First, a pair of slacks.
A sweater.
Black.
A long string of (fake) pearls.
Earrings, 5. All pearls? No, the roses, he’ll like the roses.
A pair of black flats.
All went in to the suite case.
The rose earrings. I bought those a few years ago. $14 for one pair of earrings! But I couldn’t leave them. Time and again I saw them and loved them.
The slacks. I bought those my freshman year at University. One of the local stores was leaving town and so having a sale. And after all, a pair of black slacks can be a very useful item.
The sweater, pearl necklace and earrings, and flats. Those I bought last December to wear to my cousins funeral.
As I folded my sweater and placed it carefully on top of my slacks (which were already in the suit case) I paused to feel something, though what it was I am not sure. Placing the pearls and earrings on top created a somber picture (though rather artistic, in a way). I wore this outfit less than a year ago, totally unaware that I would wear it again all too soon. Yet even as I packed I was unaware of just how soon ‘too soon’ really was.
I was packing to go home the next morning. To see him at least once more.
Some thirteen hours later I got a call. A message from my sister. “Call me when you can” or “Call me when you want” I can’t remember which. But I knew then. I’d go back to sleep and call her when I got up. After all, there was nothing I could do now. Two minutes later. Another call. A breathless voice. My dad. “L_____, he’s passed”.
He wasn’t supposed to die from it. People live for years with this leukemia without even knowing they have it and then live years more. “You’ll die with leukemia, you wont die from it”. It was supposed to be easy to treat. Some sort of oral chemo. But his white count wouldn’t stay down (and it was astronomical). They thought they’d try some IV chemo. But there was some sort of fluid build up. They wanted to wait it out.
Yesterday he was sitting up in bed, sharing a roast beef sandwich with Grandma. This morning he was dead.
The last time I saw my Grandpa was in June at my graduation from University. His voice was a little husky as my dad took our picture. He almost cried (and for Grandpa that is no small thing). He was proud of me. It’s a good memory.
And I’d trade it in an instant, if only I could have seen him one more time.
(written 10/24/2008)
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
The Plan
It was a pretty thorough plan. It had to be. After all, if I was going to hurt those I loved like this I needed to try and soften the blow as much as possible. Although many people would have told me what a selfish action my plan was (I’ll admit, I agree, to some extent) still I wanted to make it as easy as possible for those I loved and cared for, especially who would first be affected.
First of all I needed enough time. I figured a block of a few hours at least... I was going to use two methods, just to make sure it worked because if it didn’t... *schoff* I thought life was difficult then but it was nothing compared to what it would have been had I attempted and failed. The time wouldn't be too hard to find. My room mate had taken to going out a lot with friends (I’m assuming she had become tired of hanging around me).
I needed two notes, one to go on the outside of the bathroom door. Some time after all this, a friend and I would talk about the fact that those who don’t really want to succeed will talk about the act, let people know, even subtly, what they are planing. They’ll have the attempt planed so that they will be found. If they write a note it may well be positioned as to be found before they believe they will be dead. I, however, should I decide to follow through I knew better than to talk about it. I would have a note, two in fact, as I have said. I love my family and I want them to remember that. That would be the purpose of the first note. My apologies, what it was about them I appreciated, that I loved them. Instructions as to who needed to be informed that they may not think of such as the folks on the web site I frequent (I guess groups like them have been called ‘support communities’) a friend on my Messenger contacts who I met on that particular site but who no longer frequents it. There would be specific things that needed to be said to those folks as well.
The second note was to make the discovery easier for my roommate That I made sure in my plan that I would have sufficient time to complete it before being found made the notes very unlike those notes folks that want to be stopped leave. The one to go on the outside of the locked bathroom door was simply instructions to my roommate. Though the door would be locked it was just a flimsy lock you find in apartments. I didn’t want her to try and get in herself. It would first tell her to call some friends (specifically I would suggest some older -but still young- folks from her church) because she would need them. It would then tell her to call the police , 911, whatever (I suppose she could take her pick). The point simply that someone else needed to be the one to open that bathroom door. The second note would be in the bathroom with me. It would address certain people specifically (a good handful actually).
The first note. Thinking of what to write to everyone was hard, but not overly so. The hardest one to think about was my niece. She is just the cutest little thing in the whole world (you’d agree if you saw a picture, I guarantee it). I’m not sure I could love anyone more than I do my sweet girl. And though she and her parents live a few states away and I have only seen her a handful of times she loves her Auntie :). The last time they were up she stood there for a minute, her head cocked to one side, looking at me. Then she grinned and toddled over to me, plopped herself in my lap and me to cuddle and kiss her before we read the book she had brought with her. She followed me everywhere (and I mean everywhere, lol). It was my knees she wrapped her little arms around, my face she stared up into with those big, dark eyes, me who she ‘asked’ to pick her up when she just wasn’t sure of her Uncle Justie, a big tall man in a brown hat. She ‘helped’ me make tea for myself and Great Grandma (meaning I had only one hand to do anything with as she was sitting on my other arm... but do you think I cared? ;)). When Auntie was feeling lousy and therefore ‘picked on’ as everyone seemed to have an opinion on how she should make other Great Grandmas birthday cake (apparently my family believes that folks never made angel food cake before the electric mixer as evidently I needed to use that. I didn’t, We used a wooden spoon and it worked just fine thank you very much) she toddled in and again sat on my arm while we made the cake and put it in the oven. She ran to me when I would hunker down and hold out my arms. She would wiggle and giggle in my hands as I swung her into the air. I’d have to say she’s the best thing in my life (well her and now Aunties sweet boy as she now has a baby brother -she is just thrilled with him!-). It was the part I would write concerning her that was the hardest. She is still quite young, after all. Were I to disappear now she wouldn’t have any memories of me. I would write that my family needed to be the ones to make the decision as to whether or not she should know she had once had an Auntie. If they DID decide to tell her they needed to tell her that her Auntie had loved her more than anything in the world and that she was a big reason I stuck around as long as I did (lol just writing about it now is making me cry). Thinking of her was the hardest part.
But life had gotten to that point. The point where I was really wondering how selfish everyone else was in asking me (and folks in situations similar to mine) to stick around so they wouldn’t feel the pain of loss. Did they not understand how much pain I was in? How lost I felt? How much I felt I had already lost? The future I no longer seemed to have? I had gotten to the point where I now cared less how my suicide would affect them. It was a dangerous spot. Thankfully I got even worse than that Wait for it, it makes sense, I promise). Not only had I come to care less (not totally ‘not care’ just less) what it would do to those who loved and cared for me I got to the point where I couldn’t do much of anything, let alone end my own life I now no longer even had the energy or the will to do even that. I had truly hit bottom (it has been said that the two most dangerous times as far as suicide goes are the time right before you hit true bottom and the time just after you’ve hit bottom on your way back up) and let me tell you it is not a fun place to be even if it is safer in comparison.
I’m not at bottom any more. To be honest I am not entirely sure where I am at. I do know that I do not have a plan anymore. For one thing I live with myself now, the first plan would need a complete make over. And I don’t need it :), I don't need a plan. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still plagued with periodic thoughts of suicide. But they’re nothing compared to what they had been. They’re not there multiple times a day, not even every day. Just, once in a blue moon. And they are not of the same quality as before. They don’t feel the same. While still there they have become, for the most part innocuous. And I like it that way.
Now, if only I could find a job and get caught up on my bills my life would be as close to Normal as it has ever been ;)
First of all I needed enough time. I figured a block of a few hours at least... I was going to use two methods, just to make sure it worked because if it didn’t... *schoff* I thought life was difficult then but it was nothing compared to what it would have been had I attempted and failed. The time wouldn't be too hard to find. My room mate had taken to going out a lot with friends (I’m assuming she had become tired of hanging around me).
I needed two notes, one to go on the outside of the bathroom door. Some time after all this, a friend and I would talk about the fact that those who don’t really want to succeed will talk about the act, let people know, even subtly, what they are planing. They’ll have the attempt planed so that they will be found. If they write a note it may well be positioned as to be found before they believe they will be dead. I, however, should I decide to follow through I knew better than to talk about it. I would have a note, two in fact, as I have said. I love my family and I want them to remember that. That would be the purpose of the first note. My apologies, what it was about them I appreciated, that I loved them. Instructions as to who needed to be informed that they may not think of such as the folks on the web site I frequent (I guess groups like them have been called ‘support communities’) a friend on my Messenger contacts who I met on that particular site but who no longer frequents it. There would be specific things that needed to be said to those folks as well.
