Depression Talk

So, I’ve been working lately.

I’ve kind of been working a lot.

For the next little while, I’ll be working seventeen days straight, actually, with at least half of those days being doubles. (Yes, doubles. You know, the types of days where you leave the house at seven a.m. and don’t come back until eleven p.m.)

A few weeks ago, Jooms warned me about this. Like, Dude, you should slow it down.

Today my mother warned me, too. You are the most important one here, she said, and if YOU aren’t ok, your work won’t be ok either.

And then there was my Lady T, the most wonderous friend who ever did live. And she said, You know, we don’t want a repeat of last fall.

Oh, last fall. I don’t really remember much of it, actually, because I was tanked on my balcony all the time. I spent most of that time praying to Orion, hoping and wishing that he and God could take care of everything that needed taking care of.

The great thing about this fall is that I have new meds. Hurrah! Yay for pharmaceuticals! I’m living in a place that I LOVE, I have a horse, my car is on the road again. I’m free to come and go as I wish, I can get out of the lease I have on my current living arrangements any old time I want.

I feel good about my life. I feel happy and satisfied and like I’m accomplishing the steps towards my goals every single day.

All because of the people who love me, who know enough to point out that I may be overdoing it.

And I am!

And this time? I’m strong enough to say, yes, I am overdoing it, and I’m strong enough to take my boss aside and DO something about it.

So, yay me!

The thing about a social network is that you need it, and you need it to be strong. I wrote a while about having a network in times of need, and this week, Karen was nice enough to discuss some of the things I think are important in supporting someone. If you read through her list, you can really apply her suggestions not only to someone who has cancer, but someone who needs that shoulder to lean on, no matter what is going on in his or her life.

The friends we have, who support us in times of need come through for us in all varieties. Joomy has to be one of my favorite friends, that wonderful woman who has all the answers to all of life’s issues.

Joomy and I rarely see each other in person; when we do see each other, we are typically at a social gathering that prevents us from getting around to discussing the really juicy material in our lives.

But the relationship we do have is a very strong one online. Jooms is typically online at the same time of night I am, blogging away in hopes of someday finding internet fame. I frequently sign on to my computer, and type JOOMS!!! I NEED YOU!! Followed by JOOMS!ARE YOU THERE?!?!

ANd you know, sometimes I can actually feel her hesitating through the computer screen. Like, My God, this girl has another random crisis going on that has nothing to do with me, and I have to deal with it AGAIN and I will never get a solid night’s rest ever again in my life because she just won’t go away.

Hey, I never said I was a bowl full of sunshine and cherries to deal with, and further more, I figured if she really couldn’t talk me through the crises that pop up in my life on a weekly basis, she would simply choose the block and delete function on her MSN.

Jooms has sat patiently in front of her computer for nearing two or three years now, quietly reading and wondering what will pop up on her screen next. She’s talked me through every boy issue you could ever imagine, and dealt with me when I’ve been at the lowest possible low I could have ever been at.

I think one of the trickiest things about having someone like Jooms in your network is wondering how to ever thank them. How do you ever impart on someone that they are so important in your life that if they ceased to exist, you might do the same? How do you ever impart on someone that you KNOW you may be a really crappy friend, and you may not be the best to come to yourself, but that you appreciate, love, and NEED them to continue to be in your life?

I guess you just feature them in your blog, and hope that they get the picture.

My theme for this week is going to be on my network: Those wonderful people who make my life easier to live just by existing in it.

I have to start this week by saying that I am a pretty difficult person to get along with. I am rife with anxiety and stress. I shriek frequently, and when it comes to volume? Let me tell you, I’m not here to fuck around. I’m hyper sensitive to any remark that might remotely have anything to do with me, and I cry at the drop of a hat. Any hat. Hell, I even cry at the drop of protective headgear.

The people in my network have a hard and tiring job in being in that network. They need to console me when I’m sobbing; they have to pick up the pieces when I fall apart. They have to deal with me constantly bemoaning my hideous relationship mistakes. What’s worse, they have to deal with the fact that I can never let anything go.

