life’s little reminders

Just when I was telling myself that I’m not bipolar.  I’ve been relatively stable for some time now, gee, maybe I should think about going off the meds…

I notice that I’m up all night long again.  Meds aren’t putting me to sleep.  Moods are swinging hard and fast.  I feel very grateful that I have a relatively minor disorder and that I’m not so far gone that I don’t recognize this for what it is.  Or maybe I’ve just been burned one too many times and I’m finally taking it seriously.  I’m not going to let it get out of control this time.  This is usually this start of the crash and burn.  I don’t have the fun mania’s that I hear about.  I get goofy but it’s short lived.  It quickly turns into irritable hypomania then into darkness.

Seroquel isn’t knocking me out.  I could take more but Seroquel is a weight gainer.  Always a trade off.  Sanity or vanity, or diabetes or heart disease or tardive dyskinesia…Topamax is my mood stabilizer.  Could increase that I suppose but could I get any dumber?  Topamax has the nickname Dopamax because of its cognitive side effects.  I have been getting more and more depressed, but delusional me wanted to deny that and go off meds.  Antidepressants backfire on me.  No relief there.  Perhaps a lobotomy would work.

Enough of that.  I just baked a batch of cookies.  From the Cooks Illustrated Family Cookbook.  Last week I baked their Snickerdoodle recipe and I must say it was delicious.  I give it 3 thumbs up.  Tonight, at midnight, I made the sugar cookie recipe.  This one was not my favorite sugar cookie recipe. I give it a raspberry and 1/2 a knuckle.  It called for all the yummy cookie ingredients, real butter, eggs, vanilla.  Maybe my technique was off.  I like my gramma’s better, but it feeds an army.  Her’s calls for shortening and butter and is just divine.

So I think I’m going to knit my sister’s penis shaped lip balm cozies for Christmas, that is if I can muster up enough talent to do it.  I’ve tried to knit my daughter a shawl with this yarn called Noro Kureyon.  It looks like Margaret the Trash Heap.  This yarn sucks.  I read reviews about it, rave reviews.  The colors are beautiful! Yarn is lovely,  wonderful to work with.  HAH!  The yarn has little pieces of sticks in it.  It’s spun so poorly that it’s like chunks of roving and then it goes to tight string like lengths of yarn.  It’s wool, itchy, stick laden wool.  I will never buy Noro Noro “>Kureyon again.  I made a scarf out of Noro Silk Garden and I liked that stuff, not Kureyon.  Now I have to frog Margaret the Trash Heap and figure out what to do with all that crappy yarn.

Squeak

I am so pissed, so flabbergasted, almost speechless.  Almost.

Battling the freaking SCHOOL of all things.

I got into an argument with the teacher at conferences today.  First of all, she claimed that DS wasn’t in her class.  We go to her room, she asked who we were, we said, DS’s parent’s and she said that she didn’t think that she had DS in her class.  I said, “oh yes you do…” (I said it like that, too.)

Not a good start.  She dug out the grade sheet and realized that DS is a SPED kid and I am a “squeaky wheel” (her term, I later found out) so she called in SPED case manager and SPED support teacher.

Start going through grades, groups and I begin to disagree with her methods.  She is not used to people disagreeing with her.  She gets defensive.  I point out an “F” that he gets in a paper in which he is to find “irony” – tough concept for ASD kids, and this is a group assignment, another tough thing for ASD kids.  I think that since he is having enough trouble with the concepts, since he is barely passing, that perhaps he shouldn’t be in the group that he is in.  Teacher disagrees, citing another assignment in which DS received  “D-” and this clearly shows …WHAT?? I don’t know?

I then say A D MINUS?? a little too loudly and teacher of the year accuses me of shouting at her.  I was not shouting.  Trust me, the whole damn school would have known if I was shouting.  She then rants at me about being a “squeaky wheel” and how my being a squeaky wheel is causing resentment and retaliation and that it can create unfairness, that SPED para has to give DS undue attention that she could be giving other students because I am being a squeaky wheel. Teacher doesn’t elaborate as to what retaliation we can expect.

I tell TOTY that I will NEVER apologize for being a squeaky wheel.  Teach says that I should apologize and I then tell her that perhaps she can no longer teach DS objectively.  This pisses off TOTY to no end and she proceeds to tell me that she goes out of her way to teach these students, by which she means kids with ASD, I think, and has for many years and that she knows how to cater to their needs, blah blah blah. More blah, blah, blah.

