I Needed to Boot Vanilla

Sometimes your computer chokes.  It might run super slowly for a while first.  You get the sense something's wrong.  Eventually, you can't put up with it any longer.  You have to call your computer friend.

Maybe you're the computer friend.  Maybe it's a spouse.  Maybe you don't have a computer friend and have to take it somewhere to be fixed (in which case, I feel very sorry for you; everyone should have a computer friend).

The first thing your computer friend will say is, "Did you shut it down and restart it?"  Trust me.  That's what he'll say.  (I'm going to say he, because my husband is my computer friend.)  Know why he'll say that first?  Because it truly does fix it a ridiculous amount of the time.  Those magic computer boxes just need to shuffle some things around and put them back in their places - they do that when you restart.

But sometimes it doesn't work.  And sometimes you can't get it started again properly.  Maybe you need to boot vanilla.

To boot vanilla means to start your computer up as basic as possible, without all the bells and whistles.  To only load the essential programs.  The minimum needed to gain access to the system.  Not enough to run any of the normal programs you use.  This requires a special vanilla boot disk or a vanilla install file.

From there, your computer friend can do some troubleshooting.  He can search for things he knows might be possible problems.  After asking about your recent activity, he might be guided to look for a particular virus.  And if he still doesn't find anything, he will try adding programs back in one by one.  (Yes, I know there are many possible ways to handle this process.  Let's just pretend this is the one every computer friend does.)

As he adds each program back in, he'll watch for errors.  This way, he can hopefully find the source of your frustration.

I needed to boot vanilla.

My life kind of choked.  Things were running choppy.  I was functioning sluggishly.  Some days I couldn't get past the boot up screen.

I have several life "computer guys."  This time I took myself to my psychiatrist and therapist for repair.  (I just happened to have appointments scheduled with them on back to back days.)  We did lots of troubleshooting.  We figured out some workarounds.

But eventually I decided I just needed to boot vanilla.  I needed to get rid of everything in my life that wasn't absolutely essential.  I've actually been stripping things out for a while now.  Activities.  Obligations.  Friends.  And, more recently, social media.  I kind of feel like I've put myself into quarantine.

I think I've gone bare bones as far as I can.  Well, as far as I can and still be somewhat healthy.  I'm hesitant to add things back in, because I don't want to freeze up again.

But I will add things back in.  Very.  Very.  Slowly.  I will go for a short time to a few activities.  I will spend some time outside my home.  And I will very carefully tiptoe back into social media.  Very carefully!  Probably in a ways but then back out again.  Social media is a slippery place with lots of potential viruses, many of which I know I'm susceptible to.

I'll be running a different machine when I'm done.  After all, we have to make upgrades over time or become incompatible with new programs.  I've made a lot of changes lately; it's not surprising there were conflicts.

I think my main error has been trying to do a system restore.  Trying to go back to the way I used to be.  But I've altered too many things for that system to do the job.  I need to let the new me become.  Whatever I am going to become.

What Depression Looks Like

Earlier this year a friend of mine asked if she could take my picture.  She's spending the year focusing on the importance of the people in her life, A Year of Faces.  I was one of many she'd asked and declined at first.  It was a very dark time in my life.  Not a time I would look my best.  I explained to her where I was emotionally and asked if I could participate later, when I felt better.

She said she understood and, of course, we could wait if I wanted to.  But if I was willing, she'd like to capture where I was right then.  The darkness.

And I knew it was right.  I needed this to happen.  Even though it wouldn't be pretty and even though it was difficult, it was also so important.  I agreed to do it.

She sent me some pictures she'd found on the internet of depression.  Some were very stylized, very artsy.  Some were blank stares.  Some were silhouettes.  I understood why people associated these with depression.  And these might represent depression for some people, or even me at some times.

But not this time.  None of these came close this time.

This was my darkest time, at least the darkest I can remember.  This was the most painful depression I've ever had.  And the most unrelenting.  Months and months of pain and numbness and isolation and fear and loneliness and sadness and confusion and anxiety and guilt and exhaustion.

The day she came I was wearing the same pajamas I'd been wearing for three or four days straight.  My hair was dirty because I just didn't have the energy or will to shower.  She was the first person I'd invited into my home in weeks.

