Mental Health Update, August 2018, 6

30 Thursday Aug 2018

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A little dip is to be expected; school starts again soon; ringing about transport (where is the letter we should have received a week ago?) new uniforms, new shoes, and psyching myself up to actually wake before 7:30 each morning, all take their toll.

My sweet babies, my darlings. They’re nervous about going back, as well. Summer flew past so quickly this year, and they lost me for a fortnight of it. Guilt will not help me to parent them any more successfully–rather, it is almost certainly a hindrance.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

The playground, today. Gabe’s friend remembering us despite the long break, and walking us home, after delighting Gabriel with his antics for the best part of an hour. (What does it say when another child remarks on my boy’s energy levels? He is so ALIVE, he is so beautiful.)

My precious, tempestuous girl, so far into puberty and adolescence now, so much a teenager in every way but actual years, wanting Squeezy, and letting me comfort her.

Being a 12-year-old girl is hard–I know, I remember, I can even now be tripped up by the things that happened when I was her age–I wish I didn’t empathise *quite* so much, some days. I worry that my empathy is sometimes excessive, and makes it worse for both of us… and yet. She let me do Squeezy, today. She let me help, when she was distressed, and she always has, really. Perhaps I’m not so terrible at being her mother.

It is typically easier with Gabriel, provided I have the energy to engage fully… but it’s just as rewarding, special, important, to interact with Naomi. I’m not trying to convince myself of that–I know it, in a way I know few other things–but I worry. If she ever finds this blog, what will she think?

The main thing I know of both my children, is that I love them more than my own life. Do they know it, though?

How many times have I said “worry” (or obliquely referred to my anxiety) in this one post? I should’ve made time for an entry yesterday, mayhap.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Go do a mindfulness. Don’t try to get out of your head–that’s where you live, and don’t you know it–but you can try for a little equanimity inside your head. Think (but not too deeply) about 2-3 weeks ago, and be grateful. This is imperfect, but it’s so much better than it was, and it will get even better again.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

At this point in time, a little dip is to be expected.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 5

27 Monday Aug 2018

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Better again, today, overall. The shadow of How I Felt Yesterday And The Day Before and the Day Before That, etc, is humming a sly, mocking tune under its breath, and I will have to stop and listen at some point (I know by now that it will trip me up, if I go too long without acknowledging what it has to say) but for now, I am safe. For now, I can breathe a little, and just take a day or two to feel like “myself”–the myself that is, for the most part, relatively content.

One good thing, I will write One Good Thing: Naomi and Gabriel, the play-acted scene where Spin was arrested. I imagine that makes no sense to anyone who wasn’t there; but I *was* there, and it’s worth a lot of misery and heartache and even some terror, just to hear them playing together.

You see, Amanda? You see. I am willing you to see.

Things always get worse, again–you won’t feel this peaceful forever–but then, they always get better, again.

Did you think, when she was 4 and had lost all her words, and he was 2 and had never so much as babbled “da” or “ma” that they would act out a scene, using full sentences and different voices and laughing with joy at each other’s antics? You didn’t dare hope, and yet, here it is.

It is objectively good, that your children enjoy each other’s company. Even when *you* don’t feel it, even when you’re too lost in your own despairing ruminations and unrelenting terrors to feel anything but pain, their relationship is A Good Thing.

And today, you lucky girl, you *could* feel it.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 4

26 Sunday Aug 2018

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Better.

Not back to normal–unless we’re taking my “normal” as “moments and even minutes of relative calm, liberally interspersed with minutes and even hours of abject terror” and I hope that’s not my fate–but I *am* better, today.

Oh, ye gods, though. The sick upward spiral of nauseating fear, and the silent scream of despair as you start to come back down. I wish I had the words, just so I could talk myself out of being afraid of the sensation itself.

Still. I went to the mall, today, and it was crowded and awful and I still had fun, in between the moments of really NOT having fun. When the kids returned from their weekend at their dad’s, I kissed my son on the top of his head, and he asked me to tie the drawstring on his shorts which was an easy thing I could do to help him, and he made me laugh, some way or other. It is worth noting that he makes me smile every day, possibly more often than any other person on Earth. My daughter spoke to me (she spoke as her imaginary friend, in not-quite her natural voice) and she was playful and funny; and if I’m tempted to complain about her putting on a persona in order to speak, I should remember that there was a time when we never thought she’d speak at all, and now, she speaks in short sentences, responds to my sentences, and makes jokes. Also, she let me cuddle her, briefly.

My husband has made me laugh at least 3 times, today. I’m the sort of person who laughs dozens of times in a day, when I’m at my best… but 2 weeks ago, I was crying dozens of times in a day, and having panic attacks, besides. Nary a laugh to be seen.

