Lack of Candy-Coating

I was driving across town to pick up my new glasses (trees sure do have a lot of big, noticeable leaves now) when a thought came to me.  It came to me just as I was passing by the exit that would take me to my old office off the highway. 

“Thank God I don’t have to put drunk, drug-addicted felons in my car anymore.”

A specific memory came to mind.

There was a particular client that was put on my caseload toward the end of my case management career, when I was getting pretty sick of the bullshit burned out.  I’m pretty sure my supervisor did it because I wasn’t one to handle a person with kid gloves.  My people got told how it is and all about themselves every time we met.  I think sugar-coating is entirely overrated, unless we’re talking about how my butt looks in my new white capris. 

This particular client was a drunk.  She also happened to have other wonderful qualities, such as being addicted to benzos, having HepC and HIV, being a prostitute, and having the beginning stages of some sort of movement disorder.  Lovely.  This is not an exaggeration, although I would be the first person to tell you that I do exaggerate from time to time. 

Due to past (likely true) allegations of misconduct on the part of an attendant care worker and an open Adult Protective Services (APS) investigation, we were told not to transport this inmate anywhere if it even seemed like she had possibly been drinking or using.  Since this happened so infrequently, my policy was that I never took her anywhere.  In fact, sometimes she would only communicate with me by standing on her balcony and yelling down obscenities.  We really liked each other.  I’d call the police/ambulance on her, she’d call my boss and tell her I never came and saw her, was really mean, didn’t care about disabled/mentally ill people, and so on. 

One day, I appeared and this client was not drunk.  She was not intoxicated, did not smell of alcohol or have any signs that she had been drinking, and was really the most coherent/put-together/logical I had ever seen her.  I do believe it was 4 hours after she had been discharged from detox.

What did I do, you might ask?

I put her in my car.

Go ahead and slap me now.  Error, edit, undo. 

Things were going fine for a little while.  We went to a local pantry, got her some free bread, free hand lotion and soap.  We went to the pharmacy and picked up her medication.  And then we went to SRS to see her caseworker.

While we were at SRS, she spent about 15 minutes in the bathroom, apparently, while I was yakking away to her worker.  Fabulous.  This is the lady that was kicked out of the day program for drinking the hand sanitizer from the wall pump in the bathroom.

I’ll admit, I was distracted by my conversation with the SRS worker and, likely, with thoughts of how many checks I had in my car much money was in my bank account and what I should binge on buy for dinner later.

As we walked out of SRS, I noticed that the client was a bit unsteady on her feet.  Ok, fine.  She is in the beginning stages of a movement disorder. 

As I’m getting in my side, I glance over and see the client disappear from view.  I’m confused because she makes no noise and doesn’t respond to my voice.  As I make my way back around my car, she wobbles to her feet and slurs “I’m FIIIIINE.  Nothing wrong here!  Let’s go to Dollar General!”

I can’t help but notice that she reeks of alcohol now, that her eyes are filled with drugs, and she has a huge bump and gash on her forehead.  Bleeding.  All over the place.  Hello HIV/AIDS/HepC and God knows what else.

Did I grab my first aid kit and reach for my gloves?  Did I ask her if she was all right?  What, pray tell, did I do?

I told her she fucked with the wrong person (in slightly softer language), told her to sit her ass on the curb, and wait for a cab.

Then I drove off, went to McD’s, and bought a vanilla cone.

Believe it or not, I didn’t get in trouble for that.  Did people shake their heads and fingers at me?  Did people whisper about me behind my back?  Did other people in my hallway start reporting me to risk management everytime I gave someone a (rather loud) lecture?

Um, yeah.

And that’s why I work at a prison now.

Because now, if someone gets stupid, I can send them to their cell and see them again when I feel like it.  And when I leave for the day, they’re in prison.  And I’m not.  And when they leave the prison, they’re not my responsibility anymore. 

I had a notoriously crazy/violent inmate leave last week.  Before I left work today the SAC officer (the officer at the secure gate) asked me, “Hey, how’s Ms. CrazyPants?”

Without thinking, I responded:

“Don’t know.  Don’t care.”

I surprised myself a little bit.

And then I started humming:

Can’t love it enough.  This is totally my prison theme song.

Searching for A New Drummer to Dance To

As anyone who knows me, or reads this blog consistently (hello 1.2 persons!), my life has changed dramatically from where it was when I first started this blog.  For the better, of course, but still.  Change.  Bleh.

I’ve been trying to figure out why I don’t blog anymore.  I think I’ve found it.  In the beginning, my blog was a way to vent about a stressful (yet sometimes amusing) job, release my anxieties, expound on depression and bipolar disorder and anxiety and PTSD and ALL THE CRAP THAT WAS WRONG WITH MY LIFE.  I seriously think it’s some of the best writing I’ve done.  That’s sickening, though, to think that way.

