RealMental

As if I didn’t have enough times in my life when I want to take to my bed and stay there, isolated and cocooned in the dark, my family was blessed with the arrival of a probable case of the H1N1 flu last week.  Both kids had it but had few symptoms, mostly cranky and cooped up.  Me, I was bedridden from Thursday until when I woke up and went to a parent-teacher conference Tuesday morning finally fever free for a long stretch so no longer contagious according to CDC.  Basically five straight days in bed.  Most of those days I had no voice to boot.  Sweet.  I am still sick-ish and definitely bitter about the whole “I got the H1N1 flu” thing but some other things have happened.

I slept quite a bit.  I watched a lot of bad TV- thank god we ignore all the advice about keeping a TV out of the bedroom!  Also the flu gave me a chance to think about some unexpected things.  I had a lot of time to do nothing but stare at the walls and beg the world to inject Morphine into each individual joint but also to think about what I was missing by being in bed.  What was it that was getting neglected?  Who was I ignoring?  How could my kids have this same flu but not be dying like me!!?  How were my kids doing without me?

When I am tucked under covers and feeling miserable is the world just moving along without me, never noticing I’m gone, never stopping to check the gears for a weak cog like me?

I figured out a surprising amount of things while sweating and aching with piggy induced fevers.  As it happens when I am in bed or I imagine, even when I am just hiding from the mailman, I am not missing a lot.  Yes, there are places I could go and people I could see but- meh- whatever it is not really anything new.  Turns out though that other people were missing me.  There are aspects of the world that function better with me in it.  I may not have truly, deep down missed all the playground drop-off and pick-up interactions but when I saw those people I talk to on Tuesday I was happy and excited and they were happy to see me.  They were happy to listen to how much it had sucked to be so sick and how I was still a little shaky.  They had wondered where I was and asked around. They did what I would do if someone I knew went MIA. Huh.

What about my kiddaloos?  They were sick but still running laps around the apartment and making my head hurt.  They were being watchfully cared for by my husband, in whom I have been seeing new subtle tenderness that is much welcomed and was much needed while I was oinking away.   The kids were a little stir-crazy but all in all they were really happy to be playing with Daddy.  When they felt sick they were fine to be comforted by Daddy and when I got REALLY sick they were fine with staying away from me more.  Sure they missed me and wanted to play but they also were okay with just coming in when they could and hanging out in bed to color or watch a show about a baby chicken, robin and duck.  They are okay with whatever version of me is available, sick, or not.  Huh.

And the world- yes it does move along without me just fine.  It rained, it was sunny.  There was soccer practice, the physical therapist stayed open.  Stores didn’t close and god bless them, neither did Starbucks.  Just one latte delivered bedsides at a few key times make a big difference.  It will take the standard mothering equation of # of days sick x 1.5-2 (depending on severity and spread of illness) to get the house and such back in order but it isn’t anything new.  There wasn’t a drastic situation where there were no clothes, dishes, groceries or activities.  Thankfully.  So neglecting the house for a few days (okay close to a week) was/is okay.  Geez- I am sunshine and roses- this must be the fever because I am usually not so sunny but it is sincere and truthful so take it for what it is.  It is all I have got.  This is where I would insert a smiley face emoticon.  But I won’t.

So the moral is that the world keeps going when I am not around but that it doesn’t completely ignore the weakness or absence of this particular cog.  Huh.

I wonder how many times I have taken to my bed simply because  I was sure the world could not keep going- everything was ending.  Or because I felt like the world would keep going and leave me behind- flotsam and jetsam left to float aimlessly and without ownership.  How many times did I hide behind curtains and excuses because I was afraid my kids would notice that I wasn’t able to be “myself” with my friends or family or even the grocery store clerk?  And it took a stupid mutated flu virus to make me realize all this.  Well there was the fever, sweating, chills, cough, aching bones and sleep disruption too.  Oh wait- that was still the flu.  To make it clear- I hate the stupid, stupid flu- especially this one, but the hours in bed may have done a kind of good that I never would have expected.  Just don’t let the psychiatrists know… we could all end up with porcine prescriptions.

Now go wash your paws while you sing the alphabet twice.

