RealMental

In response to Miriam’s post In the Interest of Full Disclosure.

Wren says –

“Am I self sabotaging, my therapist asks? I don’t know. I am afraid of finally losing the weight? Maybe, I don’t know. Is it a control issues? Fuck yes, I can control what I eat and I can’t control what I eat or don’t eat all a the same time. I am the mobius strip of food control. Yes, I feel expectations from family and friends. I do not feel understood because I do not understand myself.”

I just wanted you to know that your words in that particular passage really resonated with somebody…with me. In fact, if you changed “losing the weight” to “gaining the weight” I could pass it off as something I had written.

I wish I had words of advice or encouragement to give you other than the ones I do, but I just know sometimes I like to be reminded that I am so NOT alone.

You are so NOT alone.

You are also not any one thing by which your disorders may attempt to define you. You are a composite of a million bits and pieces and chunks of very valuable personhood; thoughts and ideas and dreams and fears and memories and impressions and talents and expressions.

You are you, housed by a physical body that does nothing more important than serve as a carrier for your energy; a physical body we have all learned to judge, part and parcel, for no particular rational reason.

We belittle ourselves every time we let our opinions (or others’) of our bodies represent the entirety of our beings, every time we let our exterior determine whether or not our interior is of any value. We belittle our potential; more importantly, we belittle our here and now.

That being said, taking care of that body – and treating it with love and respect- is the only way to fully allow our full beings to be celebrated and to thrive. Abusing the body, with food, with negligence, withholding medication, severs ourselves from, well, ourselves.

Until the disconnect from repeated abuse becomes so severe that we live in our brains and cease to feel in our skin. All that is left is the endless blur of judgment, a barrage of impulses, a capricious whirr of exercises in restraint/denial and complete and utter lack of control.

But you can do this. We all can. And when you can’t – reach out. Ask it, say it, shout it, cry it, write it… someone will hear you.

Because you are so not alone.

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

It’s fascinating, isn’t it?  To be here, to be crazy or treated, to be in or out of your head, to be safe or dangerous and self-aware?  To watch yourself dip into insomnia, to take a pen in hand and scribble across paper, late at night.  To watch yourself move closer on the couch, catch yourself and move back away—to do this over and over again for the course of an evening.  Advance, riposte, retreat.

I’m back here, sitting happily on the lap of my good friend, the one and only, the amazing Sir 100 Mg Lamictal.  All is well, no fuck-ups, no regrets for the past four weeks [except, maybe, that they had to happen in the first place].  Just fine, thank you.

But it’s fascinating.  When I dip out of personality, when I move toward either extreme, I suddenly feel like I’m outside of myself, watching.  Pulling the strings, maybe.  There are subtitles and stage directions.

“Girl sits in class, overwhelmed by her frustration.  Moisture—not tears, but something else—rise to the corners of her eyes.  When the session is over, she stands and walks into the restroom.  She walks into a stall, sits down, tilts 45 degrees and sucks her thumb, head against the side of the stall.  She breathes.  She breathes.  She breathes.”

“Girl laughs laughs laughs so loudly, people turn.  In a hushed voice, she talks shit about the people sitting in the room with her.  The corner of her mouth turns up, smirks.  Not the usual one, her normal smile.  Her eyes tilt down.  This smile and these eyes—fuck, she looks wicked.  Fuck, she feels wicked.  Someone should watch out.”

She should watch out.

I could continue on for days, you know—I could go on and on, give case after case.  I could tell you about watching myself spike alcohol into my blood, about tequila shots and trying not to drive willfully into trees.  I could tell you about watching myself lie awake at night or about the long and wandering thoughts, the deep dangerous ones that would flash across my mind.  I could tell you all these things, and so many more.

But it’s all prologue, or prelude, or whatever, to the best result of my self-awareness, what finally occurred to me:

I was at the grocery store, buying our weekly supplies.  Here, the bag boys always offer to take out your cart, and then ask if you’re sure if you decline.  I thought about it, and wondered if they are just always spoiling to go outside, if they want to escape their inside duties for a moment.  So, one night, I asked the bag boy as he was pushing my cart.  “Policy,” he said, “we have to ask a second time.  We have to ask if you’re sure.”  So, the next time I was in, I declined once.  And when asked a second time, I declined again, smiling.  I was in on the secret.

