There's Nothing There

So, it's been a little while since I've posted anything. I'll think about siting down to write something and then I'll tell myself that there's nothing there. Nothing on my mind. Nothing to share. Just nothing there. Then I'll get an "itch", something that bubbles up to the surface in my mind. But lately I've been uncomfortable with what pops up and so I tell myself that there's nothing there. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!! I pull my super soft, Dennis Basso throw up around my shoulders and sit with my kitties while blaring music on my Amazon Echo until the feelings pass. I want to shove my feelings back down to my toes and I so desperately want for there to be nothing there. I need for there to be nothing there.

Recent events in politics and in the news have triggered memories of past trauma for me. I have been plagued by unrelenting nightmares that shake me to my core. I wake up feeling like I'm suffocating and my heart is pounding. I'm soaked with sweat to the point of needing to get up and put on dry pajamas. I've been sleeping with the lights on, hoping that will prevent me from going into the deeper stages of sleep where the nightmares reside. It's not working. I jolt awake and fight to regain my breath while telling myself there's nothing there. It was only a dream. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!!

I fight a battle with myself every time it's time to eat a meal. I'm torn between following a ketogenic diet recommended by my doctors or following a plant based, vegan diet that fits with my values. I want to do what's "right", but I go back and forth trying to decide what's most important to me. Today for lunch I had a chef salad. Good for the ketogenic diet, not so good for the vegan diet. I spent an hour agonizing over my decision to eat that and in the end, it made me vomit. Guilt got the best of me, again. I felt myself saying "there's nothing there" as the anxiety gripped my mind. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!!

My apartment is an absolute disaster. I'm not going to say how long it's been since I've run the vacuum. That should tell you something anyway. I have this path that goes from my bedroom to my chair and from my chair to my computer and from my computer to my kitchen. My cats are constantly knocking things over but I can't blame them. After all, my stuff is in their way. I currently have library books scattered all over the floor. Thirty-seven of them. I want to pick them up. I need to pick them up. I sit in my chair and stare at them and know that they do not belong on the floor. But there they lay. You see, I cannot decide where to put them or "how" to put them. My books on my bookshelves are all alphabetized by author. I do have one empty shelf available. Do I alphabetize the library books? Or do I shelve them according to their due dates? Neither way feels "right". If I put them on that empty shelf it throws off my whole shelving system. And I don't want to do it "wrong". So, I close my eyes and tell myself there's  nothing there. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!! And I continue to step over the books.

The problem is, however, that there IS something there. Whether I'm talking about nightmares, memories, ethical dilemmas, or my messy apartment, there IS something there. I've been doing my damnedest to live in denial. But that's not working for me. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to keep trying to convince myself that there's nothing there when there is obviously something there. I am afraid that I won't be able to deal with what is there. If I keep pulling the wool over my eyes, I'll never see what is in front of me and then I'll fall flat on my face.  Surely that will hurt more than facing the truth. Right? Maybe it's time to say "yes, there is something there" and start to heal the hurt.

Please Don't Call Me Crazy

Yesterday afternoon I was privileged to speak to a group of individuals on what it is like to live with mental illness. I do this as a volunteer through NAMI, or the National Alliance on Mental Illness. The goal of these presentations is to educate the community on what it is like to deal with mental health issues and to decrease the stigma associated with having  a mental illness. One definition of stigma is "a mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance or quality". Synonyms include shame, dishonor, or humiliation. Although there is more awareness concerning mental illnesses than there was twenty years ago, the stigma is still present. Here is an example:

After my presentation, I was scrolling through my messages on my phone and there was a message referring to a friend as "crazy". So, I looked up the definition of crazy. It means "not mentally sound; marked by thought or action that lacks reason; insane". Wow! That seems pretty harsh! This person is often identified in this manner. In fact, it appears to be socially acceptable to describe her that way. I saw that and my immediate reaction was "Ouch!" I hurt for her. I hurt for me. I hurt for those describing her that way. I sat back and thought about how very much alike this woman and I are. We both have similar mental illness diagnoses. We both struggle with addiction to alcohol and drugs. We both receive mental health services, including psychiatrists, therapists, and case managers, through the same providers' offices. We both have assistance with meeting our day to day  responsibilities and managing our finances. Granted, she does have significant difficulty with social skills and interpersonal relationships, more so than I do. But everyone has their own struggles. Labeling her as "crazy" just perpetuates the stereotypes and the stigma. I began to wonder if others are labeling me as "Crazy Kris".