Dear Miriam-

You are really starting to slack.  You seem to have completely forgotten that to get anything done you have to do anything.  Even though that is almost exactly the advice you gave your dear friend not more than a week or two ago.  Saying you are slacking is too harsh because you are more like a headless chicken.  That makes you blind, deaf, and aimless if not running directly into walls.  You are neglecting things that need tending.  You are tunnel-visioning into, well, tunnels.

Miriam- you have some serious relationships that have been affected by your mental and physical illnesses for years and the cracks are showing.  You better start an account at Home Depot because you have to do something to mend those zig-zagging, criss-crossing cracks and laughing and putting off conversations isn’t going to work forever.  You need to remember that you do have a few friends that you adore and can count on more than you let yourself think.  Start seeking them out instead of hiding from them.  You would give them the (always stained but moving towards more fashionable) shirt off your back so let yourself see what they are wearing.  A little stretching and they might have some shirts you can borrow too.

Stop pretending that the world comes to a standstill while the housework or kiddo craft waits to get finished.  There will never be enough time- you know that.  Miriam, be honest with yourself- if you keep waiting to really dive back into your work until you have the perfect tranquil but energizing space transformed out of your little sun room turned storage locker and all the corners of the house swept it might wait forever.  Do you want to wait forever?  As the song goes: “That’s a mighty long time.”  I have forgotten which song.  Sorry about that but be realistic- can your inner self be expected to do all the work?  Try looking things up or maybe ditching the old music for something they play on radios without ads like “we play all the music you love from all the years you remember most!”

So get cracking, devote a bit of time to making a room of your own and a little time to grocery lists and tub scrubbing but then move on.  Focus and then focus on DOING.  Seriously.  You need to try it.  You need to try harder.  Focus on your work, focus on the kids, focus on the best way to treat your pain.  For god’s sake, focus on the people you love who love you back.  But Miriam, you are 32 and can not just wish that life would straighten itself out because you made a really good list that day.  You get credit for kicking ass in the whole “working on getting better” thing, but you are quickly losing ground outside the health care realm.  You do not live in a doctor’s office.  You are not a professional patient.  When people say they are taking a “mental health day” it is so they can take a break and get away from their troubles.  Your version of a mental health day seems to be to head straight into the depths of crazy and sick and hope there isn’t a storm.

Miriam, if this were a letter to the editor I would probably offer a proposal for a change in zoning regulations or an explanation of why we shouldn’t trust “those” people.  But it isn’t.  Although… zoning regulations and reevaluations of relationships is kind of spot on. This is an open letter that I am hoping will show you and the readers who are out there (right?) that sometimes you need to step back and take a different perspective on things.  Give yourself a good talking to.  Every therapist I have ever seen has said at some point “what would you tell your best friend if they were in this situation?” or something similar.  I am not my best friend but I do need to tell myself what to do from a more disciplined place more often.  Easy right?  Hence the “open” part of the letter.  Accountability.

So in closing please remember that you do not have to be super-writer, super-mommy, super-wife, super-homemaker, super-business-re-starter, super-finance-manager or super-crazy-sick-person all the time.  Pick a hat (although I hate that expression) and wear it for 20 minutes, an hour, a week- whatever you can take and feels reasonable.  Focus on it as best you can and then move the hell on.  Give yourself permission to break away, give-up for a spell and let go to give yourself space.  In the simplest of words: Miriam- you must do this to keep functioning because we all know what happens when “super” becomes the norm.  It doesn’t work and you fall fast and hard.  So read this letter, hope that it makes sense and hope that you can make some sense of the world.  Not figuring out the whole world right now on demand, just make some sense as best you can.

Feel free to address any comments to both the author and the addressee.

Sincerely, The Inside of Miriam’s Brain

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. That is the way the saying goes.  Going by that reasoning I must be holding onto some finely-tooled leather reigns and racing through the woods under a starlit sky right about now.

I wish for clarity and brevity.  I wish for simplicity and strength.  I wish for resolve and repair.  I wish for whole-ness where there are pieces breaking off.  I wish for an answer but I don’t think I have even asked the question in the right way, let alone at all.

I simply wish.

Wishes are like prayers with less faith.

When I was little in stature and years alike, I was accustomed to prayers before bed.  They were usually said in bed and used the same structure each night, modeled after something my grandfather (missionary offspring and minister) devised.  It was not just said for comfort and love and to give a big “hello” to the man I pictured wearing brown and hanging out with sheep and children.  My siblings and I also used it to stall for more time with my parents or more time with our eyes open and the light on.  No sacrilege intended.

