As the title hints, this post is about getting out of bed.
Rather, it is about not wanting to get out of bed.
This morning anxiety and depression hit me harder than any other morning thus far. It may have to do with an unpleasant task I have ahead of me this morning that my mind has blown all out of proportion. It may have to do with Son #2 being awake shortly before 0600 and raring to get out of bed and get on with his day.
Who really knows why? I just know that my tummy is turning, my brain is on hyperalert, and my body is ultra tense.
But guess what?!
I got out of bed anyway. And all I want to do is crawl right back under the covers where it is safe and, well, safe.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Varying Shades of Grey
Definitely not to be confused with the popular book series that had the words "grey" and "shades" in it, I'm referring to depression and its ups and downs. Lately my ups have been so low that they are still in the grey.
Picture a grey cloud descending upon your world, just yours. Somedays the sun shines and you can almost see its rays. Other days the cloud is dark and gloomy. But most days it is just grey. Then, when meds start to work and depression starts to lift, the sun actually does shine through.
Its easy for those who have never suffered to say "its all in your head." "just get over it!" "What are you depressed about?"
There really is no rhyme or reason to depression, it just appears whenever it is presented with an opportunity.
Anyhow, my world is grey now, pretty darn grey. And on a good day, its a little less grey. Thus, the varying shades of grey.
Everything in my world is demanding my attention and I just am completely overwhelmed with it all. So not like me to be quite this low, I am becoming concerned with the bleakness of my mind.
Picture a grey cloud descending upon your world, just yours. Somedays the sun shines and you can almost see its rays. Other days the cloud is dark and gloomy. But most days it is just grey. Then, when meds start to work and depression starts to lift, the sun actually does shine through.
Its easy for those who have never suffered to say "its all in your head." "just get over it!" "What are you depressed about?"
There really is no rhyme or reason to depression, it just appears whenever it is presented with an opportunity.
Anyhow, my world is grey now, pretty darn grey. And on a good day, its a little less grey. Thus, the varying shades of grey.
Everything in my world is demanding my attention and I just am completely overwhelmed with it all. So not like me to be quite this low, I am becoming concerned with the bleakness of my mind.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
ANXIETY
Anxiety is like a little gremlin, and not the cute kind, that comes in and worms its way into your body and festers and lingers, and then attacks when you are at your lowest. That's how I see it anyway.
After struggling through one bout of depression just a few months ago, I was sure I had a free ticket for the rest of the year. No more depression, just free sailing, free happiness, free whatever. I was not prepared for the second bout that followed only four weeks after starting to feel better from the first.
When I finally could admit that I was depressed, it was already well into the downswing of my mood and morale, and anxiety, seeing a tiny little loophole, charged in! At first I didn't recognize what was happening to me; it'd been 20 some years since I last felt anxiety in all its intensity.
What did it feel like for me? Physically, it is a kick in the stomach kind of feeling that doesn't leave. I was spending a fair bit of time dealing with IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) issues as that is where my anxiety seems to gather physically. Mentally, I could not focus on anything for more than a minute or two; its like the worst case of ADD ever!
At night, when trying to settle for sleep, I could not settle, I'd lie down and then get up within minutes. Walk around the house a bit. Sit down in the living room, and then go back to bed. Actually, it was more like pacing. Very restless pacing. This went on for three to four nights, during which I may have gotten enough sleep to total a full night's sleep. Needless to say, I felt hideous! Even my daytime napping eluded me.
It was after several nights of this fractured sleep that I had to go back to work, as I'd already missed three out of my last five shifts and used up all my sick time. A shift on rehab is a slower pace, but it was there that I made a med error; by far not my first, but the first one that I did not notice I had made and write up myself. That is by far a worse feeling than writing yourself up, in my opinion. Any nurses agree or disagree with me on that? Needless to say, it feels hideous!