As my eyes glaze over, I tell her that I apologize for raising my voice, I tell her I don’t want an adversarial relationship with her, however I will NEVER apologize for being the squeaky wheel.  I then ask if we can we discuss my son’s academic progress and get us back on track.

So I ask what modifications she is using with his classwork.  She said there aren’t any in his IEP.  I say, yes there are.  She said, no there aren’t.  I ask if anyone has a copy of his IEP as I didn’t bring one.  SPED para has one.  She gets out the list of mods written into his IEP. (I practiced restraint and didn’t get a smug look on my face, either, when I have clearly proven her wrong.)  We go over them one by one. Teacher tells me why DS doesn’t need the modifications.  Teacher tells me that most 9th graders struggle with the same issues that my son struggles with. I didn’t realize teacher has the qualifications to diagnose or prescribe educational interventions.  This last sentence is dripping with sarcasm.

Para tells me what modifications she uses with my son.  They see that I am open to discussion about the modifications and that what we really need are accommodations to the work and the hostility lessens somewhat. (And yes, it really was a hostile atmosphere.) They tell me not to look at actual GRADES.   You know, all the “F’s” and “D-’s”  WTF????  Just listen to what they TELL you, it will all be all right.  Everything is just fine.  I don’t understand this one at all.  There is no problem, he’s just like everyone else.   Someone explain this to me.

We end the conference with SPED teacher commenting that my son is a sensitive kid, a young kid and that it’s scary for parents to trust teachers with their kids especially when they transition into High School.  Sort of excusing my assertiveness (perceived aggressiveness?).  I tell them, quite honestly, that I AM protective .  I WILL BE the squeaky wheel.  I tell them that I know that DS needs SOMETHING but that I don’t always know WHAT that is and that is frustrating.

Then SPED case manager tells a story about DS’s sensitivity that gets me crying and I can’t stop so that probably reinforces the idea that I’m just an unstable, overprotective blowhard.

I don’t tell them that I resent the hell out of that teacher trying to tell me that advocating for my son is a bad thing, will create resentment and an unfair advantage, cause him to resent me and some sort of unknown retaliation.  I really wonder if she CAN teach him objectively.  The stupid BITCH.

And now I feel like a total failure.  I’m second guessing myself.  My inclination is to bash myself and let shame beat me up.  My addict self would love to use this as a lethal weapon but I wont allow it.  This is so damn hard…when you get kicked for doing the right thing.  This fucking sucks.

Oh, the Squeaky Wheel label?  As far as I can tell, it is because of 4 emails regarding concerns about her class.  All due to her not reading or following his IEP  I assume this because she did not know about the modifications, and he is getting a D- to an F in her class and this concerns me.  Silly me, I should just shut the hell up and let her teach.

crabby

The psychologist seemed nice enough.  Didn’t finish going through my history, therapy goals and such, though.  Telling my DBT/therapy tale brought back a lot of shame.  Today was a bad day.  I was very moody, short tempered.  Couldn’t think of a skill to use, didn’t want to use any damn skill.

I’m freaking out about filing a complaint against old therapist.  I’m afraid that I’ll get in trouble.  Stupid, I know.  But I’m afraid.  For some reason I’ve come to associate him with all the bad authority figures in my life and I’m afraid that he’s going to hurt me, even though the rational part of me knows that it makes no sense, a bigger part of me is a frightened child.  I don’t think that complaint will get filed.

I’m trying to shake that off and look forward.  Next session with the new psych will be about therapy goals.  I need to come up with those, what’s realistic for me.  I need to keep pushing myself to move forward, no matter how small the steps may be I have to move forward.  And I did make progress today, even though I was crabby.  I can still move forward when I’m crabby, and crabbiness didn’t have to define my whole day.

baby steps

I’m seeing a new psychologist tomorrow.

I’m still a bit labile, I hope I don’t cry.  I hope I can  keep the mindset that I’m hiring her to help me.  Emphasis on the HIRING part.  I’ve been perceiving my therapists as authority figures and that’s not healthy.

In thinking about what my expectations of therapy are, I’ve been wondering if my expectations have been very realistic.  I am in my forties.  I’ve been very isolated.  I could probably be diagnosed as agoraphobic. ( I haven’t been formally diagnosed as such).  I am easily overwhelmed.  I have little to no outside support.