When I started to get better, I wrote about this fabulous wonderful DBT and how it had saved my life and how everyone on the face of the Earth should be required to take some DBT classes.  Every post, I was shocked at how much BETTER my life was.  When I wasn’t shocked about how much better it was, I was busy being temporarily miserable because someone died or my job was stressing me out or bemoaning the fact that my butt is huge.

I haven’t posted in almost exactly one month.  For the life of me, I just can’t figure out what to say.

My life is boring.

I love my job, but I can’t blog about it too much.  I work in mental health at a state prison, for crying out loud.  Do I really want someone to find me on Google?

I have a healthy relationship with a man that I love.  We have our issues sometimes, but it’s not something I’d blog about.  It’s funny how it’s ok to blog about how I want to die and my innermost thoughts about my mental health, but it’s not ok (in my head) to blog about a (relatively) funny argument with Dr. Love.  It’s just too personal.  I know that sounds crazy.

My dog is amazing.  Enough said about that.

I don’t have any hobbies or real interests. 

I am interested in staying level, but not so interested that I don’t get bored with mood stability a lot of the time sometimes.  Generally what happens is that I’ll wig myself out purposely subconsciously and then Dr. Love or QoB will direct my attention to it and I will stop the negative behavior that I am expressing. 

I think it’s possible, however, not probable that I have a personality disorder.  That could just be from working at the prison, though.

This is absolutely the worst piece of drivel that I have ever written. 

I will continue to force myself to do so, however, on the off chance that I say something interesting on accident.

I put a cover of this song up awhile ago.  Here’s the real thing.  Well worth the repeat.

The Wallflowers, Josephine

The Battle of Perfectionism

Dr. Love said it best:  “You need to live in the real world.  I live in the real world and I need you to be in it.” 

About 75% of my anxiety comes from the struggle for perfection in my every day life.  I went to work yesterday with the thought that everything was going just fine, but I am slowly starting to realize that it is not.  I alienate people by being demanding, being controlling.  I start out just fine, trying to roll with the punches.  Then I realize what I am doing, what is going on, and I NEED everything to be JUST SO.  And it’s not.  Because apparently perfection isn’t reality.  I would say that I can understand that, if I did.  I just can’t internalize it.

Dr. Love is always telling me that I need to relax.  “Just relax…c’mon, just relax!”  I find it nearly impossible to do, save for a few moments here and there.  I come home from work, and I am obsessed with the house being picked up.  To a crazy degree.  No dishes in the sink, bed is made, grass is mowed.  Unless these things are in place, I feel anxious.  I feel a compelling need to do it.  Unfortunately, this does not always happen.  I’m tired, had a bad day, unmotivated.  So I sit…anxious and miserable. 

I don’t know what I need to do to embrace “reality” and stop demanding perfection from myself and my environment.  My thinking is ridgid, black-and-white, obsessive.  I act on my obsessions, almost compulsively.  Jokingly, people have always said that I have a touch of OCD.  I can’t begin to describe the terrible anxiety I have related to my every day life.  Even when, on the outside, things are going well, I feel like certain things have to be “just so” or I am ungodly uncomfortable. 

This isn’t to say that I always do something about it.  There are days when the lawn isn’t mowed, when there are dishes in the sink, when the  house is cluttered and dirty (at least in my own mind), and, for some reason or another, I can’t handle it and I don’t do anything about it.  That’s called depression, it’s called defeat.  It is exhausting and miserable and unbearable.  Somewhere along the line (with a lot of prodding from Dr. Love, QoB), I have realized that my strong obsession/compulsion for perfection, my resulting anxiety when things are not so, and the depression and defeat that set in when I do nothing about things being “just so”…these things are ruining my life, making it so that I don’t have a life.  I can’t function sometimes just because things are out of place and I don’t have the wherewithall (is that a word?) to do anything about it. 

And it’s a viscious cycle.  I want my relationships with others to go smoothly, I want things at work, the cases I work on, to be perfect.  And I have to rely on other people and that is never good.  Because people, in general, are unreliable.  Especially overworked state employees.  They are not perfect, and they do not strive for perfection.  This causes a lot of angst on my part and causes me to lash out at them, whether verbally, in my own head, in an email, bitching to supervisors, etc.  I have no friends at this job.  People tiptoe around me, fear/annoyance of my judgement keeping them away.  And yes, this is another way that I keep people away.  I trust no one.  None of those people at work DESERVE my trust, and I absolutely will not give it to them. 

All of this angst just boils in my belly, in my chest, my heart, day in and day out.  And really, there is nothing I can do about it, other than to make my environment and myself as perfect as possible.  Unfortunately, I seem to be unable to do that.  More unfortunately, I cannot see a life where I do not expect it. 

This song reflects what I say to myself in my head.  Downright pathetic. 