She asked me to tell her about my current struggle as she took photos.  She was gentle and kind.  She listened and asked questions.  It was an important moment.

She used one photo for her project.  I've been saving the others for the right time.  Today is the right time.

These photos are difficult for me to look at.  They hurt.  But people need to understand what depression is and I believe these will help.

Thank you, Karen, for capturing a hidden moment that needs to be seen.

My fingertips are pressing on the spot where I've had a headache for nine years.  When I cry, I tend to furrow my brow; this makes my head hurt worse.  I press on that spot to try to get the muscles to release and relieve the pain.  It helps a little.

Depression makes me feel incredibly vulnerable.  I have no emotional energy to protect myself.  That's part of why I isolate.  So often, when I am with other people, I feel the need to defend or explain myself.  When I am in a depression I just have nothing in me to do that.  I have no strength or will to draw boundaries and defend them.  It's easier to just be alone than to feel like a rag doll at the whim of those around me.  I often find myself in the fetal position in an attempt to seal myself off from the world and keep myself safe.

Sometimes my depressions are emotionless.  I feel nothing.  Most of the time it was like that.  Dull.  Blank.  Empty.  Nothing.  Other moments were like this.  Gut-wrenching.  Crying from the deepest parts of myself.  Falling to the ground sobbing.  Unable to stop shaking from the shredding of my soul. 

And this is how I felt so much of the time.  For months and months and months.  Like an empty shell.  Depleted.  Like everything that made me who I was had been taken away.  Worthless.  Like I had nothing to offer the world.  Without hope.  Without purpose.  Gone.  Lost.  Alone.

This is what depression looks like.  It's not a bad day.  It's not when things go wrong.  It's when the world is pulled out from under me and I am plunging to my death and I just don't even care.

The Silent Storm

A continuation from my last post, What a Bad Mental Illness Day is Like.

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For the most part, when I am struggling, I am not obvious about it.  I get very quiet and avoid people and activities when I can.  Because I have to for self-preservation.

Do I hide it on purpose?  Sometimes.  When I cry and cry all day long at every little thing, I fight those tears around my kids.  And around most other people.  I don't want my kids to worry.  I don't want to have to explain myself to others.  And seeing the pain in others' eyes because I am hurting is hard.

But sometimes I have to explain.  And then I cry and pace and shake my arms to try to make the feelings go away.  It's so exhausting and it hurts!  After an hour of trying to explain and process, I feel like I've done the hardest workout of my life.  I have to change my clothes because I sweat so much.

This last week I had to do this twice.

First with my bishop (pastor).  I snapped at him at church.  Later I apologized and told him I was not in a good place.  He asked if I needed to talk.  I try to keep my life off his plate because I know his plate is full.  But this time I absolutely needed him.  I needed a priesthood blessing.  And he needed to understand how bad it was.

We visited for an hour.  He listened well and asked good questions, but not too many.  And he gave me a blessing.

But I scared him.  Enough that he asked about hospitalization.  It's not the worst I've ever been, but it's the worst he's seen me.

He asked me to promise to communicate with him more often when I'm struggling and let him worry about how much is on his plate.  I promised to try.  It's very difficult.  I also promised to talk to my therapist about hospitalization and medication.  That was Sunday.

Yesterday, I met with my therapist and had to do the whole thing again.  So exhausting.

We did an EMDR scan to see if this was connected to some trauma we haven't worked on yet.  Nothing came up.  We did a couple of EMDR tracers to see if it was connected to either of the two traumas we've recently worked on.  Again, nothing.  My symptoms have been a lot like PTSD, but it doesn't seem like that's what this is.

When my PTSD gets triggered, I usually have at least an inkling of what it's connected to, even if I don't want to talk about it.  This time there is nothing.  I have no idea where any of this is coming from.  I don't know what's causing it.

My therapist said we treat it like an anomaly and treat the symptoms the best we can until it passes (unless it doesn't).  He suggested it might be SAD (seasonal affective disorder).  He offered to put my name on the list for the DBT group (dialectical behavior therapy -- mood regulation training).  We established a medication plan.  He gave me permission to isolate myself therapeutically (you wouldn't think that permission matters, but it does).

