Mental Health IS Health

I recently posted this on The Book of Face and thought I’d share it here among the dust and tumbleweeds…

~~~~~

Don’t panic.  This ISN’T ABOUT ME.

I mean, it is, but it isn’t.

It’s about what I know of my own experience as a person who has been all up in this mental illness swamp since I was about 6 years old.  I just turned 54.  That’s 48 years for those keeping score.  

I call it The Variety Plate.  Why order just one thing when you can taste ‘em all?  Severe treatment resistant depression, OCD, paranoia, agoraphobia, acrophobia, and claustrophobia are the mains, and why not a little bit of spectrum* sprinkles for garnish.

My brain is constantly trying to kill me.

This is a battle that never ends, will never end, because it isn’t simply experiential…it is also physiical and chemical.  I have yet to meet the medication that works - I run on pure cussed determination and orneriness.  Also caffeine.

Humans have made some strides in understanding and treating mental health, but we have a long way to go before the stigma is banished, and until the stigma is banished and we simply see it as one aspect of health as a whole?  People are going to die.

It’s so easy to get lost in the internal noise, to believe the insidious whispering of a mind intent on its own destruction.  It’s exhausting to keep going, to slog through the existential morrass.  It’s so awfully disheartening to fight culture while fighting dark, internal tides.  We are the butt of jokes.  We are willfully misunderstood by those who don’t want to know better.  We are demonized by those who need excuses.  We are minimized because we are inconvenient.  

We are told to reach out, but in reaching out we are brushed aside or ignored, and we stop reaching.

All that to say this:  Suicide isn’t about wanting to die.  Suicide is about not wanting to keep living this way but not seeing any other way out. 

I know that feeling.  Bone deep.  Deeper.

I’m still here.  I will be here.  Not because it hasn’t gotten bad enough (Someone said that to me, once, and holy crap, don’t fucking do that because seriously?) but because I made a promise, and because nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

May the souls of those who opened that door find peace, and may those who stand at the threshold find the reserves to fight on.

I know I've written quite a bit about depression of late.  I have an idea that it gts boring, reading about it, but in part I post because if there's someone out there who is looking for words, maybe mine will help...and if there's someone out there who is trying to help, maybe these posts will help...and sometimes I need to get things out of my head somehow, and writing about it helps.

So here's another thing about depression.

I had a pretty good day, today.  The Evil Genius is hanging with his father, and Someone offered to hang out with our daughter while I took some time for me.

I spent a few hours with K2, catching up and whatnot.

I found (thanks to K2) a new crochet pattern to try.

I came home and got some dishes done, listened to some music, had a bit of peaceful family time.

And all of a sudden, out of nowhere, for no discernible reason, I felt like I could cry.

In the middle of cooking dinner, I felt overwhelmed by sadness.

As the linguine bubbled in its pot, I felt a sense of futility.

As I stirred the mussels in garlic tomato sauce with white wine, I felt miserable.

As I seasoned and tasted the spinach, I felt empty and useless.

This is depression, the thief of joy, dimmer of color, taker of contentment.

It comes out of nowhere, flies back into nowhere, doesn't give a body a target to aim at, smashes and grabs and disappears, leaving a lingering greyness to life in its wake.

Nothing and no one can cure this.  It is to be endured, survived as best as can be, borne until it fades away for a brief respite.  It doesn't make sense, it can't be reasoned with, there is no logic to it.

I hate it.  I don't hate much or many, but depression?  Yeah...

Knowing What to Call It Doesn't Always Help

It's not always some kind of sadness, depression. Sometimes it's being tired, all kinds of tired, tired to the bone, tired in body, mind and spirit, tired to the point of stupid, tired but sleepless, tired, tired, tired.

Tired of thinking everyone else is tired of hearing it.

Tired of feeling it and talking about it and hearing one's self talking about it.

Tonight, as I write this, I am tired.

I was trying to find a name for what I'm feeling, in this moment. Not just tired, but...something...something else.

It occurred to me, just now, that what I'm feeling, in addition to everything else, on top of everything else, a little louder than anything else, is mourning. I feel as if I am in mourning. So sad, and lost, and as if I have lost something only I don't know what, cannot name it, but it's gone and I won't get it back, and maybe I never had it to begin with.

And there's a loneliness to this mourning because I feel so awfully alone.

As the hours grow later, I feel it more keenly, this isolation, this absence of presence.  It gets heavier and I find it harder to breath, and pretty soon I am squeezed so damned hard that I leak out my eyes, hide my face in my pillow so the strange, strangled, keening cries that lurch out of me in fits and starts don't wake my kids.

And in the morning, I get up and move through the day as if it matters that I do, move through the day in a sort of daze, on auto-pilot, doing the things I should be doing because someone, somewhere, says I should be doing them, and I can't feel anything but this sort of lost, lonely, mourning misery, and no one can see it because I'm that good at hiding it and they don't want to see it or know about it, do they, because it's all so stupid and boring, and what right do I have to feel this way, anyway, shouldn't I be grateful for the life I have?

I can't touch the life I have.  It's all around me and I can't feel it.

I try to remind myself that I'm really better off than so many who feel this but don't know what it is, but you know what?

Knowing this monster that's trying to devour me whole, knowing what it is and what it does?

Doesn't mean a damned thing when it has me in its teeth.

What We Don't Show the World

I can't always remember who I was thirty or more years ago.  I know I was headed down a different road.  I know I wasn't the me I am now.  I know I still carry her in me, carry her hurts and fears and anger and scars.  I know I carry her memories, even as I cannot recall them.

I remember people, and I remember what I thought they thought of me, but I know that my perceptions were skewed and I can't trust them today, but I'm too much a coward to reach out, reach back, and find out what's real and what's figment.

This is what mental illness does to me.

I have such clarity of memory, when I remember.  Little things, scenes, a few words here and there, so crystalline and detailed down to the scent on the wind and the color of the trees and sky, but then when asked if I recall this or that incident, I stare blankly and shake my head - some seminal event is nonexistent in my noggin.

Everything I have experienced since a very young age had been filtered through depression, through shattered self-confidence and negative self-worth, through the tangled and thorny hedgerows around my mind and heart, until it bears no resemblance to its original form.

Still, today, I struggle with receiving information as it is given rather than through all of those horrid, dark, devastating filters.

I must remain honest and open even when I fear that my honesty and openness are costing me happiness, because that happiness would be built on falsehood and I could never trust it.  I must remain honest and open even when I am afraid and want to curl protectively around myself and hide because how can my compassion and love grow if they are kept in the dark?

What we don't always show the world, what we don't always show even those closest to us, is how we tremble within, how terrifying it is to be open, how damaged we feel, how unworthy, how unwanted, how lonely, how lost.  It's too much, too much to ask anyone to understand or bear with, and we've lost so very much, so very many, showing what we don't always show the world.

Still.

There's more to gain, isn't there, in revealing than concealing?

One small step at a time, I will show the world.

A Glimpse

I have a doctor's appointment today.  Nothing untoward, just a simple check-up.

I will make it a multi-purpose trip - the doc is up near mom's place so I'll go wash my shirts in her laundry machine (mine eats my shirts, hers is far kinder to them) while I'm at it.

My brain is screaming at me, telling me to cancel, not to go.

This is nothing unusual.  It is why sometimes I don't listen to my instinct, because my instinct is often irrational.  My instinct is in league with my Variety Plate and cannot always (or even often) be trusted.

Don't get me wrong, when it comes to confrontation or real, imminent danger,my instinct doesn't mess around.  It does a good job and, when I don't ignore it, saves me a good deal of grief.  But I am not currently in imminent danger.  What is wrong is, I have to leave the house.

Going to the doctor for a simple check-up begins with an internal fight the moment the appointment is made.  A small voice tells me "That's a bad day to go, you should cancel" as soon as I walk out of the office.  Then, as the day approaches (and it's every six months I go, so there's lots of approach), my mind tells me all kinds of things that mean I'm too busy to go.  When I refuse to cancel, things escalate.  I start to think about my horrible diet and how I am not at all practicing self care and he's going to yell at me.  By the time it's the day of the appointment ohmygosh I have to leave the house help help help I am, internally a mess.  The xenophobia and agoraphobia kick in and I don't even want to go into the garage, let alone all the way out into the world.This appointment is going to suck.  I have not taken my meds as I should.  I have eaten and drunk many things that I shouldn't.  This is part of a self-destructive cycle, and it will mean I shall be chastised by the doctor (who is really a terribly nice fellow and very good at his avocation and I did warn him that I am a difficult patient at best).  The cycle has to stop.  The way I am eating, the way I am living, will kill me.

So today I am fighting with myself.  No kidding, my heart is pounding!  I wasn't always like this.  Depression, yes, and then OCD and paranoia, but this...this...anxiety...is only a couple of decades old.  It's probably the youngest of the things on the plate.  It is mighty big sometimes, and vigorous, and just going to the grocery store can feel like a trial.  Leaving the house to be confronted by my own actions?  Too much.