My social network is fairly small: I have a very few people who I hold near and dear to me. That is not to say that I am a trusting person. I often trust people with my heart and soul; however, at the same time, I always expect to be disappointed. That is, if I tell someone something I’d rather other people not know, and I find out that they have told a number of people? I am rarely surprised. I think it is sad that I have such little faith in humanity as a whole. Unfortunately, life has shown me time and time again that the only person you can really trust is you.

However: My network, those people who I love and run to when I need them? These are the people who have shown themselves time and time again that they are trustworthy. These are people who have not let me down, who have stood by me through thick and thin, who have literally carried me to where I need to be when I can no longer make it there myself.

I firmly believe that a strong social network is one of the things that improves mental health issues the most. I firmly believe that everyone needs to find someone or something that can help them get through the tougher times.

This week will be devoted to those people in my life who make my getting out of bed in the morning possible.

Some days I wonder if I believe in destiny, because I so often use the word in everyday life. I’m destined to be this, I’m destined to be that. Most often I use the word destiny to describe my status as single.

I often think that if I’m alone for the rest of my life, I’ll be fine, and other times I think… I can’t do it. Most often it is not on my mind, but every now and then I can feel my singleness weighing on me, and I wonder if something must be hideously wrong.

I waffle in my desire to be single or not single. Sometimes I think that because I’m such a Crazy Person, I should just be alone so that no one else ever has to deal with my issues. (Except my mother.) (And my cat.)

I can’t decide right now why I’m single, and I don’t think that I could ever meet and date someone until I’m sure as to why my romantic life has been in the state it has for so long. Am I single because I actually don’t want anyone in my life? Or am I single because I’m such a liberated, free spirited woman that no one dares to try and put an end to my free-living ways?

Or am I just so damn beat up from all the crappy-assed experiences I’ve had that I can’t bear to face it all again?

I like to tell myself that I am a content, whole, and happy person. I even mostly believe that I am. But every now and then, I think about relationships and I shudder. I’m revolted by the thought of getting to know someone, of the risk of finding myself once more in a broken-hearted, drunken stupor on my mother’s living room floor. It has happened far, far too many times to count at this point, and I’m not sure I or the people around me could really handle it one more time.

At the same time, I would just be so desperately thrilled if the phone would ring, if it were someone who was genuinely interested in how my day went, someone who cared to hear me prattle on about my horse. It would be grand to cuddle up on the couch with bad horror movies and popcorn and have someone just enjoy the smell of my hair. I take great care in selecting hair-care products, and I know for a fact that MY HAIR SMELLS GREAT, DAMMIT.

But then why is it that every time I meet a person, I’m loud and obnoxious about my desire to not be in a relationship, about my hatred for dating and all things commitment-related, and my love for single life that does not include ringing telephones? Is is just a stupid act I put on to prove to myself that I’m happy alone?

Or is there actually something wrong with me?

Regardless, every time I meet someone, even someone wonderful and grand and everything I want that someone to be — driven, focused, goal oriented, hard working, with something to show for what he has worked for — I boot it out of there like he’s got some kind of plague. I make up some dumb reason, like “Well, I’d like to be friends”, which is such a load of bull I can’t even believe I’m writing about it on the Internet. Or I say that I can’t date, or that I don’t date, or that I’m so busy in my life that it would be a physical impossibility….

But when I’m saying those lame, pathetic things?

I just feels like they are so damn true.

And once those things are said?

All I want to do is run out and take them right back and jump right into all that relationship-py type stuff.

But then the thought alone makes me want to shudder and hide under the blankets until Mr. WhatsHisFace gives up and wanders away.

And then I just start being confused all over again.

My dear friend Joomy is doing a bit on bad habits lately, and I’ve been reading on with glee. I’m full of bad habits. I’m surprised she hasn’t done an entire exposee on yours truly just yet. To be honest, I’m a little hurt. I partake in ALL the habits that are bad.

Of all the people I know who bite their nails, I probably take it to the extreme level. I’ve only met one or two people in this life who are worse nail biters than I am. I have a special gift for being able to chew my hands into bloody, scabby messes without noticing until the next time I deal with anything that might hurt when it is pressed into an open wound. You know, those things like air or water or milkhouse acid. Whatever you have handy.

