Seriously?! Where did January go? This right here is exactly why I needed my word of the year to be PURPOSE.
Long story short, I choose one word each year. Lots of thought and prayer goes into my decision. And then I try to let that word guide my year. I never know how it's going to play out; there are always interesting surprises.
My word for 2017 is purpose.
It can be tough to explain why I choose the word I do. Sometimes it's totally clear. Other times it's pretty ethereal. Usually writing it out helps. Let's see what happens this time.
People who know me, people who are close to me, know my life is never boring. That's the nice way to put it. My life is often quite complicated and difficult. There are so many areas of my life that go nuts on a regular basis like a drop of water on a hot, greased skillet.
I often feel like I'm dancing on a moving floor. Things are rarely predictable. Try as I might, I rarely feel like I have my footing. Like I'm running my own life.
But it's been worse lately. My life has definitely been running me. A lot! Flinging me around like a dog with a rag doll in its teeth. And I feel it.
I've spent way too much time lately feeling in tatters. Like my dress is shredded, I'm missing a shoe, and one of my eyes is hanging loosely from the socket. (Still a rag doll metaphor. Not blood and gore.)
I'm running around putting out fires. I'm doing this or that because I HAVE to. I'm the flotsam and jetsam on the ocean, flung wherever the waves take me.
It's not a happy way to live. It's not peaceful at all. And peace is always my main goal for my life.
So as I pondered my word, my heart went this direction. Just as a feeling. A sense of what I wanted. But without the words. And then the word came. Purpose. I need purpose.
It's not that I need purpose in my life, overall. I have that. I have oodles of that.
I need purpose in the moments. In the days. In the plans. In the relationships. In the decisions of my life.
I need to steer my life.
We're two weeks into February. I wanted to write this on January first. Guess how well I'm doing so far.
I do have moments. I've chosen to dedicate my runs (or hikes or whatever) to people in my life. Once in a while, someone will be on my mind and in my heart. So I take them with me when I run. Not always, but frequently. When the run gets hard, I remember whom I'm running for and why. Usually gratitude floods over me in that moment. How blessed I am that I can run!
And there've been other moments. Moments I remember to stop. Think. Choose.
But not nearly enough.
Today was kind of an over-the-top kind of day. I was slammed on all sides. Stress. Stress. A little more stress. Some anxiety. And how about some STRESS? Some irrational demands. Some innocent demands hitting on top of everything else. Text. Text. Text. Phone call. Phone call. Phone call. Request. Request. Request. All day long. And some gut-wrenching struggles for people I love, people I need to take care of.
I was not in control for much of the day. And then I was. And it was better.
And tomorrow it will start all over again.
Lots of opportunities for growth. Lots of chances to find my purpose.
Showing posts with label Stress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stress. Show all posts
Monday, February 13, 2017
Saturday, February 28, 2015
When the Parent Becomes the Child
I have no idea how to write this post. I really don't. But I know it must be written. For me. For her. For others.
I try to always tell the truth. My truth (because that's all I really know). Especially when I write, because I know it will last. It will stand as a testament to who I am long after I remember saying or thinking it.
But sometimes our truths intersect. My truth crosses your truth. Who owns that portion in the middle, that shared truth? Who has the right to present that to the world?
I want to be careful about that. I want to honor the person who shares that space with me. But I also want to tell the truth.
I hope that by owning up front that this is MY truth and not necessarily THE truth, it's okay for me to share. This is about me and my mom.
My ability to recall memories is not great. I have vague images. And pictures. I have those, and they help.
This is me and my mom on my wedding day.
As a teen, I always thought she wore too much makeup, and I never understood the hair. But she was always put together. She wouldn't leave the house until she "put her face on" and "cleaned herself up." How she looked mattered to her.
And she was so sharp! She was the one who edited my papers. She could type and take shorthand like nobody's business. She was the Administrative Assistant to the President of the local state college and totally rocked that job! She was loved and admired by all who knew her. I don't remember ever hearing anyone say anything negative about her.
That was twenty-five years ago. She was two years older than I am now. And things have changed.
It's been gradual. Little things here and there. Her asking me how to spell things. Her not remembering the proper noun/verb correlation. Her not able to figure out how to use a new cell phone.
This is the profile picture she chose for her facebook account when someone helped her set it up five or six years ago.
She felt it represented well her many moods. I liked it then.
It's painful for me now. It feels like a way too accurate representation of her current fractured state.
I have these vague recollections of her coming to my grade school to do an art presentation. Of her taking me garage sale-ing on Saturday and then to Arctic Circle for lunch. Of her telling me I was her saving grace. The only daughter she got. The one who could understand her in a house full of men. I remember her being my best friend - so many years ago.
I don't have a picture of her now. I'm not sure I'd share it if I did; it wouldn't be a happy picture.
She's seventy-two now. Only seventy-two. I wasn't ready for it to happen so soon.
Because she's not her anymore.
I still live in the town I grew up in. And it's the town she grew up in. So I regularly run into people who knew me when I was little and she was so capable. I even run into people who knew her when she was young, long before I was around. People who grew up with her.
Inevitably the moment comes. They ask the question. The question I don't want to answer. "How's your mom?"
And the only answer I can give is, "Not good." As I start to tear up.
They ask what's wrong. I don't know the answer. None of us do. My dad. My brothers. Me. Her doctors - many, many doctors. We each have a guess; we think we know. But we don't.
My mom has fought anxiety, PTSD, and PMS for longer than I was aware. I remember when I was young and she discovered walking. Walking stabilized her. Walking cleared her mind. Walking was the mental medicine she needed that made her able to face her life again. And so she walked. Miles and miles all over town.
Back then, when I would run into people, they would say, "I see your mom out walking all the time." Back then it meant they saw their friend and she looked good. Like she was okay. It was said with positive energy. Now when they say, "I see your mom out walking," it's said with sadness and concern.
My mom still walks, when she can (she's injured right now). And those miles she used to walk pale in comparison to the miles she walks now. She's tiny and frail, and she will walk ten or fifteen miles a day. Maybe more. Because she no longer has a driver's license and she can't stay in one place. Honestly, it feels like she's trying to escape her own self.
She no longer leaves the house beautifully coiffed. She doesn't always have her makeup on. She can't smell well enough to know if her clothes are really clean. As long as they don't have major spills on them and are the right warmth for the weather, she'll wear them. And off she goes. Pulling her little rolling suitcase behind her. Looking like a bag lady.
I remember many years ago, as her own mother was aging and having difficulty walking and preparing meals, my mom said, "If I could choose between losing my mind and losing my ability to walk, I'd choose to lose my mind. As long as I can walk, I'll be okay."
I'm afraid her wish was granted.
I remember when she was strong. And healthy. And competent. And happy. But just vaguely. Because I feel trapped in this moment. I feel trapped in her hell.
She is angry much of the time, maybe most of the time - usually at my dad. She has difficulty keeping track of what day it is, even when I've told her three times already in the last hour. She doesn't prepare meals for herself, do her laundry, or meet most of her own care needs. And she still thinks she's independent. Most of the time.
She feels abandoned by my brothers who moved to another state years ago. She feels abandoned when my dad leaves town, for an occasional respite - which he so badly needs and deserves. She feels abandoned when my adult daughters stay with her instead of me. And she feels abandoned when none of these things are true.
She feels abandoned that we don't understand. Like we've left her alone to her anguish.
She will spend hours upon hours reliving all the traumas of her past. Over and over. Telling me the same stories again and again. Of her pain. Of all the things people did. Of all the ways they hurt her. And they are all true. They are her truth. And she is trapped there.
But it hurts. It hurts me.
When my dad leaves town I become her primary caregiver. It's my job to help her get where she needs to go, even when she can't decide where that is. Even if it means dropping everything and going to pick her up at her motel room (which my dad rents for her by the month, because she has to have somewhere to go other than her house). For the third time that day. Or taking her to my house, because she feels peace there.
But those are the good days. If all I have to do is take her where she needs to go and listen to her tell me for two hours straight how horrible my dad is and was, that's a good day.
Lately they haven't been good days.
Lately it's been her showing up at my door, pounding and pounding, hysterical. Or calling. Any hour of any day. She's crying. Sobbing. "No one understands how bad I am! I can't make it! I just can't make it! He doesn't care! All he thinks about is himself! No one cares! No one will help me!"
And if I don't answer (because I'm not home and can't answer my door or I'm at church and have my phone off) then she feels abandoned by me. And sometimes in those moments she'll turn to my brother in town. And he'll help as best he can.
But usually it's me. Often even when my dad is in town. Because he and she have had another screaming match and she wants a divorce and her life will be all better if she could just get a divorce.
Because she can't see that he manages her world. That he wraps his life around her and what she feels and what she needs. That he drops everything, including his job, to come get her. To take care of her.
Yes, they have an ugly history. I know that. I was there. There were many years I prayed they would divorce because he was so mean. So controlling. So angry and unkind.
But he isn't that way now. At least, not that I see. I am sure there are times when he loses it and he yells back when she's screaming at him. But not nearly as much as she is horrifically unkind to him.
Those rants I hear for hours and hours? He gets them, too. She just rips him up one side and down the other. All while he is trying to help her. Because sometimes she isn't clear in her expression of what she wants (when she can figure out what she wants). And when he, or any of us, gets it wrong she says it's because we don't care what she wants. We don't give a damn about her feelings.
A month ago, when she found out he was going to leave town to go golfing with my brother for six days (which we were happy about and fully supported, because he needs refueling - even if he won't admit it), she lost it again. She showed up at my house - hysterical - and just cried and cried. Not quiet I'm-so-sad cries. Anguished end-of-the-world crying. Lost. Alone. Abandoned. Sobbing. Screaming. And somewhat slurred.
Because it turns out she took twice as many pain pills as she should. Along with Ritalin. And Valium. And progesterone. And whatever else she could think of that would take care of the pain and help her be calm enough to survive in her own skin.
I called my brother, who had prescribed the pain pills, and asked him what to do. He sent her a text begging her to give me the pills. He couldn't live with it if she died as a result of something he'd prescribed. She gave me the pain pills. And then I kept watch over her as she slept and watched Elvis in my living room for the next seven hours. I tried to feed her, but the most I could get her to eat was half a banana.
You see, her teeth are very bad. So bad that I don't think she brushes them anymore because it hurts. She knows she needs to have work done on them, but her anxiety is too intense to sit through it. So she can't eat anything that's not soft. And she has gotten to the point that she usually doesn't even want to try. She lives on Ensure and chocolate. And water. She will go days without having anything else. I know this because I've lived with her for several days at a time.
That day when she took too much medication was a major turning point. (Oh, who am I kidding? I think she takes too much medication every day.) Since then, she has needed nearly round the clock care. Someone to be with her all the time. Yes, someone to try to feed her and get her where she needs to go. Someone to tell her when she can take what pain pills. But mostly, someone to help manage her panic.
She can't sleep well. She can't walk much, because of her injury. And the meds just don't manage the anxiety like they used to. So she melts down. And she needs someone there when she does.
This last week, which started with her pounding on our door at five in the morning on Sunday, was the most difficult for me yet. There were at least five times in the four days I took care of her that I was sure we would be heading to the ER in the next five minutes.
I've taken care of a lot of people over the years. I've acted as nurse to many people through surgery recovery, illness, and many emotional breakdowns. I've raised five children (as a stay-at-home mom, so around the clock) from birth to adulthood. I'm good at it. I'm good at taking care of other people. I am patient. I am knowledgeable. And I truly care. I'm really good at it.
But this last week broke me. Over and over.
When she showed up at five in the morning, my husband answered the door. She was in a bad way again. My dad had told her he was leaving town the next day and she'd lost it. They'd gotten into another screaming match.
My husband was able to get her to lie down on our couch and try to sleep. And then he let me know she was there so I wouldn't be hit with it unexpectedly when I got up.
I had a long day ahead of me at church, on my feet in an energetically demanding calling for two hours. I hadn't had more than four hours of sleep the last two nights. So when he told me she was there I tried so desperately to go back to sleep. But, knowing she was there and was likely to throw off my entire morning (possibly the whole day) and bring that angry energy to my family and completely drain me on a day of rest, made it impossible to sleep. I did stay in bed and at least try to rest. Even as my panic and anxiety began to set in.
A couple hours later I got up and got ready for church. I talked to her a bit as I put the evening's dinner in the crock pot. Well, talked with her is not exactly right. Two-way conversations don't happen much anymore. She just talks and talks and talks and I just listen. So as I walked around getting ready, she kept talking at me. I have no idea what about, except how awful and self-centered my dad is. (I would be lying if I said I don't sometimes tune her out while she's talking at me.)
