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.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
How to Deal with People Who Drive You Apeshit
As I see it, there are three ways to handle annoying people (h/t to TB for the categories):
Ignoring them, for me, anyway, rarely works. It particularly doesn't work with PR people, who will send 82 pitches asking if you've received the last 81. Apparently there is something in PR people's makeup that makes them either preternaturally optimistic or terminally clueless. If I didn't answer you the first time, I'm not going to answer you the 82nd time, because I really, really want you to go away.
Pawning the hopelessly annoying off on someone better equipped to handle them is difficult, but if you can manage it (and the pawn-ee doesn't object), it's a good way to go. As with any area of life, there are some folks you just aren't going to get along with. Making them somebody else's problem can make both of you happier.
Making them cry is not something I'm particularly proud of, but if you push me to my breaking point, it's likely to happen. I'm sarcastic and bitchy at the best of times (even though my friends will tell you I'm secretly a marshmallow. Only my body qualifies for that description, IMO). If you continue to act like you are the only person I have to spend time on, you are, sooner or later, going to be the recipient of my wrath and my mouth. It's ugly. Don't do it.
I wish I were an easier person to get along with. Someone once described me as a "prickly pear." It wasn't a compliment. But the truth is that I walk a fine line between being able to function in the world and just having to blow up and let the morons have it. I'm 1000 percent introvert and it's quite literally painful for me to deal with humanity. (You should see me at parties.) I never married for a reason. The cat keeps me warm at night and doesn't talk back, and that works nicely for me. I'm happy to try to work with you, but you need to work with me too.
- Ignore them.
- Pawn them off on someone else.
- Make them cry.
Ignoring them, for me, anyway, rarely works. It particularly doesn't work with PR people, who will send 82 pitches asking if you've received the last 81. Apparently there is something in PR people's makeup that makes them either preternaturally optimistic or terminally clueless. If I didn't answer you the first time, I'm not going to answer you the 82nd time, because I really, really want you to go away.
Pawning the hopelessly annoying off on someone better equipped to handle them is difficult, but if you can manage it (and the pawn-ee doesn't object), it's a good way to go. As with any area of life, there are some folks you just aren't going to get along with. Making them somebody else's problem can make both of you happier.
Making them cry is not something I'm particularly proud of, but if you push me to my breaking point, it's likely to happen. I'm sarcastic and bitchy at the best of times (even though my friends will tell you I'm secretly a marshmallow. Only my body qualifies for that description, IMO). If you continue to act like you are the only person I have to spend time on, you are, sooner or later, going to be the recipient of my wrath and my mouth. It's ugly. Don't do it.
I wish I were an easier person to get along with. Someone once described me as a "prickly pear." It wasn't a compliment. But the truth is that I walk a fine line between being able to function in the world and just having to blow up and let the morons have it. I'm 1000 percent introvert and it's quite literally painful for me to deal with humanity. (You should see me at parties.) I never married for a reason. The cat keeps me warm at night and doesn't talk back, and that works nicely for me. I'm happy to try to work with you, but you need to work with me too.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
the "yeah-buts"
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.
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.
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.
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