RealMental

Hey, all! Help me in welcoming Derora Noo! You’re going to love her!

I’ve always wanted to go to Montana. Remember the film Legends of the Fall? Wrecks me every time. I manage to keep it together while Native Americans are displaced, Samuel dies, and love is abandoned. I start to tip when Tristan’s wife is killed, and I lose it completely when Susannah meets Tristan’s son Samuel. By the time Susannah cuts off her hair and shoots herself, I’m inconsolable, mostly because everyone has put such a pretty, stoic face on their pain.

The only thing saving me from being seduced by all this Grade A romanticized suffering is Tristan’s “good death” at the end, by bear-fight. It’s a fitting and rugged resolution, and it centers me again, reconciling me to all things inexorable, like death, sorrow, and bad sex.

We’re all heroes of our own movies. Some of us may self-dramatize more than others, but I think it’s fair to say we all, at times, present a reductive version of ourselves. Sometimes it’s for the benefit of others.

Often it’s because the truth overwhelms us.

About 10 years ago, I took a summer program in classical acting. One day after class, a student and I were sitting on the stoop outdoors, waiting for our rides. She was upset about something, and her sense of being wronged resulted in a bitterness she didn’t seem to know what to do with. I listened, and then she glared at me and said, “You wouldn’t know anything about this. Look at you. You’ve never had to deal with this kind of thing.”

It was a moment that gave me insight into how others viewed me, and it wasn’t at all what I expected. Defending myself seemed pointless; I accepted what she said and made the lonely mental note that, because of my appearance of togetherness, chances were good that people would stick with their initial assumptions about me, and not fathom the depth of my problems.

And who was I to disabuse anyone of their assumptions? Was I supposed to tell people that, when I was four, my father left me to be raised by someone who was, most likely, clinically depressed, and who later (and regretfully) told me she bullied me when I was little? Was I supposed to volunteer that we were on welfare when I was a child, and that the bulk of my clothes were from clearance bins or trash bags of damaged clothes? Why would anyone care that I had gone to 12 schools and had worked six jobs in college while my half-sister, my dad’s second child, was raised in a life of relative privilege, with trips to Europe, a horse, piano lessons, and private school tuition. It wasn’t my job to explain my struggles. I could never find the words anyway, because I didn’t fully understand them. I lived in a terrible space of rage pointed inward.

And now, after this exchange, I felt even more alone.

So I developed a character—a character that others would be comfortable with, that I’d be comfortable with. I dressed nicely on a budget, I worked as hard as I could at everything I did, and I found tiny reasons to get up each day.

Most people had no idea anything was wrong.

A few weeks ago, in a post about heartbreak, I compared being depressed to lugging a bear trap around. You can’t remove it, but, hey, it’s on your non-dominant arm, so you can do most of the things any able-bodied person can do. Maybe the bones have knit and the skin has healed around the wound, so it’s not even bleeding. It only hurts if it’s jostled unexpectedly. You’ve adjusted your posture and gait so well to compensate for it that others don’t even notice. Hey, that’s what bell sleeves are for, right?

You’re determined to present a positive version of yourself, so you can get ahead at work, so your friends don’t pull a fade-away, so maybe one day you’ll actually believe you’re okay. Your therapist tells you, “Fake it ‘til you make it,” and that becomes your mantra. Your suffering is hidden, and that’s fine, because what you’re going through is ugly and has no words.

You’re a good actor.

You fool a lot of people, but you can’t fool yourself. The bear trap has a way of reminding you, of keeping you tight in its jaws.

And really, if you’re being honest, your friends aren’t fooled. At least not the ones who get close to you. Your personality is forced, your conversations are circular, and you have a habit of nursing painful events you can’t resolve. Your reactions to setbacks are disproportionate in size. You can’t find the spring on the trap that will set you free, though you repeatedly and methodically go over every inch of it. You’re convinced you’re responsible for the trap in the first place, which is really rather egotistical of you. Your mind is in a trap of destructive habits of thinking.

But keeping up the façade at least gives you the sense that you’re doing something.