My new shrink says I have anxiety and depression with a psychotic element (but I'm harmless, really!!!) (it's the paranoia, my old and faithful bugaboo, that is the element, in case you wondered) and my counselor is helping me sort it all out, but I have to leave the house to make things better.

My brain doesn't seem to grasp that logic and is screaming at me as I type that I have other things I need to do and can't I just this once reschedule and look, the sky may fall at any moment and people are horrid and there is gun violence and religious hatred and politicians run rampant in the streets and...and...pant...pant...pant...

My mind goes around and around and gnaws on itself, and this is constant, constant, every damned day, exhausting and occasionally overwhelming, and it's all internal so nobody sees it and it's easy to dismiss as not-real, irrelevant, because the cracks and leakage and rubble from past tussles are all in my head but if you could see in there, just catch a glimpse, it would rival any photograph of war-torn landscape you've ever seen!

I know it's not real.  It feels real enough, but I know it isn't.  It is my imagination on steroids.  It is the voice of the child I was who had no control over what others did to her, said to her, made her do.  It is the voice of fear trying to shatter the seemingly fearless shell I wear and I cannot let it win, not today.  Other days I can choose to change plans and stay in bed or curled up on the lounge with my kids watching movies, but today I can't.  Today I have to gird up my loins (which sounds much nicer than "suck it up, buttercup") and adult.

I don't want to adult.

I don't want to do anything.

Up and at 'em.

February

It's February.  Duck and cover.

I'll be in the corner in a blanket fort eating gummi bears with my fingers in my ears hollering "La, la, la, la, la, la, la!!!" at the top of my lungs until March, at least.

Today was bad.  Tomorrow will be worse.  By the end of the month, horrid will be the new happy.

Seriously, I haven't got any fucks to give.

Depression.  Whee.

Forshadowing

One thing about depression is, it's always there.  Every minute, every day, even on the very best of days.  It colors everything, flavors it.  It may be quieter on some days, less noticeable, but it's there in the background.

On bad days...well...it's a screaming mess of dark neon lights flashing strobe-like in your eyes, screaming insults and epithets in your brain, rasping at you like a newly sharpened file wearing you down into dust.

Part of the trouble with good days is that people think you're fine, you must be, you're having a good day.  Maybe a string of them.  And no one wants to hear that the good day is, in part, an illusion.

And the bad days?  You know, after a while, no one wants to hear about the bad days.  It's always the same old thing, and it gets boring fast...and that's if you're experiencing it.  From the outside?  It must be about as much fun as watching paint dry.  Over and over again.

So we learn to shut up and smile and do our best to fake our way through it.

Me?

I'm hurting.  It's bad.  Lots of reasons why.  Lots of things feeding it.  I spend hours struggling to breathe.  I don't cry in front of the kids and I try hard to make sure this monster that's trying to eat me alive isn't turning on them, too. I am cold, I am tired, and I am lonely...and there's no end in sight.

Yup, it's January, rolling on towards February, and I'm fighting my brain and its chemistry knowing that this?  This is not the worst of it.  That'll hit in a few weeks, right on schedule.  Hold on tight, self, it's going to be one hellaciously bumpy ride.

Wherein I Whine A Bit Despite Knowing There Are Worse Things Happening In the World

Encore, je suis Charlie.

But I am also me, and "me" is dangling from the end of her rope and wondering why the hell she keeps hanging on or trying to climb back up it.  I think somebody has greased it about halfway up so I'll keep slipping down again.

My throat hurts.  It feels like there are rocks in it when I swallow, and even when I am simply sitting still, breathing, it burns.  I swear, I feel like I could breathe flames.  I have a cough.  It's not productive, unless you consider causing an achy back, sore muscles, sore ribs (I don't care if they say bones can't hurt, my ribs HURT!), a seriously displeased neck, inability to sleep, and occasionally making me pee a little when I don't want to (Ain't motherhood grand?)(Yes.  Yes it is.) productive...except in the morning when my sinuses have had all night to quietly, sneakily, drip, drip, drip their drippy drippings into my lungs, so as soon as I get up there is a sort of glacier-like sheet of I-don't-want-to-know-what-it-is coating them that brings on a spate of hacking that may or may not loosen up all that gunk and exacerbates the whole throat situation.

My spirit is dented, dinged, dingy, and dark.  Depression has me in its teeth and is shaking me, a dog with a rat, and I don't have time to deal with it - I am, for all intents and purposes, a single mother with two active, bright, annoyingly healthy (No, I don't wish them ill, not at all, not one little bit!) children, no income, chores to do, animals to care for, and responsibilities that I cannot hand off to anyone else.  I'm not getting much sleep at night, I am constantly feeling chilled or downright cold, and lately I am as stiff and a board when I move.  I am feeling The Beiges keenly right now, which means I am acutely aware of just how little I am worth to the world at large (despite assurances that I am wrong, I can't help what I feel, I can only help what I do about those feelings).  I am also feeling heightened anxiety when going out into the world, and am struggling to keep myself up and moving rather than huddled under my blankets and telling everyone and everything to piss off.  Mental illness is not a picnic, and right now it's kicking my ass a little.

I was supposed to pay my phone bills this week but the money disappeared.  Not "disappeared" as in I spent it on frivolous or even necessary things, but "disappeared" as in it was there last night and this morning it is not.  Seriously.  It was in my pants pocket when I took 'em off one night, and two days later when I put the pants back on (don't panic, I was getting dressed, just wearing different pants those days) so I could go pay my bills, it was gone.  Not in the pants.  Not on the floor.  Not under the furniture.  Not in any room or closet or cupboard or cubby or bag or box or shelf or sink or toilet or bedroom.  Not in the kitchen.  Not in the garage.  Not in the van, or the van, or the truck.  Not in one of my kids' room.  Not in any of the pockets of any of my other pants, nor in Someone's pants.  Somehow, $240 managed to disappear into thin air.  All I can figure it is fell out of my pocket when I was at the grocery store, but if it dd and someone found it, they kept it, because I called and asked and no one has turned anything in.  So...I am piggybacking on a neighbor's Internet until they figure out they should password protect it, and hoping I can sweet talk the phone company into not turning off my cell phone...too late for the house and Internet...and I'm supposed to feel like I'm not useless how, exactly?

The world has gone mad.  People are killing other people over gods and prophets because apparently those gods and prophets are so weak and useless that satire and disbelief damage them and must therefor be punished.  People are killing other people because of who the other people love, because apparent;y love is dangerous and could spread and then people might be happy, gods forbid.  People are killing other people because the other people think or look or act differently.  People are killing other people...

A long, long, long, loooooooong time ago I tied a knot in the end of my rope.  I won't let go and I won't fall off...but my figurative arms and my figurative hands are awfully tired of hanging on.

The Well

I don't always write well. Heck, if you listen to my inner critic (who sounds remarkably like my grandmother), I don't ever write well. It's OK...I don't always listen to my inner critic - she thinks I should wear makeup and actually give a damn about my clothing and how my hair looks. Pfft.

I believe that my best words come from the same place as my deepest sorrow. It's a dark place, this source; it's the same place where all of my creativity is born. Diving into this source is painful - it's cold and cutting, slicing shadows and serrated-toothed monsters gnashing and slashing as I sink into the depths hoping for one more spark, one more bit of brilliance to polish up and present apologetically to the world in hopes it will meet with approval.

I can see why artists and writers (who are also artists, in my opinion) have been known to drink or do drugs - sometimes it's tremendously difficult to face that place again, knowing what I have to pass through to get to what may (or may not) be the good stuff. I can understand wanting to dull the senses, silence the voices...or to enhance them, bring them into sharper focus, brighten them until they are painfully clear and almost - but not quite - surreal. Through ferment or chemical haze, things can be seen...differently...and may be easier to bear.

It's dangerous, though, going into the source while...altered. I prefer to face it, ugly or transcendent as it may be, on my own, as myself, in my own mind (while I can't ever claim it's my right mind, it is my own). I prefer to know that I can, eventually, find my way out again.

For that reason, and because my depression and other side dishes on the variety plate come from the same place as what little creativity I possess, I do not take medication to treat the illness. I did so for a time and lost my essential self. I found that, for me, the cure was worse than the disease - I needed to see the world through these disillusioned eyes, to see it without the hazy, rose-colored filter of chemical wellness. I needed to be miserable, to know that when I was...when I am...happy, it's real and not thanks to Eli Lilly and company.

When medicated, I cannot reach my source. I can feel it there, I just can't touch it. That is unacceptable to me. I need to be able to go back in at will.

Sometimes it's exhausting, and at the end of the journey there's nothing to show for it but a shivering psyche and empty hands. In truth, most of the time I have to ask myself if it was worth the trouble.

Once in a while, though...I find something I think to be golden, and for that reason I will return, again and again.

The well is murky and deep, and I willingly plumb its depths for the glimmering bits I may find at the bottom - they may not be worth anything to anyone else, but they're treasures to me.

Guilt, Anger, Depression, Conflagration, Ash

Believe it or not, dear reader, I am a card-carrying fire fighter.

No, really.