Eventually I was ready and told her I needed to go, but my husband was there and would help her if she needed him. I told her he could take her anywhere she needed to go. And then I called him and told him he was on duty. I could hear his heart drop in the answering sigh.
I went to church. I had a wonderful, soothing day, as I almost always do. And as I came out of church I checked my phone.
I had missed several calls from my mom. And I had a voicemail. The worst voicemail I've ever received. Sobbing - "Robin, I need help! I've made a mistake! I need you to come and get me! I need somebody to because everybody just doesn't think I'm as bad as I am! I can't make it! I can't make it anymore!!! Please!" - followed by more sobbing. I can't describe the emotion, panic, pain, and terror that I heard in her voice.
I also had a missed call from my local brother. I called him back. He was on his way to pick my mom up from her motel (where she'd had my husband take her). My brother told me she had called my other brother, the doctor, and yelled at him about how worthless he was. She also called my dad and told him she'd taken a bunch of pills and would see him in the morgue. My brother was on his way to a job when she called and wondered if I could take over. I told him I would meet him at her house.
You may be wondering why we didn't go immediately to the ER, after the statement about pills. Honestly, she says a lot of things in anger that aren't even close to reality. Especially to my dad. She tries to punish him and strikes out quite frequently. She wants to hurt him; she has said so. But when I ask, she has no hesitation in telling me what she's taken. As long as she can remember what she's taken. So I knew the ER was a possibility (one I was terrified of), but wanted to talk to her first. To assess the truth of the situation. As it turns out, she didn't take a bunch of pills. She didn't take anything other than her regular stuff. She admitted she just said that to my dad because she was mad at him.
I stayed with her at her house for many hours. (I wish I could truly convey what that day and those to follow were like. It felt like she was an 18-month old child who is overly tired. A child who is so tired but won't sleep. She wants to be picked up and then when you do pick her up she hits you and wants to be put down. She wants the toy but when you hand it to her she throws it back at you and hits you in the face. You feel bad for her because you know she has no idea what to do with the emotions she's feeling but you don't know either and you're sure if she could just sleep things would be better. And even though you feel bad for her your frustration at her unwillingness to comply grows. And your stress grows. And your sadness grows. And you want to throw things, too. You want to hit someone, too. And you're getting no sleep, or even rest, because of her temper tantrums and she won't let anyone help her but you. And it goes on for days and days. It's a lot like that. Except this toddler takes prescription medication [not always hers] according to her own whims and walks all over town any time of the day or night and has money and a cell phone to call a cab and is considered an adult who is in charge of her own life. Oh, and she is completely verbal so she can tell you over and over how much you've failed her and how much everyone else who's trying to help has failed her and how none of you care and are all so selfish. It's like that.)
As I said, my mom doesn't sleep well. Even when she's taken enough meds to put down a horse. So it was a day of trying to sleep. Pacing and panicking because she can't sleep. Her calling and texting my dad about what to do. Him trying to help from another state. Him calling and texting me asking what's going on and suggesting other things to try. And encouraging me to try to keep her from going to the ER (which she does at least once every month or so).
My 24-year old daughter came over to relieve me for a few minutes so I could go home and finish dinner for my family and get some food. I was only gone about fifteen minutes. I then stayed with her until my 20-year old daughter (the one my dad had asked to stay with my mom while he was gone) came over at about ten thirty to spend the night.
I went home, hoping that now that my mom was finally sleeping she would be a bit better and my daughter could cover for a bit. But my mom showed up at my door early the next morning telling me she couldn't make it. And it started all over again. A couple more times thinking we were going to end up in the ER. Then she called her therapist who said she could see her later that day. I know this usually calms her, so I was eager for this to happen. Even though I don't always agree with this therapist. Or what my mom presents as the things this therapist says.
Somehow we got through that day and got to the therapist. I was hoping to get her in and go lie down in the car for an hour. I just needed a few minutes alone. A few minutes of not needing to take care of her. A few minutes of not having to calm anyone but myself. But it didn't work out that way.
My mom asked if I wanted to come in with her. I said I would do whatever she wanted. Her therapist suggested they meet together first and then invite me in if they needed me. Which meant I needed to stay in the waiting room.
Half an hour or so later, her therapist invited me into the room.
This was rough. My mom had gone there to get help from the therapist on how to divorce my dad. The therapist asked me how I felt about my mom divorcing my dad. I told her I didn't care at all if she and my dad stay married. I spent years as a child praying they would get divorced. I truly didn't care if they were married. And then I paused. I am always as truthful as possible in therapy. This was the moment I worried about. This was the moment I had to tell a painful truth to my mom. This is the moment I knew I would hurt my mom. Just the first of many that would happen in that session. I said I didn't care if they divorced, but I worried about who would take care of my mom if that happened. He does so much for her that she can't do for herself. And I couldn't take that load on. I just can't.
Lots of other discussion. Lots of other distraction. More truths I told her.
* When she rejects one of us, she says it's because she needs someone who sees reality. I challenged her on that and said, "Your reality. Your reality isn't the same as the reality I see or others see."
* When she called my dad manipulative I challenged her on that. "What about when you called him and told him you'd taken a bunch of pills and would see him in the morgue? Don't you think that was manipulative?"
* When she said my dad has everyone on his side because he gives them money I challenged her on that. "I have never felt obligated to take his side because he's given me money. None of us do. We're not taking sides. We listen to both of you. We try to help both of you. We are not against you."
There were other truths I shared. It did hurt her. She's brought at least one of them up again since. The one when I said I couldn't take the whole load on by myself. Later that night or the next day (things are kind of blurring together), as I was getting my stuff together so I could go back over to her house with her, she walked out the front door. She didn't tell anyone she was leaving or where she was going. She didn't ask for a ride. She just left. I sent my daughter after her. My daughter came back and said my mom was unwilling to come back. She just needed to leave. It was cold and my mom was in no condition to be out walking to who knows where. I told my daughter to go get her in the car and bring her back. My daughter said she wouldn't come back. I told her to just bring her to the driveway and wait for me, she didn't need to come in.
I went to the car and asked her where she wanted to go. She said she guessed she had to go to her motel. She just couldn't go home. She couldn't be in that house. I asked her if she felt like she could be okay alone at the motel. She said what other choice did she have. She couldn't go home. I asked if she wanted to come back into my house. She said I had said I didn't want her calling me with her problems. She said I had said I didn't want to help her. I said that just wasn't true and what was she talking about? She said that I'd said it in her therapy session. I tried to clear up what I'd said. I do want to help her, but I can't take on the whole load without dad. I again asked if she wanted to come back in my house. She said yes, if there was somewhere private and quiet that she could be. (So far, she'd been in the living room. It's the center of the house and the only gathering room other than the kitchen - we don't have a large house.) I said she could try my bedroom.
I led her to my bedroom. I helped her get settled on my bed. I made sure she had what she needed nearby. And then I sat in the chair by the bed and listened again, for half an hour or an hour. When she finally felt stable, like maybe she could sleep, I left and closed the door. She must have slept because I didn't see her again for hours. (You would think I would rest during this time, but not so much. In those moments I'm still on constant alert listening for her and knowing at any minute I could be called on again to manage another crisis.) She got up and went to the bathroom once, but then went right back. Eventually it was bedtime and I just curled up on the couch, hoping she'd get lots of sleep and finally feel better.
She came out a few times starting at about three in the morning. I pretended to be asleep, although I woke up each time. I was hoping if she thought I was sleeping she would go back to bed. It worked three or four times, until it started to get light and she could see for sure that it was me on the couch. She woke me a little after six, in another panic and wanting to go to the hospital. I spent the next hour trying to settle her enough that I could get my kids up when I needed to and another hour after that as I tried to get my kids out the door for school.
A couple more days like that. One night when she actually let my daughter be in charge and I got some sleep. And so much panic and anger and recycling trauma. And so many hours of me suppressing my feelings so I could do what needed to be done without causing her additional stress - and then going into the bathroom to break down in sobs from the emotional weight of it all.
Near the end of her therapy session, her therapist had asked if she could talk to me alone. My mom said that would be fine and went to the waiting room. As soon as the door was closed her therapist looked at me and said, "Do you think your mom is competent?" Without missing a beat I answered, "No. Absolutely not."
Her therapist said she'd seen a noticeable decline in my mom since the last time she'd seen her. She was very concerned about all the meds my mom takes and the addict behavior she displays. Then she said she wanted her to have a neurological evaluation, to have her competency assessed. She spelled out how to do that, recommended who to call, and told me what could happen afterward. She said if my mom and dad divorce or separate that we would likely have to put her into assisted living. And she told me my mom would likely be very angry with me and with her.
And I felt another weight drop heavily on my shoulders. I now have the expectations and wishes of the therapist. And the feelings and needs of my mom. And the feelings and beliefs and stewardship that is my dad's. And my brothers. And my own issues, anxieties, panic, and sadness. And somehow I am supposed to balance all this and figure out what is right. What am I to do? My dad is her primary caregiver. How am I to tell him? Should I tell him, knowing how my mom feels about him? How much do I involve my brothers, not wanting to place extra burden on them? And honestly, not wanting them to make my job harder by disagreeing with me when they aren't here and don't see what I see.
She thinks if she could just get on the right meds she'd be her old self again. My dad thinks if she would just get off all the meds she'd be her old self again. I'm not sure what my brothers think. I think her old self is gone. I think the meds are a problem. I think she needs to be in a treatment center where they can take her off all the meds and figure out which she really needs and teach her to manage them properly. Or hand the management off to someone else. But I also think her mental capacity is declining. A lot. I think we are past the point of no return. I think she will never be competent again, no matter what we do. I think we are on a downward slope and we will just continue down until she dies. But I could be wrong.
So, for now, I am sitting on it. I'm not making a decision about what her therapist said and what to do with it. My dad is back and has taken over, although I'm still getting calls for rides. It's only a matter of time until another crisis. And she will turn to me. Or he will. Because I've managed them well in the past and none of us knows what to do and we all reach out for the piece of driftwood that will keep us afloat just a little longer. And I am often the driftwood.
And sometimes I'm the one sinking.
I try to always tell the truth. My truth (because that's all I really know). Especially when I write, because I know it will last. It will stand as a testament to who I am long after I remember saying or thinking it.
But sometimes our truths intersect. My truth crosses your truth. Who owns that portion in the middle, that shared truth? Who has the right to present that to the world?
I want to be careful about that. I want to honor the person who shares that space with me. But I also want to tell the truth.
I hope that by owning up front that this is MY truth and not necessarily THE truth, it's okay for me to share. This is about me and my mom.
My ability to recall memories is not great. I have vague images. And pictures. I have those, and they help.
This is me and my mom on my wedding day.
And she was so sharp! She was the one who edited my papers. She could type and take shorthand like nobody's business. She was the Administrative Assistant to the President of the local state college and totally rocked that job! She was loved and admired by all who knew her. I don't remember ever hearing anyone say anything negative about her.
That was twenty-five years ago. She was two years older than I am now. And things have changed.
It's been gradual. Little things here and there. Her asking me how to spell things. Her not remembering the proper noun/verb correlation. Her not able to figure out how to use a new cell phone.
This is the profile picture she chose for her facebook account when someone helped her set it up five or six years ago.
It's painful for me now. It feels like a way too accurate representation of her current fractured state.
I have these vague recollections of her coming to my grade school to do an art presentation. Of her taking me garage sale-ing on Saturday and then to Arctic Circle for lunch. Of her telling me I was her saving grace. The only daughter she got. The one who could understand her in a house full of men. I remember her being my best friend - so many years ago.
I don't have a picture of her now. I'm not sure I'd share it if I did; it wouldn't be a happy picture.
She's seventy-two now. Only seventy-two. I wasn't ready for it to happen so soon.
Because she's not her anymore.
I still live in the town I grew up in. And it's the town she grew up in. So I regularly run into people who knew me when I was little and she was so capable. I even run into people who knew her when she was young, long before I was around. People who grew up with her.
Inevitably the moment comes. They ask the question. The question I don't want to answer. "How's your mom?"
And the only answer I can give is, "Not good." As I start to tear up.
They ask what's wrong. I don't know the answer. None of us do. My dad. My brothers. Me. Her doctors - many, many doctors. We each have a guess; we think we know. But we don't.
