Funny how much easier it is to write when the alternative is homework...
Today I went to a work "party" to help make tarps out of plastic grocery bags for homeless people. Boy, did it feel good to DO something! These particular "quilts" will go to Haiti. But I have a feeling that this thing is going to catch on, and thousands of people will be making them! What an amazing idea from an amazing young woman. I spoke to her briefly. She is a senior at the U of O, and developed the idea as a project for school: construct a shelter out of "found" items. She decided to use grocery bags since they were so abundant and would otherwise be part of the landfill, at least in many cases. Recycling with a purpose...
Anyway. It was great to be there with all those other women, making something useful. Doing something good. I have missed that, doing good. AA talks about how imperative it is to do service, to contribute. Not just to stay sober, but to feel spiritually sound. Lynne joked about how it felt like a church basement... and I have to admit that I miss that part of belonging to a church.
Jacque talks about writing a new story. I can see that my new story has to have some type of community service in it. I need it.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Spring!
So I had a great conversation with my friend Jacque today... about why it's so damn hard for me to visualize being able to finish this school course and actually find a job again.
I was hospitalized for depression in Nov. '08, after a suicide attempt. It was not a cry for help, because I truly did not believe that there was any help to be had. When you're in that place, there just is no viable solution. And I was so exhausted, in all the ways you can be exhausted: physically, mentally, emotionally. I only lasted as long as I did because I knew what a selfish thing suicide is. But it becomes a viable option when you believe you have nothing left to give, and that's what I believed. Sometimes I still feel that way, and that feeling is all tied up in work.
I've always worked. I like working. I like having a job where I feel I can contribute something meaningful to my world. Working with kids was always my dream, and working with kids with psychiatric troubles was the exact right fit for me. Until it wasn't; and then I grieved that loss like it was a limb. Our program went to hell, and I had to get out. Insurance wouldn't pay for the kids to stay long enough; a corporation took over our program and sucked the life right out of it. Medical model at its finest... drug 'em and send 'em home. It broke my heart.
I was able to find a position at a residential center for boys in Eugene, and I came to love that program, too, although it wasn't mental health. But slowly, it got more and more difficult to get out of the house and get to work. And then one day I just could not make myself get out of bed one more time. And I thought to myself, well if I can't work, then it's over. So I wrote a note, took every pill I could find, and went to bed. And work up several hours later vomiting, which saved my life.
They call it a Major Depressive Episode. I've read stuff - a lot of stuff - about depression. It runs rampant in my family; some of my siblings also had some major mental illnesses that involved psychosis, but I have been "lucky" in that regard. I started taking antidepression medication in 1998, and that has kept me fairly functional. Until it didn't. But even with all we know about depression these days, it's still not an exact science... and there's still a real stigma attached to mental illness. So those of us who need the meds have a real love/hate relationship with them. I take them every day, now. But I hate it. Even though they really help me. It feels like cheating. And all the Prozac jokes don't help, let me tell you. I used to suffer shame in silence when people would make the jokes. These days I speak up. Nothing like ten days in the "bin" to cure you of your illusions. And I decided when I was there that I would not pretend any more. I am what I am. Me and Popeye.
Anyway. Back to the subject of work. That episode, or breakdown, or whatever you want to call it, has badly shaken not just my confidence, but my perception of who I am, right down to the foundation. I can no longer state unequivicably, " Hey, I can do that!" I don't know what I can do, now. And so I don't know who I am now. I'm living on unemployment, and thank God for it. I'm taking the medical coding course like I'm going to use it, because I have to believe that I can, or what do I do? But can I? Am I someone who can work 40 hours a week now? Sometimes I still have trouble just leaving the house, or taking a bath, or doing the dishes. It has been a long, slow climb, and it feels like I'm only half way up the hill. What if I can't get any further? It's pretty scary.
I'm 57 years old. I'd dearly love to retire, but I have no means of income. Planning has never been my strong suit, and I worked at jobs that paid almost nothing, because our culture doesn't pay well for treating the mentally ill, unless you're a Doctor or a Nurse, and I'm neither. I never cared; I don't need much to live on. But truthfully, I did not expect to live this long.
Well. More later, its time for homework.
Thanks for listening.
I was hospitalized for depression in Nov. '08, after a suicide attempt. It was not a cry for help, because I truly did not believe that there was any help to be had. When you're in that place, there just is no viable solution. And I was so exhausted, in all the ways you can be exhausted: physically, mentally, emotionally. I only lasted as long as I did because I knew what a selfish thing suicide is. But it becomes a viable option when you believe you have nothing left to give, and that's what I believed. Sometimes I still feel that way, and that feeling is all tied up in work.
