Waterproof

I had to go buy some mascara over my lunch break because I cried all the morning's application off during my therapy appointment. I made sure to buy waterproof stuff.

So, yeah.

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I am toying with the idea of trying to work some of this stuff that is coming out in therapy here, on this little site. Does that make you squirm? It makes me a little squirmy. I worked long and hard not to know this stuff about myself. Why the hell would I set it out there for all of you? 

I think it could be helpful. If I am working through ideas and issues and digging up stuff, and knowing  I have to work through them at least competently enough for someone else to read perhaps follow along, I might dig in and do it a bit more honestly. You know? If I were to just keep a private journal I don't know if I would push myself the same way as if I know someone out there was going to read it. I could just quit mid-sentence. I could delete the entry and no one would be the wiser. Certainly not me.

Of course, this could drive the five of you away quicker than a cattle prod. 

I could just clam up and resist this inclination all together. But, that game plan is what landed me in the foul box to begin with. 

So.

What do you think? Good idea? Bad idea? Maybe a different blog for it? 

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I could use a piece of dark chocolate right about now.

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Happy Friday to you.

The Present

So, things are good. I think my doctor and I have found my own special cocktail of meds that are keeping me from sliding into a funk. I am consistently operating at a 7 or 8, rather than a 3. I am able to get out of bed nine days out of 10. I am not spun into a frenzy then flattened out by anxiety over and over throughout the day. I haven't gone over the edge in weeks. Many, many weeks. A disorienting spiral into hell had been a daily occurance. I cannot adequately convey how FUCKING AMAZING it is to be on an even keel. To have both feet in reality. I am feeling around for solid ground. I trust myself to recognize the solid ground and to plant my feet firmly to it.

It is just. so. good.

I am so, so grateful for those around me who encouraged me to get help and who have been so very awesome in supporting me. My family has stepped up and rallied around me. My friends take each new day that comes right by my side. A. is here with me, always. He stayed. He didn't leave me. (I don't think he had considered leaving me, and I think that is amazing. And humbling. And so full of grace.) He looked me in the eye, clearly seeing all that I am, and stayed.

I have no doubt that these people will accompany on my journey, however long it may be. I can only hope to be as good to them as they have been to me.

I just may be the luckiest girl in the world. Really.

++++

I am feeling better about the idea that I am on meds. I may be on them for a long time. I may not. I may have to adjust the dosage, even the type from time to time. And I really am okay with that.

The difference in the quality of my life is profound. And it isn't just the meds that have cleared the fog. Knowing my diagnosis and working to understand it has helped me reach into that fog and grasp the hand of the person I once was, the person I really am, the person I remember and pull her through the haze to the present.

I am starting to look myself in the eye, and see all of who I am more clearly. I don't think my road to recovery would be nearly as fruitful had I not included therapy. I am getting far enough into it that the sessions aren't just about getting to know each other and were I am, but about digging into those things I have kept so very carefully hidden from view. From mine, my family's, my friends, strangers. The hard, dirty work is about to begin.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. I want to heal, but I am not at all excited about the pain and work it will take to get there. I am scared.

It is like the notion of history and the present. History as a process, not the past. You can only really understand the present when you trace back the current conditions to a particular time in history, to a certain set of circumstances and structures that made it possible for the present to be produced. Then, you trace those steps forward again, back to the present. This is how you understand, annunciate the present. This is how you know the present.

Hmm. The present.

+++ UPDATE: And thank you to you, my bloggie friends! You guys have been more help than you will ever know.

Fresh Starts

My house is regularly presentable. I can tackle the Laundry Monster and win, usually without breaking a sweat. I can step back and discern the very next step in The Thesis Process and move forward, rather than feel overwhelmed by the insanity of it all. The sink is always shiny when I go to bed. A. and I are spending more time together, and I haven't snapped at him in WEEKS. I am regularly doing yoga. And flossing. I am starting to wake up happy and not anxious. Getting out of bed doesn't require a monumental effort anymore, just a big effort. More mornings than not, I win that battle.

