I took my first serious ride in a wheel chair a few days ago. It took a bit of convincing (read, bullying) to get me to shut up and sit down, but Ikea is just too big of a place to be able to wander around under my own power. Though it wasn't until my vision started going wonky and I couldn't take more than a few steps without nearly falling over that I finally agreed to park myself on a bench until my friend returned with the chair.
Though after that, it really was an adventure. I'll admit to feeling a little bit childish, but only in the good, someone is taking complete care of me, sort of way. I suppose it was reminiscent of my days being pushed around in a stroller or a shopping cart. The latter would have been more appropriate here, as my lap soon became piled with stuff.
All in all, it was not a bad experience. I think that the next time I come here, I'll skip trying to act like Super Woman and just start in the chair. We'll need to make sure there are three of us. One person to push me, and one to push the cart ;)
I will admit that the thought of things like a cane (which I now use about half the time that I am out and about) and a wheelchair frightens me. I dislike being dependent on people and things. Perhaps this comes from growing up with parents and other family members who have always encouraged me to stand on my own two feet. Perhaps its tainted by the time that I spent being totally dependent on people whom I then had to cut ties with. Either way, it scares the hell out of me.
I have been taking prescription pain killers for about two years, now. Even that is a dependency that I am hesitant to lean on. Granted that if I stopped taking the first of three, I would be completely bed ridden, and puking my guts out from the pain, unable to form a coherent thought past the fog of searing, throbbing pain. But the other two, I only have to take if the pain levels spike to where the first is no longer quite enough. All three are non narcotic. All three have side effects preferable to the symptoms. And yet...
I have to constantly remind myself, and be reminded by those around me, that it's okay to take them when I need them. That it's stupid, and even a little childish, not to. Even a little masochistic.
So I put on my big girl pants, and I take the pills when my hands start to shake with the tell tale sign that I'm in more pain than my body can handle. I make a pot of tea and accept that I am going to drink at least half of it just to keep up the energy it takes to sweep the floors and wash the dishes. I take my cane when I leave the house if there's the slightest hint of numbness or weakness in my limbs. And I come to peace with the fact that it's possible that I may have to start planning to make this place wheelchair accessible.
Tuesday, 8 January 2013
Sunday, 6 January 2013
Declination
I have noticed that as my health declines, and more and more stress from both my health and just life in general, are heaped on me, I have been slipping out of the Happy Place that I have always been able to cling to, even in the darkest times of my life. I have become a very negative person, and even difficult to be around. This is not something that people have had to tell me, just something that I have noticed myself, and have had confirmed by others.
I need to learn to let things go. Things that never would have bothered me so much a couple of years ago have begun to drive me crazy. A good deal of this, I think, comes from being mostly house ridden, if not bed ridden, a lot of the time.
So I've been working on:
-trying to be less negative, or to at least catch myself in the act and cease and desist in a more timely fashion instead of going on and on
-making social appointments to get out of the house
-letting go of the little things
-balancing my diet with my steady decline in physical activity (I am below 160 for the first time in over 2 years!)
-balancing feeling fulfilled with feeling overwhelmed (harder than it sounds)
-using creative outlets to boost my mood (singing, writing, crafting, etc.,)
I've already made some headway over the holidays, noticing that my dark cloud is lifting, and that I am significantly easier to live with. Let's see if I can keep up the good work.
I need to learn to let things go. Things that never would have bothered me so much a couple of years ago have begun to drive me crazy. A good deal of this, I think, comes from being mostly house ridden, if not bed ridden, a lot of the time.
So I've been working on:
-trying to be less negative, or to at least catch myself in the act and cease and desist in a more timely fashion instead of going on and on
-making social appointments to get out of the house
-letting go of the little things
-balancing my diet with my steady decline in physical activity (I am below 160 for the first time in over 2 years!)
-balancing feeling fulfilled with feeling overwhelmed (harder than it sounds)
-using creative outlets to boost my mood (singing, writing, crafting, etc.,)
I've already made some headway over the holidays, noticing that my dark cloud is lifting, and that I am significantly easier to live with. Let's see if I can keep up the good work.
Monday, 31 December 2012
Growing Pains
Here's wishing you all a year filled with the things that inspire growth...
For me, this has been a year full of Challenges, full of Change, full of Pain, and full of Fear. And I am grateful for every moment, every Obstacle, and every Setback. I look forward to more of the same. Why? Because "Life is Pain, Highness", and without these things, we cannot hope to have Growth. I have Grown more than I have Hurt, I have Learned more than I have Feared, and I have Achieved more than I have Stumbled.
My love to you all. I wish you a year full of the worst that life can throw at you, that you may become a better person because of it.
