RealMental

In the ensuing days since December 31^st, I keep finding new bruises.  One on my shin (darkening, still, as of this morning), a smattering of small ones on my thigh and arm.  A large one on the back of my thigh, two square inches and a deep purple-black.  All self-inflicted, not on purpose—not really—but the result of a few hours of banging around drunk.  Purposefully drunk.

Every New Year’s Eve since I turned 21 has been same verse, same as the first.  I have spotty memories of them, woven in and out of drinking games and one final magnum opus, the moment when it all reverses and I vomit until I no longer can.

It’s cleansing, in an exceedingly fucked up way.  I start each new year with an empty stomach and an insidious headache, sleep away that first day.  Sleep away the memories.

That first year—21, the end of 2006, the beginning of 2007—is full of other meaning and connections.  The last time I was completely untethered, the end of the Big Bad Hurt, the almost-end of us.  By the end of the day, January 1^st 2007, I would have lost an engagement.  I would realize, truly, for the first time how close I was to really losing everything.  I would realize that I had lost my mind.

***

My best friend eschews digital cameras, for the most part, sneering at a technology that allows us to have what he refers to as “instant nostalgia.”

This semester, my friend Charlie has dutifully toted his camera around at night, documenting our drinks and the way we sink into each other as the night progresses.  In the mornings after, when I wake up on someone else’s couch [or when he wakes up on mine], I download the pictures into a folder on my hard drive.

I take advantage of this so-called “instant nostalgia,” track all of the pictures he has surreptitiously taken.  Pictures of the side of my head, or my pointed glare into the camera—wielding a smirk, dimples blazing.

And one picture from New Year’s Eve—post-ball drop, at the very edge of my memories.  1/10 of the nights of the year I wore my hair straight and down.  1/3 of the nights of the year I wore high heels.

A genius picture, really—though probably not intentional.  “Serendipity,” as it goes.  “A beautiful mistake.”

On the right side of the picture, I am laughing.  Loud, it would appear.  And on the left side, an expanse of kitchen between us, the same boy who broke an engagement three years ago.  [He’s laughing too].

***

It’s been more than a thousand days since that first year, the first time I ever puked from over-drinking and the day I almost lost everything.  The days since then have seen the biggest changes—I’ve gotten used to nightly meds and psychotheraphy, gotten used to feeling desperate in the grocery store when I’ve forgotten the previous night’s Lamictal.  I’ve gotten used to trying to decipher my moods—and used to sometimes failing.  I’ve gotten used to divulging my bad habits to my best friend and my psychiatrist.  I don’t know if I’ll ever spend a New Year’s Eve without feeling sad, without wanting to empty my stomach or hurt myself crawling up [and falling off] banisters.  And I’ve stopped pretending that I’ll never feel the hard things ever again—I’ll never be done with sadness or frustration or longing.  And I’ve stopped pretending that I’ll ever be 100% ok with the idea that I can’t have a 100% normal life (whatever such a thing is…).

So, on January 1^st of this year, I wrote this:

“At the end of the year, I sometimes feel pretty. And sometimes hurt or overwhelmed. Sometimes filled with soul-shattering longing. Sometimes blessed and fulfilled. Sometimes invincible.”

The most I think about these words, the more I feel the gravity and the truth in them.  The reality of my life is that I have an illness that sparks a shift in emotions, that once swung me in and out of moods that I could barely recognize, much less control.  But now, I get to experience the most beautiful and real emotions—crushing sadness, blossoming anger, the frustration that makes me shake in my shoes.

And happiness.  The kind that leaves you laughing in a kitchen with someone who could have left.  But didn’t.

I bought a Korean red bean bun as an after-work snack.  According to the packaging, the first ingredient was “Bean Lump”.  For a laugh, I brought it home and showed my husband.  He patted his large belly and declared “This is my Bean Lump.”

He and I are a bit like Jack Sprat and his wife, reversed.  He struggles not to overeat.  I can’t seem to gain an ounce.  Granted, I do exercise more and snack less than he does, but in the final analysis most of the credit for my low BMI goes to luck.  I have skinny parents.  He doesn’t.  It’s not fair, but that’s life.

When I’m feeling good, it doesn’t matter.  My husband is a handsome man with smooth skin, a mischievous glint in his eye, and an alluring dimple when he smiles.  He also has very charismatic eyebrows.  And sexy hands.  Perfectly straight, white teeth;  a cool haircut.  Women flirt with him, and love it when he flirts with them.  His waistline isn’t big enough to overshadow all his attractive features.

