Negative Space

There is a style of painting and drawing where you use the "negative space" to create a picture. Generally, the negative space is the dark spaces, the shadows, and you draw the shapes of these dark areas until ... you have a recognizable picture! When done well, it is dramatic and beautiful.

Julie has recently called me on how I note the negatives and failures in my posts but not the positives and successes, even when I mention them. I don't even see them: I am drawing and seeing my life through the negative spaces, not the areas of light. I actually have a prose piece I wrote a few years ago when I was enduring great loneliness and depression and in it I speak of myself as living under shadows and looking out onto those who live in the light. Creating a life out of negative space is very dramatic, but it's not beautiful.

I have been better at perceiving positives at other times in my life. During those same times, I was usually doing gratitude journals or going through focused visualization and affirmations before bed. Sometimes I was "faking it until I made it" — smiling when I felt like frowning and so forth. But I was doing things that directly contributed to my positive mental health, beyond therapy or medications.

This morning I spent about 20 minutes on visualizations and affirmations (and where's that damned winning lottery ticket?!) — I felt more awake and more cheerful when I rolled out of bed than I usually do. I haven't been getting much out of doing a random reading out of each of some meaningful books, so tonight I'm going to start reading the Buddhism book by Boorstein one short chapter at a time; that has made me feel good in the past and has had a positive effect on my mental state. I believe doing these activities will make me more aware of positive occurrences and successes in my life. I hope to build in a positive feedback loop. Heaven knows I've got a very effective negative loop!

So feel free to point out the positives I've missed, Julie and anyone else who wants to. As I retrain my perceptions, I can probably do with a little help. I may have forgotten what successes look like!

Not Afraid of It

I made a commitment a few months ago to blog every day about my therapy and my growth and change. I haven't managed it. I did well until my Haldol-induced Zombie-tude in June. And since then, it's been about 50-50.

Part of the problem is that I've felt dull and like I've had nothing interesting to say, or nothing to say at all. Part of the problem is that I've been so depressed or so anxious that I could barely talk. Neither of these aspects lend themselves to blogging.

Another part of it is that I have this blog, and I have my more public blog: these two have to have different faces, different subject matter. I've been writing more for the other one than I had in awhile. Sometimes I have to stop and think about which one I'm writing for. Sometimes I'll think I'm writing for this blog, but it turns out the post is better suited for the other one, and occasionally it's vice versa. Well, today I added another layer of complexity and started a professional-facing blog. That's the one I've attached my whole, real name to, my web site to, and that I'll let everyone know about. I don't think there will be a problem figuring out when I'm writing for that blog.

So what do I have to say today? I accomplished some things, then fell back into immobility? I still haven't gotten out and walked, but I've done some deep knee bends, a bit of boogying, and some kitchen-counter push-ups? My muscle tone is scarily poor, but just doing a couple of things seems to have an effect.

I'm just still having problems with these damned speed bumps!

I don't know. Maybe there is some very forceful visualization work I need to do. It's been a long time since I've done any. It couldn't hurt.

I'm in a dreadful place of anxiety right now, with Julie's "Hungry Ghosts" ringing me — I can see their teeth and hear them sing. But as Julie says: acknowledge, distract, distract, distract. I add to that sedate, sedate, sedate! But the anxiety is making paying my bills a problem because even thinking of paying my bills brings the anxiety and the HGs.

Because of the weight I put on in the past year, a lot of my clothes from the previous 2-3 years don't fit. So I bought 3 pair of shorts and a nightgown. The shorts are just a tad tight, which is okay. Not tight enough to pop buttons or be uncomfortable, but tight enough to fit me for quite a few pounds down. (Plus, they are shorter than anything I've worn in quite a while and even with that lack of muscle tone my legs still got it!) As for the nightie, well, the cut was nice and the fabric is cotton and modal. Sigh. It's pink, true, but more of a peony pink than a Barbie pink, so I'm good with it. It fits so well and it's so comfortable. So these four items were good buys for me, no matter what.

Well, there. See? Communicating. However, that's all I got right now. I've written two other posts already tonight! And I find I can write and edit a post, even one that I'm being all professional with, in 45 minutes for a post that was as high as 600 words but final count was 571. Not too bad.

Turn Off, Tune Out

Even with the new ideas I'm having here, the great work, and the epiphanies, I still ignore my life. I am still not living, I'm only taking up space and air.

Most people in my position would be finding some work, any work to help pay bills. Most people would have made the calls to find financial help.

I just watch streaming video and read blogs.

I have lived vibrantly in the past, even in my adulthood. I've even lived vibrantly in the last few years. But I've done so less and less and that disturbs me. I don't want to spend how many years I have left just taking up space, simply existing. I want to enjoy living.

Sure, right now the zest is still pretty much gone, with Mom gone and my having a distinct lack of social life. I love my online friends, but I need face time. I need to be able to hug someone, or even just touch their arm or their hand. Not being able to touch is kind of like being in prison.