For me, this has been a year full of Challenges, full of Change, full of Pain, and full of Fear. And I am grateful for every moment, every Obstacle, and every Setback. I look forward to more of the same. Why? Because "Life is Pain, Highness", and without these things, we cannot hope to have Growth. I have Grown more than I have Hurt, I have Learned more than I have Feared, and I have Achieved more than I have Stumbled.
My love to you all. I wish you a year full of the worst that life can throw at you, that you may become a better person because of it.
Friday, 7 December 2012
Writing: A Sensual Experience
The written word is the one thing that I can turn to when pain, sex and vodka have failed me. In high school, I wrote a lot of poetry. Some of it is trash, sure, but some of it is truly stirring. Sometimes when verbal communication fails me, I turn to the written word. My mother would sometimes see me struggling for the right words during a conversation and tell me to write her a letter, instead. Funny how mom's tend to know us better than we know ourselves. Today, I often open serious discussions, or communicate a frustration through an email before talking over the finer points in person or over the phone. I do this with friends and family alike.
I was interviewed for a blog about long term pain and debilitating diseases. It gave me the push I needed to finally start my own blog. I now write one under my given name on my struggle with pain and my mystery disease, and a second under my professional pseudonym that is a platform for my fledgling business as a Coach/Companion to the geek culture and other minorities.
A dear friend started a blog when he and his wife parted ways, and I immediately started editing that for him, as I understand how he thinks and can figure out what he is trying to say with a post, even when he cannot.
One of my best friends in Hamilton actually writes THREE blogs, and I edit hers for much the same reasons. She is a writer by trade, having recently branched into the world of freelance writing. One of her blogs is just fun stuff about her life and the many creatures she shares it with, one is all about literary women and their books, and the last is more I guess her own writing and thoughts. I've been blessed to edit a piece of fiction that she is working on that gives me goosebumps when it's polished.
I did editing of essays and what not in high school for extra cash. The editing that I do now, I do for the joy and the experience. There is a great sense of pleasure that comes from being able to help someone craft their thoughts and ideas into the written word. Tedious is not a word that I would associate with the experience. In fact, tedious is a word I reserve for all things Mathematical in nature :P And hell, if either of them ever gets published, that's an amazing thing to have on my resume ;)
A friend of a friend recently read my blog for the first time. She had many complimentary things to say about it, but the comment that stuck with me, and truly touched me was 'She writes like she does it for a living.' Thank you, E. That simple phrase means more to me than you can possibly imagine.
I like to tell people that I am a writer by trade. However, I have no formal education in English outside of my regular studies in school. My parents did encourage me to read and write at every given opportunity. In fact, I was reading long before I started school. I was that crazy kid in the third grade who was perusing the Novels section in the school library looking for Jack London's, White Fang, while everyone else was looking for picture books.
I was a hyperactive child, and rather than medicate me, my Dad made up reading, writing and arithmetic assignments for me to do. We had a leather bound collection of Funk & Wagnals encyclopedias that I became very familiar with, and one of those massive dictionaries with the little thumbnail indents for each letter. It was old and fragile, but I loved to reverently turn through it's pages in search of the definition of a whatever new words I had stumbled across in my studies, or that Dad had listed as part of my Definitions Hunt.
Two of the books that I remember reading for assignments were Kon Tiki, and a biography of Abe Lincoln. I remember struggling with Kon Tiki because it was written in the form of a journal, and was therefore often boring. The story of Abe Lincoln, however, was fascinating. Both, however, are beloved pieces of my childhood. In fact, my parents gifted me with a copy of Kon Tiki when I moved away from home. I think it was mom that read me The Call of the Wild, by Jack London, over the summer between grades 2 and 3. I loved it! It was her that sent me to check the school library for White Fang, by the same author, to read on my own.
I am a lot like Picard and Kirk in that I like the feel of a book in my hand. My Android has an E-Reader on it, but I'm really not interested in that. I want to feel the heft of the book, smell the scent of the pages. I actually pouted when I realized that I was going to have to start purchasing paperbacks instead of hardbound, because of my health. The strength and dexterity in my hands is so unpredictable that trying to hold a hardbound book, even in two hands, is often quite difficult. For my birthday last year, one of my best friends got me a gift card for a book store, knowing that I wanted to add to my collection. I bought the second book in one of my favourite series, and in paperback. The first one is hardbound. Makes for an odd pattern on the bookshelf, I'll tell you.
Alright, I'll stop pouting now.
I've actually taken to listening to audio books as I walk or on the bus, or before bed, or while I'm doing housework. Drives my housemates nuts because they'll come into a room jabbering at me and I don't even know that they're there. If you get the right reader, it makes it worth not having the book in your hands. I'm just finishing up the third book in Nora Robert's 'In the Garden' series. The reader is pretty fabulous. I'm hoping that my next audio book adventure is my favourite book of all time- The Redemption of Althalus by David and Leigh Eddings. I hope that it's read at least half as good as it sounded in my head.