Frankly, if you could give me a guarantee that my husband would live until at least the age of 85, I wouldn’t care about the bean lump.  It’s not an issue of insufficient superficial beauty.  I count my lucky stars every day that the wonderful man I married happens to be so good-looking.

However, when I’m anxious and under stress, I can’t ignore the bean lump.  It taunts me.  Bullet points from magazine articles about Metabolic Syndrome scroll across my mind’s eye like quotes along a stock ticker.  I’m sure he’s going to get diabetes.  I’m sure he’s going to die of a heart attack.  How selfish of him to abandon me through an early death!  He loves bacon more than he loves me!

Technically, he could be doing more.  He says he has “no time” to exercise, when I know he spends at least 4 hours every night playing on the computer or watching TV.  He swears off snacking for a while, and then I start finding wrappers in the garbage and unwashed plates in the sink when I get up in the morning.  When he orders a side of bacon with his brunch, I bite my tongue.

The thing is, I know he’s doing his best.  I’m not the only emotionally fragile person in this house.  He has his limits too.  While he may have time to exercise, I know that he doesn’t have the emotional stamina to deal with it.  He took up jogging for a few weeks two years ago.  Every time he came home, he talked about how much it sucked to be “that fat guy trying to run”.  Everyone else on the track was fast and athletic.  That was outside, at night, in the dark.  I can sure understand why he hasn’t been able to face a brightly lit gym.

Yes, he eats compulsively sometimes, but do I have any right to get on his case about that?  He doesn’t smoke, drink to excess, gamble, or get too wrapped up in online gaming.  His family has a history of alcoholism.  He’s had a rough past.  All things considered, if all he does is eat a whole big bag of potato chips at 2:00 am every once in a while, he’s doing pretty good.  In fact, he’s doing excellently, and I’m proud of him for coming as far as he has.

But when I’m down and nervous, all of that counts for nothing.  All I can see is his early death, the funeral, and an old age of loneliness and endless grief stretching before me.  The bean lump may as well be a tombstone hanging around his neck.

I always think that I’ve got myself under control.  I tell myself that I’m doing fine.  But my resistance slips.  Although I should know better, I justify to myself that I can make this comment, leave that article on exercise out for him to find, because it’s “for his own good”.  Then we fight.

“Do you think I don’t know that I’m fat?” he asks me sharply, wounded.

“I have to look at this” (he grabs his belly) “every day in the mirror.  I’m the one whose pants don’t fit.”  By the time I’ve realized my mistake, it’s too late.  I have failed to love him unconditionally.  I’ve basically told him that he’s not good enough.  And guess what happens when he feels bad about himself?  He eats for comfort.  He lies around more watching TV because the stress of fighting is exhausting.

He also gets that I’m trying to control him, and he doesn’t like being controlled.  What better way to rebel than by doing exactly what I don’t want him to do? 

Hello, self-fulfilling prophecy.

I hate the ugliness in my head when I fall down that hole.  I hate that I never learn, that I make the same mistake over and over again.  Once the words are out of my mouth I feel so stupid, like the biggest dolt that ever walked the face of the earth.  I’m a bad wife.  I’m a crappy friend.  I’m a mess.

Every day I try to live up to my ideal: take life as it comes, and leave the things I can’t control up to God.  Be grateful for what I have when I have it.  Don’t grasp.  Don’t presume that I can know what the future holds.  Anything could happen.  Life has surprised me more times than I can count, and the surprises are often good ones.

Or, let’s say that my worst fears will come true.  What then?  What if my husband is destined to have a heart attack and die at a young age?  Do I really want to spend our remaining days together fighting over whether or not he puts too much butter on his pancakes?  I can enjoy what I have while I have it, and be grateful for every second.  I can be open to uncomplicated joy.  I can be fully in this moment, with all of my heart, without conditions.

He’s doing his best.  I can see that.  He puts in 110% effort every day, and that has to be good enough. 

I love him so much.  I hope that we both live long, happy lives together.  But the only thing I can truly reach for and achieve is long, happy moments, right now, one breath at a time.

In that period of time I mentally call the Big Bad Hurt—April 2, 2006-December 2, 2007—I found myself in bed with a series of boys.  Always in bed, often through the night—but never sleeping.

Even after they would fall asleep—as they inevitably would—curled around me and snoozing like infants, I would lie awake for hours.  Crunched up in their arms, suffocating and guilty.  Hours and hours of staring at the ceiling, thinking too fast.