“God bless our happy home right here and all our loved ones far and near.  God bless…”   And then comes the listing of names; closest family first, stuffed animals and extend from there.  I think it ended “and God bless Jesus.  Amen.”  I’m fuzzy on the last part but undoubtedly will remember when I have already posted- since it is too late to call my sisters or mom for a phone-a-friend help on this one now.  I should say right now I don’t practice any religion in particular as an adult.  My family (husband and kids) celebrate Christian and Jewish holidays in a way that holds true to family tradition and tries to connect to culture before god.  God is up to the kids when they get there.  Although there will be a post on my blog about the kid to god connect-the-dots coming soon.

Modeling after my own parents, I started saying something to the kids each night without really thinking about it a while back.  I don’t remember starting it but I do remember it got longer periodically as I thought of a new sentence to add.

“I love you so much.  You are my best little (boy/girl.)  You will always be my little (girl/boy) and I will always be your mommy.  I will always do my best to love you and protect you.  You will always be loved and cared for and safe in this home and in this family.  Good night.”

A little longer than your standard “G’night Kiddo,” but it keeps me comforted and my wish is that it keeps them comforted as well.  It is familiar and patterned and I do not stray from the expected.  I wish for them to have faith in me that I will generally not go wildly veering off the road.  I know that I have had my moments of that with them already and there will be more, so a little belief in me now can only help.

What they don’t hear, and I don’t even know if my husband hears, is what I say when I check on them before I go to bed each night.  They are lying in bed, sweaty foreheads and feet dangling off bedsides.  I lay my hand to their head and whisper.

“I love you so much.  You are my best little (boy/girl).  You will always be my little (girl/boy) and I will always be your mommy.  I will always do my best to love you and protect you.  You will always be loved and cared for and safe in this home and in this family…”

Then I lean in closely as if there were someone around who was eavesdropping.

“May god bless you and keep you tonight, this night and every night hereafter.  I love you.”

I start with statements and facts, promises of what I hope to be able to do and what I know I can do. Then when it is darkest and the house is quiet, I end with a wish or prayer.  That is the best I can do and it is a system I tend to apply to a lot of things in my life.

I am trying to apply it now, to the moment, the day, the week, however long I need to.

So, things are sometimes hard right now, even when I am happy and the ever-popular psychiatric euphemism of “doing well.”   There are always an abundance of things I wish I could say and can’t or won’t.  Even, maybe especially, here.  There are always times when a t-shirt announcing my situation or state of mind would feel cozier.  I can try to muddle through this, well, mud that is bogging me down.  I can try to hold strong for those who need me and bare my weaknesses for those who can take it. I can look for comfort in cooking and falling leaves.

My wish or my prayer is that writing about how I can’t be clear or specific in my writing, but have things to share, will help me feel better.  I think I might even be writing with almost total selfishness for the first time here.  Not that I don’t want someone to feel better or connected or like they can reach out- please wish I may, wish I might, that even my selfish and disorganized, devolving writing could be so useful- that I could be a voice in the dark so powerful!  I am writing because I want to feel differently than I do right now.  I wish I could make it happen as instantly as the letters appear on the screen.

I wish I were a beggar with a horse as fast as lightning with legs that never tired.  Tonight, this night and every night hereafter.

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.

Periodically I will get a call from my mother with some bit of news that ranges anywhere from “I found your collection of things you found in old cellar holes” to “you know So-and-so, weren’t They in your class?  Well, they died.”  Or there is the very common “In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you that ______ has A. fallen and needs a cast, B. gotten into immense trouble, C. been taken by ambulance, D. is going through great trauma or the ever popular E. has basically nothing wrong with them but “hi!”

My mother does this because I have four sisters and we live in four states.  There are 10 offspring between us.  My parents are divorced.  There are those of us with mental illness (check!), physical illness (check!), developmental problems, chronic risk factors (check!), jobs, no jobs, friends that are old (sorry Mom), and any other thing you can think of.  And my mother sometimes has to be the initial clearinghouse for information because either it happens to or near her or well, sometimes when you have a tummy ache you just want to call your mom.  If the tummy ache is bad enough your mom then has to call someone else so they can check in on you too.  That is a lucky situation when it works.

