Where Are You Christmas?

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. Time spent surrounded by family and friends; fun, food, laughter and games; gift exchanges and getting to see the joy and excitement on my nieces and nephews faces as they play with their presents. But my favorite part of the holiday was always the Christmas eve service where I could go to celebrate my faith through the stories being shared by my dad (for those who do not know, he is a retired United Methodist minister) and rejoice in the singing of the carols. Getting to hear a soloist sing "O Holy Night" and then closing the service with a candlelight singing of "Silent Night" deeply moved my soul.

However, Christmas is changing for me this year. I am physically unable to get out of my home right now. I was able to watch my church's Christmas eve service live online. I sang along, voice cracking, tears streaming down my face, with my kitty Kiki on my lap, missing the sense of human connection. Some hymns were too hard to sing at all because I couldn't catch my breath. It was a very lonely feeling. And I thought, "Where Are You Christmas?"

Tomorrow, many members of my family will be gathering at my brother Ben's house for Christmas day. They will unwrap presents and share a good home cooked holiday meal together. My parents will be making the trip in from their assisted living facility half an hour away to be a part of the celebration. I do not get to see them often as it is difficult for my mom to get around now. Some of my siblings will be coming from out of town, as will my oldest niece and nephew with their significant others. Once again, those feelings of loneliness, sadness, isolation, and even some anger creep in. I'm going to be home alone on most of Christmas day. I am already feeling very left out and forgotten. I will have a caregiver here with me to help prepare a meal and although I am grateful for that, I am trying to prepare myself for the emotional toll this very different Christmas is going to have on me. Ten years ago, I never imagined our Christmas's were going to be this way. I'm not prepared for aging parents, poor health in myself and my brother Matt, changing relationships and changing family dynamics.

So, now tonight, on Christmas eve, it is 52 degrees with a dense fog advisory until 11:00 a.m. Christmas morning. It does not look like Christmas. With everything going on in our world, it does not feel like Christmas. I am lonely and afraid, and I am asking, where are you, Christmas on this most holy night?

Transitions

My family is in a state of transition right now. Tomorrow, my parents move into their assisted living facility. Not only are they moving out of their home, but they are also moving about 30 minutes outside of town. My sister and I have been encouraging them to look into assisted living for over a year now. And my mom has also recognized the need for this move for a while. My mom has balance issues, as well as neuropathy in her feet, which leads to falls. At this time, my mom seems to average one fall every two weeks. She has been fortunate in that she hasn't experienced too many serious injuries, but my dad is no longer able to help get her up off of the floor. In addition, my dad is beginning to experience some difficulty with his right knee giving out on him and is just generally fatigued overall. My dad also deals with some decreased memory issues. The move to assisted living will be helpful to my dad as he has been having to provide more care and assistance to mom over the last year.

My parents went to look at a facility at the beginning of June and an opening at that facility became available, so they went ahead and proceeded with arranging to obtain that apartment. This is all happening so fast. Now, my parents find themselves moving from a three-bedroom house into a one-bedroom apartment that basically consists of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room area. They do not even have a full kitchen in their new unit, only a small kitchenette without a stove. It has hit me that there will no longer be holiday dinners at mom and dad's house, with the smells of turkey and ham roasting in the oven. Of homemade macaroni and cheese and mashed potatoes. There will no longer be room for me and my siblings to gather around a Christmas tree, opening presents on Christmas morning while monkey bread bubbles over in the oven. There won't be a table big enough to gather around for a game of Uno or Phase Ten. I know there is a room there at Wesley Manor where we could gather if we reserved it, but it won't be the same. 

As my parents have been frantically preparing for their move they have been trying to sort through their belongings as they pack them. I can relate to the struggles with trying to decide what to take to the new place, what to donate, what to try to sell, and what to give to friends and family as I just moved into my current apartment back in December. I, too, was downsizing, and found that one, I had more stuff than I thought I had, and two, I had less space at my new place than I thought I was going to for the stuff that I brought over. I still have about a half dozen boxes yet to be unpacked and I have had to get rid of more stuff after I moved in because I simply did not have room for it all. My parents have been choosing items to offer to us kids and the grandkids as well as they go through this process. My dad brought over a counted cross stitch that I was particularly fond of and on Monday morning my home health aide helped to hang it up on the wall for me. It looks great hanging there. But I found myself tearing up right away. When she asked me what was wrong, I replied "It's beautiful, but it makes me sad. This is not supposed to be hanging on my wall. It's supposed to be hanging on mom and dad's wall, in mom and dad's house. Now, there is no longer mom and dad's 'house'." And I found myself choking back tears and biting down on the corner of my trembling lips. It's not the same. And even though I've been talking about moving into assisted living with my parents for over a year now, I'm not ready for them to go now that the time has come. 