My mom has fought anxiety, PTSD, and PMS for longer than I was aware. I remember when I was young and she discovered walking. Walking stabilized her. Walking cleared her mind. Walking was the mental medicine she needed that made her able to face her life again. And so she walked. Miles and miles all over town.
Back then, when I would run into people, they would say, "I see your mom out walking all the time." Back then it meant they saw their friend and she looked good. Like she was okay. It was said with positive energy. Now when they say, "I see your mom out walking," it's said with sadness and concern.
My mom still walks, when she can (she's injured right now). And those miles she used to walk pale in comparison to the miles she walks now. She's tiny and frail, and she will walk ten or fifteen miles a day. Maybe more. Because she no longer has a driver's license and she can't stay in one place. Honestly, it feels like she's trying to escape her own self.
She no longer leaves the house beautifully coiffed. She doesn't always have her makeup on. She can't smell well enough to know if her clothes are really clean. As long as they don't have major spills on them and are the right warmth for the weather, she'll wear them. And off she goes. Pulling her little rolling suitcase behind her. Looking like a bag lady.
I remember many years ago, as her own mother was aging and having difficulty walking and preparing meals, my mom said, "If I could choose between losing my mind and losing my ability to walk, I'd choose to lose my mind. As long as I can walk, I'll be okay."
I'm afraid her wish was granted.
I remember when she was strong. And healthy. And competent. And happy. But just vaguely. Because I feel trapped in this moment. I feel trapped in her hell.
She is angry much of the time, maybe most of the time - usually at my dad. She has difficulty keeping track of what day it is, even when I've told her three times already in the last hour. She doesn't prepare meals for herself, do her laundry, or meet most of her own care needs. And she still thinks she's independent. Most of the time.
She feels abandoned by my brothers who moved to another state years ago. She feels abandoned when my dad leaves town, for an occasional respite - which he so badly needs and deserves. She feels abandoned when my adult daughters stay with her instead of me. And she feels abandoned when none of these things are true.
She feels abandoned that we don't understand. Like we've left her alone to her anguish.
She will spend hours upon hours reliving all the traumas of her past. Over and over. Telling me the same stories again and again. Of her pain. Of all the things people did. Of all the ways they hurt her. And they are all true. They are her truth. And she is trapped there.
But it hurts. It hurts me.
When my dad leaves town I become her primary caregiver. It's my job to help her get where she needs to go, even when she can't decide where that is. Even if it means dropping everything and going to pick her up at her motel room (which my dad rents for her by the month, because she has to have somewhere to go other than her house). For the third time that day. Or taking her to my house, because she feels peace there.
But those are the good days. If all I have to do is take her where she needs to go and listen to her tell me for two hours straight how horrible my dad is and was, that's a good day.
Lately they haven't been good days.
Lately it's been her showing up at my door, pounding and pounding, hysterical. Or calling. Any hour of any day. She's crying. Sobbing. "No one understands how bad I am! I can't make it! I just can't make it! He doesn't care! All he thinks about is himself! No one cares! No one will help me!"
And if I don't answer (because I'm not home and can't answer my door or I'm at church and have my phone off) then she feels abandoned by me. And sometimes in those moments she'll turn to my brother in town. And he'll help as best he can.
But usually it's me. Often even when my dad is in town. Because he and she have had another screaming match and she wants a divorce and her life will be all better if she could just get a divorce.
Because she can't see that he manages her world. That he wraps his life around her and what she feels and what she needs. That he drops everything, including his job, to come get her. To take care of her.
Yes, they have an ugly history. I know that. I was there. There were many years I prayed they would divorce because he was so mean. So controlling. So angry and unkind.
But he isn't that way now. At least, not that I see. I am sure there are times when he loses it and he yells back when she's screaming at him. But not nearly as much as she is horrifically unkind to him.
Those rants I hear for hours and hours? He gets them, too. She just rips him up one side and down the other. All while he is trying to help her. Because sometimes she isn't clear in her expression of what she wants (when she can figure out what she wants). And when he, or any of us, gets it wrong she says it's because we don't care what she wants. We don't give a damn about her feelings.
A month ago, when she found out he was going to leave town to go golfing with my brother for six days (which we were happy about and fully supported, because he needs refueling - even if he won't admit it), she lost it again. She showed up at my house - hysterical - and just cried and cried. Not quiet I'm-so-sad cries. Anguished end-of-the-world crying. Lost. Alone. Abandoned. Sobbing. Screaming. And somewhat slurred.
Because it turns out she took twice as many pain pills as she should. Along with Ritalin. And Valium. And progesterone. And whatever else she could think of that would take care of the pain and help her be calm enough to survive in her own skin.
I called my brother, who had prescribed the pain pills, and asked him what to do. He sent her a text begging her to give me the pills. He couldn't live with it if she died as a result of something he'd prescribed. She gave me the pain pills. And then I kept watch over her as she slept and watched Elvis in my living room for the next seven hours. I tried to feed her, but the most I could get her to eat was half a banana.
You see, her teeth are very bad. So bad that I don't think she brushes them anymore because it hurts. She knows she needs to have work done on them, but her anxiety is too intense to sit through it. So she can't eat anything that's not soft. And she has gotten to the point that she usually doesn't even want to try. She lives on Ensure and chocolate. And water. She will go days without having anything else. I know this because I've lived with her for several days at a time.
That day when she took too much medication was a major turning point. (Oh, who am I kidding? I think she takes too much medication every day.) Since then, she has needed nearly round the clock care. Someone to be with her all the time. Yes, someone to try to feed her and get her where she needs to go. Someone to tell her when she can take what pain pills. But mostly, someone to help manage her panic.
She can't sleep well. She can't walk much, because of her injury. And the meds just don't manage the anxiety like they used to. So she melts down. And she needs someone there when she does.
This last week, which started with her pounding on our door at five in the morning on Sunday, was the most difficult for me yet. There were at least five times in the four days I took care of her that I was sure we would be heading to the ER in the next five minutes.
I've taken care of a lot of people over the years. I've acted as nurse to many people through surgery recovery, illness, and many emotional breakdowns. I've raised five children (as a stay-at-home mom, so around the clock) from birth to adulthood. I'm good at it. I'm good at taking care of other people. I am patient. I am knowledgeable. And I truly care. I'm really good at it.
But this last week broke me. Over and over.
When she showed up at five in the morning, my husband answered the door. She was in a bad way again. My dad had told her he was leaving town the next day and she'd lost it. They'd gotten into another screaming match.
My husband was able to get her to lie down on our couch and try to sleep. And then he let me know she was there so I wouldn't be hit with it unexpectedly when I got up.
I had a long day ahead of me at church, on my feet in an energetically demanding calling for two hours. I hadn't had more than four hours of sleep the last two nights. So when he told me she was there I tried so desperately to go back to sleep. But, knowing she was there and was likely to throw off my entire morning (possibly the whole day) and bring that angry energy to my family and completely drain me on a day of rest, made it impossible to sleep. I did stay in bed and at least try to rest. Even as my panic and anxiety began to set in.
A couple hours later I got up and got ready for church. I talked to her a bit as I put the evening's dinner in the crock pot. Well, talked with her is not exactly right. Two-way conversations don't happen much anymore. She just talks and talks and talks and I just listen. So as I walked around getting ready, she kept talking at me. I have no idea what about, except how awful and self-centered my dad is. (I would be lying if I said I don't sometimes tune her out while she's talking at me.)
Eventually I was ready and told her I needed to go, but my husband was there and would help her if she needed him. I told her he could take her anywhere she needed to go. And then I called him and told him he was on duty. I could hear his heart drop in the answering sigh.
I went to church. I had a wonderful, soothing day, as I almost always do. And as I came out of church I checked my phone.
I had missed several calls from my mom. And I had a voicemail. The worst voicemail I've ever received. Sobbing - "Robin, I need help! I've made a mistake! I need you to come and get me! I need somebody to because everybody just doesn't think I'm as bad as I am! I can't make it! I can't make it anymore!!! Please!" - followed by more sobbing. I can't describe the emotion, panic, pain, and terror that I heard in her voice.
I also had a missed call from my local brother. I called him back. He was on his way to pick my mom up from her motel (where she'd had my husband take her). My brother told me she had called my other brother, the doctor, and yelled at him about how worthless he was. She also called my dad and told him she'd taken a bunch of pills and would see him in the morgue. My brother was on his way to a job when she called and wondered if I could take over. I told him I would meet him at her house.
You may be wondering why we didn't go immediately to the ER, after the statement about pills. Honestly, she says a lot of things in anger that aren't even close to reality. Especially to my dad. She tries to punish him and strikes out quite frequently. She wants to hurt him; she has said so. But when I ask, she has no hesitation in telling me what she's taken. As long as she can remember what she's taken. So I knew the ER was a possibility (one I was terrified of), but wanted to talk to her first. To assess the truth of the situation. As it turns out, she didn't take a bunch of pills. She didn't take anything other than her regular stuff. She admitted she just said that to my dad because she was mad at him.
I stayed with her at her house for many hours. (I wish I could truly convey what that day and those to follow were like. It felt like she was an 18-month old child who is overly tired. A child who is so tired but won't sleep. She wants to be picked up and then when you do pick her up she hits you and wants to be put down. She wants the toy but when you hand it to her she throws it back at you and hits you in the face. You feel bad for her because you know she has no idea what to do with the emotions she's feeling but you don't know either and you're sure if she could just sleep things would be better. And even though you feel bad for her your frustration at her unwillingness to comply grows. And your stress grows. And your sadness grows. And you want to throw things, too. You want to hit someone, too. And you're getting no sleep, or even rest, because of her temper tantrums and she won't let anyone help her but you. And it goes on for days and days. It's a lot like that. Except this toddler takes prescription medication [not always hers] according to her own whims and walks all over town any time of the day or night and has money and a cell phone to call a cab and is considered an adult who is in charge of her own life. Oh, and she is completely verbal so she can tell you over and over how much you've failed her and how much everyone else who's trying to help has failed her and how none of you care and are all so selfish. It's like that.)
As I said, my mom doesn't sleep well. Even when she's taken enough meds to put down a horse. So it was a day of trying to sleep. Pacing and panicking because she can't sleep. Her calling and texting my dad about what to do. Him trying to help from another state. Him calling and texting me asking what's going on and suggesting other things to try. And encouraging me to try to keep her from going to the ER (which she does at least once every month or so).
My 24-year old daughter came over to relieve me for a few minutes so I could go home and finish dinner for my family and get some food. I was only gone about fifteen minutes. I then stayed with her until my 20-year old daughter (the one my dad had asked to stay with my mom while he was gone) came over at about ten thirty to spend the night.
I went home, hoping that now that my mom was finally sleeping she would be a bit better and my daughter could cover for a bit. But my mom showed up at my door early the next morning telling me she couldn't make it. And it started all over again. A couple more times thinking we were going to end up in the ER. Then she called her therapist who said she could see her later that day. I know this usually calms her, so I was eager for this to happen. Even though I don't always agree with this therapist. Or what my mom presents as the things this therapist says.
Somehow we got through that day and got to the therapist. I was hoping to get her in and go lie down in the car for an hour. I just needed a few minutes alone. A few minutes of not needing to take care of her. A few minutes of not having to calm anyone but myself. But it didn't work out that way.
My mom asked if I wanted to come in with her. I said I would do whatever she wanted. Her therapist suggested they meet together first and then invite me in if they needed me. Which meant I needed to stay in the waiting room.
Half an hour or so later, her therapist invited me into the room.
This was rough. My mom had gone there to get help from the therapist on how to divorce my dad. The therapist asked me how I felt about my mom divorcing my dad. I told her I didn't care at all if she and my dad stay married. I spent years as a child praying they would get divorced. I truly didn't care if they were married. And then I paused. I am always as truthful as possible in therapy. This was the moment I worried about. This was the moment I had to tell a painful truth to my mom. This is the moment I knew I would hurt my mom. Just the first of many that would happen in that session. I said I didn't care if they divorced, but I worried about who would take care of my mom if that happened. He does so much for her that she can't do for herself. And I couldn't take that load on. I just can't.
Lots of other discussion. Lots of other distraction. More truths I told her.
* When she rejects one of us, she says it's because she needs someone who sees reality. I challenged her on that and said, "Your reality. Your reality isn't the same as the reality I see or others see."
* When she called my dad manipulative I challenged her on that. "What about when you called him and told him you'd taken a bunch of pills and would see him in the morgue? Don't you think that was manipulative?"
* When she said my dad has everyone on his side because he gives them money I challenged her on that. "I have never felt obligated to take his side because he's given me money. None of us do. We're not taking sides. We listen to both of you. We try to help both of you. We are not against you."