Against my better judgement, but following the advice I would have given to a coworker or friend, I asked for and received a prescription for a sleeping pill and have been sleeping like baby ever since and am feeling heaps and heaps better. There was the balance between having a complete mental breakdown (which I was very very close to) and getting some sleep so I could go on with the business of living. I chose to ask for the sleeping pill, knowing that it was a short term aid and that I would very quickly have to stop using it as soon as I found my feet again.
And that is where I am today, on my feet and half off the sleeping pills. Anxiety still visits me as often as I let it; I've named it Bertha (my sister and I used to use that name as a joke for things we didn't like). Bertha is unwelcome in my home and in my head, and I've taken to swearing at her when she tries to visit. It was at the advice of a friend that I named the anxiety that was haunting me, and its been a wonderful idea. It reminds me that Bertha is not real and that I am in control and not the anxiety.
After struggling through one bout of depression just a few months ago, I was sure I had a free ticket for the rest of the year. No more depression, just free sailing, free happiness, free whatever. I was not prepared for the second bout that followed only four weeks after starting to feel better from the first.
When I finally could admit that I was depressed, it was already well into the downswing of my mood and morale, and anxiety, seeing a tiny little loophole, charged in! At first I didn't recognize what was happening to me; it'd been 20 some years since I last felt anxiety in all its intensity.
What did it feel like for me? Physically, it is a kick in the stomach kind of feeling that doesn't leave. I was spending a fair bit of time dealing with IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) issues as that is where my anxiety seems to gather physically. Mentally, I could not focus on anything for more than a minute or two; its like the worst case of ADD ever!
At night, when trying to settle for sleep, I could not settle, I'd lie down and then get up within minutes. Walk around the house a bit. Sit down in the living room, and then go back to bed. Actually, it was more like pacing. Very restless pacing. This went on for three to four nights, during which I may have gotten enough sleep to total a full night's sleep. Needless to say, I felt hideous! Even my daytime napping eluded me.
It was after several nights of this fractured sleep that I had to go back to work, as I'd already missed three out of my last five shifts and used up all my sick time. A shift on rehab is a slower pace, but it was there that I made a med error; by far not my first, but the first one that I did not notice I had made and write up myself. That is by far a worse feeling than writing yourself up, in my opinion. Any nurses agree or disagree with me on that? Needless to say, it feels hideous!
Against my better judgement, but following the advice I would have given to a coworker or friend, I asked for and received a prescription for a sleeping pill and have been sleeping like baby ever since and am feeling heaps and heaps better. There was the balance between having a complete mental breakdown (which I was very very close to) and getting some sleep so I could go on with the business of living. I chose to ask for the sleeping pill, knowing that it was a short term aid and that I would very quickly have to stop using it as soon as I found my feet again.
And that is where I am today, on my feet and half off the sleeping pills. Anxiety still visits me as often as I let it; I've named it Bertha (my sister and I used to use that name as a joke for things we didn't like). Bertha is unwelcome in my home and in my head, and I've taken to swearing at her when she tries to visit. It was at the advice of a friend that I named the anxiety that was haunting me, and its been a wonderful idea. It reminds me that Bertha is not real and that I am in control and not the anxiety.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
"FAMILY SICK"
It's a rare occasion that I am woken by my alarm on my phone; I only set it as a backup on days that I have to work at 0745. This morning has been no exception as I've been awake since 0300, pondering whether or not to make a "family sick" call to work in order to allow Son #2 to be sick at home. The decision I've reached is a sort of compromise; I'll bring him to the sitter, let her know he's still under the weather and to call me if necessary.
My Mama instincts and heart know that I should be spending the day at home with him. The financial and more common sense part of me says that it's best, financially speaking, if I go to work.
As a single-grandparent, this is an ongoing challenge for me. Trying to balance financial responsibilities with family. Having a sick day does not simply mean a smaller pay cheque and "doing with less" on the next payday. It is a matter of our survival. There is no other income in this household; I'm not just a supplementary income. I AM the income earner, the ONLY income earner.