Alanis Morissette, Perfect

Opposite to Emotion

I’ve gone a long time without a post, even for me.  Without making excuses, I’ve had a lot of stressful crap come up lately and have been drowning doing my best to keep my shit together. 

My godmother, Sondra, died last Saturday.  It was expected, but it continues to baffle me just how much it is affecting my life.  To make it even all the more unreal, her son, Dave, died early Friday morning, the day before she did.  It was completely unexpected, an awful accident.  Words can’t even describe and it still feels just surreal.  We spent all of last week going to funerals and attending to related business.  Completely horrible.  I’ve never been so relieved for a week to be over. 

My physical health has continued to deteriorate.  I had already been somewhat motivated to do something about it and had been eating a bit better, but after Dave died at 39, after Sondra passed, something happened without me noticing it.  I think death sometimes makes you realize that you need to take care of business so that you can live.  And in a way, I think that’s what happened, although there wasn’t any specific thought about it being related, or that “they died so I should _____.”  I can’t explain it.

I started the process of a database physical on Wednesday.  I’m pretty shaken up about all of it.  Filling out this long questionnaire, listing all of these things, all of these “symptoms” that I experience, realizing that it will likely all add up to some sort of diagnosis, probably diabetes, maybe even more, something worse, I don’t know.  It’s overwhelming to think about.  I have abused my body for years and years — I guess I always just thought I’d have “time” to do something about it, and then you’re 23 and then 25 and then 27 and things are at a breaking point.  It’s really ridiculous and I feel nothing but shame, guilt, and fear about it. 

It feels like most days I don’t really know what to do with myself.  I try to really structure my time at work, make sure I have appointments all day, so that I actually get things done.  Then most nights I get home, and all I want to do is go to bed.  I don’t want to blog, don’t want to walk, just want to make myself not feel all of these feelings and all of these thoughts and memories that come up when I am awake and not occupied.  I can’t stand being in my own skin. 

Dr. Love has really been doing a good job at getting me to do things.  We have gone to the dog park for the past couple of days and last night took a walk and did the Bowflex.  My mom called last night and made plans for the majority of the weekend.  It’s good for her, it’s good for me.  Neither one of us want to dwell too much.  Just too fucking painful. 

I hope I can get back to a place where I can put my feelings down here in a somewhat coherent way.  Right now I just have everything so pushed to the side that it’s almost impossible to get in touch with what’s inside there…and I don’t really friggin want to, either, is the thing.  Even though I know it’s making me miserable.  I just keep thinking that I need to buck up, go to work, keep myself occupied in the evening, and do it over and over and over and I’ll start to feel better eventually.  That’s the hope, anyway.  Right now I just feel incredibly disconnected. 

This song means something deep and true to me, something timeless, reminds me of I time I wish I could remember better.  Just enjoy and feel sad that you can’t hear The Wallflower’s version, but this guy is pretty good. 

ChicagoSoul covers The Wallflowers, Josephine

Recognition of Pain

So I was sitting in the back yard, real quiet-like, admiring my surroundings, practicing some mindfulness, loving that it’s green and my flowers are blooming and I have the most amazing dog and boyfriend and KA-BLAM.  Cold liquid anxiety started spilling into my chest cavity, flowing up through my throat.  I almost fracking choked on it, it came so suddenly and out of nowhere and yet, from just around the corner. 

I have spent many-a-year in my life feeling miserable about every single last thing going on.  I have also spent and — let’s be honest here — still spend a lot of time dreaming up and exaggerating on things to be miserable about, just for the sake of having something to do, it seems, because I am uncomfortable with comfort, apparently.  It’s been some time since anything “bad” or “negative” has happened to me, that has deeply affected me. 

In fact, things have really been going my way — great (relatively) new boyfriend, awesome new job, my healthcare is affordable, I feel at peace with a lot of things, some little, some small that I never thought I would get over.  Things have just been good.  I have no doubts that things will keep coming my way, and I will embrace them, accept them, deal with them, change with them, adapt, accept, adapt, accept.  Because I know that is what.I.have.to.do.  Sink or swim, baby, no doggy-paddling to the side for a break.

A few blogs ago, I did a post for my Aunt Laura.  Was it sad and unfortunate that she died — that she left behind a husband and two children in college?  Absolutely.  Was it necessary for me to get all bent out of shape about it?  Likely not.  Was it even that event (or maybe the presence or lack of a different event) that had me bent out of shape, or was it more of a simple turning of my mind of my mood of my mind and my mood.  I can almost see the bend in the road, easing slightly to the left, arcing out wide then, turning in, turning out, turning in, turning on, turning off. 