The second note was to make the discovery easier for my roommate That I made sure in my plan that I would have sufficient time to complete it before being found made the notes very unlike those notes folks that want to be stopped leave. The one to go on the outside of the locked bathroom door was simply instructions to my roommate. Though the door would be locked it was just a flimsy lock you find in apartments. I didn’t want her to try and get in herself. It would first tell her to call some friends (specifically I would suggest some older -but still young- folks from her church) because she would need them. It would then tell her to call the police , 911, whatever (I suppose she could take her pick). The point simply that someone else needed to be the one to open that bathroom door. The second note would be in the bathroom with me. It would address certain people specifically (a good handful actually).
The first note. Thinking of what to write to everyone was hard, but not overly so. The hardest one to think about was my niece. She is just the cutest little thing in the whole world (you’d agree if you saw a picture, I guarantee it). I’m not sure I could love anyone more than I do my sweet girl. And though she and her parents live a few states away and I have only seen her a handful of times she loves her Auntie :). The last time they were up she stood there for a minute, her head cocked to one side, looking at me. Then she grinned and toddled over to me, plopped herself in my lap and me to cuddle and kiss her before we read the book she had brought with her. She followed me everywhere (and I mean everywhere, lol). It was my knees she wrapped her little arms around, my face she stared up into with those big, dark eyes, me who she ‘asked’ to pick her up when she just wasn’t sure of her Uncle Justie, a big tall man in a brown hat. She ‘helped’ me make tea for myself and Great Grandma (meaning I had only one hand to do anything with as she was sitting on my other arm... but do you think I cared? ;)). When Auntie was feeling lousy and therefore ‘picked on’ as everyone seemed to have an opinion on how she should make other Great Grandmas birthday cake (apparently my family believes that folks never made angel food cake before the electric mixer as evidently I needed to use that. I didn’t, We used a wooden spoon and it worked just fine thank you very much) she toddled in and again sat on my arm while we made the cake and put it in the oven. She ran to me when I would hunker down and hold out my arms. She would wiggle and giggle in my hands as I swung her into the air. I’d have to say she’s the best thing in my life (well her and now Aunties sweet boy as she now has a baby brother -she is just thrilled with him!-). It was the part I would write concerning her that was the hardest. She is still quite young, after all. Were I to disappear now she wouldn’t have any memories of me. I would write that my family needed to be the ones to make the decision as to whether or not she should know she had once had an Auntie. If they DID decide to tell her they needed to tell her that her Auntie had loved her more than anything in the world and that she was a big reason I stuck around as long as I did (lol just writing about it now is making me cry). Thinking of her was the hardest part.
But life had gotten to that point. The point where I was really wondering how selfish everyone else was in asking me (and folks in situations similar to mine) to stick around so they wouldn’t feel the pain of loss. Did they not understand how much pain I was in? How lost I felt? How much I felt I had already lost? The future I no longer seemed to have? I had gotten to the point where I now cared less how my suicide would affect them. It was a dangerous spot. Thankfully I got even worse than that Wait for it, it makes sense, I promise). Not only had I come to care less (not totally ‘not care’ just less) what it would do to those who loved and cared for me I got to the point where I couldn’t do much of anything, let alone end my own life I now no longer even had the energy or the will to do even that. I had truly hit bottom (it has been said that the two most dangerous times as far as suicide goes are the time right before you hit true bottom and the time just after you’ve hit bottom on your way back up) and let me tell you it is not a fun place to be even if it is safer in comparison.
I’m not at bottom any more. To be honest I am not entirely sure where I am at. I do know that I do not have a plan anymore. For one thing I live with myself now, the first plan would need a complete make over. And I don’t need it :), I don't need a plan. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still plagued with periodic thoughts of suicide. But they’re nothing compared to what they had been. They’re not there multiple times a day, not even every day. Just, once in a blue moon. And they are not of the same quality as before. They don’t feel the same. While still there they have become, for the most part innocuous. And I like it that way.
Now, if only I could find a job and get caught up on my bills my life would be as close to Normal as it has ever been ;)
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Apparently Everyone Knows Everything About Psychology… Except Me…
Now don’t get me wrong, I know there is so much more I could know myself, so much more education I could have. A masters in psychology (MA or MS), a doctorate (PhD or PsyD) (PsyD is just a more focused really study though don’t say that to individuals who have a PhD in psychology, they’re prone to arguing that point). And I, I only have my bachelors (BA, my University does not offer a BS in psychology).
Still, all things considered. my bachelors degree gives me a bit more knowledge about the things of psychology than the average Joe on the street. Now, I’m not bragging. There are folks out there with more schooling and therefore more knowledge in many areas of life than I have. But I chose to study psychology. So forgive me if I get a bit prickly when someone talks to me like they know everything and I know nothing.
I talked to my sister this morning. The first thing out of her mouth after I answered the phone with a “hello” was “Did you stop by Hollywood Video last night and get an application?” to which I responded with both her first AND middle names and followed her “What?” with something like “no, I was tired and forgot”. Now, what this has to do with psychology is this: eventually she asked me how I thought I was even going to be able to do a job if I got one seeing as how I’m so tired all the time and that’s all she hears from me “I just got up”, “I was taking a nap”, “I’m so tired”. My response? I’ve been without one of my meds for three weeks now, hopefully I’ll get some more some time soon and eventually get back on track (I’m having problems with insomnia at night, not fun, especially since I am usually one to go to sleep relatively early and wake at the crack of dawn). Besides, I’ve been tired all the time before and worked just fine, not that she would know (I was never very open about any of this mess until it became necessary). To this revelation I added a rider that I did not want her to discuss it with our mother, as they are prone to do.
At this time I am a little miffed at my mother whose ignorance and high-handedness is astounding. On her way out of town last spring after a visit she stopped by the house of a friend of mine (actually my campus minister and his wife) with the excuse of seeing their new baby (mom and baby weren’t in church that morning so she didn’t get to see her then). This past break between winter and spring terms I made the unfortunate (and idiotic) decision to share with a few of my younger cousins the fact that I cut (two of the kids have been getting involved with all sorts of good stuff and one of them wound up in the hospital from and OD which caused her to pass out and smack her head pretty good the day before I got into town). The idea was to get it through their heads that they aren’t the only ones behaving in a manner that isn’t healthy (the ‘you’re not alone’ thing, I don’t know) but that we all needed to find something better, something safer. Unfortunately I don’t think I thought it out well enough... Besides, as my mom was already suspicious that something was wrong with me (after all the piercings -yeah, two lobe piercings, a tongue piercing, and an upper ear piercing, woo-hoo-, the tattoos -all two of them, both easily hidden should they need to be, and my hair -a fun, different color and only part of it- are SO out of character... either that or I had a smothering home and didn’t have to chance to do those things growing up... I can imagine me dads reaction to some of it had I done something like adding some bright red to my hair in junior high... *shudder*). She was right, of course, but not about those things being out of character. I miss my red hair and I like my tattoos and my piercings. And there was a reason I was keeping it all from her. I know my mother. She over-reacts and is much more... ‘squishy’ (I have GOT to find a better word than that, seriously) where as I am more calm and when I”m not feeling up to par I usually want to be left alone.
So, my mother knew I cut and now, after telling me time and again that she didn’t want to stop and see the baby on her way out of town (“It’s weird”... uh, yeah, that’s why they suggested it... then there’s the fact that I kept assuring her it was NOT weird) she calls from the gas station (just a hop, ski[, and a jump from the freeway) and asks if I am SURE that it wouldn’t be weird and tells me she thinks she’ll stop by after all. And she thought I didn’t know the real reason.
Actually, to the best of my knowledge she is still unaware that, not only do I know but that I recently talked to my friend (and then ‘the other half’) about it. I needed to know how much she had told them. To be honest I didn’t have the nerve to ask anything specific. I asked if she really had stopped to see the baby and then responded to what he told me. I am still not sure that they know I cut but knowing my mother she wouldn’t have left that out. After all she told them I was drinking (the funny thing is that she probably had no idea how much -a lot, at times- I was drinking... problem is she and my aunts are a bunch of tea-totelers so any amount of drinking is cause for concern). She also told them that she thought that my study of psychology might not be the best thing, all things considered. *insert eye roll here*
For the love of all that is good and holy in this world! Seriously? Seriously?! (OK, one more ‘seriously’ and I’d become a Greys Anatomy quote) First of all I don’t really see the logic (and neither, I might add, does my friend who is currently at graduate school getting her masters in school psychology). Shouldn’t the fact that I know more about such things actually be helpful? Ah but see, apparently my mother thinks I am rather feeble minded, and for that matter, my sister agrees (by the way neither of them phrased it as such, that, my friends, would be my anger and some sarcasm seeping out)! My sister felt the need to tell me that she had read somewhere that the worst hypochondriacs (we won’t get in to the whole ‘person first’ thing here) are first year medical students. Hmm, OK, yes... Guess what? I heard that somewhere as well. And seeing as I possessed that little nugget or knowledge for some time BEFORE I started pursuing my BA I feel comfortable in saying ‘forewarned is forearmed’. Or as I am often fond of saying (and please don’t ask me why I have to count, it’s apparently just something I do) “ One, two, three: duh!” Then there’s the fact that, should you really want to you COULD conceivably find at least one disorder in the DSM-IV-TR that any given person has a tendency toward (like ‘boarder line tendencies, MDD tendencies) or you could just fall back on the good ol’ catch all that is present for most disorders, the ‘______ not otherwise specified’, the NOS category (such as schizophrenia, NOS. Keeping that in mind it’s probably not all that believable that, just because you meet one or two criteria required for the diagnosis of a disorder that you actually HAVE the disorder. Having said that I feel pretty confident in saying that I am at a pretty low risk for going ‘Oh my gosh!! I didn’t eat yesterday! I have bulimia!!!’ or some other such nonsense. Not to mention the fact that hypochondria itself has specific criteria that need to be met and I would be willing to bet that not every medical student that has ever felt a slight twinge in their chest and though ‘I’m having a heart attack’ has met, or for that matter, ever WILL meet enough of the criteria for a diagnosis of hypochondria.