Fortunately, we have an amazing childcare provider. She will take care of him and love him in a way that is second only to me. If he needs holding and loving, she will make the time to do so. If this were not so, I would most definitely be staying home with him, money be damned.
Even knowing he is in good hands will not ease the desire to be with him when he's ill. I will think about him every minute until its the end of my shift and wonder how he's feeling.
My Mama instincts and heart know that I should be spending the day at home with him. The financial and more common sense part of me says that it's best, financially speaking, if I go to work.
As a single-grandparent, this is an ongoing challenge for me. Trying to balance financial responsibilities with family. Having a sick day does not simply mean a smaller pay cheque and "doing with less" on the next payday. It is a matter of our survival. There is no other income in this household; I'm not just a supplementary income. I AM the income earner, the ONLY income earner.
Fortunately, we have an amazing childcare provider. She will take care of him and love him in a way that is second only to me. If he needs holding and loving, she will make the time to do so. If this were not so, I would most definitely be staying home with him, money be damned.
Even knowing he is in good hands will not ease the desire to be with him when he's ill. I will think about him every minute until its the end of my shift and wonder how he's feeling.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
The Right Thing
It's been a relatively routine and quiet day at my house. Got home from work at 0815 and went straight to bed and slept till 1330.
Out of the house by 1400 and at the sitter by 1415. Son #2 gave me the best greeting ever! I closed the house door behind me and heard his voice, "mom? Mommy?!" and he came hurtling up the stairs and launched himself at me. He cuddled up to me as I sat on the floor, looking a bit smug as if he was thinking, "I've got my mommy. She's my mommy and you can't have her!"
He needed no coaxing this time to get his outside gear on and was out the door before I was done chatting with his sitter.
If ever I need confirmation that I did the right thing by "adopting" him, or if ever I need to be reminded that I am a worthwhile person, I need only think back on incidents like this.
Out of the house by 1400 and at the sitter by 1415. Son #2 gave me the best greeting ever! I closed the house door behind me and heard his voice, "mom? Mommy?!" and he came hurtling up the stairs and launched himself at me. He cuddled up to me as I sat on the floor, looking a bit smug as if he was thinking, "I've got my mommy. She's my mommy and you can't have her!"
He needed no coaxing this time to get his outside gear on and was out the door before I was done chatting with his sitter.
If ever I need confirmation that I did the right thing by "adopting" him, or if ever I need to be reminded that I am a worthwhile person, I need only think back on incidents like this.
"Don't Come Back Until..."
Perhaps those were not the exact words the dentist spoke to me just over a week ago, but mighty darn close. There is more work to be done in my mouth, but he would like to defer all further treatment until I have seen a specialist for my ongoing (and severe) left jaw pain. Fair enough.
Here's the kicker; I'm also supposed to start seeing a counsellor who would theoretically help with the stress that I am apparently dealing with. But I don't feel stressed. I'm fully aware that there are issues in my life that should be causing me copious amounts of stress and anxiety.
Who has time to sit down with a counsellor an hour or two a week? Not I. I barely have time to pick my nose, never mind have an hour long conversation about life. Normally I love to talk about myself and what is going on in my world, so it surprises me that I am shying away from this opportunity.
Perhaps there are truths inside me that I am afraid of discovering.
There is a lot going on in my world; neither good nor bad. To put a "good" or "bad" label on an event or series of events is to determine positivity or negativity in advance. I choose not to do this as I believe that there is a learning opportunity in every moment of our lives. If we label something as "bad" we are closing the door to any potential learning or growth.
There is no single concern in my world that is causing enough stress for my dentist to believe I need counseling. It is an accumulation of life circumstances.
I'm not saying I don't agree with him; I do agree with him. Whatever stress I'm having is leading me to have horrendous physical symptoms in my jaw. It's as if the internal pain, the stress that I'm not feeling, must find a way to make itself felt.
Here's the kicker; I'm also supposed to start seeing a counsellor who would theoretically help with the stress that I am apparently dealing with. But I don't feel stressed. I'm fully aware that there are issues in my life that should be causing me copious amounts of stress and anxiety.