Sondra is in hospice and it is very hard for me.  It is harder for me than I want it to be, which is something, since I usually want things to be as painful and drawn out as possible.    I don’t even know where I’m at with all of it.  The damndest thing, sometimes all I can think about are Kubler-Ross’ stages of death and dying and how I really need to be able to put myself in a category, in a box, in a shell, in a hole in the wall in order for things to be ok.  Like, if I could just find the right size box to fit this in, it would be ok and I wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore.  That sounds crazy, I’m sure, but my brain needs me to be in a category, so I have a definition, so that maybe I can talk to my therapist about this definition in some concrete way.

As I type this, I worry if I’m being overly dramatic or if maybe the feelings that I’m feeling are not real or justified, and I have given numerous speeches on the premise that “feelings just are.”  Jesus, why do I have to judge every step I take?  I’m even judging me judging myself.  And judging that.  It never ends and it makes my head spin sometimes when I think of the vile bullshit that I spew toward myself in my head. 

I spent the morning visiting people.  I couldn’t sleep, woke up at 5:30 a.m.  I even smoked a cigarette and tried to go back to sleep and just couldn’t.  I just laid there with itchy skin and anxiety.  So I got up.  Had some coffee, some cigarettes, a PB&J.  Then I started having that frantic urge to talk with someone, to connect in some meaningful way, to let someone know I’m up and smoking a cigarette and will-be-just-fine-thankyou.  God, I’m an attention whore. 

I visited Grandma this morning.  I didn’t stay long, but she said she was happy to see me and seemed to be in pretty good shape.  Mom says that she has had a cold, but she didn’t seem sick — she actually looked pretty healthy and perky, which always makes me so angry.  I don’t know why, or maybe I just don’t care to ponder that too far.  I just know it makes me angry.

When I was at Grandma’s, I had decided in my head that I was going to take Kizz to the dog park for about 30 minutes, then swing by the hospice and see Sondra quick before her grandkids came for the day.  I even had an appointment to get my eyebrows waxed, and I had this all worked out in my head perfectly. 

When I got out of the nursing home from seeing Grandma, I felt more anxious than usual, more antsy, especially for such a short visit.  Kizz and I got in the car and all I could think about was how I wanted to go see Sondra right now, right this minute, stop the car and put it in park right now.  It wasn’t rational, it didn’t make sense, it’s just how I felt.

So I took Kizzie home and went to the hospice house.  I felt immediately better when I saw her, just seeing her smile and be aware that I am there.  Her sister was there.  I can remember almost every single thing Sondra said, maybe because sometimes she was talking gibberish and I found it so strange. 

I was there when the doctor came in and saw her.  Her heart is starting to fail and her infection is still running it’s rounds.  She’s not “with it” mentally all the time now like she was just two days ago, when I saw her last.  It’s more than just being tired, more than just taking painkillers.  At least that’s how it feels. 

Its good for me, for my mental health to spend this time with Sondra, whenever I can.  I ended up being there for almost two hours this morning and would have gladly stayed longer and watched over her while she took a nap.  I told her that I would be around once everyone had to fly back home.  I don’t remember exactly what her response was, but it seemed at the time like she would really like that.

Series of 8’s

 Adriana has memed me.  And anyone who knows me knows that I love lists, especially lists that are all about me, that I can show a bunch of people without looking self-centered and full of myself.  Yes, I am still that proverbial little kid in the large group of people yelling,

“Hey watch this!!”

“You watching me?  You’d better watch!”

“Hey hey HEY look at what I can do!”

Granted, it was probably a lot cuter at seven than at 27, but being an attention whore is a hard habit to break.  Without further ado — watch this! 

8 Things I’m Looking Forward to

1.  My sister’s wedding in November — it’s a mix of emotions, really.  I just want her to be proud to have me up there, and I think she is.

2.  Finishing my 90 day probation period.  I’m dying for a three-day weekend that doesn’t involve death, funerals, or illness.

3.  Planting up my yard and new vegetable garden.  I have big outdoor plans.  If Dr. Love only had any idea what he has gotten himself into. 

4.  The possibility of a kitchen renovation, and by that I mean that I look forward to the finished project.  Chaos and disorder don’t sit well with me. 

5.  Using the “bed and breakfast” coupon that Dad and Karen gave us for Christmas. 

6.  The 4th of friggin July.  ‘Nuff said.

7.  The first tomato sandwich of the season.

8.  Having a primary care physician again.

 

8 Things I did yesterday

1.  Talked Dr. Love into going to my favorite grocery store, even though he believes it’s over-priced in comparison to his beloved Walmart. 

2.  Laid in bed for over eight hours hoping/praying/begging for sleep.

3.  Looked up Catholic mass times in town.

4.  Talked to the Chaplain at work.

5.  Wrote QoB a supportive email.

6.  Slathered myself in Eucerin lotion, hoping to take away the unbearable ITCHING that has been plaguing my body for over six weeks now.