I've had some times with The Man that were beautiful, truly beautiful. I've spent some time with one of my girlfriends here, just talking and talking, that was very fine. When I still lived at the beach, and was walking regularly on the beach, and was not wallowing in self-pity because I didn't have any friends at the beach or a lover, life was beautiful and joyous. (And my body was in good shape, too!)

I want ... I need ... what I don't have, and that stunts me. I feel that living is unpleasant and a chore. I'm sure as hell not having fun and haven't had much in a long time. I know — just do it and all that other stuff. It's ungodly difficult when I don't see any payoff for me in terms of what I want, what I need. I'm not such a great person that I can live to serve others. In many ways, I've been there and done that, from family to manager to lover. I keep thinking the pendulum is going to swing back my way, but family is gone, I'm desperate for an income so I don't have a lot of choice about a managerial relationship, and I don't see The Man choosing me (yet, in some ways, I honestly see us together) nor do I see me choosing another.

So far I've gotten little zings here and there, from mental breakthroughs and good therapy, but it's all popcorn stuff — it doesn't satisfy except for a few moments.

Voices talk to me in my mind — not those kind of voices! — telling me all that stuff about just do it, be satisfied with what you've got, ya gotta give before you can get,  you'll only get love/friends/whatever once you stop wanting it (and what kind of psycho came up with that one?), etc. 

In the Buddhism book I like to read, the author refers to a couple of her friends who died young of cancer. One of them wrote a letter to all his friends about how he would have wanted more, but he had never wanted other.  You know the sayings about living without regrets? My life is filled with regrets and ways I wish my life had been "other." This is nothing like the life I wanted to live, and I never imagined I would be on the far side of middle age and completely alone as regards family and geographically close friends. This is nothing like the life I always imagined, not just in little ways but in huge, powerful, reasons for living ways.

So it's not really hard to figure out why I don't look forward to tomorrow and why my depression recurs and why this time it is so damned hard to shake. I can't even call my mom to talk to her about my sadness and get her sympathy and pep-talk the way I have a thousand million times before. 

I have no one I with whom I can exchange "I love you." "I love you, too." I miss it.

Life Changer

"Depression is a lifelong, chronic condition, and it needs to be maintained like any other disease." Catherine Winters

A "lifelong, chronic condition." "Like any other disease." 

Oh my fucking god. No one has ever expressed this concept to me. All these years, depression has been something that happened to me, or that I let happen by not stopping it in time. It was something that came and went, often for no discernible reason. And I've always wondered why it keeps happening to me. Why do I keep getting depressed?

Because clinical depression is a chronic condition, like my fibromyalgia. Neither of them currently has a cure or even a known cause, just surmises and theories. But the depression, like the fibromyalgia, needs to be treated and I need to stay on top of things that may trigger an event. Looking at it this way, I can handle it. 

I know how to handle my fibro (and I haven't been doing so well, but I think the heat and sun are providing balance against the lack of exercise), and I have to take a regular med to keep it under control. I know the warning signs of a fibro event (and I am thankful that I haven't had a major one in years). If I can stay on top of the fibro, I can stay on top of the depression. (You have no idea how difficult it was to type that sentence without any modifiers such as "I think I can stay on top" or "I can probably/most likely" stay on top.)

For example, if I overexert myself, do something physical enough to cause extreme fatigue, then I will suffer from this fatigue for a few days. I know that fibro makes me become more tired faster than other people, and it takes me much longer to recover from fatigue. Strong emotional events or highly stimulating events (such as going to a crowded festival or concert) have similar effects. And if I keep going and don't attend to my health needs and the signs from the fibro, I could end up in bed for days and barely able to move for weeks.

So how does this translate to the chronic condition of depression? Well, I didn't have a lot of options this last time, what with grief and exhaustion and all that I had to do. I got hit with a sledgehammer and there was no way around it. But I'm coming out of it, here and there, so I have the opportunity and the mental and physical capacity to examine this condition and learn how to keep it under control in the present and the future.

Like with the fibro, keeping myself healthy will have the greatest benefit for my mental condition. If I eat well, I'll have all the right nutrients and chemicals roaming around in my body and brain. If I exercise regularly (take walks, do a few body strengthening exercises, do some yoga), I'll get endorphins and keep the fibro pain down — pain can trigger depression, which is why fibro and depression are such close companions. And probably one of the most important factors in controlling the depression: do what I love to do. Write. Draw. Make things. Play. Dance. Maybe the effort it takes to completely inhibit my creative aspect causes depression because it takes so damned much mental energy!

There. This whole idea is going to roll around in my mind for weeks now. Always before when I've been told ways to get out of depression, it seemed like guessing. And besides, it always came back. Well now I see it from a new perspective and suddenly everything looks different. As a visual person, I can tell you everything literally looks different. As a tactile/kinesthetic person, I can also assure it that it all feels different, too, as if the texture of everything around me — even the air — has changed.

I'll probably go on about this in the near future. A lot. So you've been duly warned. Now I need to go watch the marbles roll around inside my skull.