Before life got quite as hectic as it is, I also used to write long, handwritten letters to my friends and family. It's been probably close to six years since I've done that on a regular basis. Though I do from time to time, write to a friend or family member, hoping that it brings as much joy to them to receive the letter as I felt while writing it.
There is something about the written word...
It does not frustrate me that I rarely finish a story. It does not bother me that the only thing that I've ever published and sold was Self Published and only took me half an hour to write. What does bother me is that I don't write every day. That I no longer eat, live and breathe the written word. When I move, I always have one box just full of half filled notebooks, stationary. pencils, and pens. I used to have to restock every couple of months. Right now I'm staring at a jar full of pens that rarely see use anymore, and a stack of paper and notebooks that I've had for going on two years.
It's not writer's block. It's just a fast. And it's getting frustrating. I'm getting frustrated. Hell! It feels an awful lot like sexual frustration! But I guess that ties into my opening statement, and my title. Writing has always been a sensual experience for me, and I have been craving that sensation in the same way I crave sensations of the flesh. It's time to get serious about the Written Word, again. Let's see what sort of havoc I can wreak on that stack of notebooks.
*rubs hands together in anticipation*
I was interviewed for a blog about long term pain and debilitating diseases. It gave me the push I needed to finally start my own blog. I now write one under my given name on my struggle with pain and my mystery disease, and a second under my professional pseudonym that is a platform for my fledgling business as a Coach/Companion to the geek culture and other minorities.
A dear friend started a blog when he and his wife parted ways, and I immediately started editing that for him, as I understand how he thinks and can figure out what he is trying to say with a post, even when he cannot.
One of my best friends in Hamilton actually writes THREE blogs, and I edit hers for much the same reasons. She is a writer by trade, having recently branched into the world of freelance writing. One of her blogs is just fun stuff about her life and the many creatures she shares it with, one is all about literary women and their books, and the last is more I guess her own writing and thoughts. I've been blessed to edit a piece of fiction that she is working on that gives me goosebumps when it's polished.
I did editing of essays and what not in high school for extra cash. The editing that I do now, I do for the joy and the experience. There is a great sense of pleasure that comes from being able to help someone craft their thoughts and ideas into the written word. Tedious is not a word that I would associate with the experience. In fact, tedious is a word I reserve for all things Mathematical in nature :P And hell, if either of them ever gets published, that's an amazing thing to have on my resume ;)
A friend of a friend recently read my blog for the first time. She had many complimentary things to say about it, but the comment that stuck with me, and truly touched me was 'She writes like she does it for a living.' Thank you, E. That simple phrase means more to me than you can possibly imagine.
I like to tell people that I am a writer by trade. However, I have no formal education in English outside of my regular studies in school. My parents did encourage me to read and write at every given opportunity. In fact, I was reading long before I started school. I was that crazy kid in the third grade who was perusing the Novels section in the school library looking for Jack London's, White Fang, while everyone else was looking for picture books.
I was a hyperactive child, and rather than medicate me, my Dad made up reading, writing and arithmetic assignments for me to do. We had a leather bound collection of Funk & Wagnals encyclopedias that I became very familiar with, and one of those massive dictionaries with the little thumbnail indents for each letter. It was old and fragile, but I loved to reverently turn through it's pages in search of the definition of a whatever new words I had stumbled across in my studies, or that Dad had listed as part of my Definitions Hunt.
Two of the books that I remember reading for assignments were Kon Tiki, and a biography of Abe Lincoln. I remember struggling with Kon Tiki because it was written in the form of a journal, and was therefore often boring. The story of Abe Lincoln, however, was fascinating. Both, however, are beloved pieces of my childhood. In fact, my parents gifted me with a copy of Kon Tiki when I moved away from home. I think it was mom that read me The Call of the Wild, by Jack London, over the summer between grades 2 and 3. I loved it! It was her that sent me to check the school library for White Fang, by the same author, to read on my own.
I am a lot like Picard and Kirk in that I like the feel of a book in my hand. My Android has an E-Reader on it, but I'm really not interested in that. I want to feel the heft of the book, smell the scent of the pages. I actually pouted when I realized that I was going to have to start purchasing paperbacks instead of hardbound, because of my health. The strength and dexterity in my hands is so unpredictable that trying to hold a hardbound book, even in two hands, is often quite difficult. For my birthday last year, one of my best friends got me a gift card for a book store, knowing that I wanted to add to my collection. I bought the second book in one of my favourite series, and in paperback. The first one is hardbound. Makes for an odd pattern on the bookshelf, I'll tell you.
Alright, I'll stop pouting now.
I've actually taken to listening to audio books as I walk or on the bus, or before bed, or while I'm doing housework. Drives my housemates nuts because they'll come into a room jabbering at me and I don't even know that they're there. If you get the right reader, it makes it worth not having the book in your hands. I'm just finishing up the third book in Nora Robert's 'In the Garden' series. The reader is pretty fabulous. I'm hoping that my next audio book adventure is my favourite book of all time- The Redemption of Althalus by David and Leigh Eddings. I hope that it's read at least half as good as it sounded in my head.