Forward progress is being made, and that’s all we have; the hope that things will be a little better tomorrow, or will stay nice for a little while, when they are nice. I shall be 35, before this year is out. I thought I might not make it that far, at earlier points in my life (not to sound melodramatic, but it’s usually best to be honest) and just the realisation that I have, gives me a little hope and a little peace and a little desire to try a little longer.

Good Lord. Reading back that last sentence, I actually sound worse than I thought I was. The “anxiety,” though… that utter, awful, unrelenting terror of nothing and everything that they call “anxiety”. I do wonder if I’ll lose the battle against it, someday. (Again, I’m just being honest.)

But. But but but. I might lose the battle, but I haven’t today. I know it’s a cliché, but there it is: I am happy I’ve made it through one more day, a little calmer overall, and that’s enough, for now.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 3

21 Tuesday Aug 2018

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How can it have only been 4 days since the last entry? It feels like a fortnight, and every second of it stressful.

Waiting for an assessment with the mental health team (not to be confused with the crisis team, who already saw me) and hoping for some long-term support. I’ve been so afraid of being thought of as weird for so long, I’ve avoided getting help and to some extent, let myself get to this state; at times, even been smug about it… I’m trying to get it sorted out now, but dear God, the waiting.

Will it always be like this? Will *this* feeling always be just around the corner?

To put it into perspective, though–it has been years since I’ve felt this terrified, for hours and days on end. It lasted about 3 weeks last time, before settling noticeably… awful as this is, I have to believe that if I can hang on a little longer, this, too, shall pass.

My Christian upbringing is showing, again. Well. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you don’t let your upbringing turn you into a dickhole.

Always a risk with me, but I’m trying my best.

Mental Health Update August 2018

13 Monday Aug 2018

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Just what it says on the tin.

I was doing so well. Volunteering with a suicide prevention helpline, making tentative plans to see actual people out in the actual world, had a mini-vacation with my husband and kids… now I’m spiralling. Down, not up, but not happy… just anxious.

I got 5 hours of sleep Saturday night, and less than 4 last night, despite being exhausted both nights. The real acid test is this, though: I couldn’t sleep right now, in broad daylight, with another adult in the house, despite being so tired I’ve had a fatigue headache since before going to sleep this morning (it was light outside before I dozed off, despite having been in bed for 5+ hours, at that point). I just can’t switch off enough to rest.

If it makes me feel any better (it does not) I have yet more evidence that social media is the trigger. I joined a large Facebook group about a week ago, and I’ve been more and more cheerful each day–as soon as I got some genuinely negative feedback in the group, eventually getting one of my posts removed (they disliked a pic I shared, despite it being a legitimate reference to the overarching theme of the group) I was ripping at my nails, crying a little bit, starting to hyperventilate, the whole 9 yards. I tried to move on; I engaged in what I thought was going to be a civil discussion on a friend’s FB Wall.

After a few opening comments were made (both by me, and by other people) some random suggested I “find something more productive to do with my time” rather than joining in a discussion between several of my friends, and someone I’ve known for the best part of a decade liked the comment.

The same guy (who has never met me, as far as I know) went on to call me self-righteous, a horrible person, not a real friend of my friend, etc, because….? I genuinely don’t know. I didn’t launch a single ad hominem attack at him, nor at anybody else.

I can’t understand why my “friend” would like me being bullied (that’s what it is, when someone singles just you out, tells you to leave the conversation that’s open to everyone, and then starts hurling abuse at you). I don’t understand what to do about it.

Yes, I do. It’s just hard. Wish me luck.

Writer’s Block

25 Wednesday Jul 2018

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This is what happens when you ignore the urge to write, 2 or 3 days in a row… you come back to your blog and realise it’s been nearly a month since you last added an entry.

I wonder if this is standard, even for professional authors; is the main thing getting in their way, their own inability to stay focused and make time to write?

Whether this is a common problem or just mine, I need to once and for all nip it in the bud. I don’t think I necessarily need to write every day, or when I’ve nothing to say–but when I *do* feel the need for catharsis, I should woman-up and get my not-so-little butt online. I’ve been the North American, overweight, living version of a screaming banshee (bean sidhe, if you want the traditional spelling–my sister did a high school project on Celtic mythology, way back when) for about 3 weeks now… which coincides nicely with the first time I felt the urge to write, and pushed it aside.

It’s not about whether or not I have talent, or whether I’m boring people by writing this blog–that’s utterly irrelevant–the point is, getting this stuff off my chest makes a real (probably measurable) difference to my mood, and my effect on the people around me.

So, for them, I’m going to do it. After approximately 29 years of writing, I’m going to set a daily writing alarm.

