenty.

I swear to god I’m in tears right now because I cut a chicken’s wings today.

I also might be in tears because Photojojo officially passed me over for employment even though I think they actually took my suggestion for a new editorial direction seriously though I’ll never be able to prove it.

I might be in tears for purely hormonal reasons.  I’m not on the rag or about to be – but I might be experiencing hormonal fluctuations due to perimenopausal progress.  One can hope.

Mostly I think it’s because of the chicken.

And because Obama has officially failed at standing for the same things I do by letting Bradley Manning be tried and sentenced.  This is the kind of pivotal political moment people remember forever – like the day Kennedy was shot.

The day Obama officially condoned secrets, lies, and crushing free press.

My country condones torture, war crimes, and murder.

I don’t.

Bradley Manning is an American Hero.

As long as he’s in jail we are no longer a free nation.

Before I shut down my computer my friend Tarrant posted this on Facebook:

Antoinette Tuff

A woman who talked a would-be-mass-murderer into surrendering.

And here’s more on Antoinette:

The 911 Call

Antoinette gives me hope for all of us.

 

* According to us humans.  A more biased view there is not.

 

Half a Week in the Rear View Mirror

Highlights from the last few days:

  • Tax man (the Feds) have notified us that there was an error in our filing last year and we owe them $2800 in self employment tax (that’s on top of the taxes we paid on the dollars I earned).  As it stands that means I’m paying an almost 40% tax rate on a very small income.  Obviously we now must meet with our CPA to help us clean this mess up.  (He didn’t do our taxes last year, we did)  The state is also expecting us to cough up the remaining $1200 we owe them from last year but didn’t finish paying because we started paying our mortgage again.  The last two years have been like this: we can afford to pay our taxes or we can afford to pay our mortgage, but not both.*
  • I learned that sharing such details out loud and then asking the wrong questions about the situation with the wrong people (people not my CPA) can result in people freaking out and me having the worst day ever.  I am calling Friday a lost day.  It was so bad that for the first time in a long time my kid kept coming into my office where I was trying not to cry to give me spontaneous hugs and to ask me if I needed cheering up.  His version of cheering up is to watch thirty episodes of Avatar.  Which we did.  The last time he was worried about me he cheered me up by picking me flowers from the garden with my mom.  He’s really a sweet kid to the people he respects and loves.  I’m just sorry to have caused my son to worry about me.  Kids should not have to worry about the well being of their parental units.
  • We took two boxes of books to Powell’s in Portland and made a little over a hundred dollars which I then spent on two very expensive cookbooks I’ve been coveting (Plenty and Culinaria China).  2 boxes of books turned into 2 books isn’t bad!  I also gave a box of fabric to a friend in Portland.  That’s 3 boxes of crap out of my house!
  • Spent over an hour in the Powell’s cafe reading Culinaria China while drinking a decaf latte and watching the partiers drifting by wearing various combinations of green attire (it was St. Patrick’s Day) and being silly.  After the previous day’s disaster of emotions I really enjoyed my quiet respite in my favorite environment.  My guys were off selling CD’s and eating the perfect french fries down the street.
  • I discovered that my kid hates crowds as much as his father does.  He had a grade B** panic attack which was set off by us going to The Kennedy School for dinner before heading home.  It was crammed full of people.  Crazy amounts of people in stupid green hats collecting in doorways and in the hallways.  There was a two and a half hour wait for a dinner table.  Needless to say, we left.  But not before getting trapped in a packed crowd to hear the bagpiper play near the front entrance.  My child, by this time, was pushing at people to get out of there and was ranting about the pointless stupid holiday and how much he hates it when everyone wears green.  He was still ranting about it five minutes later as we sped away in the car.  He ranted so effectively that he got Philip’s anxiety ramped up and I had two people in the car with me in panic mode.  I am skilled at bringing panic levels down.  At last we headed home in peace.
  • We were very lucky that our favorite pub in town was relatively quiet and there was a booth available for us when we got there.  We had a lovely dinner at Golden Valley (paid for with the money Philip made from selling his CD’s) during which we played one of Max’s favorite games: ask him lots of questions about the video games he plays.  It was a good ending to a long day.
  • I got a cold on Friday.  It is good to note that this is only the second cold I’ve had this season.  Last year I had at least six.  Or at least, it felt that way.  So Sunday I made soup and couscous.
  • I am still stubbornly trying to get Baby Girl Six started and it is stubbornly not revealing itself to me.  I think it may be a first person perspective story but I can’t find the rhythm or the voice.  I may have to shelve it and work on something else for a while.  I also considered giving up this whole writing fiction gig.  For about five minutes.  Then I considered just publishing Cricket and Grey on my own and trying the traditional route for The Winter Room.  For about five minutes.  I also realized that the names of these books might not be right but anyone reading this blog will get used to them and then it will be an annoyance to them to see it change.  Then I realized this is one of those small details you worry about when your writing has completely stalled.
  • For the first time in a long time I admitted out loud (to Philip) that if it weren’t for him and Max I would be planning my suicide right now.  He understood.  I won’t do it, of course.  I would never do that to the two people I love best in the world.  But it’s very revealing of my mental and emotional state that I’m even thinking about it.  It isn’t even a wish to do violence to myself.  It’s a quiet ardent desire to not exist.  I’ve actually been thinking about this incessantly for months now.  But I wasn’t calling it a wish for death and I let myself remain in denial about how bad things have become in my head.  The fact that I’m saying this out loud to you is evidence that I’m not going to act on my desires.  (In case you were worried.)  I can promise you that if I really was going to kill myself I wouldn’t announce my intentions to anyone.