Now there is a history behind all of this, this being my mothers wariness when it comes to pretty much all things that have to do with psychology, especially medication. I had a great aunt who had, from what I have heard, severe major depressive disorder. Now this was around the time when the use of psychoactive medication was relatively new and there wasn’t a lot known about it yet (to be honest there is still a lot to learn and some things we may never know exactly HOW they work, just that they do). It is for this reason, I believe, that this poor woman (and I am sure she was not the only one) had just about every medication in the book thrown at her, a lot of them all at once. Things got so bad (my family believes it was because of all the different medications) that when I was asking my mom about this aunt and she was describing it all to me it sounded (to me, any way) more like MDD with psychotic symptoms. Now whether or not it really was all the medications or truly MDD with psychotic symptoms (heck, maybe all the meds just made an existing disorder worse, I don’t know what she was actually diagnosed with and I’m pretty sure not many of my family members are either) I don’t know. I DO know that my family does not seem to realize that things HAVE improved since the early days, and hopefully are still improving. I’m also pretty sure that they will never really believe I know what the hell I am talking about.
Some time after learning that I cut and take medication (I still don’t know who told her that because I sure as hell didn’t. I want to talk about it with her as little as possible) she started talking to me about depression and medication like I had no idea about anything and that she knew it all (by they way, she isn’t all that keen on the idea that I take meds, thanks mom). However lets think about this for just a second here. I am the one that has lied with some sort of depression for something like 12 years. I am the one who has cut for two and a half (eight weeks free tomorrow, by the way :-)). In other words, I’ve had just a little first hand experience with this stuff. I am also a responsible consumer and once I finally allowed myself to be talked in to taking an antidepressant (and then two Ads) you can bet that I looked them up before I gave my final answer. Possible side affects, traditional dosage, even off label use (for instance, Wellbutrin is also used to help people lose weight and stop smoking and Seroquel, an antipsychotic, has been used to help folks sleep -I said no twice to it despite my trouble sleeping as APs can have some nasty, potentially permanent side affects... and since it turned out that once I was on Zoloft and Wellbutrin -a common paring if the SSRI (Zoloft) doesn’t quite cut it- for a while I finally made it back to normal sleep wise I am glad I said no). Now lets add to all this the fact that I am the one with the degree (yes, only a BA, but a degree none the less) in psychology... Probably, given all that, I know a little bit more about this stuff than either my mother or sister, or the rest of my family for that matter.
Sorry, quite the rant I see. I just wish they would butt out or at least acknowledge that I have even HALF a brain. Acknowledging that the evidence appears to point to the fact that I know something of what I’m talking about, maybe even more than they do... Well I don’t really think that will ever happen, but if it does you can bet I’ll be passed out on the floor from shock.
Still, all things considered. my bachelors degree gives me a bit more knowledge about the things of psychology than the average Joe on the street. Now, I’m not bragging. There are folks out there with more schooling and therefore more knowledge in many areas of life than I have. But I chose to study psychology. So forgive me if I get a bit prickly when someone talks to me like they know everything and I know nothing.
I talked to my sister this morning. The first thing out of her mouth after I answered the phone with a “hello” was “Did you stop by Hollywood Video last night and get an application?” to which I responded with both her first AND middle names and followed her “What?” with something like “no, I was tired and forgot”. Now, what this has to do with psychology is this: eventually she asked me how I thought I was even going to be able to do a job if I got one seeing as how I’m so tired all the time and that’s all she hears from me “I just got up”, “I was taking a nap”, “I’m so tired”. My response? I’ve been without one of my meds for three weeks now, hopefully I’ll get some more some time soon and eventually get back on track (I’m having problems with insomnia at night, not fun, especially since I am usually one to go to sleep relatively early and wake at the crack of dawn). Besides, I’ve been tired all the time before and worked just fine, not that she would know (I was never very open about any of this mess until it became necessary). To this revelation I added a rider that I did not want her to discuss it with our mother, as they are prone to do.
At this time I am a little miffed at my mother whose ignorance and high-handedness is astounding. On her way out of town last spring after a visit she stopped by the house of a friend of mine (actually my campus minister and his wife) with the excuse of seeing their new baby (mom and baby weren’t in church that morning so she didn’t get to see her then). This past break between winter and spring terms I made the unfortunate (and idiotic) decision to share with a few of my younger cousins the fact that I cut (two of the kids have been getting involved with all sorts of good stuff and one of them wound up in the hospital from and OD which caused her to pass out and smack her head pretty good the day before I got into town). The idea was to get it through their heads that they aren’t the only ones behaving in a manner that isn’t healthy (the ‘you’re not alone’ thing, I don’t know) but that we all needed to find something better, something safer. Unfortunately I don’t think I thought it out well enough... Besides, as my mom was already suspicious that something was wrong with me (after all the piercings -yeah, two lobe piercings, a tongue piercing, and an upper ear piercing, woo-hoo-, the tattoos -all two of them, both easily hidden should they need to be, and my hair -a fun, different color and only part of it- are SO out of character... either that or I had a smothering home and didn’t have to chance to do those things growing up... I can imagine me dads reaction to some of it had I done something like adding some bright red to my hair in junior high... *shudder*). She was right, of course, but not about those things being out of character. I miss my red hair and I like my tattoos and my piercings. And there was a reason I was keeping it all from her. I know my mother. She over-reacts and is much more... ‘squishy’ (I have GOT to find a better word than that, seriously) where as I am more calm and when I”m not feeling up to par I usually want to be left alone.
So, my mother knew I cut and now, after telling me time and again that she didn’t want to stop and see the baby on her way out of town (“It’s weird”... uh, yeah, that’s why they suggested it... then there’s the fact that I kept assuring her it was NOT weird) she calls from the gas station (just a hop, ski[, and a jump from the freeway) and asks if I am SURE that it wouldn’t be weird and tells me she thinks she’ll stop by after all. And she thought I didn’t know the real reason.
Actually, to the best of my knowledge she is still unaware that, not only do I know but that I recently talked to my friend (and then ‘the other half’) about it. I needed to know how much she had told them. To be honest I didn’t have the nerve to ask anything specific. I asked if she really had stopped to see the baby and then responded to what he told me. I am still not sure that they know I cut but knowing my mother she wouldn’t have left that out. After all she told them I was drinking (the funny thing is that she probably had no idea how much -a lot, at times- I was drinking... problem is she and my aunts are a bunch of tea-totelers so any amount of drinking is cause for concern). She also told them that she thought that my study of psychology might not be the best thing, all things considered. *insert eye roll here*
For the love of all that is good and holy in this world! Seriously? Seriously?! (OK, one more ‘seriously’ and I’d become a Greys Anatomy quote) First of all I don’t really see the logic (and neither, I might add, does my friend who is currently at graduate school getting her masters in school psychology). Shouldn’t the fact that I know more about such things actually be helpful? Ah but see, apparently my mother thinks I am rather feeble minded, and for that matter, my sister agrees (by the way neither of them phrased it as such, that, my friends, would be my anger and some sarcasm seeping out)! My sister felt the need to tell me that she had read somewhere that the worst hypochondriacs (we won’t get in to the whole ‘person first’ thing here) are first year medical students. Hmm, OK, yes... Guess what? I heard that somewhere as well. And seeing as I possessed that little nugget or knowledge for some time BEFORE I started pursuing my BA I feel comfortable in saying ‘forewarned is forearmed’. Or as I am often fond of saying (and please don’t ask me why I have to count, it’s apparently just something I do) “ One, two, three: duh!” Then there’s the fact that, should you really want to you COULD conceivably find at least one disorder in the DSM-IV-TR that any given person has a tendency toward (like ‘boarder line tendencies, MDD tendencies) or you could just fall back on the good ol’ catch all that is present for most disorders, the ‘______ not otherwise specified’, the NOS category (such as schizophrenia, NOS. Keeping that in mind it’s probably not all that believable that, just because you meet one or two criteria required for the diagnosis of a disorder that you actually HAVE the disorder. Having said that I feel pretty confident in saying that I am at a pretty low risk for going ‘Oh my gosh!! I didn’t eat yesterday! I have bulimia!!!’ or some other such nonsense. Not to mention the fact that hypochondria itself has specific criteria that need to be met and I would be willing to bet that not every medical student that has ever felt a slight twinge in their chest and though ‘I’m having a heart attack’ has met, or for that matter, ever WILL meet enough of the criteria for a diagnosis of hypochondria.
