Mental Health Awareness Month ended in May, and there’s still a large segment of the population unaware. I call them the yeah-buts.
The yeah-buts as I have encountered them over my decades dealing with mental illness are folks who haven’t ever struggled with the stuff themselves, but feel able to tell you what to do about it.
My favorites are the ones who are compelled somehow to get me to the gym. Yes, yes, exercise can help your mood, though it doesn’t always, no matter what the yeah-buts say.
“Yeah, but you’ll feel so much better,” they insist.
“When I’m blindingly depressed, I don’t even want to get out of bed,” I insist. “I don’t want to shower. I don’t want to get dressed. I don’t want to do anything but lay there and focus on feeling like crap.”
“Yeah, but that’s exactly the time you should be getting up and exercising,” they say, usually adding another favorite – “I know I’ve never been depressed, but…”
Right. So if you have no concept of what it feels like, how can you tell me how to fix it? I got news: It’s not fixable. Meds and therapy only go so far. Once an episode begins, you pretty much just have to ride it out. And as soon as it’s over? Guess what? It’s going to come back. Almost nobody gets a one-and-done deal with a depressive episode. If you’re lucky, you can figure out how to make the time between episodes relatively lengthy. Exercise isn’t it, at least not by itself.
The yeah-buts mean well, I know. It’s just like taking advice from an unmarried marriage counselor. They never seem to realize that they’d be much more credible if they’d experienced that which they’re trying to convince you of.
I have a friend who’s a yeah-but. She does at least preface her remarks with “I know I don’t have depression,” which is something of a sop. But she still doesn’t really understand. She’s an expert in another area I struggle with, though, and there I’m all ears every time she wants to tell me something, because I know both that she’s been there personally and that she has academic knowledge as well. And I know she cares, hence the yeah-but-ism. Most yeah-buts do it out of concern for a friend or family member, I’m sure. I think maybe the afflicted just should reinforce the need to find another way to express it. No matter how well my psychiatrist and therapist and friends know me, I am still the expert on me. No ifs, ands or yeah-buts.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Aimless? Not Quite
I had a friend tell me the other day that he worries about me a lot because I seem “lost.”
Taken aback, I asked another friend what she thought of that, and she agreed.
There’s this old Polish proverb, “If three people tell you you’re drunk, you’d better sit down,” so I’m waiting for one more person to tell me I’m lost before I quite believe it. I think what people are mistaking for aimlessness is something else entirely.
I’ve been on disability for 13 months now. In a nutshell, this means I do not get up and go to work from 8 to 5, Monday through Friday, like most other adults over the age of 22. It means the government deemed me incapable of that, thanks to a severe illness, and so I get a check once a month from Uncle Sam and spend my days going to doctor appointments and the like. And I do have a job, just for the record. There are just rules about how much time I can spend on it, and there are days I’m too sick to do it. I have a very understanding boss, luckily, who gets that.
But because I don’t spend my time like “regular” grownups, I get dinged for the lack of structure to my days. Yes, it is troublesome sometimes, trying to figure out what to do next. Sometimes I’m not interested in going to the grocery store, no matter how badly I need to. Sometimes I don’t want to do laundry, no matter how badly I need to. Sometimes I just want to stay in bed and wallow in how bad I feel, and that’s part of the disease that nobody really understands. (I get a lot of the “think happy! Pull yourself up by your bootstraps!” type crap. IT. IS. NOT. THAT. EASY.)
Do I need a schedule? Probably. Is it easy to make and keep to one when you’re in the condition I’m in? Not even close. So do I need to hear that I’m “lost” and people don’t notice me because I’m just standing off to the side, doing nothing? Au contraire. Nothing is the most I can do sometimes.
Next time you see me looking aimless, come say hi and find out what I’m really doing. Betcha it’s something. Even if it looks like nothing to you, it’s probably taking everything out of me I have to get it done.
When I was a kid in Kansas City, there was a commercial for a car dealer named Frank Ancona. His tag line was, “PLEASE be kind to Frank Ancona!” Please be kind to me too. You might find out something you didn’t know.
Taken aback, I asked another friend what she thought of that, and she agreed.
There’s this old Polish proverb, “If three people tell you you’re drunk, you’d better sit down,” so I’m waiting for one more person to tell me I’m lost before I quite believe it. I think what people are mistaking for aimlessness is something else entirely.