For years, I was ashamed to admit that I have mental illness. I am no longer comfortable remaining hidden. I have Bipolar Disorder, OCD, and substance use disorders. If I don't acknowledge those, I cannot hope to get better and live well in recovery. Having a mental illness is not a reason to feel shame. It is not a reason to be labeled. It does hurt to be referred to as crazy. I don't think that my friends intended to hurt the person they were referring to as crazy. I am guessing that they were operating under the assumption that she wouldn't find out. But I've had several conversations with this friend and she IS acutely aware that people refer to her as crazy and that she often feels left out and unwelcome. I am not going to be a part of perpetuating stigma and stereotypes. I would ask that people think twice before calling someone crazy. It is no laughing matter.

Living with Intention

I have not been living well. I was going to add the word "lately" to that sentence, but the truth is that I have not been living well for quite some time now. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I've been dying well. My days have been filled with very little joy and no sense of purpose or direction to speak of. I've been sleeping 16-18 hours a day. I've been eating poorly and focusing on whatever I can do to make myself thin again, believing that if only I could get down to 135 pounds, I'd be happy. I've been avoiding doing things with my friends. My relationships are strained as I try my damnedest to be the "perfect" daughter. I'm barely giving my kitties any attention. I'm not engaging in any activities I enjoy. I'm worried about having enough money to be able to do some of the things I'd like to do. I'm crippled by fear and anxiety and depression. I struggle to accept my sexuality. I am plagued by chronic pain and worry about my physical health. I've been thinking about dying because living hurts right now.

I hadn't really given that much thought as to why living hurts so much right now until I was asked to consider what "living with intention" meant. So, I started by looking at what intention means. I found that the definition includes having an aim or plan. Synonyms included purpose, design, objective, goal, and what one has in mind to do or bring about. I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. I tried to picture in my mind what things I would want to do as a part of living with intention. I decided that these things had to bring me some sense of joy or peace or contentment. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to come up with anything. But, after a few minutes, ideas started popping into my mind. I came up with a list of ten things:

1. time spent in meditation and reflection
2. listening to music
3. learning something new each day
4. reading
5. keeping a gratitude journal
6. connecting with other people
7. making a difference in the world, helping others
8. writing: poetry, blogs, journals, book
9. spending time playing with my kitties
10. working on creative projects: collages, crocheting, coloring.

Doing these things regularly could be a part of a pathway to wellness, which would move me in the direction of living with a sense of purpose. To me, living with intention means doing what I love, living with no judgments or regrets, living with enthusiasm and joy. It means laughter and loving others. It means truly listening and being open to learning new things. I always feel invigorated when I'm gathered with my friends or when I'm writing. So, why wouldn't I want to do these things daily? It's tempting to say that I don't do these things because I don't love myself enough to make living with intention a priority. Or that I'm held prey to fear. And although there is some degree of truth to those statements, I know that ultimately the choice lies with me. I know from my involvement in 12 step recovery that I can choose to "act as if". I can decide, one day at a time, to live with intention and do those things I've listed above, believing they will cultivate that sense of peace and joy that has been eluding me. Or, I can continue on the way I have been, and dread waking up each day. Which pathway do I want to choose?

There Will Be No Casserole

I'm not doing so well right now. Once again, I've only gotten about 10 hours of sleep total in the past two weeks. This is after going with only 25 hours of sleep in a month about six weeks ago. It seems like my body has forgotten how to sleep. Difficulty sleeping has always been one of my issues. Bipolar disorder and OCD play a role in that. And there are some physical health problems, like severe chronic pain, that contribute to my inability to sleep as well. We have been unable to find a medication that works for this. I saw a new psychiatrist last Tuesday. He told me he didn't know what to do for me. We can try one more medication, but there is no guarantee that it will help. He believes that the one medication that I am currently on (and I'm only on one medication for bipolar disorder right now) is my best shot at sleeping and stabilizing my moods. I've already been taking it for two months now. He said that I could go into the hospital to get my body "reset", that they can give me something that I wouldn't be able to take as an outpatient, just to get some sleep. I've already gone down that road, too many times to count. True, they can knock me out, so much so that I usually end up wetting the bed, which means that they will prop me up on a shower chair and bathe me in the middle of the night because I am too sedated to do so myself, and then tuck me back into bed. After three days of this, I will be sent home to continue on medications which aren't working for me and within a week, I'm right back where I started. That is if they will even admit me to the hospital in the first place. It is almost impossible to be admitted if you are not suicidal, with a definite plan for taking your own life. When you're manic and unable to sleep or eat, dealing with racing thoughts and physical restlessness to the point where you can't even sit still, you're more often than not told that you just have to ride it out because those symptoms are not severe enough to require hospitalization. This has been my life since this past September.