Homework

I finished my homework for tomorrow: four hand-written pages of memories from last summer. I hand write it to make it more personal and immediate. For some reason, while I can write faster using a keyboard, I feel a distance between me and what I write. I am also more prone to edit as I write when I'm on a keyboard. I'll have to address this when I begin writing my own stuff again; I don't want to be distant from that.

In case you're wondering, I wrote about the end of Mom's radiation through her first fall --- a total of 2-3 weeks. I am constantly surprised at the amount of information I can bring up when I am writing about it. There is a lot of worry and fear in this part of the story. We were both still hopeful and optimistic at this point.

There is less than four weeks from the end of this week's homework until Mom died. I want to make that homework end the Sunday before an appointment, not on a week I don't have an appointment. It's going to be hard.

I've been thinking about the anniversary of Mom's death. I don't want to just hang out alone in my apartment here. I think that would be very bad. A friend suggested I do a peaceful ritual, which sounds nice. But I think I also need some people for the rest of the time around it, to help me not completely drown in grief. I'm just not sure what. I used to be a very decisive person.

So accomplishments today. Not too bad. And leaves me in an emotionally vulnerable place, just right for therapy tomorrow. Sigh. Yippee.

The Depression, She Returns

I guess it was the quietude before the sinkhole. I know recovery is not linear — I've said it often enough to myself, my therapist, on this blog. But it's still a shock when it happens. Even though I met a person in business who could be a great help to me, and who I could be a great help to, I feel overwhelmed and sad and in a hole. My laughter has disappeared again, and my smiles are small and variable. It's depression and it sucks.

Hell, even with an amazing thunderstorm, I didn't get too excited.

The sleepiness came upon me (I should have had more to eat for lunch, but I thought I'd be going out again) and I gave in, set the alarm for 45 minutes (I really need to set a more boisterous alarm), and woke about an hour and a half later when the phone rang. It was The Man and we had a decent time of talking, both of us sleepy. He can't go to the Dog Show with me because he has worked too hard again and had too little sleep this week, so he'll be welcoming his son home and sleeping. After having him for long lunches both days last weekend, I know better than to expect him again this weekend, but still it makes me a little sad. After we talked I lay back on the couch to just relax a bit before getting up, then spent the next four hours drowsing off and on ... until 9 pm. That's extreme even for me. I had dreams, but I don't remember them.

I still believe I will end up together with The Man. It doesn't feel like a desperate wish, just a calm sureness. I generally know when I'm fooling myself; if I am in this instance then I've become much, much better at it!

And now it's another weekend, which will be quiet and solitary. I should walk; my legs hurt from inaction and I'm doing myself damage by being so immobile. I should work on the house — I have some energy right now. The flesh is willing but the spirit is weak. Not quite the usual thing.

A good weekend to start a little yoga, a little meditation (probably walking for me, otherwise I tend to drift off). And there's nothing wrong with doing some work on my professional presence on the weekend; it's not like I've been doing any during the week.

If the depression lifts. It's a heavy thing and sometimes holds me down like a large boulder that has smashed me flat on the ground. And I've no one to help roll it off of me.

When the depression hits, so does my loneliness, my sadness, and I suppose my self-pity. Poor, poor me. Such a sad sack with such an awful life. Sniff, sniff.

So finally another post. And it's pathetic.

Among the Stars, Floating Freely

I've had difficulties coming up with something to write about. Part of it is that I haven't done anything dramatic in therapy lately and part of it is that I'm not feeling anything intense right now. 

I have to remind myself that this blog is not about entertaining anyone, not even myself. It's a journal of my journey through therapy and mental health. Quiet times are part of that journey — I don't think I could manage if my life were all sturm und drang.

Right now as I sit on the couch in the near dark, I feel like I'm floating almost weightless, wheeling in black space surrounded by stars in all directions, near and far. This floating is different from the floating of "broken thinking"; I am connected and centered. I guess this feeling is one of calmness, quietude, and restfulness, like the calm within the eye of a storm, or the quiet when all the neighbors are asleep and the traffic has died away.

My life contains so many difficult challenges right now, on all fronts, that I'm enjoying this hiatus, now that I've realized it's nothing pathological. I think that's one of the problems of being in therapy a lot: soon every mental state seems like a pathology. It's like when I first paid attention to "what cancerous moles and lesions look like" and I realized that most of my moles and freckles etc. have all the characteristics of "bad" ones! Yes, I am a touch hypochondriacal. Does the psychiatric community still use the word "neurotic"?

I'm going to enjoy the quiet as long as it lasts and take this time to focus on finding work and doing my damned therapy homework. More than likely, this next set of homework will take a chunk out of my quietude.

You Are What You ...

Eat. Watch. Read. Listen to. 

Everything that you are exposed to has an effect. For example, people who watch, listen to, or read the news regularly tend to have a more negative view of the world and feel that crime has increased over time, because that is what they are exposed to.

I'm a highly sensitive person. Add to that extreme introversion and PTSD and you'll find that my nerves are all right there at the surface. Some of them may even extend past my skin. 