I have been unable to go over to my mom and dad's house for several months now due to my own physical limitations and health issues. However, I'm used to seeing my dad a couple of times a week at my place. Now that they are going to be thirty minutes away, that is going to change. Dad will no longer be able to just "drop by". And I'm going to miss that. Terribly. I'm afraid that I'm not going to see my parents anymore. And I'm hurting.  I feel guilty for hurting because I know that they are looking forward to this next phase of their life. I know that it will offer more opportunities for my mom to socialize as she will be able to get out of her apartment and use her electric scooter to get to and from activities. There are so many things about this move that are going to be positive and beneficial for my parents, and I want to be happy for them without feeling this huge sense of loss inside me. I'm so grateful that my parents were able to make this decision to move into assisted living themselves, as opposed to finding my siblings and I in a position of having to place them in a care facility at a later date. This is definitely going to be an adjustment for all of us, my parents included. I have to remember that things are going to be different for them as well. I typically resist change, but this is happening tomorrow whether I like it or not. I am going to miss having them so nearby.

Withdrawing Into Myself

Four days ago, I received a phone call that a good friend of mine had died by suicide. I wasn't really sure what to think. I have been hit with so many overwhelming emotions. There has been great sadness. Anger. Guilt. Anxiety. This has definitely triggered some of my own mental health symptoms. My friend Shelley lived with bipolar 1 disorder and had been dealing with that for over 40 years. I know what that is like as I also live with bipolar 1 disorder and OCD. When I'm in a depressive state, it is so hard to believe that it will ever end. I am inundated with intrusive thoughts that perhaps I'd be better off dead. I latch onto these thoughts with a grip so strong that it causes my knuckles to bleed. At first the thoughts race through my cerebral cortex, bouncing off of the inside of my skull. Then the thoughts turn to molasses, oozing slowly between the neural connections in my brain. My heart pounds in my chest. I can hear my blood coursing through my veins, sloshing in my ears, reminding me that I am in fact still alive, even though I wish I wasn't. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I flush, my skin turns red and I'm on fire. Then my stomach starts to churn, and I begin to vomit. Frantic, I scramble around to find something, anything, to ease my discomfort. I begin to stuff my face, which only leads to more vomiting, self-loathing, and guilt. Then I spend money, whether I have it to spend or not. All of this goes on at the speed of lightening, despite the fact that I'm moving at a snail's pace. It does not make sense.

Even though I'm doing well in general right now, it is in these moments that my mind turns towards suicidal thoughts. It's not so much that I want to die as much as it is that I don't want to experience any more pain. I would rather deal with physical pain than emotional pain. For many years I turned to self-harming behaviors such as cutting to give me that release. Like drinking, that stopped working for me and no longer brought relief. By working with a good therapist that I trust and with my psychiatrist and case manager, I have learned some coping skills to help me get through those difficult times. However, that does not always help when I'm in the depths of despair. Knowing that I have choices other than suicide doesn't occur to me in those moments. The pull to escape is far too strong. On Sunday October 2, 2005, I felt like I just could not go on any longer. Despite having mental health care and family and friends who loved me, I took 5 full bottles of my different psychiatric medications in an attempt to end my life. I was found unconscious in the street. Someone called for an ambulance, and I was intubated on the scene before being transported to the hospital. I spent several days on the ventilator, in a coma. The doctors had told my dad to call the family because they were not sure that I was going to survive. All I remember was that for a brief moment, before I lost consciousness, I thought to myself "Oh my God! I've really done it this time!". And I was scared. There was no "white light" calling me home. There was just blackness. I was lucky to have survived. 

People kept asking me why I didn't reach out. Friends and family reassured me that they loved me and would have done anything for me if only I would have called them. I thought that when I heard that Shelley had died. Why didn't she call me first? Why didn't I see this coming? Even though she lives out of town, and I hadn't talked to her in about 3 weeks I felt like I should have known. Me, of all people, should have known. Why didn't I see this coming? I'm angry. Not at her. At myself. At bipolar disorder. At God. This isn't fair. None of this is fair. In fact, it fucking sucks. I'm hurting. I know myself well enough to realize that I have to reach out to others for support as I deal with my emotions. My therapist happened to be out of the office for the remainder of the week when this happened, so I called and spoke with the therapist on call. That was a big step for me. However, after that initial phone call and a Facebook post where I encouraged people to reach out, I find myself wanting to pull inside again. That is my comfort zone. I don't want to feel right now. After one sleepless night I've spent the last 3 days doing almost nothing other than sleep and eat. I can't cry. I'm afraid that if I do, I won't stop or that the pain will rip me open if I try to let a little bit of it out. Bipolar disorder is a daunting beast. I wish that Shelley would have reached out to me before taking all of those pills. But I get why she didn't. The pain just became more than she could bear the other night. Since moving to Lafayette in 1998 I've lost 3 friends to suicide. My serious attempt was 19 years ago. Was that the last time I had suicidal thoughts? No, definitely not. Sometimes I've felt that pull very strongly. Over the years, I've gotten much better at reaching out, even though it goes against my grain. My default is almost always to pull in. But as hard as it is to reach out, I've found that it is crucial in saving my life. It is my hope that others will find the strength to hang on. My therapist is always encouraging me to sit with the discomfort because it will pass. It is ALWAYS okay to call me, anytime, day or night! I'd rather get a call for help than another call at 4:00 a.m. telling me that you have died. I will miss you, my friend. 