Granted, the card has expired. Granted, if you read it it would tell you that I am certified by the state of Georgia in Race Track fire fighting and only in Race Track fire fighting - but I had to take classes and pass tests and put out fires to get it, and did so every year (even though I only had to go every two years for re-certification) for nearly two decades until the program was discontinued due to re-interpretation of the law concerning track safety and fire fighting certification.

Ahem.

So.

In these classes, I learned many interesting and a few useful things. I learned, for example, how to make ducks sink in perfectly normal looking water, and also how said ducks will look very surprised when their buoyancy is suddenly nil. I learned that the Peabody Hotel is not amused by sinking ducks.

I learned that anything can be made to burn given the right conditions.

I also learned about the fire triangle.

You see, fire needs three things to live - heat, fuel, and oxygen. Take away one of those three, and no fire. Add to one of them, and you get more fire.

Guilt, anger, and depression lead to fugue. Fugue is an unpleasant place to be. Guilt feeds the anger, which in turn feed the depression, which in turn feed the guilt...and...fugue. Around and around we go, and it doesn't stop until something is taken away. Taking something out of this triangle, however, isn't as easy as pulling the pin, aiming the extinguisher (called "fire bottle" around here) and letting 'er rip.

Nope.

With the fugue triangle, it takes an act of will (far more powerful than an act of Congress), often combined with an outside factor, to extinguish the state.

This last Sunday, we had here at Casa de Crazy what I could call a perfect storm of guilt, anger, and depression, leading to one of us trying to make a permanent Kyddryn-sized lump on the bed and another of us wondering "What the Hell?"

I feel guilt. I don't think I deserve to be loved, and I don't like feeling like my love is a burden. I don't like feeling as though my love makes anyone else feel guilty because they feel responsible for or to me. Don't try to make sense of it - I experience it all the time and I can't make sense of it. The guilt turns into anger - what's up with the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally from birth but can't be bothered? Fuck them!! Then depression - why am I so useless, so worthless, why can't I get anything right...? It's an over-simplification, but you get the point.

Adding to this feelings fiesta is an oddment of rather large size - Someone and I have a peculiar kind of synchronicity going on. If I'm experiencing peaks or valleys, chances are he is too. We don't necessarily set each other off...and we try very hard not to feed each other's fugues...but we sure do experience them together. Understanding, having empathy for, this kind of thing can be nearly as rough as being knee-deep in the middle of the swamp. So when I'm having a vary bad day and Someone is having a vary bad day...well, we have conflagration.

We have sharp words and hurt feelings and mis-or-non-communication, and we have two grown people who are sudden;y not speaking to each other because neither one of them is acting with any sense...because when you're in fugue? There's not making sense.

So on Sunday I wrote while Someone took himself out of the house and off into the city to see what he could see. When he came home, we tried to kick one of the legs off of the triangle and set things right, but our fugues got in the way and we ended up in separate rooms feeling separate feelings and dealing with them in separate ways.

Until Someone decided enough was enough. Enough darkness in Casa de Crazy. He plugged in the Yule tree, lit our last altar candle, came and found the Kyddryn-lump on the bed and...touched my hand.

That was all I needed...just that little bit of contact, that one touch, to remind me...I am loved. I am wanted. I am needed. I have purpose. Maybe I fuck up...but show me someone who doesn't and I'll show you someone with a closet full of festering mistakes they'd like to pretend don't exist. His touch grounded me, brought me back from where I'd been stuck all day.

Then I found an in-box full of e-mails from people who wanted to know what was up and how they could help and did I require medicating or brownies or what??

Tremendous kindness was shown, by people from all over the place...and I thank you all for it.

I can't, and won't, say it'll never happen again...it's in my nature to crash, and crash hard...but I hope it's not soon, and I'll be eternally grateful for the folks who ran underneath to catch a falling woman this time around.

And Someone? I don't ever doubt your love...thank you for the lights, and for finding whatever you needed within yourself to make that first contact because I just couldn't. Thank you for bringing me Home.

Sigh

I'm having one of those days.

You know...the kind of day where you can feel the world outside pressing in on you, just waiting to cave in and smother you? You don't? Huh...

It's the kind of day that looks beautiful on the surface...sun shining, gentle breeze, clear sky, clean air, gorgeous early Autumn...the kind of day when one should be outside frolicking (or at the very least, cleaning the van or the garage or some other outdoor activity).

I have errands to run...we're out of laundry detergent and I have to pay the water bill, and the outside kitties want feeding. The mail is waiting to be collected, and I need to send out the Evil Genius's attendance form for September. I've been cleaning out the Sprout's room, and there's a bag of too-broken-to-fix, recyclable toys to carry down to the trash, and I need to fill at least one bin with things for the yard sale and one with things to take to Mum's for Bird to play with when we're there. The bins are in the garage, though.

I'm supposed to go on a date with Someone tonight - I managed to score tome advance-screening tickets for Secretariat, and as I'm a girl and grew up horse-crazy, it should be a fine way to spend the evening. Mum's even coming down to babysit.

But I just know that as soon as I set foot outside this house, it'll all come crashing in on me. The sky will fall. The Universe will collapse. I have difficulty breathing when I think about it.

Sigh.

Sometimes the Crazy isn't any fin at all.

Out of the Blue

I had an interesting e-mail today.

"I thought you’d be interested to read and share with your readers this Guideposts story..."

Huh? Has this person read my blog? And, umm...isn't Guideposts a Christian magazine? Have they not noticed that I'm not only not Christian, I am very much pagan?

"...written by actress Glenn Close. She talks about her attempts to help remove the stigma from mental illnesses by talking openly about people affected by them as well as their families’ struggles..."

Oooohhh...

Yeah.

About that...

Seems being nuttier than a Claxton fruitcake gets a body noticed.

So I read the article, and Glen Close owes me a tissue. It's only fair, she made me cry.

See, the thing is...I've been about as open as I could be about my variety-plate of crazy. Not only do I not hide it, I crack jokes about it and try very hard to make some of my...erm...quirks...useful. Wait, you mean you don't think having an OCD housekeeper would be useful? Dang...

One of the thoughts I had while reading the piece (which isn't awfully long or preachy, contains some interesting facts and poses a few good questions about the social stigma of nuttery) was about treatment...about people who receive it successfully and people who don't.

I'm glad there are folks out there who benefit from medication and modern treatment options. I don't. Meds don't do anything for me besides take away that which I consider to be most me...my creativity. It seems that my own brand of crazy shares the wellspring with whatever artistry I can lay claim to (and some days, I have to admit, I can't claim much)(most days, in truth).

I also had the thought...what if I can't get better? What if I have become so wrapped up in these conditions that they're how I identify myself? What if I can't be anything but the me I am now? What if sometimes, the idea of not feeling this way is terrifying and leaves me feeling lost instead? How depressing. And yet...

I'm oddly lucky. I've had a lifetime of my conditions. I know when what I'm feeling is true, is real, and when it's a figment of misfiring neurons and chemistry gone awry. That doesn't change the hurt, confusion, or frustration that I frequently feel...but somehow, knowing the source help me. I know I can weather it, because I have weathered it since I was a child. It may beat me down, but I'm never entirely beaten.

Which doesn't make it any easier. And while I'm blessed with a host of wonderful friends and several family members who are patient, compassionate, and understanding about my weirdness, most folks aren't so lucky. There are plenty of people...probably a few in your own life (and here's a hint - if you can't find the crazy person in the room, find a mirror instead....it may be you) who are hiding what they're experiencing and trying very hard to paste a facade of normalcy onto their lives because they fear being outcast, shunned, or otherwise stigmatized.

I have long held that depression (and other psychological conditions, too) is like emotional cancer, eating a person alive, riddling them with its sickness. It's not always survivable. And unlike cancer, which has causes, which has walks and runs and pink ribbons and fundraisers and survivors and sufferers who share their triumphs and tragedies publicly, mental illness is still largely a secret, remaining hidden in the shadows. We're still burdened with not only our conditions, but with shame...shame for something we can't control any more than someone with MS or Parkinson's can control their illnesses.

I applaud Ms. Close and her efforts to help open the doors and windows of the house of crazy, to let in light and air and stir the cobwebs and dust out of the corners. I wish her well in her endeavors.

On bad days, yeah, I struggle to breathe, to keep on moving forward on my life's path...I feel sorrow and pain and am ashamed because I am a burden, worthless, useless, pointless...

On my better days, I don't suffer from insanity...I enjoy every minute of it.

Either way, I've never been one to shut up about it...because it's part of who I am, part of how I live my life, like missing a finger or having a stutter, or tasting the color orange...as much a part of me as anything else.

So if you didn't click the link (provided several time above), here's one more chance. And then, if you feel like it and haven't been bored to tears already, check out my own take on the crazies by looking at the variety plate.

Oh...and I may be crazy, but I also have a long memory. Next time Ms. Close and I are lunching (yeah, that'll happen), I hope she brings a hankie...or at least one of those little pocket packs of Kleenex...

It's OK If You Don't Read This...

...I wouldn't blame you if you didn't.
~~~~~