So here we are.  It’s Tuesday.

*Please note that this piece of information is being shared only for an illustration of how much the universe still hates me and is NOT an invitation to discuss my taxes in depth.

**Grade A involves hyperventilating and passing out.  Grade B is working up to Grade A.

Different Types of Depression: Not All Depression Is The Same

Mental illness has been a subject of much fear and mystery to humans for centuries.  We fear that being mentally ill means we’re morally compromised, not safe for others to be around, tainted by the devil, bewitched, possessed, being punished by God, not trustworthy, scary, or just plain bad.  People have a very hard time thinking of the brain as an organ in our body, like all other organs, that may be damaged or neurologically different or broken.  To admit that our emotions might be largely controlled by chemical deficiencies in the brain freaks people out.  If our emotions are nothing more than chemical messages being sent from our brain to our nervous system – what does that say about our will, or spirits, our SOULS?  Does that mean that what we feel isn’t really real?  Are emotions and thoughts nothing more than electrical impulses?

Many strides have been made to change the medieval fear people have about mental illness, lots of progress has been made scientifically to expand our understanding of what causes it and how we can treat it.  Unfortunately there is a huge movement of people who refuse to believe that the brain can have disorders that are out of our control – that can’t be fixed with will power, positive thinking, diet, and exercise.  These people are very vocal and to the population of people with major depressive disorder, very dangerous.

Depression is often accompanied by anxiety, as is the case with me, but I’m only addressing the depression specifically here.  You can take it that many of the triggers and causes of depression are the same for anxiety but the treatment can be quite different.  Cognitive behavioral therapy helps ease my anxiety but does nothing to ease my depression.  So please note that I’m only discussing depression here.

It is also important to note that I’m putting this in layman’s terms but will provide links to professional descriptions of depression for you to read yourself.

Different kinds of Depression:

Major Depressive Disorder – Major depression can run in families and is commonly described as being an issue with chemical imbalances in the brain or a problem with the brain’s ability to communicate with the nervous system or deliver the chemicals necessary for balanced functioning.  It is characterized by debilitating depressive episodes that interfere with a person’s ability to function normally.  Some people may only experience one episode in their lifetime but most often this is a recurring problem.