Now there is a history behind all of this, this being my mothers wariness when it comes to pretty much all things that have to do with psychology, especially medication. I had a great aunt who had, from what I have heard, severe major depressive disorder. Now this was around the time when the use of psychoactive medication was relatively new and there wasn’t a lot known about it yet (to be honest there is still a lot to learn and some things we may never know exactly HOW they work, just that they do). It is for this reason, I believe, that this poor woman (and I am sure she was not the only one) had just about every medication in the book thrown at her, a lot of them all at once. Things got so bad (my family believes it was because of all the different medications) that when I was asking my mom about this aunt and she was describing it all to me it sounded (to me, any way) more like MDD with psychotic symptoms. Now whether or not it really was all the medications or truly MDD with psychotic symptoms (heck, maybe all the meds just made an existing disorder worse, I don’t know what she was actually diagnosed with and I’m pretty sure not many of my family members are either) I don’t know. I DO know that my family does not seem to realize that things HAVE improved since the early days, and hopefully are still improving. I’m also pretty sure that they will never really believe I know what the hell I am talking about.
Some time after learning that I cut and take medication (I still don’t know who told her that because I sure as hell didn’t. I want to talk about it with her as little as possible) she started talking to me about depression and medication like I had no idea about anything and that she knew it all (by they way, she isn’t all that keen on the idea that I take meds, thanks mom). However lets think about this for just a second here. I am the one that has lied with some sort of depression for something like 12 years. I am the one who has cut for two and a half (eight weeks free tomorrow, by the way :-)). In other words, I’ve had just a little first hand experience with this stuff. I am also a responsible consumer and once I finally allowed myself to be talked in to taking an antidepressant (and then two Ads) you can bet that I looked them up before I gave my final answer. Possible side affects, traditional dosage, even off label use (for instance, Wellbutrin is also used to help people lose weight and stop smoking and Seroquel, an antipsychotic, has been used to help folks sleep -I said no twice to it despite my trouble sleeping as APs can have some nasty, potentially permanent side affects... and since it turned out that once I was on Zoloft and Wellbutrin -a common paring if the SSRI (Zoloft) doesn’t quite cut it- for a while I finally made it back to normal sleep wise I am glad I said no). Now lets add to all this the fact that I am the one with the degree (yes, only a BA, but a degree none the less) in psychology... Probably, given all that, I know a little bit more about this stuff than either my mother or sister, or the rest of my family for that matter.
Sorry, quite the rant I see. I just wish they would butt out or at least acknowledge that I have even HALF a brain. Acknowledging that the evidence appears to point to the fact that I know something of what I’m talking about, maybe even more than they do... Well I don’t really think that will ever happen, but if it does you can bet I’ll be passed out on the floor from shock.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Who’s to Blame? OR “The Incident” and the Cause of it All... My fault?
In my last blog I talked about wanting to feel some anger about all of this, anger about ‘The Lost Year (and a half)’. That, while I tend to place the blame for my withdrawal squarely on my own shoulders I desire greatly to place it on the shoulders of another.
Now, I am not usually one to misplace blame onto another when it is clearly mine to claim. I don’t like to have to admit to responsibility myself (how many of us really like to accept blame for the things we have done?) but I will, especially if, at first, the blame is placed wrongly.
The blame for my isolation, however, that blame... I just don’t know who should shoulder it. I know that I do not want to be the one to bear its burden, and to be honest I am not sure it is my responsibility, my burden to carry. I would desperately like to be able to dump it onto the shoulders of another whom some might say is more responsible for it any way, however indirectly.
Let me explain.
Spring of 2007. It was probably about time for another major depressive episode. After all, it had been a year or more since the last one. As the academic year progressed I could feel something amiss. I wasn’t feeling in top form to begin with and then there was the added tension... I was vice president of our American Sign Language Club that year (to be honest, and yes I know this sounds petty but I really believe it is true, and, for the record, so have others, had we actually had a legitimate election as written in our bylaws I would have wound up as president). Unfortunately I wound up smack in the middle of the plans of our president and secretary (the idea had been that the gal that wound up as secretary would be VP, the two being close friends and rather clique-ish). Were I naturally a meek individual I probably would have made my life a little easier on myself and just let them steam roll right over me. However, as my friends will tell you, meek is not a word that one would use to describe me, especially when I feel I am being treated unfairly or walked over. Their attempts to leave me out of things I should, as VP, been involved in never got very far (I have never been one to shy away from confrontation, especially when an injustice is being done, to me or others) and my calling them on their efforts to shut me out were not well received.
Our club advisor and the only ASL instructor on campus was another source of tension. From the first day of class I felt uneasy about him. I am usually pretty good at reading people but with him all I could get was a vague sense of unease. I emailed my first year instructor hoping to get some information from him (the Deaf community is small compared to the hearing community and like other small communities everyone knows everyone else’ business). Unfortunately, while I was given some sort of an idea that there was good reason for my sense of unease I was told that I needed to form my own opinion. And so I waited. I continued to give the man the benefit of the doubt far beyond a reasonable time. He wasn’t a very good teacher... Well, he didn’t know he had the job until a few weeks before classes started, he didn’t have time to prepare. We didn’t seem to be learning much of anything, doing much of anything in class: he still didn’t have the books and materials he needed (after all, hadn’t I seen the empty shelf space in his office?). All these excuses... I seemed to have forgotten his telling me within the first few days of classes that he did not even want to teach second year sign.
And then there was the fact that he was just creepy. I can’t explain it, I wish I could. It was that faint disquiet which I could not identify at the beginning of the fall. I never could quell it, never managed to put it to rest.
Things did not improve as the year progressed, though I continued to hope that they would. What a waste of my second year of sign. Spring quarter came around and one of the first things my classmates and I noticed was the absence of one of the gals who had been in our class all year. I don’t know about other ASL classes, other programs, but I always felt that we managed to have our own little community. We all knew everyone else’ business. Gossip was rampant, but for the most part good humored. We were friends. And suddenly, as we were all so close to finishing all that there was left for us as far as ASL goes (the program at my University is only a two year program, much to my own disappointment), one term shy of finishing one of our community was gone and none of us knew why. We asked each other, wondered ‘aloud’ during class (‘aloud’ because one, immersion in a language is one of the fastest ways to learn it, and two, our instructor was Deaf and so voicing in class was considered very rude, especially when not accompanied by sign). We asked the instructor to be told that she would not be taking the final term with the rest of us. We were given on other explanation.
Another curious thing about those first days of the term was the absence of our instructors glasses. S you can imagine with a visual language being able to SEE your students makes it a lot easier to correct them, to teach effectively. When asked about it we were told that he had fallen asleep while watching TV and broken them accidentally (that’s another thing about this guy: he’s quite a liar and obviously thought we were stupid because he just kept right on ling).
April 13th of that year, while doing my homework for my ASL class (a bad student, it was somewhere around 23:00 :)) I was startled by a thunderous banging on the door of my apartment (my apartment which for all intents and purposes was dark as my room mate had gone to bed and I was only working by the light of my computer). I charged downstairs and opened the door to find my ASL instructor standing outside. He wanted to talk and was obviously distressed so I invited him in (stupid I know but I wasn’t really thinking in terms of teacher/student relations only that here was someone obviously distressed... and it was cold out). Thank God, he declined and so I grabbed a coat and some shoes and went out side to sit on the porch. It didn’t take too much conversation before I looked at him and said ‘You’re drunk’ to which he laughed and nodded. What followed was a typical conversation with a drunk. A lot of repetition, general confusion, bathroom breaks (on his part; I usually took the opportunity to go inside and get another layer of clothing, it really was rather cold) and probably way more than he wishes he had told me. There was talk of the real reason this gal had not came back to finish her second year and, wonder of wonders, it was his fault. They ran across each other in a local bar (did I mention this guy has a serious alcohol problem?), she was out with friends, he was out to get tanked. He bought her drinks and at the end of the night asked for a ride home. She, however, while agreeable first wanted to go to a friends and smoke some pot. They went, he bought the pot, and somehow an altercation between him and one of her guy friends resulted in his being beat up and his glasses breaking(my guess is that he was coming on to her, thank God she had friends to intervene).