You become a better actor over the years.  You’re always on the lookout for clues to “normal.” You mimic the healthy behaviors of your friends and coworkers—strangers are great gifts. You manage your anxiety in social situations, giving yourself permission to evacuate. You learn how to ask people about themselves, and how to smile and believe that there really is good in the world, even if you’re going on faith.

You’re faking it, and you’re almost making it. Sometimes.

You also learn that when you spill everything right up front to non-bear-trap people, they tend to run away. But sometimes you can’t help it, because you want to believe that someone will understand you, will help you.

Recently I made a new friend—really just an acquaintance, not even a date kind of thing—and we were opening up a little after having spent some time together. He offered that he didn’t have much of an appetite lately because he was a little depressed. Aha! A fellow bear-trapper! I said, “I totally know what you mean. I can’t eat when I’m depressed either. It’s hard to believe I’m even worth food.”

The look on his face told me I had seriously miscalculated things. There was no bear trap on this guy. He was just stressed about work.

See, there’s always a tell, something that tags you as a bear trap person. And then everything in the friendship shifts, dammit.

Occasionally you meet other bear trap people, maybe you even sleep with them until you realize their desire for you isn’t based on you as a separate person, but you as a bear trap person who might take on their trap as well. You keep finding yourself enmeshed in troubled relationships. And you know it’s you, it must be you, it happens over and over. It doesn’t seem to happen to other people.

I once had a kidney stone. I was 21. I’d taken some NyQuil for a cold and gone to bed. Hours later, a horrible pain woke me. I tried to ignore it—you know, because that always works so well—but it just got worse. I tried to think of positive things, but all I could think was how everything alive eventually suffers and dies—flowers, pets, Jesus. As the pain became unbearable, something amazing happened. I began to wish that I wouldn’t die. I was relieved to have found, buried under my severe (and at that point undiagnosed) depression, a part of me that wanted to live.

So I woke up my mother.

She was groggy for a bit, but when I said, “I don’t want to die,” she shot up. I was seriously scared, and I meant what I said, but I also cringed at saying something so dramatic. She and a neighbor threw me in the back of a station wagon and drove me to the emergency room.

The staff on duty asked if I’d taken any drugs or alcohol. I was nearly passing out, so I’m sure I looked like a drug overdose. I told them just the NyQuil. They stripped me and I lay there, splayed for all the world to see, while they explored me for clues—needle tracks, bruises. My mother said that’s when she knew I was in serious pain, because I was the most modest person she’d ever known.

They diagnosed a kidney stone and explained it was as if my kidney were having contractions. Okay. Hours went by. I could barely open my eyes from the pain, so I lay there, conserving my energy. Finally, they jabbed a needle in my thigh and it felt so good—it was a re-set button on the pain. Turns out they had waited for hours for the NyQuil to leave my system. Had I known, I could’ve told them it was the first thing I’d thrown up.

The painkiller kicked right in, and all of a sudden I was sitting up, smiling, and chatting. I was so grateful to be free from pain. Apparently, my sudden animation informed my previous quietness with the insight that I’d been in a whole lot more pain than the staff had thought. They hadn’t known. After all, I was so quiet, why would they know?

But now I was free.

And that’s where I am now. For decades I held on and I worked hard. When I was 21 I started my first round of therapy. I told myself there was a chance that maybe I’d someday be out of pain, even though it might take ‘til I was 85. Who was I to decide to check out early? I became determined to present the most positive, competent front I could, when I really wanted to give in and curl up.

It took years of single-mindedness, a stack of self-help books, three or four rounds of cognitive behavioral therapy, some new age therapies, and many kind-hearted people, but eventually, I unhinged my trap of depression—I wore it down or rusted it open, or something. I’m not sure what gave me the final push into psychological health; I just knew that something big was at stake and it was now or never. My life was going by year after year in a way that felt very wrong. I had to give up everything I believed fiercely, everything that had gotten me trapped in the first place.

First I stopped trusting my self-destructive thoughts, and then I sprung myself completely by replacing them with new, healthy thoughts that seemed positively outlandish. I don’t mean to make it sound easy—I often felt like I was tricking myself into believing and behaving positively.

