Silly Little Girl

Self-absorbed? Yes. Cares? No.

I don't usually have a purpose when I write, unless you count making myself laugh. I don't write to inspire, motivate, move, or any of the other things to which a writer could aspire. Usually, I'm just looking to amuse myself. If others are amused in the process, it's all the much better.

Today, however, is my first day back at work. I'm finding it far more difficult than I expected. I had looked forward to this all week, but it's proving much tougher than I would have thought.

For one, the medication I'm on robs me of what little fine motor skills I have. I have tremors. I've got a little thorazine shuffle going on. So typing, among other things, is difficult for me. My fingers blunder over the keys and I'm constantly backspacing, except I always accidentally hit \ <--- that key instead. This frustrates me to no end, as I'm usually a pretty quick typer. Frustration just dulls my enthusiasm all the more.

For another, and most importantly, I currently have zero ability to focus. I experienced this during the first week on this medicine, but I thought i had it all figured out. I finally deduced that my outrageous caffeine intake prooobably had something to do with the fact that suddenly, I was bouncing off the walls and could barely focus my eyes on a solitary item. But today, with much less caffeine than usual, I'm still having a really tough time.

So right now, I'm writing to re-focus, and I'm hoping you folks will give me something to focus on. I'd like you to ask me questions. About anything. I realize this is a self-asorbed and narcassistic act, and I'm ok with that. You can get as personal or as goofy as you'd like, and I'll answer. I will, however, ask you to avoid any questions about my anal sex preferences, as I believe I already answered them in this post.

In her memory

I’d like to place a disclaimer here, specifically for my beautiful and talented cousin Theresa –

 

Chew, the following is about your sister. It was painful for me to ponder and write and will probably be more so for you to read. I felt it only fair to warn you, so that if you’re not ready to read something like that, you can turn away now and come back another turn. Or go look at pictures of puppies.

 

 

 

I went to the program today. This morning was a level one, happy even. I felt no impending mood shifts, no anxiety. I felt upbeat. At 10:30, I ran home to help Nik with something. When I got back, I walked in the door and found myself face to face with my cousin Melanie.

 

At least, the woman peering back at me looked like Mel. Her face held the same blunt affect created by years of psychiatric drugs. Her eyes held me with the same bemused, yet disconnected, curiosity. Her hair waved and frizzed in the same way, brassy and ill-advised blond.

 

Upon closer inspection, I saw that the woman didn’t actually resemble Mel that much, but the damage was already done. Already, I felt waves of the stabbing emotion I now associate with Melanie and her death.

 

It makes me a more honest, yet more calloused and terrible, person to admit that I never expected to feel such grief at my cousin’s death. Though the idea of her passing was one I considered – her health was so bad, and poorly maintained – it just never occurred to me that it was hurt so badly when she died. Please don’t misunderstand – that isn’t to say I thought I wouldn’t grieve at all, it’s simply that I did not realize that I would grieve so profoundly.

 

And I have, for a plethora of reasons. The first being that it’s such a fucking tragedy that someone who knew no real happiness in life was taken before she could. The second reason is that it disgusts me that I, and my family, didn’t treat her better. For these two reasons, my grief for Melanie is split into two factions.

 

There is the first, and the most pure. The grief for a life that once was, that is no longer. I am sorry that Melanie is gone. I am sorry that there are things that will never be said, no more phone calls to be had. I am sorry that I didn’t realize that I wanted these things until it was too, too late. But the pain extends beyond that. It extends into the sorrow that, though I and many of my family members have been blessed with love, happiness, opportunity; Melanie was not given many of these things. It seems so unfair that someone with so little could have anything taken from them, least of all life.

 

The second part is exactly that – secondary. It’s the pain that gravitates beyond Melanie; the moral inventory that took place as a result of her death. I had to take serious stock of my family, their illness and their behavior in the weeks after Mel’s death. And what I saw disgusted me in a way I’ve never felt. I knew my family was fucked up, don’t get me wrong, but to see the stark reality of how cold and calloused they truly can be shattered a part of me.

 

And finally, I come to the hardest part, the part I have not wanted to admit to anyone. The fear, the nagging, chewing, digging fear in the core of my being that Melanie – her life, her death – is my future. The realization that “But for the grace of God go I.”