I've always worked. I like working. I like having a job where I feel I can contribute something meaningful to my world. Working with kids was always my dream, and working with kids with psychiatric troubles was the exact right fit for me. Until it wasn't; and then I grieved that loss like it was a limb. Our program went to hell, and I had to get out. Insurance wouldn't pay for the kids to stay long enough; a corporation took over our program and sucked the life right out of it. Medical model at its finest... drug 'em and send 'em home. It broke my heart.
I was able to find a position at a residential center for boys in Eugene, and I came to love that program, too, although it wasn't mental health. But slowly, it got more and more difficult to get out of the house and get to work. And then one day I just could not make myself get out of bed one more time. And I thought to myself, well if I can't work, then it's over. So I wrote a note, took every pill I could find, and went to bed. And work up several hours later vomiting, which saved my life.
They call it a Major Depressive Episode. I've read stuff - a lot of stuff - about depression. It runs rampant in my family; some of my siblings also had some major mental illnesses that involved psychosis, but I have been "lucky" in that regard. I started taking antidepression medication in 1998, and that has kept me fairly functional. Until it didn't. But even with all we know about depression these days, it's still not an exact science... and there's still a real stigma attached to mental illness. So those of us who need the meds have a real love/hate relationship with them. I take them every day, now. But I hate it. Even though they really help me. It feels like cheating. And all the Prozac jokes don't help, let me tell you. I used to suffer shame in silence when people would make the jokes. These days I speak up. Nothing like ten days in the "bin" to cure you of your illusions. And I decided when I was there that I would not pretend any more. I am what I am. Me and Popeye.
Anyway. Back to the subject of work. That episode, or breakdown, or whatever you want to call it, has badly shaken not just my confidence, but my perception of who I am, right down to the foundation. I can no longer state unequivicably, " Hey, I can do that!" I don't know what I can do, now. And so I don't know who I am now. I'm living on unemployment, and thank God for it. I'm taking the medical coding course like I'm going to use it, because I have to believe that I can, or what do I do? But can I? Am I someone who can work 40 hours a week now? Sometimes I still have trouble just leaving the house, or taking a bath, or doing the dishes. It has been a long, slow climb, and it feels like I'm only half way up the hill. What if I can't get any further? It's pretty scary.
I'm 57 years old. I'd dearly love to retire, but I have no means of income. Planning has never been my strong suit, and I worked at jobs that paid almost nothing, because our culture doesn't pay well for treating the mentally ill, unless you're a Doctor or a Nurse, and I'm neither. I never cared; I don't need much to live on. But truthfully, I did not expect to live this long.
Well. More later, its time for homework.
Thanks for listening.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Sunday night
Last night I was thinking about my sister as I fell asleep. And I remembered a night many years ago, maybe 1975? She had been gone again; sometimes she just left, hit the road, with no luggage or money, and we wouldn't see her for months. But this night I woke up, it was late. She was pounding on the front door of my Mom's house, where I was staying at the time, going to school. I opened the door, and there she was: thinner, wild eyes. I could tell by looking at her that she was off her meds; her eyes always told that story. And when she was off her meds, her manner of speech was always a bit abbreviated. No "hello, good to see you", etc. Just "could you give me ten dollars?" So I said, yeah, I had ten dollars. And she said "I caught a ride with some guys who took me out in the desert and raped me and left me there, and then these guys came along and offered me a ride and I told them I'd give them gas money if they could bring me home." No emotion; like reading off a grocery list. I know my own eyes must have shown the shock that her story caused in me. But I said nothing, just went upstairs and got the money, and came down and gave it to her. She went back out to the driveway to give it to them. When she came back in, I think I asked her if she was ok, if she needed anything. I hope I did; I honestly can't remember any more of that night. But we never spoke of it again.
It haunts me. Did I try to take her to a doctor? Did she refuse? Did I wake up my Mom? Why can't I remember these things?
Nobody writes much about the heartbreak of having a mentally ill family member. Maybe if I start writing, someone else will have stories, too.
It haunts me. Did I try to take her to a doctor? Did she refuse? Did I wake up my Mom? Why can't I remember these things?
Nobody writes much about the heartbreak of having a mentally ill family member. Maybe if I start writing, someone else will have stories, too.
Beginnings
I've always wanted to write. There's so much I want to say, but it gets blocked. By fear, I guess. It's a giant, nameless, faceless fear; but even as I write that, I know it's a pretend fear. As opposed to a danger; it only exists in my head. So maybe it's time to disregard it.
Some things I want to write about:
My sister, Linda
Her mental illness
Our relationship
My family
Depression
Work
Friendship
Love
Values
Stuff
Not driving
Spiritual connection
Play
Art/Photography
If I can find time to work on a virtual farm every day, I can surely write every day.
Right?
Some things I want to write about:
My sister, Linda
Her mental illness
Our relationship
My family
Depression
Work
Friendship
Love
Values
Stuff
Not driving
Spiritual connection
Play
Art/Photography
If I can find time to work on a virtual farm every day, I can surely write every day.
Right?
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