I used to cry every day; now I cry every few months. I have bad days sometimes, but they don’t turn into months and years. Sometimes the bad feelings worry me if they linger for a few days, but I’m now armed with tools to understand and manage them, to keep them from clamping down on me.

And I know I’ll always have scars. There will always be a tell when I get close to someone.

I’m compelled to blog about this because when I was struggling to find emotional health, the thing that helped the most was finding perfect strangers online I could relate to. Often that’s all that kept me going. I’ve always been a writer, and blogging gave me a way to anesthetize my feelings and push them into some sort of form that was useful to me. For years I’ve wanted to try and make it all add up to something, to give what I went through some sort of comprehensive, elegant meaning.

I think ultimately that’s really kind of impossible, because the only thing that can give it meaning is you.

Fake it ‘til you make it.

Meanwhile, maybe I’ll see you in Montana.

These last few weeks I have been spending a lot of time alone with my almost 4 year-old daughter.  As summer counted down and my son’s first day of kindergarten drew nearer I started to get very nervous about all this upcoming alone time.  You would think I would have been looking forward to it- excited and eager for the opportunity to have all the “Mommy and Me” time I had one on one with my son repeated or matched up with my daughter.  I wish that I could lie and say I have waited for this for years.  I have actually been terrified of it for a long time.

After my son was born we had mommy and baby playgroups, developmental activities, hours giving Good Night Moon and Kerouac equal reading time, coloring outside the lines, giggling at the walls- the list goes on.  When I became pregnant around his first birthday there was no need to stop any of this.  Well, at least not until I was too huge and tired to make complete sentences.  Then I threw all promises of saintliness aside and taught my son how to use the remote.   Okay- not exactly- he could never figure out the right combination of buttons to get to PBS… but I did give in to the TV and settle into the couch.  Until playgroup or Kindermusik or a well-timed trip to the park.

The delivery of my daughter was so traumatic as to bring on a new recurrence of my previously undiagnosed but obviously there PTSD. The severe post-partum depression was just a fun bonus.  I was connected to the baby in all the “right” ways.  We nursed and co-slept, stayed abreast of developmental stages and her relationship with my son.   I made sure she was happy.  We had a new playgroup too.  One for the town, one from when my son had come along.  Mommies had their second babies.  I spoke wisely and joked about all the silly things and was the sarcastic one but pleasant as always.

I was also a super-mom.  Cloth-diapers- some sewn by myself, homemade clothes, no chemical cleaners EVER, organics, the best play date table spread you could imagine.  Theme days, crafts galore, organization of organizing tools, the continued ability to run my handmade goods business and do weekend fairs even with a new baby.  I was also lying to the world.  I was not super anything unless super crazy counted.  I hid my symptoms all day and let the night hold them for me.  It was during that time that I lay in bed and wrote the following piece.

Today seems interminable

Sleep refuses to revive me or release me

or open its arms widely enough to hold me

Daggers and ripping in my belly like cold fire

Heavy lids and skipping heart teasing me

When darkness goes on forever and

daylight is no sweet relief or proof of God

each minute is like a notch on failure’s belt

A bitter reminder of all the ghosts

that hold open your eyes and gorge on your dwindling faith

The tears and the terror that lurk on the

edges of my dreams, my terrible dreams,

make me wish for a few more moments of

wakefulness in spite of my worn down body

During these hours I dabble in forgiveness

I almost allow myself to breathe deeply

as though unburdened by responsibility

I almost let my heart empty itself of its

terrible weights and measures

I almost sleep

Three beautiful bodies rest next to me

chests rising and falling with whispers of peace

A rhythm of hopefulness and prayer

that guides me through nightmares and sadness to

a beautiful dawn and one more chance

at forgiveness and sleep.