Who has time to sit down with a counsellor an hour or two a week? Not I. I barely have time to pick my nose, never mind have an hour long conversation about life. Normally I love to talk about myself and what is going on in my world, so it surprises me that I am shying away from this opportunity.
Perhaps there are truths inside me that I am afraid of discovering.
There is a lot going on in my world; neither good nor bad. To put a "good" or "bad" label on an event or series of events is to determine positivity or negativity in advance. I choose not to do this as I believe that there is a learning opportunity in every moment of our lives. If we label something as "bad" we are closing the door to any potential learning or growth.
There is no single concern in my world that is causing enough stress for my dentist to believe I need counseling. It is an accumulation of life circumstances.
I'm not saying I don't agree with him; I do agree with him. Whatever stress I'm having is leading me to have horrendous physical symptoms in my jaw. It's as if the internal pain, the stress that I'm not feeling, must find a way to make itself felt.
Monday, February 4, 2013
HELL
Not sure if I mentioned this yesterday, but I've got a Staples paper box full of journals and poetry spanning from my late teens till last year. If I'd ever decide to write a "lifebook," this is where I'd get a lot of my material from.
Depression has always figured prominently in my life and here is something I wrote somewhere between 1993 and 1999. I sure wish I'd had the foresight to put dates on ALL of my writing!
Depression has always figured prominently in my life and here is something I wrote somewhere between 1993 and 1999. I sure wish I'd had the foresight to put dates on ALL of my writing!
All the way to hell and back,
That's my daily trip.
Each and every day
I catch a glimpse
Of hell on earth.
As I travel my world
Of grey and black
Flames scorch my feet.
Someday soon
I'll jump right in.
It welcomes me
With open arms,
Nothing's worse
Than hell on earth.
That was written after my sister died; her death triggered a period of deep darkness for me, and subsequently, a period of great growth. It was through this dark period that I began to accept that my childhood was not a perfect childhood as I'd previously thought.
Here is another, written in the same period as the above piece. Like I said, a very dark period.
A private hell
Reserved for me alone.
I live here in this hell
I live here in this hell
In solitude.
No one grasps the depths
Of insanity
That plague this lonely life
That is my hell.
I love a lone in this hell.
No company
To share my misery and pain.
I'm all alone.
This hell is so familiar.
I've lived here long,
Longer than a decent person should
Ever live in hell.
Hell evidently figured prominently in my psyche at that time! Definitely a result of my childhood religious influences.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
LIFEBOOK
It all started when she mentioned hitchhiking. The memories came flooding back in a deluge of unpleasantness and clarity. I remembered sounds, smell, touch, and feelings.
And you know how I love to share what's on my mind. Here goes:
Sixteen was a turbulent time in my life, but then so were fifteen and seventeen, so perhaps I shouldn't single out the age of 16. Who am I kidding? Everything from 14-19 was turbulent. That I even lived through those years is a miracle in itself. And I don't mean a religiously inspired miracle, its simply a miracle.
I was considered a 'rebellious' child and the 'black sheep.' My family repeatedly verbalized that I was an embarrassment to them with my actions.
Spending time in town with my friends on the weekends was the best part of my life at that point so I made every effort to get myself there at every possible opportunity. Sometimes that involved walked the 2.5 miles to the highway and then hitchhiking the remaining 7 miles to town. Inevitably I also needed to get home, but at some point my family stopped being willing to pick me up in town in the late hours of the evening or the early hours of the morning.
I'd never had any trouble while hitchhiking to town; it was generally still daylight out and I felt safe. If I was ever in any danger, my intuition never let me know. I doubt I would have listened anyway as it really didn't matter to me what happened; I hated myself. After all, I was an embarrassment to my family and I could do very little to please them.
Regardless, one evening after midnight, I wanted to go home. No one was willing to drive me all the way to my home, and no one from home was coming to get me. So I hitchhiked. It didn't take long to get picked up and then subsequently sexually assaulted. In my mind it was my fault and I deserved it. On some perverse level, I was glad for the attention and "affection."
