The Day is Done

After two productive days, I've had a really lazy, surf-the-net, stuff-my-face-with-food-until-I'm-sick kind of day.  I may be headed for another depression, but I'm not there yet.  Just really tired.  And prone to binge eating. I went to my daughter's parent/teacher conference this afternoon, so that completed the wipe-out of my mental energy.  I wonder how odd teachers think it is when my daughters have a meeting scheduled and in walks not one, not two, but FOUR parents (and a toddler). I bet they don't get that a lot.  But I hope they just assume that the girls have four parents that love them very much and that's why we all show up, which is the truth. Whatever the teachers think of our crew, my daughter had a good report card and she was happy that we were all there, so that is what matters.  I made it through with no panic attacks, though I was very close to having one just before we left the house.  Success!  I am proud of myself for the trips out of the house I have made recently.  Next month we are planning on going out of town for my daughter's livestock show.  A three hour drive and a few days away from the safety of home.  I am trying to focus on how a change of scenery and having maid service will be nice.  I can't allow myself to think about the millions of things that could go wrong.  I will not do that to myself, or to my daughter.  I'm taking one day at a time.  Today went well, though I am exhausted.  That is all I have to do for now.  One scary step at a time.  

The Simple Things Are Usually the Hardest

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I have never been diagnosed with ADD, but sometimes I wonder if I would benefit from the medication. But maybe that is just the hypochondriac in me talking. My last doctor insisted that it would wreak havoc on my bipolar symptoms to be placed on such a substance, but she didn't offer any other helpful alternatives for improving my concentration.  

I can't focus. I can't organize anything without becoming extremely overwhelmed and brought to tears. I can't follow conversations because my mind wanders.  And I can't read my email.  

Yeah, it's pretty odd, but I can read a few pages of a book (on a good day, at least) but God forbid I try to read an email from someone that is longer than two sentences.  It takes even longer to articulate my words to respond.  That's me, a freelance writer, admitting that I can write articles, short stories, even books, but I cannot sit still and focus long enough to reply to a simple email.  

Maybe it's not an ADD issue as much as it is that I have some hangup about email.  And thinking about this reminds me of my younger years, back in the days of snail mail, where it also took me forever to pen a letter, especially if that letter was a thank-you note!  Oh my goodness, how hard it is to say "thank you for that mint green sweater you sent for Christmas" in a creative, sincere way.  The horror of it all! I didn't even write thank-you notes after my wedding shower.  I was 19 at the time and I guess I figured people would understand what a hardship it was for me to write out about 75 cards of gratitude.  It was so much harder than their effort to pick a gift for my husband and I, to purchase it, to wrap it and bring it or mail it to me.  Well, that's what I thought, but apparently many of them didn't agree with that line of reasoning.  I know because they liked discussing it with my mother, and she liked reminding me what a shitty thing it was of me to have done.  I learned my lesson and made sure to send out thank you notes after my baby shower, which was not quite as difficult because at least I could add in cute little tidbits about the baby.  

I think there's just something about writing personally to one person that makes me feel inadequate.  I can't generalize; I have to be specific in my response, or at least I think I do.  So then I start questioning whether I should add this or that.  And even reading their initial email or letter is stressful because I feel like there is something demanded of me: a response, a laugh, a kidney.  And of course this is crazy nonsense, and I don't want anyone to think I don't welcome personal greetings or questions.  But, if I take a really long time to respond, please understand why.  It's because you matter to me and I am so afraid of getting it wrong.  And that admission alone kind of proves the problem has more to do with my OCD than ADD.  More on that later.  