Before life got quite as hectic as it is, I also used to write long, handwritten letters to my friends and family. It's been probably close to six years since I've done that on a regular basis. Though I do from time to time, write to a friend or family member, hoping that it brings as much joy to them to receive the letter as I felt while writing it.
There is something about the written word...
It does not frustrate me that I rarely finish a story. It does not bother me that the only thing that I've ever published and sold was Self Published and only took me half an hour to write. What does bother me is that I don't write every day. That I no longer eat, live and breathe the written word. When I move, I always have one box just full of half filled notebooks, stationary. pencils, and pens. I used to have to restock every couple of months. Right now I'm staring at a jar full of pens that rarely see use anymore, and a stack of paper and notebooks that I've had for going on two years.
It's not writer's block. It's just a fast. And it's getting frustrating. I'm getting frustrated. Hell! It feels an awful lot like sexual frustration! But I guess that ties into my opening statement, and my title. Writing has always been a sensual experience for me, and I have been craving that sensation in the same way I crave sensations of the flesh. It's time to get serious about the Written Word, again. Let's see what sort of havoc I can wreak on that stack of notebooks.
*rubs hands together in anticipation*
Tuesday, 4 December 2012
Winnowing the Chaff
This was something that I wrote and published to the Writings section of Facebook, years ago. I stumbled across it today, and decided that this was a good forum to post it anew. Shall we step into the time machine?
October 24, 2009
"Put aside relationships that are unfulfilling".
This was a one-liner from my 'Faith and Religion' discussion group from way back when, but it continues to strike a chord with me. I'm sure we all have the kind of relationships that we feel are more draining than fulfilling. But what do we do about it?
Well, I suppose it depends on the type of relationship; How much time, energy and how much of yourself you've poured into it, and the degree of drainage; How much damage you feel is being done to you mentally, emotionally, physically or even financially- though I tend to think that last one is more a final straw, and of less import. For instance:
I cut ties with an Ex that I had been with for 7 years, living together for 4 years, and still friends for a year after that. It took me the last two years of the relationship to figure out that to be happy, I had to walk away. Away from 4 years of routine, 7 years of dedicating myself to him. Away from most of my friends, away from home, hearth, and family. I left him and the North behind and started anew here in Hamilton. It took me another year to figure out that even being friends with him was still draining me mentally and emotionally. It took my mom giving me a lecture that I have given friends in the past, to finally cut all ties.
It's a good feeling not to panic every time the phone rings...
I recently cut ties with two friends who, after numerous times of throwing my friendship in my face, apologising, and then doing it again a few weeks/days down the road, I finally decided that it wasn't worth crying guilty tears. After all, it's not my fault that they can't accept the help given them, the help they've asked for.
I feel lighter for the loss, and yet, part of me still feels guilty, like I didn't do enough...
At a point in my mom's lecture, she tried to tell me to stop feeling guilty. That I am obviously a good person, but that I have to stop blaming myself for these failed relationships. I had developed the mentality that I was failing as a friend, not giving enough of myself to the relationships, even though, in truth, I tend to pour too MUCH of myself into my relationships. Mom said that while this is proof that I am such a good person, it is what makes me to vulnerable to heartache.
Is it just me, or do we 'good people' often end up the victims of relationship leaches? How many people are draining you? And why are you still letting them? For me, it is because I feel I owe them something. But when I stop to think about what, or why.... Why should I feel I owe my continued support and friendship to someone who is causing me nothing but misery and continue to throw said friend ship in my face?
It's my nature, I suppose. I want to help everyone.
I often quote Scripture or Poetry when I rant like this. So here's a couple of bits of poetry for our food for thought for today:
"The hardest things to hear, are those you always say,
When looking for advice, your own is hardest to take."
and-
"Worse that taking without giving,
Is giving without taking.
As the takers grow stronger,
The givers give themselves away."
And the ironic thing? I'm the Poet.
Well, I suppose it depends on the type of relationship; How much time, energy and how much of yourself you've poured into it, and the degree of drainage; How much damage you feel is being done to you mentally, emotionally, physically or even financially- though I tend to think that last one is more a final straw, and of less import. For instance:
I cut ties with an Ex that I had been with for 7 years, living together for 4 years, and still friends for a year after that. It took me the last two years of the relationship to figure out that to be happy, I had to walk away. Away from 4 years of routine, 7 years of dedicating myself to him. Away from most of my friends, away from home, hearth, and family. I left him and the North behind and started anew here in Hamilton. It took me another year to figure out that even being friends with him was still draining me mentally and emotionally. It took my mom giving me a lecture that I have given friends in the past, to finally cut all ties.