This is not an image of my own nails, but quite often this is what my hands look like. Only, of course, my hands are freakishly huger and more manly. Because I have huge, giant man hands.

All the better to beat you to a pulp with if you make fun of them, my Dear.

At any rate, this is one of my quirks that people have a hard time dealing with, one of the outward signs of my insanity that is hard to cover up from people because, you know, my hands and my mouth are usually visible to the public when I’m being all upright and conscious and stuff like that.

I chew when things aren’t right. I chew when there is too much in my mind, when I’m concentrating on any sort of task, and when anxiety overtakes me so that I can no longer think without having brain matter start to pour out my ears.

I have other quirks that relate to socks and the arrangement of socks and how my candles are dealt with; oh, and of course there is how my beer is poured, how many steps there are from any one given location to another, and how many tiles are on the cielings of every room I have ever been in.

But we’re not focused on those habits right now. We’re focused on nail biting. I usually call it hand chewing, because with me it goes a little further than nail biting.

Right. Focus on the hand chewing.

I’m focused on NEVER GIVING IT UP because, for God’s sake, I need to have SOMETHING to do with my spare time.

All eighteen minutes a day of it.

On Sunday I had another one of those days at work, a day that I simply didn’t know how to process or deal with, and so I did the only thing I could think of.

I started drinking beer and chain smoking.

It was a grand evening, in all, except for the unfortunate incident which involved me deciding to sober up and have a pop and some fudge. The fudge was stuck in the pan, and so in my infinate (slightly buzzed up) state, I decided to retrieve it from the pan with a steak knife. Of course, the steak knife ended up embedded in the palm of my hand, blood poured about the kitchen (Not on the fudge, fortunately) and things kind of dissolved into a messy situation with band-aids and tears abounding.

I ended up having a panic attack that night, sitting in the kitchen holding my head, trying to regain a part of me that would make things stop spinning and blurring in and out of focus.

Panic attacks are very scary things, things that I don’t know how to control.

That panic attack made up the third one of this week, a third episode IN ONE WEEK. I don’t know how I end up having panic attacks, or what causes them, or what makes them go away. My panic attacks have no particular rhyme or reason, they follow no orderly rhythm, and have no cycle. They don’t happen in conjunction with particularly stressful things in my life; unless of course you count the other night when I found a utensil firmly planted int he flesh of my hand.

I discussed it with my mother afterwards, the ever supportive woman who has helped me get through all of my insanity issues thus far in my life. She said that, of course, after the day I’d had and the drinks that I’d consumed, of course! Of course it makes sense to have a panic attack!

And she’s right. So that’s one that I’m not going to worry about, I’m not going to think about. It will not weigh on my mind or stay with me for any period of time.

Later in the night, while I was on my way to bed, my mother took my had and looked at me. And she said “Just, you know. If you think you’re totally losing it again, could I get a head’s up? Just some notice so that I can plan for it appropriately?”

And I said yes. Of course. If I’m going to go completely stark raving mad at any point in the near future?

She didn’t even need to ASK me to let her know. Trust me. She’d know.

YOU WILL ALL KNOW.

I used to work in a convenience store, and every now and then a trucker would come in for coffee. He would always stay quite a while, and after getting to know him more and more, I started refering to him as my ’shrink’. He was one of those people who you could talk to about anything, who knew about everything, and who was able to come up with a solution for all life’s woes.

I told him a few times about my fear of losing it. Whatever it is, I’m scared of it going far away. I’m scared of going to that place where the crazy people go, lost deep inside themselves and unable to process anything else that is going on around them.

He was a very wise man, and he asked me one time, where I was scared of going. I told him that I didn’t know, that it was a place that doesn’t have a name or a location, but it is going crazy and it is a very, very scary place to go. Downright terrifying, even.

And he said, No. You’re not scared of going there. He said that I go there on purpose, I go to that place inside myself, away from everyone and everything on purpose. He said that people go there because they need to escape, and that if we didn’t like being there, we wouldn’t bother going.

I don’t even know that man’s name, and at the time I have to say that I thought there must be something about what he thought about going crazy. If you didn’t like going crazy, you just wouldn’t go there. How comforting is that?

