Aug 06 2013
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depression, reduce, renew

Just Because You Stick Your Head in the Sand…

I’m depressed. And probably have been for years.

That was really hard to admit to myself, much less to my loved ones. With the stigma surrounding mental illness, it seemed less embarrassing to look for a diagnosis of ADD or hypothyroidism than to talk about the white elephant in my head.

Sure, depression seems natural as my best friend and my mom are dealing with illnesses that will eventually take their lives.  But this depression has been flying under the radar longer than that.  The last time I can remember it not lurking around the corner was five years ago.  In fact, I’m fairly confident that I can pinpoint the minute depression entered my life.

September 27, 2008 was a Saturday.  TB and I had closed on our new house on August 15, but it wasn’t until late September that we were actually able to settle.  It was early afternoon and TB and I had been arranging our office.  Still in pajamas, I remember I was sorting books for the shelves and wondering why – if I was going to get rid of a few of them anyway – I didn’t go through them before moving.

My phone was on top of the microwave in the kitchen.  My brother called twice. My mom had a stroke.  It was the kind of news about my mom that I had been terrified of hearing since I was old enough to understand that cigarettes kill.  I used to cry myself to sleep in worrying about her dying in high school. And in college. And after. I didn’t study abroad in college because I didn’t want to be that far away from her if something happened. I spent three hours teaching her how to first, use a computer, and then to send an email before I went to Australia in 2006 because I had to know she was alive every day.

It’s been 1,774 days since that horrible day in 2008.  I would like to dissipate this cloud now.

The next three months I’ll spend trying to holistically rid myself of this depression through yoga, talk therapy, St. John’s Wort, massage, and exercise.  If that doesn’t work, I have committed to seeing a psychiatrist about antidepressants.

I will also acknowledge that it is in part the stigma that is keeping me away from the doctor. I also own that I am being a giant hypocrite in telling my mom, “you would take medicine for diabetes wouldn’t you? Mental illness is just like that. You can’t control this illness anymore than someone with diabetes can control their pancreas.”

In some regards, my mom is far stronger than I.  Oddly enough, that makes me really happy to realize.

Jul 31 2013
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mental illness

Unearthing

On the Thursday night of the glorious week of vacation I took earlier this month, my brother texted me to meet him at the hospital to help him admit our mother.  She was talking very openly about slitting her wrists. She’s never talked about killing herself before.

So, after a wonderful week focused on rest and wellness, the landslide that is mental illness once again enveloped light and happiness and left me covered in muck and debris.

Debris in the form of things that children should never hear: “I want to cut my wrists,” and things children should never learn: “I don’t know why [my kids] love me. I don’t know if I love them. Is that weird?”

Oddly enough, it’s not the debris that poses the biggest and most devastating problems.  The real fallout is the guilt that coats everything like mud.  And for anyone who has used a purifying mask or worked with clay knows, mud will adhere like a second skin and it will suck you dry.

For the past week, I have been unearthing myself from the guilt. Guilt that I don’t want to spend time with my mom. Guilt that I don’t do enough to fix her mental health. That my younger brothers are doing much more than I am. That my mom had a horrible childhood, and married the exact type of person she didn’t want to, and that she doesn’t have any friends or hobbies, and that she’s so lonely she wants to die, and so on and so on.  I feel heartsick or guilty about things 95% of which I can do nothing about.

Thanks, Catholicism.

I love my mom. Or at least I love who my mom was. I am loyal to this person who’s mental illness has overcome her. I will be loyal to that person until the end of my life, but I’m not certain I love this person.  How can you love someone from whom you get nothing back?  I’m so desperate for anything from my mom – for any sign of who she used to be, that’s it the greatest thing in the world when I can get her to chuckle like she used to.

Thanks, mental illness.

Thanks to Kent cigarettes as well. You sure shit on my life September 26, 2008. I’m not saying that my mom didn’t choose to smoke 1-3 packs a day – that’s on her. But it is on Kent (and mental illness for that matter) that she’s addicted and she had a stroke.

I feel like I’m in the middle of nowhere, covered in mud, and no one will help us help our mom.

 

Jul 16 2013
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cancer

The Eye of the Shitstorm

While expected thanks to the Zelboraf, this is likely a temporary status.  The drug typically works for five months. So T minus three months.

NED

Jul 09 2013
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Uncategorized

Ooh Big Tough Guy

While not dyslexic, I often interpose numbers. Today, I misdialed a number and ended up speaking to this exceptional example of manners:

man: hello?
me: Hi! Is Shawnie available?

[long pause]

me: Hello?
man: You stupid little fucker. If you ever call this number again, I’m going to beat the fuck out of you.
me: Okay. Is this the number for Shawnie or not?