The mania didn’t help, as it never does.  It was an amalgam of factors, the natural loss of sleep I’d be getting when I was manic, added to the guilt and the suffocation.  I hate to be touched in my sleep and hate, even more, being cuddled when I’m tired.  A lifelong and unapologetic thumbsucker, I need to lie in a certain position to drift off.  But they never cared, never paid attention.  Just wrapped me up too tightly in their arms and dropped off, never caring if I joined them on that other side.

Except once, in the middle of the Big Bad Hurt—I got drunk in my house when my parents were away.  Joey and I weren’t “together”—we were on the break that would last from my birthday and for a little less than two weeks.  The same night I fell out of bed and he helped me back in.  Then let me turn on my side, like I prefer.  He didn’t wrap me up in octopus arms, but just let me be.  And calmly fell asleep beside me.

I woke up next to him the next morning, and I knew.  I knew that he was the one.  I knew that he was the person I was supposed to be with—after all, I’d fallen asleep with him.  Of all the boys I’d ended up in bed with, he was the only one who I could actually sleep with.

It takes a great deal of comfort, I guess, and a level of trust to fall asleep with someone.  With him, it was so natural, so unmanufactured.  I didn’t have to fake it with him. I never had to fake anything with him.

I was lucky, you know.  I was lucky that we made it through the Big Bad Hurt.  Truth be told, I’m lucky that he had the dedication to make it through.  That he stayed.

Every night, now, I get to drift off beside him, perfectly calm and sleepy.

And sometimes, when he’s staying at a friend’s house until late or staying up to play games on the computer, I fall asleep on his side of the bed, just so he’ll have to wake me up and move me over.  He wakes me up to move, and then I drop right back to sleep.  Just like then.  Just like always.  Perfectly calm.  Or, simply put, just perfect.

The past few months have been difficult for me: Mike’s stroke, financial problems, DJ’s death, sickness (Hello SWINE FLU). My anxiety, always a problem, became crippling. I couldn’t face social situations. The smallest tasks became overwhelming and I withdrew from Mike and the kids. More than anything, I wanted to crawl into myself and hide. It was physical too. I started eating more and moving less. Always tired, my entire body ached. My arthritis was also hurting more and I finally broke down and went to the doctor at the beginning of November. While I was there, he suggested I change the meds I take for depression. For the past few years I’ve been doing fairly well taking Zoloft. I still struggle with my emotions from time to time, but it helps. He told me that Cymbalta would do the same thing but that it would also help with my pain and fatigue. I hate taking pills, so it sounded good. At the same time, he gave me two prescriptions for pain relievers/muscle relaxers.

Sure enough, after a week of Cymbalta I felt a lot better physically but mentally I was much worse. I wasn’t sad or even ‘depressed’. It is hard to explain, but something was very wrong. Have you ever gotten a song stuck in your head? You try and try not to think about it but every time you turn around you’re humming the tune or singing the words. The next few weeks went something like that, but instead of songs I would think about hurting myself. They weren’t suicidal thoughts; I didn’t want to kill myself. Washing dishes, I would imagine breaking a glass and cutting myself. Every time I shut the van door I would have to force myself to move my hand out of the way so that I wouldn’t accidently smash it on purpose. If I walked under a tree I would think about a branch breaking and falling on me. It was terrifying. For the most part, I was able to ignore the urges, but not always. Once I was cutting my toenails and kept feeling compelled to take off more and more of the nail until I had torn my entire nail off. I was looking at my bloody toe and I knew that it should hurt but I didn’t feel anything but relief.

I should have asked for help, but I didn’t want to seem crazy. Normal people don’t do things like that. I did talk to a couple of people about the drug but they didn’t mention any side effects like I was experiencing so I thought that it must be in my head.

Last Friday, Mike and I got in a huge fight. We have our little disagreements, but we very rarely argue. Something inside of me broke and I started crying hysterically. I insisted that Mike leave the house because I couldn’t even look at him. I knew I was in trouble. My first reaction was to take one of the other pills the doctor had prescribed. I’d had trouble with it before because it put me to sleep right away. I figured that it would calm me down and I could take a nap before the kids came home. Mike was supposed to be back soon and he could take care of things until I was back to myself.