I am feeling much, much better. I have the energy to reclaim my life and I am not allowing anxiety to ruin it.

Life has been really, really, nice lately.

++++

Therapy is going well. I am more comfortable with my therapist. I am being honest in our sessions so healing and honest work can happen. There are surprises, discoveries, connections, patterns and long buried memories coming to the surface. It is good. It is terrifying. It is exciting.

++++

This last session I was telling my therapist -- in a very animated way full of exaggerated facial expressions and over-the-top hand gestures, which is the real me!! yay! -- how I've started to implement the ever-nerdy/geeky Getting Things Done methodology into my work and thesis life. I explained how I went through every! last! random storage thingy! pile! drawer! in my office and got everything that has been bouncing around my head and causing mini anxiety attacks right the hell out of my head and into a safe place so I could just. quit. thinking. about it. Now I am learning to trust myself, my system, and that I will see whatever it is that needs done when I need to. It has been both exhilrating and relaxing and such a damn relief.

Anyhoo, my therapist had this HUGE smile on her face and said, "You loved it, didn't you?" Yes, indeed.

I wish I had realized that A. was joking when he said he was going to ge me a labelmaker for my birthday that year. My disappointment ran deep. And obviously, I haven't forgotten.

It is lame but true: Few activities are as satisfying to me as gutting a room and tossing out ALL the clutter and re-organizing. LOVE. IT.

I am looking forward to moving someday and getting to just PURGE our house of so. much. stuff.  Man, I get all hopped up and twitchy with excitment just thinking about it.

It is like having a mini fresh start.

How about you? Do you enjoy de-clutting and purging or is it daunting? Do you like to hold on to stuff? Why? I am intersted!

Happy Friday to you!

Cultivating Irises

My session yesterday was productive. I must say, I am proud of myself for asking for what I need: a toolkit to help me with the daily struggles of depression. Of course, that is what the therapy is for-- DUH -- but I feel like the therapy is more of a long-term investment/solution. A process to really get to the root of whatever it is that leads me to depression in the first place. (Or, as I think of it, what layer of behavior depression is loaded up on top of the biological depression ans start unpacking all that stuff.) I explained that I would like some tools of a more immediate sort to help me deal with the funks while we work together on the long-term Depression.

This may seem obvious, but it finally became clear to me that what a lot of this is about is control. When I am in a funk and don't know it and feel helpless it is because I don't have control. My emotions have control over me. So, first things first*: I need to pay closer attention to my emotions, to how I am feeling when I am not in a funk, when one is coming on, and when I am in the grips of one. I need to become, oh, a tad more self-aware. The goal is to quit allowing the depression and anxiety to control me.

I have to know what it is that is controlling me before I can exert my own power of it.

****

I have started up my yoga practice again and have incorporated a deliberate meditation segment into my practice. I must say, I am already getting so much more out of the yoga just because I can focus and concentrate. My body and mind are getting more out of the poses, and I am finally (That is one thing that signals to me I am entering a funk - I can't concentrate for shit.) I am so much more able to focus on my breathing and make that a central part of the practice. It is exhilarating. (Am I annoying? I don't want to be one of those smug sons'-of-guns who swear yoga can cure cancer, save the owls, protect puppies and prevent war. Though,I do think it just might be able to prevent war. Anywhoooo...) Regardless, I am getting so much more out of it this time around.

I am just beginning to learn the Metta Bhavana meditative practice. It is a Buddhist tradition that teaches Lovingkindness. Lovingkindness toward myself and others. Imagine that!

A major component of this practice is learning to cultivate emotions. To become aware of my own emotions and to learn to cultivate them. To nurture and grow and direct them. Cultivate. What a wonderful word.

