Ben

On the eve of the Polar Plunge, during which I will jump in a frigid lake to raise money for Special Olympics, I am thinking about Ben.

Ben was a Special Olympics athlete I interviewed many years ago. I asked the coach (it was softball, I think) if I could talk to one of his players, and he pointed me to Ben.

Ben was about 6-2, lanky, and sweet as pie. I don't even remember what we talked about, but I remember him vividly. He answered a couple questions and said "You're nice!" and gave me a hug. I asked a couple more questions and went to shake his hand to thank him. He looked over at his mom, pointed at me, said "she's really nice!" and gave me a huge hug.

In about 5 minutes, Ben taught me more about life than I'd learned in all my years of living. Specifically, he taught me that it costs nothing to be kind to everyone you meet. That old saw about everyone you meet is fighting some sort of battle, so be nice, is true. I was having a hard time at that job, and eventually lost it. My EIC kept saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I said, "It's OK!" and it really was, because it was the biggest damn relief to get out of there. There would be plenty of time later to worry about the whole no money, no insurance thing. I was just glad to be done. I had like one friend there and my bosses all hated me.

I find myself now in the best possible situation with a job. My boss is hella understanding, and aside from one little shithead who I don't like either, everybody seems fond of me. At least one of them, and maybe 3 or 4, are coming to see me Plunge tomorrow. I have a multitude of friends outside of work, so many of whom donated to Special Olympics on my behalf. My psychiatrist keeps trying to put words in my mouth and paint me in situations that don't exist. I'm not alone just because I don't have parents. I have Sweetie. I have my sibs. I have, as I said, a multitude of friends who care about me. I'm about as far from alone as one can get. I would devastate them, I'm pretty sure, if I offed myself.

I'm a huge Rick Springfield fan. I'll be seeing him in concert for the 7th time at the end of this month. My dream is to meet him someday. But I don't love Rick just because he's hot, or because he puts out great music (the new one is awesome, dark lyrics aside). I love him because he's been depressed his whole life and openly talks about it. He's been on a media tour for the new one and one interviewer or another asked him what his family would think if he killed himself, as he's been struggling with those thoughts of late. (Me too.) He said it would devastate them, BUT he wasn't thinking about that when he was in that dark place. Many of my friends have tried to remind me of that lately. It's not that I don't care about them, it's that the pain is so bad I just want out, and everyone else be damned. It's all about ME when I'm suicidal. You can tell me you love me to infinity and beyond, and I'll feel it, but I won't give a shit. I don't know if that sounds selfish. Probably. But it's just the way it is.

I'm wearing a Wonder Woman outfit, tiara included, to plunge in. My favorite tool of hers is the Lasso of Truth. When it's wrapped around you, you can't lie. You're required to be completely honest. This is my Lasso of Truth entry. And Ben, I salute you.

Welcome back...

Things are going to shit again, and my therapist's suggestion for that is to write. It's true that I express myself better while writing than speaking, and it's true that I refuse to go back to the place I blogged for years, because of the way I was treated in the end. So here I am. Surprised I even remembered the address.

I'm struggling with being deeply depressed and having no one in authority believe that I know what should be done about it. I've dealt with this shit since I was a teenager. I'll be 53 in a couple months. This is not my first rodeo. But nobody believes it's as serious as it feels to me.

So last night, after exhausting elebenty-billion DBT coping skills, I went for my tried and true: I cut.

It made me FURIOUS.

I was so surprised by that reaction that I did it again, just to see what happened.

I was even MORE furious.

I cut because it works. It's a physical release of the emotional torment. After the knife has hit, and I see the blood, I feel like a tire deflating. All the pressure is released and there's just a feeling of AHHHHH. Now I feel better.

Until last night.

So, that's the death of a coping mechanism, I guess, and now I have to find one that works as well as cutting used to.

My therapist wondered if the anger had been simmering unawares, like a volcano before it erupts. Upon thinking about it, I realize I'm angry most of the time. My sister told me once I was the angriest person she knew. I was stunned, but it turns out she's right. The trick is figuring out what I'm angry about. I know I'm still angry about the damn disability, 5 years later. I'm angry that I'm reduced to a job that requires less than a high school education, when I have a masters degree. (I told a former psychiatrist what I was doing now. He said, "I think that's a great job for you! DON'T OVERDO IT." (Emphasis mine.) I'm angry that people feel sorry for me. I'm angry a mental health professional called the cops on me and humiliated me in front of my coworkers and neighbors. (Should I be grateful he cared that much? Probably. But I'm angry.) I don't even know what else I'm angry about, just that I am. I try not to think about it too much.

I'm even angry writing about being angry. Time to go watch my stupid show and snuggle the cat. More to come.....

Memories

The thing about memories is, I have very few of them. My memory doesn't extend past the previous day, and sometimes it's even just a few hours. (My sister asked me the other day what I'd had for dinner the previous night, and I had to struggle to come up with it.)