October 2, 2005

I mixed a cocktail.
Lamictal, 200 mg, 60 pills.
Trileptal, 300 mg, 30 pills.
Trazodone, 300 mg, 60 pills.
Remeron, 30 mg, 30 pills.
Seroquel, 300 mg, 60 pills.
All taken together, at once
with 64 ounces of milk
to coat my stomach.
I thought I could make it
to the park bench by the courthouse fountain
but I collapsed 200 yards into my journey.
My legs just buckled,
my body ignoring the commands
to get up out of the middle of the road.
I vomited.
Retching, spewing pill fragments and milk
all over my face, all through my hair,
and I remember thinking
"Oh my God, I've really done it this time!"
It.
Suicide.
Death.
The end of my life.
I was instantly gripped by panic.
It's not supposed to feel like this!
Where is my sense of peace,
that amazing white light to welcome me home?
Then everything went black
and there was nothing.
I was intubated in the street
and wheeled into the ER
as a Jane Doe, suspected drug overdose.
No ID.
Just a cryptic note crumpled up in my
right front pocket of my jeans.
I awoke days later
to the hiss of the ventilator
ringing in my ears,
my eyelids fluttering in time
to the rhythm of the heart monitor.
Five bags of fluid on the IV pole.
Wires everywhere.
I tried to move
but my wrists were in restraints.
I began to cough,
choking on the tube down my throat
and I heard my mother's voice saying
"Get the nurse! She's waking up!"
Who? Me?
But that can't be!
I did it.
I really did it this time.
It.
Suicide.
Death.
Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?
Am I okay
or am I going to be a vegetable?
Why is Days of our Lives
on my hospital room TV?
My days were supposed be over
but now there is a social worker in my room
talking to my parents
about the number of days
I'll need to be under inpatient psychiatric care!
Again.
Dammit, again.
I want to say "I'm sorry", but I can't.
What am I sorry for?
For putting my family through this?
For asking them to love me anyway?
For not dying?
It,
suicide,
death
is such a mess.
I already sent out invitations to my funeral
because I wanted to be sure
someone would be there
to remember me for me
because I sure as hell
don't remember me.
My mind's long term memory
is racked with guilt and shame and pain
and my short term memory
is, well, what were we talking about?
It.
Suicide.
Death.
And the day I almost, almost died.

FUCK YOU, Affirmations!!!

I have mixed feelings about affirmations. The first time a therapist suggested trying them out I thought to myself, "this is bullshit!". I am NOT going to sit down in front of a mirror and say, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me". I will not be like Stuart Smalley! For years and years now I have resisted, no, more like fought tooth and nail, the suggestions to try saying positive things to myself or worse yet, to tell myself that I loved myself. That just wasn't going to happen! That shit was for "crazy" people. But then, every once in a while, I'd find myself thinking what harm could it do? Maybe it was worth a shot to try to see if coming up with a few positive affirmations could help me with the way I saw and felt about myself. I started with a very basic one - "I like myself." I wasn't ready to use the word love because in all honesty, I struggled to believe that I did indeed barely, sort of even like myself a little bit My therapists would keep telling me that the more you say the affirmations and practice repeating them to yourself, the more you begin to believe them. They also told me that I could make affirmations for things that I wanted to manifest in my life. So, I added "I am sober" to my tiny list, months before I was able to finally get sober. 

As the years have gone by, I have vacillated between periods of using affirmations and "going it alone" in the darker corners of my mind. A couple of years ago I came across a planner, Define My Day, and as I also have an addiction to buying excessive amounts of certain items (planners, journals, pens, etc.), I ordered a set of three to take advantage of the sale price (and because 3 is one of my numbers "chosen" by my OCD). The very first page of this planner is titled "Affirmations" and there is a whole page for you to list whatever you'd like. I started making my list. Three became 8 (the other number "chosen" by my OCD to be important), 8 became 11, and eventually 11 became 16. I included statements which reflected how I felt about myself as well as things I wanted to manifest in my life. It seemed to work for me when I was trying to get sober, so why not? The planner also gives you spaces to create goals for the month and then you can break those down into milestones that help you to work towards achieving those goals. Each day you can set priorities and tasks to help you meet those. Anyway, what I found was that I rarely turned back to the first page to review my affirmations. I'd have good intentions of doing that each day and then it wouldn't happen. What did happen was that I'd get pissed off at the affirmations for not working when the truth of the matter was that they weren't working because I wasn't reading them to myself regularly. 

Now I'm at another crossroad with my affirmations. I'm wanting to use them as a tool to help guide me and encourage me with my weight loss journey. I'm feeling so down and discouraged by the fact that since my fall resulting in the ankle and fibula fractures last December, I've regained 60 pounds. There are times when I find myself wishing that I could just fall into a very deep hole and die because I'm embarrassed and ashamed and angry and frustrated and sad. And then there are moments where I'm feeling motivated to get back at it. I lost the weight before; I can lose it again! Can't I? I decided to make up 8 posters, each with an affirmation or phrase to help encourage me and remind me of what I'm doing and why. I used bright colored markers and have all of them taped to my living room wall, directly across from my recliner. And I must admit, they do help me, when I let them. I'm going to say that again - they do help me, when I let them!

So, fuck you, affirmations! How dare you make me feel better about myself? How dare you encourage me to make better choices and decisions? How dare you help me to pause to consider my options and the consequences of the choices I make? How dare you help me to move in a more positive direction? How dare you challenge me and my way of thinking? (Oh, and thank you affirmations.) I'm still nowhere near being ready to look at myself in the mirror and say, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me." But I am learning, as affirmation number 8 on my living room wall states, to "Sit with the discomfort. It will pass! I won't die!" And I am capable of doing great things!