I’ve been on disability for 13 months now. In a nutshell, this means I do not get up and go to work from 8 to 5, Monday through Friday, like most other adults over the age of 22. It means the government deemed me incapable of that, thanks to a severe illness, and so I get a check once a month from Uncle Sam and spend my days going to doctor appointments and the like. And I do have a job, just for the record. There are just rules about how much time I can spend on it, and there are days I’m too sick to do it. I have a very understanding boss, luckily, who gets that.
But because I don’t spend my time like “regular” grownups, I get dinged for the lack of structure to my days. Yes, it is troublesome sometimes, trying to figure out what to do next. Sometimes I’m not interested in going to the grocery store, no matter how badly I need to. Sometimes I don’t want to do laundry, no matter how badly I need to. Sometimes I just want to stay in bed and wallow in how bad I feel, and that’s part of the disease that nobody really understands. (I get a lot of the “think happy! Pull yourself up by your bootstraps!” type crap. IT. IS. NOT. THAT. EASY.)
Do I need a schedule? Probably. Is it easy to make and keep to one when you’re in the condition I’m in? Not even close. So do I need to hear that I’m “lost” and people don’t notice me because I’m just standing off to the side, doing nothing? Au contraire. Nothing is the most I can do sometimes.
Next time you see me looking aimless, come say hi and find out what I’m really doing. Betcha it’s something. Even if it looks like nothing to you, it’s probably taking everything out of me I have to get it done.
When I was a kid in Kansas City, there was a commercial for a car dealer named Frank Ancona. His tag line was, “PLEASE be kind to Frank Ancona!” Please be kind to me too. You might find out something you didn’t know.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
the bucket list
My recent birthday made me think I probably needed to start one of these. Here's what I've got so far:
Before I die, I want:
-- to be thin
-- to NOT be alone
-- to travel around Asia
-- to learn how to play an instrument
-- to learn a language (I took French in high school, but it was totally useless)
-- to write a book
-- to not be taken for granted by certain people
That's a start....more to come.
Before I die, I want:
-- to be thin
-- to NOT be alone
-- to travel around Asia
-- to learn how to play an instrument
-- to learn a language (I took French in high school, but it was totally useless)
-- to write a book
-- to not be taken for granted by certain people
That's a start....more to come.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
say what you mean
... mean what you say. Life would be so much less complicated if everybody did that.
I've been thinking a lot lately about definitions, and context, and casual vs. deep meaning. Specifically, I've been thinking a lot about the phrase "I love you."
We say it to our pets (who are just happy for an extra treat). We say it to our family members. We say it to our friends. There are a number of different shades of it. But it gets all mucked up when people substitute "love" for "like."
Someone told me they loved me a few days ago. It's not someone I'm romantically linked with, or who I even know that well, particularly. And while those words are always nice to hear, it gets confusing when the person saying them is trying to communicate deep affection instead.
We either need a definition of terms in this language or a clear distinction. A big hug and an "I like you!" doesn't carry the same weight, but it doesn't make somebody you hardly know wonder where it's coming from.
I've been thinking a lot lately about definitions, and context, and casual vs. deep meaning. Specifically, I've been thinking a lot about the phrase "I love you."
We say it to our pets (who are just happy for an extra treat). We say it to our family members. We say it to our friends. There are a number of different shades of it. But it gets all mucked up when people substitute "love" for "like."
Someone told me they loved me a few days ago. It's not someone I'm romantically linked with, or who I even know that well, particularly. And while those words are always nice to hear, it gets confusing when the person saying them is trying to communicate deep affection instead.
We either need a definition of terms in this language or a clear distinction. A big hug and an "I like you!" doesn't carry the same weight, but it doesn't make somebody you hardly know wonder where it's coming from.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Sweetie
I never expected to be an adoptive cat mom. Yet today, a year later, that's what I am.
And although the circumstances in which Sweetie came to me were sad and less than ideal, in time we adjusted to each other and – dare I say it? – have learned to love each other.
I get up at 3 a.m. and throw her purple catnip mousie. She flops over the back of my legs when I’m sleeping on my stomach and warms me up. I keep her food and water dishes filled to the brim and her litter box sparkling clean. She lets me pick her up for hugs and smooches and will roll over for belly rubs.