I learned over a decade ago that I have to pay attention to what I let in. Very dark books, tv shows, and movies are hard on me. I take them inside me and the darkness tends to stick. I remember the most horrific things from such stories and they pop up years later. Given my obsessive thinking, it can take days to get the thoughts to go away. 

When it comes to the news, I keep in mind the way it can bend your perceptions, so I mostly scroll over the headlines online.

Although I learned my lesson over a decade ago, I have to keep relearning it and re-remembering it, as I do with everything. I have remembered to not read books about serial killers that won't die, but I keep forgetting about TV shows. I watch CSI and CSI NY (I think CSI NY is less dark than the original). But the worst is that I've been watching Criminal Minds. That's all about mass murderers, serial killers, and bombers! It's one of the worst things I can do to myself. It's like an addiction. When the next season comes around, I'm going to remind myself to Watch Something Else. 

Now, I cannot watch movies about psychopaths, because they are monsters that exist and I'll have nightmares and my anxieties will increase. But I can watch movies about non-human monsters, such as giant sharks and behemoths that come out of mountains. And I can watch natural disaster movies — the worse the disaster the better. Maybe these are cathartic for my anxiety, my PTSD. Certainly they stimulate me and make me breath faster, make my heart race. Perhaps they are helpful in balancing out how withdrawn I can become due to the hypersensitivity and the introversion.

Some of my friends are very thoughtful and mindful of my sensitivities and will caution me about various movies or books, even going so far as to say "don't watch that, ever" or "don't read that, ever." I love that they care and that they know me well enough to be able to tell me this. Their doing so makes me feel loved.

Lately I've been bingeing on monster movies, now that I have Netflix Streaming Video. It coincides with a lightening of my mood. I cannot even apply a correlation because I have nothing to base it on; there are other things that do have some correlation. However, the movies don't seem to have a negative effect on me, so I think I'll continue. Anything to feel better, right now. Anything to feel better.

This time I'll remember what is good for me to watch, read, or listen to. This time I'll remember what is bad. This time I won't listen to the little voice that says "it won't hurt you, you enjoy this." I'm sure many people have heard that voice and knew it meant the exact opposite of what it says. This time I'll remember to sick my big, protective voice on the evilly seductive voice. Who do you think will win?

This time I'll remember to take good care of myself. Forever.

The Cure

If you could be completely "cured" of your oddities — your moods, your tics, your dysfunctions — would you?

In the past, I have fought against reining in my moods because I didn't "want to lose my creativity or lose my real self." I was in my early 20s then and felt that having large mood swings were integral to who I was and that losing them would make me dull and boring. I fought my therapist on this point and, after a particularly bad phase agreed to consciously control my mood swings. Guess what? They weren't integral to my personality and losing the extremes didn't make me dull or boring. 

I fought going on medication for my depression, because I didn't want drugs and I was afraid they would tamp down my personality, make me dull. Neither happened in that case, either. It took years, but I finally accepted that I would need to be on some medication for my whole life. I became okay with that.

I have not come to terms with the amount and levels of medications I am currently on. I have good reason to be against this on a long-term basis because last year at this time I was on just two of these meds, and at significantly lower dosages. It's my belief, thought, and opinion that once I've healed to some specific extent, or once I've dealt with enough trauma through therapy, or once a fairy drops enough pixie dust in my hair, I will be able to drop back to last year's medication regimen! 

Last year, I felt good. I felt right. I've always had and always will have mood cycles — we all do, but most people's don't affect how well they function — but they were controlled both by the medication and by me. My anxieties — free-floating, social, PTSD-related — were controlled, probably almost all by the medication. Or else, enough was controlled by the medication that the rest of any anxieties became insignificant, maybe weren't even there because the big stuff was fine. But I felt Just Right. The way I would feel if I hadn't had to struggle with this mental and emotional crap.

I'd love to be cured of needing medications. I'd love to be fully functional for the rest of my life without wondering if and when another bomb will drop me into the Abyss again. But would it be good for me to be entirely free of them? And would being free of my "cycling mood disorder of unknown origin" and my PTSD and other anxieties also "free" me of my idiosyncrasies and quirks? I know that I've always been afraid of losing myself and all my quirky bits. So afraid that a "cure" will cure me right into being just like "the norm" rather than the endearing little statistical outlier I have always been.

I've learned self-discipline (which I always seem to forget about) when I began to control my mood swings. I learned self-awareness by becoming aware when my moods were becoming negative; I could use the discipline and skills to dampen the intensity. Maybe I would have learned them some other way, but maybe I wouldn't.

However, there is no reason to stay handicapped if you don't have to be. My mental and emotional turmoil have handicapped me for months, keeping me from being able to even look for work, thus taking me to the very brink of absolute poverty (I'm not kidding here — I need money NOW). I would agree to be cured of my mood disorder and my anxieties, but not my personality or my way of looking at things from my own special perspective or even those times when I think I'm being perfectly normal and everyone else is looking at me like "and how long have you been visiting our planet?"