I have also been hospitalized for numerous physical health problems in the last 20 years. I've been in for a severe flare-up of ulcerative colitis, pneumonia, hemorrhaging, a TIA, and more. I've had 17 surgeries in the past 20 years. So, why am I telling you all of this? Not to whine or complain. I know that there are others out there who have experienced this, or worse. But I want to shed light on yet another difference between how mental health and physical health are viewed differently still to this day.

I was reflecting back on all of the times I've been hospitalized for a physical health condition. Let's take the time I had pneumonia and was in the hospital for five days for example. I think that I received three or four "Get Well Soon" cards. I had several friends come to visit me. Others called to check up on me. When I was discharged home, the ladies from my church arranged for people to bring me meals for the first week I was home. Usually casseroles! But they were wonderful, and greatly appreciated. I still had very little energy when I initially got home from the hospital. Even something as simple as getting dressed wore me out. So the meals were a tremendous help. I also had someone volunteer to come over and help me with the laundry and cleaning when I first got home. These same things happened when I was hospitalized for my surgeries. Lots of people were there to step up and help.

But, that never happened following a psychiatric hospitalization. Now, before I go on, I will say that I have not always notified friends and family when I'm admitted to the psychiatric unit. I typically notify four or five close friends, and my family, but give them the permission to share with others where I am. That is in part due to the fact that the use of a phone (you cannot have your own cell phone with you) is more restricted and the number of phone calls and the length of your phone calls is monitored by the staff. Also, visiting hours are more limited than those for the medical units. And, as much as I hate to admit this, part of it is due to shame. There are times that I still feel "less than" due to my mental illnesses. Now, back to my point. I get the feeling that a lot of people still look at psychiatric hospitalizations as kind of a "retreat", for lack of a better word. I mean, you get fed. They help you sleep and encourage rest. Your day to day responsibilities are temporarily put on hold. You are encouraged not to worry about your job, your family, or any other potential stressor while you are inpatient. You are there to focus on you, your needs, and to as I mentioned earlier, "reset" yourself. That's all well and good. And that is what I need when I'm there. But I don't leave the hospital ready to conquer the world. If there has been a change in my medication, it takes about 4-6 weeks for the new medication to fully take effect. The fatigue lingers. The ability to complete even the most basic of daily tasks like brushing my teeth still challenges me. I don't always have it in me to jump right back into my daily life and do my own cooking and cleaning. I have never had someone offer to bring me a meal following a psychiatric hospitalization. I have never had someone offer to help me with my housecleaning, or volunteer to run errands for me. I have only ever received two "Get Well Cards" from friends, over a period of 22 years of dealing with my bipolar disorder, OCD, and PTSD.

I'm not writing this with the intention of making anyone feel guilty. I'm writing this to say that even in 2018, mental health and mental illness are still more often than not, "awkward" and uncomfortable to talk about. We worry that we won't know the "right" thing to say to someone who is anxious or depressed, or someone who has attempted to take their own life. We may want to help, but hold back out of the fear of insulting the individual or making them feel like they are incapable of taking care of themselves. Some of us may think that the best thing for someone who has just been released from an inpatient unit is to jump back into life and their responsibilities; we don't want to see them just sitting around, doing nothing. Mental illnesses are still not handled the way that physical illnesses are. And that needs to change. Fortunately, there are organizations out there, like NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), and MHA (Mental Health America), and others that are working hard to increase awareness of mental health issues and to fight the powerful stigma against having a mental illness. I have to do my part too, by not being ashamed or apologize for my mental illness. I have to be willing to ask for help. But, sometimes, a casserole would be nice. Or help with daily tasks. At least initially, when I get home from the hospital. I guess what I'm trying to say to you is don't be afraid to reach out and ask if it's okay to provide a meal. Or even just come over and sit and talk for an hour. It's not an insult. It's not doing something for someone that they should be doing for themselves, any more than it is when I have ankle surgery and am non-weight bearing for six weeks. It's okay to talk about it. No, it's imperative that we talk about it.

Happy Mother's Day?

