Giving a Damn About Life During Treatment

One of the cool things about getting my mood balanced again is that I’m interested in my surroundings. Specifically, my home. I spent Memorial Day weekend working on some cleaning and organizing projects on the first level of my house. In the last year or so the only things I felt about my house were “can I dump it and start over?” It’s too far from the urban core. It’s too much of a family area. The commute is grating.

Gradually, it just started to become an overwhelming place where I noticed all of the chaos and clutter. “Hmm, has that stuff always been there?” or “Hey, maybe it’s kind of weird that there are random receipts and coupons on the floor.” Depressed me sort of blocked it all out. Depressed me cared about the following things: my couch hidey-hole, was the internet working so I could use my Roku, did I have sufficient body covering blankets on the couch, did my bed exist, did my plumbing work, was the refrigerator working? That’s it. Survival and hiding.

Coming out of the blind survival and waking into awareness of my envirmonent was really uncomfortable. I suddenly knew there were things I felt I should be doing, but I didn’t yet have the energy or the desire. I was flooded with anxiety.

Anxiety is sort of this two-headed alien with tentacles that infests your body. It plops its first head inside your brain, squashing the cells that manage rational thoughts. It waggles its butt into a comfortable position, puts on its glasses and then realizes it left something out of arms reach so it has to get back up again. Repeat waggling.

Head two, or what I think of as the “hairy head,” hangs out in the core of your body and entwines it’s lustrous hair around your organs. The hair sort of tangles around your organs while it tries to flow around like a shampoo commercial — only, there’s stuff like your stomach, intestines and bladder in the way.

Tentacles are attached to a stalk that affixes to your spine. The stalk connects the two heads. Tentacles specialize in cheesey pick-up lines and their prime targets are your muscles. They just find the muscles in your neck, shoulders, and back to be so sexy. Only, the muscles are revolted by the advances of the tentacles so they try to get as far away as possible — which isn’t far — so everything is very tense.

The anxiety alien also doesn’t need much sleep. It’s really itching to rave on and orders glow sticks in bulk. Only, the longer it goes without sleep, the more active it can become.

Now that you understand the beast, you can understand why it would be a challenge to give a damn about pieces of paper on the floor when you are playing host to all night alien trance dancing. Taming anxiety and getting it to take an extended nap immensely improves your ablity to rationalize thought and regulate your own rest and recovery.

For me, that manifests as DIY projects and once again thinking about things like painting the trim in my house, painting my kitchen cabinets, putting up a divider curtain between my kitchen and living room, organizing my second bedroom, and well, you get the point. The next part is taking action. I started last weekend. I plan to work on another space this weekend, and research options for painting.

These more frequent periods of peace are refreshing. It’s hard to have energy for anything else when you are constantly cleaning up after a massive alien kegger in your body.

Advertisements

Pharmacology, Tattoos, and a Clean Kitchen

Dear Blank Page,

I can’t wait to tell you what I’ve been up to lately. Aside from dropping in to experience the shopping event known as Lilly for Target — just for kicks — I’ve been working on cleaning and organizing bits of my house. No pressure, just small bits. Well, I started with a biggish bit; tackling some bothersome issues like dirty toilets, litter boxes and my kitchen sink (which by-the-way looks brand new again now that I scrubbed it.)

I guess this sounds pretty ordinary and maybe not any bit impressive to most people. That’s okay. When I’m depressed and bathed in anxiety I have no will to care about most things. I drop out of life, lose focus, and hunker down in some deep part of my brain. The mere fact that I not only care, but that I’m acting, well…that’s a really good thing.

I’m not entirely open with people about how deeply affected I am by mental illness. I share articles on Facebook, but I never say, “I loved someone who suffered. I am someone who suffered. It’s been around me my entire life.” I told you that I’m getting help. Finally. Really aggressively, seriously trying to recover. My mental illness and shame has manifested in several ways. One way was drinking. I no longer drink. I’ve also struggled with disordered eating and an eating disorder since I was a young girl. Those behaviors are proving challenging to change. But, the progress I’m making with my depression and anxiety is helping and giving me hope that I can recover. I am working with a counselor, an MD, and a registered dietitian. They are good people and I feel safe with them.