7.  Ate a large order of Wendy’s french fries as an emotional response to stress.

8.  Reached out to my dad for support, which I never do.

 

8 Things I wish I could do

1.  Have at least seven sound hours of sleep every night, seven days a week, 365 days a year. 

2.  Find total self-confidence overnight.

3.  Give up smoking.

4.  Teach Wizzah how to come when called and make her stop barking at passersby.

5.  Wrangle some self-control in regard to diet, exercise, emotional regulation.

6.  Motivate myself to visit my Grandma.

7.  Have clear skin.

8.  Realize that it’s ok even when it’s not. 

 

8 Shows I watch like — I don’t watch a lot of TV

1.  Southland

2.  Battlestar Galactica

3.  Law and Order

4.  Jon and Kate Plus 8

5.  Property Virgins

6.  House Hunters International

7.  Gangland

8.  Intervention

Mercy

If there was ever a time, a desire to be “fuzzy wuzzy” (as in my last blog), it is now.  Right friggin’ now. 

I think I have blogged about my godmother, The Bird Lady, before.  I think when I blogged before, it was about all of the wonderful stories that she would write about her childhood, growing up poor in the South, and then email to all of her loved ones.  Remember now?

The Bird Lady has been in my life since birth.  She has been my mother’s best friend for over 30 years.  She has watched us grow up, and has always been a fixture in our lives, sometimes more than others, but always there in one way or another.  Like a child unwilling to believe, to see, I never thought I would meet a day when she would not be around.  Granted, that day has not come yet, but it is coming soon, all too soon for me to bear.

The Bird Lady has fought a long painful battle with severe osteoporosis and spinal/nerve problems.  She has also struggled with a host of other medical problems, all related to an over 50 year steadfast practice of the eating disorder, anorexia nervosa.

She has been in unbearable pain for the past three or four years, often unable to leave the house for anything other than short periods, at some times unable to leave her bed.  Through it all, underneath it all, she has remained the godmother that I know and love. 

A few months ago, she had back surgery, the details of which I am still not clear on, but basically it was supposed to help her increase her mobility and give her less pain.  She survived the surgery, but has been, from what I understand, from what I refused to hear for quite some time, bound to her bed and home since then.  Her weight plummeted from an already very unhealthy 90 or so pounds to around 75 pounds (she is 5′9, maybe 5′10).  Her heart, already weakened from a heart attack last year and 50 plus years of a raging eating disorder, is failing.  Her lungs, complicated thoroughly from years of smoking, are failing. 

A few weeks ago, she developed a raging infection around her surgery site.  They went in, removed the metal rods that were holding her vertebrae in place, and were planning on putting in longer rods.  They did not.  They did not believe she could take any more trauma, any more anesthetic, so they sewed her back up.  Their initial plan was to revisit the surgery in six weeks.  To make her stronger, to get her weight up, to get her stabilized. 

From there, the details are fuzzy.  A lot of it, I don’t want to hear, don’t want to understand.  Even the aforementioned details are from scraps that I have listened to here and there.  I just don’t FRIGGIN WANT TO HEAR IT.  Because that would be accepting that there is a problem, accepting that she is not going to make it through, accepting that she will leave us soon.

From what my sister has told me, The Bird Lady is done fighting.  She does not want the quality of life that the next surgery would afford her, IF she would even be able to have the next surgery.  From what I understand, the next surgery would be at least six weeks away, if she makes it those six weeks.  From there, it would be IF she survives the surgery, then IF she survives the rehabilitation process.  And then, they can’t give her any sort of guarantee that the surgery would hold, that it would last, that her quality of life would improve.  I believe they are saying that there is a good chance that it would not improve.  

At any rate, she would be in the hospital for at least the next few months, if she were to survive that long, only to go to a nursing home after.  But she is done fighting.  She is giving up.  And I am trying my damndest to understand, to be ok with that. 

At this point, The Bird Lady is going to hospice.  She made the decision Saturday and will check in later today.  Her family is overwhelmed and are doing everything that they can to talk her out of it.  The doctors say that she is of sound mind and that this is not an irrational choice.  She is just done fighting.  Just done.  My sister has tried to explain this to me over and over – she just is not interested, will not accept, the poor quality of life that would be afforded to her if she was to continue fighting. 

And I want to understand this.  I need to understand this, to accept this, to be able to move on. 

But DAMN. 

Up until last Friday, I ”didn’t know” that her condition was so serious.  I hadn’t seen her since Christmas, had talked to her on the phone only in passing (and Lord knows that I am beating myself up something CRAZY about the lack of contact, the lack of friggin EFFORT on my part to connect with her).  Apparently things have just been getting worse and worse, and I have refused to hear it, refused to listen to it, refused to ask questions.  My mom says that she was going to tell me how dire circumstances were a couple of weeks ago, but that there was never a good time, because she knew how I was going to react.  I can understand that, from my mom’s point of view.  She was trying to protect me, trying to make sure that I would have the support that I need when it came down to it. 