Well, here we are. Sunday, May 13, 2018. Mother's Day. My Facebook page was flooded with Mother's Day tributes. Friends honoring their own mothers and grandmothers. Friends being celebrated by their children. Everyone seemed to be happy. The stores have been stocked with greeting cards, flowers, candy, and jewelry for the past month. There are cards for first time mothers, mothers-to-be, husbands honoring their wives for doing an amazing job raising their children, mothers and grandmothers in heaven, silly cards for little ones to give to their moms...and just plain old generic "I love you" cards, and a few other miscellaneous cards mixed in.

I found myself thinking tonight about all of those women for whom Mother's Day is a bittersweet holiday. And I found myself wondering where all of the cards for them are kept. I personally know two women whose children were murdered within the past two years. Where is the card for that? Where is the card for the mother whose child has committed suicide? Where is the card for the woman whose child is miscarried or stillborn? Where is the card for the mothers whose children are in NICU clinging to their lives? Or for the mothers whose children are being abused by their fathers, uncles, grandfathers, babysitters, strangers? The mothers who are watching their children struggle with addiction? The mothers whose children have run away from home? What about all of the single moms, trying to balance work, childcare, school, and home? What about the mothers whose husbands are deployed to Afghanistan? I've never seen a card for the woman who deeply longs to be a mother but for any number of reasons, can't. What about the woman who felt that there was no way she could be a "good" mother and made the difficult decision to terminate the pregnancy?  Or those women who, after giving birth, knew the best thing for their child was to give them up for adoption in the hopes that their child would have a much better life than they themselves could provide?  There are no cards for the thousands and thousands of women who are foster mothers or temporary guardians. I couldn't find any cards for those who have strained relationships with their mothers and for whom those "You are the best mother in the world!" cards don't reflect their reality. There are no cards for the mothers whose children have been removed from the home by DCS. Or the mothers who lose custody of their children in a bitter divorce. And then there are those women who make a conscious choice not to have children and not to be mothers - not to not take on what is "expected" of them. And...I know that I'm still leaving some out.

To all of those women out there who are rocking it as moms, my hat is off to you! Raising children takes a lot of blood, sweat, and tears. I'm not trying to take anything away from that or to imply that mothers don't deserve to be recognized and honored for the millions of things they do for their children every day. I'm simply wanting to acknowledge that for some, this day is one of longing for, remembering, second guessing, and wondering what if things had been different. Today, in the midst of celebrating my mother, grandmothers, aunts, cousins, sisters-in-law, and siblings, I set aside some time to honor those women for whom Mother's Day is one of the hardest days of the year.

Why I Don't Love Myself - A Treatise on Self-loathing

I don't love myself. I don't know that I ever have. Why, my therapist asked? Hmmm. That's not an easy question to answer. Not because I don't know, but because I know that I should love myself. I hate it that the sexual abuse I experienced as a child and the rape at age 18 turned me into an eating machine. First my body was violated by others and then it is violated by myself as I continue to store fat to protect me from being hurt again. I'm in a constant battle with my body, losing 20 pounds and then regaining it when someone comments on my weight loss. My fat forms a shield around me but that leaves me feeling horribly alone. I fail to appreciate all that my body does for me because I'm caught up in how ugly I look in the mirror. There is nothing pretty about 402 pounds. And I'm tired of hearing that I have such a pretty face because that "but" packs a real punch. So I eat a whole box of Girl Scout cookies while pretending that I'm eating celery and hating the fact that I am so weak willed.

I feel like I'm failing as an adult. I am embarrassed by my mental illnesses that prevent me from working. The OCD and bipolar disorder leave me fighting just to be okay. I hate that I have to write numbers in a frenzy in order to calm myself down. I hate that I have to have everything lined up just so on my bookshelf and that I can't leave my apartment without checking my books to see if they are still in alphabetical order. I hate that I see bugs crawling everywhere when I haven't been able to sleep. I hate that my racing thoughts prevent me from reading a book most days. I feel like my mind is controlled by outside forces that I can't stop. I used to be a successful Occupational Therapist. Now I'm barely able to do my own ADLs. I'm afraid to meet new people because inevitably the question "So, what do you do?" is asked and my answer is sadly "I exist". I often feel like I have nothing to live for. That makes my existence almost unbearable.

