Monday, July 16, 2012
Cut
Nastiness: a symptom of depression. Said some lady in my mom's group therapy class. Or is it just that the depressed person has been passive and hasn't communicated effectively over years of silent treatment? And then the explosion. And then depression is blamed for the cruelty that falls from my mom's lips. I don't believe depression forces someone to be terrible toward other human beings, toward daughters. Crabby or unhappy? Sure. Manipulative and dirty? Absolutely not. The techniques my mom uses when she's having a less-than stellar day are misguided defense mechanisms she's learned over the years. She can change these things. Depression doesn't mean it's impossible to be kind, to be nice. It doesn't give rights to express yourself however it comes out of your mouth. That's absurd. And it's false. Nastiness is a choice. Quote me on that.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Wait It Out
Where do we go from here?
How do we carry on?
I can't get beyond the questions.
Clambering for the scraps
In the shatter of us collapsed-
It cuts me with every could-have-been.
Pain on pain on play, repeating
With the backup makeshift life in waiting.
Everybody says time heals everything.
But what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?
There's nothing to see here now,
Turning the sign around;
We're closed to the Earth 'til further notice.
A stumbling cliche case,
Crumpled and puffy-faced,
Dead in the stare of a thousand miles.
All-out one, only one, street-level miracle.
I'll be an out-and-out, born-again from none more cynical.
Everybody says that time heals everything.
But what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?
And sit here cold?
We'll be long gone by then.
And lackluster in dust we lay
around old magazines,
Fluorescent lighting sets the scene,
For all we could and should be being
In the one life that we've got.
Everybody says that time heals everything.
And what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?
And sit here.
Just going to wait it out?
Sit here cold.
Just going to sweat it out?
Wait it out.
-------------------------------------------
Dramatic if I post the lyrics to this song. Yes. But I can't really care whether or not it looks or is that way. The truth is that it is dramatic, and I don't feel like I have much control over it. The song weighs on me. I gave it a thumbs-up on my Pandora a long time ago, and so Pandora does its job by replaying the good ones just for me.
And how's this for timing, Pandora?
I was in the kitchen preparing freezer meals, chopping onions or peppers (something that freezes well), just trying to keep my hands moving like everyone else's. It was May 5, and everyone else had lives that kept moving forward. I didn't know why I was surprised. I believed the world would stop for even a minute to take things in with me, to breathe with me. Or to make me feel less alone. People were still waking up, working; they were still breathing, eating. I guessed I could believe it. But I couldn't. And it wasn't like people were still going on - it was that they were doing it so quickly, with super speed. And I couldn't believe that. Just the day before, I had written these things down on a post-it while I functioned at work. And as I chopped and bagged vegetables the very next day, a Saturday, I knew the world wasn't going to stop. So I played the game where I busied my mind and hands, just in case I had to think.
And Imogen shuffled into my headphones. Wait It Out. But that wasn't all. It accompanied the text message that my mom was being life-flighted for overdosing again. March 24 was the latest date of overdose, and after the ICU, behavioral unit, and discharge, I wanted to move forward. But clearly it was going to take more time. Another attempt so quickly? I wanted to feel red, the burning, that my sisters were spewing, but I didn't feel anything except some kind of fog. I sat on the kitchen floor until Ren found me and picked me up. I remember all of it. I didn't zone out or anything. I simply didn't feel, and that must've included my legs. I tried crying for the sake of crying. But really what I was was tired. And this is the kind of tired that's been going on for 30 years.
These attempts are not new to me. In fact, they're so natural that I don't feel much when I get the calls. I assume there's something wrong with me when I stop being shocked by my mom's illness and attempts. I make that assumption because of the distress I see on peoples' faces, and I reflect only to find that I don't feel the wreck that they're experiencing. The only explanation is that I'm simply used to this. But as time passes, and the episodes begin to fade, I start digging, and I never find solace with anything the way it is. I don't stay apathetic. Perhaps it's some kind of coping mechanism when I'm in the moment. Whatever it is, it doesn't stay forever. Yet I'm still not as torn-up as I "should" be. That's not to say that I've always been this way. It's just taken 30 years to form my skin.