I'm pretty sure that no one knows where mood disorder stops and personality quirk begins. Maybe it's all just about how well you function.

Karen the Wonder Therapist wants me to not define myself as "mentally ill" or by my mental and emotional problems. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't; it depends on how they are affecting my life. I have felt terribly ill since my mom died and have been barely functional for most of the time since then. Insurance isn't paying for my therapy — they obviously have decided I'm not sick — but I'm not exactly well.

I'm just me, swimming around in the Sea of Life, looking for hospitable land and trying to not drown in the meantime. I really could use a life preserver about now.

Maybe I'm Resting ...

As Julie suggested in yesterday's comments, maybe this muted feeling I'm experiencing is my psyche's resting phase. If so, I'm still in it. I'm moving slowly and not doing much (did 2 loads of laundry and a bit of a project and a short walk, however). 

But I've had to up the anti-anxiety meds today. I took a whole pill this morning (well, in 2 halves because I thought a half would handle my anxiety) and a half a pill this afternoon. It's not quite time for my evening one, but it will have to be an entire pill. While part of my psyche may be resting, the other part is almost paralyzed with panic. It is, of course, mostly about money.

I haven't paid my bills. I haven't paid the Estate bills. I haven't looked at my bank balance. I haven't contacted an agency about helping me pay my health insurance. I haven't contacted anyone about bankruptcy (because I overslept by several hours last Saturday and the next open lawyer day is probably not until next month). And I am thinking about looking into food stamps, although I haven't done that yet, either.

There is a pressure inside me, so strong that I feel as if I am about to blow into bits. I want to wrap my arms around myself to hold myself together. Having someone else's arms wrapped around me would be better — isn't being alone so fun? I find that being alone exacerbates my anxiety and panic, whereas having someone who will hold me, or just touch me and who I know will watch out for me and keep me safe relieves those feelings. Yes, I know. I'm supposed to handle it all myself, whether that's because it's the lesson the fucking Universe wants me to learn or it's something I have no control over that I have to accept or it's just what grown-ups do — I don't care.

I'm not communicating with others much right now, which may seem counterintuitive. But this muted phase, which may be partly a resting phase, is also one where I have to keep everything in complete lockdown to keep myself from having one mother of a panic attack and become even less functional than I already am. When I'm locked down this tightly and holding myself so strongly, I can't say anything meaningful to other people, whether it's in person, over email, or in a blog. I can't risk losing control in this particularly situation. Yes, losing control — or letting go of control or the illusion of control — is a good thing in some situations. If I did that now, you'd all hear the screaming. Control is a good thing right now. And I just don't tell people what I'm experiencing, because what could they do? They'd feel uncomfortable. They'd feel powerless and uncomfortable. It would be awkward.

I'm vibrating with these feelings, with the feeling that something is trying to get out, and I continually need to take deep slow breaths to ratchet the intensity back down a notch or two.

I wish I ran. If I ran, or if I had a bicycle and could ride it for a long ways, I would go and go until I was so exhausted I'd have to stop and recover before returning. I feel as if they would quiet what's inside of me; too bad I don't do either. When I was in my 20s, that's what I did. Or sometimes I would walk and walk, and sometimes end up places I would normally not go, such as fifteen feet off the ground. Then I'd have to wait until I accepted that the only way to get down was to do it myself. I don't miss doing that.

This was part two of the Muted/Resting aria. If I don't write anything tomorrow, just say to yourself "ditto."

Muted

Lately I have felt like someone turned my volume down. My voice (already soft), my interest in beginning or maintaining conversations and my attention to anything — it is all muted. Nothing feels urgent or important. I use fewer words when I do have to communicate. My best friend called me on it, but what could I say? Not much. No interest in analyzing it — I'm tired of self-analysis, of analyzing anything. I'm tired of myself and my life, and I don't know what to do. Right now, I don't feel like doing anything.

Other than my soft voice, I usually tend to live unmuted. I'm in bright, living color. When I am well and fully myself, I am vivid and saturated and vibrant. And I feel odd just writing this, because I don't feel any of those things. Even my usually strong feelings seem to be set on "low."

Intellectually, I see a need to unmute, to be all those other things again. Maybe to analyze, maybe not. But right now it doesn't seem important.

Well, this post isn't keeping even my attention. But it seemed worthwhile to post something; I didn't post anything yesterday and I would rather stay closer to every day than further away; I don't want to make extra work for myself.

What Do You Think You Feel?

Most people consider thinking and feeling to be two separate things: you think thoughts or you feel emotions. Not me. I tend to mix them up a bit.

If I feel something, I have to analyze it. "I feel sad" — am I sure I feel sad, that it's not depression or a headache; why do I feel sad; what else am I feeling; is this a true feeling or a habitual one. If I can over-think it, I will. I was surprised when a previous therapist informed me that not everyone thinks about their feelings.

