It doesn't matter what I do or how I approach things I worry. I worry about whether I do too much... or too little. I worry about whether I say too much... or too little. I worry that bad things will happen to those I love. I worry that the world doesn't care about me. I worry that the world cares too much about me.
I worry. It's what I do.
Today's worry has to do with my leave of absence as mentioned in this post. But wait. Let's start at the point where we left off in that post, with me having written a two page diatribe about why I should be allowed to take an unpaid leave of absence and waiting to have an appointment with my psychiatrist to decide next steps.
My appointment with my psychiatrist, who I'll call Dr. K (let's give her a name since she's playing a larger role in my story these days), was first thing Monday morning. Now there's a way to kick off your week. Such were my nerves that I decided I needed to treat myself to a mint mocha at my favorite coffee shop on the way to the appointment. Nothing like caffeine and sugar to calm those nerves! (sarcasm, people; sarcasm)
Although I was her first appointment of the day, Dr. K was running late so I got to sit in the waiting room and worry about how the appointment would go, how to broach the subject of the leave and maybe it covered by FMLA, and why a gentleman chose to sit in the chair right next to me in the waiting room when there were plenty of available seats and sitting directly next to anyone was completely unnecessary.
Once in her office, we got to the meat of the issue. Since Dr. K is a colleague of Freud and they are basically my mental health team, Freud had filled Dr. K in on my situation. She let me tell her in my own words though. I went through much of what I shared here in my blog in that post I linked to earlier. I cried. Three times I burst into tears while I shared my story. Three times! Within just a few minutes! I think that indicates how fragile I am right now.
Dr. K told me that if I wanted to go the FMLA route, she would be happy to sign the FMLA paperwork as my recommending medical provider. She also looked at the combination of meds that I'm on and increased one of the anti-depressants. I had been taking what they consider a low dose, and she is moving me to what is considered the standard dose. She also wants me to have a follow up appointment in one month.
I told Dr. K I would return with the FMLA paperwork within the next week so she can sign it, and I can embark on this journey to betterness (hopefully). Then I scheduled an appointment for the end of October to talk with her again.
On my way back to work, I started the worrying in earnest. Somehow, I feel like a fraud taking the time off as FMLA. FMLA is supposed to be for serious medical conditions. Is what I'm going through a serious medical condition? How serious does a mental health issue need to be to be a "serious medical condition"? It isn't as though I am on the brink of harming others or myself. It isn't as though I'm hearing voices that aren't there. It isn't as though I am completely detached from reality. Those are the things I think of in the mental health realm that would constitute a serious medical condition. Am I cheating the system? Am I selfish for wanting to take a leave of absence to gather myself back together and get back to some semblance of "normal"? Am I just using this as a way to get back at the U.S. system of not providing adequate vacation time for workers?
These are the questions that buzz about my head day and night since Monday. So far, I have filled out my portion of the paperwork but haven't gotten it back to Dr. K yet. I've told Boss that I will be taking FMLA leave, and he and I have been working towards that by establishing who will cover what while I'm gone and developing a plan for training those individuals. I have an appointment with Freud next Tuesday so I will probably drop the paperwork off for Dr. K at that time.
I am going to continue to worry about this for a while I think, maybe even throughout the leave. I hope not. I doubt the leave will be as effective if I spend much of it worrying over whether or not I deserve it.
Bleah... Excuse me, I have to go now. I feel another good cry coming on...
Showing posts with label Asking for Help. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Asking for Help. Show all posts
Friday, October 03, 2014
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Tuesday Therapy
Freud suggested that having a private journal where I write about my experiences and feelings pertaining to J, as well as other things, might be a good way for me to work through some of this. Hi there private journal, read only by invisible (not imaginary, very real, just invisible) internet friends and random strangers! Let’s see what tales I can tell today.
Yesterday’s session was brutal. I spent much of my time in tears, some of it sobbing, some just tears rolling down my face. I used many tissues. No wonder therapy is so expensive. Their paper goods bill alone must be daunting. It was bad that I had to go back to work afterwards because that meant I had to find a way to pull myself together and not look like a complete sack of shit, but it was good that I had a 15-20 minute drive across town to accomplish it.
While I have mentioned J, and our affair, in therapy it hasn’t really been the crux of conversation. Why? Well, since I’ve been seeing Freud J has kind of been a background character in my life rather than an all consuming obsession. I’ve had other things to worry about and therapize (not a real word, but I like it so I’m using it) about, such as:
One thing I will say for Freud is that he is completely unflappable. No matter what craziness I spew in session he takes it in stride never letting on that he might think I’ve gone round the bend. Why, yesterday he even told me that he doesn’t think I’m crazy at all. That’s comforting a little I guess, although what would truly be comforting is if he told me I was batshit (apparently this is not a real word either) crazy, and here’s the cure for it. Do this, and all the crazies will go away.
Anyway, I started with a rather detailed background to bring Freud up to speed, and really, it is terribly difficult to tell a 30+ year story in under an hour. You really have to do the Cliff Notes version, which I did, but I was also brutally honest. I figure that Freud can’t help me much if I don’t just put it all out there with as much honesty as possible.
So here, for those who haven’t read my blog in its entirety (And if you haven’t, why not? It’s fascinating and sickening all rolled into one, if I do say so myself), is a synopsis similar to the one I gave Freud. The History of J & me in a nutshell:
1977 – J & I start dating while in high school. (Yes, I really am that old. Shut up.)
1979 – I start college. J stays home with one more year of high school. J remains my “at home boyfriend” while I enjoy dating life on a major college campus
1983 – I graduate the first time from college and am “engaged” to a guy there although nobody knows of our engagement except him and me. I continue dating J when I’m home.
1984 – I graduate from college again, am still “engaged” and still dating J as well as a couple of others in other parts of the country (I travelled for work so it was easy to keep different guys different places).
1985 – Getting a bit tired of the “fiancé” but never broke it off, still dating J as well and starting to put a bit of pressure on J that perhaps we should get married and start a family. J says he’s not ready. I meet W and well, made one of the worst decisions of my life and ran off to CA with him without goodbyes to anybody.
1988 – Marry W after his divorce is final. Shortly thereafter receive letter from J saying that he’s now ready to get married and asks me to come back to him. Cry profusely as I read his letter and as I write one back to him telling him of my marriage. Felt absolutely trapped and unable to get out of the marriage to W because I was halfway across the country, estranged from my family, and totally dependent (at that time) on W financially.