I Am Scared

I am scared. I am having a hard time staying in today right now. Because of my anxiety, I do not spend a lot of time following what is going on in politics. It is so easy for me to get wrapped up in feelings of helplessness and hopelessness about what is going on in the world. It seems like there is so little that I can do, and everything is out of my control. I know that these feelings are only going to become more intense over the next several months as we approach the time for elections. I find myself praying that perhaps we can move not so much towards making America great again but towards making America kind again. However, I fear that this is not the direction things are moving and it terrifies me. My OCD is being triggered and I find myself engaging in compulsions which take up a lot of my time, without providing relief for my anxiety. Between those and the nightmares I am now having, I am left feeling pretty unsettled.  

I worry about cutbacks to both Medicare, and to Medicaid at the state level. I have been receiving Social Security Disability since 2005 due to pervasive mental illness. There have been many years that found me being hospitalized several times for either severe depression or mania due to my bipolar disorder. Because of that, and my severe OCD, I am unable to work. It is only in recent years that I have experienced any level of stability. I worry about what will happen to me if social security is slashed. As it is, I currently make barely enough to live on from month to month.

As a member of the LGBTQIA+ community, I fear that the rights for same-sex marriage could be stripped away. What seemed like a beginning to moving in the direction of acceptance and recognition of the same rights for members of this community, as for all others, now seems to be going backwards. And although I am not transgender, it infuriates me that there is so much controversy and anger over what bathroom someone wants to use. I identify as lesbian and although I am not currently in a relationship, I want my right to marry another woman, if I so choose to, to be honored, recognized, and protected. I do feel that there is more open-mindedness and acceptance towards LGBTQIA+ individuals in our society, however in politics, this seems to be becoming more controversial again.

Women's rights are also going backwards. I was devastated by the overturning of Roe vs. Wade. When I was 18 years old, I was raped. When my period didn't come, I took a pregnancy test. Actually, I took 8 pregnancy tests, just to be sure. They were all positive. After a lot of thought, crying, and yes, praying, I made the very difficult decision to have an abortion. I was not ready to be a mother. Having children was never going to be a part of my life plan. I could not envision myself being able to carry the pregnancy to term as it would be a constant reminder of my horrific experience. So, I chose to terminate the pregnancy. I know that this is a very controversial issue and I'm not going to try to force anyone to believe a certain way; I'm just going to share my own beliefs.  It is my opinion that each woman should have the right to make that decision for herself. Having safe, accessible medical care should be a right. This was not a decision that I made lightly and without great thought. Stripping women's healthcare away just isn't the answer, no matter what your personal beliefs are. Threatening doctors who perform abortions puts the lives of the women at stake. I can't believe that we find ourselves here again on this issue. I fear for the lives and safety of all women who find themselves struggling to make this decision.

There are so many other issues that I worry about - gun control and banning assault weapons, climate change and the health of our planet, banning books and trying to erase parts of our history and what we allow to be taught in our schools, children going to school hungry, homelessness, the way we care for our elders and our veterans, illegal immigration and border control, racism, foreign affairs, the war in the Middle East....the list goes on and on. Like I said at the beginning, I can't allow myself to spend too much time thinking about these issues because it feeds my depression and anxiety. I wish that I had hope for America, but right now, I don't know. I'm finding it so very hard to live in today and not worry about what tomorrow is going to hold. I don't like feeling so out of control. So, for now, I will do the next right thing for me and continue to pray. It's now after 4:00 a.m. I cannot do anything tonight. And when the time comes, I will vote.   

I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!

Tonight, I'm feeling especially "old". I just received my new Lifeline device from my insurance company. I have it sitting on its charging dock as I'm filling out the paperwork for my emergency contacts and medical history. I don't feel old enough to need one yet here I am. After my fall last December, I feel some sense of relief in knowing that help can be a push of a button away. There is some peace of mind that comes with having access to emergency services without the panic that gripped me when I came to in the bathroom after having passed out. The excruciating pain and the sight of blood pouring out of my lower leg and ankle was bad enough, but it paled in comparison to the overwhelming fear that I was going to bleed to death alone on my bathroom floor before anyone would find me. Now I can summon for help simply by pressing a button and, even if I'm not capable of pressing that button myself, it should detect a fall and initiate a call to emergency services automatically which is reassuring. So, if "I've fallen and I can't get up", I can have faith that help is on the way.