And it occurred to me: when you are manic, the universe is whispering to you.  When you are manic, you are always in on the joke.

You just never realize that the joke is on you.

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…

Guest post by Jennifer

“It’s been a long trip with little days in it, and no new places” ~Anne Sexton

It started when I thought I had been molested and blocked out the memories. This made sense when I read books on the subject, and talked to a therapist or two. It made so much sense, I had things I thought were “repressed memories” and I became completely sure that they were real. It made so much sense, I destroyed some familial relationships that have never been repaired completely since.

The first time I hallucinated, I thought there was a bat flying around my bedroom. Another night, a giant frog was on me.

The CIA didn’t start to follow me until a few years later. I thought I was followed by the mafia, the Masons, the CIA, the FBA, the NSA, and Satanic cults, and became convinced I had a connection to all these groups.

I saw the same color, everywhere I looked, some days. I’d see red-white-and-blue on everything from someone’s clothing to the paint on a wall. Everything. And I didn’t know I was hallucinating at all.

I heard the voices first as if they were from people behind a wall. I thought I was overhearing people in another apartment or room. Then I heard people tell me how I was going to die. All the time, every day, people were telling me I was going to die. They were telling me how horrible I was, how much they hated me, that I was worthless, and that I should be dead.

I came to believe on alternating days that I was Anne Frank, Jesus, and L. Ron Hubbard. During one hospital trip, there were three of us who believed we were God. “Hi, I’m God,” one said to me. And I thought, “What?? She is obviously confused,” as I was Jesus that day.

I thought Anderson Cooper was my husband and that we were part of the “Illuminati”, I thought that he talked to me directly when he spoke on TV. I heard him. I watched him. Everything was directed directly at me. I thought the same thing about Ani Difranco’s music. It gave me messages.

One time I went to New York City because song lyrics and voices told me to. I didn’t know anyone there. When I got there, the world was ending. People were being shipped off in trains to concentration camps because the Holocaust was still occurring. I took a bottle of pills in a hotel room and cut my leg open with a piece of glass, trying to get the implant out – you know, the one the CIA put there. I woke up in some hospital in New Jersey. They wanted to send me to the state hospital. My family saved me from that fate.

I’m better now. I work part time. I live alone, with my cat, and I have lived in the same spot for three years, which is a rare thing for me. I take my meds, every day, without fail. I get injections of an antipsychotic every other week, without fail.

But I still hear voices. You wouldn’t know it if you met me. You can’t always see psychosis.

Please welcome Miriam, the latest writer to join us at RealMental.org. We are proud to have her here and know you will appreciate her candor and story. Welcome, Miriam!

I have sat struggling to come up with the perfect beginning to my first post here and as it turns out I can’t find it.  Should I provide a resume of crazy so you know I’m legit?  Lists of ridiculous occurrences from the last week that have made me want to leave town?  A full fledged essay regarding my thoughts on the state of mental health as it relates directly to my particular brand of nonsense?  So I am taking the easy way and doing the whole fourth grade composition version of a deus ex machina:  “…and then they woke up…and then they woke up again!”  Except that I am using it as a beginning.  So… then I woke up and I was here.

I’m happy to be posting here, to be writing each one of these words- but it comes with a requirement for a new set of rules.  I have to decide who knows what about me except the “who” is anybody with internet access.  I have managed to be crazy for 17 years (if we are to mark the “start” as when I was first directed towards doctors and pharmacists) without any one person knowing the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  I don’t think I am alone in that, especially among those of us who “struggle” and “cope” and are just plain batty.  Compartmentalizing is a skill that I didn’t think I had until I started to think about what I would write here.  I have compartmentalized my whole life.  Now I am choosing to let some stuff fly into the ether and hope that it is the right stuff.  Maybe what I am saying is that I am not yet as bold and strong as some of the great writers here who manage to be clear and concise, clever and unflinchingly upfront.  I have read blogs faithfully and watched through the paragraphs when someone’s words have led to fallout and then the writer gets back up.  I want to be as strong.  I haven’t found my rules for writing here yet and even though this paragraph started with “I’m happy” I should also mention that I am scared to bits.

Deep breath, hold your nose, close your eyes and jump in.