Situational Depression – This is depression that you experience because of external factors such as job loss, death of a loved one, sickness, poor diet, not enough exercise, bad relationships.  If you address the factors that made you depressed the depression will most likely ease up or completely disappear.

Bipolar Disorder – Another chronic depressive disorder (and there is more than one classification for this one) that often runs in families.  This depression is distinctive for the dramatically alternating depressive and manic states experienced.  A few classic problems experienced by people with bipolar disorder are difficulty maintaining relationships, risky behaviors such as wild spending of money, unsafe sexual activity, and carelessness with personal safety.

Suicide – suicidal ideation may accompany any of the mood disorders but NAMI lists it as a separate issue on their site.  Feelings of being a failure, of hopelessness, of being overwhelmed, of worthlessness, and of powerlessness can all contribute to a desire to kill one’s self.  One of the dangers of suicide is that a lot of people who succeed at committing it don’t actually announce their intentions.  But if someone you know expresses suicidal thinking it’s imperative that they get help from a professional – NOT a New Age guru or from life coaches or from anyone who has no clue about the complex issues of the brain and how they can collide to inspire a person to kill themself.

In order to treat depression it is vital for a professional trained in diagnosing mental illness to discover which specific kind of depression an individual has because the methods for treating each one are very different.  If you medicate a person with bipolar disorder with medications appropriate for people with major depressive disorder you could make their condition much worse.  Approaches to therapy may also vary quite a lot.  A person with situational depression is going to have much different needs than someone with major depressive disorder.

I was suicidal as a teen and was given the most awful collection of advice during my suicidal years from idiots who knew nothing about depression and made me feel worse about myself because their suggestions didn’t fix my depression and that compounded the feeling that I had depression because I was a weak and bad person and that if I was stronger or not a complete failure then getting more exercise would lift my depression like everyone said it would.  When I finally did get professional help I wished I’d gotten it 18 years of suffering earlier.  I wish to god I hadn’t listened to so many ill-informed people who don’t know anything about mental illness, half of which really didn’t believe in it at all.  People who think mental illness (especially depression) is just a state of mind are ignorant and dangerous to those of us suffering from serious persistent mental illness.

I’ll tell you what else: my parents never knew I was even depressed.  My friends knew I was depressed and some of them knew about my self harm but I did not go around threatening to kill myself.  It may have been obvious to close friends – I certainly had a fixation with death and dying but I don’t think anyone knew how many times I came close to doing it and how much time I spent planning how I would die.  Just because someone isn’t threatening suicide doesn’t mean that they aren’t thinking about it and will become very serious about it.

Here’s my urgent plea to all of you:

If you know someone who seems really depressed do NOT give them advice on how to treat their depression unless you are a professional.  Give them your ear, show that you care and are there for them if they want to talk or need your help – but do not advise them on how to fix themselves unless you are a professional and have discovered what specific type of depression they’re suffering from.  If you want to be more helpful and haven’t already read about depression from expert sources the first thing you should do is some reading.  If you’re really concerned about someone gently suggest they get professional help.  It can be a scary step to take but also can transform a life of suffering and struggle into one of quality and balance.   I’ve gotten someone to get psychiatric help and they went from talking about suicide to living a much more balanced and happy life.

The National Alliance on Mental Illness is an excellent and reliable source for information about all mental illnesses and I highly recommend you read about the different kinds of depression listed there:

NAMI information about different types of depression

The National Institute of Mental Health is also an excellent source of reliable information.  I’m giving the link that describes the different kinds of depression but they have many more pages about treatments, clinical trials, scientific information, lists of symptoms.  Please dig through their site to inform yourself if you haven’t already done so:

NIMH – What are the different kinds of depression?