[long pause]

me: Because if it’s not, I’m sorry for calling, but if –
man: No man!

Immediately tempted to post his phone number to every text and solicitation call out there, it reminded me of the best prank.  My oldest friend – meaning our moms went to high school together and then we grew up together – played a prank on her husband that was glorious.

cat-facts-prankShe’s much more creative than this prankster. Her husband received anonymous texts like Did you know that cat fashion is a $1.2m industry? MeeWOW!

I laughed so hard I cried when she was telling this story. I’m really tempted to enact a similar nuisance to the man who so rudely answered the phone earlier.

But, alas, I’m better than that and this type of genius is best used on someone who deserves it.

However, I not saying I didn’t sign him up to receive calls about a Communications degree from the rumored relentless sales team at the the University of Phoenix.

Jul 02 2013
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Uncategorized

Ants in My Pants

One of TB and my mutual friends said to him the other day, “I’m really impressed at how patient xxxx has been with [your unemployment]. I don’t think my wife would have been so nice.”

I know TB was quietly thanking me when he passed this along.  Unfortunately for him, it caused me to look at this from another angle.

TB and Lanky have been friends since high school. Every job TB is handed, he somehow gets Lanky involved.  TB’s brother had a client, Money-Bags, who wanted to start a company. TB and Money-Bags were introduced and RS was born.  Soon enough, Lanky was folded in. TB and Lanky paid themselves handsomely. They didn’t develop a business plan or a budget and neither of them could sell water to the parched.  So, one month before TB and I were married, Money-Bag’s $100,000 dried up.

Lady Lanky was pissed and it only got worse as time marched on and Lanky and TB pointed the finger at each other and Money-Bags and everyone else for the failure of RS. Lady Lanky had worked hard through grad school to become a speech therapist and now had to carry the financial load in her marriage.

TB and I have always been 50/50.  Last week, I was cleaning the basement (as he played video games and napped – but that’s a whole different story) and stumbled upon his credit card statement.  He owes $5,400. He long ago took the steep penalty and cashed out his only 401k.  He now works 30 hours a week stocking shelves on the weekends and uses his inherited monthly oil royalties to pay his half of the bills.

I’ve surprised myself in that I haven’t reacted like Lady Lanky.  In fact, with the exception of a few eruptions, I haven’t reacted at all – at least that I’ve recognized.

But I think it’s starting to boil up. TB has been unemployed for almost two years.  There has to be an endpoint, but I can’t see the light behind me or the light ahead and I’m really restless.

Jun 26 2013
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Uncategorized

LOL Congress: Day 94

This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends.
Not with a bang, but with…Congress.

This partial T.S. Eliot excerpt (and fav Cards Against Humanity card) comes to mind after today’s email from my congressman’s assistant.

…it’s really tough to do legislation on this issue.  However, are you aware that there has been funding through SAMHSA for programming to try and reduce the stigma of mental health?  Perhaps you want to look into what that funding has been able to do and let me know whether you think that’s effective or whether possible changes might be made?

More importantly, are you aware of the initiative Makeitok.org? They are going to hold some pretty big events this fall-there are already ads up for them.

Best,
Liz

Here’s what I read:

It took me 94 days to make one phone call to NAMI and I only did that because you keep bugging me. Why don’t you do more research to keep yourself busy so I can avoid telling you ‘no’ since I want you to vote for my boss next time. 

For eff’ sake. I just want to replace the phrase MENTAL DEFECTIVES with a more humane word. I’m not trying to change what the law enacts. I just want to change a word. Why is this hard??

Well, since my very own congressman is a dead end, I’m really glad my friend’s mom works for Congressman C.  My friend’s sister has Bipolar Disorder and no doubt it raised her mom’s hackles at the idea of the federal law calling her kid mentally defective.

While, it may have been altruistic to assume that one of 18 my elected officials would have bitten at my shiny March 25 letter, I had to try.

Next time I’ll save myself the 94 days and postage.

Jun 17 2013
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renew

Bonjour Ben

A colleague lent to me her brother’s Fitbit.  For the first two weeks, it didn’t register the change from him to me. Every morning, upon it’s first movement of the day, it would greet me with Bonjour Ben.

This little jumpdrive shaped number tracks steps, miles, and stairs.

I walked over 16,000 steps on Saturday.  I only went for a walk in the evening to make sure I rolled over that 15,999.

I’m hooked.

I ran Sunday, in part mostly because I wanted to see if I could top 16,000 steps.  Sadly, Bonjour Ben is old and it’s display stops working without notice or obvious cause. Even though I’m sure I logged 6+ miles yesterday between my morning run and evening walk, I’ll have to wait until the new FitBit arrives and I can tackle that same route again.