In my mind, though, I went from believing that Sondra was going to be just fine, to being told that she was not going to be just fine.  In my mind, I believed that this surgery was not a big deal, that she would fight the infection and would be up and working in her flower beds, flying her pigeons, working on stained glass, and playing bridge three times a week again in no time.  I believed this because THAT IS WHAT I WANT.  Of course, we can’t always have what we want. 

I am not in a very good space right now.  I’m trying to come to terms with all of this, but it’s unbelievably hard.  I am still in shock and denial right now.  There is still a large part of me that says that she will change her mind, fight the infection, and wait for the next surgery…and that she will be absolutely FINE afterward.  Unfortunately all evidence points to the contrary, so I am just struggling in my mind and heart with her decision.

My sister tried to explain hospice care to me yesterday.  I think at first (and even still), I didn’t understand exactly what would be the ”cause,” if you will, of her death.  People don’t die from back surgery, RIGHT???  No, they don’t.  She is choosing to not fight the infection.  WHAT??  I don’t understand.  Why not?  I just don’t understand.  I can’t wrap my brain around it.  It seems so simple in my head — fight the infection, have the next surgery, move on with life as we know it, just don’t friggin’ LEAVE.  So very selfish on my part.

My sister has also tried to explain to me time and time again, and I am having an inability understanding this, to even hearing this — she doesn’t want to go on, she doesn’t want the quality of life that this would afford her.  But I don’t understand.    And maybe it’s because I haven’t seen her, haven’t talked with her, and just don’t know how bad off she is.  My hope is that I can talk to her and make myself understand what she is feeling, what she is thinking.  I need/want/have to understand so that I can be supportive.  I just don’t know what it will take to get there. 

All I can say right now is, thank God that I have Dr. Love.  He is standing by my side, ever watchful, ever protective, making sure that I am doing what I have to do.  Every minute, every hour that passes by, I realize more and more just how lucky I am to have someone that loves me, that understands me, that cares for me the way that he does.  It is something that I have never had, and I am forever grateful that I found him.  Forever grateful. 

YouTube won’t let me embed this video, so you’ll just have to click on it. 

Joe Nichols, Size Matters

Fuzzy Wuzzy

I have discovered the key to being happy at work — I have to be busy.  When I have a “paperwork day,” I end up goofing around and not getting anything done.  When I have inmates scheduled all day, I’m all over it and get everything on my “to-do” list done.  That overwhelmed feeling that happens when I have a bunch of paperwork to do and also a lot of inmates to see will happen and I just have to accept that.  I have to accept that I don’t do well with unstructured time — especially not an entire eight hours of unstructured time.  It may be somewhat stressful some days to do all of my paperwork AND see inmates all day, but it usually means that I feel good at the end of the day, like I have been productive, and it’s totally do-able.  I have found that if I see people every half hour, that leaves me about ten minutes at the end of every appointment to do the note and post it, and I can get my other paperwork done when the inmates are on lockdown.  I wish it hadn’t taken this long to figure it out, but I’m glad that I did.  Giving myself an entire day to just to paperwork = extreme laziness and goofing off.  Duh. 

Dr. Love has been in MB since Monday night and I am soooo ready for him to come home!  We went there this past weekend (as I posted before), and his dad was telling me on Saturday morning that he was going to give Dr. Love a bunch of money.  I suggested to him that he do it as a loan and not just give it to Dr. Love, as this causes Dr. Love to feel bad, having money thrown at him instead of giving him real help.  I suggested that Dr. Love’s self-esteem would be well-served if he wasn’t getting money for nothing, that he should know he is expected to pay it back.  Well, that went way over his dad’s head — he said there was no way he could ever “loan” money, that it was his “responsibility” to be sure that Dr. Love is taken care of.  I didn’t get into it with him like I would have liked to, but I made it clear that this type of situation doesn’t make Dr. Love feel better, it makes him feel worse.  Long story short, the next day his dad told Dr. Love that he had some work that needed to be done around the house and he would like for Matt to come up for a few days each week and get it done. 

Okay, not exactly what I had hoped for, Dr. Love being in MB for a three-day stretch, doing chores at his parents’ house when there is plenty to be done around here, but I suppose that I can begrudgingly admit that this solves the problem, at least somewhat, of his parents just throwing money at him with nothing expected in return.  To be selfish, I would like Dr. Love to stick around here and just pay his parents back, so that he’s not away and I have to miss him.  However, absence does make the heart grow fonder, and I believe that has happened on both sides. 

It has also given me some reassurance that I can survive “on my own,” which I was unsure of.  Granted, it has only been a few days, but I have really come to depend on Dr. Love for a lot of things, especially emotional support.  It is perfectly normal to not want someone to be away that you really care about and to worry about what you will do without them.  I have spent a lot of time “on my own” for years, months, weeks at a time and have done just fine.  But I am so used to having Dr. Love around that I think I needed to be reminded that I can still take care of business if left to my own devices.  Of course, I am much happier when he is around, but at least I know I can make it without losing my sanity when he is not around. 