He asked what one symptom was the worst.  I thought for a minute and answered, "The way the emotions of others overwhelm me."

You see, right now I feel everything those around me feel.  It's like I am permeable and can't keep their emotions out.  They saturate me and drown me.  It feels like everything is a crisis.  When my daughter complains about someone she works with it feels the same as someone talking to me about the death of their child.  Everything is a ten on the pain scale and it all comes through into me.  Like they are drowning and clinging to me to save them, drowning me in the process.  It hurts.  The emotional pain is so intense that it becomes physical.

So I have to protect myself from it.  I have friends who have been going through a tough time and I haven't been able to reach out to them because it's too much for me.

Even when I'm not with people I hurt.  I feel like all my nerves are on fire.  It's like I'm wearing a coat lined with little needles and they are all pressing into my skin.  And it feels like if anyone bumps me they will press those needles deeper.  Plus, people give off their own electrical field.  When anyone is closer to me than about three feet, it feels like their electrical field is being conducted through those little needles into my body.  Having people near me hurts.  It just hurts so bad.

I cry a lot, over anything.  My heart races.  I feel like I am shaking (although I am only occasionally actually physically shaking).  And I am so sensitive to everything.  Today, even the shower hurt.

But this doesn't show.  There's no visible sign that I'm not okay.  Except for my red eyes when I'm crying.  Or when I cringe away from people when they get too close (which so often hurts their feelings).

I still can't connect to myself.  I've tried.  And I can't connect to God.  I keep trying.  I don't think he's pulled away, but I just can't seem to connect.  It's incredibly painful to not be able to connect to myself and to God.  I feel so lost.

I've had similar symptoms in the past, but I've always been able to figure out why.  I can't this time.  And it's usually been of short duration, but this time it's been a month with almost no break.  I know my behavior doesn't make sense.  I know my reactions are completely out of proportion.  I know I am angry way more than I should be, but I can't stop it.

So if you see me, please be kind.  I may look okay, but inside there is a storm raging that threatens to submerge me.

Post-it Note Therapy

I almost cancelled.  I wanted desperately to cancel.  How could I go to therapy if I couldn't speak?

It's not that I had laryngitis or bronchitis or any kind of injury or illness that affected my voice.  I just couldn't make myself open my mouth and say the things that were in my heart.

But I didn't cancel.  I went.  I trust my therapist.  And I knew that isolating myself and shutting down wasn't the healthy answer.  Even though it was a tactic I'd used many times in the past, I knew I had to push through.

I cried off and on all morning before I went.  I was able to pull myself together enough to seem okay with my kids.  I even did okay signing in at the therapist's office.

The secretary handled the money, scheduled a new appointment, and handed me the questionnaire.  That wonderful, glorious, dreaded, silly series of questions that is somehow supposed to tell my therapist how I'm doing and if I'm making progress.  I looked at it and laughed inside, knowing I could make it say whatever I wanted.  Knowing I could present a happy, healthy front and fake my way through the session.  And knowing that I just couldn't play the game that day.

My therapist came to the waiting room and greeted me.  As we walked back to his office, he reached for my paper.  I handed it to him.  He looked at it and said, "It's blank."  And I answered, "I just couldn't do it."

He said, "Okay," and we continued to his office.  He said he was going to get a drink of water and offered me one (no, thank you).  He also asked if I'd like to fill out the questionnaire now.  I said, "No," in no uncertain terms.  He said, "Okay.  I get no," and left to get his water.

He returned to find me sitting on the floor, with my knees pulled up to my chest.  He closed the door and commented on the fact that I was sitting on the floor.  I said that sometimes I just need to sit on the floor.

He said that was fine and commented that I seemed upset.  I didn't respond.  He asked what I'd like to work on today.  I started crying.

I cried and cried.  I held my face in my hands and cried.  I wanted to speak.  I tried to speak.  But I couldn't.

He waited.

After about five minutes of me just crying and not being able to say anything he said that it was okay to just sit and cry.  That was valuable therapy time, too.  That I didn't have to talk in order to heal.