There were other truths I shared. It did hurt her. She's brought at least one of them up again since. The one when I said I couldn't take the whole load on by myself. Later that night or the next day (things are kind of blurring together), as I was getting my stuff together so I could go back over to her house with her, she walked out the front door. She didn't tell anyone she was leaving or where she was going. She didn't ask for a ride. She just left. I sent my daughter after her. My daughter came back and said my mom was unwilling to come back. She just needed to leave. It was cold and my mom was in no condition to be out walking to who knows where. I told my daughter to go get her in the car and bring her back. My daughter said she wouldn't come back. I told her to just bring her to the driveway and wait for me, she didn't need to come in.
I went to the car and asked her where she wanted to go. She said she guessed she had to go to her motel. She just couldn't go home. She couldn't be in that house. I asked her if she felt like she could be okay alone at the motel. She said what other choice did she have. She couldn't go home. I asked if she wanted to come back into my house. She said I had said I didn't want her calling me with her problems. She said I had said I didn't want to help her. I said that just wasn't true and what was she talking about? She said that I'd said it in her therapy session. I tried to clear up what I'd said. I do want to help her, but I can't take on the whole load without dad. I again asked if she wanted to come back in my house. She said yes, if there was somewhere private and quiet that she could be. (So far, she'd been in the living room. It's the center of the house and the only gathering room other than the kitchen - we don't have a large house.) I said she could try my bedroom.
I led her to my bedroom. I helped her get settled on my bed. I made sure she had what she needed nearby. And then I sat in the chair by the bed and listened again, for half an hour or an hour. When she finally felt stable, like maybe she could sleep, I left and closed the door. She must have slept because I didn't see her again for hours. (You would think I would rest during this time, but not so much. In those moments I'm still on constant alert listening for her and knowing at any minute I could be called on again to manage another crisis.) She got up and went to the bathroom once, but then went right back. Eventually it was bedtime and I just curled up on the couch, hoping she'd get lots of sleep and finally feel better.
She came out a few times starting at about three in the morning. I pretended to be asleep, although I woke up each time. I was hoping if she thought I was sleeping she would go back to bed. It worked three or four times, until it started to get light and she could see for sure that it was me on the couch. She woke me a little after six, in another panic and wanting to go to the hospital. I spent the next hour trying to settle her enough that I could get my kids up when I needed to and another hour after that as I tried to get my kids out the door for school.
A couple more days like that. One night when she actually let my daughter be in charge and I got some sleep. And so much panic and anger and recycling trauma. And so many hours of me suppressing my feelings so I could do what needed to be done without causing her additional stress - and then going into the bathroom to break down in sobs from the emotional weight of it all.
Near the end of her therapy session, her therapist had asked if she could talk to me alone. My mom said that would be fine and went to the waiting room. As soon as the door was closed her therapist looked at me and said, "Do you think your mom is competent?" Without missing a beat I answered, "No. Absolutely not."
Her therapist said she'd seen a noticeable decline in my mom since the last time she'd seen her. She was very concerned about all the meds my mom takes and the addict behavior she displays. Then she said she wanted her to have a neurological evaluation, to have her competency assessed. She spelled out how to do that, recommended who to call, and told me what could happen afterward. She said if my mom and dad divorce or separate that we would likely have to put her into assisted living. And she told me my mom would likely be very angry with me and with her.
And I felt another weight drop heavily on my shoulders. I now have the expectations and wishes of the therapist. And the feelings and needs of my mom. And the feelings and beliefs and stewardship that is my dad's. And my brothers. And my own issues, anxieties, panic, and sadness. And somehow I am supposed to balance all this and figure out what is right. What am I to do? My dad is her primary caregiver. How am I to tell him? Should I tell him, knowing how my mom feels about him? How much do I involve my brothers, not wanting to place extra burden on them? And honestly, not wanting them to make my job harder by disagreeing with me when they aren't here and don't see what I see.
She thinks if she could just get on the right meds she'd be her old self again. My dad thinks if she would just get off all the meds she'd be her old self again. I'm not sure what my brothers think. I think her old self is gone. I think the meds are a problem. I think she needs to be in a treatment center where they can take her off all the meds and figure out which she really needs and teach her to manage them properly. Or hand the management off to someone else. But I also think her mental capacity is declining. A lot. I think we are past the point of no return. I think she will never be competent again, no matter what we do. I think we are on a downward slope and we will just continue down until she dies. But I could be wrong.
So, for now, I am sitting on it. I'm not making a decision about what her therapist said and what to do with it. My dad is back and has taken over, although I'm still getting calls for rides. It's only a matter of time until another crisis. And she will turn to me. Or he will. Because I've managed them well in the past and none of us knows what to do and we all reach out for the piece of driftwood that will keep us afloat just a little longer. And I am often the driftwood.
And sometimes I'm the one sinking.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
I'm Sorry to Have Taken Your Time
I haven't written much the last few months. There's a very good reason why. Since my diagnosis of uterine prolapse and then my decision to have a total hysterectomy and oophorectomy I really can't think of much else. I've written a few posts about it but not a lot.
And here's why - I'm pretty sure everyone in my life is sick of hearing about it.
So how am I supposed to write if all I can think about is something others are bored with?
As I pondered this question I realized two things. First, it's my blog and I can write about whatever I want. I'm always saying my blog is more for me than for anyone else. So why am I holding back this time? Which leads me to the second realization. I am holding back because again I feel like I am inflicting myself on others and it's my job to protect them from having to experience my life.
That last part is an ongoing issue for me. It has been for as long as I can remember. I often feel guilty when I take others' time. There are many people I would like to be closer to. There are many people I'd like to visit. There are many people I'd like to spend time with. But I don't initiate these encounters because their time is limited and they shouldn't have to spend it with me.
Even when people have loosely invited me to do so.
"Let me know when we can get together for lunch." "Stop by again some time." "Come see me." But because there's no scheduled time I am sure I'll pick the wrong time and they will let me stay to be polite, but they will be counting the minutes until I leave because they've got things to do. More important things to do. More important than me.
It sounds stupid when I say it; but it's how I feel.
Why do I feel this way? I'm pretty sure it's because my parents always made me feel like I was a burden. So now I feel like a burden to everyone. (Which is also why it's so difficult for me to ask for help - even when I really need it.)
And because I am such a burden, I want to protect people from me. I don't want to be the albatross around their neck.
It's dumb. And I'm working on it. And now that I've realized it about this situation I'm going to stop it.
This is my blog. And I want to write about my pain and upcoming surgery. And if you don't want to read about it, you're a big girl (or boy) and can take care of yourself. Click away and go somewhere else. You are responsible for your choices and feelings and I am responsible for mine.
I'm hurting. A lot! I feel like there is an alien inside my uterus eating me alive as it chews and claws its way out. My ovaries feel like they are tied in knots (okay, maybe that's my fallopian tubes). Sharp, shooting pain that radiates down my leg making it difficult to walk. Sometimes I can't stand up straight because it hurts so bad. There is no position that makes it better and no pain killer seems to help.
I have so much I still want to do to get my home and life ready for my recuperation time. It's four days away now so I'm running out of time. It's a bad time to be hurting so much because I can't do anything. It is making me prioritize though, decide what's the most important to get done. It's also reminding me I'm making the right decision about having surgery.
You see, I'm terrified of the surgery. But more terrified about life after surgery.
I don't want to be anesthetized. I don't want to be cut open. I don't want parts of my body removed. I don't want those first moments coming out of anesthesia, being disoriented, nauseous, and helpless.
I don't want to be the patient. I don't want to be the center of attention. I don't want to need help. I don't want to be weak.
I don't want to hurt. I don't want to be on narcotics. I don't want the rebound headache that's going to follow. I don't want the potential depression that could come from sedative use. I don't want the hormonal hurricane that will follow and the emotional trauma I could experience and/or cause.
I don't want my family to worry about me, especially my children.
I don't want to be an inconvenience to anyone. I don't want to take their time and emotional energy.
And we're right back where this post started. I don't want to be a burden or a bother.
The decision is right. I am sure of this in my heart. And mind. And body. I just wish it didn't come with so much other junk.
And here's why - I'm pretty sure everyone in my life is sick of hearing about it.
So how am I supposed to write if all I can think about is something others are bored with?
As I pondered this question I realized two things. First, it's my blog and I can write about whatever I want. I'm always saying my blog is more for me than for anyone else. So why am I holding back this time? Which leads me to the second realization. I am holding back because again I feel like I am inflicting myself on others and it's my job to protect them from having to experience my life.
That last part is an ongoing issue for me. It has been for as long as I can remember. I often feel guilty when I take others' time. There are many people I would like to be closer to. There are many people I'd like to visit. There are many people I'd like to spend time with. But I don't initiate these encounters because their time is limited and they shouldn't have to spend it with me.
Even when people have loosely invited me to do so.
"Let me know when we can get together for lunch." "Stop by again some time." "Come see me." But because there's no scheduled time I am sure I'll pick the wrong time and they will let me stay to be polite, but they will be counting the minutes until I leave because they've got things to do. More important things to do. More important than me.
It sounds stupid when I say it; but it's how I feel.
Why do I feel this way? I'm pretty sure it's because my parents always made me feel like I was a burden. So now I feel like a burden to everyone. (Which is also why it's so difficult for me to ask for help - even when I really need it.)
And because I am such a burden, I want to protect people from me. I don't want to be the albatross around their neck.
It's dumb. And I'm working on it. And now that I've realized it about this situation I'm going to stop it.
This is my blog. And I want to write about my pain and upcoming surgery. And if you don't want to read about it, you're a big girl (or boy) and can take care of yourself. Click away and go somewhere else. You are responsible for your choices and feelings and I am responsible for mine.
I'm hurting. A lot! I feel like there is an alien inside my uterus eating me alive as it chews and claws its way out. My ovaries feel like they are tied in knots (okay, maybe that's my fallopian tubes). Sharp, shooting pain that radiates down my leg making it difficult to walk. Sometimes I can't stand up straight because it hurts so bad. There is no position that makes it better and no pain killer seems to help.
I have so much I still want to do to get my home and life ready for my recuperation time. It's four days away now so I'm running out of time. It's a bad time to be hurting so much because I can't do anything. It is making me prioritize though, decide what's the most important to get done. It's also reminding me I'm making the right decision about having surgery.
You see, I'm terrified of the surgery. But more terrified about life after surgery.
I don't want to be anesthetized. I don't want to be cut open. I don't want parts of my body removed. I don't want those first moments coming out of anesthesia, being disoriented, nauseous, and helpless.
I don't want to be the patient. I don't want to be the center of attention. I don't want to need help. I don't want to be weak.
I don't want to hurt. I don't want to be on narcotics. I don't want the rebound headache that's going to follow. I don't want the potential depression that could come from sedative use. I don't want the hormonal hurricane that will follow and the emotional trauma I could experience and/or cause.
I don't want my family to worry about me, especially my children.
I don't want to be an inconvenience to anyone. I don't want to take their time and emotional energy.
And we're right back where this post started. I don't want to be a burden or a bother.
The decision is right. I am sure of this in my heart. And mind. And body. I just wish it didn't come with so much other junk.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Coloring is Hard for Me
Quick side note: The last couple of weeks have been very difficult for me mental health-wise. I'll write about it soon. For now, I welcome any good thoughts or prayers offered in my behalf.
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Coloring is easy, right? Coloring book, crayons, relaxation. That's how it's supposed to be, right? And sometimes it is for me, too. But other times it just really isn't. Especially when I'm working on a project I'm going to give to someone.
There may be all kinds of reasons it's tough for me, but the primary reason is because I'm color blind. Yup. I'm one of the very rare women who have that luxury. It's estimated that close to 10% of men are color blind but only 0.5% of women. That's half of one percent. Lucky me.
So all my life, color has been tricky for me. I learned all the rules about color. I know which ones work together and which ones don't. I know about complementary colors and triadic color schemes. But I still often have to ask my daughters what color something is (my son is color blind, too) and whether or not I can use this color with that one. And since I am color blind, I really have to follow the rules of color or things get nasty. Some people can break them with beautiful results, but not me.
So I was kind of thrilled to find out that true Zentangle is done in black and white -- not color! Many people add color, but my tangling efforts could be complete and acceptable if I never colored anything.
Then I made a piece for a friend and he asked me to color it. Ugh!
I was sure I would ruin it. I had no idea how to do it. And my coloring supplies were minimal.
So I stressed out about it. A lot. So much for the "zen" in Zentangle.