I have noticed myself slipping into some bad habits to numb myself, to slip away from reality while still appearing to be engaged in reality.  When I go for long periods without eating, or go for long periods without sleeping, or wait until late at night to take my meds, my head gets pretty fuzzy.  To me, it’s a pleasant sensation, one that I seek out.  I can just hide out inside my head and not be connected to what is going on around me — I can be totally oblivious.  This is not healthy for me mentally or physically, I realize.  With the not eating, I walk a fine line around my eating habits become more disordered than they already are.  With the not sleeping, I take a gamble on my mental health, and when I don’t take my meds until late, I mess up my schedule.  I am working at being engaged in the moment as an opposite-to-emotion practice.  In fact, I have been doing a lot of opposite-to-emotion, when I am not busy being willful. 

Over the past little bit that Dr. Love has been gone, I have filled up my time with things that I used to do all of the time that I enjoy — blogging, reading my favorite blogs, surfing the Internet, spending time with QoB and the Big Dog, meditating — it’s something I’d like to keep up with when Dr. Love returns.  It’s one thing to want to spend time together, but, as Dr. Love is always quick to point out, we don’t have to spend every single moment together.  I think I have realized that more since he has been gone, and am going to go back to doing things that I like to do, things that we can’t necessarily do together.  It’s always good to have “me” time, and I have been neglecting to do that, especially because it is hard to do when we are always at home at the same time. 

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Learning to Fly

Radical Acceptance of Fear

My inner self-critic has been working overtime lately.  It has led to a lot of anxiety, leading to tummy problems, sleepless nights, crying spells.  Granted, life has been a bit stressful lately, but DAMN.  I hate feeling this way.

Of course, I need to start doing something about this — panic attacks are just no fun at all.  I saw Goddess of Mindfulness last night after work and she suggested that I need to be practicing mindfulness.  We talked about my “all or nothing/black and white” thinking and how this creates a chain of anxiety that doesn’t end and is hard to interrupt. 

I spend so much time obsessing about life, wanting to CONTROL my life and experiences, instead of just experiencing it.  I have recently acknowledged that I need to start living life, taking risks, stepping outside my comfort zone, accepting friendship and happiness that is being extended to me.  Life is about more than survival, a lesson that Dr. Love is trying to teach me. 

My thinking can be so rigid sometimes.  If even small things don’t go the way I want them to, I panic and have extreme anxiety.  Sometimes it gets to the point where I can’t leave the house because when I leave, I know things will be out of my control.  The unexpected, the uncertain terrifies me.  I have let small anxieties about life turn into major phobias — friendships, spontanaity, anything that is out of my control is completely out of the question. 

This turns into an issue at times with Dr. Love.  He hates to plan anything, likes to do things at the last minute — and I just don’t roll like that.  I have come a long long way as far as being less rigid in my thinking and having the even momentary ability to accept change for what it is, but I’m nowhere close to being able to really LIVE my life.  I am having absolutely no fun at all, I’m just surviving. 

The pity is that this is what I’m comfortable with.  I avoid happiness and things that I enjoy like the plague, because it means that I might have to relinquish control over my feelings and my circumstances.  I have a specific protocol for almost everything in life, and when circumstances vary from how I think it should be, I freak out.  And I don’t mean a little bit.  I freak THE HELL OUT. 

So what this all comes down to is that I need to practice mindfulness and living in the moment.  In my mind, everything is very much not okay if things aren’t perfect.  I let every little thing get to me and then I obsess about it, leading to anxiety, leading to panic attacks, leading to an inability to function — when really, everything in the bigger picture is just fine. 

And now I think I should post this because my inner self-critic is telling me that this post is a piece of crap, that it rambles and rambles, is uninteresting.  I wish I could leave myself alone, cut myself a break, give myself the benefit of the doubt.

Doing it My Way

I am in MB this weekend with Dr. Love, visiting his parents.  It is something I looked forward to and dreaded.  I’m here because Dr. Love wants me to be, and that is enough. 

I look forward to coming here because it is a great break — no cooking, cleaning, chores to do…I can just relax.  If I can get around the fact that his mother hates me.

Of course, Dr. Love has always said that she doesn’t.  “They like everyone!”  No one likes “everyone.”  Not anyone that I’ve ever met, and especially no mother that treats her 27 and 24 year old sons like 3 year olds. 

I have a hard time liking the Queen of Enmeshment from day one, seeing how she treats Dr. Love.  And I’ve had an especially hard time since their visit two times ago. 

Dr. Love is still out of work and his parents decided a little over a month ago to come visit and help Dr. Love get some work around the house done.  I was thinking — ‘Awesome!  Maybe they’ll finish the porch or put in that extra outlet in the bedroom.’