Then there are my thoughts. Often, if I have a thought that isn't one of my every-day thoughts (need milk; remember to take clothes from dryer; where is my turquoise ring), then I ask myself how I feel about that thought. "I wonder if I should move?" — do you feel lonely; why would you want to move, I thought you were happy here; it's scary to move; you'll be sad if you move.

Today in therapy, I read my therapy homework that I had managed to pull together this morning. Afterward, my therapist suggested I get back into the routine of writing my homework as a narrative. Doing so will incorporate the emotional aspects better. The last two times I've done this homework, I've presented it as bullet points of events. They've been quite unemotional. If I keep doing my trauma work that way, it won't provide me with any benefits. I don't know if I've been doing the homework like that because it's quick and easy or if I recognized the lack of emotional content in doing it that way and so went with the lesser emotional content path. Because, doing with full emotional content hurts like hell.

One of the problems with therapy, especially therapy that goes for years, is that nothing seems simple. Every thought, feeling, and action has layers and layers of meaning. A banana is not just  banana. I'm not sure if I was naturally this self-analytical before I started therapy or if therapy created it in me. Or if I had a tendency toward it (I think I've always thought about my feelings and felt about my thoughts to some extent) and therapy merely enhanced that in me. See? Always questions, seldom answers.

I would like things in my life to be simpler. I'd like to feel an emotion and simply feel it. No questions, no analysis. I'd like to think a thought and if I don't accept the thought as is, then the only thing I want to do to it is think other thoughts about it. No more screaming meemies or greyhounds on hamster wheels or anything else that keeps my mind going and going and keeping me awake or keeping me from simply thinking or feeling or doing in relative silence.

I'd like my mind to simply shut the fuck up already.

Like a Rerun

I didn't do my home work. Again. Because suddenly it's after 9 pm on a Sunday and that's way too late to do something as potentially emotional as my therapy home work.

And, that's just it, just like every other week in recent memory. So much for my being so motivated to get through this therapy, right?

Motionless

Our bodies are made for movement. To whatever extent a body can move, it needs to move. Recent articles tell how all kinds of non-good and even bad things happen to and within your body when you don't move it.

I have barely moved in 10 months. My muscles are shortened and tight. My body hurts, yet walking causes pain as well. While I fear what I am doing to my body, my inner paralyzation controls me more than that fear. As my therapist says, what you do depends on which fear is strongest.

My life has been motionless as well. I haven't looked for work (and even if I'd had an interview, I don't think I'd have managed it well, given how messed up I've been). I haven't pursued help for financial problems. I've been a little mouse in a little hole who fears a cat is waiting right outside the hole.

This is not how I want to be! I used to climb trees and ride my bike. I also used to lie on my bed and read for hours. When we had a swimming pool, I could swim laps for hours, enjoying the feel of the water and the movement of my body. (And one time, when no one was around, I swam naked, which is the most blissful feeling in the world.) I used to dance in my house in the evening with my stereo turned up and the only light the flickering of candles.

Of course, I felt safer then. When I was a child, I didn't have to worry because my parents took care of us. After Dad died, I felt the beginnings of the instability of life. Later, I usually had enough money to get by. Even when I had no health insurance, I was healthy and young and didn't need it. I had work, I had enough friends, I had comfortable homes, even if I did move rather a lot at first. For all the problems I had and the traumas and griefs I endured, I still felt a measure of safety that allowed me to move.

Then, in my mid-30s, I had my first immobilizing depression and anxiety. I eventually overcame them, or they went away, and I recovered. I had a few other times that weren't quite as bad, but still I moved less than before. But none of those times of immobility were as long as this one, or as completely paralyzing as this time. Even at the worst of those times, I would get up and move — dance just a little, go into the garden and pick something to eat, walk around the block or on the beach.

I'm old enough that everything I do physically is more significant for my future than anything I've done until now. If I want to be physically fit and in good condition so I'm self-mobile and can take care of myself for a long, long time, I need to move now. I need to exercise now — not the run-a-marathon type or the body-builder type or the gym-rat type. However, I need to be able to walk long distances, briskly, while holding a conversation. I need to be flexible and strong (yoga, pilates perhaps). I need upper body strength as well as lower-body and, most of all, I need to enjoy moving my body, and to move my body because I enjoy it.

Maybe part of my immobility comes down to enjoyment: I don't do what I enjoy. My mind is a strange and sometimes unfathomable place, even to me — it wouldn't be impossible that I am punishing myself for some perceived fault. Fear or punishment, does it matter? I hold myself motionless, strapped down with invisible bonds — and not in the good way. I've emptied my life of so much I enjoy, other than the hurtful binges of fat and sugar that only mimic pleasure, that I'm empty of almost everything but fear and pain and grief and longing ... and the memory of everything good.

Years ago, when I owned my first home, I bought an orchard ladder: a very, very tall three-legged ladder made for people picking fruit from tall trees. I've had a fear of heights since I was a child, but it was my house, and my fruit. As I told my friends and myself, "I will not live my life controlled by my fears." For some time, I lived by that credo. Even a few years ago, when I made a major, unbelievable change in my life, I chose to do so in spite of my fears.