That's all well and good for my physical safety and needs. But what about my mental, emotional, and spiritual needs? In so many ways I feel as though "I've fallen and can't get up" in those areas as well. A lot of my OCD symptoms are rearing their ugly little heads right now and as I feel more stress and anxiety, I find myself counting and arranging everything in my mind. I have this notebook that is filled with numbers, just one through eight, that I've written over and over and over again. At first, writing numbers seems to help to decrease my anxiety, but then that act takes on a life of its own, becoming something that I must do. That then in turn feeds into my depression which is telling me to pull my blanket up over my head and hide from the world. I don't want to eat. Then I want to eat everything in sight. My participation in the weight loss program I was doing before my injury has been put on hold at this time until I'm further along in my recovery from the fractures and surgery. I'm frustrated by that. Instead of continuing to do what I need to be doing I've adopted the attitude "the hell with it!" And so it's no surprise that I've gained some of the weight that I had lost back again. That too feeds into the depression, and I let more and more of the little everyday things like brushing my teeth and putting on clean clothes fall by the wayside. I've slacked off on my physical therapy exercises and can feel myself losing strength. If I don't gain strength and endurance, I won't be able to leave my apartment which means I won't be able to be around people face to face. It's becoming all too easy for me to isolate right now. I'm sad. I'm lonely. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm alone. I feel as though "I've fallen, and I can't get up".

The good news is that there are lifelines out there for my mental, emotional, and spiritual needs that I can tap into if I choose to. I have a therapist and case manager who can help me process my emotions and challenge my thinking. I have support groups that I can reach out to and meetings I can attend on Zoom until I'm able to get out and about again. I do have friends, peer mentors, and sponsors that care about me and are willing to help if I ask and let them know what I need. I have a loving and supportive family. I have three kitties who love me unconditionally and are always happy to see me. And perhaps most importantly to me I have a gentle, loving God who is just waiting to help carry me through my life journey.  Sometimes it's hard for me to see God working in my life when I'm in the midst of darkness but I have to believe that He is there because I always make it out on the other side despite myself. All I have to do is press that button and God will answer my call for help. There are no emergencies that are too small, and I have to believe that I'm not bothering my family, my friends, my therapist, or my God when I reach out and make that call for help.

Open Fractures

On Saturday evening, December 16, 2023, I passed out in my bathroom. When I came to, I was pinned between the bathtub and the toilet with my left leg underneath me. I immediately felt this excruciating pain in my left leg, a pain like no other that I've ever felt before. I was gripped by a sense of panic as I realized that I would have to figure out how to get myself out of the bathroom so I could call for help. I live alone, and no one would be looking for me until Monday. I had to arch my back over the side of the tub and pull on my pantleg to get my left leg out from underneath me. I began scooting towards the bathroom door, blocking out the pain as best as I could. I grabbed for my reacher to push my shoes off because they were sticking to the bathroom floor, making it impossible for me to scoot on my butt. When I finally managed to get my left shoe off, I noticed that it was full of blood. I thought to myself, "Oh shit! That's not a good sign! That means that there is an open fracture!" I somehow managed to stay calm, focused on getting myself out to the living room. When I reached the hallway, I rolled over onto my stomach and began to do an army crawl towards my Amazon Echo device, where I could ask Alexa to call my dad for help. When I finally reached him, I told him I needed him to come over to my apartment to unlock the door for the fire department and EMS services because I had fallen in the bathroom and broken my ankle. He asked me how I knew that my ankle was broken and I replied "because the bones are sticking out"! I believe that I entered a state of shock because at that time I was no longer feeling much pain in my leg. Then a sense of panic began to set in and I started to hyperventilate. Emergency workers arrived and worked to get me up off the floor and up the stairs outside of my apartment to load me into the ambulance.

Things at the ER were crazy. Doctors and nurses were working in what seemed like a frenzied manner to me to begin to assess the "damage". Once I arrived at the hospital the intense pain really began to set in. I remembered the car accident I had been in back in May 1997 in which I shattered my right calcaneus. At the time, I thought that nothing could ever be more painful than that. I was wrong! I've also had both knees replaced. Nothing compared to the pain I was feeling that evening. NOTHING!!! After the necessary scans and x-rays were completed, I was told that I had an open ankle dislocation and an open fibula fracture. The doctors were going to put me under conscious sedation to set the dislocation and close that up. Then I would be going into emergency surgery early Sunday morning to repair the fibula fracture. After five days in intensive care, I was transferred to a skilled nursing facility to begin my recovery. I struggled to make progress in PT and OT, in part because of my eight week, non weight bearing status on my left leg combined with partial weight bearing on my right foot (due to a hairline fracture also a result of the fall), and in part due to a very deep depression that was setting in. I have bipolar I disorder and typically experience a dip into depression after the Christmas holidays are over anyway, and this situation certainly didn't help matters. I missed my three kitties terribly. I was missing my family over the holidays. I was mentally done and over it. I often found myself crying in the wee hours of the night when I should have been sleeping. It wasn't just my ankle and fibula that were fractured. My spirit was fractured. I wasn't sure that I'd be able to return home to take care of myself after this injury. Once I was finally able to start putting weight on my leg and walking again the pain was pretty intense. After three weeks of walking with physical therapy I felt like I was ready to return home. Those first few days were brutal, and I felt discouraged and defeated. I questioned my decision to come home and began to think that maybe I would have been better off surrendering my apartment, my kitties, my everything, and become a resident of the long term care facility. Those were not good feelings to have. 