I continued to cry and be silent.  Inside, I was screaming.  I had so many things I wanted to talk about, why couldn't I open my mouth and speak?

He asked if it would be okay to ask some questions.  I said it would.  He asked why I was sitting on the floor.  I thought for a minute.  All I could come up with was, "It's less effort" and "It's safer."  He asked if I felt unsafe.  I said I didn't know, it's just what came to mind.

More long minutes of silence, except for my crying.

Eventually I was able to ask for a post-it note.  I took out my pen and wrote:
"I'm just so sad and I don't understand why."

Through great effort, I gave him the note.  He read it.  And he said, "Sometimes it's good to be sad with someone else, to not be sad alone."  And I cried more.  So much of my sadness is experienced alone.  Seldom does someone offer to be with me while I am sad.  Especially without trying to make me not be sad.

He asked if times like this, when I am so sad, are when I want to hurt myself.  I acknowledged that I had thought about it, but I hadn't done so.  Except that I had stopped eating.  He reminded me that not eating is a form of self-injury.  And he praised me for not cutting (or scratching, in my case).

Over the course of the hour I was able to give him three more post-it notes:

  *  "There are a thousand things running around in my brain.  I don't understand why I can't say any of them." -- He said that when the time is right, if they need to be said, they will come out.

  *  "No matter how hard I work or how much progress I make, I feel like there will always be this underlying sadness and loneliness." -- He said it wouldn't be like this forever.  We could take it from a 9 to a 3 or from a 7 to a 1.  But he also said that he hoped I wouldn't ever lose it completely or I would lose my ability to empathize with others; I wouldn't be able to help others through my blog like I can now.

  *  "I am fighting a battle on so many fronts in my life so much of the time.  I am just so tired of fighting; sometimes I just want to quit." -- He said it's okay to take a break.  I need to allow myself to take time off.  I need to give myself permission for self-care.  This is just a break.

"It's okay to take a break; it's not okay to hurt yourself."  As he said this, I felt strengthened.

In the hour I spent with him, there may have been five minutes of talking.  I probably spoke under a minute.  And I cried the whole time.

But I'm glad I went.  It was valuable therapy.  It was nice to have someone really see my pain and validate it.  It was nice to have someone sit with me as I cried.

As I prepared to leave he asked what the goal was (meaning what I would work on until I saw him again).  I said, "Don't hurt myself."  And he agreed.

I am somewhat better now, although the sadness and loneliness is just under the surface.  I still cry quite easily.  But since then I've been able to communicate a little with a couple of people and I've gotten back on my regimen.

And I haven't hurt myself.

A Princess Story

Once upon a time there were three princesses:  Gwendolyn, Donatella, and Genevieve.  They lived in an enchanted realm, in neighboring kingdoms.

One day a new princess, Princess Bobbie, moved to the realm and brought her kingdom with her.  Only she didn't know that she was a princess.  You see, that's something about being a princess -- sometimes you forget.

As she was out exploring the realm, Princess Bobbie met the three princesses.  (The three princesses were often together; it helped them remember that they were princesses.)  She was mesmerized.  These princesses glowed.  And they glowed because they were magic!  They weren't the ordinary kind of magic, the kind where everyone can do the same things.  They each had their own special magic and it was exactly the kind of magic needed for their own kingdom.

Princesses aren't what most people think.  They aren't superior and unkind.  They are welcoming and inclusive, and Princess Bobbie was thrilled to be invited into their circle of friends.  As she spent more and more time with them she began to remember who she was.  Her magic began to return.  And that was a very good thing because an evil spell had come over her kingdom; they needed her magic.  So Princess Bobbie left to protect her kingdom.  Things got better and she returned to find her princess friends.  And they were happy together again.

But the evil spell isn't ever fully conquered, it is just cast out of a kingdom.  And over time it was evident that when the spell left one kingdom it would eventually find its way to another.  Sometimes it found its way to one of the other princesses' kingdoms.

If it attacked a kingdom while the princess knew who she was, she was able to defeat it.  But if she was a little unsure of herself, if she couldn't see her own magic anymore, the evil could overwhelm her.