But the thing is, sometimes I feel like there is really no other place to go. I have to wonder if, deep down, people really do have control over whether or not they get to be crazy. Like, imagine, after all these years feeling like I’ve been taken over by something beyond my control.

And then, poof. Its all my choice. I can choose to go crazy or I can choose to not go crazy, and it is all really up to me.

How wonderful is that? I have a choice! I can choose!

And then I wonder, can I really choose?

Fall has hit us here in CowTown, and I’m feeling it pretty hard.

What’s that? The suckiest blogger in the world? Who? Me?

Yeah. I’m finding it hard to focus on this whole blogging thing what with the fifty million hours of doing stuff each week, and all.

Well, the thing is that this time of the year tends to hit everyone here at The Ranch pretty hard. I’m certainly no exception.

Every day, I come home from work and I hit the couch with the dogs. This is the end of me until supper time at around seven.

The amazing thing is that on days when I work two shifts, I manage to remain upright and conscious for that period of time. I feel like I deserve a big old pat on the back every time I do it.

Part of the problems I have include obsessive-compulsive tendencies. I chew on my hands or my lips or whatever I can bring to the vicinity of my mouth, and I go nuts.

I also tend to shake my legs, twitch, and generally be a big ol’ ball of energy compacted into one handy location (That location being the couch.)

The other night, I was sitting around twitching and being insane, admiring the handywork my teeth had done on my hands, and my mother asked me if everything is alright.

Well, of course everything is alright. I have a job (Two jobs, even) and I have a car and a horse and a relatively peaceful place to live.

The thing is, that I’m pretty sure I’m alright. Mostly sure, even.

The problem that remains is, what if I’m not alright? What do I do? I already take the maximum amount of the drugs I can take. So I’m not sure what else there is for me at this point.

Some sleep might be good.

Or maybe even some hope and faith, some knowledge that this is just the time of year that crazy people tend to go a little crazier. I know that everything is fine.

I just need to work on accepting it.

Well, I don’t really have the blues. But I have been staring at my computer screen for what feels like hours, searching out volunteer opportunities around Canada. Yep. I’m looking in to going away for the last semester of my college program, which is entirely work-based.

So far I’ve found a number of things that look interesting, but as per usual, the logistics are killing me. Its like getting married and having babies and living happily ever after: It all sounds well and good, but they always get you on the details.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We did some chatting today in our family psychology class, and again I’ve been thinking about it ever since because, like, totally, what is wrong with me? (Look at the picture. That’s your hint. I don’t actually have any functional brain matter. Just strange little shapes and colors. From now on, every time someone pisses me off? The answer will have to do with strange little shapes and colors.)

Everyone else said that, in their ideal families, they would have some sort of love and intense emotional bond.

And I wanted a working functional relationship between two adults who act as leaders of the household, married or not, working together for common goals and caring for two to five children.

And I never mentioned love or mush of fluffy bunnies or any of that happy person-type crap, and now I’m thinking: Is it possible that I don’t want that?

Is it really possible that I could be happy with just me and my pony and my cranky, howling cat for the rest of forever?

And I’m thinking, HELLOOOO? Have you met that damn cat? Because, My God, it is one howly cat. And you know, having someone around to bitch about the howliness to would sure be handy sometimes.

And the rest of the time I’m just conflicted.

I blame the strange little shapes and colors.

I’m moving away from the topic of Depression and Insanity related issues for a moment here to talk about breast cancer.

October is breast cancer awareness month. Squeeze a boob, save a life! What could be more simple?

The problem is, breast cancer is not always that simple. Take DCIS, for example. Ductal Carcinmoa In Situ is a type of breast cancer that is very difficult to find. It can take years, even decades, before DCIS develops into tumors that can be felt with a simple squeeze of the boob; and, depending on the nuclear grade (harmfulness) an individual has, life expectancy or chance for recurrence varies.

I bet you’re wondering why a 23 year old Child and Youth Worker knows so much about DCIS.

Because my Mom is a survivor.

Last year was probably one of the worst years of my life. I’ll spare you the gory details in this post, because unlike so much of what I write, this is not about me. Shocking, I know.