One thing that was a saving grace to me during my first week home was the encouragement from a close friend. She was there to support me, push me to take those first few baby steps, to see how far I had really come in such a short time since beginning to walk again. She has been my primary care assistant over the last couple of years and I always looked forward to her coming over to my apartment to help me with housekeeping tasks, meal preparation, and daily living skills because she always knew how to make me smile. I didn't only view her as a caregiver; we had become friends. She helped me to laugh and to appreciate the little things. She helped me to see how far I had come. And then...she told me that she was going to be moving out of state in a month. I was crushed. And even though I could appreciate the opportunity for a new chapter in her life, I was devastated. I don't let too many people in. I had let her in and now she was going to be leaving. After she told me I cried. In many ways this felt like an open emotional fracture. I don't like to hurt, inside or outside. This hurts. It hurts more than I thought it was going to. 

So, where does all of this leave me today? Where do I go from here? I know that I have to continue with my physical recovery efforts in order to gain strength and endurance. I can't allow myself to settle in with my depression. I have to push myself to reach out and let others in. I have to get back to my prior level of functioning, both physically and emotionally, so that I don't remain isolated with my thoughts and feelings. I have to remember that my friend did not die, that I can still choose to make the effort to stay in touch. The physical pain in my left ankle and leg is lessening with time. I have to believe that the emotional pain and hurt I'm experiencing as my friend prepares to move next week will also lessen with time. Right now, I'm pretty raw. I'm in that "open fracture" stage. I can grieve what was - the almost daily contact with my friend - and know that it will not always hurt this bad. I can continue to share how I'm feeling with others, just as I have others help me with my physical therapy exercises. My legs will get stronger. My depression will quiet down. I will be happy for my friend and smile and laugh when I remember conversations we have had over the past four years. Open fractures can and do heal with time. I will be patient. I will have faith. I will do my part. I will get better.

I Have OCD. No, for Real!

I'm pretty open about my struggles with mental illness. I don't broadcast that I'm living with mental illness, but I do share it when it's appropriate. Most of the time when I share that I have bipolar disorder, people say "Oh". Some share that they have bipolar too or that they have someone in their family or circle of friends that has it. But it's a whole different experience when I share that I have obsessive compulsive disorder, or OCD. When I share that, I get this response, almost 100% of the time: "(Laughter) Me too!" People then go on to describe how they have to have pictures hanging perfectly straight on the wall or tell me how everything on their dresser has it's own spot and it drives them crazy if something is moved. When I hear these kinds of things, my insides start churning and I feel the anxiety building. While I don't doubt that those things are true for my friends, I also can't help but wonder if they truly have OCD. I believe that most everyone has some things that they have to have "just so" or it drives them crazy. But not everyone has true, clinical OCD.

Obsessive compulsive disorder can be extremely debilitating. That is the case for me. I had "rules" about how things should be as early as five years old. In kindergarten, I refused to share my crayons. The teacher wanted all of us to dump our crayons in a big bowl for everyone to share. I couldn't do that. I needed mine to stay in the box, in a specific order, with the labels facing front. No one could touch my crayons. I had a very detailed way to sort my M&Ms before I could eat them. As a result, I couldn't eat my baggie of M&Ms in the car on the way to my grandparents house because there was nowhere to lay them all out to sort them. These might not seem like they should be a big deal, but my rules kept increasing in number and complexity and I began to develop rituals that were very demanding and unforgiving. I started counting - EVERYTHING. I started checking - EVERYTHING. Over and over and over again. My rituals began to take up more of my time. I can't not do them because if I don't do them, something bad might happen. I don't know what that might be, but the anxiety is there.

Fast forward to today. It takes me approximately five hours to dust one bookshelf. I have to dust each book and then place it back in it's spot (my books are alphabetized by author). I will put the book back on the shelf and then keep touching it and scanning the shelf to be sure that everything is still in alphabetical order. Then I have to dust the pictures, candles, etc. I actually measure where to put them back so that everything is centered and symmetrical on the shelf. It is a very exhausting process. So, I no longer dust. It is less anxiety inducing to have dusty shelves than to spend five hours dusting one bookshelf. And I still can't totally break free of making sure the books haven't moved. I check my books when I get up in the morning and I check them before I leave my house and when I get home. I know in my head that they probably haven't moved, but I can't break the compulsion to check them. Then there's the counting. My mind is almost always counting. I count my steps when I walk. I count when I'm anxious. My mind won't stop counting at night when I'm trying to go to sleep. I literally have dozens of notebooks that are nothing more than numbers that I've written.

Then there are the obsessive thoughts. I have 3 cats that I love dearly. I would never do anything to harm them and yet I have an intrusive thought that pops into my mind from time to time - I wonder what it would be like to tie a rope around their necks and hang them from the ceiling fan and watch them spin around and around? How sick is that? This is highly distressing for me and leaves me feeling full of guilt and shame for even having such a thought. 