-May 03, 2006 (my daughter was just 4 months old, my son 2 years old)

I still have nights like this and I still have bouts with insomnia.  I still have all of those feelings at one point or another, but a miracle of sorts is taking place.  I was so afraid of being alone with my daughter when she was small because I didn’t want to stare my agony in the face and try to love it unconditionally while managing nightmares and laundry.  Now years later- I was afraid of being alone with her as my son started school because I never really had been and I certainly hadn’t done it regularly as a healing person.  Spending mornings and lunches and drives to school with my daughter in her big girl body has forced me to realize that my life kept going when I thought it wouldn’t.  I didn’t die from hidden misery, the push of frantic, imaginary perfection or even the breakdown that eventually came.

My daughter helps me see with clarity so much that once was obscured. I am sure this year will be one of great growth for both of us.  I am still looking for chances to forgive both myself and others and I hope that I find more.  I am still looking for sleep but now I am not always fearful of it or conversely trying to escape within it- most of the time it is just a need for sleep.  After dropping my wonderful son at school I can enjoy looking at my daughter and seeing her beauty, grace, intelligence and humor- not a terrible delivery, medical professionals who failed me or someone to whom I owe a debt for years lost because of mommy’s craziness and failure.  I can look and see a reflection of myself that is not the terrible one I spent so long wrestling with when she was so tiny.  During our time together, Mommy and sweet girl on our own, we are teaching each other.  I get a new way of moving towards forgiveness and restful nights.  She wrote the word “fairy” all on her own just yesterday.  She dreams of fairies and I am happy just to dream.

I’m childless by choice.

Some prefer the term “childfree”.  Which term do I prefer?  A little of both.  Sometimes I feel deliciously, wonderfully, blessedly free from the demands and responsibilities of parenthood.  And sometimes I regret that my life is less for having missed out on the richness of raising children.

Yes, I chose, and still choose every day not to be a mother.  (I’ll be 37 in a few days.  The window of opportunity is closing fast.)   

I love children.  I volunteer at my church nursery once a month just for the chance to cuddle other peoples’ warm, adorable little ones.  I love being there, holding them, even when they scream in my ear, even when my arms are burning because I’m not used to holding a 15 lb. child for a whole hour.

I choose not to have children because I don’t believe that I could be a mother and maintain my mental equilibrium.  I would definitely have to be medicated to survive the experience, and since I’ve never been on medication I don’t really know how it would affect me.  What I do know for sure is that infants and small children, given any long-term exposure, create the ideal conditions for me to lose my grip.

Here is my formula for a life that allows me to function:  I must have 8 hours of sleep per night, and more on the weekends.  I hate to be touched too much or grabbed by someone who doesn’t respect my boundaries.  I have a very low tolerance for being interrupted when I’m concentrating on getting something done.  I need a lot of “Me Time” to decompress after a stressful day at work.  And I need to be able to negotiate with other people about how we spend our time together.

There have been times when I’ve been forced out of my formula.  And in very short order, a few weeks at most, I fall apart.  The joy leaches out of life.  I want to say “NO” to everything.  I start fantasizing about my kitchen knives.  When I hear about someone completing a suicide, I feel jealous.

I burst into tears in public without provocation.  I can’t cook or shop for food.  Every problem seems enormous.

I want everyone to go away and leave me alone.

My mother spent most of my childhood severely depressed, and enraged.  I’m not sure if medication would have helped her.  Her sister, the only family member who actually takes medications for the condition we all carry in our genes, has never been helped enough by her pills to pass for normal.  (She doesn’t have kids either.) 

I don’t believe that I have the emotional, mental, and physical resources to enjoy being a mother.  Fortunately or unfortunately, my husband feels the same way about being a father.  Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t chosen to marry someone as fragile as myself.  Would I be raising happy children with a strong partner by my side?  Or would they simply not be able to understand why I was always falling apart under the pressure?

Sometimes I feel deep, aching regret at having missed out on one of the most fulfilling experiences a human can have.  Most of the time I can accept what is.  But the worst, the very worst, is when other people don’t understand.  And they hardly ever do.