What changes can I realistically make?  I tend to look at the finish line and panic.  By that I mean, envision myself in a steady job, competently earning a nice income and navigating my way in the real world with ease.  This is something that I want, this is something that I don’t have the tools to actually make happen at this time and it scares the hell out of me.

So I’m wondering what is realistic?  How many people my age, who have isolated themselves for so many years have been able to crawl out of that hell?  Who have no support or friendships because of that isolation?

But I’m trying so hard not to get bogged down by my past.  I’ve been trying so damn hard not to let that stop me from trying anyway.  I have to start where I am, no matter what my circumstances are.  I am here.  I can’t change that.

I’ve been thinking about college.  I can’t afford classes right now.  Our public library system has an online learning center with free courses in math, business English, adult job skills refresher courses among many other resources.   So I’ve been looking them over and sticking my toe in and testing out the waters, seeing how much I’ve forgotten over the years.  I never went to college.

I read something on a forum, someone mentioned that they had once been very obsessed with themselves, and once they had made the decision to stop being so self obsessed, life became so much easier.  That really hit home.  Hard to hear, but oh, so true.  So I’ve been trying to stop being so damn self obsessed, and I’ve been trying to stop dwelling on the obstacles in my way.  They just tend to bog me down and stop me in my tracks.

All of this scares the hell out of me.

butterflies

We went to the zoo today.  I specifically wanted to see the butterfly exhibit.  The weather was beautiful, sunny, mid-70’s.  A little crowded, though.  I did ok with the crowd.

It was beautiful.  There were many, many different kinds of butterflies fluttering around, and it was planted with many different flowering plants.  Soft, instrumental music was piped in to add to the atmosphere.

I became overwhelmed with emotion and I started to cry.  I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from all out sobbing.  I have no idea why I had this reaction.  I was so embarrassed.  My two sons were with me and heard me sniffling, asked me if I had allergies.  I just nodded my head and turned away and tried to get a grip.   I don’t understand what’s wrong with me.

…

Tomorrow I see my old therapist and I am already freaking out.  I am filled with anxiety.  I am not usually like this, not with therapists.  I will go, I wont run away.  But something happened at that last therapy session with my dbt therapist that has caused me to associate therapy with bad things and this isn’t good.

Tomorrow is the new moon, a time for beginnings.  I hope this can be the beginning of healing for me, a new chapter.

I had a doctor appointment today, pretty routine, mostly to keep a prescription for blood pressure and thyroid meds filled for another year.  I disclosed my psych meds, and the nurse practitioner asked if my diagnosis had changed from depression to bipolar because of the medications.  It has and I said, yes.  So, it’s now on my medical chart that I have bipolar disorder.  I’m not comfortable with that.

In a perfect world where there is no stigma against mental illness this would not be an issue.  I don’t live in that perfect world.  People who wear labels of mental illness do not get taken as seriously as people who don’t wear those labels.  Depression doesn’t carry quite the same stigma as bipolar disorder, and if the label borderline personality disorder ever becomes attached then man, just forget about credibility altogether.  I don’t have that diagnosis,  I really feel for those that do.

I wonder if I can get that removed from my chart.  I wonder if I should lie about my meds.  I will if I feel that I’m being stigmatized because of my mental illness.  I’m pissed off that I have to be concerned about this at all.

the mother-in-law

Oooh.  Just checking out this blog of 10 more extremely bizarre phobias tonight and see that I have a name for one of my phobias, something new to add to my list of ailments.

Pentheraphobia: Fear of Mother-in-law.

This is a woman who told me, “Hubby was a good boy, until he met YOU!”  and she wasn’t kidding. This was the final insult.  I had endured multiple digs prior to this but ignored them, not really knowing how to deal with it.  It was then that I made the decision to stop associating with the in-laws.  I am polite.  I don’t visit them.  And I don’t feel bad about it, either.

strength

Sigh.

I think I can write about it now.  I’m stronger than I thought.  There was a point two weeks ago when I honestly thought that I wasn’t going to make it.  I really thought that I was going to die.

I’ve been going to my DBT group for 1 1/2 years now.  I loved my group.  One of my struggles is that I tend towards agoraphobia.  This group has been my source of social support.  I’ve learned so much, and not just the skills.  I’ve learned that I’m not the hideous monster that I’ve made myself out to be.  I can fit in with a group.

Therapy has been a struggle.  When I read back I see that I’ve had doubts about it for a long time.  T can be very validating at times and therapy can feel like a battle.  I think that’s par for the course.