Refocusing

“Man starts over again every day, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.” -Emil Cioran 

I'm two weeks into the new year, and I am already losing focus on the things I had planned for 2014. As I have stated before, I am not usually into the resolution thing, but I did set a few goals for myself, which were:

1.) Deactivate Facebook for the year (mainly so I would have less distractions, but also because there were some things I was seeing on a daily basis that were really bumming me out)

2.) Finish book revisions on one of my four books (I actually ended up ditching the memoir concept and am rewriting the whole thing in another light...it came to me in a dream, yada yada don't judge my process)

3.) Do some type of exercise every day (nothing brutal, just something besides light housework and chasing after a toddler, which I have actually gotten pretty good at doing from the comfort of my chair)

I have made good on my vow to deactivate Facebook for the year.  I have made a quick stop-in on the site twice, but that was to retrieve something from my private messages that I had forgotten to save elsewhere.  While I miss the people I socialized with on there (some of them, anyway) I don't miss the other stuff. 

My book work was strong the first week, but I am already slipping, and I know it is because I am, once again, doubting myself.  I know what I want to write about, what I need to write about, but I am fearful of the consequences.  You know, the point where someone besides me might read it.  But, I must refocus on the project and not the outcome.  Tell that inner critic to go jump down a mine shaft and work furiously until she climbs back out.  I am determined to not let her win this year. I can't spend another year in failure where this is concerned.  And no, I am not even worried about prospect of publishing; I just want to have a complete book that surpasses the crappy rough draft.  I have four of those.  I just want ONE COMPLETED BOOK! 

I also fell off the wagon when it comes to exercise after one day. Yes, one day.  Actually, to be perfectly honest, I did not even make it all the way through the whole workout that first day.  During the part where I was on the floor doing leg exercises I just kind of...stayed there for a while, and then I got up and forgot about the rest of the workout.  Shameful, I know. But at least I'm honest.  

I have a pattern in my life of starting and quitting things quite rapidly.  I get really sparked up about doing it, actually believe in myself, and then it's like I purposely go out of my way to prevent myself from accomplishing it.  I know I'm not the only person who practices this type of self-sabotage. But I'm the only one I can actually change.  And that's what this year is really supposed to be about.  Changing the way I have done things in the past, just for one year, to see if it makes a difference.  I know it will make a difference.  I just have to do it.  I still have 351 days to prove it. So, here I go...

"To succeed, jump as quickly at opportunities as you do at conclusions." 

-Benjamin Franklin

The Importance of Nurture

My little boy has been sick with a stomach virus today.  I am grateful that Jacen has a great immune system (hooray for boobie milk!) so he rarely ever gets sick.  But, stomach bugs seem to catch all of us at some point or another on many occasions during our lives, and even the power of two years' worth of breastmilk can't always fight against that particular fate.  Especially when his sister had the bug a few days ago.

So, lots of snuggles today, which I love.  Now, don't misunderstand.  I am NOT glad that my baby is sick.  I hate to see him miserable, and he's too young to understand why I am being very stingy with what he can and cannot eat so as to try to minimize the pukies.  In his toddler eyes, though, I am just trying to starve him!  So, he may have some trust issues with me at the moment, but not enough to get out of my lap.  And I love the closeness.  Anyone who has had a toddler boy knows that the chances of them staying still longer than a second and a half at any given moment during the day are nearly nonexistent.  But, while he has still had bursts of playful energy throughout today, for the most part he has been happiest to sit in my lap and read or watch his favorite television shows. These are the times when I get to provide extra comfort and reassurance to my child, which is something that often gets lost in the normal hustle of day-to-day life.  Instead of trying to keep up with him and prevent any injuries, I get to hold him and show love in quieter, more tender ways.  It takes me back to memories of times when my adopted mother rocked me and comforted me during my many, many illnesses of childhood.  It's true that my mom and I have not had the most loving, healthy relationship, but every time I think of those nights she stayed up with me I can't help but feel grateful for what she did for me.  It was those times when she proved her love in ways she could not otherwise do.  It was those times when I felt safe and important.  And those memories cover over a multitude of sins in other departments.

I am definitely not saying it's okay to be a crappy mother except when your kid is sick.  But I know and you know what it's like to try to be the "perfect" mother and fail so miserably.  Even without a mental illness to muddle up good intentions, there is human error.  I know my children will not have all good memories of me.  But I hope they remember my snuggles.  I hope they remember loving words whispered in their ears right before they drift off to sleep.  I hope they remember that I loved them, every day, the best way I knew how.  