It's a good feeling not to panic every time the phone rings...
I recently cut ties with two friends who, after numerous times of throwing my friendship in my face, apologising, and then doing it again a few weeks/days down the road, I finally decided that it wasn't worth crying guilty tears. After all, it's not my fault that they can't accept the help given them, the help they've asked for.
I feel lighter for the loss, and yet, part of me still feels guilty, like I didn't do enough...
At a point in my mom's lecture, she tried to tell me to stop feeling guilty. That I am obviously a good person, but that I have to stop blaming myself for these failed relationships. I had developed the mentality that I was failing as a friend, not giving enough of myself to the relationships, even though, in truth, I tend to pour too MUCH of myself into my relationships. Mom said that while this is proof that I am such a good person, it is what makes me to vulnerable to heartache.
Is it just me, or do we 'good people' often end up the victims of relationship leaches? How many people are draining you? And why are you still letting them? For me, it is because I feel I owe them something. But when I stop to think about what, or why.... Why should I feel I owe my continued support and friendship to someone who is causing me nothing but misery and continue to throw said friend ship in my face?
It's my nature, I suppose. I want to help everyone.
I often quote Scripture or Poetry when I rant like this. So here's a couple of bits of poetry for our food for thought for today:
"The hardest things to hear, are those you always say,
When looking for advice, your own is hardest to take."
and-
"Worse that taking without giving,
Is giving without taking.
As the takers grow stronger,
The givers give themselves away."
And the ironic thing? I'm the Poet.
Friday, 30 November 2012
Life: Quantity vs. Quality
What the hell is the point in a long life if you live it in misery? And no, I'm not talking about suicide, or people who are just plain melancholy.
They've switched my birth control because I was showing possible warning signs of blood clots, and have a family history of circulatory problems. I have spent the last two weeks bubbling with hormones, and popping tums because my stomach is a sewer. Last night, I protested out loud "I'll do the two months of guinea pigging, but if this keeps up, I'm switching back. I'd rather die from a blood clot than live like this, and I'm not being dramatic!"
I mean it. I am not about to subject myself to nausea, indigestion, and over all moodiness just because my other stuff MIGHT cause a blood clot. I didn't start taking painkillers because I couldn't handle the pain. What I couldn't handle was the nausea, indigestion, and overall moodiness!
I have been an absolute nightmare to live with. I've taken to throwing things, slamming doors, and swearing out loud when I have a temper flare. Then, when the temper dies down, I apologise to the people around me and then go sulk in my room, overwhelmed by the guilt of what I've just done. I've spent two weeks calling myself stupid, idiotic, childish, and even a coward.
I should be able to handle this! But with everything that I'm already dealing with...Add to that the stress of trying to keep up on my cellphone bill, meds, and rent on the pittance that OW provides...Trying to make plans to go and visit my family for two weeks at Christmas...The house being topsy turvy because one of the roommates is moving out...
I've been thoroughly disappointed and disgusted with myself at every turn. Temper tantrums quickly followed by bouts of depression. I actually caught myself seriously contemplating suicide for the first time in my existence. Sure, I've asked myself 'Do you think it's bad enough that you'd end it?' and generally I scoff and laugh at the preposterous idea. But yesterday, while crying my heart out in the shower, I caught myself staring that the razor and applying logic to the idea, listing reasons why it was in fact the right thing to do. I proceeded to cuss a blue streak, call myself a dirty rotten coward, and then finish washing and get out of the shower.
It took me 24 hrs to talk to someone about it. I actually considered calling the Suicide Help Line because I am the type of person who hates to be a burden on the people around me. I figured if I called someone who's job it was to listen to this sort of thing...But I ended up talking to a friend, instead. I had to laugh when I was informed that this was a thing that was actually expected, considering all that I'm going through. I suppose that makes a certain kind of sense. We can't be strong forever.
I want to be clear that I was not, and am not threatening to kill myself. The fact that I was reasoning it out in my head scared the shit out of me. I didn't keep it to myself for those 24 hrs because I didn't want anyone to stop me. I didn't tell anyone because I couldn't bear the thought of adding that sort of burden to someone else's shoulders. I felt, and still feel, a certain amount of guilt for having the thought to begin with. I am not a quitter. Nor am I a coward. I have strong feelings on the topic of suicide, as do some of my friends. I felt embarrassed to have even thought it, never mind to have admitted it out loud, and now, in a public forum.
That bullshit aside, I need to smarten the hell up. I need to stop being so negative. I need to stop lashing out. I need to be a better friend and roommate. I need to go back to being a better person. I have to stop doing the things that trigger that guilt within me, so that I can pull myself up by the bootstraps and out of this mire of depression.
I know that I'm depressed. Have known for quite some time, and had been doing certain things to keep myself stable. Raging hormones have upped the difficulty level by several degrees. But I can do this. I can survive this and anything else my body, my meds, and my doctors throw at me. They say that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Well despite all of this kerfuffle, I've lost 8 lbs this month and am below 160 lbs for the first time in over 5 years!