~~~~~~and for many years W and TS live a life of ups and downs, goods and bads, adopted N~~~~~
2000 or so – God bless the interwebs and Classmates.com. I start to reconnect with high school buddies. Email back and forth with J a few times, just general catching up on what all has happened with marriages, children, jobs, and whatnot. And that’s it, for now.
2003 – Moved back to Midwest, within 80 miles of J, but no contact.
2004 – High school reunion. Made plans to go. Contacted J. He still lived in town and wanted to get together. I said sure maybe our families could have lunch together or something. He said no, how about just you and me? I said no. I got scared of what I might do and made up an excuse not to go to the reunion.
2006 – J contacts me, and we start flirting via email, then via phone, then in person, all leading to finally crossing the line “all the way” and have sex with one another for the first time ever (That's right people. We dated several years in our teens and twenties and not once did we have sex. Not that I wasn't willing. He was just terrified of getting me pregnant, which sounds pretty funny now considering how "broken" the female parts turned out to be, like happened to his brother and his brother's girlfriend. Lack of a sex life with J may have played a part in my dating a lot of others during those years. Not that it excuses my behavior, just partially explains it.)
2007-Current – J and I carry on an ongoing emotional, and occasionally physical, affair throughout the BJ years and the W and me "reconciliation" and everything else.
Whew! Even condensed that is one damned long story.
Okay, hopefully in the next few days I’ll have a chance to write more and go into our actual discussion, short as it was. What great insights did Freud have to offer? What suggestions did he have for abolishing the crazy from my brain? What are my plans for Thanksgiving? This and more in our next episode…
Yesterday’s session was brutal. I spent much of my time in tears, some of it sobbing, some just tears rolling down my face. I used many tissues. No wonder therapy is so expensive. Their paper goods bill alone must be daunting. It was bad that I had to go back to work afterwards because that meant I had to find a way to pull myself together and not look like a complete sack of shit, but it was good that I had a 15-20 minute drive across town to accomplish it.
While I have mentioned J, and our affair, in therapy it hasn’t really been the crux of conversation. Why? Well, since I’ve been seeing Freud J has kind of been a background character in my life rather than an all consuming obsession. I’ve had other things to worry about and therapize (not a real word, but I like it so I’m using it) about, such as:
- Getting my medical depression under control
- BJ’s and my breakup,
- W moving back in and my decision to turn martyr by allowing him to,
- My on again off again attempts to lose weight,
- My physical fling with M (Oh how I miss M sometimes, just from the physical release standpoint. A good orgasm occasionally is a miracle drug I tell you.),
- My ups and downs at work,
- My disagreements with W over parenting,
- My Dad’s death within three months after my grandmother’s.
Anyway, J came up occasionally, but never in any substantial way. Yesterday, he was right at the heart of it all.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Possibly Thinking Too Much
First, I want to say a big thanks to all of you for your condolence messages, here and elsewhere. Hugs, both physical and virtual, have been mighty helpful to me through all of this. No matter the emotional upheaval that can ensue from romantic entanglements (and you know I’ve had plenty of those) it doesn’t come close to losing a parent.
There have been a number of thoughts that have struck me over the last few weeks since Dad’s death, and I am going to share those in this post. I’m sure I’ll have more thoughts later, but these are the ones that hit early on and stayed with me.
I was surprised and somewhat amused at something I learned from Mom on the drive to the funeral. As we passed a jogger, I said what I always say, “Run! Run for your life!” Mom told me that Dad never passed a jogger without saying, “He/she must be being chased by somebody.” I found it interesting that, even though different, we both had standard sayings for the passing of a jogger.
I come from a long line of oh-don’t-bother-yourself-about-me types, and I have come to the conclusion that we are just a bit too much that way after Mom told me that she woke to find Dad dead in the wee hours of the morning but didn’t call anyone (including myself or FU) except the hospice nurse until after 7:00 a.m. which she figured was a decent hour for making and receiving phone calls. Really Mom? You didn’t want to bother anybody? Really? Actually, I can kind of see her not calling me as I’m a few hours away and not able to get there very soon, but FU is a few minutes away. I know he would have wanted to go over and sit with her as she waited for the hospice nurse and the funeral home personnel (or whoever it is that comes for the body). But no. She took care of it all by herself and then started making calls once it was acceptably late in the morning. (Though really, if it isn’t a serious situation don’t call me at 7:00 a.m., okay? Thanks.)
This whole oh-don’t-bother-yourself-about-me thing is something I have been dealing with in my therapy sessions with Freud for several months now. He said to me at one point (jokingly), “I do believe if you went to the ER gushing blood from a severed artery, and some guy came in with a possibly sprained ankle, you’d tell the ER personnel ‘no, no I’ll be fine, take care of him first.’” I replied (only half joking), “Well, of course, I could just tie a tourniquet around my arm and wait my turn. I don’t want to be pushy.” And now? I haven’t been to therapy since August. I screwed up, and didn’t get appointments scheduled ahead of time, and he got all booked up for September so I don’t go back until mid-October. Now, some might think that the death of a close family member would be reason enough to call one’s therapist to see if one could get squeezed in for a session without having to wait another month, but not me. Nope. Even though I feel like it might do me some good to talk with Freud I just don’t want to be a bother to him or his office staff by asking for special favors EVEN THOUGH he has encouraged me to do just that in the past when I’ve been going through rough patches. Part of me keeps saying “CALL! You need to talk to someone about this.” The other part says, “Well, you’ve waited this long so you might as well wait until your next scheduled appointment.” I will say that I did call my pastor the morning Dad died, and I did go spend two hours with her that day pouring out my emotions so it isn’t as though I haven’t had someone to talk to although I felt really bad about taking up so much of her time.
W and N were both real torn up over Dad’s death. N’s reaction didn’t surprise me much. Under his tough young teen veneer is a very emotional core. I know this. When he told me, “This is too hard. I can’t live through this.” I was actually prepared. I told him that I understand it feels that way, but that we can and will get through it, that we’ll always miss Grandpa but the pain will not always feel as sharp and the only thing we can do is allow ourselves to feel the pain in order to work our way through to the other side. W surprised me by telling me that he felt that my dad was more of a dad to him than his own ever was. He said his dad was rarely around and seldom did they ever talk. It was the first time I ever heard him say anything about his family that was less than glowing. It took me aback just how much W has grieved and continues to grieve the loss of my dad. I have spent a good deal of time trying to help both N and W through their grief, so much so that I sometimes wonder when it will be my turn to grieve and receive comfort from them, or W at least. In one of my less than stellar moments recently I even said to W, “You know. He was my dad. It would be nice if I could be the one that can be all broken up about for a while instead of the one who has to go around comforting everybody else all the time.”