I present such a tidy exterior to the world that most people can’t believe that I’m really walking that close to the border of a breakdown.  They can’t or don’t want to see that the edge of the cliff isn’t that far off, and it wouldn’t take too much of a push to send me over.  I know where the edge is, because I’ve found myself over it, clinging on by my fingernails, too many times.  No matter how much time it’s been since my last fall, I musn’t confuse chronological distance with any kind of actual progress away from the edge.  That’s how I end up pushing myself to far, and ooop!  I’m under a blanket crying through a whole box of tissues again.

When I try to explain that I couldn’t be the kind of mother I’d want to be, and the person I’m speaking to says “Oh sure you could!”, it hurts.  It hurts so much I get a lump in my throat and the bottom of my stomach falls out.  Because what they’ve just said in a nutshell, without even thinking it through is a) they have no idea who I really am inside, and b) they think I’m exaggerating my mental condition and generally copping out.  There’s usually a certain amount of condescending reassurance to their tone, as if to say “You poor dear, you’re just afraid to grow up and take that responsibility.  You’ll be ready one day.”

It doesn’t help that I look at least ten years younger than my actual age.  People feel very comfortable giving that message to someone they see as just a girl, who might not even be out of college yet.

Even if I didn’t have a biological clock ticking, I don’t think there’s enough time in the world to make me “ready” to have a child.  My way of taking responsibility is living within my limitations and not re-creating the nightmare of my own childhood for another generation.

There are so few words in me right now and they are so mangled that I am struggling to make conversations much less coherent sentences.  Let me state for the record- the record that is really just for my sake so I can point something out that I am not willing to deny- that I am doing better than I have been in a long while.  Just today I saw my doctor and we spoke of my many improvements and the signs that prove I am fortunate enough to be moving forward- away from the depression, the instability and lack of will.  Among other good developments I have even quit one medicine and lowered two.  I am more willing to meet people, keep up with things I enjoy and things I don’t but that are necessary.  I am even working on new projects.  To the point I go-

Just now my DVR disrupted the recording of a show I wanted to watch.  A repeat, one that I may have even seen already but I wanted to record in case I hadn’t.  When I asked my husband to fix it there came an escalation, or maybe a de-escalation.  How should I describe me swearing horribly at my husband, twisting the remote as if I could break it with bare hands and breathing more quickly than a racehorse at the end of the Kentucky Derby?  It got worse.  There was twisting and turning, begging and pleading.  Things I won’t put to page because I am not yet that brave.  All of it a showing of vulnerability I despise.

Because of TV?  An electrical malfunction?  Why is TV so important- this is my second post that highlights its place in my life?  I’m beginning to understand why people worry so much about the television as babysitter.  I’m 32 and I pay it every month to keep me busy.  I must make a note to watch less TV and pick up macramé or perhaps a weekly bridge group.  I digress.  Boy, do I digress.

I know better than to believe that I should blame the silver box beneath the flat screen.  I already mentioned the medicine changes, although I stand behind them as being the right moves.  Last week I wrote about my overwhelming fatigue and of course that can play into a flash of panic and irrational anger.  Of course there is the ankle sprain and twisted knee that I sustained on Sunday during the extreme sport of apple picking.  There are also the other chronic pain conditions I have that cause me to be on a separate cocktail favored by pharmaceutical reps.

And so I write somewhat briefly and definitely without my best skill right now to say that sometimes even when things are okay I cannot, must not forget the undercurrents of the diseases that are rooted in my brain.  I cannot ignore the pangs that go through my stomach or the quick, double breaths I occasionally take.  So many things make me, us, anybody and everybody, vulnerable to falling into a bear trap.

I am tired.  It hurts right there.  How come I forgot to do that thing?  He/She is being ridiculous.  Stop tailgating.  Is the bank wrong or am I?  I just need two more inches of space.  I only wanted to watch the one damn show and then I will go to bed.  I am thirsty.

Little things, big things, the size in this case simply does not matter in the least.  Vulnerable is vulnerable and for someone with depression, anxiety, mania, PTSD, you name it- the smallest of bear traps can be the most deadly.  I am lucky that tonight I was not alone and I had enough wits to want to hold it together and want help even when I pushed it away and I think even called it names.  My bear trap of an anxiety attack and outburst of anger came equipped with a ladder: my husband and his steady hands and clear mind.  They should all be that easy.