There are times I curse this sickness
turn my face skyward and loose soundless howls to the heavens
stare into the grey beyond for endless hours
oblivious to the rest.

Fuck.

31 years.

Back and forth we've gone, this sickness and me, since I was a child.

31 years, closing in on 32...

Double fuck.

So long, so deep, so present has it been in my life,
I have very few memories of a time before.

Was there a time before it colored everything,
coated it all in this residue of sorrow?

There must have been,
because I remember
how it poured slowly over the horizon
a stain in the light that no one else saw
sticky
cloying
suffocating
creeping closer and closer
until it covered all the world.

The cure, for me
is worse than the disease
erasing
negating
my Self.

I lose me
and while I may not like me
sometimes even hate me
I don't want to be anyone else
because better the me I know
that the one I don't

So I endure.

And here I am, enduring...
when I should be rejoicing...

I am in love...and loved...

I have a brilliant son
and beloved friends
and am packing even now for a cruise with Mum
ten days in the Caribbean

but it just doesn't matter

and I can't seem to care

can't seem to feel anything

but this futility.

Fuck.

I hate, hate, hate feeling useless, worthless,
though I may be
I don't have to like the feeling
the knowing

Ignorance is bliss.

I am not ignorant.

Double fuck.

I want to cry all day
but instead
paste on a smile
and pretend
it's OK
because it's not
but why should anyone else have to suffer
or deal with
my stupid misfiring neurons?

Double, double fuck, fuck, fuckery.

The Secret Place

Lantern in hand, I open the door and stare into the musty, murky dark. The light doesn't penetrate the gloom; it is a living thing, winding around itself serpentine-like, not quite hissing but more of a hushing muffle that devours sound as well as the light.

There are stairs. Sometimes they are grand, majestic marble that glows and show the way. Sometimes they are simple wooden steps. Sometimes they are whole, sometimes half-rotted, ready to crumble. They are clean, or covered in the grime of ages.

Just now, they are stone; sturdy, not too filthy, maybe a little mossy. They'll hold me as I descend. There is no railing. There is never a railing - I must make my way down and back up again under my own aegis.

I leave the lantern behind - I know the futility of it, and it's better I should have my hands empty, open, ready to catch me if I fall or to receive whatever comes out of the deeper-than-night space below.

It's a secret place. A secret room. No one comes here save through me. It is at once full and empty, cluttered with years of flotsam, jetsam - but always expanding to hold more. There is a pool shining with dark light in one corner, where the tears flow. No matter where the silver drops fall, they end in the pool. There are things that drink from the pool, things that thrive in it. They wait, eager for the next inflow, and we all know I will oblige them; if not today, then tomorrow.

There are memories stuffed into drawers, sprawling on counter tops. They are loud, insistent. I see me, little girl, hearing the poison words pouring from someone's lips, telling me how stupid and useless I am. I believed them then, and I believe them still. It is not a rational place.

Older, answering the door, no one home but myself...and he knew, timed his visit perfectly to coincide with the absence of his neighbor/friend (Mum, often gone because she was a single mother struggling to raise two kids...largely along) and his son's best friend (Big Brother). It is not a comfortable place.

Other things, equal in unpleasant flavor and tenor, waiting for my inner eye to fall on them, to wake them. Sometimes I can manage to forget for hours, days, and once I did not think on them for years. They were still there, though, pulling my strings - better to remember and know why some parts of the waking world are so unwelcome.

In another corner, a chest of old and broken dreams - the ones that fell and shattered and could not be pieced back together or remade into some other thing. I can no more throw them away than I can be rid of my fingers, or the memory of multiplying by nines.

Here and there, flitting from one place to another, restless and seeking egress into reality, are the dreams left behind sound, but unattainable. These are not real things; they are, in every sense of the word, haunts.

As soon as I step from the staircase, they rush me - some are happy for my company, but most are simply reminding me of themselves, of the very real delusions they represent. They are frighteningly solid, especially when I come down in dreams - for some reason, remembering in the waking world, be it day or night, doesn't give them much to feed on.

Dreams, though - dreams are fodder for deeper stuff.

There's the red-headed child who was my daughter (only she never was because...she never was). She used to wait for me to fall asleep before tormenting me with her laugh, her eyes, her irrepressible spirit. She took years to relegate to the secret place, years of waking and crying and going back to sleep because nothing quite compares to knowing that a very real soul is showing herself to you, inviting you to bring her to life, and knowing that it won't be you who does it...but you can't help wanting to, and if dreaming is all you get of her sweetness, well...

There's the stranger who is no stranger, except I don't know his face or name. I know his touch. I know the solid comfort of his presence behind me as we face the world in contentment. I know our life together, years of it rolling behind us, our history. I know how tall he is, how he smells, the sound of his voice, the weight of his hand upon my shoulder and the warmth of him as he holds me wrapped in his arms. He is the other part of me, and we have never met except in dreams. Awake, I am bereft - though I am often a human space-heater, when I dream of him I wake chilled to the core, and it can take months to shake the spell of his presence...his presence entirely in my mind. Sometimes I wonder - is there someone out there in the blue nowhere who has dreams from the other perspective? Does he dream of a woman he doesn't know, whose face he never sees but whose laugh is as familiar to him as his own?

Dear goddess, I half hope not, because it's a kind of hell to feel torn in half for no reason other than a figment...worse if is was real, some oddity in space/time that connects us in dreams but denies us our waking hours.

There is the woman I was going to be, until I turned another way. She is legion.

Sometimes, she is corpulent, wheezing, gasping for breath, struggling to move. She eats, and the filth of her dining is strewn across her vast expanse, crumbs and stains, a history in leftovers dribbling down her front. I hate her. I hate her greasy hair, her stink, and the way she laughs; her laugh grates, a throat full of gravel, a laugh without mirth, full of bitterness and mockery.

She is a swimmer, wide shouldered, fit. She slices through the water stroke after stroke, relentless and powerful. She is not fast, but she has endurance, and she doesn't have much to say to me - mostly she stares at me, puzzled, before returning to her endless laps.