My concentration level is down to near nothing since Dad died. Also, insomnia has become my constant companion which I’m sure doesn’t help the concentration level. When I do manage to get to sleep I dream wild, vivid dreams like the one a few nights ago where I was doing water ballet and having to perform my first solo. Strange.
I have more thoughts than time right now so I’ll stop. For now. More later. Maybe.
There have been a number of thoughts that have struck me over the last few weeks since Dad’s death, and I am going to share those in this post. I’m sure I’ll have more thoughts later, but these are the ones that hit early on and stayed with me.
I was surprised and somewhat amused at something I learned from Mom on the drive to the funeral. As we passed a jogger, I said what I always say, “Run! Run for your life!” Mom told me that Dad never passed a jogger without saying, “He/she must be being chased by somebody.” I found it interesting that, even though different, we both had standard sayings for the passing of a jogger.
I come from a long line of oh-don’t-bother-yourself-about-me types, and I have come to the conclusion that we are just a bit too much that way after Mom told me that she woke to find Dad dead in the wee hours of the morning but didn’t call anyone (including myself or FU) except the hospice nurse until after 7:00 a.m. which she figured was a decent hour for making and receiving phone calls. Really Mom? You didn’t want to bother anybody? Really? Actually, I can kind of see her not calling me as I’m a few hours away and not able to get there very soon, but FU is a few minutes away. I know he would have wanted to go over and sit with her as she waited for the hospice nurse and the funeral home personnel (or whoever it is that comes for the body). But no. She took care of it all by herself and then started making calls once it was acceptably late in the morning. (Though really, if it isn’t a serious situation don’t call me at 7:00 a.m., okay? Thanks.)
This whole oh-don’t-bother-yourself-about-me thing is something I have been dealing with in my therapy sessions with Freud for several months now. He said to me at one point (jokingly), “I do believe if you went to the ER gushing blood from a severed artery, and some guy came in with a possibly sprained ankle, you’d tell the ER personnel ‘no, no I’ll be fine, take care of him first.’” I replied (only half joking), “Well, of course, I could just tie a tourniquet around my arm and wait my turn. I don’t want to be pushy.” And now? I haven’t been to therapy since August. I screwed up, and didn’t get appointments scheduled ahead of time, and he got all booked up for September so I don’t go back until mid-October. Now, some might think that the death of a close family member would be reason enough to call one’s therapist to see if one could get squeezed in for a session without having to wait another month, but not me. Nope. Even though I feel like it might do me some good to talk with Freud I just don’t want to be a bother to him or his office staff by asking for special favors EVEN THOUGH he has encouraged me to do just that in the past when I’ve been going through rough patches. Part of me keeps saying “CALL! You need to talk to someone about this.” The other part says, “Well, you’ve waited this long so you might as well wait until your next scheduled appointment.” I will say that I did call my pastor the morning Dad died, and I did go spend two hours with her that day pouring out my emotions so it isn’t as though I haven’t had someone to talk to although I felt really bad about taking up so much of her time.
W and N were both real torn up over Dad’s death. N’s reaction didn’t surprise me much. Under his tough young teen veneer is a very emotional core. I know this. When he told me, “This is too hard. I can’t live through this.” I was actually prepared. I told him that I understand it feels that way, but that we can and will get through it, that we’ll always miss Grandpa but the pain will not always feel as sharp and the only thing we can do is allow ourselves to feel the pain in order to work our way through to the other side. W surprised me by telling me that he felt that my dad was more of a dad to him than his own ever was. He said his dad was rarely around and seldom did they ever talk. It was the first time I ever heard him say anything about his family that was less than glowing. It took me aback just how much W has grieved and continues to grieve the loss of my dad. I have spent a good deal of time trying to help both N and W through their grief, so much so that I sometimes wonder when it will be my turn to grieve and receive comfort from them, or W at least. In one of my less than stellar moments recently I even said to W, “You know. He was my dad. It would be nice if I could be the one that can be all broken up about for a while instead of the one who has to go around comforting everybody else all the time.”
My concentration level is down to near nothing since Dad died. Also, insomnia has become my constant companion which I’m sure doesn’t help the concentration level. When I do manage to get to sleep I dream wild, vivid dreams like the one a few nights ago where I was doing water ballet and having to perform my first solo. Strange.
I have more thoughts than time right now so I’ll stop. For now. More later. Maybe.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
'Tis a Quandary
Well, I’ve started two posts recently and finished neither of them. Then my world (at work) explodes. So which thing to write about. . . that is the question.
One was a post that I started to write about how I grew up believing certain things and then as I matured and learned more and expanded my horizons I came to see some of my beliefs as wrong. It was turning into a very long post and was/is very disorganized and needs some major editing and revision.
The second one was a post that is begging to be told from inside me about revelations I have made about my family in recent weeks. I have “seen the light” about certain things and spent a good deal of therapy this week discussing my thoughts on this.
The third thing I want to write about is work and what’s been turned on its head since somewhere around 8:30 this morning.
So. . .
It’s a quandary.
Dear readers, if there are any left, which post would you like to read first? I will work on them in the order you dictate. Discuss amongst yourselves and vote over there in the poll on the right. Vote quickly though because it will close soon. In the meantime, I’m going to try to work on one post or another as the fancy strikes.
One was a post that I started to write about how I grew up believing certain things and then as I matured and learned more and expanded my horizons I came to see some of my beliefs as wrong. It was turning into a very long post and was/is very disorganized and needs some major editing and revision.
The second one was a post that is begging to be told from inside me about revelations I have made about my family in recent weeks. I have “seen the light” about certain things and spent a good deal of therapy this week discussing my thoughts on this.
The third thing I want to write about is work and what’s been turned on its head since somewhere around 8:30 this morning.
So. . .
It’s a quandary.
Dear readers, if there are any left, which post would you like to read first? I will work on them in the order you dictate. Discuss amongst yourselves and vote over there in the poll on the right. Vote quickly though because it will close soon. In the meantime, I’m going to try to work on one post or another as the fancy strikes.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
When Things Just Don’t Add Up
Today’s post is a frivolous little thing, just a bit of a mystery that I can’t solve. I can’t solve it in spite of my affinity for math, my profession as an accountant, and my proclivity for managing money relatively well.