I am saddened to read backwards and see that I have developed a view of panic, terror, helplessness, fits and rage as being able to be called “easy” even once.  However, I recognize that if I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t be able to get up most mornings and take my two kids to my son’s school where I make pleasant conversation with people who have no idea that this is my life.  I do not know their lives either.  I can only hope that this is a moment in time that will be lost as the minutes tick away.  I also hope that if even one of the people I make eye contact with in a day finds themselves surprised by a bear trap that they can reach a ladder or at least summon the courage to scream until they are heard.

I’m listening for them and will resolve to hone my ladder building skills.  It seems like a better past time than TV and is far less likely to be effected by electrical failures.

A couple months ago, I reunited with a high school friend.  We had a great time catching up at our reunion, but since we live in different states, our continued communication is pretty much electronic- some emails, fairly regular Facebook chats, and texts to alleviate the tedium of most workdays.  In a text over the weekend, sent after he closed up his beach house for the year, he said he was feeling depressed and lonely.  He was vague about the reasons (“…end of summer, job, just stuff…”) So, when I didn’t get any texts from him on Monday, including a lack of response to a text I had sent, I freaked out a little.   Or maybe more than a little.  I called  him on his cell phone, just to check on him, worried because he’d had a rough time over the weekend.  He assured me he is fine, and that he’d had a good day, and that it was really sweet of me to call and check on him, although he sounded really confused as to my concern.

To the best of my knowledge, this guy has never been diagnosed with any mood disorder, yet the word “depressed” sent me into immediate protective mode.  I’ve come to define myself in terms of whether I have done enough to help anyone else work through their own issues.  And I’ve taken what is a commonly used, seemingly innocuous term in our vernacular and turned it into my crusade.

I guess this may be a sign that I need to get back into therapy,  before someone peripherally related to me has a bump in their own mental health or happiness that I flog myself for not preventing.

I’ve always skirting on the fringes of mental illness, I think.  My first panic attack was when I was in eighth grade, but no one was talking about panic attacks then; it was just “nervous about public speaking.”  But I kept my over the top reactions to having to do presentation or speeches under wraps well enough that no one realized how nauseated I was, or how swollen my tongue felt as I tried to squeeze the words out, or how the ringing in my ears drowned out every other sound in the room.  And, eventually, I learned how to pretend that my speeches were coming from someone other than myself, as though my real life was the same as what I did with the drama club.

I remember cutting myself in high school, not enough to do any lasting damage, but just enough to see what the blade would feel like.  But only a few times, not as a habit.  The throwing up was the same thing- every once and a while, I’d lose control and eat a pound of Oreos and stick my finger down my throat in response.  But never enough for anyone to notice and never enough for it to be a “real” eating disorder.

There were days when hauling myself out of bed and facing stuff took all of my energy.  But everyone kept telling me how charmed my life was, so I tried to convince myself that I was just being selfish or whiny, and after awhile, I found reasons that I had to fight past the fog.  I did therapy for a couple years, but my therapist was saying the same things that my sister had been telling me, and I decided to save the co-pay and listen to her advice.   Affirmations and cognitive therapy seemed to address the anxiety and depression that was identified, so I should have been fine at that point.

I reacted to problems and stress in my life by drinking too much sometimes (but nothing like the “too much” that I saw from my uncle before he hit AA, or my college roommate who let loose once she was not under her dad’s thumb), or by seeking attention from guys (but not to the point of being considered at all promiscuous), or by binge eating (yeah, I think we may have covered that one already…)

And now my children have…issues.  It’s probably self-centered for me to think all of those issues have to do with me, but every time one of the professionals asks whether there is a family history, my husband’s “Well, no one on my side of the family has been diagnosed with any mental disorders,” feels like a slap in the face and an accusation.  I’m not crazy enough to need help and medication any more, not I’ve never been quite right either.   And I don’t know how to put my own worries about whether I’m OK enough to do the right things to help the children to whom I may have passed on the crazy genes.