One of the worst parts about spending the majority of your life as a “sick” or “crazy” person is that you always have to wonder if you are actively sick or crazy, about to be sick or crazy, almost past sick or crazy, or not sick or crazy at the time.  I say sick because that has always been the easiest way to explain absences from school, jobs or social events.  In basic conversation I usually just say crazy.  I don’t mean either term in a derogatory manner it is just easier on the brain to lump some things together and to laugh at some things.  It is how I have managed to breathe, even if it’s hyperventilating, for most of my life.  It is kind of like search and rescue missions.  They break the area into grids because if they just looked at the whole 100 square miles it would seem impossible to have hope.  If I can laugh at something, make light of the very serious than I am roping off an area in my head.  I don’t think I would find much levity if I were to look at the whole thing laid out.  But that makes my paragraph end very darkly so I will also say that labeling what happens in my head or with me is empowering in a way.  Too many different diagnoses over 17 years wear a person down.  So I hereby diagnose myself as crazy.  I do not expect it to go away entirely but with treatment I believe there is room for growth.  Ta da.  There you go freaky-too-old-for-long-hair therapist lady from high school!  And breathe.

I don’t know exactly where I am right now on the crazy/sick continuum.  I know that I have had a very difficult summer but that in many ways I’ve done well getting through it.  The people I sometimes pay to keep good track of me tend to agree and I trust them.  But then there are the non-players.  The sideliners.  The people who are stuck to me by law or magnetic force and watch me all the time.  It is awful when those are the people who provide you with the most telling evidence of your mental state.  It is a galaxy of stars more awful when that sideliner is your child.  Example:

I am helping my son and daughter clean their room.  They are 5 ½ and 3 ½ respectively.  It is 4:00PM and I am pretty pleased with the way my day has gone.  It’s been the kind of day that for the most part, my therapist would be pleased with and compliment me on for embracing my successes even when they’re small.  I am however still in my pajama shorts and a tank top and we actually haven’t left the house.  But we did a lot and I am doing well.  So I totally missed the whooshing sound of the arrows that were flying by about to pierce my heart.

My emotional sponge of a son asked me “Mommy, why do you wear so little so much?”

Before you start imagining me as a nudist or part-time stripper he meant my summer nightgowns and sleep/stay home clothes.  I started with reasons like there are some days that we don’t have to go anywhere and some that are too hot and then I realized he wasn’t really talking about that.  He had his hands in his lap and was looking only at me with those blue eyes that know too much to belong to someone who is only 5.  I told him that just like he does, some days when I don’t feel well I get to stay in my pajamas until I feel better.  And yes, in retrospect there have been a lot of those this summer.

“Do you mean like when your back or your belly hurts?”

I have chronic pain so he understands that but for sure that wasn’t always the reason.  But how could I say “No, Sweetie, the other kind of sick.  The sick where the bed is coated in super glue and all food tastes the same.  The sick where you wonder if you should be taking more of medicine X or less of medicine Y.  The kind of sick that puts me in a category with war veterans.  Multiple kinds of sick. The kind of sick that I have been for more than half my life and that you have had to watch and suffer the consequences of.  And oh yeah- chances are good that you should stock pile the Wellbutrin and Xanax now because the gene pool is deep.”

All I could say was that I that I thought things were getting better.  That was last week.  I did get dressed on Saturday but not Sunday.  I don’t know if he noticed.

Was I lying about things getting better?  Why am I wearing my pajamas?  Is a heat wave reason enough because last month it was the rain that meant we weren’t going out.  There is validity but I am starting to think that I am hiding behind half-truths.

“So how come you wear pajamas SO much of the time, like SO many days?”

Nuh uh. Can I respond with that?  He’s five so maybe that would be okay. My little boy who loves learning about everything and anything and can read anything you put in front of him seems to be half way to a therapist’s license- he is asking all the right questions.  Suddenly I am flooded and tingling and desperate for the phone to ring or a pipe to burst.  I would even take spontaneous nose bleeds or maybe an intruder.  There are people you can call for that.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure all the time but I am going to try to make that change.  I’ll try to make it better.  I love you.  I’m sorry.  I love you.”

I crawl under the bed with the pretense of looking for a lost library book.  I look for a long time even after grabbing it with my left hand.

I am keenly aware that my son knows crazy when he sees it no matter where it is on the continuum.  And that is my fault.  That is my fault.  I cannot help it or go back and change it but it is still my fault.  I would like to wake up now.