Therapy has gone wrong.  I don’t want to get in to the particulars, but I’ve lost all trust with him.  He happens to be co-leader of DBT group.  I’ve decided to stop both.  This was a heart wrenching decision that brings me to tears, even now and it’s been 2 weeks.

T has called me twice in that time.  Both times, when I saw his name on caller ID, I started shaking, my legs got weak, I started to cry and my heart began to race.  What in the world is going on with me? I don’t understand the fear response at all.  Nothing happened in therapy to warrant this response, yet it’s happening and it is very real.  I am not usually like this.

We had been opening up old wounds in therapy.  Painful ones, obviously, deep ones.  They’ve gone unresolved.  At our last session, I brought in a journal entry, like I had been doing in previous sessions.  This one wasn’t pretty.  It had been a very difficult week.  I wanted him to see exactly where I was at so I didn’t censor as much as I usually do.  He couldn’t have been more invalidating in his response to what I wrote.

One of the things that got to me the most was I journaled about an incident with a person who had sexually abused me when I was 13.  My t then discussed what I had written, spoke the names out loud, actually got the name of my abuser wrong, and then I don’t remember anything, I don’t remember what he said except that I found it to be so hurtful, so cruel even.   Then he said that I was creating my own emotional pain by staying in emotion mind.  Said journaling is fine if I want to relate facts but not if I want to relate emotions.

I journaled about another very painful memory.  I felt like it all blew up in my face.  I shared some really painful stuff and he shit all over it.  And this isn’t the worst of it, but I’m not going to get into the rest right now.

I don’t understand my response to his mere phone calls.  It doesn’t make any sense.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I felt so alone, so hurt.  I stayed sober.  I called my old therapist.  I made good decisions, healthy decisions in the midst of the storm.  I didn’t know that I could do this.

catching up, making sense of it all

(4-3-09)

DH isn’t out of the woods yet.  If his hand isn’t noticeably better by tomorrow evening, he has to have surgery. Doc thinks he has an abscess.  He told DH to soak it 4x daily in Dreft but DH “forgot” about it until I asked him if the doc wanted him to do any think like soaking it.  Why?  Why does DH refuse to ACT unless someone TELLS him to?  I get pissed off all over again and go to the store to buy the damn Dreft.

I’m thinking more rationally today.  I am embarrassed by my freak out.  I feel very fragile though.  Tears and another freak out are just under the surface.  I’m very tired.

I think that some of this weird over-reaction also has to do with the fact that the boys and I are so very dependent on DH for everything that I really freak out when that is threatened in any way.  I need to become independent, I really need to be able to provide for us. I’ve been emotionally dependent on him ever since I met him.  I didn’t realize how strong that still is. I feel so frantic when I feel that he might be taken away from me.  I can’t even name the emotion, but it’s a terrible feeling, a panicked, hysterical, terrified feeling. It’s primal.  I am ashamed of this. It’s not normal or healthy.

I’m worried that if DH does need surgery, which will be done out patient but under general anesthesia in the CITY, where I am totally unfamiliar and have no idea where anything is or where I’m going, I’m worried that DH wont be able to tell me how to get home due to the anesthesia, and I wont be able to figure it out.  But this is a few days away, IF it happens at all.  I need to stay present, in THIS moment.

I’m disturbed by how easily I spun into some very dangerous thinking and actions.

Just some thoughts on calling T for help yesterday.  I honestly don’t even remember what I told him, I think I remember most of what he told me.  The big thing is, I called.  I really HATE calling for help.  Just making the call, knowing that someone actually gave a shit, at least at that moment anyway, grounded me a little, brought me down. Hearing the voice of reason brought me down.  When I found myself ruminating, I could hear T’s voice telling me to focus on other things so I don’t ruminate.

struggles

Therapy has been difficult.  I’ve been dealing with ancient wounds.  Making progress is slow, I really don’t want to face the pain so I shut down.  T is trying to move me forward and backward at the same time it seems.

T brought up the subject of hope yesterday.  I don’t have a good relationship with hope.  T kept pressing me as to why I reject the notion of hope.  It has to do with my loss of faith.  The loss of hope and the loss of faith went hand in hand.

Then we began talking about religion.  I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking religion with him.  He is a Christian, a charismatic Christian at that.  I think he works with youth at his church.

He asked me how I lost faith and I went into it a little.  I think he understands that it wasn’t an intellectual decision on my part, in other words, I wasn’t looking at apologetics with a critical eye, trying to reconcile my basis for belief intellectually.  I’m not that smart.  I simply came to realize that Christianity did not work, not for me at any rate.