I can do this.
I will survive.
I will live a full and happy life.
They've switched my birth control because I was showing possible warning signs of blood clots, and have a family history of circulatory problems. I have spent the last two weeks bubbling with hormones, and popping tums because my stomach is a sewer. Last night, I protested out loud "I'll do the two months of guinea pigging, but if this keeps up, I'm switching back. I'd rather die from a blood clot than live like this, and I'm not being dramatic!"
I mean it. I am not about to subject myself to nausea, indigestion, and over all moodiness just because my other stuff MIGHT cause a blood clot. I didn't start taking painkillers because I couldn't handle the pain. What I couldn't handle was the nausea, indigestion, and overall moodiness!
I have been an absolute nightmare to live with. I've taken to throwing things, slamming doors, and swearing out loud when I have a temper flare. Then, when the temper dies down, I apologise to the people around me and then go sulk in my room, overwhelmed by the guilt of what I've just done. I've spent two weeks calling myself stupid, idiotic, childish, and even a coward.
I should be able to handle this! But with everything that I'm already dealing with...Add to that the stress of trying to keep up on my cellphone bill, meds, and rent on the pittance that OW provides...Trying to make plans to go and visit my family for two weeks at Christmas...The house being topsy turvy because one of the roommates is moving out...
I've been thoroughly disappointed and disgusted with myself at every turn. Temper tantrums quickly followed by bouts of depression. I actually caught myself seriously contemplating suicide for the first time in my existence. Sure, I've asked myself 'Do you think it's bad enough that you'd end it?' and generally I scoff and laugh at the preposterous idea. But yesterday, while crying my heart out in the shower, I caught myself staring that the razor and applying logic to the idea, listing reasons why it was in fact the right thing to do. I proceeded to cuss a blue streak, call myself a dirty rotten coward, and then finish washing and get out of the shower.
It took me 24 hrs to talk to someone about it. I actually considered calling the Suicide Help Line because I am the type of person who hates to be a burden on the people around me. I figured if I called someone who's job it was to listen to this sort of thing...But I ended up talking to a friend, instead. I had to laugh when I was informed that this was a thing that was actually expected, considering all that I'm going through. I suppose that makes a certain kind of sense. We can't be strong forever.
I want to be clear that I was not, and am not threatening to kill myself. The fact that I was reasoning it out in my head scared the shit out of me. I didn't keep it to myself for those 24 hrs because I didn't want anyone to stop me. I didn't tell anyone because I couldn't bear the thought of adding that sort of burden to someone else's shoulders. I felt, and still feel, a certain amount of guilt for having the thought to begin with. I am not a quitter. Nor am I a coward. I have strong feelings on the topic of suicide, as do some of my friends. I felt embarrassed to have even thought it, never mind to have admitted it out loud, and now, in a public forum.
That bullshit aside, I need to smarten the hell up. I need to stop being so negative. I need to stop lashing out. I need to be a better friend and roommate. I need to go back to being a better person. I have to stop doing the things that trigger that guilt within me, so that I can pull myself up by the bootstraps and out of this mire of depression.
I know that I'm depressed. Have known for quite some time, and had been doing certain things to keep myself stable. Raging hormones have upped the difficulty level by several degrees. But I can do this. I can survive this and anything else my body, my meds, and my doctors throw at me. They say that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Well despite all of this kerfuffle, I've lost 8 lbs this month and am below 160 lbs for the first time in over 5 years!
I can do this.
I will survive.
I will live a full and happy life.
Monday, 19 November 2012
Mental Health: II
During the last two years of my first relationship, it was a known fact that I was miserable. However, I was also comfortable. I knew what every day would bring. I am not a person who thrives on change. In that time, there were several conversations about where I would go, what I would do. The where, was always to the Hamilton Boy. We'll call him D, for simplicity's sake.
D was my second long term, common law relationship. I had known him through the entire seven years of my previous relationship, having met him through a friend. She in turn, had met him at a Christian Youth Retreat. We became fast friends via the Internet, sending instant messages, emails, the occasional web cam chat, and even letters. I connected with him on a level that I had never connected with anyone, other than family.
We had many things in common. He had younger siblings, he had grown up largely in Small Town, Southern Ontario, he loved to read, and he was a Gamer. D was also an artist, and a computer tech and programmer.
In the two and a half years that we were together, we were equal parts blissfully happy and devastatingly miserable. As has become my pattern, I tried to stick with it, even when it had devolved to misery.
Many of you will be thinking that it was the 'Honeymoon Phase'. If only it were that simple. Unfortunately, the man I had fallen in love with was Bi-Polar, and borderline schizophrenic. And yes, I knew this from the start. Go ahead, yell at the monitor and shake your head at me. I'm sort of used to it by now.