The incalculable grief and loss of the last year, all the changes in my life that I had absolutely no control of, the feeling of falling from a high cliff toward rocks many miles below — through them I forgot how brave I am. I forgot my credo from many years ago. I forgot me.

I'm still walking a tightrope with no net below me and each day is scarier than the last, with my continued unemployment and my dwindling resources and my beloved safety net gone forever.  But I can do it. I can do this. I have endured and overcome so many, many things in my life and I have come up from the Abyss again and again to smile, love, and enjoy my life. I need to remember: it never wins.

Remembering this, I must get up again and smile and love and live. Because pain sucks and just existing sucks and if I run out of money and have to go live in someone's basement it will suck, too.

Smiling and loving and living won't hurt me any worse than I hurt now. At least they will make room in the fear and pain I've surrounded myself with so I can move. And the next time that I get knocked down, get my feet wet in the Abyss — because it will happen again and again in my life — the voice inside me will remind me that it never wins and I'll get up and walk and dance my way out of that damned Abyss, out of the paralysis of fear and I will win, because I have done so before. If I can do it as many times as I have, there is every reason I can do it again.

So move.

Some Days

Some days, just being is enough. Being quiet. Being still. Being away from the world.

Today was one of those days. It was a good day.

Chemistry for Sadness

I saw my psychiatric nurse practitioner today (aka psych). I told her that I am feeling better mood-wise, but I'm still anxious and I just cannot seem to break that inertia-to-active barrier. (I didn't call it that; I just came up with it. But it's a great and intelligent-sounding phrase, isn't it?)

She listened to me this time (and I felt listened to, although she did call a patient and leave a message while I was in there — there is always something that takes up part of our 10 minutes or so together). Then she made notes on her computer and kind of rummaged around and came up with a med that is currently being used as an "add-on" to help bump up an anti-depressant. It's folic acid, the thing that they give pregnant women so that their fetus will have what it needs. This version of the folic acid, however, passes through the blood-brain barrier, which is what allows it to help with depression, so said my psych. It's been used very successfully with cancer patients; I hope that means they've also used it people who are depressed but don't have cancer.

I picked up my prescriptions and asked to talk to the pharmacist because I hadn't been on this particular med before. The first thing she asked me was were my folate levels down. Well, my psych didn't ask for that to be tested, which I didn't mention to the pharmacist (but I probably should have). I told her it was being used to treat my depression; she said yes, because when your folate levels are low you can get depressed. Okay ....

I'm on this med, wondering if I need to get my folate levels tested and if I should keep taking it if my folate levels get too high. Did my psych think about that? Does she know what would happen? Now I need to call her to ask her.

I suppose this is just another of the things I should probably be tested for, but I'm putting off going to the doctor for my "well woman" exam. Why? Because the lab tests cost a lot of money, and I'm still about $1500 from reaching my deductible. That's a hell of a lot of money for me right now. Therefore, until I have money (income or winning the lottery), I'm putting off my exam, my mammogram, the dentist, and lab tests.

In the meantime, assuming that my psych puts my concerns to rest, I anxiously await the effects of my new med. While I now have my new visualization for getting over "speed bumps" (that inertia-to-active barrier I mentioned earlier) — a big, black classic Jeep, built for extreme off-road action, it sneers at speed bumps — I still could use some help. I hope that my new chemical, which supposedly has no known side effects but could cause an allergic reaction, which is why I took my pill when I got home rather than waiting until just before bed, provides me with that help.

I wonder if it will cure me of extreme punctuation use?

Homework in the Aether

Karen the Wonder Therapist had a good idea today: how about I write my homework for my blog post once a week. I'm writing almost daily for the blog, so I already have the time available and habitual. And either post it, because this is a blog about my therapy and growth, or delete it and just bring it to her, if it seems inappropriate or too much information to give.

It makes sense. I'm already writing, most of the time I'm already writing about my state of mind or my therapy, so I'm in the right attitude. But I wonder if my therapy homework would be wrong for my blog. It's details of a trauma; currently the trauma involving my mom. Of course, I can always not post it on the blog and just use the time for my homework.

The other thing that concerns me is that I write this blog around 9 pm, or later. That's not prime deep thinking time for me. I would do better to write my homework earlier in the day, no later than between 7 and 8 pm.

However, it's a very good idea and I will give it a chance. If it helps, then I win!

Today's therapy was mostly talking. We talked about how not to get too negative and too focused on what I'm afraid of (money, work). We talked about how I forget planned tasks and activities and how to remember them: my current idea is to print out the week's and day's tasks and post them in the places I go to a lot: kitchen and bathroom. Then I would always see them. The rest of it currently escapes me, but I'm sure it will come back.

After therapy, I did my usual post-therapy walk and grocery shopping, then a stop at a favorite fast-food place for lunner (late lunch/early dinner). Then that was the end of the productive part of my day.

I feel okay today. I've been a bit down; I know it will pass. Feeling lonely and wanting my mom is all. I had a good mom — I knew I could go to her and she would help me and reassure me (mind you, she did better at this when I was an adult, and not so good when I was a kid). She was my safety net. So, just missing her.