No.

They came into my house and ripped out my bathroom wall where the tiles were falling down.  Not what I had planned.  Huge mess, huge disaster.  Not only did it take two days and one over-night visit, it looks like shit.

Granted, it needed to be fixed at some point — the tiles on the shower wall had fallen — an itty-bitty two by two foot section.  By the time Matt’s dad, Mr. I-Can’t-Fix-It came around and was there for a couple hours, it turned into 3/4 of one wall of the shower.  Argh.  What a mess!

I still have to admit that it needed to be done, but why now?  Why not work on one of the things higher on my priority list?  Why not wait to re-tile the bathroom when the bathroom gets renovated like I want it?  Why fix something to tear it down six months later?  I’m sure there are reasons — mold, mildew, walls falling down. 

I think I am just pissed that it turned out looking like shit.  For one, they didn’t put the same tiles up that had come down.  The new ones are a good half-inch wider and taller.  They don’t match color-wise.  It just looks crappy.  I was always brought up that if you’re going to do something, do it the right way.  Don’t do anything half-assed.  And that’s what happened in my absence.  This all took place while I was at work.

Long story short, I came home after they had been there working on it all day the day before and all of the present day — and it still wasn’t close to being done.  My bathroom was a disaster, there was tile dust everywhere, Mr. I-Can’t-Fix-It had been back and forth to the hardware store over five times.  To make matters worse, Dr. Love’s parents had convinced him that he was ill and had him lying on the couch the whole time.

Argh.

So I come home, see the bathroom after a very long day’s work and no sleep the night before, freak out, and escape to QoB and Big Dog’s.  I said thank you before I left, that I was appreciative of all they were doing, I apologized for leaving, and then I high-tailed it out of there. 

And I felt bad about it, but damn.  There’s only so much I can tolerate and I’d had my fill.  Especially since Dr. Love’s mom had been nothing but critical of me the entire time they had been there — criticizing the food in the fridge and wondering how much money we spend on groceries (far too much in her opinion), too much pre-cooked, pre-prepared stuff in the freezer; oh MY how much did you spend on all of this expensive makeup? and your closet is SO FULL!  

So I felt like shit, needless to say.  I went to QoB and Big Dog’s to vent and then felt better.  I returned around 9:00 p.m. and his parents had left just 15 minutes before, thank God.  I  have never felt so relieved.  I simply couldn’t take another night of people in my house, sleeping on my floor, people that criticized me and drove me crazy and treated my MAN like a child. 

I felt bad, but Dr. Love assured me there were no hard feelings.  WRONG!  His parents haven’t acted the same way toward me since.  I knew something was up and it was confirmed last night. 

I told Dr. Love on the way up here that I needed some sort of confirmation as to his idea that his parents were not irritated with me.  I went to bed almost right after dinner last night because we didn’t get here until late and it was almost 10:00 p.m. when we ate.  Dr. Love came up later and was tossing and turning, almost crying.  I asked him what was wrong.  Dr. Love said that the Queen of Enmeshment had hurt his feelings by saying something bad about me.

Apparently, I am “very unappreciative and ungrateful.”  I am also “rude.”  Hmmm.  I told him not to worry about it, that I wasn’t worried about it, and really, I’m not.  It doesn’t surprise me that those words came from his mother’s mouth. 

I talked to his dad this morning, whom I find slightly less obnoxious, and explained my stress level.  I didn’t tell him that I was pissed that he fucked up my bathroom — I told him that I was appreciative of all the help he had given us and was very generic about it.  I mentioned what Queen of Enmeshment had said and he laughed and said “just let that go in one ear and out the other.” 

Which I am doing, especially after talking to my Dad, who gave me an excellent pep talk about letting other people violate my BOUNDARIES. 

The next hurdle is the kitchen renovation that Dr. Love and I are going to do.  It’s going to look awesome and I’m finally going to have a dishwasher and more electrical outlets.  However, Mr. I-Can’t-Fix-It has his mind set that he and Dr. Love will be installing the dishwasher and extra outlets themselves. 

Uh-uh.  Not going to happen.  Over my dead body.  Q0B agrees that a professional needs to do it, as I’m sure the Big Dog would.  Since they’re on the deed, that’s a 3-3 vote over Matt and his parents, with us winning since, um, wait, IT’S OUR HOUSE.  Grrr.

So now there is tension over that.  Let there be tension.  I don’t really fracking care at this point.  I’m just going to take Dad’s advice and lay low for this weekend and go on with our plan to renovate the kitchen MY way — with the assistance of professionals. 

I would put up a YouTube that screams bloody hell about pushy and intrusive parenting styles, but I am on a dial-up connection way the hell out in the middle of nowhere in MB.  That’s right.  Dial-up.  As if it couldn’t get any worse.