Also during his drunken rambling he often talked of how he trusted me, I was his favorite/best student, etc. And like so many folks half in the bottle (though I am willing to bet he was closer to ALL the way in the bottle) there was a lot of ‘I love you’ thrown around (I much prefer happy drunks). A rather exasperating drunk, that is for sure. And it just gets better. I was told that on at least one occasion he told someone that he and I were dating! Apparently he was talking about something with some guy (he was drunk and leaving out quite a bit from his stories) at a local bar one night. Apparently he told this guy that he would have to ask his girlfriend ‘she’s hearing’ and then gave him MY name. To make things even better the guy apparently knew me ( I never did get his name, which is probably just as well as I would have been even more mortified than I already was). This night just kept getting better.
My attempts to get him to eat some bread to soak up some of the alcohol in his stomach were futile and my attempt to get him to at least drink some water in a vain attempt to stave off some of the massive hangover he was going to have the next morning only caused him to run back home (he lived in the same apartment complex as I did) and return with MORE beer which he then proceeded to drink on my front porch despite the fact that I told him he had had enough.
Sometime after his return with the alcohol we were approached by a neighbor of mine. TO be honest I didn’t know this guy from Adam and he seemed a little bit... ‘interesting’, shall we say. I was pretty sure he was either drunk, high, or with my luck, drunk AND high. The strange thing, not that the whole night wasn’t one strange thing after another, was not only did he not know me or the instructor, he didn’t sign either. He simply came over because he thought it looked cool. He also thought the instructor and I were dating (I’m sure that made him happy, good lord). And lucky me this kid had some alcohol with him as well! SO now I’ve got two guys on my front lawn drinking AND I get to interpret.
Like so many drunks he was also rather touchy. While we were alone on the porch he sat as close as I would let him, kept patting my leg, and twice his hand ‘accidentally’ brushed against my breast. I tried to keep a comfortable amount of space between us but it was not a large porch and there was only so much I could do. After the appearance of our inebriated friend he got even worse (the mind boggles, I know). I think I had to tell him something like two or three times to knock it off as he kept grabbing the poor guys crotch (I was also asked to inform him as many times that our new friend was not gay, poor kid). At one point we were in the yard, the guys were talking, I was interpreting (why in the world did I not leave?) and he began ‘slapping’ at my neighbor and I (not hard and not maliciously... just imagine a drunk). He again hit my poor neighbor in the groin area at least once. Me he hit on the groin and a breast before I managed to jump back and away. It really was rather brief and after I glared at him and told him angrily to stop he did.
Some time after and a few not so subtle efforts to see if the new guy had some pot (he kept saying he wanted to go smoke some pot which was one sign I did not have to interpret) he and my neighbor walked off toward his apartment and I was left to go upstairs, turn off my computer and try to get warm enough to go to sleep (I had already told him not to expect my homework the following day. He told me I didn’t even have to show up. I shouldn’t have. He didn’t.).
Big deal, right? After all he really didn’t do much of anything. As far as touching goes, as I said, it happened so fast, it was so brief (though despite his apologies I do not believe it was unintentional). Besides comparatively speaking it was nothing. Let me tell you all right now that if someone were telling me the same story I would be validating their feelings of anger, betrayal, and violation or whatever came up for them. I have often advised others that it does not matter whether or not someone has experienced something ‘worse’. Rather, I told them, it is the effect the incident has had on them that matters. I know this. I believe this, truly I do. And though to some extent I have come to the conclusion that it was ‘a big deal’... I don’t know if I can ever get past the fact that in comparison to things done to others... well big deal, get over it, right?
I want to be mad. I think I am, a little. I want to hate him (though I know hate is wrong). Most of all I want to blame him. Not necessarily for the episode of major depression itself but for its severity. I went down hill so fast after that and I have a hard time really believing it was only coincidence, though I keep telling myself it was. I used to drink every once in a while, and then only one or two drinks at a time. I can not tell you how many nights I spent in my apartment (often times alone as my room mate would go out with friends) drunk after a bottle or two of cheap wine, or eight or more shots of vodka (or other hard liquor). Though I had already been cutting for (coincidentally enough) almost a year to the day of ‘the Incident’ (a year and ten days to be exact) I began to cut more often, deeper, and on my arms, though I had swore to myself I would not cut there. I got to the point where I really didn’t care anymore. I think I felt like nothing really mattered. Heck, I had sex for the first (and only time), much to my shame (I wish I could take it back you have no idea). Funny, by the time it (the sex) actually happened I had decided I didn’t really want to but I didn’t really think it would be fair to the guy if I changed my mind (I was SO drunk and, once again, I just didn’t care about anything any more). I can’t explain any of it. Not the increase in alcohol consumption, the increase in the amount of cutting I did or its severity, the night I so desperately want to take back, heck even the tongue ring I got the following spring. Don’t get me wrong I’ve kept the tongue ring, I like it. But I wouldn’t have done it before. I was... numb. Something. I don’t know.
I want to blame him. I wish I could lay the blame directly on his shoulders. Maybe then I could get rid of the regret in regards to ‘the Lost Year (and a half)’. Certainly much of the blame for what happened after ‘the Incident’ lands squarely in my court (well OK, really I guess I am only certain of the blame as far as the sex goes) ... But the catalyst, what sent me spiraling down at a fine rate... I wish I could let go of that regret. I wish I could truly convince myself that it was his fault. But I’m not sure I can...
Now, I am not usually one to misplace blame onto another when it is clearly mine to claim. I don’t like to have to admit to responsibility myself (how many of us really like to accept blame for the things we have done?) but I will, especially if, at first, the blame is placed wrongly.
The blame for my isolation, however, that blame... I just don’t know who should shoulder it. I know that I do not want to be the one to bear its burden, and to be honest I am not sure it is my responsibility, my burden to carry. I would desperately like to be able to dump it onto the shoulders of another whom some might say is more responsible for it any way, however indirectly.
Let me explain.
Spring of 2007. It was probably about time for another major depressive episode. After all, it had been a year or more since the last one. As the academic year progressed I could feel something amiss. I wasn’t feeling in top form to begin with and then there was the added tension... I was vice president of our American Sign Language Club that year (to be honest, and yes I know this sounds petty but I really believe it is true, and, for the record, so have others, had we actually had a legitimate election as written in our bylaws I would have wound up as president). Unfortunately I wound up smack in the middle of the plans of our president and secretary (the idea had been that the gal that wound up as secretary would be VP, the two being close friends and rather clique-ish). Were I naturally a meek individual I probably would have made my life a little easier on myself and just let them steam roll right over me. However, as my friends will tell you, meek is not a word that one would use to describe me, especially when I feel I am being treated unfairly or walked over. Their attempts to leave me out of things I should, as VP, been involved in never got very far (I have never been one to shy away from confrontation, especially when an injustice is being done, to me or others) and my calling them on their efforts to shut me out were not well received.
Our club advisor and the only ASL instructor on campus was another source of tension. From the first day of class I felt uneasy about him. I am usually pretty good at reading people but with him all I could get was a vague sense of unease. I emailed my first year instructor hoping to get some information from him (the Deaf community is small compared to the hearing community and like other small communities everyone knows everyone else’ business). Unfortunately, while I was given some sort of an idea that there was good reason for my sense of unease I was told that I needed to form my own opinion. And so I waited. I continued to give the man the benefit of the doubt far beyond a reasonable time. He wasn’t a very good teacher... Well, he didn’t know he had the job until a few weeks before classes started, he didn’t have time to prepare. We didn’t seem to be learning much of anything, doing much of anything in class: he still didn’t have the books and materials he needed (after all, hadn’t I seen the empty shelf space in his office?). All these excuses... I seemed to have forgotten his telling me within the first few days of classes that he did not even want to teach second year sign.
And then there was the fact that he was just creepy. I can’t explain it, I wish I could. It was that faint disquiet which I could not identify at the beginning of the fall. I never could quell it, never managed to put it to rest.