I thought I'd try watercolor. I bought a nice set and watched several YouTube videos. I knew I could do it. Except it wasn't the same when I did it as when they did it on the videos.
So here are the steps to my first colored piece:
I had done the piece on watercolor paper. I had planned to color it until I got it done. Then I liked it a lot in black and white (check out my last post to see the black and white version) and didn't want to mess it up. Until my friend requested color.
Watercolor paper has a lot of texture. It's also very heavy. I liked the weight and texture of the paper but wasn't sure how it would affect the coloring. I drew a few simple shapes with a touch of tangling on a separate piece of watercolor paper. I also drew two smaller versions of the original piece (without the skull because that took forever) to test out color combinations and do a couple of trial runs.
I did some watercoloring on my practice page and decided I was ready to give it a try. This is how my first test run on my mini-version tuned out:
Then I gave up for about a week. I didn't know what I was doing. I was super stressed (that bad mental health struggle I mentioned). I needed to step back for a bit and leave it alone.
Yesterday, I decided to attack it again. Not having it finished was causing me extra stress. I needed to finish it so I could get that monkey off my back. I decided to use colored pencils.
I bought a set of watercolor pencils a few days before, thinking maybe I would still watercolor but in a different way (I never did end up adding water). And I had a large collection of Crayola colored pencils from years of art projects with my kids. I tested them out a bit on my practice page and decided just to go for it on my second mini-version (after watching a three part tutorial on YouTube about using colored pencils).
This is how the second trial run went:
There were things I liked about it and things I didn't. But frankly, I was so tired of this hanging over my head, I kind of said "screw it" and dove into the real project.
I used mostly the Crayola pencils, but I did use one or two watercolor pencils. I did some smudging here and there. A bit of shading.
And this is how it turned out:
It was acceptable. I wasn't thrilled with it, but it was done and I was so ready to be through with it that I just didn't care that it wasn't perfect. For a few hours. Then it started to bug me again and I knew it needed a little bit more.
So I colored in the Widgets (the things that look like little alien robots) with some strong bright colors and darkened the red and blue on either side of the skull. I also colored a few of the yellow dots orange.
No more tweaking. I promise. This is the final product:
Do I love it? Not really. Although it has grown on me. When I put it away for a few hours and then come back to it, I like it more. But I am calling it done!
A few tidbits. You may have noticed that in each piece, the peace symbol is green. That's not because I really loved the way it looked. It's more because it's my own little joke that brings me a weird joy -- GreenPeace (tee hee). Also, I did the space to the right of the skull red and to the left blue because that's the way they are colored on the Grateful Dead album art. And since it's very much a hippie-inspired piece, I wanted to incorporate some tie dye if I could. Hence, the rainbow border.
I'm trying to get over the fact that it didn't turn out the way I imagined it in my head and just try to love it for what it is.
I won't give up on coloring. I want to get some different supplies to try, primarily some Tombow brush markers like I had years ago when I was a demonstrator for a stamp/scrapbook company.
But whether I love it or not, I am proud of myself for tackling something that's hard for me and not giving up. Yay, me!
**********
Coloring is easy, right? Coloring book, crayons, relaxation. That's how it's supposed to be, right? And sometimes it is for me, too. But other times it just really isn't. Especially when I'm working on a project I'm going to give to someone.
There may be all kinds of reasons it's tough for me, but the primary reason is because I'm color blind. Yup. I'm one of the very rare women who have that luxury. It's estimated that close to 10% of men are color blind but only 0.5% of women. That's half of one percent. Lucky me.
So all my life, color has been tricky for me. I learned all the rules about color. I know which ones work together and which ones don't. I know about complementary colors and triadic color schemes. But I still often have to ask my daughters what color something is (my son is color blind, too) and whether or not I can use this color with that one. And since I am color blind, I really have to follow the rules of color or things get nasty. Some people can break them with beautiful results, but not me.
So I was kind of thrilled to find out that true Zentangle is done in black and white -- not color! Many people add color, but my tangling efforts could be complete and acceptable if I never colored anything.
Then I made a piece for a friend and he asked me to color it. Ugh!
I was sure I would ruin it. I had no idea how to do it. And my coloring supplies were minimal.
So I stressed out about it. A lot. So much for the "zen" in Zentangle.
I thought I'd try watercolor. I bought a nice set and watched several YouTube videos. I knew I could do it. Except it wasn't the same when I did it as when they did it on the videos.
So here are the steps to my first colored piece:
 |
| my practice page |
Watercolor paper has a lot of texture. It's also very heavy. I liked the weight and texture of the paper but wasn't sure how it would affect the coloring. I drew a few simple shapes with a touch of tangling on a separate piece of watercolor paper. I also drew two smaller versions of the original piece (without the skull because that took forever) to test out color combinations and do a couple of trial runs.
I did some watercoloring on my practice page and decided I was ready to give it a try. This is how my first test run on my mini-version tuned out:
 |
| mini-version, watercolor, first trial run |
You may notice the page curled a bit. That didn't bother me. I was sure I could fix that if I needed to. But I wasn't happy with the result. Not even happy enough to finish it with some shading (I might still go back and add that later).Then I gave up for about a week. I didn't know what I was doing. I was super stressed (that bad mental health struggle I mentioned). I needed to step back for a bit and leave it alone.
Yesterday, I decided to attack it again. Not having it finished was causing me extra stress. I needed to finish it so I could get that monkey off my back. I decided to use colored pencils.
I bought a set of watercolor pencils a few days before, thinking maybe I would still watercolor but in a different way (I never did end up adding water). And I had a large collection of Crayola colored pencils from years of art projects with my kids. I tested them out a bit on my practice page and decided just to go for it on my second mini-version (after watching a three part tutorial on YouTube about using colored pencils).
This is how the second trial run went:
 |
| mini-version, colored pencils, second trial run |
I used mostly the Crayola pencils, but I did use one or two watercolor pencils. I did some smudging here and there. A bit of shading.
And this is how it turned out:
 |
| almost there |
So I colored in the Widgets (the things that look like little alien robots) with some strong bright colors and darkened the red and blue on either side of the skull. I also colored a few of the yellow dots orange.
No more tweaking. I promise. This is the final product:
 |
| the final product |
A few tidbits. You may have noticed that in each piece, the peace symbol is green. That's not because I really loved the way it looked. It's more because it's my own little joke that brings me a weird joy -- GreenPeace (tee hee). Also, I did the space to the right of the skull red and to the left blue because that's the way they are colored on the Grateful Dead album art. And since it's very much a hippie-inspired piece, I wanted to incorporate some tie dye if I could. Hence, the rainbow border.
I'm trying to get over the fact that it didn't turn out the way I imagined it in my head and just try to love it for what it is.
I won't give up on coloring. I want to get some different supplies to try, primarily some Tombow brush markers like I had years ago when I was a demonstrator for a stamp/scrapbook company.
But whether I love it or not, I am proud of myself for tackling something that's hard for me and not giving up. Yay, me!
Friday, September 6, 2013
Writing
Writing because I need to.
Writing because my heart feels like it's going to explode.
Writing because I'm lost.
Writing because it's healing.
Writing because it's often how God and I communicate.
Writing because my world is dark.
Writing because I feel like I'm missing something obvious.
Writing because I'm sad.
Writing because I hurt.
Writing because . . . I just don't know what else to do.
Writing because my heart feels like it's going to explode.
Writing because I'm lost.
Writing because it's healing.
Writing because it's often how God and I communicate.
Writing because my world is dark.
Writing because I feel like I'm missing something obvious.
Writing because I'm sad.
Writing because I hurt.
Writing because . . . I just don't know what else to do.
Friday, August 23, 2013
I Don't Know How I'm Supposed to Feel
My friend's sixteen-year old daughter is missing. She left a note. She ran away. But they suspect she was lured away by predator she met on the internet. It's been a week.
It's such a horrific thing. My heart is aching for my friend and her family. I pray for her safe return multiple times a day.
And I feel guilty that I still worry about my own problems.
Big problems like my husband being out of work for a couple of months, with no real prospects on the horizon. Little problems like my sadness that my son will probably get very little playing time this season of football. And in between problems like the messy house and my lack of energy or motivation to do anything about it; the medical bills that just keep coming; trying to help manage my husband's depression.
Whenever I get stressed about money and trying to meet all our obligations, I remind myself that my children are safe. When I notice the signs of depression in myself, I track each of my children in my mind and know where each of them is. I am so grateful for this. My children are my life. I can't imagine the heartache my friend is feeling or how unimportant those other things would be to me if I didn't know where my child was. What right do I have to worry about the stupid things in my life when she is going through something like this?
I know I need to do things to help myself, to care for my family. But I find myself checking on her status several times a day to see if there's news. Sometimes every half hour. Sometimes I feel guilty that I am so worried about her and her family and not spending enough time worrying about my own family. What right do I have to neglect my family and our problems by spending so much mental and emotional energy on my friend's family?
I spent years being numb. Not feeling much of anything. Most of that comes from a childhood where feelings were not acceptable.
I still have difficulty identifying my feelings.
And sometimes I think I'm feeling everything, like in Harry Potter when Hermione is explaining to Ron and Harry how Cho Chang is feeling. Ron thinks no one could possibly be feeling all those things at once. But we can.
I'm feeling sad and scared for my friend. I'm feeling sad and scared for myself. I'm feeling blessed. I'm feeling irritated and disappointed. I'm even feeling content sometimes.
But I'm judging those feelings. I'm judging myself for feeling all of these things. Like I am bad because I'm not feeling what I should be feeling -- whatever that is.
I know I shouldn't. I know I should experience the feelings and try to see what they are teaching me or just acknowledge them or just let them pass by unnoticed. I wish I could stop judging them and just feel.
I tell myself that I am not a bad person because I am worried about my own life, even simple things that won't matter in a month. It's okay to be happy. It's okay to cry. It's even okay to be numb for a while.
Now that I've said it, I'm going to work on believing it. My feelings are mine. And they aren't right or wrong. They just are.
Right?
**********
Update: My friend's daughter has been found and is safe and back with her family.
It's such a horrific thing. My heart is aching for my friend and her family. I pray for her safe return multiple times a day.
And I feel guilty that I still worry about my own problems.
Big problems like my husband being out of work for a couple of months, with no real prospects on the horizon. Little problems like my sadness that my son will probably get very little playing time this season of football. And in between problems like the messy house and my lack of energy or motivation to do anything about it; the medical bills that just keep coming; trying to help manage my husband's depression.
Whenever I get stressed about money and trying to meet all our obligations, I remind myself that my children are safe. When I notice the signs of depression in myself, I track each of my children in my mind and know where each of them is. I am so grateful for this. My children are my life. I can't imagine the heartache my friend is feeling or how unimportant those other things would be to me if I didn't know where my child was. What right do I have to worry about the stupid things in my life when she is going through something like this?
I know I need to do things to help myself, to care for my family. But I find myself checking on her status several times a day to see if there's news. Sometimes every half hour. Sometimes I feel guilty that I am so worried about her and her family and not spending enough time worrying about my own family. What right do I have to neglect my family and our problems by spending so much mental and emotional energy on my friend's family?
I spent years being numb. Not feeling much of anything. Most of that comes from a childhood where feelings were not acceptable.
I still have difficulty identifying my feelings.
And sometimes I think I'm feeling everything, like in Harry Potter when Hermione is explaining to Ron and Harry how Cho Chang is feeling. Ron thinks no one could possibly be feeling all those things at once. But we can.
I'm feeling sad and scared for my friend. I'm feeling sad and scared for myself. I'm feeling blessed. I'm feeling irritated and disappointed. I'm even feeling content sometimes.
But I'm judging those feelings. I'm judging myself for feeling all of these things. Like I am bad because I'm not feeling what I should be feeling -- whatever that is.
I know I shouldn't. I know I should experience the feelings and try to see what they are teaching me or just acknowledge them or just let them pass by unnoticed. I wish I could stop judging them and just feel.
I tell myself that I am not a bad person because I am worried about my own life, even simple things that won't matter in a month. It's okay to be happy. It's okay to cry. It's even okay to be numb for a while.
Now that I've said it, I'm going to work on believing it. My feelings are mine. And they aren't right or wrong. They just are.
Right?
**********
Update: My friend's daughter has been found and is safe and back with her family.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Trusting in God's Timing
Here's the thing. I do. I really do. I trust that He knows what He's doing and everything is going to work out okay. Eventually.
It's the eventually thing that sucks.