I am hoping to discover and find that space, that space of contemplation and reflection to recognize my emotions. That space will give me the room to greet my emotions and decide how to engage with them. Rather than immediately reacting to my emotions, I will learn to discern them and choose my response. I will learn to have power over my emotions. I will learn how to manipulate those emotions in a kind way, rather than letting the emotions manipulate me in a cruel way.

I have no disillusions that this will be a long, sometimes frustrating, journey. What isn't, nowadays? But I really, really think it will be worthwhile.

Do any of you meditate? Have you tried to develop a practice? What surprised you about it? What hurdles did you encounter?

Wild Purple Irises

My session yesterday went much, much better than the previous one. I felt like we were communicating, I didn't feel defensive, and when she reiterated what she felt like she was hearing, it didn't sound like it came out of left field but that it was still something new for me to consider. So, I am going to see this month's appointments out and see how I feel about the therapist. If I am still ambivalent in a couple of weeks, then I am going to go therapist shopping. I deserve it, yes?

++++

The past couple of weeks have been , well, exciting as well as a total relief. What has surprised me the most, in "coming out" to you and to others in my life, is the realization of just how much damned energy it took to hide this from so many for so long. (Not the least of whom, myself. DUH.) I feel so fucking REFRESHED, like I just woke up from a perfect, cool nap on a spring afternoon.

It has been exhausting, finding excuses to avoid everyone and to so carefully perform this version of myself for everyone so as to not be found out. I am simply, genuinely, tremendously exhausted. I was so terrified that everyone would find out that no, I don't have it all together, no I not on top of everything in my life -- hell most things in my life -- and that I just generally feel like shit. If I did work up the energy and courage to engage with anyone, then I put massive amounts of energy into "faking it." Not faking my personality - what you see is what you get, there. But faking the togetherness, the energy. (Which, I have done poorly. Fantastic!) Sweet geezuz, that energy could have gone into so much else.

Why do I have totally ridiculous, utterly unattainable, achingly cruel standards for myself that I do not hold for others?

For the record, I do not, and never have, thought that others who suffer from depression and anxiety are somehow less, lazy or broken. I reserve those mean-ass judgments for myself. If anything, I've always felt tremendous compassion for people suffering from this, and always thought they were so brave and courageous to get out there and live their life.

So, mcuh of the work at hand is to see why I felt like I had to hide. Why my first instinct continues to be to hide, to put up a wall, a mask, or any other cliched defense mechanism at the slightest fear someone might FIND OUT. Find out anything and everything. Find out that I am depressed and having a bad day or freaking out because of what (to others) is an irrational fear. Find out that my house is not clean. Find out that I don't know as much as I pretend to about The Thesis topic. Find out that I beat the shit out of myself for not knowing more about said topic and that I have a constant running commentary in my head telling me I should know more, I should read more, I should study more, I should, I should, I should... Find out I am not as smart as I want to be, as smart that I used to think I was. Blah, blah blah.

Find out that I am not the person I want to be.

Find out, I am not entirely happy with the person I am, that for whatever reason(s).

Which brings me to the next super awesome realization as of late: I carry guilt with me about EVERYTHING. I need to just ban the phrase, "I should..." completely. Holy hell, that phrase has is killing me.

Overwhelmingly, I felt guilt for being so "lazy." I felt guilty that A. had the unfortunate luck to fall in love with such a lazy, worthless person. I felt guilty for being such a difficult person to live with. I felt guilty that it took so much energy to engage with people. I felt guilty that I couldn't remember to floss everyday. I felt guilty if I didn't remember to have lunches ready for the week. I felt guilty for hating to fold the laundry. I felt guilty, I felt guilty, I felt guilty.

I only realized recently (with the help of the therapist, so not all bad, yes?), I felt tremendously guilty that I was well, lying, to everyone, people who mean a lot to me, just in an effort to hide, to receed, to disappear.

Unfortuntely, that last paragraph does not exist solely in the past tense. Again, lot of work to do.

But, with this incredible weight lifted from my shoulders, I feel ready, willing, and yes, grateful, to bear the burden of this work. To dig in. Turn the soil over. For myself. For my family. For my friends. Yes, yes, yes. For myself.