The bottle said to take one pill three times a day. My brain was running around in circles. I should just take three pills once, right? The worst that could happen was that I would sleep all day and wake up feeling groggy. I took three and waited and cried and waited and cried. Nothing happened. My brain was still racing. What if I took three more? I’d get sick probably, but at least I would go to sleep. I took three more and waited and cried and waited and cried. Nothing happened. I took a shower, with my clothes on, and fell asleep. The water in my face woke me up and I remember thinking that the water had washed away the medicine. I should take some more…

I don’t remember anything after that, but my sister said that the bottle was empty. I woke up in the ICU and stayed there for two days. After that I spent four days in a locked psych ward at the hospital. No tv. No radio. No clock. Just lots and lots of time. They changed my meds and listened to me cry. Then they listened to me cry some more. Then they listened to me talk. And then they let me go home. I feel a million times better now, but ???? Now I feel like I am officially branded: MENTALLY ILL. It seems worse somehow than just getting some meds from the family doctor. Now it’s Major Depression with a side of Invasive Thoughts.

By KristyK

People don’t understand the ways that a chronic illness is different from an acute one.  It’s hard, until you’ve experienced it, to grasp the nature of the flux of day-to-day symptoms and management.  People don’t understand how well we have to know ourselves, how we have to track our changes.

We’re expected to be our own mind-readers, to know when things are moving up or down.  We keep journals and calendars and second-guess our feelings.  I try to stay ahead of myself, but sometimes it is only through the worn-out glasses of hindsight that I am able to say, man, I was crazy last week.

But even harder than keeping track of my own moods, I find, is knowing what to do when I realize that I am flailing or sinking or rising too quickly.  I can see that I need help, but I don’t know how to ask for it.  I never know how to ask for it.  I’ve tried, once or twice.  But I’m bad at being explicit—it always comes out jumbled and obtuse.  I can’t find the right words, even when I’m with my best friend or my psychiatrist.  I don’t know how to tell people that I’m hurting, that I need a rescue.

***

I’ve been at a conference all week.  On Monday, we arranged ourselves to have a picture taken.  Because I am short, I naturally got punted from the third row into the first.  There, I was placed beside an older man.  He turned to me and spoke with a European lilt, asked if our weather is always this nice in November.  I told him that is generally is, and we chatted further for a few minutes.  After the pictures were done, we started to walk away—he asked my name, and I looked down and commented, “Oh yes, I forgot to put on my name tag today.”

And he replied, “Oh, I couldn’t have seen it if you did.”  Then, he reassembled his cane, grasped the arm of a nearby man and walked off, yelling behind him, “Oh, I’m speaking tonight!”

***

He was amazing to watch; he started out his presentation by commenting on his blindness.  He has retinitis pigmentosa, a genetic degenerative disease.  He was diagnosed in his thirties with degenerating sight, and now can see almost nothing.

But more amazing to me than his adaptations and obvious intelligence—which were nothing less than incredible—was the ease with which he asked for aid.  He was unobtrusive and unapologetic—if he needed guidance, he simply asked for it.  I watched as he passed himself between colleagues, grasping for their arms with an ease that was simple and beautiful.

I wish for this ease; I covet it with the most jealous and evil parts of my soul.  I wish for the grace to ask for help, I wish for the suspension of ego that would allow me to say, “Here I am, lost.  Please take me somewhere else.  I need you to guide me.”

I yearn to someday be able to take someone’s arm and say “Please help.”  But more than that, I worry I will never be able to.  And that, I think, scares me more than anything else about my disorder.

When I look back [and really, even when I was in the moment], I was kind of crazy this week.  Real Crazy, like the kind of crazy that got me here in the first place.  For the same reasons.

Reasons like—a stressful presentation on two and a half hours of sleep, a test on about the same amount.  Our seven year anniversary, which I didn’t get to celebrate properly until last night.  And a cracked radiator on the boy’s car, a leftover surprise from his Seasonal Flu Dizziness Driving Adventure [which culminated in him rear-ending another car on his way home from work one evening].  It seemed like every day was designed to take it out of me.  It, I suppose, being my threadbare sanity.

If I were to be completely honest with myself [which I rarely am] and all of you [which I try to be], I would admit that I always exacerbate things by not working on them when I should.  I have a broken sense of urgency, replaced by too large a dose of inevitability.  Yes, it is coming soon, but I will inevitably have it done.  The two don’t connect in the proper time frame.  Or, possibly, I’ve always gotten it done, so there’s no need [so whatever part of my mind that controls that sort of thing says] to do it expediently.

So, I spend my nights before these big events—presentations, tests, the like—alternately catnapping on my couch, pounding caffeinated beverages and feverishly doing work.  It doesn’t bode well on the next day, when I’m worn out and worried that I’m not prepared.