And one of the laws of magic and spells was that each princess had to defeat the evil in her own kingdom.  The other princesses couldn't do it for her.  All they could do was cheer for her.  And try to remind her of who she was and to help her find her magic again.

But the evil tried to keep the princesses apart.  The evil knew that the princesses were stronger when they were together, that their magic grew as they spent more time with each other.

The evil also knew that being a princess is hard.  It can be a very lonely thing.  Especially when a princess forgets who she is.  That's why the evil worked to make each princess feel like she didn't belong or wasn't good enough to be with the other princesses.

But the princesses love each other.  And they are strong.  And they will keep fighting their battles and strengthening each other.  And although one may get lost every now and then, the glow from the others will always lead her back to them.  And the princesses will welcome her back where she belongs and help her remember who she is and the power she has.  Because that is what princesses do.

An Update

Thank you for all the kind expressions of concern and support.  It was very sweet and touched my heart.

I got triggered over the holiday.  Multiple times.  By different people.

I have kind of lost my sense of self recently, my self-definition.  I regressed to letting others define me.  To feeling like I am worth less because others didn't approve.  Because I didn't measure up.

It was a gradual thing, so I didn't really notice it until it had gotten pretty bad.  I was isolating myself.  I was unable to write.  I was no longer talking to people in any meaningful way.  I was not leaving my house unless absolutely required.  For over a month.

I felt like I was disappearing. 

And then the holidays hit.  There were some really good things which I'd hoped to write about.  But then there were a couple of situations that sent me back in time.  I was not self-assured.  I had no power.  My boundaries were difficult to maintain.  I didn't feel like a whole person.  And my anxiety began to climb.

I didn't understand what was happening.  I couldn't pin it down to just one incident.  Or even to just one person.

But I was suddenly full of fear.  Paralyzed with fear.  Always on the verge of tears.  Several sobbing fits with so much emotional pain.  And I didn't understand where it was coming from.  For a couple of weeks.

On the bright side, I made it through the worst of it without injuring myself.  That's progress.  And I found a way to stand up for myself once I figured out one of the problems.

It's not gone.  I'm not through it.  Sudden waves of fear and/or anxiety still happen.  But I am making progress.  Understanding that it is PTSD because I was triggered helps.  Even though I don't know the specific cause, I do have coping strategies -- healthy ones -- to deal with it.

So right now I am trying to pull it together.  To figure it out.  But at least I am finally able to write.  That alone makes me feel like I might be real.

Paralyzed

Please excuse my absence. 

I have wanted to write.  I have needed to write.  But I just couldn't do it.

No, wait!  Don't run off thinking this is another writer writing about writer's block.  It isn't; I promise.

If it were writer's block then the only thing I would be having trouble with would be writing.  And it's not.  I'm having trouble with everything.  I am paralyzed in my life.  Stuck.

I guess it started a couple of weeks ago when the darkness hit.  From out of nowhere it came over me like a black cloud.  A cloud made out of tar.  And everything in my life became a lot more difficult.

I get like this sometimes.  And I have yet to figure out why.  It is so incredibly frustrating.

I was doing so much better.  I was getting stuff done.  Spending time with people.  Really enjoying my life.

And then it went away.  The joy was gone.

There was no big crisis.  There is no obvious explanation.  My life is in a pretty good place right now.  I should be happy.

But I'm not.

And I am frozen.  I look around and see how much I need to get done.  Cleaning.  Bills.  Contact with friends.  Church obligations.  Food for my family.  Each and every one of these things became a monumental task in and of itself.

It's hard to start eating the elephant when you know there is another one right behind it.

I quit eating well.  I quit sleeping well.  I started hiding from family and friends.

I was back in survival mode.  Doing the bare minimum.  Relying on old coping strategies that I know don't work long term but get me through. 

I have new tools.  Things I have learned in therapy and through my own experience.  Healthy ways to change my focus and find my way back to the light.  But they don't appeal to me.

All I want to do is sit down on the curb and watch the world go by.  Without being seen so no one talks to me or expects anything from me.

But I'm not.  I'm trying to go on.  I may not be up and running, but at least I'm crawling.  And if I keep crawling long enough, eventually I will turn the corner.