A Good Day

Today was a good day.  Or, at least, it was a manic day (but not a Manic Monday, to be sure). I was manic enough to actually want to get out of the house, to go with my fiance and son to a restaurant and grocery store, to not only survive a visit from my mom but actually talk through most of it and to not be thoroughly exhausted after all of that social interaction.  Not even one little itsy bitsy panic attack. Furthermore, I was manic enough to have three long phone conversations with my daughters (I wonder if they were manic too) and to not lose my temper much (compared to usual) with my son as he poured cereal all over the kitchen, climbed up on the desk and dumped all my pens out, and threw his toys all over the house a grand total of 22 times.  

Moral of story:  Mania was in my favor today.  It made the day good.  I didn't even mind the racing thoughts, and my fiance didn't seem to mind me interrupting him (because I couldn't wait to tell him something until he finished what he was saying because I might forget, and you know the tragedy of that!) 

I just really couldn't ask for a better day.  I don't think hypomania would have covered it.  I know depression would not have.  And my "balanced, normal, regular" self...who the hell is she??  I really can't remember.  And I don't even want to at the moment, because I'm sure she's boring.  I'm sure she is appalling.  I'm sure she never refers to herself in third person.  What a drag. 

In closing (maybe), I will say that there are parts, little snidbits as I call them (much to the dictionary's dismay) of bipolarhood that I don't mind, and sometimes even crave.  And this is one of them, this whole day.  This whole wonderful day full of brightness and wonder and brilliance and everything magical that one mind could possibly -or impossibly- contain -or not contain, so watch out for exploding heads.  I can't stop it and I don't even want to.  I'm not even afraid of the too-high or the huge crash that is just around the corner.  It's just absolutely wonderful to be ME.  Today.  

Short Story Review: The Tale of the Lantern Lady

I recently had the privilege of reading a short story, "The Tale of the Lantern Lady", by Natalie Patterson Mohr. It provided a unique look at the course of mental illness through vivid imagery and symbolism. Here is a brief summary of the story, provided by Ms. Mohr: 

Whether it be sickness, life challenges, mental illness or spiritual voids, at times dark moments can seem to swallow us. After these experiences, we emerge with a new life lesson, a growth in character, or a change in perception. The Tale of the Lantern Lady is an allegorical story about the influential people who provide guidance and help to those suffering from such struggles. Despair can lead us to feel hopeless, isolated, and irrational and can make it more difficult to fight our battles alone. This story pays homage to the "angels" who bridge the gap between pain and positive change in others' lives. Their "lanterns" encourage, illuminate, and empower those who struggle.

Natalie Patterson Mohr grew up in Morristown, Tennessee. She received a B.A. at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and completed her graduate degree at Lincoln Memorial University. She is a mental health advocate, a former Spanish teacher and mother to two young boys. She currently lives in East Tennessee and enjoys pursuing her passions of writing, art, community involvement, music, and life-long learning.

"As someone who struggles with a mental illness, I have learned over the years to treasure the advice and wisdom gained from many years of treatment. If it were not for the supportive encouragement of my therapist, friends and family, I would not be the person I am today. It is my hope that those in need of help will seek it diligently until they receive the care they deserve. I hope that others may be as fortunate as I have and find a positive support system where they can be helped to overcome their obstacles. No one should have to fight their battles alone in the dark." - Natalie Patterson Mohr

http://www.blurb.com/b/4819435-the-tale-of-the-lantern-lady

  

What is a Social Life?

I have been shy my entire life.  It was hard to make friends in school, but I did have a few.  I was at least likable for the most part, for those who took a chance on a strange quiet girl and got to really know me.  And I think I was a fairly good friend to have.  I was a good listener, didn't backstab or gossip, and I genuinely cared about the people I hung out with. If nothing else, I provided a few laughs what with my silliness and ability to look at things in a unique way. I maintained friendships through college and even my early years as a mother.  I remained likable, though still quiet.  I was able to hide the parts of me that were less...sane.  