I tell you, I was so resistant to medication for so long. It frightened me. Dependency, bottles on bottles on bottles, false hope. I tried medication after medication when I was in high school. It was terrible. I watched my mom try medication after medication. It was terrible. But I decided to try again at 33 and 11/12ths. I was getting worse. I could see the cycle happening. And the thing is, it’s working. It’s helping. But it’s not just the medication. It’s the help too. Anyway, I’m feeling good.

Also, on Saturday I went for a consultation for the tattoo I talked about a couple years ago. It’s going to be a little bit different than what I described that day, but I’m finally taking action. I’m exited but also kind of scared and anxious. I’m supposed to go on May 7th to get it inked on my right forearm. I’ll show you when it’s done.

So, I guess that’s it for now. I just wanted to say hi, see how you’re doing and let you know what’s new.

Take care!

Katie

 

Wrap Me Up in Sheets of Paper

I have a habit of buying notebooks. I don’t know what it is, but I love a new notebook – all those blank pages ready for thoughts, scribbles, lists, dreams, drawings and plots. Tonight, I opened one of the several that was sitting on my desk at home. My plan was to draw out ideas for my wrist/arm tattoo on the blank pages. The tattoo is meant to remind me of a few things: my mom, my spirit of hope and fire in my soul, my connection to nature, the connection between body, spirit, thought, and emotion. It’s a lot to for a few lines of ink on skin. But I know I can do it.

Anyway, I grabbed a green composition book with a pen clipped to a page with a mundane note about a wireless key. As I walked back downstairs I scanned the pages and noticed pages and pages of words I’d written about myself while doing exercises from “What Color is Your Parachute.” This was a notebook from the end of 2011. This was from a transformational period where I was job hunting after leaving my job of 6 years. This was a notebook from the last few months my mom was still alive. (A side effect of my mom’s passing is that I tend to measure time in “when Mom was alive” and “after Mom died.”)

The words are quite different from what appears in my current journal. There’s a page with values. Those are the same. There are lists of goals. Boy, I have a tendency to expect a lot of myself. There is a list of commandments I wrote after rereading “The Happiness Project.” Still relevant.

I have deep ruts¬†created by the repetition of negative thinking and habits born from shame and unmet needs. In January, I reached out for help. While I’ve written privately, finding out how to share more publicly has challenged me. Embarrassment, shame, and fear have kept me from being open about my life over the last couple of years. I’ve known for a long time that something about how I feel isn’t quite “right.” Though, right and wrong isn’t really a good way to view feelings. I’ve worried that people will treat me differently. I’ve worried that people will worry. I’ve worried that I will feel worse. I’ve worried that it will impact my work, though my anxiety and depression already have. These are only the beginning of the worries.

The truth is, I’ve lived with anxiety and depression, self-harming behaviors and thoughts for a long time. Cycles and patterns, I could make a quilt.

I am still me. That has not changed. I still cherish animals, adore my nephew, believe in kindness and truth, compassion and love. I still love jokes, smiles, and laughter. These other voices inside of me are tricky and persuasive. They offer comfort in their harm. But I am finding the other voices. The voice that wrote the values. The voice that wrote my talents. The voice that’s warm as sunshine (trite, but work with me here), and playful.

Impish, spritely, gentle, and strong. Silly, caring, serious, and funny. Inquisitive, thoughtful, spiritual.

I’m working on a new internal infrastructure to fill the ruts and build new roads. (Do NOT insert overused Robert Frost quote here.)

I am still me.

 

 

[Did anyone read this and think I was about to come out as a lesbian? Because when I proofed it I could totally see that. But, I’m not; just plain old mixed mood disorder, terrible body image and disordered eating- though girls smell better and have nice hair and shoes.]

My Body is Amazing

My body is amazing. It is not perfect. It does not look like Jennifer Aniston’s – that’s impossible because I am not Jennifer Aniston. My body looks like it’s mine.

It has soft spots and bumps, knobby bits and scars. Slender wrists and crooked toes.

And it is all amazing.

It woke up at 4am and carried itself 15 miles (of mostly running – it needs fuel and I failed to provide it.) It walked and stood and squatted and reached for 4 hours working at the gym after running 15 miles.

My body is special. It is amazing – glorious. Though not visible, it has strong abs.

Though it looks kind of flat, my derrière houses powerful muscles that allow me to run faster, squat deeper, and withstand hours of impact.

My eyes are different shapes. My dimples – well, there’s just one. My face is not perfect, but it is mine.

I don’t have to be sexy or sultry, taut or tiny. I just have to be me.

20130825-203520.jpg