When I told t that I bought the line that God was the answer to my problems, t acted as if that was unreasonable.  That floored me.  He seemed incredulous that I would expect God to intervene in my life and be the catalyst for positive change.  I challenged him on that, but he held his ground.  I want to discuss this with him next time.

I became a born again Christian at a very dark time in my life.  My marriage was in trouble, there was physical and emotional abuse and we fought all the time.  I had 2 young girls under the age of 4 who were (and still are) precious to me.  I was isolated and alone and sinking into depression.  I could see no options for my future and lived under a profound sense of futility.

One night, as I was channel surfing I came across the Catholic channel, EWTN, and saw a little old nun with great big glasses wearing a brown habit, hopping mad and ranting about the movie, “The Last Temptation of Christ.” It was Mother Angelica I later found out.  I admit, I stopped to watch purely because I got a kick out of seeing a nun rip into someone like she was doing.  My only experience with nuns thus far had been seeing them walk in town when I went to visit my cousin during the summer.  I was fascinated with them, they wore full habits and carried an aura of holiness about them. Mother Angelica busted every stereotype that I held about nuns that night.

So I would periodically tune into EWTN to see who Mother Angelica was going to rip into next.  At some point, I began to listen to what she had to say.  I began to crave this peace that passes understanding that she spoke of, the love of Christ in our hearts and forgiveness.

She spoke of forgiveness one night, stating that through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross , our sins are forgiven, they are erased, gone forever. I had been carrying around a burden of guilt from past and present sin in my life. It sunk in that forgiveness is final.  It’s a done deal.  Sins are no more when we accept Jesus as our savior.

It sunk into my soul.  I was forgiven.  I bought a Bible and read it.  I watched various preachers on TV.  I heard the message from many sources that God is the answer.  I began to believe that God would be my answer.  He would deliver me from this life, from the hopelessness and isolation, from my sinful past, He would be my redemption.

I have always had a hard time fitting in. Friendship has always been elusive to me. I longed for a feeling of fellowship, of being part of a community. I prayed to God to change me, to transform the awkward, ugly, lonely, bitchy, clueless, hateful, spiteful person that I was into a Godly woman.   I began to go to church, expecting to be welcomed with open arms, with the hope that I would find a home, so to speak.

I longed to feel accepted, to find fellowship.  This wasn’t a mere longing for friends. It was a plea to be set free from the loneliness and isolation that had punctuated my life.  I had dug myself into a hole that I couldn’t get out of.  I really thought that God would answer my prayer.  I felt hope and staked my life on it, because I really was dying inside.

I tried for a few years to find peace and happiness, knowing that it would be found in God through Jesus Christ.  I prayed.  I repented.  I read the Bible. I went to church.  I became active in church.  I still felt so unclean, so different from everyone else. I didn’t speak the language, I didn’t dress the part.

I struggled.  I was depressed. When I sought counsel from peers and pastors, I was told that I was trying too hard, that I wasn’t trying hard enough, I was told to “let go and let God” whatever that is supposed to mean.  I had demons cast out of me, demons of rebellion, of depression, of whatever demon was fashionable at the moment.  By the way, I never felt any different when the demons were supposedly cast out.  I just felt stupid.

I prayed harder, read my Bible, listened to Christian music and read Christian books.  Despite all that, I remained isolated, filled with self hatred.

Two more children and a few years later, I broke.  I fell apart.  I found myself in the psych ward.

Where was God now? I was duped. I could no longer talk a walk that I wasn’t living. I was not a successful Christian, it simply did not work in my life the way that it worked in the lives of others. I lost faith. I lost hope. I carried a mantle of shame and guilt.  I lived in a state of hopelessness, a place of desolation and despair, emptiness and anxiety, a place of endings, never beginnings.

Even though I was now on antidepressants and mood stabilizers, I continued to fall.  The depression that followed was profound and severe.  Big chunks of time are missing, I have no memory of my youngest son’s first steps, his first words. I was easily overwhelmed with even the simplest of household tasks. I was afraid to be alone with my boys, who were 1 and 3 years old at the time. Making dinner was too much for my fractured mind.  It wasn’t until almost a year later that I began to crawl out of that hell.

It’s been many years since then.  I bear the scars from that fight.  Latching on to hope again just seems masochistic to me.  I don’t see the point of opening myself up to another fall.  I don’t think I would survive it.