My mother was diagnosed with DCIS last year after a suspicious mammogram and a stereotactic core needle biopsy of the suspicious area. She managed to get away with a lumpectomy (Where they removed the piece of the breast with the cancer in it, rather than the whole breast) and radiation treatment.

My overall experience with cancer was crappy for a lot of reasons. For one, MY MOM HAD CANCER. Her surgeon, while gifted, was a complete and total ass (Which I’m supposed to stop saying on the Internet, but its true. Anyhow.). My mother’s radiation oncologist was also a bit of an ass (And by a bit, I mean a really, really large ass with warts and those long, nasty ass hairs all over it.) Our doctors at home were wonderful: My mother was two weeks from suspicious mammogram to biopsy, and two more weeks from diagnosis to surgery. After that, all hell sort of broke loose and we ended up waiting sixteen weeks for radiation.

But I’m focussing on the bad things here.

What I really want to focus on is all the wonderful things people did for our family. People sent their cards, their love, and their well-wishes in droves. People we didn’t even know came to us with their own stories of cancer, some positive and some not so positive. People sent flowers and gifts: A girl I worked with, who had never even met my mom, gave her a beautiful crystal bracelet made especially for breast cancer awareness. My boss at the time gave me all the time off in the world so that I could be at home for surgeries and treatments.

Some people find the media attention given to breast cancer a little overbearing. Sometimes I, too, feel that I’ve seen one too many pink ribbons in my day.

However, it is campaigns like these, like making October Breast Cancer Awareness month; when cowboys wear pink in the Pro Bull Riding Championships; when Lance Armstrong comes forward with his own struggles; where thousands upon thousands run for the cure each year; and where there are so many other people working so very hard to find a cure…

These are the campaigns that make friends and family more aware, more understanding, and more willing to come forward with the support that my family so very enjoyed last winter.

So, yeah. Bring on the pink ribbons.

Let’s be aware, shall we? Overinundated or not, sometimes people need a little push. And that we all get that push if we need it, that’s good.

1. I have two days off this weekend. Two whole days. IN A ROW. TWO, FULL, COMPLETE PERIODS of twenty-four hours one after the other.

WITHOUT GOING TO WORK. Or school. Or the placement school.

I don’t have to leave my home for any reason. I don’t have to get dressed, put on underpants, wash any part of my body, or behave in a manner that is even close to being socially appropriate.

If I choose, I can go and visit my horse and hope that in his joy to be making contact with a human being after so long, he doesn’t climb right on top of me and cause my death from standing on top of my head.

I can go duck hunting. I can sit by the river in the freezing cold, chain smoking and waiting for dawn to break so I can load my weapon — before I start chain smoking again.

Dear God. It will be great.

2. There will be drinking.

3. I will sleep. And if I can’t sleep?

It won’t matter, because I can spend my afternoon napping, anyhow.

4. I’m going to eat a whole buttload of turkey and stuffing and all that kind of wonderful crap. After I’m done eating, I’m going to curl up on the couch and take a nap with the dogs.

5. Not a single cow will look at me with a blank stare, wondering why, after all these years, I am in contact with a cow. Because my weekend will contain no cows.

As most of you readers know, I’m trying to think about coming up with a theme for my blog entries. A method to my madness, if you will.

Well, On this Thursday, the only thing that I can really think about is Thursday itself. I love Thursdays. Thursday is, and always has been, my favorite day. Thursdays make me think about wonderful and happy things; about puppies and kittens and butterflies — I mean, anything other than butterflies. When you have a horse who is scared of butterflies, you DO NOT THINK ABOUT BUTTERFLIES.

At any rate, all the things I think to make me happy are rolled into one big, happy ball of loveliness when Thursday pops into my mind.

And now, I must admit why.

Thursday is the day that my ass gets firmly implanted on my couch, a tub of ice cream gets firmly entrenched in my sweaty palms, and I WATCH TELEVISION.

Hours, and hours, upon hours, and more hours of mindless television.

On Thursdays, I have been known to put children in my charge to bed early so that I can make sure the junk food is in order for Survivor. I’ve been known to take the phone off the hook altogether starting when the clock nears eight. I’ve been known to lie, feign illness, switch shifts, and contemplate quitting jobs because Thursday nights are just that important to me.