Why can't it be now? Why do I have to watch week after week as my husband goes through interview after interview and disappointment after disappointment?
When my husband was laid off I wasn't worried. Really. Not worried at all. In our twenty-three years of marriage he's been laid off eleven times. He's good at finding a job. He's highly employable. He's a hard worker and a loyal employee.
But it's been nearly two months now and my relaxed attitude is pretty much gone.
I love him and it's so hard on him to be rejected over and over. He wonders what he's doing wrong. He struggles with depression and feelings of low self-worth. He tries to stay positive and keep his hopes up, but then those same hopes crash every time he's passed over for a position.
It breaks my heart.
I try to help him fight the depression. I believe in him and tell him so. I value him whether he's employed or not. But that only helps so much. He still questions his worth when he can't support his family.
And I've been really struggling with depression, too.
I feel so powerless. I wish I could get a job and help out, but my health just won't allow it. I really can't do anything to help him interview better or find better job opportunities. All I can do is support him and try to manage our home.
And the stress of trying to keep our home afloat makes me feel like throwing up a great deal of the time.
We are receiving unemployment, which is less than half of what we were earning before. We have cut every expense we can. We have thousands of dollars in medical bills, some of which have gone to collections. We have had to ask our daughter to help with some costs. We've had to ask my dad for money. And we've had to go to our church for food and help with the bills.
I am grateful that these things are available, but don't let anyone kid you. It sucks to have to ask for help. A lot. Being an adult and not being able to pay your own way is a pretty major kick in the emotional teeth.
If I could just see down the road a bit, see when it's going to get better. Then maybe I could focus on other things instead of obsessing about how I'm going to keep the lights on and the medical debtors at bay.
God's smart. He knows what He's doing. But I want what I want and I want it now! I want my husband to get a job. Now! I want him to feel valued and productive again. Now! I want him to be proud of himself again. Now! And I want us to be able to pay our own way again. Now!
And yet, when I pray tonight, when I converse with God and express my gratitude and ask for what I want, I will still include, "If it be thy will."
Because I do trust Him. Even if I feel like throwing up while waiting.
It's the eventually thing that sucks.
Why can't it be now? Why do I have to watch week after week as my husband goes through interview after interview and disappointment after disappointment?
When my husband was laid off I wasn't worried. Really. Not worried at all. In our twenty-three years of marriage he's been laid off eleven times. He's good at finding a job. He's highly employable. He's a hard worker and a loyal employee.
But it's been nearly two months now and my relaxed attitude is pretty much gone.
I love him and it's so hard on him to be rejected over and over. He wonders what he's doing wrong. He struggles with depression and feelings of low self-worth. He tries to stay positive and keep his hopes up, but then those same hopes crash every time he's passed over for a position.
It breaks my heart.
I try to help him fight the depression. I believe in him and tell him so. I value him whether he's employed or not. But that only helps so much. He still questions his worth when he can't support his family.
And I've been really struggling with depression, too.
I feel so powerless. I wish I could get a job and help out, but my health just won't allow it. I really can't do anything to help him interview better or find better job opportunities. All I can do is support him and try to manage our home.
And the stress of trying to keep our home afloat makes me feel like throwing up a great deal of the time.
We are receiving unemployment, which is less than half of what we were earning before. We have cut every expense we can. We have thousands of dollars in medical bills, some of which have gone to collections. We have had to ask our daughter to help with some costs. We've had to ask my dad for money. And we've had to go to our church for food and help with the bills.
I am grateful that these things are available, but don't let anyone kid you. It sucks to have to ask for help. A lot. Being an adult and not being able to pay your own way is a pretty major kick in the emotional teeth.
If I could just see down the road a bit, see when it's going to get better. Then maybe I could focus on other things instead of obsessing about how I'm going to keep the lights on and the medical debtors at bay.
God's smart. He knows what He's doing. But I want what I want and I want it now! I want my husband to get a job. Now! I want him to feel valued and productive again. Now! I want him to be proud of himself again. Now! And I want us to be able to pay our own way again. Now!
And yet, when I pray tonight, when I converse with God and express my gratitude and ask for what I want, I will still include, "If it be thy will."
Because I do trust Him. Even if I feel like throwing up while waiting.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Turning to God
My life is better today.
None of my major stresses went away. Nothing big changed. It was a small change. The same one that's gotten me through a thousand other tough times.
I remembered to turn to God.
My life is always heaviest when I try to carry it alone.
Then something happens, like a reminder from a good friend, and I turn to God. And he smiles and says, "No wonder it's so heavy; you're carrying it all wrong. Plus, you're trying to carry all this other stuff that isn't even yours. Let me help you figure out what you really need to carry and how it fits just right on your shoulders."
I'm grateful for a good friend that reminded me to turn to God.
I'm grateful for the power of the priesthood that allows me to receive the blessings I need in difficult times.
I'm grateful for prayer, which enables the conversations I need to have.
And I'm especially grateful for an understanding that I am doing a good job, that He is there, and that we are in this together.
None of my major stresses went away. Nothing big changed. It was a small change. The same one that's gotten me through a thousand other tough times.
I remembered to turn to God.
My life is always heaviest when I try to carry it alone.
Then something happens, like a reminder from a good friend, and I turn to God. And he smiles and says, "No wonder it's so heavy; you're carrying it all wrong. Plus, you're trying to carry all this other stuff that isn't even yours. Let me help you figure out what you really need to carry and how it fits just right on your shoulders."
I'm grateful for a good friend that reminded me to turn to God.
I'm grateful for the power of the priesthood that allows me to receive the blessings I need in difficult times.
I'm grateful for prayer, which enables the conversations I need to have.
And I'm especially grateful for an understanding that I am doing a good job, that He is there, and that we are in this together.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Feeling the Stress
I'm not gonna lie. I'm feeling the stress. Quite a bit. And once I started spelling it all out in my head, it made sense.
I've been helping my mom for almost a year now. She's really struggling with her mental health. It's been quite a battle of ups and downs. And I'm trying to balance helping her with taking care of myself while navigating the dangerous waters of my parents' dysfunctional marriage. And trying to keep my brothers informed. They've asked what they can do to help. Boy, I wish there was something. My dad feels helpless and doesn't know what to do. And when he does come up with an idea, she doesn't want to have anything to do with him.
In the last month or so I've picked her up or dropped her off at multiple locations around the county (she doesn't have her license anymore). I've taken her to get her prescriptions filled, to shop, and out for lunch. I've accompanied her to the neurologist, the therapist, and the psychiatrist. I've taken her for blood tests, an EEG, and an MRI.
And now the therapist wants me to help my mom become compliant on her meds, which she isn't and never has been. My mom has PTSD from multiple traumatic episodes in her past. She has spent years fighting to have control of her life. Me taking over her meds would be her losing control again and she's just not willing to go there. I can understand that. But I also understand that not taking her meds according to schedule is making it so much harder for her to feel better or for anyone to help her feel better.
She says she's willing to try. When it's time to fill her prescription again she'll let me help her set up a system. That's the best she could do. Until then she's promised to try to take them the way she's supposed to. And she's trying to track it all on paper like the therapist wants. If she doesn't become compliant she will not be able to get her driver's license again. And her psychiatrist might drop her. But she still isn't convinced that taking her meds according to schedule is the right way for her. She's sure that she's right about using them as needed and we're wrong and she'd be fine if the psychiatrist would just give her more meds. She's only trying to get on schedule to keep us happy, not because she believes in it. It's control she's clinging to with both hands, tight fists.
I'll keep taking her to appointments. And doing what I can to help while trying to keep myself emotionally stable.
On top of this, three weeks ago my husband lost his job. We've been married twenty-three years and he's been laid off eleven times. Because of my health I am not able to work. That was our only income. He's interviewing and applying and trying. And I'm doing all I can to be supportive and helpful. I'm trying to manage what little money we have left. I'm looking for alternate sources of income. I'm trying to stay on top of all the medical bills from my daughter's brain surgery and hospitalization and my emergency room visit and stress test and my husband's MRI and my daughter's MRI and all my therapy and all the other miscellaneous medical bills we have outstanding. I'm trying to keep food in the house.
But my biggest job has been to keep my husband from slipping into a depression. His self-definition has taken a major hit. He's questioning his value. Every job rejection slams him down again. So I try to spend time with him. I try to help him see healthy choices. I try to keep him involved and active with something other than computer games and movies and sleep. We've had a few deep, dark days, but are mostly keeping his head above water. It requires constantly treading water.
And no one leaves my house.
School is out. My oldest daughter quit her job for the summer (before my husband lost his job). My second daughter lost her job when my husband did (company went out of business). My third daughter is out of state for the summer (so I guess she left the house, but that's a little too far gone for too long). My son doesn't have a job and my other daughter doesn't have a job (they are sixteen and fourteen). Rarely does anyone go anywhere or do anything other than watch tv and play video games. It feels like my whole household is sinking into a depression. I love my kids. And I want them to be happy. I want them to have a break.
But I am a homebody. Partly because it's exhausting for me when I leave (I have chronic fatigue) and partly just because I love to be home. And I used to get six hours a day to myself in my home. But now I don't seem to get any time with the house to myself. And my mental health is taking a hit because of it. It's wearing me down. I am really feeling what it means to be in the "sandwich generation." Taking care of my parents and my kids. Lots and lots of others needing me. Not enough time to just be me without worrying that someone is about to knock on my door and need something.
And I recently stopped going to therapy because my therapist and I were no longer connecting well.
And I have become heat-intolerant the last year or so and we are in the middle of a heat wave.
And next week is my daughter's birthday and I have no money for it.
And I have no energy to complete any of the thousands of things that need to be done around the house.
And I have no energy to make anyone else do them either.
And the car didn't pass inspection.
And the faucet in the bathroom is leaking.
And the toilet keeps running.
And I am just not enough.
Things will get better. But right now I'm feeling the stress.
I've been helping my mom for almost a year now. She's really struggling with her mental health. It's been quite a battle of ups and downs. And I'm trying to balance helping her with taking care of myself while navigating the dangerous waters of my parents' dysfunctional marriage. And trying to keep my brothers informed. They've asked what they can do to help. Boy, I wish there was something. My dad feels helpless and doesn't know what to do. And when he does come up with an idea, she doesn't want to have anything to do with him.
In the last month or so I've picked her up or dropped her off at multiple locations around the county (she doesn't have her license anymore). I've taken her to get her prescriptions filled, to shop, and out for lunch. I've accompanied her to the neurologist, the therapist, and the psychiatrist. I've taken her for blood tests, an EEG, and an MRI.
And now the therapist wants me to help my mom become compliant on her meds, which she isn't and never has been. My mom has PTSD from multiple traumatic episodes in her past. She has spent years fighting to have control of her life. Me taking over her meds would be her losing control again and she's just not willing to go there. I can understand that. But I also understand that not taking her meds according to schedule is making it so much harder for her to feel better or for anyone to help her feel better.
She says she's willing to try. When it's time to fill her prescription again she'll let me help her set up a system. That's the best she could do. Until then she's promised to try to take them the way she's supposed to. And she's trying to track it all on paper like the therapist wants. If she doesn't become compliant she will not be able to get her driver's license again. And her psychiatrist might drop her. But she still isn't convinced that taking her meds according to schedule is the right way for her. She's sure that she's right about using them as needed and we're wrong and she'd be fine if the psychiatrist would just give her more meds. She's only trying to get on schedule to keep us happy, not because she believes in it. It's control she's clinging to with both hands, tight fists.
I'll keep taking her to appointments. And doing what I can to help while trying to keep myself emotionally stable.
On top of this, three weeks ago my husband lost his job. We've been married twenty-three years and he's been laid off eleven times. Because of my health I am not able to work. That was our only income. He's interviewing and applying and trying. And I'm doing all I can to be supportive and helpful. I'm trying to manage what little money we have left. I'm looking for alternate sources of income. I'm trying to stay on top of all the medical bills from my daughter's brain surgery and hospitalization and my emergency room visit and stress test and my husband's MRI and my daughter's MRI and all my therapy and all the other miscellaneous medical bills we have outstanding. I'm trying to keep food in the house.
But my biggest job has been to keep my husband from slipping into a depression. His self-definition has taken a major hit. He's questioning his value. Every job rejection slams him down again. So I try to spend time with him. I try to help him see healthy choices. I try to keep him involved and active with something other than computer games and movies and sleep. We've had a few deep, dark days, but are mostly keeping his head above water. It requires constantly treading water.
And no one leaves my house.