Things did not improve as the year progressed, though I continued to hope that they would. What a waste of my second year of sign. Spring quarter came around and one of the first things my classmates and I noticed was the absence of one of the gals who had been in our class all year. I don’t know about other ASL classes, other programs, but I always felt that we managed to have our own little community. We all knew everyone else’ business. Gossip was rampant, but for the most part good humored. We were friends. And suddenly, as we were all so close to finishing all that there was left for us as far as ASL goes (the program at my University is only a two year program, much to my own disappointment), one term shy of finishing one of our community was gone and none of us knew why. We asked each other, wondered ‘aloud’ during class (‘aloud’ because one, immersion in a language is one of the fastest ways to learn it, and two, our instructor was Deaf and so voicing in class was considered very rude, especially when not accompanied by sign). We asked the instructor to be told that she would not be taking the final term with the rest of us. We were given on other explanation.
Another curious thing about those first days of the term was the absence of our instructors glasses. S you can imagine with a visual language being able to SEE your students makes it a lot easier to correct them, to teach effectively. When asked about it we were told that he had fallen asleep while watching TV and broken them accidentally (that’s another thing about this guy: he’s quite a liar and obviously thought we were stupid because he just kept right on ling).
April 13th of that year, while doing my homework for my ASL class (a bad student, it was somewhere around 23:00 :)) I was startled by a thunderous banging on the door of my apartment (my apartment which for all intents and purposes was dark as my room mate had gone to bed and I was only working by the light of my computer). I charged downstairs and opened the door to find my ASL instructor standing outside. He wanted to talk and was obviously distressed so I invited him in (stupid I know but I wasn’t really thinking in terms of teacher/student relations only that here was someone obviously distressed... and it was cold out). Thank God, he declined and so I grabbed a coat and some shoes and went out side to sit on the porch. It didn’t take too much conversation before I looked at him and said ‘You’re drunk’ to which he laughed and nodded. What followed was a typical conversation with a drunk. A lot of repetition, general confusion, bathroom breaks (on his part; I usually took the opportunity to go inside and get another layer of clothing, it really was rather cold) and probably way more than he wishes he had told me. There was talk of the real reason this gal had not came back to finish her second year and, wonder of wonders, it was his fault. They ran across each other in a local bar (did I mention this guy has a serious alcohol problem?), she was out with friends, he was out to get tanked. He bought her drinks and at the end of the night asked for a ride home. She, however, while agreeable first wanted to go to a friends and smoke some pot. They went, he bought the pot, and somehow an altercation between him and one of her guy friends resulted in his being beat up and his glasses breaking(my guess is that he was coming on to her, thank God she had friends to intervene).
Also during his drunken rambling he often talked of how he trusted me, I was his favorite/best student, etc. And like so many folks half in the bottle (though I am willing to bet he was closer to ALL the way in the bottle) there was a lot of ‘I love you’ thrown around (I much prefer happy drunks). A rather exasperating drunk, that is for sure. And it just gets better. I was told that on at least one occasion he told someone that he and I were dating! Apparently he was talking about something with some guy (he was drunk and leaving out quite a bit from his stories) at a local bar one night. Apparently he told this guy that he would have to ask his girlfriend ‘she’s hearing’ and then gave him MY name. To make things even better the guy apparently knew me ( I never did get his name, which is probably just as well as I would have been even more mortified than I already was). This night just kept getting better.
My attempts to get him to eat some bread to soak up some of the alcohol in his stomach were futile and my attempt to get him to at least drink some water in a vain attempt to stave off some of the massive hangover he was going to have the next morning only caused him to run back home (he lived in the same apartment complex as I did) and return with MORE beer which he then proceeded to drink on my front porch despite the fact that I told him he had had enough.
Sometime after his return with the alcohol we were approached by a neighbor of mine. TO be honest I didn’t know this guy from Adam and he seemed a little bit... ‘interesting’, shall we say. I was pretty sure he was either drunk, high, or with my luck, drunk AND high. The strange thing, not that the whole night wasn’t one strange thing after another, was not only did he not know me or the instructor, he didn’t sign either. He simply came over because he thought it looked cool. He also thought the instructor and I were dating (I’m sure that made him happy, good lord). And lucky me this kid had some alcohol with him as well! SO now I’ve got two guys on my front lawn drinking AND I get to interpret.
Like so many drunks he was also rather touchy. While we were alone on the porch he sat as close as I would let him, kept patting my leg, and twice his hand ‘accidentally’ brushed against my breast. I tried to keep a comfortable amount of space between us but it was not a large porch and there was only so much I could do. After the appearance of our inebriated friend he got even worse (the mind boggles, I know). I think I had to tell him something like two or three times to knock it off as he kept grabbing the poor guys crotch (I was also asked to inform him as many times that our new friend was not gay, poor kid). At one point we were in the yard, the guys were talking, I was interpreting (why in the world did I not leave?) and he began ‘slapping’ at my neighbor and I (not hard and not maliciously... just imagine a drunk). He again hit my poor neighbor in the groin area at least once. Me he hit on the groin and a breast before I managed to jump back and away. It really was rather brief and after I glared at him and told him angrily to stop he did.
Some time after and a few not so subtle efforts to see if the new guy had some pot (he kept saying he wanted to go smoke some pot which was one sign I did not have to interpret) he and my neighbor walked off toward his apartment and I was left to go upstairs, turn off my computer and try to get warm enough to go to sleep (I had already told him not to expect my homework the following day. He told me I didn’t even have to show up. I shouldn’t have. He didn’t.).
Big deal, right? After all he really didn’t do much of anything. As far as touching goes, as I said, it happened so fast, it was so brief (though despite his apologies I do not believe it was unintentional). Besides comparatively speaking it was nothing. Let me tell you all right now that if someone were telling me the same story I would be validating their feelings of anger, betrayal, and violation or whatever came up for them. I have often advised others that it does not matter whether or not someone has experienced something ‘worse’. Rather, I told them, it is the effect the incident has had on them that matters. I know this. I believe this, truly I do. And though to some extent I have come to the conclusion that it was ‘a big deal’... I don’t know if I can ever get past the fact that in comparison to things done to others... well big deal, get over it, right?
I want to be mad. I think I am, a little. I want to hate him (though I know hate is wrong). Most of all I want to blame him. Not necessarily for the episode of major depression itself but for its severity. I went down hill so fast after that and I have a hard time really believing it was only coincidence, though I keep telling myself it was. I used to drink every once in a while, and then only one or two drinks at a time. I can not tell you how many nights I spent in my apartment (often times alone as my room mate would go out with friends) drunk after a bottle or two of cheap wine, or eight or more shots of vodka (or other hard liquor). Though I had already been cutting for (coincidentally enough) almost a year to the day of ‘the Incident’ (a year and ten days to be exact) I began to cut more often, deeper, and on my arms, though I had swore to myself I would not cut there. I got to the point where I really didn’t care anymore. I think I felt like nothing really mattered. Heck, I had sex for the first (and only time), much to my shame (I wish I could take it back you have no idea). Funny, by the time it (the sex) actually happened I had decided I didn’t really want to but I didn’t really think it would be fair to the guy if I changed my mind (I was SO drunk and, once again, I just didn’t care about anything any more). I can’t explain any of it. Not the increase in alcohol consumption, the increase in the amount of cutting I did or its severity, the night I so desperately want to take back, heck even the tongue ring I got the following spring. Don’t get me wrong I’ve kept the tongue ring, I like it. But I wouldn’t have done it before. I was... numb. Something. I don’t know.
I want to blame him. I wish I could lay the blame directly on his shoulders. Maybe then I could get rid of the regret in regards to ‘the Lost Year (and a half)’. Certainly much of the blame for what happened after ‘the Incident’ lands squarely in my court (well OK, really I guess I am only certain of the blame as far as the sex goes) ... But the catalyst, what sent me spiraling down at a fine rate... I wish I could let go of that regret. I wish I could truly convince myself that it was his fault. But I’m not sure I can...
Regret
I don’t know about you all but usually, when I think of regret I think of something I have or have done that I should not have, or have not done that I should have. Either way I am feeling some sort of guilt for something which is my fault. When it comes right down to it though, regret is not something anyone I know enjoys. It usually brings with it some sort of shame or guilt and those are not feelings which are usually enjoyed.
I have found myself experiencing regret every time I turn around recently. The thing is, though... I’m not sure it is something I SHOULD be regretting. If anything I wish that I was feeling some anger about the whole thing. I want to place blame somewhere other than on my own shoulders. For all intents and purposes it should rest squarely on the shoulders of another... I think...
What in the world am I talking about? Why should the guilt not be mine? Who should shoulder it? And for that matter, shoulder what?
The more I participate in life the more I come to realize exactly what I missed this past year and a half when even while I was present I was not participating. When I finally stopped participating, full stop.