For those of you who love and trust WebMD they also have reliable information (I’m pretty sure they get theirs from the previous two sites but they word things a little differently and might strike a better chord with some:

WebMD – Types of Depression

The very first step to treating depression is to find out what kind you have.  Get help.  It may take a few tries to find a doctor you trust but that’s really important.  If you go to a psychiatric doctor and don’t like him/her then they won’t be able to help you.  I lucked out the first time and found a great psychologist but don’t give up if it takes you a few tries.  If you suffer from depression – getting professional help is the best thing you can do for yourself.  You do NOT have to take medications if you don’t feel they’re right for you (but in many cases other types of therapy are more effective in conjunction with medication – that’s just a fact, not my opinion) but you do need to find out what kind of depression you have in order to plan your treatment.

It’s not your fault:  if you suffer from chronic depression it is NOT your fault.  It is NOT anything you did wrong or anything you did at all.  External factors such as diet and exercise can definitely make clinical depression worse (or better) but that isn’t the cause and won’t be the cure.

You are not alone.

You’re part of my tribe.  Our tribe is very large and vulnerable but the more we talk about mental illness and bring it out into the light the less of a stigma will be attached to it and the less ignorance of others will hurt us.  You are not alone.

One last thing – if you or someone you know is at high risk of committing suicide please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:

1-800-273-8255

A Fresh Oxymoron: Fat Middle-Aged Hipster

I’ve heard a lot of opinions about Portland being thrown around.  But the majority opinion is that Portlanders are smug, snobby, unfriendly, and obsessed with their own scenes.  It’s a city filled with hipsters and some people I know purposefully avoid hanging out in the areas most frequented by them.

I have such a different take on Portland and the hipster crowd.  I have been met with friendliness by most of the people I’ve interacted with in Portland.  It’s a much friendlier city to me than San Francisco, a city I still love.  Way more friendly than anywhere in Marin County or in the East Bay.  They’re certainly friendlier to me than the people in McMinnville.  While I have heard them described as being snobby I don’t see it.

I think there’s plenty to laugh about when a city is full of young people who take their scenes and ideals really seriously and I feel free to make fun of hipsters the way people felt free to make fun of me when I was a young (obviously super cool) fashion designer in San Francisco running around in my 1950’s bathing suit and a man’s silk smoking robe.  However, after almost 6 years living in a blue collar town full of conservative non-hipster people who dress like there’s nothing to hope for and no one to impress, I love nothing more than to go to downtown Portland or to 23 rd Street and hang out.  I feel comfortable where the young fashionable people are bustling around.  There is no better place to enjoy such people than at Powell’s Books.

I just realized yesterday that that’s because I’m one of them.  Right, I know, you’re seeing a fat middle aged woman who dresses like there’s no one to impress and nothing to hope for.  And you’re right, I’ve been worn down and out and I dress with only one objective now and that’s to not stand out too much so people won’t feel so inclined to notice my rotundity.  But this isn’t who I really am.  If I wasn’t fat I would wear such different clothes than anyone’s seen me in in years and you would understand how I feel so at home with all those “too cool for themselves” people with their interesting fashion and their piercings and their tattoos and their interest in sustainable living and eating locally and organically and doing everything themselves, and bicycling to work.

How did having ideals and fun with fashion and having a vision of the world you want to live in become equivalent to being smug?  If so, then I’m smug too.  I suppose people have accused me of that behind my back.  That’s alright.  I’ve been called worse things than that before that weren’t true either.

If I were to ever move to Portland I would either move to my mom’s old neighborhood near 23rd street (a walk to TJ’s and Powell’s and the public library) or I’d live around the Alberta area where all the interesting looking people run around.  Because if I ever get out of this godforsaken town I’m not going to ever live in another place where people are dreary and just fine with the status-quo and where going to the grocery store with all five of your kids in your pyjama flannels is considered de rigueur.

I love Portland.  I LOVE IT.  I love the energy there, the people, and it’s the cleanest city I’ve ever walked.  I love the fashion and the stores (which I don’t shop in because I can’t afford to but I still love to look at them) and the buildings.  I love the Lucky Lab and The Kennedy School and I love the farmer’s markets.  I love the fact that I see Vespas and other scooters all over Portland streets.  I love that every neighborhood has at least 2 dog parks.  I love that the city is overwhelmingly politically liberal, that people are having new ideas and living what they preach.