I always wanted a cat, but haven’t ever been allowed to have one. I’ve always rented, and most landlords have a strict no-pets policy. But the ones I have now are reasonable. When they told me they had a prospective tenant for the other part of the house and she had a cat, I immediately said that was OK with me and asked if I could have one too. They couldn’t really say no and be fair about it.
There was one short-lived attempt with a shelter cat who was not particularly well socialized. Sweetie came along because she needed a home after her previous owner died. The woman’s daughter, a good friend of mine, thought Sweetie and I would do well together. She turns out to have been right (of course. R. has always been a good judge of character, either human or feline.)
It’s hard to overstate how much difference it makes to have another living creature in the house. I don’t have a spouse, or a kid, or any other form of family member living here. I don’t have a roommate (of the human variety, anyway). Even if she isn’t the same species as me, Sweetie’s still happy to see me whenever I get home. Even if she can’t talk the way humans think of it, she talks plenty – and chirps, and purrs, and has her whole own language with which to tell me what she wants. Sometimes all she wants is to nuzzle me and ask for a kiss back. I’m always happy to oblige (even if it means I get fur in my mouth).
I’m happy to have my curious, playful little furball around for company. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m off to the pet store to buy some treats (if not sweets) for my Sweetie.
And although the circumstances in which Sweetie came to me were sad and less than ideal, in time we adjusted to each other and – dare I say it? – have learned to love each other.
I get up at 3 a.m. and throw her purple catnip mousie. She flops over the back of my legs when I’m sleeping on my stomach and warms me up. I keep her food and water dishes filled to the brim and her litter box sparkling clean. She lets me pick her up for hugs and smooches and will roll over for belly rubs.
I always wanted a cat, but haven’t ever been allowed to have one. I’ve always rented, and most landlords have a strict no-pets policy. But the ones I have now are reasonable. When they told me they had a prospective tenant for the other part of the house and she had a cat, I immediately said that was OK with me and asked if I could have one too. They couldn’t really say no and be fair about it.
There was one short-lived attempt with a shelter cat who was not particularly well socialized. Sweetie came along because she needed a home after her previous owner died. The woman’s daughter, a good friend of mine, thought Sweetie and I would do well together. She turns out to have been right (of course. R. has always been a good judge of character, either human or feline.)
It’s hard to overstate how much difference it makes to have another living creature in the house. I don’t have a spouse, or a kid, or any other form of family member living here. I don’t have a roommate (of the human variety, anyway). Even if she isn’t the same species as me, Sweetie’s still happy to see me whenever I get home. Even if she can’t talk the way humans think of it, she talks plenty – and chirps, and purrs, and has her whole own language with which to tell me what she wants. Sometimes all she wants is to nuzzle me and ask for a kiss back. I’m always happy to oblige (even if it means I get fur in my mouth).
I’m happy to have my curious, playful little furball around for company. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m off to the pet store to buy some treats (if not sweets) for my Sweetie.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Today brought to you by the letter "S"
S, for sizeism.
I wrote about this and managed to get it published in a literary journal. If I can ever figure out how to get a PDF of it done, I'll post it here. But I wanted to talk about it now because, although in the article I talked about having been judged for my size all my life, today I was the guilty party.
I'm down about 30 pounds from where I was this time last year. I need to be down another 50. At least. I look at my reflection in my laptop screen, and in my dresser mirror, and in my rearview, and want to throw up. It's just not possible for me, anyway, to have anything but massive self-loathing and a hideous body image. My guess is that even when I'm 140 that'll still be the case.
Today at the grocery store I kept finding myself behind this guy who must have weighed, I'm not kidding, close to 600 pounds. You would think I would have some compassion for him. But all I could do is stare, and wonder -- and think unkind thoughts -- about how he must have got that way.
Let's say he does weigh 600 pounds. That puts me 400 below him. And yet people still judge me. Hell, I even judge me! I hate my own guts for being a cow! And yes, I have a thyroid problem, but you know what my real problem is? Eating too much crap and rarely getting off the couch. I'd be willing to bet that's pretty much every overweight person's problem. Maybe this guy had a rare metabolic disorder. Maybe he blew out a knee when he was younger and finds it hard to exercise. I don't know. I just know it was incredibly unfair of me to do to him what I hate having done to me.
