RealMental

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

Guest post from LovesMisery?

Recently, my husband disclosed to me that he thinks…

I like being depressed in life. Do I like it? No, I hate it. Is it comfortable? Probably, where else have I been naturally? I take meds – are they not working? I need some answers!

I feel myself slipping, ever so quietly, into a mild state of mania.

It’s quite possible it’s time to back off my meds.

This time four years ago, I experienced a similar, but stronger mania. My General Practitioner had ever so quickly upped me to 150mg of Zoloft (I had never been on anti-depressants before, despite numerous bouts of depression).

Now I’m in a new place mentally and in a new space in my relationship with my husband. I also now have a child to consider when setting up my boundaries.

My return to medication is due to my child. Post-partum depression set in shortly after I weaned my baby after nineteen long months (of breastfeeding).

I spiraled down into a depression that I could not out think. I became uncomfortable to live with. I needed help, mentally and physically.

I needed permission to get help. I needed permission to ASK for help. I had to let go of the notion that I had to do everything myself. I had to let go of the notion that accepting help equals weakness.

Now, a year later, I have willingly accepted help and favors from friends, relatives and neighbors.

I have accepted help from artificial serotonin replacements.

I am clearly more upbeat than I was last year.

But when does this help become a hindrance? When do my boundaries solidify?

I aim to find out somewhere along the way.

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’ve been in a not so good place for a few weeks now.  I keep running through the list of possible reasons, and I’ve settled with the prognosis of “it is what it is”.

I have friends with Jerry Springer lives that I want to solve, or at the very least ease their discomfort.  Helping is not an option, I have to just walk with them and love them as we go along.

Sometimes it is as if I am walking through a world of grenades, and I have to be constantly aware of my position.  Everywhere I turn, there is unbearable crazy and if I am not careful I will fall into one of the pits.

Maybe others just shrug off their crazy family and friends.  I try to do that, really I do.  Some days it’s an obtainable option.  Pretending that I am somehow trapped in a book about the lives of others and it’s all some type of fiction.

One person has quit their job in order to pursue the life of BDSM, not worrying about the future or about their children and the effect it will have on them.  Another can’t stop shooting dope, has no interest in sobering up for her child.  A man that told me his sisters had sex with each other after drinking entirely too much alcohol.

The soccer mom that drinks and smokes pot before she picks up her kids from school.  A friend that  in order to bear the pain of losing their nine year marriage is looking for solace in the online sex world.  A person told me recently that if Obama had run for president a few years ago, he’d be dead by now (because of his skin color) and the person speaking wouldn’t be upset about it.

A person that blames their ex spouse for everything that’s ever been wrong in their life for the past forty years, debilitated and held prisoner by the hate and resentment.

Parents with over sexual children that usually indicates some type of sexual abuse, but unable to investigate further.  People who lie all of the time, so much that they’ve lost the truth in it somewhere along the way.

A man who must hide his sexual interests and live a double life, a man who’s been depressed and unhappy for years.

(Some of the details are changed to protect their identities.)

I am personally connected to living post secret postcards.

More often than I’d like, I wonder if I will eventually drown in this sea of crazy.  I wonder if the whole world is bonkers and I am the only one that sees how insane all of this is.

My friends trust that when they are speaking with me that I will listen to their deepest secrets, knowing they will not receive any judgment from me.  This is very important to me, to provide a safe place for my friends to unload their burdens.

I am not judging them as I write this, I love each and every one of them, and I accept them for who they are.

Sometimes, it just gets really heavy and I start seeing too much, hearing too much, and feeling too much.   I’m not complaining, I’m not unhappy with them, I’m just writing it out because things are not always as clear when they are stuck in my head.

I don’t leave things alone as much as I should.

I love too much.

I care too much.

I feel too much.

I worry too much.

I project too much.

My brain is a computer that cannot stop processing, processing, and processing over and over until I fall away with exhaustion and have to leave the world for a few days.

When I don’t answer the phone or return emails or go outside, it is because I am regrouping, I am resetting my controls, I am finding peace.  I’ll come back.

Eventually.

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

If they came and kidnapped me right now and blindfolded me, gagged me
stuck me in the trunk
I would stay calm
because I know the roads.
I would know where they took me.
Quick left, quick right, quick left
to the freeway
or the other way.
The slow S shape
winding back and forth.
They won’t go 35 and 45.
They are in a hurry.
They will push it and speed.
And when the orange sign warns that going over 30 round this turn will lead to death and it will be your own fucking fault
they won’t listen.
They will go as fast as they want.
But the car won’t flip or crash because the guy driving the car is a professional.
I’ll use my nose to figure out where we are.
The smells go like this
City, people
Less city, people
Grass
Soil
Rich, rich soil
Soil and garden
Onion rings?
People
City
Cars, industrial stink
too much.
And Joe says
You Don’t Ruin Everything
Don’t say that anymore, Leah, it’s not true.
And I hear him from far away.
I’m not really in the trunk
but I am bound and gagged.
The buildings and the streets
they are neon pink and orange
It’s not true, I know.
But I still see it.
I’m not in the trunk.
I know I’m sitting next to Joe in the front because from my vantage point in the back seat
I see him holding my hand.
There are tears running down my cheeks
for no reason at all.
But my mouth is trying to smile and feels like nothing is wrong.
They aren’t connected to each other.
My mouth says
Gatorade powder
toilet paper
milk and I smile
and my eyes cry
for some unknown reason until I need a hankie or tissue.
In the isles I can’t stop staring.
The boxes, the floor, so sharp, so blurry
all so beautiful in neon.
The colors are almost overwhelming plus I know they aren’t there but, they are and I can’t stop staring.
Everything should cost a dollar.
Things are so expensive.
Joe gently guides me along
and when I say to no one except the cereal boxes that I like Honey Nut Cheerios
he says
Yes You Do. You Like Them.
And grabs my hand to look at canned beans.
There is a family with four kids.
Both parents are wrangling two.
Line the kids up and they make a stairway just like my kids did.
But my kids are old.
I don’t get to nurture them like that.
And I can’t even have a dog.
Would my pet dog be neon red, too?
And glow and look like fire?
The dad looks at me in surprise
and then pity.
I’m walking next to me
and I see what he sees.
I have the look of a crazy person.
My hair is unwashed, clumped and stuck in all kids of directions.
I’m wearing Joe’s Hawaiian shirt that has the same leaf colors as the bird’s poop and it hangs over my bra-less front.
My jeans are sagging, top button undone.
I’m shuffling
and my eyes are puffed, tearing and have red rings like clown makeup.
Next to myself I see this.
Back walking in myself I don’t know it or care.
And the floor is orange now.
The air smells so good on my face on the way home.
I love air.
I tell Joe I Will Be Better Tomorrow. Joe says I Know.
And Joe is helping me make nachos with cheese and black beans.
I eat them.
I vomited all morning.
My tummy feels humming but it doesn’t kick the nachos out.
And Joe gives me warm kisses on my cheeks and eyes and lips.
I feel them.
And I feel them.

Cross posted at Leahpeah