This Day

I knew this day would come.  When I agreed to blog more often, I knew it and I dreaded it.  I knew there would come a day when I would desperately not want to blog.

It's not that I don't have things to say.  I have so many.  I have so much to say that it's tearing me up inside.  But I can't say it here.

I have other things I could write about.  I have over thirty topics on a list for future blog posts.  But I just can't do it.

I can't be mundane when I am lost.  I can't be trivial when I'm in pain.  I can't pretend everything's okay when it isn't.

I know there are people who get uncomfortable when I let them know my life is hell.  I am sorry to cause anyone discomfort.  But if you choose to peek into the window of my soul, which my writing is, then you need to know that I will be here every now and then.  In a very deep, dark place.  It is within my power to change this, to prevent this from happening anymore, but I'm just not there yet.  I'm not ready to take that step.

I am sorry to be vague, but this is just too public a location for the kind of disclosure that would be required for you to understand.

Just look at your lives, at those you love, and be grateful.

A Peek Inside My Cave

I blog for myself.  I write because I need to write.  But I do so knowing that others will read it.  This has created somewhat of a dilemma for me.

Sometimes I have considered blogging about things that may bother others.  Things that may be a little too heavy psychologically.  I have avoided this in the past.  I do not want to make anyone uncomfortable.  But tonight I need to write truly for me.  And you may not even believe anything I tell you.

So.  This is a more serious warning than in the past.  I see this blog entry as serving no purpose for others except perhaps to help them understand me better.  If that is not your desire, skip it this time.

Also.  There may be "female" words used.  While I anticipate that they will be used scientifically, they are still uncomfortable to some.  If you can't handle them, skip it this time.

Now.  I have given you plenty of warning.  I begin.

Several years ago I was diagnosed with a condition known as PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder).  It's a condition recognized by the mental health field in the DSM IV (diagnostics manual).  It's estimated to affect about 5% of mentstruating women.  It's a severe form of PMS.  Although its cause is believed to be physical/bio-chemical, most of the repercussions are emotional/mental.  The closest thing I can compare it to that you might understand is being bipolar, but that's not what it is.  It's just kind of like that.  Being in flux.  Extreme ups and downs.

This is a condition that has gotten more severe for me over the years.  I have had PMS since my first period at age fourteen.  I have had episodes of depression and suicidality many times over the years, among other difficult and frustrating symptoms. 

What started out as a day or two of depression and irritability before my period has become 10 to 14 days of a multitude of symptoms, with little relief when menstruation starts.  My symptoms are not the same each month.  Some of the possibilities:  depression, suicidal ideation, anger, anxiety, panic attacks, insomnia, fatigue, food cravings, apathy, difficulty concentrating, bloating, sensitivity to touch.

During this time I become very sensitive to touch.  If you touch me, it hurts.  I become irritable.  I know that I have no reason to be angry with you, but that doesn't stop it.  I can not think clearly.  Making decisions and having conversations can be physically painful for me.  It's difficult to function at all and is very hard on relationships.

I know it doesn't make sense.  It doesn't make sense to me either.

And my willpower is almost non-existent during this time.  If I am going to eat an entire bag of potato chips, a whole coconut cream pie, and drink an entire two-liter bottle of Diet Coke by myself in a matter of hours, it will be during this time.  If I am going to swear up a storm, it will be at this time.  If I am going to be hurtful and not care, it will be during this time. 

I have tried many things to treat it.  Hormones.  Diet.  Exercise.  Therapy.  Spirituality.  Vitamins.  Anti-depressants.  Nothing seems to do the job.

And I do not believe that struggling with this gives me liberty to treat others however I feel like treating them.  But I have difficulty controlling it.

So during this time, I isolate myself as much as possible.  I call it being "in my cave."  I go to my room.  I don't return phone calls.  I don't answer the door.  I kind of just disappear from society for a week or two.  And if I have to be out, I try to keep my mouth shut to minimize the damage I can do.

But it does hurt.  It hurts my family.  It hurts my friends.  It hurts me.

If you can't find me, I'm probably in my cave.