For you non-math types, this is going to be one of those (gasp) word problems that are so reviled by the non-math among us. I don’t know that it will help you that this is from real life or not, but it is. Every single thing I am about to tell you is real, factual, a truth. There will be no exaggerations, no intentional misdirection, no tricks up my sleeve. Yet things just don’t add up.
This mystery started out yesterday at lunchtime when I had some errands to run. I had with me my wallet which contains all the precious cards (drivers license, debit card, Game Stop member card, bus pass, and the like), my cell phone, and all the cash I currently had. All of these things were stored in one of my pockets. The first thing I did on my lunch break was assess my current cash situation. I checked every pocket, put all the money together to come up with two $5 bills, 3 $1 bills and some assorted change. I set the change aside and ignored it. I had $13 total. This was not enough for what I needed so I went to the ATM. I took out $100. I counted it, 5 $20 bills, before I drove away as I always do since I don’t trust anyone, even a machine, to do things correctly. So at this point, I add the twenties to the rest, for a total of $113. So far so good.
My next stop is the pharmacy where I made a purchase for $31 and some cents. I handed the cashier two $20 bills. She gave me back change, both bills and coins (that I didn’t bother to double check), that I stuffed into my pocket. On my way back to work I drove through a local fast food place and purchased $5.17 worth of lunch. I handed the cashier $6 and told him to keep the change.
Although I didn’t count I would have expected that at this point I would have had the following paper money left:
3 $20s = $60 (handed 2 to the cashier at the pharmacy, leaving 3)
2 $5s = $10 (original 2 as I used the 1 I received in change at the pharmacy to purchase lunch)
5 $1s = $5 (original 3 plus 3 back from pharmacy less 1 for lunch purchase)
TOTAL = $75
Also, calculating my various ins and outs (ignoring the coins) it looks like this:
113-32-6=75
So that afternoon I leave work assuming I have $75 plus some loose coinage. I stop on the way home from work and purchase dinner for $4.08. I give the cashier $5.08 and received $1 in change. At this point I thought I had $71 plus some loose coinage.
N and I went to last night’s Illinidebacle basketball game with Purdue. I pulled $5 out and gave to the parking attendant. Now I should’ve had $66. As N and I walked towards the Assembly Hall I was enticed by the offer of front row seats. After haggling, they were mine for $60. I pulled my money from my pocket and peeled off 3 $20s. At that point I was surprised to see there was still a $20 left. Huh? I shrugged it off, my mind elsewhere on a screaming match argument discussion W and I had prior to me leaving for the game, but as I think back I would’ve thought I was down to $6 if I’d given it any thought.
Once at the game I was so immersed in the game that I thought no more about it until N started wheedling for something from the concession stand. I finally told him that when halftime came I’d see what money I had, and we’d see. Maybe he could have a little something. When I checked my pocket at halftime there was not one, but THREE $20 bills along with my $5 and $1.
So the question my dear math friends is this: how did I end up with that money? I have thought and rethought this thing through, and I just don’t get it! I have no idea how I ended up with $60 more than I thought had. I have no idea. None at all. I mean, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but c’mon. This is a mystery. . . a huge mystery to me. Math does not work this way. You add, you subtract, and in the end the answer makes sense. This is not calculus. We aren’t discussing imaginary numbers. This is simple addition and subtraction. How can this possibly be? Am I missing something here? Is it as plain as the nose on your face, and I’m just not seeing it? Did someone slip some money into my pocket (ala a reverse pickpocket)? Did I or someone else with whom I interacted yesterday grossly miscount as transactions took place? Did some leprechaun find my pocket a great place to stash his money? What possible explanation is there?
I am so confused.
For you non-math types, this is going to be one of those (gasp) word problems that are so reviled by the non-math among us. I don’t know that it will help you that this is from real life or not, but it is. Every single thing I am about to tell you is real, factual, a truth. There will be no exaggerations, no intentional misdirection, no tricks up my sleeve. Yet things just don’t add up.
This mystery started out yesterday at lunchtime when I had some errands to run. I had with me my wallet which contains all the precious cards (drivers license, debit card, Game Stop member card, bus pass, and the like), my cell phone, and all the cash I currently had. All of these things were stored in one of my pockets. The first thing I did on my lunch break was assess my current cash situation. I checked every pocket, put all the money together to come up with two $5 bills, 3 $1 bills and some assorted change. I set the change aside and ignored it. I had $13 total. This was not enough for what I needed so I went to the ATM. I took out $100. I counted it, 5 $20 bills, before I drove away as I always do since I don’t trust anyone, even a machine, to do things correctly. So at this point, I add the twenties to the rest, for a total of $113. So far so good.
My next stop is the pharmacy where I made a purchase for $31 and some cents. I handed the cashier two $20 bills. She gave me back change, both bills and coins (that I didn’t bother to double check), that I stuffed into my pocket. On my way back to work I drove through a local fast food place and purchased $5.17 worth of lunch. I handed the cashier $6 and told him to keep the change.
Although I didn’t count I would have expected that at this point I would have had the following paper money left:
3 $20s = $60 (handed 2 to the cashier at the pharmacy, leaving 3)
2 $5s = $10 (original 2 as I used the 1 I received in change at the pharmacy to purchase lunch)
5 $1s = $5 (original 3 plus 3 back from pharmacy less 1 for lunch purchase)
TOTAL = $75
Also, calculating my various ins and outs (ignoring the coins) it looks like this:
113-32-6=75
So that afternoon I leave work assuming I have $75 plus some loose coinage. I stop on the way home from work and purchase dinner for $4.08. I give the cashier $5.08 and received $1 in change. At this point I thought I had $71 plus some loose coinage.
N and I went to last night’s Illini
Once at the game I was so immersed in the game that I thought no more about it until N started wheedling for something from the concession stand. I finally told him that when halftime came I’d see what money I had, and we’d see. Maybe he could have a little something. When I checked my pocket at halftime there was not one, but THREE $20 bills along with my $5 and $1.
So the question my dear math friends is this: how did I end up with that money? I have thought and rethought this thing through, and I just don’t get it! I have no idea how I ended up with $60 more than I thought had. I have no idea. None at all. I mean, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but c’mon. This is a mystery. . . a huge mystery to me. Math does not work this way. You add, you subtract, and in the end the answer makes sense. This is not calculus. We aren’t discussing imaginary numbers. This is simple addition and subtraction. How can this possibly be? Am I missing something here? Is it as plain as the nose on your face, and I’m just not seeing it? Did someone slip some money into my pocket (ala a reverse pickpocket)? Did I or someone else with whom I interacted yesterday grossly miscount as transactions took place? Did some leprechaun find my pocket a great place to stash his money? What possible explanation is there?