As the sun rose the next morning I made my way to a payphone on Main Street, and subsequently went to a friend's home. From there I called home to let them know I was okay. I did not tell them what had happened. It never occurred to me to tell them, it would likely have embarrassed them. No one said, "I'm so glad you are safe! Let me come get you."
What I was told was, "Mom has had a nervous breakdown and it is all your fault."
The speaker of those words had no idea (and still does not know) that I had been sexually assaulted the night before.
Oh who am I kidding!! It was not a sexual assault, it was rape. Plain and simple. There, I said it.
There are plenty of similar stories from those tumultuous years and I consider it a miracle to have survived relatively intact. I've also concluded that since I survived and am still alive, there is a purpose for my life and there is a reason for me to have survived. It is this knowledge, that I survived when the odds were stacked against me, that has kept me from suicide in the past when depression has been the most painful.
The reason I am sharing this with you is, after telling this story earlier today, the listener asked if I had ever considered writing a 'lifebook.' "I doubt anyone would read it," I said.
"If you could save one girl from suicide, it would be worth writing," she said.
One of my life goals is to speak out openly and publicly about depression in order to lessen the stigma associated with it. If my story can help ONE person, it will be worth it all.
And you know how I love to share what's on my mind. Here goes:
Sixteen was a turbulent time in my life, but then so were fifteen and seventeen, so perhaps I shouldn't single out the age of 16. Who am I kidding? Everything from 14-19 was turbulent. That I even lived through those years is a miracle in itself. And I don't mean a religiously inspired miracle, its simply a miracle.
I was considered a 'rebellious' child and the 'black sheep.' My family repeatedly verbalized that I was an embarrassment to them with my actions.
Spending time in town with my friends on the weekends was the best part of my life at that point so I made every effort to get myself there at every possible opportunity. Sometimes that involved walked the 2.5 miles to the highway and then hitchhiking the remaining 7 miles to town. Inevitably I also needed to get home, but at some point my family stopped being willing to pick me up in town in the late hours of the evening or the early hours of the morning.
I'd never had any trouble while hitchhiking to town; it was generally still daylight out and I felt safe. If I was ever in any danger, my intuition never let me know. I doubt I would have listened anyway as it really didn't matter to me what happened; I hated myself. After all, I was an embarrassment to my family and I could do very little to please them.
Regardless, one evening after midnight, I wanted to go home. No one was willing to drive me all the way to my home, and no one from home was coming to get me. So I hitchhiked. It didn't take long to get picked up and then subsequently sexually assaulted. In my mind it was my fault and I deserved it. On some perverse level, I was glad for the attention and "affection."
As the sun rose the next morning I made my way to a payphone on Main Street, and subsequently went to a friend's home. From there I called home to let them know I was okay. I did not tell them what had happened. It never occurred to me to tell them, it would likely have embarrassed them. No one said, "I'm so glad you are safe! Let me come get you."
What I was told was, "Mom has had a nervous breakdown and it is all your fault."
The speaker of those words had no idea (and still does not know) that I had been sexually assaulted the night before.
Oh who am I kidding!! It was not a sexual assault, it was rape. Plain and simple. There, I said it.
There are plenty of similar stories from those tumultuous years and I consider it a miracle to have survived relatively intact. I've also concluded that since I survived and am still alive, there is a purpose for my life and there is a reason for me to have survived. It is this knowledge, that I survived when the odds were stacked against me, that has kept me from suicide in the past when depression has been the most painful.
The reason I am sharing this with you is, after telling this story earlier today, the listener asked if I had ever considered writing a 'lifebook.' "I doubt anyone would read it," I said.
"If you could save one girl from suicide, it would be worth writing," she said.
One of my life goals is to speak out openly and publicly about depression in order to lessen the stigma associated with it. If my story can help ONE person, it will be worth it all.
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