The thing is that somewhere along the way the lines got crossed and my mother started to lose track of who she had told what and when and because my sisters and I were growing older- we called her on it.  Thus was born the chronic abuse and fodder for sisterly laughter of  “In the interest of full disclosure…”  My mother will call to tell me all sorts of things that start that way and you never know how they will end.

“In the interest of full disclosure…because I don’t want to forget to tell somebody…I fell and broke my hand.”  Very, very serious.  She is a pianist and an author.

“In the interest of full disclosure…because I don’t want somebody to say I didn’t tell them… your Grandfather’s house had a mouse.”  And…?

“In the interest of full disclosure…don’t say I never tell you things…the ice cream stand is closing for the summer.”  That mattered when I rode a bike with a banana seat and stuffed dollar bills in my shoes but now I can get ice cream anywhere.  But she wants me to know.

“In the interest of full disclosure…we should all do something to help because your sister Miriam has been having a hard time and she needs all of us.” Okay- that was good and that was important a few years ago when I broke down after my daughter’s first birthday, succumbing to my secret and severe postpartum depression and re-activated PTSD.  I am sure she made those calls.  There was disclosure no one was ready for and I am sure some wished she was calling about a broken arm or a church fair catastrophe.  I am so grateful for that one and other calls I am confident she has made.  Some of them- I could do without.  I don’t mind knowing things I just don’t always like when they start with “in the interest of full disclosure.”  It has started to feel a bit loaded.

It has become a real sticking point in my head lately as I write here and when I get to writing at my blog.  Disclosure.  Full disclosure.  My blog doesn’t mention my craziness with any sincerity, nor does it reference that I write here.  Here I write openly and honestly but how much have I disclosed?  How much will I?  How much do you want to know and how will I know when I have hit on something that makes you eager for more disclosure?  How many times can I say disclosure before you stop reading??

Many of the contributors here are so free with their thoughts and I envy that some.  I want to just spew it all out and rid the pits of my stomach, heart and brain from the burden they have grown accustomed to carrying.  But I also want to use my name and share with a select few that I write here.  Do I want to share all of this with the PTA I just paid $25 to become a member of (Did I really do that?  What was I thinking?)?  No.  The guy at Starbucks who gives me free coffee because I gave him a few books I was done with and for once didn’t feel the need to covet- does he need access to my disclosure?  Neighbors I am finally getting to know after living on this street for 3 years?  Even my family?

I think I wrote some about this in my first post so I should stop now.  What I am really getting at is this:  My mom has a system that works but has flaws.  She works hard to remember to call everyone (or request a phone tree operation) and begin with “In the interest of full disclosure…” so we kind of know what is coming.  It means that I can keep up with some things I otherwise couldn’t.  It also means I sometimes know useless crap.  And I can never expect her to remember or be able to call with each incident or item worthy of disclosure, so I do miss things.  Despite my rational understanding though- I still get angry at her for not calling.

I need a system.  I need to know what I believe is best and most valuable to write about here.  Full disclosure isn’t necessary but I am guessing more disclosure could be a good thing.  As is always the issue for any writer: a crystal ball that let me see what everyone reading needed to connect with or wanted to get a view of would be helpful.

A few things I haven’t yet disclosed: *I know postpartum depression backwards and forwards (and would love to hear from anyone else who does- please comment or email) and yet still I want more babies.  *I am on Facebook but there are so many people from my youth who know me as being “sick” that I get stressed out just writing my status.  *I just created an amazing organic heirloom tomato and apple salsa and gave it all away but now people want the recipe and I don’t have one.  *I have blue eyes and can’t afford to fix my hair color which should be (and is about 3 inches down) a crazy rich red with blondish-goldish highlights at the crown.  It looks awesome when it is done and I never compliment myself so…good hair dresser.

In the interest of full disclosure- I sat down to “start” this post and never thought I could finish it without losing steam or getting distracted.  My iced latte now has no ice and I missed two calls.  Plus my feet are a little tingly from poor positioning…  Each word I write here is a form of disclosure because my name is attached and I picked the word.  I hope I am picking the right ones and trust that with time will come clarity.

“Human salvation demands the divine disclosure of truths surpassing reason.” – St . Thomas Aquinas

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.

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…