Wish me luck!

My Narcissistic Ex

02 Monday Jul 2018

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I finally blocked him, not that long ago–my mental health has only improved, in subsequent weeks.

During our final conversation, I told him that he’d had no right to start a relationship with someone who was mentally ill, unless he was willing to make the sacrifices they needed in order to continue improving their mental health.

He argued with me for an hour, I’d guess, accusing me of everything from saying mentally ill folk don’t deserve romance to lying about my motives. The sum total of his words were: “how dare you not accept the crumbs of my attention I’m willing to give you, the weeks or months of not talking, and then not be thrilled to hear from me when I finally deign to reply to your message or send one of my own–my girlfriend is mentally ill, and her needs come first.”

Throughout the entire conversation, he kept making references like the above, which let me know: he thought I was talking about when he began his relationship with his current girlfriend, who has Borderline Personality Disorder.

He never once understood that my words were an indictment against the years he spent deceiving me, lying to my face, and pretending that I “deserved” to be treated that way (abused, in a word) because he didn’t agree with the morality of some of my life choices.

I wasn’t talking about her, you pure-blind narcissistic idiot–the person you’re looking at is not necessarily the person at the top of everyone else’s thoughts.

I was talking about me: about the suicidal ideation that you were bored of hearing about (in pretty much those words: bored, tired of, doesn’t make an impact anymore….) the self-harm that I tried to hide from you (yet you *still* shouted at me for doing it, after following me into the bathroom to watch me shower) and most of all, the insistence that it wasn’t abuse to scream obscenities at me, call me ugly names, shove/restrain/throw things at/hit me, or coerce me into sex when I was so obviously stiff and scared and not in the mood.

I’m sorry for her, because she’s not equipped to deal with you, and you’ll take advantage, because that’s what you do… but, as ever, until I finally gave up the fight, I wanted you to just once acknowledge how you treated *me*.

Robert Wright…

30 Saturday Jun 2018

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…is my go-to, out of a large-ish group of current intellectuals who debate everything from the implications of particle physics, to whether or not religion is good, bad, or indifferent, to the trajectory of society in general.

I’m currently reading his book (shortlisted for a Pulitzer–fancy!) “The Evolution of God,” and I watch one of his talks more or less daily. To date, this is still my favourite Robert Wright talk, not least of all because it covers a subject I enjoyed learning about during my psychology degree… maybe more important to me personally, I think reminders of ways we can work towards a better world are darn useful, when my depression is bad.

Robert Wright’s “NonZero Sum Game Talk”

It’s 20 minutes of your life you’ll be glad you spared–he’s clever, amusing, not bad-looking, and because he himself is not wildly optimistic by nature, his optimism feels more accessible to someone like me.

I hope it’s accessible to someone like you, as well.

“O Robin, Our Robin”

29 Friday Jun 2018

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This is imported from one of my other blogs; my sister commented today that although I’ve seemed alright “for a minute” (meaning: months, but this kind of figurative language is always hard for me) she always keeps me in mind, when she sees posts about suicidal ideation etc.

I wrote this a couple of years ago, now, for the then-only-just-deceased Robin Williams… I wanted to fix it, to make it better for the anniversary of his death, but it’s been a busy year and this is what I’ve got. I’d rather post it than not, though.

This is *not* “O Captain, My Captain,” nor even a decent parody (the rhyme scheme ran away with itself, and I was powerless to stop it; there are too many syllables at many points, and at least one extra stanza) but it most certainly *is* an homage to that poem, to Walt Whitman, to the movie “Dead Poets Society” and, most of all, to Robin Williams, the… oh, fuck it. He was a legend, and I don’t have the words, but here’s my best attempt.
If you’re somewhere reading it, Robin, I hope you’re touched by my efforts. You were such a generous human being, I know you won’t judge me for the many stylistic errors.

“O Robin, Our Robin”

O Captain, my Captain–
You jumped the fucking ship?
You’re overboard, we’re over-bored
Without your perfect quips.

Don’t get me wrong, the voyage long was more than you could bear
I get the why, it’s just that I
can’t stop my useless tears.

And oh fuck! Wank! Shit!
Oh the movies never made!
Oh the vast routines where genius gleams
now stuck in endless shade!

O Captain, my Captain, how have we lost your spark,
When o’er the world your jokes unfurl
to chase away the dark?

Oh Captain, our brother,
We’d share with you our pills
Our memories bright of how your light
has lessened all our ills.

Although he does not answer,
Although his family weeps,
I think I’m right, this is just night
And he’s merely fast asleep.

His lamp unrubbed, his lines un-flubbed
To Orson he does not fly;
In a jungle great he merely waits for an 8, perhaps a 5.