It became harder to keep and make friends as my mind started to unravel.  I lost a good portion of people I hung out with (mainly church friends) when I went through the whole "crazy spell" and divorce.  I lost most of the rest during my second marriage because that's the lovely thing about abusers: they like to seclude their victims and make it impossible to reach out for help.  At this point, it wasn't just friends I lost contact with.  It was most of my family as well.  

After all those storms, you would think I would feel a little calmer.  But I don't.  You'd think I'd be busting at the seams to make social contact with others, but quite the contrary.  I find it harder than ever to talk to anyone, even my best friend that I have had since middle school.  She has always been a friend to me no matter what.  Even when I didn't speak to her for two years (thanks to the abuser).  She was still willing to be my friend, despite my inability to be a friend back.  

She and I try to meet for lunch a few times a year.  This is difficult for me because a) I don't drive anymore and b) I am very prone to panic attacks, especially in social situations.  For these reasons, the only way I can spend time with her is for my fiance to drive me there and then he stays with me to help me feel more comfortable in whatever restaurant we go to.  We go as early as the place opens, both for the fact that there is less of a crowd and my fiance works nights and consequently goes to bed pretty early in the day.  The meetings are brief, and I struggle to even make small talk.  It's pretty dysfunctional, and I am grateful that my friend and my fiance continue to make the effort for my benefit. 

But it's embarrassing, ya know.  And with other friends who ask to get together with me, I keep making excuses why I can't.  Just so I don't have to explain to them that the only way I can see them is to follow "the rules" to keep my panic at bay.  It's not a normal set up, I know.  And I miss those days when I could just hop in the car and go see a friend.  Just the two of us (or with kids in tow) having a girls' day out like real friends do.  I miss looking forward to these meetings instead of dreading them.  

I realize my anxiety and panic have grown into a matter of agoraphobia.  I avoid leaving the house as much as possible.  I will occasionally accompany my fiance to the grocery store or library, but I'm stuck like glue to his side the whole time, and that is still not a surefire way to avoid a panic attack.  I hate how much I have to depend on him, all while I am so very grateful that he puts up with me.  More than that, he encourages me but he's respectful of my limits at the same time.  I know most people would not be this understanding.  I still feel bad for him.  I want to be "normal" for him.  And God forbid if something happened to him, I would have absolutely no one in this world that could do even part of what he does for me.  That's really the only "unhealthy" part of our relationship, how much I depend on him and how much he acts like he doesn't mind it.  

I am beginning to feel more and more stuck in this little hole I've burrowed myself into.  I am still making efforts to climb out, but I seem to be going further down instead.  I don't even have a doctor or therapist to go to for help now.  Everything in life is becoming so terrifying, so suffocating, so disorienting. I'm not really sure how to get the help I need, but I know it's urgent that I figure it out. If not for myself, then for my kids, my fiance.  For friends that would actually still like to see me in person rather than our whole measly relationship being based around timid emails.  

I have been shy my entire life, but I used to be braver.  I miss that spark of determination, that gumption of "have to" instead of just "should". I miss who I was, and who I could have been without all these fears and limitations.  But I want to stop missing her and start being her again.  I must work a little harder at this, or die trying.  Which may actually happen, considering my panic attacks are pushing my blood pressure higher and higher.  

Sigh.  So stuck.  

My Happy Box

My son has a new hideout.  Under the table in his playroom he has a cardboard box just the right size for a two year old to snuggle up in.  One of my daughters even cut him a door that opens and closes for it.  So if he gets quiet, there's a good chance he is hanging out in his box.  

I have been in a relatively happy place myself for the past few days. I have had an indecent amount of depression, so depression-free happiness is not what I am talking about.  But creative happiness has been abundant as I delve into the book I am working on.  I really become myself when I am writing.  I don't know why I shut myself off from it so often.  Well, yes, of course I know: self-doubt.  And while I can't predict when that awful hate for every word I write will kick in again, I am going to enjoy the peace before it.  This nice, calm breathing in, breathing out of ideas becoming actions on paper.