And while some of this behaviour may seem a little over the top, a little intense or strange or Hell, even bordering on psychotic?

It doesn’t matter one bit.

Because I’ll be sitting with my ass firmly implanted in the couch, a tub of Haagen Daazs in one hand, remote control in the other, and I won’t have a care in the world.

For several months now, I’ve been a productive member of society, and I’m feeling pretty good about it. I’ve been upright and conscious and sometimes, being upright and conscious is a bigger feat than one might think.

That is not to say, of course, that I don’t have my moments. Moments where I fear that nothing is actually ok, or moments that I fear that this thing will get the better of me.

This thing. I love how I call it that, rather than sticking to some sort of formal title. Oh, no. A formal title would be far to real for me, thank you. So I’ll stick to calling it whatever comes to mind that particular day.

I’ve been working a lot lately, working and going to school and going to work placement for school. I hear people in my classes talking about their work, and how they don’t have time to do extra shifts because they need to focus on school.

What makes me stop and think is knowing that I don’t make time for school. I don’t make time for the rest of my life. I just work, and work, and work until I have a nervous breakdown. And then I continue on my merry way.

I like being busy because it occupies so much of my time. It occupies my mind, it helps me sleep at night, and it makes me feel like a worthwhile person when I’ve been productive. I think that, at this point, the hard part is going to be balancing out the parts of my life that I need to maintain some semblence of sanity, and the other parts that I need to pass my courses, pay my bills, and keep me in my vices.

Sarah is always an inspirational blogger to me because of how much effort she puts into finding material for her site. I typically just ramble about whatever happens to be on my mind that day, without giving much thought to order and form. Here she posts a whole host of news stories relating to mental and emotional health, and rather than finding my own, I’m just going to send you over there because the write-ups are always so good.

I’m trying, as I have been since I started writing on this site, to think of a clever way to have order instead of randomness going on. Jooms, who I love just too much, has so much going on with her site that my jealousy is usually quite apparent. Sometimes I picture myself sneaking over to her house late at night so that I can see how she really does it. Her other blog now has a pretty new look, and her articles on Life Tips always seem put together and with it. Kind of like how she dresses, and the opposite of my entire life.

So, I’m thinking of adding some order to my site by doing Two on Tuesday and Friday Fives (Original, huh?). I can’t think of anything that you can do on Monday, and the idea of purposely setting out to write about weeping every Wednesday is just kind of… well, depressing. Thursdays… COme on, now. Seriously. What the hell starts with TH that could be related to Insanity?

And you know what’s really funny? As I start to peer around the computer room in my house for the dictionary, specifically so that I can look up things that start with TH, it IS NOT THERE.

At any rate, I am, I’m thinking, thinking, thinking, on how to make the site have more substance and less useless blathering. Even though useless blathering is one of my best skills.

I could blather uselessly until the cows come home.

Sigh.

I decided to give up drinking this summer because after a not-to-be-disclosed number of months, this is a portion of what came out of my bedroom last spring.

I posted here about my optimism about my break with beer, and here about my failure. I don’t think it was an utter and complete failure, but I failed in this goal nonetheless.

I decided not to go further in my quest for sixty five days of alcohol free goodness, because the pressure it put on me was just too much. I was completely restricting any contact with alcohol, and I think it was a bit like being on a diet. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and the fact that it was on my mind worried me all the time.

I’ve since had beer on three occasions: twice after work, I had one, and last night I went out with friends on a social galavant around the city.

At this point, I have to say that I am completely up in the air with regards to my feelings on this subject. I was so certain that after I had gone a length of time without drinking, I would be positive as to whether or not I should quit permanently.

It is a bad habit, of course, and so obviously it would be a good bad habit to give up altogether. But at the same time, it is something I enjoy, a social habit that I partake in.

I suppose that at this point, I’m monitoring my behavior: I don’t want my bedroom to have a grocery cart full of bottles in it by the time New Years’ rolls around. But at the same time, I don’t think I’m going to consider myself the biggest loser on the planet if I indulge in a wakness now and then.