I am so confused.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Thursday Therapy: Inaugural Edition
I’m starting a new feature here. Given that I see my therapist on every other Tuesday, and given that I often end up blogging something about what was discussed during therapy, I thought I would start a weekly feature here called Thursday Therapy. I’ll use it to review what I worked on in therapy the Tuesday before and then on the off weeks I’ll use it to think through things I need to discuss on the next Tuesday. It may get a wee bit repetitious as I tend to wallow in the same issues for a while before moving on so feel free to skip these TT posts and wait for more scintillating posts from me. (Not that you’ll ever get that here, so I’m not quite sure why you’re still hanging around, but thanks for hanging around anyway.)
This Tuesday’s Post Mortem
We had talked last session about the break up with BJ. That’s old news, over and done, and I’m tired of expending energy where it is futile to do so. Therefore we (or I) moved on.
Freud’s (for lack of a better name and since I’ll be able to remember it from one time to the next I’m going to call my therapist Freud although he looks nothing like Freud; he really rather resembles the psychiatrist played by Richard Dreyfuss in the movie What About Bob?) office is a plain basic functional office just like many plain basic functional offices in a medical clinic. His office is so unremarkable I can’t even tell you the color of the walls or what may occupy the room other than a few things such as his desk and chair, the relatively comfortable sofa upon which I sit when there, and the digital clock on the table across the room that stares (the clock, not the table or the room) at me incessantly while I am there. Freud is totally unlike the counselor W and I saw back during the adoption debacle a few years back. Where she said nothing more than “and how do you feel about that?” a few times through a session, Freud carries on an actual conversation with me. He inquires, I respond, he feeds back what he understands me to be saying, I clarify if necessary, he gives input or asks for further clarification, I respond. You know, just like real people talking to each other. Can you guess that I like Freud better than the other counselor? Well, if you did you are right. I do.
Anyway, getting back to the meat of Tuesday’s discussion, we addressed the whole issue of reconciliation with W. I told him about my conversation last Sunday with my pastor. He helped me refocus from being concerned about others reacting as though the reconciliation was happy news to focusing on taking care of me and my needs. Now that’s one thing I really like about Freud. He is always bringing the discussion back to me and my needs and acts as though my needs are important. He’s trying to help me to see my needs as important. He has a tough row to hoe there I’m afraid, but God bless him for trying.
We discussed my need to assert myself, to make sure that the relationship is not all about me giving up myself to take care of W. He didn’t try to persuade me, as I’m sure some would, to let him fend for himself. He acknowledged my desire to not turn my back completely on my son’s father. . . which was good because I can’t. I can’t turn my back on W and say “Tough shit; fend for yourself.” I just can’t be that hard hearted. However, I do understand that I need to make sure that my needs are filled as well for if I don’t we’ll be right back to the place we were before – a place so bad that I felt giving W the boot was the only thing I could do. So Freud pointed out some areas that where I needed to be clear on boundaries – like finances, intimacy, parenting, and so forth – so that I can carve out a little comfort zone for myself.
Also, Freud seems to think that my frame of mind is better than it has been the last couple of times I’ve seen him. I believe he’s right. I believe that so much of my depression comes on me when I feel I have no choices and no control in my life. It helps a great deal when I can come around to a place where I do have some say and a bit of control over situations, where I’m doing things by my choice rather than going along because I have no choice.
And our time is up for this week’s therapy session. Until next time. . .
This Tuesday’s Post Mortem
We had talked last session about the break up with BJ. That’s old news, over and done, and I’m tired of expending energy where it is futile to do so. Therefore we (or I) moved on.
Freud’s (for lack of a better name and since I’ll be able to remember it from one time to the next I’m going to call my therapist Freud although he looks nothing like Freud; he really rather resembles the psychiatrist played by Richard Dreyfuss in the movie What About Bob?) office is a plain basic functional office just like many plain basic functional offices in a medical clinic. His office is so unremarkable I can’t even tell you the color of the walls or what may occupy the room other than a few things such as his desk and chair, the relatively comfortable sofa upon which I sit when there, and the digital clock on the table across the room that stares (the clock, not the table or the room) at me incessantly while I am there. Freud is totally unlike the counselor W and I saw back during the adoption debacle a few years back. Where she said nothing more than “and how do you feel about that?” a few times through a session, Freud carries on an actual conversation with me. He inquires, I respond, he feeds back what he understands me to be saying, I clarify if necessary, he gives input or asks for further clarification, I respond. You know, just like real people talking to each other. Can you guess that I like Freud better than the other counselor? Well, if you did you are right. I do.
Anyway, getting back to the meat of Tuesday’s discussion, we addressed the whole issue of reconciliation with W. I told him about my conversation last Sunday with my pastor. He helped me refocus from being concerned about others reacting as though the reconciliation was happy news to focusing on taking care of me and my needs. Now that’s one thing I really like about Freud. He is always bringing the discussion back to me and my needs and acts as though my needs are important. He’s trying to help me to see my needs as important. He has a tough row to hoe there I’m afraid, but God bless him for trying.
We discussed my need to assert myself, to make sure that the relationship is not all about me giving up myself to take care of W. He didn’t try to persuade me, as I’m sure some would, to let him fend for himself. He acknowledged my desire to not turn my back completely on my son’s father. . . which was good because I can’t. I can’t turn my back on W and say “Tough shit; fend for yourself.” I just can’t be that hard hearted. However, I do understand that I need to make sure that my needs are filled as well for if I don’t we’ll be right back to the place we were before – a place so bad that I felt giving W the boot was the only thing I could do. So Freud pointed out some areas that where I needed to be clear on boundaries – like finances, intimacy, parenting, and so forth – so that I can carve out a little comfort zone for myself.
Also, Freud seems to think that my frame of mind is better than it has been the last couple of times I’ve seen him. I believe he’s right. I believe that so much of my depression comes on me when I feel I have no choices and no control in my life. It helps a great deal when I can come around to a place where I do have some say and a bit of control over situations, where I’m doing things by my choice rather than going along because I have no choice.
And our time is up for this week’s therapy session. Until next time. . .
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Hanging on by a Thread
So here’s the deal. Here’s how I’m feeling these days.
I am a failure.
Why? Because I have sought help for the depression. I’m doing the talk therapy. I’m taking the pills. AND.IT.ISN’T.WORKING.
I am not “better.” I continue to battle the depression. I continue to fight against falling deeper into the black hole. I continue to have days where every damn thing seems hopeless.