There is the singer. She has been through the grinder - chorus, always chorus, scrabbling for every tiny part, practicing endlessly, audition after audition, all the while enduring the daggers thrust into her by every other vocalist after the same tiny piece of music. She is tired but her voice is still strong - failure is not an option. She has her small solos, and the young ones following up the ladder whisper, scheme, make their plans to oust her and take her place. It can be a cruel world, stage music.

There is the writer. She lives alone, content with her solitude. She writes, she gardens, she walks in the rain, the sun, the snow, through the woods, up the mountain, fords the stream, and she revels in all of it. The world is her lover, her love.

There are others.

They swarm.

They wound.

I don't come down here lightly, willingly. I am compelled. Who wants to see what they could have been, especially when they hate what they are? I am no masochist - I'd just as soon leave all of it boxed neatly, taped and labelled in the basement, sanitized, for someone else to find when I am gone.

At least this time, I haven't tripped, stumbled, tumbled to the bottom and landed hard, seeing stars and fighting to stand up before they weigh me down beyond my ability to rise.

How I get down there isn't as important, though, as how long I remain, and how swift I may ascend again.

If I am less than warm or welcoming, if I am not cheerful in disposition or active with my words, if I do not walk out into Blogopolis with my accustomed frequency, it is because I am fully in the secret place, the basement, the internal darkness, and am finding my way out again. As always, I will muddle through somehow...and hopefully, I will not have sent anyone running with whatever madness slipped through the door before I could close and lock it once more.
~~~~~

If you made it this far through my self-indulgent maundering, thank you.

There are fires gobbling their way through people's homes, their towns, their lives and dreams, in California. If you pray, spare one for the strangers who are experiencing Dante's vision as they hurry to evacuate just in front of flaming chaos. Spare one for the people who stand and fight conflagration - they know the terrible beauty of the raging blaze, and they strive to kill it even as they love it.

More on depression.

I've written about this before, but I didn't include some things because the post was too freakin' long as it was. Here, then, are some more thoughts on something that generates a lot of thinking. This is how I usually try to explain this particular item on the Variety Plate:

Depression is rather like a mucky swamp. You don't even always notice what you're walking into, until you're up to your boobs in the mire. Then, you look around, and it stinks and is dirty, and you're in the middle of all the greyness and being crushed by the ooze, which makes it bloody hard to make out where to go to get out of there.

So what's a gal to do?

It's easiest, from the perspective of the one lost in all of it, to just give in and sink. But...easiest isn't best, from the perspective of everyone who loves you and wants you, muck and all, in their lives. People who love you, really love you, don't mind a bit of mud on the carpet when you've had to come such a long way to see them. Even when the long way is a typewritten sorrowful cry of frustration and pain.

Life is full of people who love you. And full of clean, fresh water. And people who've had to make their way out of the same mess you're mired in now.

The thing is...yeah, it's easier to give in and sink, when you don't see a way out...but...if you're willing, you can work out of it. Of course, I only know the hard way out - pick a direction and keep walking until you're out of it. I can't trust medication, myself, because it tends to kill what I value most in me, my creativity, so I just have to slog through it until it's done. Sometimes it's done quickly, in a day or two - and sometimes it takes a year or more. I promise you this - you get back onto firm ground eventually. It does end. Really. I only hope that for most folks the path is a shorter and easier one, that they've come through the worst of it and are on their way to clearer days.

It does end. You just pick a direction and keep slogging, and the swamp ends. It just...takes a little longer, sometimes. And sometimes, people decide it isn't worth it and they build stilt houses and settle on in...but no one should have to hunker down in that misery if they don't want. Who wants to be sucked dry by someone else's emotional mosquitos??

And something I've said before, when someone mentions that they aren't medicating, or are medicating, or are being questioned by others about how they are treating their depression:

Doubting your choices and lifestyle are only normal. Living with them takes courage and perseverance. Please, though, don't let sorrow dictate how, or who, you are, or what you do with yourself or you life. It is, after all, your life to live.

Expanding on some...you know the drill...

I've been meaning to write this for a while, but life (and other, far more amusing topics) kept getting in the way. This morning, however, I find myself with an urge to write (but not productively, like, say, on one of the elleventy-million stories I should be finishing)(Or the query letter I was supposed to have written and sent out before the end of January), and no specific incident with which to bore you dear reader. So we return to the variety plate. Huzzah!

But first, the usual disclaimer type thingie.

Warning: This isn't sweetness and light. It may well contain TMI, strong language and adult themes...but not the fun kind. Read on at your own peril.

Right, on with the show.

Today's item on the variety plate is paranoia. Whee!

The stereotypical definition of paranoia is the belief that everyone is out to get you. Here's an explanation I found useful: The term paranoia was used by Emil Kraepelin to describe a mental illness in which a delusional belief is the sole or most prominent feature. In his original attempt at classifying different forms of mental illness, Kraepelin used the term pure paranoia to describe a condition where a delusion was present, but without any apparent deterioration in intellectual abilities and without any of the other features of dementia praecox, the condition later renamed schizophrenia. Notably, in his definition, the belief does not have to be persecutory to be classified as paranoid, so any number of delusional beliefs can be classified as paranoia. For example, a person who has the sole delusional belief that he is an important religious figure would be classified by Kraepelin as having 'pure paranoia'

See? It's not all "They're out to get me!!" Some times it's "They're out to worship me!" Or in my case "They're staring at me and think I'm awful."

Yep. It's a contributing factor to my agoraphobia - I really don't like people looking at me. I'm always afraid they think I'm fat, ugly, stupid, or whatever the negative self image du jour is. Mostly it's about how I never look good. Bad hair, no makeup, overweight, unflattering clothing, whatever. If I'm in a public place and I hear people whispering, I automatically presume that they're whispering about me. Laughter? Laughing at me. Yep. So it's an egotistical thing too. Come to think of it, most mental illnesses require a large ego or a chunky dose of self-centeredness.

In a way, believing that people think you look awful and are whispering, pointing, and laughing at you all the time is a bit freeing. If you are utterly convinced that you look bad no matter what, then why bother with makeup? Or worry about fashion? I mean, if everything you try is a failure in the looks department, why not just forget about it and just be comfortable? Whew! I found a way to make it work for me.

I grew my hair long because I like it that way. I stopped worrying about how others might think it looked because I don't care any more. I think that they think it looks awful no matter what I do, so I suit myself. I dye it blue at the tips because I like blue. I wear it down, back, or up depending on the heat, humidity, and my own weird mood. I really don't care what convention, fashion, or my fellow humans think, any more.

Makeup? You're kidding, right? Hah! I wear makeup on stage, sometimes, but even there I can't often be bothered. I'm up there to sing, not be seen. It's the voice that matters, and I am surrounded by beautiful people who have way more flare than I...so they can shine and I'll just be happy to make music.

Fashion? Again I say...hah! I get to wear what I want because I already know that people think I look bad. So if I am going to look bad all the time, I may as well do so in comfort. Blue jeans or maybe a floor-length skirt in blue or black and a sarong shirt are my standard wear. The skirt is for formal occasions. Crocs or Teva sandals on my feet, and I'm good to go.

This member of the variety plate, I know the source. I can tell you right where it cam from - something my grandmother told me when I was a kid. I was going outside to play in the yard, and she stopped me and chastised me for...well, to be honest, I probably looked like a kid about to go outside and play. You know...hair looking like hair, blue jeans, t-shirt, sneakers. She told me I looked awful, and then lectured me on how people are always going to be looking at me and judging me, and how I should always look perfect and never do anything to give a negative impression. I should always be neat, tidy, and lady-like. I should always look perfect, and if I didn't then people wouldn't like me or want me around them. Good grief, y'all, I was all of thirteen!

I'd like to know how I was supposed to manage all that supposed perfection while horseback riding, playing tennis, swimming, or any of the other pursuits I was supposed to...pursue...because that's what well-bred kids did. Oh, wait...my cousin did it, so I should too, and if I couldn't then I just had to try harder. No pressure or anything, though.

This helpful little diatribe grew into my weird belief that everyone is watching me, making my skin crawl, taking me apart and finding all my flaws with their eyes.