 

Let me dial back the melodrama and admit that I have more of my facilities than Melanie ever had. I have better resources, and unfortunately (in a way) and undeservedly, more support that she was ever given. But truly, truly, what stands between me now and death by sickness and psychosis in the future? Why should my illness take any different course than hers?

 

I saw things. I heard things. People that have been dead for months, years, came back to me at points in the last several months and told me horrible things.

 

These are things I’ve had to reconcile with my therapist and doctors. Why did I hear and see these things? Am I going crazy? Was I always crazy?

 

I hashed it out this afternoon with my doctor. My feelings of fear associated with Melanie…seeing her so vividly this morning and thinking of her so often with regret and terror in those twilight hours between sleep and wake. And, through so much talk and realization, I came to two decisions.

 

The first is one I came to weeks ago – that I will be kinder. I will be more patient. With everyone. With those both sane and crazy, healthy and ill. Never again will I impart on someone the kind of cold indifference I gave Mel, in her memory. Always will I be kind and empathetic, in her memory.

 

And, also, only realized today – is that I will get better. I will work as hard and as long as I need to, to fix the things in my brain that make me sick. The things that hurt me and others. I will not suffer as some, including Melanie, have. Because no one should have to live, or die, like that. I won’t, and neither should anyone out there reading this who may be going through the same thing, or something like it. Get help. Get better. Love others, and yourself. In her memory. In Melanie’s memory.

But I'll leave the kitchen sink for next time...

Christ, do I have a lot of bullshit to ramble about.

I've been jotting notes and blurbs here and there for the last couple days to remind myself to blog, but actually sitting down to do it was a whole 'nother story.

First things first, I guess: I'm ok. I've been in the program for four days, and I think it's helping. I'm learning a lot of things that logically, I already knew, but seeing it on paper, hearing someone else point it out to me, and discussing is, makes all the difference.

One of the things I learned is that, apparently, I still think I'm cool.

I think one of the prevalent themes of this blog is that I. Am. Not. Cool. This is something I am consistently reminded of, and I know even if I tried to paint it otherwise, all you smart and beautiful people would see right through it.

It's for this reason that I found myself surprised when, in group self-esteem therapy, I internally mocked the overwhelming corniness of the exercises.

"Dude, writing down the good things about yourself is not going to convince anyone, least of all yourself. Besides, if you were all sunshine and rainbows and unicorn poop, what the fuck would you blog about?" This is what my internal dialogue sounds like.

The criticism is is snarkier and snappier when I catch myself actually agreeing and feeling good about the corny things I'm learning. Finally, though, I realized these self-esteem type exercises are so commonly found in intensive programs because, yo, asshole, they work.

I had to remind myself about seventy times this week that I'm not too cool for the cheese. Someone who  has to admit that they can't manage their life, someone who has considered suicide more times than Sylvia Plath would care to count, is not too cool for a little corniness. Not if the corniness makes them feel better. Not if the cheesiness helps them cope with all this day to day bullshit.

And it is helping. It still feels a bit campy at times, but I'm ok with that.

In other news, the vomiting and dizziness and chronic ear pressure are a totally pleasant addition to my every day life. I'm seriously looking forward to the next three weeks that I can expect to feel like this. It's especially enjoyable when I feel so disconnected to my mind and body that I feel like I'm suddenly "waking up" while driving, only to find I'm halfway off the road and possibly very nearly in the backseat of a Camry. Truthfully, sometimes I think the process of getting used to this medicine makes me feel crazier than I did to begin with. I say things and don't remember what I said seconds later. I repeat myself constantly. I can't keep a train of thought in my head for longer than a fews seconds. (The readership of this blog just expelled a collective "No, really!? You're kidding.") I'll be glad when I'm leveled out.

In other, other news that does not involve My Crazy (unless you count where it came from) my mom came over tonight. I picked up her, and we went shopping for a gift for a baby shower we're attending tomorrow, and then we picked up some groceries and came back to my place. She cooked us dinner, and was pleasant and sane and relatively unfrazzled the whole time. She and I had a couple good conversations during the car rides, and it was the first time in a while that we've had an evening together that didn't end in someone (me) wanting to strangle and beat someone (her) else. Go us.

And now, with cold medicines and Crazy medicines taking their toll, it's time for me to stop this rambling, insane version of "Dear Diary" and head to bed. Good night, good luck, and God's speed to you all.