Here in McMinnville it’s all about the huge trucks, good ol’ minivans to tote around your huge family in, hunting, praying, going to church events, caring for your lawns by soaking the ground in poison, and dreaming of job promotions at Safeway.  No, not all McMinnvillains are like this.  There are some cool people here who are passionate about sustainable living and buying local and trading out the gas guzzling vehicles for small fuel efficient cars and there are definitely a few people ripping out there lawns to grow food and some of them are also passionate about doing it organically, but that’s just a very small proportion of this town’s people.

In thinking about how people have different views of cities I have to admit that quite a few people I’ve talked to here disagree with me about McMinnville.  They see it as a liberal town with lots of cool people in it who aren’t bible thumpers.  So I know we’re seeing from different perspectives and we’re all judging based on our relative experiences of other places we’ve lived too.  I came up from California, from one of the most liberal areas in that state so my idea of liberal is going to be different than someone who’s always lived in more conservative places.  I also had a kinder view of this town when I had more close friends who I really understood – who were so much like us and felt like family.  It made this town’s darker side more amusing but they’ve moved away and it’s definitely stripped away my comfort and my ability to find amusement in brass testicles hanging from two story trucks.

So when I go to Portland I want to go where there’s color and life and people dressing up and having fun and being into their scenes.  Hanging out in Powell’s Books is like going to the hipster’s church and it’s also mine.  Going there reminds me that there are still cool people out there in the world, outside of my weird-ass little community.  Maybe I’m not so cool now but that doesn’t bother me.  I want the energy of the young idealists around me.  I think it’s pretty great that my mom loves the same areas of Portland and for the same reasons.  That’s why she chose to live in the 23rd street neighborhood which gave me somewhere to explore from.

Sometimes you have to make dreadful mistakes and wrong turns in life to find out what will kill you inside, to find out just how far outside of your comfort zone you can live.  I love my house and my garden here.  I have made some connections with good people here and I have some acquaintances slowly becoming friends and I have my two really close friends who haven’t moved away yet (though I don’t see either of them more than once a month usually which is not so great) so it isn’t as if I hate everything and everyone in this town.

But I’ve never had such a non-stop run with depression as I have since moving here.  That’s the bald truth.  I’ve been broke as shit in San Francisco and was much happier in general.  As a person with clinical depression I’ve never been free of the cycles of depression but when I’m happy with where I am and with my life in general the depression is an actual cycle that fluctuates giving me breathers between bouts.  I have recently realized that I’ve been solidly depressed for the past six years.  I have worked so hard against it.  Some things have improved and some things have worsened.

I think this town is slowly killing me inside.

That’s the thought that’s been rudely shouting itself out in my head all week.  A thought I’ve been suppressing for a long time, not allowing myself to say it, to think it, or to believe it.  It finally found voice and it won’t shut up.

But this is where I live.

This is where Philip has work and we have a house.

So here we are.

Under Water

 

What’s on my mind right now:

  • I worry that I’ve ruined my son by making him so comfortable and confident about being a person with mental illness that he has no motivation to work on his challenges and thinks that if people don’t like him exactly like he is then they can put a stick up their noses for all he cares.
  • My left hip has been hurting me for months now.  I rarely mention it to anyone unless I’m in a group of women discussing their hip replacements and pains.  Back of my head is the knowledge that it doesn’t matter if the joint degenerates and cripples me, I can’t get a hip replacement.
  • We still don’t know if we get to keep our house.  Silence from the bank is unsettling.  Philip keeps meaning to call for an update but I don’t think he wants to make the call in case it just means finding out we didn’t get approved for HAMP.  15 months of this uncertainty and counting.
  • My teeth need a major dentistry overhaul.  I apparently chose to take a vacation instead of taking care of my teeth and the gravity of that decision is only now sinking in.
  • When I don’t drink beer for four days it’s amazing how I’m just fine.  Except for the sleep thing.  It wasn’t really horribly bad until last night.  Last night was so bad I want to punch things today.  Insomnia alternating with nightmares.  Took me two hours to get to sleep, then when I did I kept waking up from the nightmares.  Nathan Fillion and I are no longer dream BFFs.  I will soon make an appointment with my doctor about the sleep thing because I’m committed to not drinking beer or any alcohol at least 4 days a week again.  It feels good.
  • Max’s eating.  Always there.  This anxiety.  I get so tired and give up.  Then I make a push for a while and sometimes get some fleeting results.  Then I’m exhausted and depressed from it so I give up.  The cycle is never ending.
  • Max’s sleep issues.  In our case the apple actually never fell from the tree at all, we’re apparently so much alike.  It makes me so sad.  So fucking sad that he should be at all like me.
  • Been feeling really depressed all summer.  It’s always like this in summer.  Worse than usual this year.  I’m really depressed all the time if I’m being totally honest.  Will talk to my doctor about this too.  I hate to have to up my medication.  Especially after what I experienced when upping my paxil.  I’m still wearing that consequence on my bones.
  • I’m being continually haunted by the first chapter in Jane Doe and know that the whole book has to be consistent with it.  I want to dive in.  I am feeling itchy to bury myself.  It’s calling out to me that it’s time.  It’s ready to be written.  Can’t scratch that itch.  Canning season is here, my family needs me, I can barely find the time to even cook anymore, work needs me, and my head is too cluttered.
  • I’m also scared of where that book is going to emotionally take me.  I know in my gut that it’s the one that’s going to scream the loudest if I don’t bring it out into the light.  It’s a dark dark place.  You can’t ignore what you were born to do because if you do the rest of your life will corrode around you.
  • Scared of how Max’s mind is practically an adult’s mind and yet his emotional state is younger than his years.  Scared of the stark divide between his toughness and his vulnerability.  I don’t know how to raise him.  I think I may already have ruined him.
  • Skin issues bother me and nag at my head.  My skin hates me.  Max’s skin is sensitive too.  Every time a mysterious rash appears or my athlete foot returns (I think that’s what it is) or rough patches show up I feel sharp anxiety as though it is the signal of the end.  Maybe a sign of the apocalypse I don’t even believe in or maybe a sign of physical decay or oncoming cancer.  I know it’s irrational.  That does not make me feel better.

Being a mentally ill mother is not a good gig.  I’m heartbroken when I realize the things I’m not doing for Max because I’m too tired to do it or too stressed to cope.  I should be enforcing more chores on him and creating more independence in him but his challenges mean that chores require 100% supervision from me and I don’t have the energy to do that when it’s so much easier and faster and less frustrating to just do things myself.  I know it’s a disservice to him but I just don’t have it in me.  So when people criticize him for being “lazy” and for not doing anything himself as though this is some terrible shortcoming in him I want to scream at them to leave him and his character the fuck alone because it’s MY FAULT AND MY SHORTCOMINGS they’re criticizing.

Then I just want to tell everyone to fuck off.

For god’s sake, this is not a cry for help.  This is just sharing.  Share back if you like but please don’t try to “fix” my problems.  I am not helplessly experiencing my life.  I have doctor’s appointments to make, I have sleep to try catching, I have my child’s therapist appointment to make.  I have medications to take and possibly more that are needed.  I don’t want a list of things I should do to help myself or my kid.  I’m a pro at being mentally ill.  I know that this is just part of the cycle.  I know how much in my head is irrational.  I know how much my brain blows up my worries, my fears, and my depression and projects them on the dirty back wall of my brain.

What I want is support.  What I want is to hear that others sink too.  I want to know that other parents drown under their responsibility.

I want to not be alone with all this in my head.