About a year after we got together, we decided he needed to quit his job. His boss had a health problem that was causing him to be harsh, demanding and unreasonable with his staff and D was coming home everyday more and more pissed off. It was beginning to wear on our relationship. I had just started working full time at the Café, and was fully capable of supporting the pair of us on my minimum-wage-plus-tips income. After all, I had spent 4 years running a household on just that which also included insurance and gas for the vehicle. D and I had no such expenses to worry about. If anything, I was in fact ahead of the game in this scenario.
He quit his job, and things were better. He was excited to be focusing on his art and his computer tech and programming, even registering his own business. He even had a couple of road trips to nearby towns for a few days at a time to do technical work. But things weren't going as quickly as he'd have liked. I was still the breadwinner. His male ego just couldn't handle it. Thus he began a majour bout of depression.
My first relationship was strife with very loud, long and drawn out arguments, not because I was the sort not to let things go (in fact, back then I was largely anti confrontational), but because my partner (let's call him A) was the sort that argued as a way to relieve stress. He would literally change his position on whatever we were discussing until our conversation eventually devolved into an argument. He would then push my buttons until I raised my voice. The arguments often wouldn't end until I was crying myself sick in a corner. It was at this point that he would come to his senses and apologise. No matter how many times it happened, I couldn't see to stop before then, and he wouldn't stop until then. Looking back, I honestly think that he was sadistic, and while he may feel some remorse for what it was doing to me, his guilt did not outweigh his need for that rush of power that he got from turning an otherwise strong girl into a simpering puddle of jelly.
Because of what I had gone through with A, I took my anticonfrontationalism to new heights. In his depressed state, D was the sort of person who, when I tried to have a calm, rational discussion about something that I thought was a point of contention between us, he would automatically get defensive and make himself out to be the victim of an attack. The minute he raised his hackles, and his voice, I would drop it. And so all of the little things that come up between a couple could not be dealt with, were simply swept under the emotional carpet. As a result, he grew more and more distant as his own mental health declined, and I just kept going though the motions.
I remember the moment that I realised that it was over. He was walking around in the living room in nothing but a pair of Atari PJ pants. There was something about the way they clung to his frame that always lit a fire within me. I had always had a bit of an over active libido, so as I sat there watching him, and feeling nothing, no stir, no spark, no heat, I knew. I looked up at him, eyes deadpan, and told him so.
He looked crestfallen. It was the first time I had seen any emotion other than irritation on his face in well over a month. He even teared up. He sat down on the couch and we held each other as we talked about it. We should have ended it right there. We should have laid our frayed relationship to rest. But we loved each other so much. We wanted to try to make it work.
He professed that he wanted to fix things. To make it up to me. But he was setting me up. He just wanted to find a way to make it my fault, or at least that's how it seems now. Whether this was his intention or not, is largely besides the point now. The damage was done. For five months, he dragged me through the gutters, blaming me for everything as he became more and more delusional. We would kiss and make up, and he would forget, and go right back to being vexed with me.
One day at the end of April, he got pissy about something, again forgetting that we had made up, and when I tried to actually address the issue, he turned around and drove his fist through the wall behind me.
Now I may be the kind of idiot who will allow long term mental and emotional abuse to the point of brainwashing, but I will not stand for physical abuse. I went from the jelly spined creature that I had become over the years of abuse from A and then D, to the iron willed, empowered woman that my mother had always hoped I would be. He was told in no uncertain terms that this would be the last time I put up with his circular bullshit. The next time that he 'forgot', I was packing his shit and he was going to his mother's.
A couple of weeks later, while he was at his mother's over mother's day weekend to help plant some flowers in the garden, it happened again. He must have known I would end it, then. He avoided my phone calls, my texts and my emails. I wanted to speak to him over the phone to be sure that it sunk in that we were over. Instead, I received a scathing email from him, telling me what a horrible human being I was, and all of the reasons that he was ending it. Most of which were complete fabrications of his delusional state.
Needless to say, I shot off a response thanking him for painting me as the monster and told him he really needed to get his head on straight. Agreed that it was over, and told him I would have his things packed in time for a friend to drop them off to him.
Ending that relationship was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Leaving A was just a matter of realising that I was no longer in love with him and that I could only grow as a person by leaving him and leaving my comfort zone. But I was still very much in love with D. For the first time in my life, I suffered a truly broken heart.
D was my second long term, common law relationship. I had known him through the entire seven years of my previous relationship, having met him through a friend. She in turn, had met him at a Christian Youth Retreat. We became fast friends via the Internet, sending instant messages, emails, the occasional web cam chat, and even letters. I connected with him on a level that I had never connected with anyone, other than family.
We had many things in common. He had younger siblings, he had grown up largely in Small Town, Southern Ontario, he loved to read, and he was a Gamer. D was also an artist, and a computer tech and programmer.