Let us see what we can unearth and grow, shall we? Maybe I will find some lovely wild purple irises...

I Am Not Defective

I am not defective.

I am not.

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This fall, I finally worked up the nerve to talk to my doctor about what the hell has been going on with me for the past five, almost six years. I decided to see if I was depressed. This conversation came nearly two years after both A. and Black Sheeped (independently of each other) gently mentioned to me that I might be suffering from this condition.

I could not be more blessed that these two people - and these two people in particular - stepped up and cared for me. I owe them my lifelong gratitude for the increased quality of my life. I thank God every day for them, as well as for my friends DPR, JelBel, and AGR. They have been unwavering in their love and support for me, and I consider myself the most fortunate person I know, in large part because they are a part of my life.

I've been diagnosed with dysthymia, a type of chronic depression, and anxiety.  Anyone who knows me is not the least bit surprised by the anxiety diagnosis. Even I saw that one coming.

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As a young woman I was fearless. If something scared me, I purposely jumped right in and forced myself to meet it head on. I was always nervous before leaping into anything that made me uncomfortable, at least initially -- travel, interaction with others and whatnot, but I knew that it helped me be the person I wanted to be. Someone who lived her life on her own terms.

I knew I was strong and I wanted to stay strong. I wanted to keep in the practice of exercising strength, I wanted to do the work that built and maintained my perseverance. So I always pushed myself. I deliberately lived my life on the edge of my comfort level, forcing myself to be engaged. Dealing with my mother's agonizing death from cancer at the age of 16, I learned that not only could I face extreme challenges, I could emerge on the other side of them a stronger and better person.

Fear did not intimidate me. It pushed me forward.

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About six years ago, things changed. Quietly and gradually, in just such a way that it was easy not to notice. My "normal" changed, but I did not know it.

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I never considered myself depressed. The notion never once floated into my brain. But it explains SO MUCH.

Looking back, with this dysthymia diagnosis as a lens, I know when it started - around the time K., a former boyfriend, and I started having trouble. Much of that trouble stemmed from the depression. K. always said it was like I just would check out for hours or days at a time. I had no idea what he was talking about. I felt fine, just quiet. But fine. No, I wasn't sad. No, I wasn't upset about anything. I felt fine. Maybe kind of blah, but who doesn't feel kind of blah sometimes? I wasn't sad exactly, I wasn't crying all the time, I wasn't suicidal. I didn't see that I always felt blah. Really, though, I was in a "funk" but I didn't know it. It is really, really hard to get out of a "funk" when you don't know you are in one. There is no perspective, then.

Imagine your mood and well-being on an average day. When I look back on who I was in my early twenties, I was steadily at an 8, even an 8.5 (on a scale of 1=poopy - 10=jubilant). I was actively grateful for the people and opportunities in my life, and that helped to generate an overall happiness. Part of this attitude was cultivated, part of it came naturally.

Slowly, though, that 8.5 "normal" slipped to a 6 or a 5.5. I am just kind of, I don't know, dulled. During a funk, I am at a 2 or 1.5.

I couldn't concentrate for shit. Really. Reading more than a paragraph at a time was too much; I couldn't see most projects through to completion, no matter how small. My work suffered a lot, and that bothered me. Cleaning the house - ha! I would load the washer and forget to empty it, I would run water for mopping the floor and forget about it, I would walk from one room to the next, starting tasks and not finishing them. Then I would have a full-blown anxiety attack because I thought my house would never, ever be clean, that I would be living in chaos for the rest of my life. I felt like I was so god dammed lazy I couldn't do anything. How worthless a human being I am, I thought.

There are so many super-fun, totally vicious cycles with this.