Random Day

It just occurred to me that I don't always have to write on a specific topic (which has caused me to not write on occasion). Other bloggers have random thoughts posts, so what the hell, so can I!

I didn't do my homework, yet again. My therapist will wonder about my level of commitment, as do I. I desperately want to get better, but I wonder if the level of pain I have felt on a few of these homework days has put me off.  So the week passes and I keep thinking later, if I think at all. I have enlisted one friend to pester me to death if necessary. Other readers who know me, feel free to pester.

I've become very good at not thinking. This is why it's July and I haven't done the stuff I should have done in January and why I'm still jobless. Well, I think that the level of my messed-up-ness and sheer pain, anxiety, and depression are what really are to blame for my joblessness. I must change that now that I'm feeling better.

I'm still feeling guilt that I am here and my mother is not. I know that I took very good care of her, the best I could, but I still feel guilty. For example, I kept forgetting to visualize her cancer cells being killed off by the radiation, even though I told her I would and I taught her how (and she did). Rationally, I know it wouldn't have helped. Irrationally, I feel that I didn't do my part and maybe it would have helped. And that life must be wrong for me to be here and her to be gone.

Home is still a mess: I've made little progress. I did organize my socks and underwear, rather than just have them tossed around in the closet. If I could just handle the pile of clothing in between the socks and underwear, my closet will be almost perfect. Of course, I have something like two dozen socks. But they are all so pretty!

I didn't walk this weekend. I didn't clean. I didn't have salad tonight like I told a friend I would do, but I did cut up and eat some yellow and orange bell peppers. Plus I had blueberries in my cereal and yogurt for breakfast, and a couple of strawberries for a snack. Go me!

My therapist and I talked about my feeling that I am a tiny sports car facing humongous speed bumps. She suggested I consider myself a big SUV looking down on speed bumps that, from here, are pretty small. I need to remember that. I'm a big SUV and the speed bumps are actually quite small. I wonder what kind of SUV? And what color should I be? These are very important details in a good visualization.

My computer needs an overhaul, but there are things I'm not sure are possible. So I have to do some research before I can simply reformat. Computer problems are almost as bad as car problems.

I got a great haircut. Now I need to find the right hair dye. I think I need a bigger pharmacy that what I usually go to. I want really saturated color.

Okay, this isn't that interesting, so I'll stop here. I wish I were as funny as my favorite writer; her random days are hilarious. But then, her blog isn't a therapy, open a vein kind of blog. Maybe I should try this on my regular blog. It might be easier.

Hope you aren't bothered by incessant fireworks tonight!

Funky Head

Dear Readers

For some reason, my meds seems to be out of whack, or maybe it's just my head. Any way, I chose to not operate a vehicle today (my head is all woozy) and I think it's also best that I don't write for either blog. Just a bad idea.

I'll be back tomorrow.

I Am Me

Ever since Karen the Wonder Therapist talked to me about some of my distorted thinking (Broken Thoughts), I haven't been thinking those thoughts. I don't think that I am Lost or Floating or Untethered. It could be that I am having sufficiently good days right now that I don't feel those things. Or it could be that simply having talked about them and being given truthful counter-arguments was enough. It will take some time, and some bad days, to see which it is.

I like saying to myself that I am not untethered: I am grounded by my values and my beliefs. These are part of me, something I continue to believe even if I never read another book about them or even talk about them. My values and my beliefs are my bedrock, even during times when I have broken thoughts. Given that I have had those thoughts to some extent off and on through my life (well, I did think of my mom as my anchor, no matter what), I never thought that I was grounded, or had a rock-solid foundation, or that I had a center. I now I know that I do. Oddly, feeling like this, having counter-arguments to these false thoughts, makes me feel free, even though I am feeling kind of crappy tonight.

The trauma and cognitive work seem like magic to me: they appear to have strong and immediate effects. The behavioral, well, that is very different and so far is slow going. At least I think about the better behaviors, the behaviors that will take me to where I want to be, which is important. Sometimes I need a lot of repetition to learn something (which didn't quite work with the times table, unfortunately; I still use my fingers). Behavioral change appears to be one of those somethings.

I am grateful that I have found therapists, both now and in the past, whom I clicked with right off. Each has helped me to some extent. So far, in a much shorter period, Karen has achieved more than any of my other therapists did, aside from the therapy that helped me with issues from childhood sexual abuse that my first therapist did. However, that took longer than change is taking place now and thereafter we didn't make much progress on anything else. I don't know that I would have had the nerve to keep looking for someone I clicked with if that first therapist hadn't.

I still need a lot of work — there is still a lot of distorted or traumatized junk inside me — but I have so much more hope that I'll get over all, or nearly all, of my debilitating thoughts, feelings, and behaviors through working with Karen. Luckily for me she's still fairly young (a year or two younger than me), so she won't be retiring anytime soon! I need her to help me out here!

If only there were a therapist who could help me make money.