So, maybe you're thinking "Gosh, that would be tough." And you'd be right. But I want to share one more example of just how debilitating OCD can be. Shortly after I was raped, I developed a bathing ritual. At the time, I felt like I'd never feel "clean" again. Once I started that ritual I found that I couldn't stop it. I have been struggling with it for 30 years now. It takes me about 90 minutes to shower. I bathe and then I repeat the whole process four times. I always run out of hot water. By the end of my shower, the water is ice cold. My teeth are chattering. My fingers and toes and lips are blue. Yet I can't not stay in there. This past year, the pain in my knees has gotten so severe that I just cannot physically stand in the shower for 90 minutes anymore. I'm doing good to be able to stand for 10 minutes. I've taken a couple of 10 minutes showers. I end up sobbing as I get out of the tub because I haven't completed my ritual. I cry to the point of making myself physically sick. My mind starts racing and obsessing on the fact that I'm not "clean" enough. The anxiety is crushing. So, and I know most of you will find this hard to grasp, I have not taken a shower since January 23. Yes, it's been 5 months since I've showered. You see, I'd rather go without a shower than to take a shower without being able to complete my ritual. To me, it is the lesser of the two evils. I've been trying to find a shower chair to fit in my tub, hoping that that would allow me to perform my ritual with some minor adjustments but I have a narrow tub in my apartment and we haven't been able to find anything that works yet. So, I don't shower. I know that that is disgusting. And I've had several incidences of skin breakdown. I just treat that the best I can and deal with the itching and burning that comes along with it. I walk into my bathroom EVERY SINGLE DAY and stand in front of the bathtub trying to talk myself into getting in there to shower. Every time I end up crying. I feel this sort of tightening in my chest and it becomes harder and harder to breathe. I start to shake. My head is spinning. So, I turn around and go back into my bedroom and layer on the deodorant and body spray and lotion . THIS IS WHAT OCD CAN LOOK LIKE!

There are medications which can be used to treat OCD. However, since I also have bipolar disorder, my doctor is not willing to prescribe the recommended medications because of the risk of triggering a manic episode. Unfortunately, my OCD and PTSD must take a "back seat" to my bipolar disorder. I'm scared that my OCD is going to completely take over my life. I have so, so many more obsessions and compulsions that are a part of my daily life. Way too many to share. I wanted to share this as an example of what OCD can look like. I'm not saying that others don't have OCD. It can be present to varying degrees in a person's life. But the phrase "I'm so OCD" gets tossed around very casually and we joke about our "quirky" behaviors and laugh it off. But for some of us, OCD is no laughing matter. Never in my whole life did I ever think that I'd be unable to do something as basic as taking a shower. For me, OCD is real. It's effect on my life has been profound. At times, the need to perform my rituals is so strong that I can't resist it. There are times I have to cancel plans, or not even make them in the first place, because I can't get away from the compulsive behaviors to actually leave my house. I pray that, with the help of my therapist and case manager, I can learn to adapt. I pray my symptoms won't continue to get worse. I pray that when you say "I'm so OCD" you're not struggling the way I struggle. It's no way to live.

I Am Not My "Labels" - I Am Me!

I'm sitting here reflecting on all of the "labels" that have been used over the past 53 years to describe me as a person. I remember being labeled "gifted and talented" as an early elementary student. Kids with this label were separated out from the "others", those not considered gifted and talented, and given extra attention, extra opportunities to participate in academic enrichment programs and extracurricular activities. (The "others" weren't given these same opportunities in the 1970s. Where's the common sense in that?) I was a part of a Saturday educational program which exposed me to algebra, trigonometry, geometry, Latin word roots, vocabulary words that were longer than my arms, and challenging essays to read, comprehend, and discuss intelligently. I was 10 years old. At the completion of this program, I was registered to take the SATs right along side the high school students. My feet didn't even touch the floor sitting in those desks. Interestingly enough, I achieved my highest score on the SAT that very first time I took it, even though I took it 4 more times before graduating high school. So...I was SMART. And that meant I would be going to medical school because that's what smart people do.

I moved through college and graduate school with an acceptable GPA, despite the new label I was given. I became known as "the girl who drank way too much", too many nights in a row, and had to, on more than one occasion, be literally dragged back to my dorm room by friends who watched out for my safety. By my mid twenties, that label was officially upgraded to "alcoholic". This should come as no surprise to those who attended school with me or those who would later come to be coworkers and friends of mine. That label is not nearly as desirable as being an academic overachiever although I do believe that I did a much better job of being an alcoholic than I ever did of being a student! Medical school was out. Graduate school was almost out. I struggled to be a dependable employee and citizen. I equated being an alcoholic with being a dismal failure. I relabeled myself as a LOSER, because that's what alcoholics are.

Then in 1998, it became clear that there was something else going on besides active addiction. I found myself becoming increasingly more out of control, even during periods when I had been able to stop drinking for a while. Some days, I was so depressed that I couldn't even get out of bed. I wouldn't shower. I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't answer the phone. I wouldn't open my blinds. I simply layed in my bed for days on end. Sometimes I'd cry for hours, other times I couldn't cry at all. Then after several weeks of deep depression, my brain would get a surge of activity from what seemed like the middle of nowhere and I was on top of the world. I went shopping and bought lots of things, most of the time not even remembering what I bought. I maxed out all of my credit cards. I had ten of them at one point. I would go for drives with the windows down, music blaring, chasing down other cars and semis and blowing right by them. There were times when, out on the highway, my speed exceeded 100 mph. If you've ever driven a compact car at that speed, you know that as you whiz by a semi, the car vibrates and there is this tremendous draft or pull towards the truck. I was never scared. It never occurred to me that that was dangerous. I did not have a death wish, I was having fun. I finger painted my coffee tables. I went for days on end without sleep, not even feeling tired physically or emotionally. My creativity flowed easily and I came up with so many brilliant ideas! I drove to Utah and back, stopping only to go to the bathroom and buy another cup of coffee, with a dead rabbit that I had accidentally run over, gently wrapped in a light blue baby blanket on the front passenger's seat of my Mazda Protege, in a snowstorm one January about 18 years ago. When I finally saw a psychiatrist, he told me I had a mental illness. I was Bipolar. I took that to mean that I was CRAZY because I thought that is how mentally ill is defined.