How to be cool

Obviously, the best way to gain trust and readership is to write some junk, cry about your life, get thousands of hits in one day, and then don't tell anyone anything so they think maybe you went and drank glass.

...Right? Or is that just how I do things?

I had trouble getting on and writing all weekend, alternately because things were so good or bad. When I was enjoying myself, I didn't want to waste any of it by sinking back into the computer and wasting the good time with my family.

When I wasn't enjoying myself, which was also frequent this weekend, I was way too busy sinking inside myself.

Today was my first day in the program. It was...ok. I talked a lot about my relationship with Nik, and the things I discussed made me feel better about us. I spent 9AM-1PM in therapy with a psychologist and a middle-aged woman with a similar diagnosis. Most of it felt pretty cathartic. It was exhausting after the first two hours, but it went by pretty quickly.

Then I participated in a "creative writing for recovery" workshop that, while a bit campy, I enjoyed. On for a fast and dirty 15 minute meet-and-greet with my new psychiatrist. I laid it out and told him that I'd been off my medication for several weeks. We reviewed a couple options, and finally settled on two with which I'm only vaguely uncomfortable. The side effects are relatively mild, but with one comes a new diagnosis and a new set of symptoms and mental reckoning. The next couple days look promising, and I'm still hoping that this is the beginning of the end.

I'll be honest - I hate writing the "Depression" blog. I wanted this blog to be mostly funny and stupid, a source of amusement for my small circle of readers, but it's grown. Both within it's readership and it's subject, it's grown. I made a deal with myself to be honest, here. Why write a personal blog if it was going to be abridged and censored? So I apologize to those who come here for the funny and get As My Insanity Turns instead. The next couple weeks may not look much different. Things are still funny, life is still silly, but I have a hard time concentrating on that lately. I promise though, that the next time I attempt to move a TV, or my son learns a new show tune, or, UGH, I take the Christmas decorations down and strangle myself (accidentally!) with half burnt out Christmas lights, you'll hear all about that. I also want to make a better effort at getting some pictures up here, improving the layout, but we'll take all that shit as it comes.

In the meantime, thank you for being here, thank you for reading, thank you for not telling me that I suck at life and I should drink Drano.

Overwhelmed

You guys. Wow. Just...wow.

For the first time in so fucking long, the tears leaking out of my big stupid eyes are not ones of despair or desperation...they're ones of gratitude. Big, fat, sloppy tears of gratitude to a plethora of women who have never met, heard, or spoken to me...women who came here on the direction of one other amazing woman, and just oooooozed support.

How fucking awesome is that?

For the, like, two people who didn't come here from the Smackdown , here's what happened.

I wrote the "Asking for Help" post. After a brief internal debate, I decided to send it to this woman to put in the aforementioned advice column. That woman there, Miss Amy, got back to me right before the Friday Smackdown. And dude, can I tell you, for just one second, how totally fucking starstruck I was? DUDE. AMY STORCH. FROM AMALAH. WAS EMAILING ME. WTF. Seriously, I was a lil flustered. Um...anyway. Pretend I'm still cool.

Amy responded and told me she'd be posting the smackdown along with her answer in a little bit. An hour later, I refreshed my google reader. The Smackdown was up, complete with a link to this site. I logged into Typepad, headed to the control panel like I always do, and my fucking jaw dropped. 300 some hits. In less than 10 minutes. And comments. Dude! Comments! I NEVER get comments from people that aren't related to me! And it was all sweet, and supportive, and oh my god you people are awesome.

I had the intake appointment this afternoon.

To clarify: This isn't full inpatient. Starting Tuesday, I will be in therapy from 9AM-3PM during the week, for up to two weeks. They call it "Acute Partial Hospitalization."

I hate initial appointments. I hate that it's little more than listing all the things that are wrong for me for the better part of two hours. It's just draining.

The facility is the one where I usually go for my medication checks. It's extremely reputable, and while I've run into a few snafus and personnel with which I was less than thrilled, overall I'm happy with the place. It's "day area" is not unlike any of the other half dozen that I've attended, and that kind of depresses me a bit. A part of me feels like I've come full circle - back to the same old shit I was doing when I was 15, you know? But the other part of me felt hopeful.