I had 9 months of electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), in an attempt to get out of the most severe, longest-lasting depressive episode of my life. I got 2.5 months of peace before I ended up in the hospital, actively suicidal. Not only did it not work on my depression, it fried my brain. People tell me things, or show me artifacts from places we went together, and I just don't remember.

It's troublesome with work, too. Even if I've done something several times, if there's been a gap since the last time I did it, I'll have to ask to be shown again. It pisses off my boss. Last time, between the time I asked him to help me and the time he responded, I remembered how. But it took me several hours to surface the memory. I know he's busy and he relies on me to do stuff he doesn't have time for, but I can only do what I can do. I try my best in the face of my limitations. The fact is, they're not going away, ever. It frustrates me, too. But I took a crapshoot with my brain and I lost. It's something I'll have to deal with for the rest of my life. If anybody has any ideas for ways around it, let me know.

Le Misanthrope

Yep, that's me.

Misanthropy is defined as the general hatred, distrust or disdain of the human species. I think it's safe to say I detest mankind. People are stupid, and annoying, and a general pain in the ass. I prefer the company of my cat. She can't talk, and she's never abandoned me or let me down. How many people can you say that about?

This is a shit time of year for me. There's Mother's Day (on which I am never acknowledged by my child), and said child's birthday (painful for several reasons), and this year I'm preparing to wave goodbye to one of the only people who has ever understood me enough to help me. I don't know what I'm going to do without him.

I wish I could just find a cave somewhere and hole up. (As long as the cave has wi-fi.)

Wise Mind ACCEPTS....

So I finished a DBT group today. I started in May. I was supposed to be done in early December. My therapist decided I needed to stick around another 2 months. I may never forgive her, just like I'm not going to forgive her for making me come to the damn group THREE DAYS after major surgery "because there will be new people there." Who gives a fuck?! They could have waited a week to meet me and I could have stayed home with my pain pills.

Anyway. I don't know what I really got out of all this. DBT has four components. I can remember three of them. It is FILLED with acronyms that are supposed to help you remember this or that. They don't, at least for me. My therapist says my skills have improved. I don't see how they can have improved when I can't even remember half this shit. If I get really bad, I text her and she tells me what to do. She's all proud of me for not having cut since July or something, but I think about it every single day, so I don't think that's a victory. Last night I was talking to someone I was in the hospital with last year, and he tripped a trigger that still has me over the edge. (Nobody is able to stick a finger in a wound quite like someone you've been in the nut hut with.)

So really, I can't tell you what I just got out of the last 9 months. I guess, as Marsha Linehan would say, I was being willful. I showed up, but I didn't contribute much and all I could think about was how pissed I was to have to be there. I don't think Medicaid got their money's worth.

Those Poles are on to something

There's an old Polish proverb which states, "If 3 people tell you you're drunk, you'd better sit down."

My ass is firmly planted on my couch, because I guess I'm tipsy.

It is now up to 4 people in the past 2 weeks who have told me some variation of "you're brilliant, you just don't know how to apply (whatever it is I'm supposed to be learning)."

First of all, I am clearly not smarter than the average bear. I worked my ass off in college and grad school for my grades -- they didn't come easily, like they do to truly smart people.

Second, I think people get this perception of my "brilliance" because I'm quiet. It seems to create a false aura of intelligence, when what I am is reserved.

But I am feeling plenty stupid because these people, from different walks of my life, are basically telling me I'm an idiot. Or at least that's what it feels like to me.

Sometimes I don't apply my lessons because I don't fucking want to. (I will admit to being very stubborn.) Sometimes it's because I have the memory of a flea (hey, thanks, ECT) and I forget it if I don't write it down. (And then I have to try to decipher my abysmal handwriting.) Sometimes, as far as I can tell, I'm applying them just fine, only to be told I'm not (and am thus an idiot).

I dunno. I *do* know I don't need any help feeling bad about myself. And I don't know what to do about something that is apparently ingrained.

I'll let you know what happens if I sober up.

Ring out the old....

In this case, the old I'm ringing out on this New Year's Eve is someone I've been friends with (I thought) for 5 years.

I had major surgery in August, and people I barely knew stepped up to drive me around, take me to the store, etc. D. didn't even call (or text, or email) to say hi, how are you. Every time I tried to ask to talk to her about it, she blew me off. So I finally wrote her and told her how hurt I was, and asked one more time to talk.

She replied that she'd had a "trying" year too and was sorry, but she couldn't offer any more of herself, so have a nice life.

I don't understand how you can just toss someone to the side of the road when you have a history. I don't understand how you can be selfish enough to treat people like dirt. I don't understand it, period.

I read something today that fits: You can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep rereading the last one. So I'm going to try to move on. But I'm going to grieve a little first, and be angry.