I wrote about this and managed to get it published in a literary journal. If I can ever figure out how to get a PDF of it done, I'll post it here. But I wanted to talk about it now because, although in the article I talked about having been judged for my size all my life, today I was the guilty party.
I'm down about 30 pounds from where I was this time last year. I need to be down another 50. At least. I look at my reflection in my laptop screen, and in my dresser mirror, and in my rearview, and want to throw up. It's just not possible for me, anyway, to have anything but massive self-loathing and a hideous body image. My guess is that even when I'm 140 that'll still be the case.
Today at the grocery store I kept finding myself behind this guy who must have weighed, I'm not kidding, close to 600 pounds. You would think I would have some compassion for him. But all I could do is stare, and wonder -- and think unkind thoughts -- about how he must have got that way.
Let's say he does weigh 600 pounds. That puts me 400 below him. And yet people still judge me. Hell, I even judge me! I hate my own guts for being a cow! And yes, I have a thyroid problem, but you know what my real problem is? Eating too much crap and rarely getting off the couch. I'd be willing to bet that's pretty much every overweight person's problem. Maybe this guy had a rare metabolic disorder. Maybe he blew out a knee when he was younger and finds it hard to exercise. I don't know. I just know it was incredibly unfair of me to do to him what I hate having done to me.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
the perils of depression
So while it was apparently no surprise, country singer Mindy McCready killed herself today.
I am not remotely a country music fan, and I'm certain I've never heard one of her songs. But I am certain I've been depressed. Often. Enough to want to kill myself? Enough to at least give it some serious thought.
I get so tired of people who say "I don't understand how people can do that. They had so much to live for," blah blah blah. You know what? If you're able to say that, you don't understand, and you need to be grateful and then STFU. There is nothing worse than being trapped in the hell of your own mind. If you're just a little down in the dumps on a random Sunday afternoon because you have to go back to work on Monday, you aren't depressed. If you can't go to work for a month because you're too miserable to get out of bed, take a shower and get dressed, then you sort of have a clue.
This poor woman left behind two little boys who no longer have parents. (One of them still has a father who isn't in the picture, and the other's father also killed himself.) They are in for a lifetime of therapy, have already been in foster care once, and may end up there permanently again. One of the Big Lies of depression is that "nobody will miss me if I check out." I admit to thinking that myself. Playing poor, pitiful me is weirdly soothing; it gives you validation for what you're thinking about doing.
I may not have an intimate partner, and I may not have raised my child, but I certainly have a stack of friends who would miss me. It would be unfair of me to traumatize them for my own selfish reasons. But you aren't thinking reasonably when you're thinking about doing it.
I can't say I blame her for taking the road that she chose. I hope that she's found some peace at last. I hope all who are thinking along those lines reach out for help first. But if there comes a time it gets to be too much, one last time -- I understand.
I am not remotely a country music fan, and I'm certain I've never heard one of her songs. But I am certain I've been depressed. Often. Enough to want to kill myself? Enough to at least give it some serious thought.
I get so tired of people who say "I don't understand how people can do that. They had so much to live for," blah blah blah. You know what? If you're able to say that, you don't understand, and you need to be grateful and then STFU. There is nothing worse than being trapped in the hell of your own mind. If you're just a little down in the dumps on a random Sunday afternoon because you have to go back to work on Monday, you aren't depressed. If you can't go to work for a month because you're too miserable to get out of bed, take a shower and get dressed, then you sort of have a clue.
This poor woman left behind two little boys who no longer have parents. (One of them still has a father who isn't in the picture, and the other's father also killed himself.) They are in for a lifetime of therapy, have already been in foster care once, and may end up there permanently again. One of the Big Lies of depression is that "nobody will miss me if I check out." I admit to thinking that myself. Playing poor, pitiful me is weirdly soothing; it gives you validation for what you're thinking about doing.
I may not have an intimate partner, and I may not have raised my child, but I certainly have a stack of friends who would miss me. It would be unfair of me to traumatize them for my own selfish reasons. But you aren't thinking reasonably when you're thinking about doing it.
I can't say I blame her for taking the road that she chose. I hope that she's found some peace at last. I hope all who are thinking along those lines reach out for help first. But if there comes a time it gets to be too much, one last time -- I understand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)