And yet...I get up on stage. In a busy season, I may perform up to ten concerts with my band. This year, we have three events booked, one of which will almost certainly require two concerts and several smaller performances at workshops, meetings, and such. We may perform every day for a week. In front of people. Who will be watching us.

Music trumps paranoia.

I'm really lucky - I found a benefit to this little side item on the plate, in that I no longer worry how I look and may now live a comfortable life free of the concerns of cosmetics, fashion, or social norms. It doesn't keep me from happily singing with, for, and in front of others. It's only a problem in new or really crowded places, where other things contribute to psychological discomfiture, and I can usually ignore it anyway. Occasionally I can even enjoy being unselfconsciously myself. How many "normal" people can say that?

Expanding on some thoughts, part three of...well, you know...

Warning: This isn't sweetness and light. It may well contain TMI. It does contain strong language and adult themes...but not the fun kind. Read on at your own peril.

Speaking of phobias...

I have a few. Obviously not spiders, snakes, or other creepy-crawlies. I don't fear anything nature made - not fire, not volcanoes, not floods or wombats or hurricanes or tornadoes, not earthquakes or mudslides or rivers or dingo attacks...nope, none of that. No, my fears are more related to the human side of things. In no particular order they are: xenophobia, claustrophobia, acrophobia, and agoraphobia.

Xenophobia is a fear of people. OK, that's a simplification, but in my case, it's what's pertinent. I used to love people. When I was a child, I would hug anyone, loved chatting with and listening to folks, loved being among them. Then I experienced a series of events that quashed that friendly nature. I withdrew, making the conscious decision to stop associating with the things that brought me shame, pain, and fear. This fear of people grew with the careful ministrations of my grandmother...I know she meant well, but you really shouldn't tell a young child that people are judging her and she's never good enough, and blah, blah, blah. Now, I don't like people looking at me. Not one little bit. Hey, I'm fat...that would be reason enough not to want to go into public! I don't like meeting new people, having to open myself up to more judgement and censure. People scare the whey out of me; I break into a cold sweat, having to go out in public or meet someone new. This goes hand-in-hand with another item on the variety plate, but I'll get into that another time. Aren't you thrilled?? It's not rational, but there you go...fear never is. How do I deal with this? I am a musician. I go up on stage and I sing. On stage. Where people are not just looking...they are staring. On stage. Up. Perform. Me. You can't let the fear win. And the music is stronger than the fear. Thank you, Goddess.

Claustrophobia is a fear of small spaces. Lots of people have this to varying degrees. I think mine is relatively mild. I am uncomfortable in small spaces. Elevators make me nervous...I worry that the cable will snap, it will crash to the basement, and I'll end up with broken legs and have to be hauled out by twenty big, burly firemen who aren't wearing any shirts because it's hot down there and...wait, is that a fear or a fantasy?? Seriously, I do worry that the little box will crash. I didn't have this fear as much when I wasn't so big. It's weight related. You pack on more than a hundred extra pounds, get teased about being a ten-ton-Tessie who'll get stuck places, and see if you don't have a concern about things like the seats being too small, the elevator giving out, or the escalator groaning to a stop. How do I deal with this one? I get on the elevator anyway, or take the stairs. I'm probably better off hiking up, anyway.

Acrophobia is a fear of heights. Again, mild one for me. Some folks can't be two floors up without being ill. I used to climb trees. I loved climbing trees. All the way to the top. There was an old Hemlock in New Hampshire that was my best friend for a few years. I miss that tree. I liked going all the way up and swaying with him, being there in the quiet with the whispering branches and the sweet, gentle breeze. I went skiing. I lost the feeling in my feet on a regular basis because I would ski every minute I could. Downhill, anyway...cross-country just didn't appeal to me. I loved the mountain tops, all the snow, looking out and down and seeing Lake Winnepesauki (I have no idea how badly I mangled that spelling) and the slopes below me. I wasn't great at it, but I stayed up far more than I fell down, so I guess I have some bragging rights. I loved flying, especially from the mainland to Martha's Vineyard in those little puddle-jumpers. Every seat is a window seat! It was exhilarating. I lost that joy somewhere around the two-hundred pound mark, when an offhand comment about how they'd have to adjust the way the luggage was stored to offset my weight for balance hit me square in the ego. I stopped skiing...what if the lift couldn't handle my weight? I stopped mountain climbing...what if I couldn't make it across a skinny spot in the trail? I stopped climbing trees...what if the tree branches broke, or the tree fell? Now I won't even go up a ladder without serious forethought. And never up higher than a chair's height. Except when I go up Stone Mountain on the gondola, or ride a roller-coaster, or change a light bulb, or whatever. Sometimes I even walk to the edge of the precipice and look over, just because I don't want to. Can't let the fear win, remember? I'll go skiing again when I manage to drop a hundred pounds or so and won't worry about starting an avalanche when I go ass-over-teakettle. I still won't go up on the roof, though. A girl's got her limits.

Agoraphobia is...here, let me get the definition from a better source than my over-taxed noggin: Agoraphobia is a condition where the sufferer becomes anxious in environments that are unfamiliar or where he or she perceives that they have little control. Triggers for this anxiety may include crowds, wide open spaces or traveling, even short distances. This anxiety is often compounded by a fear of social embarrassment...Agoraphobics may experience panic attacks in situations where they feel trapped, insecure, out of control or too far from their personal comfort zone. In severe cases, an agoraphobic may be confined to his or her home. Many people with agoraphobia are comfortable seeing visitors in a defined space that they feel in control of. Such people may live for years without leaving their homes, while happily seeing visitors in and working from their personal safety zones. If the agoraphobic leaves his or her safety zone, they may experience a panic attack.

There you go. I like my house. It's messy, but it's mine, and no one can get to me in here without my permission. The world "out there" is dangerous and full of mean, angry, hateful, judgemental, and downright cruel people, and they all want to get me. The world "in here" is safe, quiet, mine. I don't do malls at Xmas...except for the Festival of Trees, because I won't let those kids down for anything short of death. I don't like concerts, plays, or movies when they first open...too freakin' crowded and everyone is breathing MY air. I have to get really Zen to go out in crowds. Really, really Zen. Deeply Zen. I would like to be deeply stoned, but I have a kid to think about, I'm not eighteen any more, and besides, it's unlawful. But still... I travel to shows to perform. Yeah. Again, the music is stronger. Thank you, Goddess. My van is my portable safety zone. How handy is that?? I may never fly again, as long as I can drive to my destination. I can control temperature, music, smell...yeah, sweet. In my van, I am safe. Well...as safe as you can be, hurtling up to ninety miles per hour (shh, don't tell the cops) down the highway in a ton-plus metal-and-plastic vanister (See that? I made a play on the words "van" and "canister", aren't I clever?) surrounded by other fools and madmen doing the same. My mum's house is safe, as are several of my friend's homes. I even have safe places in Ohio and Massachusetts. Some days, I don't want to go out, but I can. Some days, going out is horrifying, but if I must, I will. Some days, well...I won't even walk to the mailbox. Not even out to the garage. Not even if I am starving and the only food to be had is out there in the freezer. I'll go hungry, thank you. The only thing that trumps the phobia on the worst days? My son. For him, I will go out, do anything. Maybe shaking in my shoes, internally, but I'll go. Most of the time, you'd never know I was miserable outside of my house. I can smile, laugh, even enjoy myself...but coming home is always a sigh of relief. How do I handle this? As with the rest, I get on with life. What else is there?

I know where my fears came from. They have a source. Several sources. I don't need to get into them here. Know what? Knowing where they come from, why I experience them, how irrational they are doesn't matter one little bit. They're still there. Knowing that others see them as stupid doesn't matter, either. Knowing that what I am experiencing isn't real to anyone but me makes no difference. The phobias don't make a difference, either. I'm going to do what I am going to do. Every now and then I just don't have the energy, but most of the time...most of the time I get the hell on with life and ignore the phobias. It's all I know how to do...keep slogging through the muck until I hit solid ground.

I go to strange places, get up on stage, and sing. I am one of the female leads in my band, so I am often heard over everyone else. I am one of two main songwriters for the band. Our fans (all six of them) know this. People look at us up there. They look at me. So what? I'm happy, singing, and as long as I don't make their ears bleed, I'm fine. Sometimes the stage is up high. OK, fine. Usually, after a concert, I have to go out and greet our viewers, schmooze with them, hug them. I have to smile, listen, greet, sign things (no, I'm not famous, but our fans are nothing if not loyal, bless 'em), and sometimes hang out for hours with folks who love the music, too. And all the while, I am wishing I could just go be alone and not have to plaster that damn smile on my face any longer. But hey...we're sharing something, and it's part of being a performer...and once in a while I catch myself enjoying it. Shh, don't tell anyone, OK?