The last two days have been full of support and encouragement. My fiance, my mother, my friends, my job, and now you ladies. While there remains a part of me that has never felt so scared and alone, there's also this part, a newer part, that feels like I've got a whole cheerleading squad behind me.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. To Amy, to AlphaMom, to all of you who came here and read my story and screamed and cheered your support. You are all beautiful and sexy and have nice hair (of course you do! You read Smackdown!) and I am phenomenally grateful to you all.

Like rippin' off a bandaid

I told them. And it turned out NOT to be the catastrophe and tear-fest that I expected it to be. Lo, and how I fear the dumbest shit.

It went down a lil something like this:

My boss, Andy, called me into his office this morning. Because of my absences as of late, he gave me this schpiel about how the other two assts. in this dept don't know what the fuck they're doing (duh) and I'm the "glue that holds the dept. together" and it's really "difficult when [I'm] not here." So, of course, I felt all the more horrible for what I had to tell him.

Let me make something clear. I don't hate my job. It's not my calling, sure, and maybe I'm not making such a profound difference in the world by writing commercial property insurance policies, but it's still a good job. It pays well and my teammates, while astronomically different from me and my kind, are decent people. I LOVE my direct supervisor, Andy. I think he's funny, reliable, handsome (confidential to Nik - no I don't!) (Confidential to everyone else - Yes I do!), level-headed and trustworthy. These are qualities in a manager that are important to me.  He's shown me understanding where others wouldn't, stood up for me even when it could have damaged him, because he knew it was right. Were I not an anti-social freak, and actually attending some of my company and dept social outings, he and I would probably be friends. As it is, we have mutual close friends and there have been a number of times that I've spent hours in his office just bullshitting with him.

What I'm getting at is, I like working for him, and I HATE letting him down.

So when I had to look him in the face and say "I have a mental illness. I need to leave work for a couple weeks." I was all at once ashamed, afraid, and sad.

But he came through like the kind of man with all those qualities could be expected to. He was understanding, non-judgemental, and kind. He asked some curious questions, the kind you would ask a friend upon learning of their sickness, and then he asked some technical questions - the kind you would ask your employee. I spoke with him for about 20 minutes, giving honest details where they were necessary but keeping it brief enough to limit the discomfort. He dismissed me while we waited for the HR vice president, Caroline. When she arrived, she cornered me before entering the office and simply said "You are not required to tell Andy or Peter anything you don't want to. You have rights, you should know and understand them, and please know that you will be protected." From there we discussed the necessary paperwork and all the logistics of the thing.

Within a few minutes afterward, Andy and I headed to a previously scheduled meeting with a vendor courting our business. Andy let me dominate the meeting. He let me ask all the questions I needed to ask, steer the woman where I wanted to steer her, and he helped me shine by letting me handle the things I do best. Maybe this was for the benefit of HIS direct supervisor, Peter, whose affection toward me has been steadily declining over the past few months. (A whole other story entirely.) Maybe it was because he sensed my fear of being discluded or treated differently now. Maybe, possibly, it was business as usual, and I was just having one of those rare moments where I actually allow myself to shine and allow myself to understand that other people can see my light, too.

All in all, it went well, and though I'm afraid I'll eat my words later, I am currently profoundly grateful that I work for a man, department, company that will help me do my best, because they know my best is pretty goddamn good.

Asking for help

...

Sigh.

Asking the internet for help, I know, is one of the biggest double-edged swords of this here, new-fangled and technologically advanced world of ours.

On one hand, I've seen some really intelligent and compassionate people come forward for others with advice on how to cope with everything from job problems, marital stress, mental illness and infertility. I've seen (read) bloggers weep sloppy tears of (e)joy over the outpouring of empathetic support they've received from their readers.

On the other hand, 'tis a world full of assvice out there. And even if most assvicers are well-meaning, there's a host of people behind them waiting to tear the questioning blogger in question a new asshole. These days, over a keyboard and through a monitor especially, it's easy to forget that - though the words appear on the screen with no face or voice behind them - they were typed, and thought, by a REAL, LIVE, PERSON. One who hurts, and bruises and does, occassionally, care about the things (mean or nice) that people say about her.

Be that as it may, I still find myself looking hopefully, albeit hesitantly also, toward the scary cyber-space out there in search of advice.

