Down the rabbit hole.

Today I almost didn't make it into work.

I couldn't convince myself to leave the house.  I have been working from home the passed two weeks (due to a tailbone injury, of all things), and while absence may make the heart grow fonder for some, in my case absence makes the anxiety grow bigger.  And bigger.  Colossal, really.  My anxiety was the Empire State Building.  Or possibly Godzilla (ANGRY anxiety).

But I couldn't make myself get dressed.  Got my husband and my son fed, got them ready for the day, and I somehow couldn't bear to leave with them as I normally would.  So I sent them off, saying I would take the bus later.

And then I sat there, and sat there.  And when my husband called an hour later (checking on me, because he knows), I was still sitting there.  In my pajamas, spiralling into a more and more helpless and panicked state.

I don't know about other mental illnesses, but helplessness is something that anxiety and depression both have in common.  That sense of utter disconnect, that you have no control over your own mind, are powerless over your own actions (which, as it turns out, we are not), and that you are at the mercy of your fucked-up mind.

With all the psychotherapy I've received, I now know that thoughts aren't necessarily (and in fact rarely) a reflection of the facts, or even reality based.  Nor, especially, are emotions.  But knowing that is not always enough to keep me from going down the rabbit hole.  Sometimes you just end up fusing with the badness, the belief in your own helplessness, the belief that somehow you are in fact responsible for all of it (regardless of what "it" is), and that you are the failure you fear.  If you were just stronger, better, more capable, less lazy, you would be able to get your ass off the couch and get dressed and leave the goddamn house like a semi-normal individual.

But there I sat.  I feared having a break down at work.  That I would be ostracized, that I would be seen as someone who was identified as their illness, the one you had to watch out for, the one you couldn't assign any "real" work to, because, hey, she might just crack under the strain and go cuckoo for cocoa puffs.  I feared that being seen this way would lead to a greater sense of failure, and that would lead to further depression and anxiety, and ultimately I would end up so sick again I'd be back in the hospital and maybe kill myself.

Therefore if I went to work I could get sicker and I could die.

Never mind that all the counselling I've received has clearly indicated that I NEED to work, to have that type of productive activity, to have the intellectual stimulation (I work as a policy analyst in an agency of the federal government, work that I love when I'm feeling some kind of normal); studies have shown that productive activity is essential in recovery from mental illnesses. So really, not going, particularly on an ongoing basis, is like shooting myself in the foot.  Or, more accurately, the head.

Believing that you might die if you leave your house, or even get dressed to leave the house to go to your office job, is clearly not the most reasonable, reality based or even probable thought.  In a healthy state of mind, I'd know this and simply ignore the thought, or judge it as ridiculous.

But I believed it. I believed it with everything in me, and sat there.

But here's the crazy thing about anxiety.  You can bring it with you.  It's mobile, take-out, and will go with you wherever you want to go.  So I took it with me.  It was like carrying a forty pound, screaming, flailing toddler in your arms who's slapping you in the face so you can barely see, and sometimes you almost fall over, and doubt that you can go another step without the whole thing going to hell in a hand basket, but I took that fucker with me.  And I went to work.

I had a rough, kind of horrible day.  All the horribleness was in my head - people were actually extremely supportive, and in some cases, shared their own experiences.  I didn't get much done, but I got there.  I showed up, and stayed until the bitter end.  And although it was a close thing a couple of times, I didn't melt down in front of anyone.  But if I had, shockingly enough, the world would not have ended.

I hate to leave you hanging on how I managed, but it is getting late, and my cup full of medication awaits me. My next post, I'll be discussing some of the techniques to use in a situation like this, to navigate through the tidal waves going on in your brain.  In this particular instance, my husband assisted by using some of the cognitive behavioral techniques we've learned in the past year.

I'll leave you with this - recovery is a bitch.  Don't let anyone tell you different.  It's not a straight line - you will go backwards, on not just one, but many occasions, before you go forwards again.  But it is possible. And it is worth it.

But it's still a bitch.

As this is a fairly new blog, I thought I would provide an additional post on my interests:

My interests are comprised of gardening, and binge eating at midnight, especially if its pie.  (I truly believe pie is the root of all evil. And possibly the ten pounds I've put on.  But mostly it’s evil, because, really, it's better to blame the pie),

Other than pie and dirt, I enjoy reading trashy novels, and short science fiction stories.  My main interest is raising my 3 year old in a way that does not involve me going completely mental (oops, too late!) and figuring out how to have a life in addition to a child, a mental illness, and a full time job.  I am also interested in my dishes doing themselves if I just wish hard enough - perhaps that qualifies as some sort of existential theory interest?