When A. broached the idea of depression with me, he didn't offer it as an excuse, or a shortcoming but as an illness that I might as well get treated for, right? He asked me why should I live my life not well, not happy? Hmm, yeah. Why? (I am so stubborn and dense sometimes.) He's been so supportive and is very encouraging about me talking to someone about it. I am the one who put it off. (After all, when I feel fine I see no reason to set up an appointment, and when I feel crappy I can't seem to muster the energy to make the call. Ugh.) I have had two appointments and have regular sessions scheduled with a therapist. Finally.

There have been "episodes" for the past few years where I literally can't get myself out of bed for days at a time. I can barely make the effort to call in sick to work on those days. Hell, getting out of bed to go to the bathroom or to eat seems impossible in the throes of an episode. I don't know how to explain this. It does not matter that at any other time I know it is possible to move, to get out of bed, to function. During an episode it is simply impossible. I can't muster the energy. I can't muster the will to muster the energy. I can't muster the energy to muster the will to muster the energy. It is horrible. It is no way to live. It is humiliating, it is scary. I'll avoid people for days on end when I am in a funk. I never thought I was depressed, though. I thought I was just suddenly, hideously lazy and would then spend the entire episode berating myself for being so worthless and lazy. Because I was raised to believe that nothing is worse than a lazy person. You can see the vicious cycle this produced, yes?

I never told anyone about these episodes; not my best friends, not my family. I would just hide; I would just disappear for days, weeks on end when battling a funk. I didn't want anyone to find out how lazy I was. I was ashamed because I thought I was just being lazy. Turns out, it is pretty hard to hide that from someone you live with, hence why A. figured it out. I never mentioned any of this in earlier sessions of therapy because I didn't want my therapist to find out what a lazy, worthless person I was. Brilliant.

Oh. It explains so much.

The awesome thing about coming to terms with this is that I almost always recognize a funk coming on and also know when I am in one. I can tell myself: Just get out of bed. Just do it. Yes, you can. And more often than not, I do. Sometimes I still can't beat it, but at least it isn't so scary. At least I know I am not lazy. I am not worthless At least there will be the other side of the funk. Similarly with anxiety attacks, I tell myself: This is the anxiety taking over. Just breathe. Ride it out. It really is not the end of the world. You will get through this. And I do.

I am also starting to notice a pattern, see what triggers it. (Money worries is tops, and then, freakishly, a dirty house. That sounds like therapy fodder!!!) I am hoping that regular exercise and meditation (how hippie of me!) will help to keep me fairly healthy, retrain my former attitude of gratitude. Certainly, exercising a life of gratitude has to be helpful all around. It seems to be helping quite a bit lately.

After much struggle on my part, I started meds about four months ago. (Lexapro, if you are wondering.) I am so glad I did. It has really lifted the fog from my brain, my spirit. I am really noticing a change on the anxiety front, holy shit. My tummy isn't in a steady knot, I don't wake up wondering if this is the day A. dies. (Really, my anxiety was steadily through the roof. My doctor started crying when I told her the type of stuff I think about all day long, and how I react. No shit.)  Now I can do the work I need to do, gain the tools I need to handle the funks and the anxiety attacks, so that even though they may always be a part of my life, they won't run my life. My brain is clear enough for that. I can concentrate again, I am living again.

(Side note: This has improved The Thesis experience immensely.)

*****

What I am still struggling with is this idea that I am somehow defective. I still hate that I have to take meds, even though I love that they are helping. I have always been a perfectionist. (You can imagine the extra agony this put me through, thinking I was lazy and totally worthless. That is hardly perfect!) I am terrified of being sick. Cancer scares the living shit out of me. I want to be healthy more than anything.

I know that this is a chemical thing, that the serotonin levels in my brain aren't optimal. I know that this is not a moral shortcoming, or even a physical shortcoming, it just is what it is.

But I am still having a hard time.

So, I thought, well hell, I am just going to say it, say it out loud. Or write it, without hitting the backspace button.

I want to be happy. I want myself back. I want to be grateful and at ease in my skin. I want to live.

Maybe if I say it out loud, to enough people, enough times, I will start to believe it: I am not defective.