I’m so tired. I am very tired.  I have always been tired (unless clinically opposite of tired) at least as far back as fourth grade.  I vividly remember telling my best friend at the time that I had bags under my eyes so big that I could carry groceries in them.  Oddly enough she didn’t really get what I was saying.  But she had a bedtime that she kept to and didn’t know who David Letterman was.  What could I really expect?  She also hadn’t seen Bachelor Party or Prom Night on cable- not even Three’s Company in syndication!  I was pretty sure all 9 year olds had the same unsupervised TV habits I did.  I was shocked every time I found someone without a working knowledge of HBO and Cinemax.

As for the present- the non-mid-80’s time, well, right now I am experiencing more than my usual brand of tired.  I haven’t stopped functioning and I hope that doesn’t come to be.  But I can’t stay awake through morning snack, let alone dinner.  My body is moaning this awful old-lady moan all the time. If my head even tilts at the same time that I blink then I will fall asleep.  Or at least wish I would, could.  Still I find myself searching the channels at 3:30 in the morning because I have pushed tired too far and am worried I will never not be tired and that it is too late to wake up not tired so why sleep anyway?

This last week has been big for the wee ones I grew and who now seem to be growing on their own.  My son started kindergarten and my daughter and I are hanging out together alone all day regularly for the first time.  I could go into detail on any of 901 topics related to the kiddaloos, changes, time, playground tears and you-were-thiiiis-bigs, but I won’t.  I think that is for another place or time even though pieces of all of those have relevancy and I may come back to one or another.  I mention that it has been a big week because I want to clarify my current state of being.  And maybe give wee little mad props to my son for not combusting on impact with the elementary school.  He and my daughter rock in different ways that are cool and perfect in the exact right ways for each of them.  And don’t worry; I know I am old for trying to fit “mad props” into my writing- or anything for that matter.

Back to the sleepiness.  Just the sleepiness- we haven’t even gotten into the good reasons not to sleep like nightmares, flashbacks, panic and missing something potentially fun.

I am fairly confident that most medications for mental illnesses come with the warning of a possible side effect of fatigue. I am also fairly confident that quite a few of the illnesses those medications are provided for come with a possible symptom of fatigue.  Even with mania you must eventually come down and when you do you are, yes, fatigued.  Add in the fact that most of us are humans with some degree of responsibility for something or emotional accountability to or for someone and quell suprise… there is a possibility of fatigue entering the picture.  And yes, we are an overworked, overstressed and poorly rested group of adults running around this country, sane or not.

So hey, guess what- I am so damn tired that I am starting to be close enough to the other side of it as to be wide awake again.  There is not enough coffee in the world and even if there was, drinking it would only upset the tiredness long enough to push me into overload and make me miss my window for good sleep.  I can’t clear my head enough to make sense of any of it and I am losing track of what is symptom and what is side effect or just plain life.  If I seem disjointed, please remember the topic at hand.

So when do I stop my vigil?  Do you have a stakeout routine for over-tiredness?  When do I stop watching for the side effect, warning sign, and symptom, what have you- of being very, very, very tired?  When is sleepiness worthy of a medication overhaul and not just a cup of coffee?  When is it something you start hiding instead of complaining about openly?  Having been like this so long should I have been at a sleep clinic instead of sleep-away camp?  Okay so that is a lot of questions just to say I am tired and you may be too and it sucks.

I spent a long time working with a woman who whenever someone would say they were depressed she would say “What is the difference between depressed and sad?”  The answer she waited for each time was “2 weeks.”  Apparently a symptom only becomes a symptom when it persists for 2 weeks.  What does that mean for me and my bloodshot eyes?  I think if I started feeling tired at age 9 than my 23 year run would technically qualify as a symptom.   But with my medicine collection that would bring a tear to the eye of any soulful pharmacist, I can always blame modern medicine.

Modern medicine, cable TV, self-awareness, pharmacy inserts, the PDR and my DVR- I blame all of you for this total immersion into fatigue.  Maybe things will start to cycle anew if I start tomorrow with four shots of espresso instead of three…