I also firmly believe in laundry gnomes.  They eat socks, and chew holes in my husband’s underwear.  Revolting, but at least they do it after the clothes are clean. The only alternative is to believe in the existence of some wormhole between my washer and dryer where all the black socks go to die, or into retirement, possibly like some sort of alternate universe sock nirvana.  Because once, (and yes, it did happen once) ALL the laundry was done and I counted the left over odd socks, and I had 28 black ones – and not one of them matched the other.  The only possible explanation is some sort of space-time rupture in my laundry room.  Or the gnomes.

I also realize that me once having all the laundry done is the hardest part to accept about this entire premise.

Talk to you soon,

J.

Addendum - it also occurs to me that a sock-vomiting drawer could be responsible.  (is there only one "t" or two in vomiting?) (Because spelling is the only issue with the probability of a sock-vomiting drawer.  Or anything that vomits socks, really.)

So, gratitude.

Today I was grateful to read this article:

http://findingjoy.net/i-forgot-how-to-be-the-happy-mom/

What it comes down to? Being a mom is hard.  And a lot of times it isn't fun.  And yet you adore your children, and therefore feel horrible guilt and have days when you feel like your failing everything.  But you're not.  It's incredibly reassuring to find out that other mothers feel this way - the comments alone tell you how desperately alone mothers regularly feel.  It made me feel better and less alone to read it, and reminded me of the second thing I'm grateful for.

I'm grateful to Cynthia to staying open to me as a friend (she's the one who posted the article), even after all the time I've taken off our friendship, because being with people somehow became too much work.  It makes me miss her.  We used to be best friends.  To Dorothy as well, for the same reasons - one of the ones who called me on my disappearing in their lives, and stuck by me anyways.

And I'm grateful today that I said to hell with the dishes and left over supper, and just played with and enjoyed my son.  I miss that.  The dedicated time to him. I can still take joy in my little guy, although I often have to remind myself to do it.  And I have to remind myself that my husband needs and wants my attention, and a little looking after as well.  We should alternate days, or something.  Today is mommy's day for extra attention, tomorrow is daddy's day for extra attention..

Working from home is hard, and will be made harder tomorrow when my son stays home with me for the morning - THAT should be interesting.  The woman who can't multitask, completely stressed out.  I need a plan - work for 20 minutes, play for 10.  Something like that.  Because the idea of my 3 year old leaving me alone for 20 minutes at a time is laughable.

So far I haven't started being mindful during the day of creating moments to be grateful for, but I suppose writing only every two weeks is a bit on the non-consistent side...

My husband is careful with me.  I'm glad for that too, because most of the time I feel like I might shatter.  And he's not a careful guy with anyone - it is amazing to be loved like this.

Sometimes I want to bash him over the head with one of our cast-iron pots, but man, does he love me.

I need to work on the feeling of panicky trappedness in my life, which apparently many other moms have. Maybe I really need to talk to other moms more.  And then that will give me something else to be grateful for.

Blah.  My writing iss not gut, tonight.  But I'm grateful I'm capable of realizing it!

Cheers,

J

Grattitude on on a bad day

So this grateful thing, I'm thinking I'm finally getting.  Because when you do it consistently (and to your best non-sarcastically, which can be tough at times) two things begin to happen:  a) you start to think about your day in terms of the good things that happened, which as we all know is good for mental health.  and b) you start to try to do things or make things happen in the day that you will be grateful for so you start to have things to relate  around the dinner table, where our lists our discussed.

So, today was a bad one, cuz anxiety was high, and I had a situation with a coworker.  So I need to work at my grateful.

1) I was grateful Alexis stuck up for me in my coworker situation, where she felt I had stepped on her toes, and I was having an emotional reaction as she and I are normally very close.  It caused me a lot of stress and difficulty, I'm grateful for his loyalty and defence and protectiveness.  It made me feel a a little cherished.

2) I was grateful for my son's deep belly laughs while his Daddy was tickling him.  He has a cold/allregy thing going on right now, and is fussy, so his laughter was wonderful to hear (as always).


3)I am grateful for my gardens; it's so nice to look outside and feel a sense of accomplishment.  Daisies and Marigolds and roses blooming like mad.  I did that.  That was me.  And I am grateful to have this home I sometimes almost feel is mine, to have a yard to fuss over, and make beautiful.  I am getting great satisfaction from it.

4)And I am grateful for social media, for allowing me to feel part of a community, one of the only ways I can.  I am particualry grateful for the blog of the woman who's advice on roses should help save mine.  Looks like an interesting source of information.

I'm grateful for my home, and to be able to work from home, and to have co-workers I get along with (mostly, apparently)

And then there's the pie.  The fake-icecream pie of which I am eating an entier pie.  Trying to find something good here....good pie? Grateful it's not crack?

That's all for now - I believe another list with plans on achieveing things to be grateful for would be useful. But not pie. 

Oh well.  Tomorrow is another day with no mistakes or pie in it.