What did I miss? Opportunities with friends. Activities that just a year or so before I not only participated in but helped put on. Activities that I Had previously enjoyed, ‘Thanksgiving’ with my college church group (we had it early because everyone would be with family on the actual day), the Christmas party and caroling (I remember one year it was so icy we shuffled along holding tightly to one another, you know, so that if one of us went down everyone would go down ;)), an occasional trip to the closest ‘big’ city or the cute little Bavarian town a few hours north. Our annual camping and rafting trip, which actually had to become a camping and hiking trip due to an exceptionally high and cold river, a trip I only missed one other time while in school and that only because I had an awful cold and didn’t want to get anyone else sick (close quarters in those tents, you know). The church group itself... I had been on the leadership team for something like four years, lead worship for our Thursday night Bible studies for almost as long (if not as long)... I went only twice last school year. The campus ministers wife had a baby this past spring... I was there for a lot of her first pregnancy. I babysat their first quite often during his first few years of life... I missed that too, and others got to know him better, become closer, as I faded into the back of his young mind, my baby (well, I DID meet him the day after he was born and WAS a primary babysitter, after all). I drug myself to church most mornings during the academic year, but did not make it to Sunday morning Bible study and during the summer I made an appearance once or twice at the beginning, but that was it. Our church began a building project about the time I shut myself off from as much as the world as possible. I made ice once (you know, for the workers water and the like).
Basically, my increasing isolation caused me to miss out on... well, everything. And, at the time, I was alright with that. I didn’t care much about anything really, let alone some missed social opportunities. It took much less effort to lay in bed all day and stare unseeing at the ceiling or hide under my pillow and sleep the day through. I managed to make it to classes, most of the time... and work, with only a few ‘sick’ days. But there again, at least with school, I missed out. I had plans for that year, my last before receiving my bachelors. I needed to take the GRE and apply to graduate school. Find a professor who needed help doing research (good experience, you know, and graduate schools like that kind of thing). But I did none of that. Again, I slept a lot (spent quite a few fall mornings sleeping in my car between the one or two classes I decided to go to and my shift at the dining hall... until it was only the two classes and work and I very often only went to the first because, after all, two fifty minute classes is just too much, isn’t it?). I spent very little time doing my required school work; anything extra was out of the question. I took one class three times before finally managing to complete it (I never failed it... I DID, however, withdraw from it twice, and only managed to complete it, I believe, by an act of God and the grace of the instructor who bent over backward in her efforts to help me succeed).
The thing about all this that has probably made me feel the most regret (though missing all the fun times with my friends ranks pretty high on the list) is our church building project. Basically we tore down the sanctuary (half the church building) and built a larger one in its place. And while I am sure, because of building codes and what not, we had our fair share of professional help, the sanctuary was mostly built by the church members and those kind enough to volunteer (from the states down south to folks right in our own back yard that just called up -or showed up- and offered their help). However, I spent most of my time doing nothing, staring vacantly into space, feeling awful and really unable to do much of anything let alone spend hours on end with a bunch of people hanging sheet rock. I couldn’t spend this time with the people I care about working on the church building that we are now worshiping in. I couldn’t even help our church take that step toward doing more of Gods work (because a bigger facility means more room for visitors, more people hearing His word).
Ugh, I hate it! I hate that for a year and a half (give or take) I became all but useless. I hate that a year and a half of my life was taken from me! “But that’s how depression works” you tell me. I will be the first to agree with you there. Having had more than my fair share of major depressive episodes I am fully aware of how that monster works, how it sucks the life right out of you. And were I talking to someone else in the same situation I would be telling them the same thing. Because depression is the problem, not the individual. But I am a hypocrite. I truly believe everything I say about depression... when I am talking about someone else. I can not, however, make myself believe it when applied to myself. Why did I shut down? “It was the depression” you say. But I want to take responsibility for it. I do not know why. Maybe because none of my previous major depressive episodes were as bad as this last. I always continued to function. I made myself. I upheld my responsibilities, participated in fun activities with my friends, made like everything was fine. Sure I slept a lot more (or not nearly enough). Sometimes I didn’t eat all that much (sometimes I ate WAY too much). In some of the later episodes I was sure that others could see in my eyes the emptiness I felt, but they never did. However the episode manifested itself (insomnia or hypersomnia, eating too little or too much) I carried on. The fact that I allowed myself to be consumed by this last episode often feels to me to be inexcusable. I should have been able to keep on. But I did not. And while one part of me knows that it was not any failure on my part there continues to be a small part of me, a nagging little voice, trying to tell me otherwise, to make me feel regret for something beyond my control.
I have found myself experiencing regret every time I turn around recently. The thing is, though... I’m not sure it is something I SHOULD be regretting. If anything I wish that I was feeling some anger about the whole thing. I want to place blame somewhere other than on my own shoulders. For all intents and purposes it should rest squarely on the shoulders of another... I think...
What in the world am I talking about? Why should the guilt not be mine? Who should shoulder it? And for that matter, shoulder what?
The more I participate in life the more I come to realize exactly what I missed this past year and a half when even while I was present I was not participating. When I finally stopped participating, full stop.
What did I miss? Opportunities with friends. Activities that just a year or so before I not only participated in but helped put on. Activities that I Had previously enjoyed, ‘Thanksgiving’ with my college church group (we had it early because everyone would be with family on the actual day), the Christmas party and caroling (I remember one year it was so icy we shuffled along holding tightly to one another, you know, so that if one of us went down everyone would go down ;)), an occasional trip to the closest ‘big’ city or the cute little Bavarian town a few hours north. Our annual camping and rafting trip, which actually had to become a camping and hiking trip due to an exceptionally high and cold river, a trip I only missed one other time while in school and that only because I had an awful cold and didn’t want to get anyone else sick (close quarters in those tents, you know). The church group itself... I had been on the leadership team for something like four years, lead worship for our Thursday night Bible studies for almost as long (if not as long)... I went only twice last school year. The campus ministers wife had a baby this past spring... I was there for a lot of her first pregnancy. I babysat their first quite often during his first few years of life... I missed that too, and others got to know him better, become closer, as I faded into the back of his young mind, my baby (well, I DID meet him the day after he was born and WAS a primary babysitter, after all). I drug myself to church most mornings during the academic year, but did not make it to Sunday morning Bible study and during the summer I made an appearance once or twice at the beginning, but that was it. Our church began a building project about the time I shut myself off from as much as the world as possible. I made ice once (you know, for the workers water and the like).
Basically, my increasing isolation caused me to miss out on... well, everything. And, at the time, I was alright with that. I didn’t care much about anything really, let alone some missed social opportunities. It took much less effort to lay in bed all day and stare unseeing at the ceiling or hide under my pillow and sleep the day through. I managed to make it to classes, most of the time... and work, with only a few ‘sick’ days. But there again, at least with school, I missed out. I had plans for that year, my last before receiving my bachelors. I needed to take the GRE and apply to graduate school. Find a professor who needed help doing research (good experience, you know, and graduate schools like that kind of thing). But I did none of that. Again, I slept a lot (spent quite a few fall mornings sleeping in my car between the one or two classes I decided to go to and my shift at the dining hall... until it was only the two classes and work and I very often only went to the first because, after all, two fifty minute classes is just too much, isn’t it?). I spent very little time doing my required school work; anything extra was out of the question. I took one class three times before finally managing to complete it (I never failed it... I DID, however, withdraw from it twice, and only managed to complete it, I believe, by an act of God and the grace of the instructor who bent over backward in her efforts to help me succeed).
The thing about all this that has probably made me feel the most regret (though missing all the fun times with my friends ranks pretty high on the list) is our church building project. Basically we tore down the sanctuary (half the church building) and built a larger one in its place. And while I am sure, because of building codes and what not, we had our fair share of professional help, the sanctuary was mostly built by the church members and those kind enough to volunteer (from the states down south to folks right in our own back yard that just called up -or showed up- and offered their help). However, I spent most of my time doing nothing, staring vacantly into space, feeling awful and really unable to do much of anything let alone spend hours on end with a bunch of people hanging sheet rock. I couldn’t spend this time with the people I care about working on the church building that we are now worshiping in. I couldn’t even help our church take that step toward doing more of Gods work (because a bigger facility means more room for visitors, more people hearing His word).