Do I want to end it all? NO!
Do I want to live? YES!
The thing is though that I am not living. I am breathing. I am going through the motions. I am keeping it together the best I can so that people don’t see that I am not living and so that N is none the wiser. I keep on putting up the front, but that’s all it is. . . a front. I am not living.
Sometimes putting up the front is so hard it makes me wonder just how long I can keep it up. It makes me wonder if someday I will be so tired and so weary and so unable to carry on that death will look like a relief. That’s what I see when I read of others’ suicides is that they were so tormented internally that they eventually got to a place where the only relief to be found was in death. I don’t want to get to that place. I don’t. I want to find the help that will bring me back to life, to make life enjoyable enough to sustain me rather than drain me. I just don’t know where to look.
I’ve been to several different therapists and counselors. I’ve seen two different psychiatrists and tried different combinations of prescriptions. I’ve even asked about being admitted as an inpatient on a couple of different occasions but have been turned down as I am apparently not mentally ill enough for it. (Apparently, one must be currently suicidal to be admitted, and that I have not been and am not now. It just scares me that I have made the turn to seeing it as a possible future outcome if something doesn’t change. Apparently, that is not enough to qualify one for inpatient care.) There just doesn’t seem to be the right cure for me. I just can’t seem to find the key that would unlock the door that would allow me to live again.
Over and over again I hear after someone commits suicide “If only they had reached out. . . “ or “If only they had asked for help. . .” What about those who do reach out, who do ask for help, and yet can’t find the help? What about people like me? What is there for us? At what point is it okay to say “Enough!” and accept defeat and accept that there just may not be a livable solution? At what point is it okay to say “I’m tired of asking for help and not finding what I need”? And if there isn’t ever a point when that is okay, then what? Where does one turn when they feel they’ve exhausted all options?
Truthfully, I was more hopeful before I sought help because I truly felt that if I sought help I would get better. Now, after seeking help for several years and not getting better things feel much more hopeless.
I am a failure.
Why? Because I have sought help for the depression. I’m doing the talk therapy. I’m taking the pills. AND.IT.ISN’T.WORKING.
I am not “better.” I continue to battle the depression. I continue to fight against falling deeper into the black hole. I continue to have days where every damn thing seems hopeless.
Do I want to end it all? NO!
Do I want to live? YES!
The thing is though that I am not living. I am breathing. I am going through the motions. I am keeping it together the best I can so that people don’t see that I am not living and so that N is none the wiser. I keep on putting up the front, but that’s all it is. . . a front. I am not living.
Sometimes putting up the front is so hard it makes me wonder just how long I can keep it up. It makes me wonder if someday I will be so tired and so weary and so unable to carry on that death will look like a relief. That’s what I see when I read of others’ suicides is that they were so tormented internally that they eventually got to a place where the only relief to be found was in death. I don’t want to get to that place. I don’t. I want to find the help that will bring me back to life, to make life enjoyable enough to sustain me rather than drain me. I just don’t know where to look.
I’ve been to several different therapists and counselors. I’ve seen two different psychiatrists and tried different combinations of prescriptions. I’ve even asked about being admitted as an inpatient on a couple of different occasions but have been turned down as I am apparently not mentally ill enough for it. (Apparently, one must be currently suicidal to be admitted, and that I have not been and am not now. It just scares me that I have made the turn to seeing it as a possible future outcome if something doesn’t change. Apparently, that is not enough to qualify one for inpatient care.) There just doesn’t seem to be the right cure for me. I just can’t seem to find the key that would unlock the door that would allow me to live again.
Over and over again I hear after someone commits suicide “If only they had reached out. . . “ or “If only they had asked for help. . .” What about those who do reach out, who do ask for help, and yet can’t find the help? What about people like me? What is there for us? At what point is it okay to say “Enough!” and accept defeat and accept that there just may not be a livable solution? At what point is it okay to say “I’m tired of asking for help and not finding what I need”? And if there isn’t ever a point when that is okay, then what? Where does one turn when they feel they’ve exhausted all options?
Truthfully, I was more hopeful before I sought help because I truly felt that if I sought help I would get better. Now, after seeking help for several years and not getting better things feel much more hopeless.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Never a Dull Moment in Trueself's World
I started writing this yesterday but didn’t get it finished. There are a lot of references to “today”, “yesterday” and the like. As you read shift in your mind one day back. I suppose I could post this with yesterday’s date on it, but I’m not going to do so. Instead, you just have to shift everything by one day. On the other hand, you probably don’t really care what day it happened so you can just read it as is. Whatever. . .
There are a lot of things that I never expected to do in my lifetime. For example, I don’t expect I’ll ever fly to the moon. I don’t expect, even though it has been a longtime dream of mine, that I’ll ever run for president of the United States. I don’t expect I’ll ever be famous for anything.
I did something today I never expected to do. I went and picked somebody up when they were released from jail and took them to the bus station giving them a little money for food and drink at a sandwich shop before the bus left.
Nope, if you told me yesterday afternoon that’s what I’d be doing this afternoon I would’ve said that my flying to the moon or running for president or being famous were just as likely. As it turns out though you’d have been right, and I’d have been wondering today how you knew that in advance.
The somebody was BJ’s daughter. He’s explained on his blog how she ended up in jail so I won’t rehash that here. When he emailed me to let me know she’d been released I offered to help him in any way he might need. He emailed back that I could pick her up and take her to the bus station so she could catch the bus later this afternoon to take her back home. It just happens that I work not terribly far from the county jail so it would take me far less time than it would take him, some 30 to 45 minutes once he left his place, to get there. Also, due to last evening’s happenings he thought it was better if he and she only saw each other in a public place with lots of people around, and the bus station would certainly fit the bill.
On my way to the jail all sorts of thoughts flitted through my head:
What if she became violent with me on the way to the bus station?
What if she was so embarrassed over the situation that she didn’t speak to me for the entire drive?
Why did N leave that baseball bat in the car? What if she used it as a weapon against me? Would I have the heart to use it if I needed to defend myself?
What should I say to her? Somehow “How’s it going?” wasn’t going to cut it.
How do you pick someone up at the jail? Is there a front desk where the receptionist/deputy/clerk is waiting to ask who you are there to pick up?