Here's a funny little fear...I don't know where to stick it, besides..well, never mind. I am utterly convinced that as soon as I go to California, it will fall right off. Yeah, I know...but still...are you willing to risk it? I'm not...haven't been, probably won't go any time soon. You can thank me with cash.

Right, on with the laundry. Bird's out of undies...which apparently means the world is at an end or something. Later, y'all!

Expanding on some thoughts, part two of whatever...

Warning: This isn't sweetness and light. It may well contain TMI. It does contain strong language and adult themes...but not the fun kind. Read on at your own peril.

Want to have some fun? Find someone with OCD, play a game of Monopoly, Payday, or Life with them, and...gasp...put the money away all mixed up!!

Then stand back, keep your hands and arms in the ride at all times, and enjoy.

I covered the depression, now I'm moving on to the next item on our mental health variety plate - OCD, or Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, for the uninitiated.

A few nights ago, I spent a quiet few hours playing games with my family. Mum was down for a visit, our roommate was home and feeling sociable, and even T got in on it. First, mum, J and I played Life, and then we all played Payday...a game none of us had played before, so that was interesting. Both games have fake money. At the end of the games, I collected the money and put it away. Faced. Faced means it's all facing the same direction...each bill and each denomination. Unfaced money may be one of the things that makes me itch the most. When I worked retail, my cash drawer was always neat, always orderly, always exactly right unless someone else had access. I hated giving anyone else access. My home may look like the mess monster put in overtime, but my cash was beautiful.

T handed me his pile of play money, claiming it was all in the right order. Yeah, I'm going to believe that? I have OCD...I can't just let it go. I checked. He was WRONG!! One bill was facing opposite all the others. Eek! I gave him a small ration over that - he wasn't trying to sneak one past me, he'd just missed it. Our roommate wanted to know if it really mattered.

Yes. Yes it does. Quite possibly the world will come to an end if the play money doesn't face the right way. Quite certainly I will not sleep a wink, knowing that it's all...messy. One bill facing the wrong way is a disaster that would shake this house to its foundations. Best not to tempt fate. I checked all the bills. Better safe than sorry.

Sound silly? Yeah, it is. But...it's serious. I'm really quite lucky...my OCD is mild and usually amusing. I have never felt the need to watch my hands until they are cracked and bleeding, never had to walk only a certain way or lock and unlock the deadbolt a certain number of times. You ever see "As Good As It Gets"? There was a fine example of an OCD in Nicholson's character. Mine is manageable, even redirectable. Hey, I think I just made up a word! I often mention that my home is messy...but that's because if I try to clean it the way I need it to be cleaned, I won't eat, sleep, or take care of pesky little details like feeding, clothing, or dressing my son for days. I can do a little at a time. Bathroom one day, kitchen the next. And the OCD lets me get away with that.

Laundry...oh, I do enjoy doing laundry. Yes, that's weird, but if you've read this blog for more than a few minutes, you'll know that...well...weird 'r' us, and I'm OK with that. Weird can be amusing, especially among the mundane. I like doing laundry. I like hearing the washer whush and slosh, like the hum and tumble of the dryer, like the smell of clean things, like to feel the warm cotton (almost every bit of clothing, linens, etc. in this house is cotton) as I fold it or place it on a hanger. I like putting everything away, nice and neat. Underthings here, sorted by color, design, manufacture, age. Socks there, sorted by style, color, age. T-shirts folded a certain way, sorted by type and age onto shelves labelled "Golf shirts", "Nice T-shirts", "Not Nice T-shirts", "Long-Sleeved T-shirts". T's work clothes on hangers, all the shirts facing left with buttons buttoned, collars neatly smoothed down. Work pants next, first shorts then long pants, all folded so that there will be creases down the front of the leg, pockets to the rear, draped the same way over their hangers. Are you seeing a pattern? Non-work clothing sorted by sleeve or leg length, color, and level of formality. The shirts I wear are made from sarongs, and I fold then all the same way, sort them by age and niceness and put them in a drawer. Every now and then I shake things up by reorganizing the clothes, but then I stick to the new system until the next shake-up. And the closet order doesn't change, if I have my way.

To be honest, I don't go in there much right now...it's in disarray, and I can't deal with it. T has no sense of order and mixes up his clothes, tossing them on whatever shelf makes them out of his way while he roots around for whatever he wants to wear. I feel faint. Things get displaced. They get crumpled. My skin itches. Things get tossed to the floor and mixed around on the hangers. Is it hot in here?

'Scuse me.

Where was I?

Dishes are the same...I have learned to let others do dishes when they offer, but I usually have to leave the room. See, I load the dishwasher a certain way, and that's the only way to load it. Except no one else seems to grasp my system, so if I want them to do the loading or unloading, I have to stand back and take nice, deep breaths. And yes, everything faces the same direction in the cupboards, goes in a certain place in a certain way. Sigh.

Some people count everything. I just count stairs. The upside to counting stairs is, I never need a light to go up or down in the dark. I won't fall ass over teakettle if I have to ascend or descend at night, and I don't have to waste electricity either.

I make lists of what to pack whenever I go on a trip. They are categorized. They are extensive. Nothing gets packed if it isn't on the list. Sometimes, the lists are even alphabetized.

It's hard to describe what OCD feels like, at least for me. There's definitely a feeling of being out of control when it's really bad. I call it "being in the teeth of the beast", because I feel like a rat in a terrier's jaws, shaken every which way and unable to stop the ride. Sometimes I just have to hang on until it's over, then pick up the pieces and move on. OCD is about control...control over the self, over the environment, control over events and control over others. From what I've seen, it usually strikes people who have lost some element of control over one part their life, so they try to control everything else. They need that sense of power because they've been made powerless somewhere else. 'Course, I'm not a shrink, so what do I know?

Once, when T and I were first dating, he came over and found me in a state. I had emptied every closet in my condo, every cupboard and drawer, every box and bag. I couldn't find my glue gun. I needed it. I needed it to live. He didn't understand...couldn't it wait until tomorrow? He'd had a long day, was looking forward to a quiet night. No. No it couldn't. I needed that glue gun to live, didn't he SEE that?? And please don't touch me or stand in my way, you're standing in my way and I can't see everything at once and I am having to squeeze past you and don't sit down because you may sit on it even though it has never even been in the living room but it might be there now and you are in the way so I have to search harder because YOU ARE IN MY WAY!! I looked in the freezer, in the dryer, in the sink. He asked me if I'd looked...? I snapped yes, of course I had looked there! He offered to drive me to the all-night Evil Empire. They sell glue guns there, right? Right! Genius! Let's go! Now!!! He drove us there...and the whole way I was shaking my leg up and down and wringing my hands. I couldn't talk to him, couldn't bear to have him touch me or try to comfort me. For him, that had to be a strange ride. We got there and he hadn't even shut the truck off before I was hurrying into the store. If the greeter had gotten in my way, I would have knocked the poor soul down. Must. Have. Glue. Gun. I ran to the crafts area and couldn't see one. Horror! Now what? Panic! Panic! Pan...wait, is that a glue gun?? Success...it was hanging in the wrong place. A ninety-nine cent glue gun put the world back on its axis. T found me there, holding the glue gun and breathing again. I smiled, asked him how his day was, let him put an arm around me and walk me to the register to pay for the ninety-nine cent fix. Then we went back to the condo, I put the glue gun down and didn't think about it again. Hi there, welcome to OCD. I didn't even want the stupid glue gun, wasn't going to use it for anything...I just couldn't remember where I'd put it, looked in the box where it should be, and got stuck in the teeth of the beast. The weirdest part of that whole episode? T didn't run like hell. Wow.

If I can't control things, most of the time I can let go of the need...so again, I'm lucky. I may get annoyed, or even angry, but I can function and survive until it passes. Some folks can't. They just can't handle it when a table gets moved, or a wall painted, or a door shut or opened the wrong distance, or the wrong fork is put in the wrong place. My own little dose of OCD is a bother, but manageable...I can only imagine what it must be like to be so lost in the need to act a certain way that I couldn't find my way out.