School is out. My oldest daughter quit her job for the summer (before my husband lost his job). My second daughter lost her job when my husband did (company went out of business). My third daughter is out of state for the summer (so I guess she left the house, but that's a little too far gone for too long). My son doesn't have a job and my other daughter doesn't have a job (they are sixteen and fourteen). Rarely does anyone go anywhere or do anything other than watch tv and play video games. It feels like my whole household is sinking into a depression. I love my kids. And I want them to be happy. I want them to have a break.
But I am a homebody. Partly because it's exhausting for me when I leave (I have chronic fatigue) and partly just because I love to be home. And I used to get six hours a day to myself in my home. But now I don't seem to get any time with the house to myself. And my mental health is taking a hit because of it. It's wearing me down. I am really feeling what it means to be in the "sandwich generation." Taking care of my parents and my kids. Lots and lots of others needing me. Not enough time to just be me without worrying that someone is about to knock on my door and need something.
And I recently stopped going to therapy because my therapist and I were no longer connecting well.
And I have become heat-intolerant the last year or so and we are in the middle of a heat wave.
And next week is my daughter's birthday and I have no money for it.
And I have no energy to complete any of the thousands of things that need to be done around the house.
And I have no energy to make anyone else do them either.
And the car didn't pass inspection.
And the faucet in the bathroom is leaking.
And the toilet keeps running.
And I am just not enough.
Things will get better. But right now I'm feeling the stress.
Monday, January 23, 2012
I'm Crazy -- It's Official
I don't think it will come as a surprise to anyone who knows me well that I've been struggling. In fact, it probably won't surprise anyone who reads my blog, is my friend on facebook, or follows me on Twitter. I wouldn't even be shocked if the mailman knows. I've tried to fake it but suspect I haven't been doing a very good job.
I have needed to see my doctor for months. I have been ill. I have had pains that should be addressed or checked. I have run out of meds that made my life a little easier. And I was past due for my annual checkup. Why didn't I go? Ironically, because I didn't feel well enough.
I understand that sounds ridiculous. I didn't go to the doctor because I didn't feel well enough. But it's the honest truth.
I have been white-knuckling my life. Holding on with both hands to keep it all from falling apart. Picking up what I could of those things I dropped. And trying to smile and say, "No, really, I'm fine."
But I wasn't. I'm not. And I finally went to the doctor.
I went because I couldn't get my meds refilled without going. And because my husband caught me in a moment of meltdown and offered to get me an appointment.
After all the opening fun of being weighed and giving a urine sample, I changed into the lovely gown and drape and waited for the doctor. My tension was rising as I knew I needed to discuss everything with him. I needed to give him as complete a list of the mess of my life as possible so we could work together to find a direction. And I had a written list just to make sure I hit it all.
He came in, we went through the normal review of medical history, and then I asked if I could give him more information.
And I did. I shared my history of abuse, my struggles with fatigue and pain, and the new things that have come up. I was as brief as possible. I fought through tears. I said what I needed to say.
And do you know what he did? He listened. He didn't interrupt. He didn't rush. He just listened. And when I finished he asked a few questions for clarification. And in that moment I felt like I had a partner, someone who truly wanted to help me. Someone who saw a person and not a problem.
He didn't have the answers. I didn't expect him to. But he still helped.
He performed my physical exam, ordered all the blood tests indicated, gave me new prescriptions for the things I needed, and gently gave me some direction.
He suggested I get back into therapy AND see a psychiatrist.
I was already planning to get back into therapy; I have done so since that appointment.
But I hadn't thought of seeing a psychiatrist. As he explained, they don't really do therapy anymore. Mostly they are medication detectives. They can try different combinations of medications and off-label uses to offer new choices when the basics haven't worked.
I have had many symptoms of low-serotonin for years. I have tried many medications. I have had no success.
I am now fighting more symptoms. They aren't huge in scale but they are numerous. They are making my life difficult. I am fighting social phobias which are limiting my participation in the outside world, including church. I am fighting anxiety which is causing me to isolate and refuse to communicate or spend time with family. I am fighting an OCD issue -- repetitively spelling in my head (yeah, that is obnoxious and hurts my head and I can't stop). I am impatient and often rude without having any idea. When I realize it, but can't stop it, I go back to my room to prevent hurting people. I have no emotional strength to face anything that isn't going just right.
The inch or two of mud I was walking through has become shin-deep. The slog of life is much, much harder. I am trying, but I am struggling.
So, I am eager to jump back on the medication roller coaster and play Russian Roulette with the psychiatrist (in March, which was as soon as I could get an appointment). Even though I may be setting myself up for disappointment, I am hopeful that we will be able to find something that will help. Because, honestly, I don't know how much more I can take. Things have to get better. They just have to.
**********
To read about my visit to the psychiatrist, go here.
I have needed to see my doctor for months. I have been ill. I have had pains that should be addressed or checked. I have run out of meds that made my life a little easier. And I was past due for my annual checkup. Why didn't I go? Ironically, because I didn't feel well enough.
I understand that sounds ridiculous. I didn't go to the doctor because I didn't feel well enough. But it's the honest truth.
I have been white-knuckling my life. Holding on with both hands to keep it all from falling apart. Picking up what I could of those things I dropped. And trying to smile and say, "No, really, I'm fine."
But I wasn't. I'm not. And I finally went to the doctor.
I went because I couldn't get my meds refilled without going. And because my husband caught me in a moment of meltdown and offered to get me an appointment.
After all the opening fun of being weighed and giving a urine sample, I changed into the lovely gown and drape and waited for the doctor. My tension was rising as I knew I needed to discuss everything with him. I needed to give him as complete a list of the mess of my life as possible so we could work together to find a direction. And I had a written list just to make sure I hit it all.
He came in, we went through the normal review of medical history, and then I asked if I could give him more information.
And I did. I shared my history of abuse, my struggles with fatigue and pain, and the new things that have come up. I was as brief as possible. I fought through tears. I said what I needed to say.
And do you know what he did? He listened. He didn't interrupt. He didn't rush. He just listened. And when I finished he asked a few questions for clarification. And in that moment I felt like I had a partner, someone who truly wanted to help me. Someone who saw a person and not a problem.
He didn't have the answers. I didn't expect him to. But he still helped.
He performed my physical exam, ordered all the blood tests indicated, gave me new prescriptions for the things I needed, and gently gave me some direction.
He suggested I get back into therapy AND see a psychiatrist.
I was already planning to get back into therapy; I have done so since that appointment.
But I hadn't thought of seeing a psychiatrist. As he explained, they don't really do therapy anymore. Mostly they are medication detectives. They can try different combinations of medications and off-label uses to offer new choices when the basics haven't worked.
I have had many symptoms of low-serotonin for years. I have tried many medications. I have had no success.
I am now fighting more symptoms. They aren't huge in scale but they are numerous. They are making my life difficult. I am fighting social phobias which are limiting my participation in the outside world, including church. I am fighting anxiety which is causing me to isolate and refuse to communicate or spend time with family. I am fighting an OCD issue -- repetitively spelling in my head (yeah, that is obnoxious and hurts my head and I can't stop). I am impatient and often rude without having any idea. When I realize it, but can't stop it, I go back to my room to prevent hurting people. I have no emotional strength to face anything that isn't going just right.
The inch or two of mud I was walking through has become shin-deep. The slog of life is much, much harder. I am trying, but I am struggling.
So, I am eager to jump back on the medication roller coaster and play Russian Roulette with the psychiatrist (in March, which was as soon as I could get an appointment). Even though I may be setting myself up for disappointment, I am hopeful that we will be able to find something that will help. Because, honestly, I don't know how much more I can take. Things have to get better. They just have to.
**********
To read about my visit to the psychiatrist, go here.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Let's Talk About Minimalism
A few months ago I wrote about finding my kind. Finding my place. Feeling at home. In the minimalist movement.
Much of that post talked about getting rid of stuff. And having less stuff is certainly a big part of minimalism. But minimalism is so much more than that.
It would take many posts to give you an accurate idea of the current minimalist movement. I'm sure I will write about it again to cover various areas and how they fit into my life. But for now, I would like to offer a small introduction to minimalism of today.
While there is a push toward minimalist architecture and decorating and design, that's not really what I'm talking about. The minimalism I'm talking about is a lifestyle change.
As with any lifestyle generalization there are many different interpretations on what it means to be a minimalist. There are probably as many interpretations as there are people trying to live this lifestyle.
A few of the things I've seen people working toward: owning fewer than 100 things; 33 items in their wardrobe; quitting their regular job; becoming location independent; giving up their car; traveling the world with nothing but their backpack and a laptop.
I do not anticipate doing any of these things.
More commonly I read about people who are getting rid of stuff, rethinking commitments, challenging the ideas that they've been told for years, defining what they want out of life and making it happen.
My definition: Minimalism is about creating space for the things you love. Maybe that's physical space and you're focusing on clutter. Maybe that's time and energy and you're adjusting your work week. Maybe it's emotional space and you are letting go of relationships that are draining. Whatever.
It's not about living without. It's about only having what you need and what you love, realizing that anything extra takes away from the joy of life. It's not all about thrift shopping. Maybe instead of ten cheap pairs of pants I want to own three really nice ones.
It's about choosing what I want in my life, what feels good in my heart. It's about knowing when I have enough. It's about living with intent. It's about slowing down. It's about making this very moment important, no matter what I'm doing. It's about not choosing things based on what other people say I should want. It's about listening to my own heart and letting it help me find myself. Chipping away at all the garbage the world has buried me in.
It's about thinking. Choosing. And enjoying.
Much of that post talked about getting rid of stuff. And having less stuff is certainly a big part of minimalism. But minimalism is so much more than that.
It would take many posts to give you an accurate idea of the current minimalist movement. I'm sure I will write about it again to cover various areas and how they fit into my life. But for now, I would like to offer a small introduction to minimalism of today.
While there is a push toward minimalist architecture and decorating and design, that's not really what I'm talking about. The minimalism I'm talking about is a lifestyle change.
As with any lifestyle generalization there are many different interpretations on what it means to be a minimalist. There are probably as many interpretations as there are people trying to live this lifestyle.
A few of the things I've seen people working toward: owning fewer than 100 things; 33 items in their wardrobe; quitting their regular job; becoming location independent; giving up their car; traveling the world with nothing but their backpack and a laptop.
I do not anticipate doing any of these things.
More commonly I read about people who are getting rid of stuff, rethinking commitments, challenging the ideas that they've been told for years, defining what they want out of life and making it happen.
My definition: Minimalism is about creating space for the things you love. Maybe that's physical space and you're focusing on clutter. Maybe that's time and energy and you're adjusting your work week. Maybe it's emotional space and you are letting go of relationships that are draining. Whatever.
It's not about living without. It's about only having what you need and what you love, realizing that anything extra takes away from the joy of life. It's not all about thrift shopping. Maybe instead of ten cheap pairs of pants I want to own three really nice ones.
It's about choosing what I want in my life, what feels good in my heart. It's about knowing when I have enough. It's about living with intent. It's about slowing down. It's about making this very moment important, no matter what I'm doing. It's about not choosing things based on what other people say I should want. It's about listening to my own heart and letting it help me find myself. Chipping away at all the garbage the world has buried me in.
It's about thinking. Choosing. And enjoying.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Nectar of the Gods
Ever have one of those days? A day when everything goes wrong? When everyone hates you? A day that seems to be neverending?
It's finally over. You've made it home, to your refuge. Your haven. Your day has been horrible, but you've done your time and now you get to relax.
You go to the fridge and see that lovely bottle. Just holding it in your hand eases the tension. It's cool; it will bring relief.
You twist the top and hear that sound. The sound that promises to quench a thirst deeper than physical. That promises to drown the day's sorrows.
So you take a swallow. That first precious swallow that tastes better than anything humans have a right to enjoy. That swig that burns all the way down. Followed by a sigh of relief. You have just partaken of the nectar of the gods.
Diet Coke.
And life is good again. You're going to make it through the night. All is right with the world.
*ahhh*
It's finally over. You've made it home, to your refuge. Your haven. Your day has been horrible, but you've done your time and now you get to relax.
You go to the fridge and see that lovely bottle. Just holding it in your hand eases the tension. It's cool; it will bring relief.
You twist the top and hear that sound. The sound that promises to quench a thirst deeper than physical. That promises to drown the day's sorrows.
So you take a swallow. That first precious swallow that tastes better than anything humans have a right to enjoy. That swig that burns all the way down. Followed by a sigh of relief. You have just partaken of the nectar of the gods.
Diet Coke.