I struggle with accepting my sexuality. I feel like God made a mistake. I feel guilty and ashamed that I am gay. I don't like believing that my attraction to women is wrong but what if it is? Do I want to take that chance? And so I try to ignore my feelings and pretend that I am "normal". I'm angry that I'm not married to a man and the mother of three children. My feelings prevent me from having a family because I so rigidly define what constitutes a family. My life would be so much easier if I could just accept the truth about myself and stop second guessing my Creator. I so desperately want to be loved by someone but I am afraid.

I'm angry that I think so much. I spend way too much time in my own head. When will I get tired of living this way? Is it too late to learn to love myself? I hope not because I am the one who is hurting.

In Order

The books haven't moved.
They haven't moved.
Each one is in it's proper place
just like they were
two minutes ago,
just like they will be
two minutes from now,
and yet I cannot walk away from them.
What if?
Just what if
Lit by Mary Karr
tumbles from the top shelf
where it is the 19th
book from the left
and lands between
Naked by David Sedaris
and like the red panda by Andrea Seigel?
I mean, it could happen
and then they wouldn't
be in alphabetical order by author
and the book police
would come knocking on my door
and I would lose custody
of the books forever!
So I check them again.
They still haven't moved.
But they might.
So I will stay home again today
and stand guard,
a sergeant at the tomb of the unknown soldier,
lest I dare forget to check.

Me Too

Me too. Those are two words that I wish I didn't have to say. But they are a part of my story. Its been thirty years now since I was raped. Sometimes it seems like yesterday. I still have nightmares on occasions and they are so real and so vivid that it actually feels like I'm being raped all over again. I struggled for a long time with blaming myself for what happened. I played "if only". If only I hadn't been drunk. If only I'd left the party with my friends. If only I hadn't worn makeup and perfume. Yes, I had too much to drink that night. Yes, I stayed behind. Yes, I wore makeup and perfume. But I didn't ask to be raped. I said "No!"

No!
He's calling me a bitch.
No!
He's pulling my hair.
No!
He's sticking his dick in my mouth.
No!
He's ripping off my jeans.
No!
He's forcing his way in.
No!
He's thrusting hard.
No!
He's hurting me.
No!
Why did I wear makeup?
No!
Why did I get drunk?
No!
Why didn't I leave with my friends?
No!
Why didn't I fight back?
No!
Why didn't I scream?
No!
Why didn't I report him?
No!
Why didn't I die?
No!
I said "No!"
No!
No!
No!
No!
No!
No!
NO!

My "Nos" should have been enough. They weren't. I now know that it wasn't my fault. I did not deserve for that to happen. No one does. I wish that I hadn't been afraid to speak up at the time. I wish that I hadn't run straight for the shower and stayed in there for hours, douching and scrubbing my insides with a tile and grout brush. All I could think about was getting him off of me. Showering has never been the same since that night. I have obsessive compulsive disorder and that event triggered a bathing ritual that I still can't break today. It's as if I'm trying to wash away a sin that isn't mine. I now understand that I did the best I could at the time to survive. I pray that one day I will get past surviving and learn to thrive.

Melancholy

Melancholy sounds like such a pretty word. It's much too pretty to describe my depression. No, my depression is like being strangled by a boa constrictor. A squeezing that I can feel deep inside my bones, that sucks the life right out of me and leaves me wiping sweat and blood from my brow. My heart bleeds blue blood that bypasses the lungs, failing to pick up the oxygen molecules needed to sustain me. I sit in my overstuffed recliner, leaning to the left, lacking the strength to hold my head up. I'm wrapped tightly in a blanket. A cocoon of sorts. Maybe I'll emerge a butterfly one day. Until then, I'll continue to watch the shadows dancing on the walls in the light of the moon coming through the living room window.

My cats are adjusting to my new normal and go about their business despite me. I don't shower. I don't get dressed. I don't brush my teeth. I don't eat. I don't talk. I don't watch TV. I don't read. Sometimes I don't even breathe. One day of doing nothing turns into four days of doing nothing and eventually the week passes. The longer I go without doing anything, the harder it is to do something. Terrible thoughts race through my mind and I think about murdering them with whiskey or brownies but I know that won't help. I dream of breaking out of this prison cell but fear that I'd only be buying a first class ticket to hell. My mattress has a permanent dent in the middle of it and I lay in bed until my body aches so bad that I can't stand it. Then I cry. My tears stream down my hot cheeks and are dry before they reach my lips, leaving me thirsty and confused. I miss myself. I don't even remember what I was like before. Will the sun rise when this is over?