Of course things went more smoothly than I anticipated. It turns out there’s a set of glass doors that are unlocked at the front entrance to the building. Then you get to the set of glass doors that are locked. You can see a couple of rows of chairs in the room beyond the doors, a waiting room of sorts (turns out it is the area where people released from jail wait for whoever is coming to get them and where visitors wait when it is visiting hours only hence the locked door when it is not visiting hours) but without the magazines from what I could see. In a couple of chairs are sitting a couple of very big and mean looking guys, the kind of guys you wouldn’t want walking up to you if you were on a deserted street. On the other side of the room, standing along the wall near the doors is a very nervous looking young woman, BJ’s daughter. She saw me and came out. I asked her in a concerned way how she was feeling. She answered, “Okay, I guess.”
On the way to the bus station she was a very humble and reserved young woman. A night in jail had some effect apparently. She shared with me that the food was not good there (no surprise) and that she would have to return to court late next month. I don’t know, but I’m guessing she was released on her own recognizance. Hopefully, she is responsible enough to show up for her court date. We talked, just light chit chat, for the ten or so minutes it took for me to get her to the station.
As I dropped her off at the bus station, she turned to me before she got out, looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you.” I told her it was no problem and that I was happy to help out. She smiled (first smile I’d seen since I picked her up), and said, “No. Really. Thank you.” I smiled back and told her to take care of herself.
I teared up a little as I drove away. I can just imagine, that like me, she probably wondered all sorts of things about how it would go when I picked her up. She was probably a little afraid I would scold her, or perhaps ask too many questions, or lecture her, or who knows what. As it was, I tried to keep the tone light, but not too light, and let her lead our discussion. I figured there was no sense adding more pressure to the situation. I think that’s why she was thanking me, for making the ride across town as easy as possible.
If you’re the praying kind and happen to think of her I’m sure she could use a few prayers on her behalf. I know I’ll be praying for her. Schizophrenia is a devil of an illness, not one easily managed or controlled even with medications. In my book she’s a brave girl battling to overcome it and struggling with the lapses that occur. It’s hard enough being 19 without the additional problems that come from having schizophrenia.
There are a lot of things that I never expected to do in my lifetime. For example, I don’t expect I’ll ever fly to the moon. I don’t expect, even though it has been a longtime dream of mine, that I’ll ever run for president of the United States. I don’t expect I’ll ever be famous for anything.
I did something today I never expected to do. I went and picked somebody up when they were released from jail and took them to the bus station giving them a little money for food and drink at a sandwich shop before the bus left.
Nope, if you told me yesterday afternoon that’s what I’d be doing this afternoon I would’ve said that my flying to the moon or running for president or being famous were just as likely. As it turns out though you’d have been right, and I’d have been wondering today how you knew that in advance.
The somebody was BJ’s daughter. He’s explained on his blog how she ended up in jail so I won’t rehash that here. When he emailed me to let me know she’d been released I offered to help him in any way he might need. He emailed back that I could pick her up and take her to the bus station so she could catch the bus later this afternoon to take her back home. It just happens that I work not terribly far from the county jail so it would take me far less time than it would take him, some 30 to 45 minutes once he left his place, to get there. Also, due to last evening’s happenings he thought it was better if he and she only saw each other in a public place with lots of people around, and the bus station would certainly fit the bill.
On my way to the jail all sorts of thoughts flitted through my head:
What if she became violent with me on the way to the bus station?
What if she was so embarrassed over the situation that she didn’t speak to me for the entire drive?
Why did N leave that baseball bat in the car? What if she used it as a weapon against me? Would I have the heart to use it if I needed to defend myself?
What should I say to her? Somehow “How’s it going?” wasn’t going to cut it.
How do you pick someone up at the jail? Is there a front desk where the receptionist/deputy/clerk is waiting to ask who you are there to pick up?
Of course things went more smoothly than I anticipated. It turns out there’s a set of glass doors that are unlocked at the front entrance to the building. Then you get to the set of glass doors that are locked. You can see a couple of rows of chairs in the room beyond the doors, a waiting room of sorts (turns out it is the area where people released from jail wait for whoever is coming to get them and where visitors wait when it is visiting hours only hence the locked door when it is not visiting hours) but without the magazines from what I could see. In a couple of chairs are sitting a couple of very big and mean looking guys, the kind of guys you wouldn’t want walking up to you if you were on a deserted street. On the other side of the room, standing along the wall near the doors is a very nervous looking young woman, BJ’s daughter. She saw me and came out. I asked her in a concerned way how she was feeling. She answered, “Okay, I guess.”
On the way to the bus station she was a very humble and reserved young woman. A night in jail had some effect apparently. She shared with me that the food was not good there (no surprise) and that she would have to return to court late next month. I don’t know, but I’m guessing she was released on her own recognizance. Hopefully, she is responsible enough to show up for her court date. We talked, just light chit chat, for the ten or so minutes it took for me to get her to the station.
As I dropped her off at the bus station, she turned to me before she got out, looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you.” I told her it was no problem and that I was happy to help out. She smiled (first smile I’d seen since I picked her up), and said, “No. Really. Thank you.” I smiled back and told her to take care of herself.
I teared up a little as I drove away. I can just imagine, that like me, she probably wondered all sorts of things about how it would go when I picked her up. She was probably a little afraid I would scold her, or perhaps ask too many questions, or lecture her, or who knows what. As it was, I tried to keep the tone light, but not too light, and let her lead our discussion. I figured there was no sense adding more pressure to the situation. I think that’s why she was thanking me, for making the ride across town as easy as possible.
If you’re the praying kind and happen to think of her I’m sure she could use a few prayers on her behalf. I know I’ll be praying for her. Schizophrenia is a devil of an illness, not one easily managed or controlled even with medications. In my book she’s a brave girl battling to overcome it and struggling with the lapses that occur. It’s hard enough being 19 without the additional problems that come from having schizophrenia.
Friday, September 12, 2008
The One in Which New Fangled Technology Gets the Better of Trueself
The technologically unsavvy (spellcheck offered me unsaved, navy, and uncivil as alternatives but I do think I really meant unsavvy, even if it isn’t a proper word) among us, meaning me, is wondering about various things related to all this here new fangled gadgetry I’m trying, and not always succeeding, to use.
Instead of wandering down to my local electronics megastore with the big yellow sign on the front and taking up massive amounts of time (and probably paying for it) with the Geek Squad I thought I would toss my quandaries out here and see what answers I get. I know there are a few tech savvy folk out there that occasionally stop by. Please, help a damsel in distress here! (BTW, even though the questions may be presented with humor, they are serious questions. I want (need even?) real answers.) (And just how many parenthetical statements are allowed within one paragraph (and how many may be nested within one another?))