I love the people in my life. My "knitting circle," as it were, is small. I speak to 3 people on a regular basis, and all of them I love more than cheese. However, because of their proximity, emotionally and otherwise, to my life, they aren't the most objective bunch.

There is no more neutrality in my world. There is no one to whom I can speak to, reach to, to find guidance for issues that are consuming my life. To everyone involved, however peripherally, there is too much at stake to gain what I think would be an honest opinion.

I have the option to check myself into partial inpatient care next week. This would entail of two weeks of intense therapy and medication monitoring from 9AM to 3PM. I would use up my vacation time at work so a paycheck would still come. It would mean that I can finally enter the therapy that I know I so desperately need and have otherwise denied or been denied, and it would give the good doctors the ability to start more intensive rounds of medication, and actually be present to monitor the effects. A big, hopeful part of me believes that this could be the beginning of the end of feeling like this. I'm real, real tired of feeling like this.

I would like - nay! - I would LOVE to attribute my problems to the environment around me. My job can be stressful. My finances are tight, my family is struggling. My future goals and current needs are almost constantly at war with each other. These things are enough to stress anyone out, right? But for a few weeks, maybe months, I've had to begin to acknowledge that even these problems twice-over shouldn't make me feel the way I feel. Small. Broken. Lonely. Paranoid, alone, scared, and hopeless. Your regular Zoloft commercial.

Except, in the Zoloft commercial, the sad little ball rolling around is just that - sad. He's not suicidal. He's not hateful. He doesn't think his friends are colluding behind his back. He doesn't leave work for the specific intention of catching his boyfriend at home cheating on him. (I'm sorry, Nik.) He's just sad. You know, I think right now, I could deal with "just sad." It's the other things that scare me. At times, frequent times lately, I feel bursts of hatred for everyone around me, including the people I love. Outside of these moments, I know it's my illness. I know that paranoia and fear grip me and make me think things that I, Kate, the Real Kate, would never think. But inside those dark moments, I hate my family. I hate my friends. I blame them for my sickness. I feel an anger and fear so profound that I can't figure out what is directed towards myself, and what's directed towards the people around me. In the seconds of lucidity (if you can call it that) I have, if I have them, I am terrified that my mind and soul is breaking in half.

It used to be that I would have weeks of stability, and then a few bad days. During those days, thoughts of suicide would flit in and out of my conciousness, never solid, never tangible. Then, when winter set in and the days became shorter, so did those weeks. I could still count on at least a week between episodes, though. As December passed, along with the holidays, the "in between" times, the "good" time stopped altogether. Now, the "in between" times are not the presence of stability, they're just the absence of rage. The "in between" times are spent in fear of when the next breakdown will be. The "in between" times are just dark and colorless, as opposed to the violent, bright reds of the "episodes." Suicide is no longer as a passing thought. At best, at moments like these, it's a fear. At worst, it's an option.

Since early December, I have tried to rally my psyche, give it pep talks. "It's the winter, dude! Dark days make a dark girl! Seriously, just get to spring, and see where you are then."

And I was ok with this. Logic, and a desperate need for everything to work out without intervention, divine or otherwise, made me wonder and hope if sunnier days and cheerier air wouldn't pull me through again. Now, I wonder several times a day if I will make it until spring.

And so here we are. On eve of a major life choice. Don't get me wrong. I'm not afraid of psychiatric help. (Much.) Entering intensive treatment wouldn't be so difficult for me save for one little snag. My job.

If I enter this program, I have no choice but to face my boss tomorrow morning and tell him what is happening. My job doesn't know that I have a mental illness. I think I've done a relatively decent job thus far, considering the circumstances, of hiding it.

I know that under the provisions of the ADA and the FMLA, etc. etc. etc. that I can't be discriminated against because of a 'disability.' But discrimination, as I'm sure you know, comes in all forms. I've been granted leniency for some things in this job because I'm considered a valuable employee. What if, because of my illness, I'm no longer valuable? What if they use things such as late arrivals or internet use, things usually forgiven, as an excuse to boot my crazy ass out of the company? What then? I'm scared for my family.

Unfortunately, though, the situation has reached a level of severity that makes the question not "Can I compromise my family's well-being?" but "Which will compromise my family's well-being MORE?"