It was around that same time when I was finally ready to be open about my sexuality, something I thought I'd never do. I was preparing myself to live a life alone, no intimate relationships, believing I was a sinner damned to hell for all of eternity. Once again, another label. This time LESBIAN. I have had a number of unfortunate consequences as a result of people finding out that I wasn't that "nice girl" boys could bring home to meet their mothers and I quit several jobs because I was being harassed and didn't have the inner strength and courage to stand up for myself and fight for my rights. I felt "less than" and so, believing that I somehow brought all of this upon myself, moved to another state and started over. But I soon discovered that no matter where I moved, there I was.

I am also a "PK" - the oldest daughter of a United Methodist minister. Many people assume that I know alot about the Bible. Surprise - I know very little about it. I never saw the point in learning anything about God because I knew that I was going to be going to hell. Isn't that where all "over achieving, alcoholic, crazy, lesbians" go?

Thank God I do not always see myself as the sum of my labels today. There are still some days where I wonder how or why I became such a misfit. Why couldn't I have been a "normal" middle class, mid western girl interested in starting a traditional nuclear family and joining the PTA or becoming a Girl Scout leader? If I had, my life would not be nearly as interesting as it is now. I would not have met some of the fabulous people I call my friends today. I would not be open to meeting new people. I don't even use the label "strangers" because I believe that all people are "strange" in their own ways. Today, I do not identify myself as an "overachieving, alcoholic, crazy, bipolar, lesbian" because those labels place a limit on how I am perceived and on who and what I have the potential to become. I'm still smart and I still love to learn. I am sober, for 8 years now. I have bipolar disorder but I am not my illness. That may seem like simple semantics but it is important for me to realize that my mental illness does not define me. Nor does my IQ, my alcoholism, or my sexuality. I refuse to continue to apologize for who I am. I am coming to know God in my own ways. I may not attend church regularly, but I have developed a very spiritual connection with God and pray and meditate daily. I keep a list of things I am grateful for. I volunteer my time to help others in need. I extend the hand of friendship to those who cross my path, no matter what labels they are carrying with them. And most importantly, I am MYSELF! And I kinda like ME today, labels and all.

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?

A Glimpse of Mania

My depression is a whisper.
My mania is a scream,
no, it's a shrill, high pitched shriek.
The kind that hurts a dog's ears
and fractures the stained glass windows
at Pine Village United Methodist Church
early on a Sunday morning
because when I'm manic
I'm up early,
because when I'm manic
I never go to bed.
No, I go to Utah.
Driving on I-70
through Illinois,
Missouri,
Kansas,
Colorado,
stopping briefly in Denver
to call my boss at 5:30 a.m.
and tell her that I quit my job,
effective immediately,
and oh, yes, have a nice day.
The heavy snowfall in Vail
doesn't deter me,
sleet pinging off my windshield
as I belt out Pink's "Family Portrait"
for the 57th time.
It's the only CD I brought
for I packed light.
A wad of cash.
Two cases of bottled water.
Eight bags of marshmallows,
the jumbo ones so I could play chubby bunnies.
And a blanket.
I have no idea where I'm going
but I'll stop when I get there,
have a burger and fries
at a local dive in the middle of the desert,
eating only three bites
and leaving a $50 tip.
I suddenly remember that I have cats.
That's right, my cats, not my family
get me to turn around.
The roads in Kansas
are a solid sheet of ice.
The bunny.
Dammit, the bunny!
SHIT! I ran over him,
so I put my car in park,
grab my blanket,
and crawl across the ice to the bunny.
It never occurred to me that I could be that bunny,
run over by a semi unable to stop on the ice
and when I reach it
I see that it's dead
and I weep.
"Oh God, what have I done?"
I wrap the bunny gently in the blanket
and slide him across the ice
over to my car
and delicately place him on the front seat,
not knowing that when I get back to Indiana
my therapist would reject my offering
and my dad would
throw the rabbit in the dumpster.
For five days and five nights I was gone.
Gone from home.
Gone out of my mind,
spinning wildly, uncontrollably,
jacked up on gas station coffee and menthols.
Wait, why am I buying those?
I don't even smoke.
But, oh, today I do
cuz I am cool!
I am queen of the world!
The weeping over the rabbit
is replaced by maniacal laughter,
raucous laughter
exploding from my lungs and I crank up the bass.
Yes, today I am the obnoxious one,
the one with the bass so loud
that it vibrates the car
and pushes everyone else away.
I am the one.
The savior.
The messiah.
The alpha and the omega.
Nothing can stop me now!
No, it will go on like this
until the crash,
ripped from heaven
and plunged into the depths of hell.
Sleeping for ten hours.
Twelve hours.
Eighteen hours.
Praying the flames will incinerate me
so that my family can go ahead
and have my goddamned funeral,
buy a pretty urn,
place it on the mantle
and stop worrying
about when the next time
I'm going to lose my shit will be.