Bonjour Ben was returned to its rightful owner and I bought the next generation of FitBit this morning with my Amazon Visa reward points. I’m a little nervous about this being a ‘shiny object’ so I was glad to use points to pay the $90.

Now I wonder what it would take to get to 20,000 steps…

Jun 14 2013
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cancer

Foreshadowing

In high school, I randomly went on a trip to Europe. I say randomly because I was 16 and didn’t have a sense of self much less a sense of adventure.  My dad was the son of a rear admiral whose career took his family all over the world. As an international commercial pilot himself, he taught me to imagine beyond the invisible boundaries of my young life.  He’d bring back coins stamped with strange people and symbols. I deposited the coins in a tiny clay pot I made in school, but not before I’d locate it’s point of origin in my Rand McNally Atlas.

I was ‘selected’ to go on this student ambassador trip to Europe. I’m pretty sure that ‘selection’ had something to do with research on my parents’ tax return, but it didn’t stop my dad from being excited about the opportunity for me to travel and he never really got excited over much.  I’m not sure why I decided to go, but it was probably more to make my dad happy than anything else.

Looking back, this trip was perfect for young deviants. We were left to our own devices with only Chuck, Carol, and Vern leading 30 some teenagers through Great Britain and Ireland.  Chuck was creepy, Carol could have cared less, and Vern…I don’t actually remember anything about Vern. Anyway, the sex, drugs and rock-and-roll that could have happened either didn’t or I was too naive to notice.

A few days in, Ali and I connected over our shared love of peaches. One late night talking on the ferry from London to Wales and we were inseparable for the rest of the trip. There were some cool people on that trip and looking back, I wish I would have taken the time to know. Like Leah.  Today, Leah and I are Facebook ‘friends’.  ‘Friends’ like we talked about commiserating over beer about her mom’s brain cancer and my mom’s mental illness and her brother-in-law’s terminal gastrointestinal cancer and my BFF’s melanoma, but we’ve never actually made it happen.

Last week, her brother-in-law died. He lived 2.5 years longer than the experts told him he would. And during that time, he shared with any group that asked a powerful message about living. He was scheduled to speak at a fundraising event for me in the fall – if he made it that long. As a result of that commitment-with-an-asterisk, I watched his CaringBridge page closely.

I slipped into a funk when I learned he entered hospice just days before the cancer overtook him and I cried the day he died. I knew I wasn’t crying about his death, but it took a moment to find the root of the upset.  The average life expectancy for someone withe metastatic melanoma is 16 months.  This felt like a foreshadow of what it will be like for S when the cancer overtakes her.

Jun 10 2013
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recycle

Alley Trollers

It took five hours, but our garage is cleared out.

This isn’t the two-car, well-lit, garage-door-opener garage of my childhood.  Nope. This is the 1939 version complete with a dirt floor, antique cobwebs, fauna, and a padlock.

In total, we had three sets of patio furniture.  The one we use, the one left with the house, and the set our neighbors were fortunate enough to offer to us the morning of my brother’s welcome home BBQ.

TB’s armoire had been holding the hand-me-down hammock while several old storm windows, 2×12’s, and drywall fought with the wheelbarrow and the lawnmower for space.

We called friends – particularly a friend building a cabin up north with remnants, offered up the unused goods to our neighbors, and then left the rest for the alley trollers.

In our fair metropolis, old beater pick up trucks wander up and down the city’s system of alleyways searching for the treasures of one man’s trash.  Within two days, 90% was taken. Within a week, everything down to the  ‘FREE’ sign had found a new home.

I’m proud that the guts of the garage will be recycled by some crafty alley trollers.  It was also a nice reminder to never leave the garage open and unattended.

May 25 2013
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cancer

Hail Mary

It came too soon.

Well, all of it came too soon, but more specifically S shouldn’t be on the last ditch drug yet.  It was barely a year ago, on May 8, that the dermatologist told her the mole on her left shoulder was likely Stage 2 cancer.  Stage 3 happened on May 30.  I can’t even remember when Stage 4 officially joined the party.  July, I think?  Regardless, it wasn’t that long ago.

Zelboraf is the brand name of vemurafenib.  It’s a $14,000-a-month, eight-pill-a-day cancer poison. And as hardly a noun escapes a nickname in my vocabulary, it’s better known as ‘Zebra’ the brand name of ‘Venom.’  And while Venom is sadly apropos, I opted for the cute safari animal over the toxin.

Zebra is all-powerful and eradicates cancer from the body. But it’s also the last ditch drug. It can only be taken once and generally only works for an average of six months before it’s overcome.

Someday, I hope Zebra is like aspirin to a headache. Doctors will say, “Take two Zebras and call me in the morning.”  Someday.  I hope. For now, it is a Hail Mary.

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