Because if I tell my company, and they find a reason to let me go - I compromise my family's financial security, precarious though it already is.

If I don't tell my company, and I don't get help, I am afraid I'm running the risk of compromising not only the well-being, but the safety of my family and myself.

I feel so wishy-washy. At times today my resolve has felt like steel. I am sick, I need help. Nothing and no one will get better until I get help. At others, I weaken under the scrutiny that I imagine is coming from others. Why can't I just do it myself? Why can't I just take the medicine and shut my mouth and get through it? Why am I so goddamn selfish? For what am I jeopardizing my family's income?

At what cost will either decision come? Is there a right choice? A wrong one? Is there any way to tell?

Prettier than anything I could write.

I have heard complaints (from me) that I do not post nearly enough pictures. Well, here I am to remedy that.

This is someone who is cooler than you, me and James Dean. You should accept this now, and move on with your life. Also, give him popsicles.

This is the beauty and lovely that is Thesesa. She is everything that is cool in my familia. However, if I suddenly stop posting, it will be because she murdered me down dead for putting pictures of her lovely on the innernet, cuz she don't need no more stalkers, y0.

This is me. I am foolish looking at the best of times.

What? Your kid doesn't sneak into his best friend's room and put dresses on? Whatever. He's still cooler than you, even if he is a little "gender-confused."

This, folks, right here, is why I'm not currently tied down with four-point restraints in a hospital somewhere in East Bumblefuck, PA. I am a firm believer in the idea that it is his beard that gives him the power to keep me sane.

Jesus God, he is sexy.

Also, it looks like he has an electric booger coming out of his nose. In reality, that is a Christmas light.

Or is it?

More later. Cold medicine and exhaustion is making my brain all foggy and incapable of typing coherent sentences. More so than usual, anyway.

 

The Pinnacle of My Existence

THIS  is what my life has been leading to all these years. Because I know I've spent hours of pain and buckets of tears lamenting the fact that cutting a straight line with scissors is JUST SO HARD, GOD.

Because why SHOULDN'T I be qualified to make blazing social commentaries?

WHOA DUDES. Updated to add that supposedly today is National DeLurking Day, so man up and show yourselves!

Twice in one day, people. You must be absolutely gleeful.

Sigh. I've been trying to avoid writing about this (as are most of the bloggers that I really respect) but I figure now, while my readership is wee, is the best time to climb on soapboxes.

Britney.

The media, man. I know that people make allusions about love and money and kittens, but I'm starting to think that the media is the driving force of the new world. Paparazzi is what makes the world go round, yo.

How can I honestly bash the media, without bashing every single human being that reads the news, watches TV, goes to Perezhilton.com or hell, even reads this blog. Media exists to sell itself, and if we'd stop buying, we'd have nothing to bitch about. But that's really only a small part of my point.

I have ZERO problem admitted that there was a time when I idolized Ms. Spears. Jesus God was that woman an entertainer. I'm not making any references to stunning vocal talent, but the girl was a born performer. Had she kept her shit together, I think she would have eclipsed Madonna in legendary status. Now she's more likely going to go down in the Marilyn Monroe book of "Hollywood Tragedy." And "tragedy" this girl is.

I'm not especially inclined to have a whole lot of sympathy for the Paris Hilton/Nicole Richie types. Yeah, your parents were rich and famous, but neither of them ever sold you for fame or money. You did that all by yourselves. Britney, on the other hand, along with the likes of Lindsay Lohan, never stood a chance. Both those girls were prostituted by their parents, and subsequently destroyed by Hollywood, and media, and people like us.

It's not funny anymore. Personally, shaved heads and crushed paparazzo feet weren't all that funny to begin with, to me anyway, but I really think it sucks now.

The woman took her kids hostage for Christ's sake. And either attempted, or at least threatened, to kill herself. How is that funny? If it was your next door neighbor who did that, I think you'd be less inclined to coin monikers like "Unfitney" or sell the annual Christmas picture to Us Weekly. Why is she deserving of anything less than compassion?

I don't care that she's famous. I don't care that she "chose to live in the limelight." Does that mean she's not welcome to be treated with common human decency? Filthy hypocrites.

And so ends my own personal "LEEAAAVEEE BRITNEY ALOOOOOOOOOONE."  But in her words, for real people, leave Britney alone.