And life is good again. You're going to make it through the night. All is right with the world.
*ahhh*
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Where's My Duct Tape?
Often, when people ask me how I am, I reply that I am holding on -- with both hands and a roll of duct tape.
I misplaced my duct tape.
I say this because my life slipped out of my hands a bit recently. I was stuck doing triage. Hitting those life or death things, but missing the details.
I kept the electricity on. We had food in the house. My kids went to school.
But I fell down on some things, too.
I have been sleeping too little at night and too much during the day. I haven't been eating much. I stayed home almost all the time, usually not getting dressed for the day until my kids were about to get home from school. Or after they did and I had to take them somewhere.
Basically, I quit doing things for me. I spent so much time trying to put out fires that I forgot to make sure my firesuit was secure. And I got a little burnt.
Once I find myself there, it's tricky to get out. It's a steep climb without any gear. Because I left all my gear on the ledge I fell off of.
But it's still there. I know where it is this time. I have some spotters who will help keep me from plummeting to my death. I've made the climb before.
And I've finally figured out what the duct tape is. It's self-care. I've got several rolls stashed in various areas of my life.
Now if I can just remember what I'm looking for when I walk into the room that has it. Then I'll be all set.
I misplaced my duct tape.
I say this because my life slipped out of my hands a bit recently. I was stuck doing triage. Hitting those life or death things, but missing the details.
I kept the electricity on. We had food in the house. My kids went to school.
But I fell down on some things, too.
I have been sleeping too little at night and too much during the day. I haven't been eating much. I stayed home almost all the time, usually not getting dressed for the day until my kids were about to get home from school. Or after they did and I had to take them somewhere.
Basically, I quit doing things for me. I spent so much time trying to put out fires that I forgot to make sure my firesuit was secure. And I got a little burnt.
Once I find myself there, it's tricky to get out. It's a steep climb without any gear. Because I left all my gear on the ledge I fell off of.
But it's still there. I know where it is this time. I have some spotters who will help keep me from plummeting to my death. I've made the climb before.
And I've finally figured out what the duct tape is. It's self-care. I've got several rolls stashed in various areas of my life.
Now if I can just remember what I'm looking for when I walk into the room that has it. Then I'll be all set.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Women Who Think Too Much
Yes, this is the title of a real book. No, I did not write it, I do not own it, and I have not read it. I found it at the library, skimmed the table of contents, and put it back. Too stressful!
I do not believe that I am alone in being one of those women who thinks too much. I over-analyze. I look for the hidden meaning. I drive my husband crazy.
"That's not what I said!"
"But it's what you meant!"
But I over-think in other ways as well. Too often I cannot sleep because there are so many thoughts running through my mind. They can be pleasant, like if I'm excited about something or making plans. Or they can be unpleasant, like if I'm stressed or working on something difficult in my life. My mind will race from topic to topic, worried that something will slip by that is important or that I won't remember in the morning. Sometimes writing it down helps, other times nothing does and I am up playing Word Whomp on the computer for hours. Too often I am seeing 5:00am from the ugly side (as if 5:00am has a good side).
It's what my Buddhist meditation dvd calls a monkey mind. I have a monkey mind. Flitting from one thing to the next like a monkey through the branches of a tree.
I have also been accused of being a deep thinker. Maybe accused isn't the best choice of words here; people usually mean it as a compliment. But it isn't always a good thing. Sometimes I miss a lot by skipping the shallow thinking (as others put it). Sometimes I skip right by the obvious and basic and see only the complicated and heavy.
And as frustrating as thinking too much can be, as crazy as I make myself when I can't shut my brain down, it's nothing compared to those days when I can barely think at all. Those days when I can't seem to really lock onto a single thought long enough to process it through. Those days when the best I can hope for is to pay attention long enough to find the plot in a fluff movie. I hate those days!
The in-between days are sure nice. How come I can only recognize them in the rear view mirror?
I do not believe that I am alone in being one of those women who thinks too much. I over-analyze. I look for the hidden meaning. I drive my husband crazy.
"That's not what I said!"
"But it's what you meant!"
But I over-think in other ways as well. Too often I cannot sleep because there are so many thoughts running through my mind. They can be pleasant, like if I'm excited about something or making plans. Or they can be unpleasant, like if I'm stressed or working on something difficult in my life. My mind will race from topic to topic, worried that something will slip by that is important or that I won't remember in the morning. Sometimes writing it down helps, other times nothing does and I am up playing Word Whomp on the computer for hours. Too often I am seeing 5:00am from the ugly side (as if 5:00am has a good side).
It's what my Buddhist meditation dvd calls a monkey mind. I have a monkey mind. Flitting from one thing to the next like a monkey through the branches of a tree.
I have also been accused of being a deep thinker. Maybe accused isn't the best choice of words here; people usually mean it as a compliment. But it isn't always a good thing. Sometimes I miss a lot by skipping the shallow thinking (as others put it). Sometimes I skip right by the obvious and basic and see only the complicated and heavy.
And as frustrating as thinking too much can be, as crazy as I make myself when I can't shut my brain down, it's nothing compared to those days when I can barely think at all. Those days when I can't seem to really lock onto a single thought long enough to process it through. Those days when the best I can hope for is to pay attention long enough to find the plot in a fluff movie. I hate those days!
The in-between days are sure nice. How come I can only recognize them in the rear view mirror?
Monday, December 7, 2009
Real Simple for the Barely Functioning
DISCLAIMER: This is not real advice. Do not follow it.
***
I love Real Simple magazine. I like to read it and dream. I dream about a day when I will have the time, energy, and money to carry out all the wonderful ideas it gives me. A day when my husband takes the kids and all the pets and goes far, far away. For several days. And I have no other obligations.
But reality, in all its wisdom and cruelty, slaps me in the face and I wake up.
So, here I offer my version. Real Simple for the Barely Functioning -- like me.
You walk through your world in a haze, one pile of stuff blending into the next. Everything and everyone crying for your attention. What to do? Where to start? How do you find the motivation when it feels like life is living you instead of the other way around?
Here's your motivation: The stress is your enemy! Plain and simple. You must vanquish it to survive. And you must fight dirty.
Let's get started.
Mail: If it doesn't contain money or isn't from someone you love, throw it away. All of it. If it's important, they'll send you another one. People who want your money will keep trying. If you're worried about identity theft, burn it instead. That will be more satisfying anyway. You will feel immediate superiority. You won!
Email: Delete it. All of it. Just start over. There's nothing prettier than an empty inbox. Just like with snail mail, if it's important they'll send it again. Plus now you have legitimacy when someone asks if you did what they asked and you say that you never got their email asking you to do it. It's the answer you want to give most of the time anyway; why not make it the truth?
Voice Mail: Really? Do I have to even type this? You know what I'm going to say. Delete it. All of it. Scan your caller id, if you must. If there's anyone there you really want to talk to, call them back and find out what they wanted. But I'll bet you find mostly irritating people that you didn't want to think about, let alone talk to. Now you don't have to.
Dishes: This one requires a little work upfront but will help in the long run. Wash all the dishes in the house. Stay up all night if you have to. Then lock them up. In anything that requires a key. How about an old hope chest? (I hope I don't have any more dirty dishes.) And buy disposables. Paper plates. Plastic spoons. Everything and anything that will prevent you having to do dishes. Push aside that desire to be environmentally responsible for a while. We're talking about your sanity here. Sacrifices have to be made. Besides, it's temporary.
Nothing to cook with, you say? No problem. This fits in fine with my meal plan. You won't be cooking.
Breakfast/Lunch/Dinner: One trip to the store for the week, except for dinners. Tailor specifics to your needs. Breakfast is cold cereal. Lunch is a sandwich. Dinner is Little Caesar's pizza. Every day. For at least a week. Depending on your beliefs, you may need to buy double the pizza on Saturday and refrigerate it for Sunday. Every time someone asks what's for dinner, you have the answer. No thinking. And someday when you decide to cook again, they will be grateful instead of turning up their noses. Make sure you continue this meal plan long enough. If they gripe when you start cooking again, then you didn't do it long enough. Try again.
Fewer decisions. Less pressure. Less mess.
Breathe! Again, deeper this time. Breathe! Doesn't that feel great? Nothing like making the tough decisions to give you a little breathing room.
Maybe you would never really do any of these things. But be honest, it feels good just to imagine yourself doing them, doesn't it?
Watch for future articles on other stressors in your life, with a highlight on children and spouses.
*Sneak Peak -- For pains that you don't think are as serious as they do: Go to the health food store. Buy empty gelatin capsules. Fill them with powdered sugar. Put them in an old medicine bottle. Whenever anyone comes to you with a pain that just won't go away (but that you're pretty sure isn't serious) give them one. Tell them you can only give them one because they are very strong. Tell them it will take at least half an hour to work. If they come back in half an hour still in pain, give them one more. But emphasize that is really all they can have -- too powerful. If it still hurts after another half hour, it might be a real pain and you'll have to deal with it. But at least you bought yourself two thirty-minute stretches of peace and quiet.
***
I love Real Simple magazine. I like to read it and dream. I dream about a day when I will have the time, energy, and money to carry out all the wonderful ideas it gives me. A day when my husband takes the kids and all the pets and goes far, far away. For several days. And I have no other obligations.
But reality, in all its wisdom and cruelty, slaps me in the face and I wake up.
So, here I offer my version. Real Simple for the Barely Functioning -- like me.
You walk through your world in a haze, one pile of stuff blending into the next. Everything and everyone crying for your attention. What to do? Where to start? How do you find the motivation when it feels like life is living you instead of the other way around?
Here's your motivation: The stress is your enemy! Plain and simple. You must vanquish it to survive. And you must fight dirty.
Let's get started.
Mail: If it doesn't contain money or isn't from someone you love, throw it away. All of it. If it's important, they'll send you another one. People who want your money will keep trying. If you're worried about identity theft, burn it instead. That will be more satisfying anyway. You will feel immediate superiority. You won!
Email: Delete it. All of it. Just start over. There's nothing prettier than an empty inbox. Just like with snail mail, if it's important they'll send it again. Plus now you have legitimacy when someone asks if you did what they asked and you say that you never got their email asking you to do it. It's the answer you want to give most of the time anyway; why not make it the truth?
Voice Mail: Really? Do I have to even type this? You know what I'm going to say. Delete it. All of it. Scan your caller id, if you must. If there's anyone there you really want to talk to, call them back and find out what they wanted. But I'll bet you find mostly irritating people that you didn't want to think about, let alone talk to. Now you don't have to.
Dishes: This one requires a little work upfront but will help in the long run. Wash all the dishes in the house. Stay up all night if you have to. Then lock them up. In anything that requires a key. How about an old hope chest? (I hope I don't have any more dirty dishes.) And buy disposables. Paper plates. Plastic spoons. Everything and anything that will prevent you having to do dishes. Push aside that desire to be environmentally responsible for a while. We're talking about your sanity here. Sacrifices have to be made. Besides, it's temporary.
Nothing to cook with, you say? No problem. This fits in fine with my meal plan. You won't be cooking.
Breakfast/Lunch/Dinner: One trip to the store for the week, except for dinners. Tailor specifics to your needs. Breakfast is cold cereal. Lunch is a sandwich. Dinner is Little Caesar's pizza. Every day. For at least a week. Depending on your beliefs, you may need to buy double the pizza on Saturday and refrigerate it for Sunday. Every time someone asks what's for dinner, you have the answer. No thinking. And someday when you decide to cook again, they will be grateful instead of turning up their noses. Make sure you continue this meal plan long enough. If they gripe when you start cooking again, then you didn't do it long enough. Try again.
Fewer decisions. Less pressure. Less mess.
Breathe! Again, deeper this time. Breathe! Doesn't that feel great? Nothing like making the tough decisions to give you a little breathing room.
Maybe you would never really do any of these things. But be honest, it feels good just to imagine yourself doing them, doesn't it?
Watch for future articles on other stressors in your life, with a highlight on children and spouses.
*Sneak Peak -- For pains that you don't think are as serious as they do: Go to the health food store. Buy empty gelatin capsules. Fill them with powdered sugar. Put them in an old medicine bottle. Whenever anyone comes to you with a pain that just won't go away (but that you're pretty sure isn't serious) give them one. Tell them you can only give them one because they are very strong. Tell them it will take at least half an hour to work. If they come back in half an hour still in pain, give them one more. But emphasize that is really all they can have -- too powerful. If it still hurts after another half hour, it might be a real pain and you'll have to deal with it. But at least you bought yourself two thirty-minute stretches of peace and quiet.
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