In the two and a half years that we were together, we were equal parts blissfully happy and devastatingly miserable. As has become my pattern, I tried to stick with it, even when it had devolved to misery.
Many of you will be thinking that it was the 'Honeymoon Phase'. If only it were that simple. Unfortunately, the man I had fallen in love with was Bi-Polar, and borderline schizophrenic. And yes, I knew this from the start. Go ahead, yell at the monitor and shake your head at me. I'm sort of used to it by now.
About a year after we got together, we decided he needed to quit his job. His boss had a health problem that was causing him to be harsh, demanding and unreasonable with his staff and D was coming home everyday more and more pissed off. It was beginning to wear on our relationship. I had just started working full time at the Café, and was fully capable of supporting the pair of us on my minimum-wage-plus-tips income. After all, I had spent 4 years running a household on just that which also included insurance and gas for the vehicle. D and I had no such expenses to worry about. If anything, I was in fact ahead of the game in this scenario.
He quit his job, and things were better. He was excited to be focusing on his art and his computer tech and programming, even registering his own business. He even had a couple of road trips to nearby towns for a few days at a time to do technical work. But things weren't going as quickly as he'd have liked. I was still the breadwinner. His male ego just couldn't handle it. Thus he began a majour bout of depression.
My first relationship was strife with very loud, long and drawn out arguments, not because I was the sort not to let things go (in fact, back then I was largely anti confrontational), but because my partner (let's call him A) was the sort that argued as a way to relieve stress. He would literally change his position on whatever we were discussing until our conversation eventually devolved into an argument. He would then push my buttons until I raised my voice. The arguments often wouldn't end until I was crying myself sick in a corner. It was at this point that he would come to his senses and apologise. No matter how many times it happened, I couldn't see to stop before then, and he wouldn't stop until then. Looking back, I honestly think that he was sadistic, and while he may feel some remorse for what it was doing to me, his guilt did not outweigh his need for that rush of power that he got from turning an otherwise strong girl into a simpering puddle of jelly.
Because of what I had gone through with A, I took my anticonfrontationalism to new heights. In his depressed state, D was the sort of person who, when I tried to have a calm, rational discussion about something that I thought was a point of contention between us, he would automatically get defensive and make himself out to be the victim of an attack. The minute he raised his hackles, and his voice, I would drop it. And so all of the little things that come up between a couple could not be dealt with, were simply swept under the emotional carpet. As a result, he grew more and more distant as his own mental health declined, and I just kept going though the motions.
I remember the moment that I realised that it was over. He was walking around in the living room in nothing but a pair of Atari PJ pants. There was something about the way they clung to his frame that always lit a fire within me. I had always had a bit of an over active libido, so as I sat there watching him, and feeling nothing, no stir, no spark, no heat, I knew. I looked up at him, eyes deadpan, and told him so.
He looked crestfallen. It was the first time I had seen any emotion other than irritation on his face in well over a month. He even teared up. He sat down on the couch and we held each other as we talked about it. We should have ended it right there. We should have laid our frayed relationship to rest. But we loved each other so much. We wanted to try to make it work.
He professed that he wanted to fix things. To make it up to me. But he was setting me up. He just wanted to find a way to make it my fault, or at least that's how it seems now. Whether this was his intention or not, is largely besides the point now. The damage was done. For five months, he dragged me through the gutters, blaming me for everything as he became more and more delusional. We would kiss and make up, and he would forget, and go right back to being vexed with me.
One day at the end of April, he got pissy about something, again forgetting that we had made up, and when I tried to actually address the issue, he turned around and drove his fist through the wall behind me.
Now I may be the kind of idiot who will allow long term mental and emotional abuse to the point of brainwashing, but I will not stand for physical abuse. I went from the jelly spined creature that I had become over the years of abuse from A and then D, to the iron willed, empowered woman that my mother had always hoped I would be. He was told in no uncertain terms that this would be the last time I put up with his circular bullshit. The next time that he 'forgot', I was packing his shit and he was going to his mother's.
A couple of weeks later, while he was at his mother's over mother's day weekend to help plant some flowers in the garden, it happened again. He must have known I would end it, then. He avoided my phone calls, my texts and my emails. I wanted to speak to him over the phone to be sure that it sunk in that we were over. Instead, I received a scathing email from him, telling me what a horrible human being I was, and all of the reasons that he was ending it. Most of which were complete fabrications of his delusional state.
Needless to say, I shot off a response thanking him for painting me as the monster and told him he really needed to get his head on straight. Agreed that it was over, and told him I would have his things packed in time for a friend to drop them off to him.
Ending that relationship was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Leaving A was just a matter of realising that I was no longer in love with him and that I could only grow as a person by leaving him and leaving my comfort zone. But I was still very much in love with D. For the first time in my life, I suffered a truly broken heart.
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