Ugh, I hate it! I hate that for a year and a half (give or take) I became all but useless. I hate that a year and a half of my life was taken from me! “But that’s how depression works” you tell me. I will be the first to agree with you there. Having had more than my fair share of major depressive episodes I am fully aware of how that monster works, how it sucks the life right out of you. And were I talking to someone else in the same situation I would be telling them the same thing. Because depression is the problem, not the individual. But I am a hypocrite. I truly believe everything I say about depression... when I am talking about someone else. I can not, however, make myself believe it when applied to myself. Why did I shut down? “It was the depression” you say. But I want to take responsibility for it. I do not know why. Maybe because none of my previous major depressive episodes were as bad as this last. I always continued to function. I made myself. I upheld my responsibilities, participated in fun activities with my friends, made like everything was fine. Sure I slept a lot more (or not nearly enough). Sometimes I didn’t eat all that much (sometimes I ate WAY too much). In some of the later episodes I was sure that others could see in my eyes the emptiness I felt, but they never did. However the episode manifested itself (insomnia or hypersomnia, eating too little or too much) I carried on. The fact that I allowed myself to be consumed by this last episode often feels to me to be inexcusable. I should have been able to keep on. But I did not. And while one part of me knows that it was not any failure on my part there continues to be a small part of me, a nagging little voice, trying to tell me otherwise, to make me feel regret for something beyond my control.
Monday, October 6, 2008
When Did I Become Lost? OR Have I Ever Really Known Myself?
I’m not sure when I first noticed something was different. I wrote a poem in 2004 which seems to suggest that I was aware of something different:
(excerpt from “The Masks I Wear, © 2004 TAMOAGI)
“My true self remains hidden
In the depths where even now
I am crying
For I am lost”
But to be perfectly honest I don’t remember realizing exactly how true those words were. Perhaps... perhaps they were not, not at that time. I believe I have sufficient knowledge in the area of psychology and enough experience with depression as far as my own life is concerned to tell you that I believe I became depressed somewhere around the ages of 13/14 years old. It is not uncommon for major depression to be preceded by dysthymic disorder and I believe I lived first with that for several years. And the thing about dysthymic disorder is that it is a perfect stepping stone for major depressive disorder, single episode. There has been some evidence suggesting that individuals whom start with dysthymic disorder and later acquire major depressive disorder are more likely than those whom have no history of dysthymic disorder to experience multiple major depressive episodes and have poorer interepisode recovery (DSM-IV-TR, American Psychological Association, 2000). Add to that the fact that I developed DD at a relatively early age (under 21 is considered early onset) and my future was already looking pretty bleak by the time I hit early adolescence. It gets even better though because the more MD episodes a person has makes them that much more likely to experience another one later on down the road. From what I can tell from journals I have kept over the years I think I just finished episode number four (by far the worst I have experienced)... that is as far as the DSM-IV-TR goes folks: individuals that have had three MD episodes have a 90% chance of having a fourth. What having four means they don’t say... Those statistics usually cause me to be thankful that I have some chemical help... hopefully that will allow me to stave off a fifth. Unfortunately I’ve ran out of one and so have been without it for almost three weeks now... I am hoping that I made it far enough out of the last episode to be ‘alright’ until I can get some more (don’t you just love American health care?).
But I digress. As I said, I am not sure that those words I wrote the spring of 2004 were completely true. I really do not know when I became lost, even to myself. Honestly I think I was lost much earlier than others may have noticed. Appearances can be deceiving, you know, and I have, for the most part (save for this most recent MD episode) become quite adept at keeping my problems from others (possibly I should have studied acting, rather than psychology ;)). I remember a time during one episode: I was at a meeting for my college church groups leadership team... I felt so hollow I was sure that it was obvious, positive that it was evident in my eyes. And yet, as I sat there it became clear to me that no one had noticed and to be honest I was at a loss as to explain how they had not. I was at the point where I no longer had the ability to even try to cover it up... and yet, I did. I smiled and laughed, participated in life and met my responsibilities: I went to classes and got relatively good grades. I went to work and remained productive, so much so that, in the absence of student supervisors (we had none, at the time) I was often left in charge. I went to church, led worship on Thursday nights for our churches college group (which included not only playing my guitar and singing but picking out the music as well and a little talk here and there between some songs, perhaps finding some scripture to be read between songs, things like that). I did all this running on empty. Taking a shower was so draining I more often than not climbed back into bed for a while afterward. I had no energy, I felt nothing save maybe for that horrible feeling of death while still alive (little did I know that it could be worse even than that) and an emptiness that I was sure was evident in my eyes. I suppose, really, it was around this time that I became truly lost. I had become too skilled at concealing how I was truly feeling. For all anyone else knew I was a happy and content individual; after all, they had no evidence to suggest otherwise. As I continued to maintain this facade I lost something, I’m pretty sure I lost myself. Why am I not absolutely sure? I don’t know. I suppose it has been so long I am not altogether sure I ever truly knew who I was. I started down this path at such an early age, I had no time to become anything. During the years that the formation of my personality should have been galloping along at a fine rate I was already hiding behind my masks. While my own story should have been taking shape I had already been playing a part that did not fit, that was not mine thus leaving my own part unfinished before it had even really begun. I was lost, before there was ever really anything to find.
Wow. Having come to this sad realization I wonder... is there any hope of knowing who I really am? Or will I forever be forced to play a part. I play it well and it’s really not a bad part; others, for the most part, seem to approve. However to me it feels empty and unreal and therefore dismaying.
(excerpt from “The Masks I Wear, © 2004 TAMOAGI)
“My true self remains hidden
In the depths where even now
I am crying
For I am lost”
But to be perfectly honest I don’t remember realizing exactly how true those words were. Perhaps... perhaps they were not, not at that time. I believe I have sufficient knowledge in the area of psychology and enough experience with depression as far as my own life is concerned to tell you that I believe I became depressed somewhere around the ages of 13/14 years old. It is not uncommon for major depression to be preceded by dysthymic disorder and I believe I lived first with that for several years. And the thing about dysthymic disorder is that it is a perfect stepping stone for major depressive disorder, single episode. There has been some evidence suggesting that individuals whom start with dysthymic disorder and later acquire major depressive disorder are more likely than those whom have no history of dysthymic disorder to experience multiple major depressive episodes and have poorer interepisode recovery (DSM-IV-TR, American Psychological Association, 2000). Add to that the fact that I developed DD at a relatively early age (under 21 is considered early onset) and my future was already looking pretty bleak by the time I hit early adolescence. It gets even better though because the more MD episodes a person has makes them that much more likely to experience another one later on down the road. From what I can tell from journals I have kept over the years I think I just finished episode number four (by far the worst I have experienced)... that is as far as the DSM-IV-TR goes folks: individuals that have had three MD episodes have a 90% chance of having a fourth. What having four means they don’t say... Those statistics usually cause me to be thankful that I have some chemical help... hopefully that will allow me to stave off a fifth. Unfortunately I’ve ran out of one and so have been without it for almost three weeks now... I am hoping that I made it far enough out of the last episode to be ‘alright’ until I can get some more (don’t you just love American health care?).
But I digress. As I said, I am not sure that those words I wrote the spring of 2004 were completely true. I really do not know when I became lost, even to myself. Honestly I think I was lost much earlier than others may have noticed. Appearances can be deceiving, you know, and I have, for the most part (save for this most recent MD episode) become quite adept at keeping my problems from others (possibly I should have studied acting, rather than psychology ;)). I remember a time during one episode: I was at a meeting for my college church groups leadership team... I felt so hollow I was sure that it was obvious, positive that it was evident in my eyes. And yet, as I sat there it became clear to me that no one had noticed and to be honest I was at a loss as to explain how they had not. I was at the point where I no longer had the ability to even try to cover it up... and yet, I did. I smiled and laughed, participated in life and met my responsibilities: I went to classes and got relatively good grades. I went to work and remained productive, so much so that, in the absence of student supervisors (we had none, at the time) I was often left in charge. I went to church, led worship on Thursday nights for our churches college group (which included not only playing my guitar and singing but picking out the music as well and a little talk here and there between some songs, perhaps finding some scripture to be read between songs, things like that). I did all this running on empty. Taking a shower was so draining I more often than not climbed back into bed for a while afterward. I had no energy, I felt nothing save maybe for that horrible feeling of death while still alive (little did I know that it could be worse even than that) and an emptiness that I was sure was evident in my eyes. I suppose, really, it was around this time that I became truly lost. I had become too skilled at concealing how I was truly feeling. For all anyone else knew I was a happy and content individual; after all, they had no evidence to suggest otherwise. As I continued to maintain this facade I lost something, I’m pretty sure I lost myself. Why am I not absolutely sure? I don’t know. I suppose it has been so long I am not altogether sure I ever truly knew who I was. I started down this path at such an early age, I had no time to become anything. During the years that the formation of my personality should have been galloping along at a fine rate I was already hiding behind my masks. While my own story should have been taking shape I had already been playing a part that did not fit, that was not mine thus leaving my own part unfinished before it had even really begun. I was lost, before there was ever really anything to find.
Wow. Having come to this sad realization I wonder... is there any hope of knowing who I really am? Or will I forever be forced to play a part. I play it well and it’s really not a bad part; others, for the most part, seem to approve. However to me it feels empty and unreal and therefore dismaying.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)