Tuesday was such a day—filled with classes, one of which I was slated to do a presentation on the synthesis of a natural product peptide.  I had done a decent amount of reading and work the night before, but I still stayed up very late.  Chemistry doesn’t come as easily to me as it does to some of my classmates.  It doesn’t come as easily, even, as it once did.  I worked hard to prepare, working through breaks in the day of the presentation to finish.

And finally, it was done.  Over.  I had done well.  I could rest, my most stressful part of the day behind me.  I was looking forward to the end of the day, to seeing friends.  I breathing again.

Then, I picked up a paper and had an unexpectedly shitty grade.  I felt like a child who doesn’t understand the rules—how do you complete something when the rules are ill-defined.  I was confused and upset.

Then, my semi-boss sat down beside me—4:45 PM—looked me in the eye, and said “You’re not progressing as quickly as I would like.”  In response, I floundered around a response, then finally just started crying.  He beat a hasty retreat, said we would talk about it later.  I cried more, harder—cried in that way that I knew I wasn’t really crying about this incident.  Crying because I was tired.  Crying because sometimes the rules are too hard to understand.  Crying because it’s hard, goddammit.  Crying because I’m crazy, sometimes, and that makes me cry too.  Crying because I was embarrassed, mortified—that I’d somehow let him win by getting the best of me, making me look soft.  Crying because I was angry at him for making me feel like I’m proving someone else’s point, that women shouldn’t be in science or high stress jobs because it wears on their delicate souls.

So, I set about getting some digital comfort.  My closest labmate registered her sense of unfairness.  “Nobody makes you cry,” she told me.  My best friend asked if I needed him to do anything.  “Not now,” I answered, comforted by the knowledge that he would, if I ever asked.  I know he would.  Other friends, as they found out about the incident during the week, likewise registered outrage.  Even after it was over, even after I understood more what he was asking.

I remembered a similar incident, when I was in college and an RA.  I was accused—of all things—of having sex in my dorm room.  Which was against the rules—not explicitly, but tacitly, I suppose—for my small Christian college.  That had the same set of feelings, the obvious shame and exhaustion, of course, but also a feeling like I didn’t know the rules.  I hadn’t been having sex in my dorm, on purpose, because I felt like it was possibly inappropriate.  I was sexually active and in a monogamous relationship, but it was long-distance and those carrying-ons were usually, well, carried on elsewhere.  At the time, a couple of my friends who were fellow RAs pledged to quit their jobs if I lost mine.  But when the hatchet fell—and it did—they didn’t carry through.  Hemming and hawing, they found ways to renege.  Saying that they understood the decision.  Saying it wouldn’t change anything if they quit.  That feeling—that they’d pledged something and let me down, it stayed with me.  In a blink of an eye, I can conjure that feeling.  Of course, other friends offered up support, and I obviously made it through that extremely trying time.  But I was let down.  And that time in my life was the first I’d ever seriously questioned my sanity.  With all of the desperate feelings, literal months of crying–it was the first time I ever thought something could be terribly wrong.

But these days, let me tell you—I’ve assembled a crack team, a Sanity Squad that I would put up against any other.  I never question their commitment.  I know that they would go to bat, at risk of their own good standing.  I know that they would approach a man they’ve never met to tell him he was wrong.  I know they would do this for me.

I watch the meticulous ways they take care of me, stand to the side and watch as they open bottle after bottle and then hold out an arm to escort my wobbly ass down some steps.  They buy me meals when I’ve forgotten my wallet, drive my phone to me when I leave it in their car.  I’d do the same for them.  I do the same for them.

These are the people who’ve taught me—literally—about what it means to be a friend.  I’d like to think I learn from them, but most of the time I feel like they are so much better at it than I am.  I don’t know what to do with this type of love, with the intensity of our intimacy, our bowed heads and whispered voices.  They have me caught up in their gravity, or maybe the other way around.  Or maybe we’re all just magnets, caught up in each other.  Maybe it was bound to happen.  Maybe it was meant to be.

In any case, having lost most of the perceived secrets of the universe, I stumbled on this one.  That friends—if you let them, if you work at it, if you reciprocate—are the absolute difference.  The one thing that can turn a bad day on its head.  The one thing that makes you want to keep living, even when you’re giving up.  Some days, the only—ONLY—thing keeping me together.  I have a posse, goddammit.  Everything else—mean bosses, a shitty batch of brain chemicals, memories of lost friendships past—had better fucking beware.

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.