Don't mistake a simple need to have things your own way as OCD. Wanting your environment arranged just so because it's esthetically pleasing and makes sense to you is fine. Needing it that way or you start to itch, twitch, tremble, feel short of breath...that's another thing entirely. Making an effort to keep your world sensible is fine. Focusing so intently on keeping things exactly as you just KNOW they should be to the exclusion of everything else? Yeah, not so much. The difference is a simple as: "I want this..." versus 'I NEED this..." When you need it like oxygen, when life stops because something isn't exactly right...well, that's OCD.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the forks in the dishwasher are mingling with the spoons...

Expanding on some thoughts...part one of many, I'm sure.

Warning: This isn't sweetness and light. It may well contain TMI. It does contain strong language and adult themes...but not the fun kind. Read on at your own peril.

I have a few blogs I read regularly. They're listed off to the side of this one. I make bold to comment on them, although I don't know these people from Adam's house cat and may very well make them wonder about the wisdom of public blogging. Oh, well. Sometimes I can't help but butt in.

So one of the women I read when she posts, she's having some trouble balancing preemie twins, a toddler, a husband, a life, and a career...and, oh, yeah, a depression that doesn't sound like it's simply post-partum. Not that post-partum is simple, because it will kick your ever-lovin'
ass with one hand duct-taped behind its back, it's that fierce.

So I try to post supportive comments to her, but sometimes? I feel a little over the top. I want to say so much more than that limited space and our lack of association permits. Really, I have no idea who this woman is, aside from her blog. And she has no idea who I am, aside from the weirdo who feels compelled to write her really long and meandering comments. Sigh. So I'm writing the things I felt didn't belong there, here. Hurrah for you, dear readers, whoever you are.

You see, I hate that anyone feels pain, especially psychological pain. I've spent most of my life dealing with my own psycho-dramas and chemical imbalances - and all the delightful things they entail - and I hate the idea that anyone else should have to juggle these balls, too.

I know, I know...what right have I to deny anyone else their experience, their lessons?

OK, really? Given a choice, I would opt to make sure than no one ever had to learn about the evils of the mind the way I did, and would gladly take the experiences and lessons of deep and abiding sorrow as my own, never to be shared with anyone, if it would ease the suffering in this world even a tiny bit. Perhaps I'm selfish that way. Certainly, it's a statement of tremendous ego. Still...

I am terrified that my beloved son will one day catch these bugs. Oh, my sweet Goddess, what a horror I have of that. I wouldn't hide my own little foibles from him if I could - hiding mental illness isn't the way to deal with it, and kids see so much more than we credit them with - but I don't want them rubbing off on him, either. And don't try to tell me that they are nature, not nurture. Bullshit, I say. It's a bit of both, in my experience...and experience I've had aplenty.

I'll start with a slice of my biggest bugaboo:

Depression.

It isn't reasonable. It isn't a "Pull yourself up by your bootstraps" kind of thing. It isn't a "Snap out of it!" proposition. It's dark, messy, and horrible. It's wriggly, thorny, insidious, physically painful, mentally painful, invisible, unreasoning, and self-aware enough to fight for its own preservation. It's contagious, especially if you've had it and recovered from it...or not...before.

You can't treat it with a favourite food, book, drink, or song. At its best, it is a funk that eventually clears up. At its worst...well, its survivable, but I wouldn't like to be the ones in the fallout area. I have experienced this one from light to dark...unmedicated. That's right. Raw, as is, nothing to dull the bastard one little bit. So yeah, it's survivable, but it ain't fun for me or anyone around me. I have no idea how I managed to hang on to the few friends I have, but they are a special kind of folk for enduring whatever it is they endure when I'm in the middle of the shit-storm.

It is potentially deadly...I once referred to it as emotional cancer, because it eats your psyche bit by bit until there's just a shell left, and lots of people have simply collapsed, succumbed to it. I don't blame them, think them weak or stupid or selfish...I understand. Deeply, to the bone, I understand. Every day, I get it.

Even the happiest days are tinged with the shadows, even the most beautiful moments are touched by it...but that makes them so much more than they would be otherwise, to me. Because I am alive to experience them. So yeah, I am often cranky, glum, unpleasant, and downright mean, but I'm also remembering that I'm alive to be cranky, glum, unpleasant, and downright mean, so I win.

Someone once told me that I must not be very depressed, if I didn't want to kill myself. What the hell? Another person once asked "If you're so unhappy, why don't you just kill yourself then??" What the HELL??? These aren't things you say to someone trying like the dickens to justify the next breath. Really. The first one isn't cheering...it doesn't help to think that it could be worse than whatever you feel right now. Oh, joy, there's more to look forward to?? And the second...well, that's just downright stupid. You never encourage someone to off themselves just to try and shock them into cheeriness. Yeah, that's why he asked me that...because he wanted to shock me out of it. Really. Umm...duh!! If you're that tired of dealing with your depressed friend (and I use the term loosely because no one who is a friend would ever consider that sort of tactic for even a moment), then just don't answer when they call. Or tell them you can't handle it any more. The honesty would be refreshing.

I made a deal when I was younger...a promise. I promised that, no matter how much I wanted to, no matter how much I resented light, life, and everything that went with them, no matter how tired, worn, battered or beaten I felt emotionally, I wouldn't pop myself. And I never, ever break my word. I never have in memory, and I never will. If you know me well enough to speak to my friends, they'll tell you...I don't make promises if I am not certain of keeping them. I'll say "I'll try" or "I shall endeavour" or any number of variations guaranteeing effort, but I won't say "I promise". And if I do promise something, I mean it. Many have been the times when my word was all that kept me going...so I guess I haven't been depressed enough yet.

Oh, it's been bad enough to prompt me to beg for release from that bond, to no avail. I have resented life and the living of it, resented other people and their happiness, resented the people around me who had the gall to love me and tell me so when I felt hateful and bleak. I have spent more than one night sitting in the bathroom staring at the razor and thinking of all the ways to dismantle it; considering all the drugs in the house and their uses; considered simply not taking the medications that treat my diabetes and letting myself go. I have wondered why I should bother to go to the gym, worry about my prodigious weight, eating healthy foods. I have thought about just gorging myself on fats, sugars, and nutritionless junk until my body couldn't maintain life. I have resented waking in the morning to find a bright day and a beautiful world around me, and resented loving the beauty and feeling it deeply even as I hated it. But I kept on.

And I'm still here.

And I will be here, living this life, until the Goddess herself tells me it's time, that I may finally put down my burden and find my own shade and sweetwater with her in the Summerland, or whatever place the spirit goes when it sheds the body and flies free.

It's not all bad. When the depression isn't kicking my ass, I am...well, if not happy, I am certainly appreciative of life and its complexities. The sheer, overwhelming beauty of the world around me, the people in it...the variety, the wonder, the color, scent, sound, and scope of creation delights me. I remember that, when I am slogging through the swamp lost and lonely, wondering where I took a wrong turn and how I can get back within sight of normal. Whatever normal is. I have no idea, truth be told. Most of the time I settle for less horrible and count myself lucky.

I just keep trudging along until things get bearable again, and try not to damage anyone around me while I'm at it. I love my son. He is a brightness that can be unbearable, a brilliance that burns so deliciously...since he was old enough to listen to me, I have told him he makes my heart happy. "Even when my heart is sad, because sometimes mommy is just sad, the place where you live is happy. You are never the reason I am sad, it is never your fault, and loving you lifts my spirit." I tell him as often as he'll listen...because it's true, and because kids will always think it's their fault. I tell him he's my heart, and my best good thing.

He's the reason I get out of bed when all I want is to bury myself under the comforter and forget the world. The kid needs to eat, he needs to play, he needs to have clothing and a moderately clean environment. He needs to bathe and brush his teeth and learn to read and write and function in the world, and it's my job to teach him what he needs to know. You know, life the universe, and everything.

Right, there's so much more I could say, but this got longer than I thought it would, so I think I'll stop now. There's a chocolate chip cookie that is demanding my attention, and I've been sitting in this chair for so long that my feet are all puffy and unattractive and my ass is asleep. And these are the good chairs!

G'night, y'all, and sweet dreams!

The Variety Plate

Below are links to posts I've written about the Variety Plate. What's that, you ask? Well, when we were going through the build-a-life buffet, when it came to mental illness I ordered the variety plate. These are posts attempting to explain how I experience and/or deal with (or not) mental illness and its attendant festivities. Whee.

Depression

More on Depression

OCD

Phobias

Paranoia