First Question
Desktop PC – What does it mean when the PC sounds as though it is a jet plane revving its engines for takeoff? Should I clear the desk, put away electronic devices, stow my tray table, and put my seatback in its upright position? Seriously though, is it a sign that my PC is becoming ill and is perhaps trying to warn me of its impending untimely demise, or is it a more benign condition?
Second Question
Laptop – If the screen does that old fashioned TV wavy screen scrolling thing how do you stop it? Is it trying to tell me that it is failing or that it is just trying to channel old Munsters reruns? If it does indeed fail, is the laptop a goner or can the screen be resurrected if the rest of the laptop is functioning well?
Third Question
MP4 (yes, it’s an MP4 rather than MP3) Player – If I can’t figure out how to work this off brand relatively cheap thing I bought online, and it came with no instructions am I doomed, or is there a chance someone out there could show me how I can get songs onto it so that I don’t have to listen to the one sample song that came with it over and over and over and over. . . ? BTW, I have had this thing for over a year now and am no closer to having it be usable than the day I got it.
Fourth Question
Cell Phone – If I try to download a ringtone, and it tells me I don’t have enough memory (even though I have never ever loaded a ringtone on it before) what can I do to get the ringtone? This is probably the most important question because a certain someone I know has the Iowa fight song as his ringtone so it is vitally important that I counter with the Illini fight song as mine.
Answers to any of these questions will be welcomed with overwhelming gratitude.
Instead of wandering down to my local electronics megastore with the big yellow sign on the front and taking up massive amounts of time (and probably paying for it) with the Geek Squad I thought I would toss my quandaries out here and see what answers I get. I know there are a few tech savvy folk out there that occasionally stop by. Please, help a damsel in distress here! (BTW, even though the questions may be presented with humor, they are serious questions. I want (need even?) real answers.) (And just how many parenthetical statements are allowed within one paragraph (and how many may be nested within one another?))
First Question
Desktop PC – What does it mean when the PC sounds as though it is a jet plane revving its engines for takeoff? Should I clear the desk, put away electronic devices, stow my tray table, and put my seatback in its upright position? Seriously though, is it a sign that my PC is becoming ill and is perhaps trying to warn me of its impending untimely demise, or is it a more benign condition?
Second Question
Laptop – If the screen does that old fashioned TV wavy screen scrolling thing how do you stop it? Is it trying to tell me that it is failing or that it is just trying to channel old Munsters reruns? If it does indeed fail, is the laptop a goner or can the screen be resurrected if the rest of the laptop is functioning well?
Third Question
MP4 (yes, it’s an MP4 rather than MP3) Player – If I can’t figure out how to work this off brand relatively cheap thing I bought online, and it came with no instructions am I doomed, or is there a chance someone out there could show me how I can get songs onto it so that I don’t have to listen to the one sample song that came with it over and over and over and over. . . ? BTW, I have had this thing for over a year now and am no closer to having it be usable than the day I got it.
Fourth Question
Cell Phone – If I try to download a ringtone, and it tells me I don’t have enough memory (even though I have never ever loaded a ringtone on it before) what can I do to get the ringtone? This is probably the most important question because a certain someone I know has the Iowa fight song as his ringtone so it is vitally important that I counter with the Illini fight song as mine.
Answers to any of these questions will be welcomed with overwhelming gratitude.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Another of Life's Mysteries
Why is it that where I injured my left leg when I fell earlier this summer I have now sprouted fur? While my legs have always had some hair on them, it has always been sparse and fine and not terribly noticable until it gets pretty long. Now across my left leg a wide swath of black fur is growing. It is dense and dark and quite noticable after only a couple of days. It is very annoying because it means I either have to shave every day or two or wear pants to cover it.
So to anyone with any medical background (more than just playing a doctor on TV please) enlighten me. Am I simply a freak of nature or is this a common phenomenon with serious contusions? Is it likely temporary or permanent? Hit me with your best information. While you're at it, can you tell me how long it takes before the swelling and discoloration goes away with something like this?
BTW, please don't tell me to go ask my own doctor about these things. I have an upcoming appointment with her. I'll ask. I'm just throwing this out here in the meantime.
So to anyone with any medical background (more than just playing a doctor on TV please) enlighten me. Am I simply a freak of nature or is this a common phenomenon with serious contusions? Is it likely temporary or permanent? Hit me with your best information. While you're at it, can you tell me how long it takes before the swelling and discoloration goes away with something like this?
BTW, please don't tell me to go ask my own doctor about these things. I have an upcoming appointment with her. I'll ask. I'm just throwing this out here in the meantime.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Free Time
OMG, I actually have some free time on my hands. N is off to basketball camp at the great big U of I where he’ll hobnob with his favorite players, particularly Trent Meacham. I have the whole house to myself until Sunday. Aaaahhhh…..
Normally, I would look at this as time I needed to be doing something productive like cleaning house or something. However, given that my leg still hurts when I stand or walk too much, and particularly given that two “angels among us” are going to be coming in the next couple of weeks to help me declutter, I intend to use this time to rest. That’s right. Other than going to work, I intend to sit on my butt with my bum leg elevated on soft pillows and relax without guilt. Why, I might even just take a nap or two in the next few days.
more cat pictures
Ah, is there anything sweeter than uninterrupted peace and quiet?
Normally, I would look at this as time I needed to be doing something productive like cleaning house or something. However, given that my leg still hurts when I stand or walk too much, and particularly given that two “angels among us” are going to be coming in the next couple of weeks to help me declutter, I intend to use this time to rest. That’s right. Other than going to work, I intend to sit on my butt with my bum leg elevated on soft pillows and relax without guilt. Why, I might even just take a nap or two in the next few days.
more cat pictures
Ah, is there anything sweeter than uninterrupted peace and quiet?
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
I Need Your Help
Drowning as I am in this depression, I have been trying to go back and read some of the blog entries in my archives that show my strength, that show me I can pull myself out of this and do better than this. As I was doing this I thought who better to ask than my readers who often have pointed out my strengths to me to send me back to some of their favorite posts of mine that might help me see that all is not bleak, that the light at the end of the tunnel is indeed daylight and not the headlight of an oncoming train.
So blessed readers, if you would be so kind, point me in the direction of some of my old posts that reveal the strength I know I have in me but just can't find right now.
Thank you kindest readers in the blogosphere.
So blessed readers, if you would be so kind, point me in the direction of some of my old posts that reveal the strength I know I have in me but just can't find right now.
Thank you kindest readers in the blogosphere.
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