I don't want to air the family laundry. In fact, my mom would be incredibly embarrassed if she read this. She doesn't use computers because they make her nervous, so I doubt she'll ever see these words. That's ok. I also don't think many people view this, so therein is safety. I post these things to educate people, not to embarrass my mom. That's my intention, anyway. Read this for juicy gossip, but at least make yourself less naive by reading. I don't pretend to be a doctor or a therapist. I have facts and feelings about this particular case; however, I realize that every person is different, every brain is unique. My experience may not relate to everyone who deals with mental illness, but it may resonate to someone. Although I am at a point where I'm on auto-pilot because my feelings have seemed to allude me, that doesn't mean I've never felt. And I fully anticipate feeling more and more each day. I guess at this point, if I had to pick a feeling, I would choose the feeling of fatigue. But I continue on. I'll try to let you know about it as time goes on.
How do we carry on?
I can't get beyond the questions.
Clambering for the scraps
In the shatter of us collapsed-
It cuts me with every could-have-been.
Pain on pain on play, repeating
With the backup makeshift life in waiting.
Everybody says time heals everything.
But what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?
There's nothing to see here now,
Turning the sign around;
We're closed to the Earth 'til further notice.
A stumbling cliche case,
Crumpled and puffy-faced,
Dead in the stare of a thousand miles.
All-out one, only one, street-level miracle.
I'll be an out-and-out, born-again from none more cynical.
Everybody says that time heals everything.
But what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?
And sit here cold?
We'll be long gone by then.
And lackluster in dust we lay
around old magazines,
Fluorescent lighting sets the scene,
For all we could and should be being
In the one life that we've got.
Everybody says that time heals everything.
And what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?
And sit here.
Just going to wait it out?
Sit here cold.
Just going to sweat it out?
Wait it out.
-------------------------------------------
Dramatic if I post the lyrics to this song. Yes. But I can't really care whether or not it looks or is that way. The truth is that it is dramatic, and I don't feel like I have much control over it. The song weighs on me. I gave it a thumbs-up on my Pandora a long time ago, and so Pandora does its job by replaying the good ones just for me.
And how's this for timing, Pandora?
I was in the kitchen preparing freezer meals, chopping onions or peppers (something that freezes well), just trying to keep my hands moving like everyone else's. It was May 5, and everyone else had lives that kept moving forward. I didn't know why I was surprised. I believed the world would stop for even a minute to take things in with me, to breathe with me. Or to make me feel less alone. People were still waking up, working; they were still breathing, eating. I guessed I could believe it. But I couldn't. And it wasn't like people were still going on - it was that they were doing it so quickly, with super speed. And I couldn't believe that. Just the day before, I had written these things down on a post-it while I functioned at work. And as I chopped and bagged vegetables the very next day, a Saturday, I knew the world wasn't going to stop. So I played the game where I busied my mind and hands, just in case I had to think.
And Imogen shuffled into my headphones. Wait It Out. But that wasn't all. It accompanied the text message that my mom was being life-flighted for overdosing again. March 24 was the latest date of overdose, and after the ICU, behavioral unit, and discharge, I wanted to move forward. But clearly it was going to take more time. Another attempt so quickly? I wanted to feel red, the burning, that my sisters were spewing, but I didn't feel anything except some kind of fog. I sat on the kitchen floor until Ren found me and picked me up. I remember all of it. I didn't zone out or anything. I simply didn't feel, and that must've included my legs. I tried crying for the sake of crying. But really what I was was tired. And this is the kind of tired that's been going on for 30 years.
These attempts are not new to me. In fact, they're so natural that I don't feel much when I get the calls. I assume there's something wrong with me when I stop being shocked by my mom's illness and attempts. I make that assumption because of the distress I see on peoples' faces, and I reflect only to find that I don't feel the wreck that they're experiencing. The only explanation is that I'm simply used to this. But as time passes, and the episodes begin to fade, I start digging, and I never find solace with anything the way it is. I don't stay apathetic. Perhaps it's some kind of coping mechanism when I'm in the moment. Whatever it is, it doesn't stay forever. Yet I'm still not as torn-up as I "should" be. That's not to say that I've always been this way. It's just taken 30 years to form my skin.
I don't want to air the family laundry. In fact, my mom would be incredibly embarrassed if she read this. She doesn't use computers because they make her nervous, so I doubt she'll ever see these words. That's ok. I also don't think many people view this, so therein is safety. I post these things to educate people, not to embarrass my mom. That's my intention, anyway. Read this for juicy gossip, but at least make yourself less naive by reading. I don't pretend to be a doctor or a therapist. I have facts and feelings about this particular case; however, I realize that every person is different, every brain is unique. My experience may not relate to everyone who deals with mental illness, but it may resonate to someone. Although I am at a point where I'm on auto-pilot because my feelings have seemed to allude me, that doesn't mean I've never felt. And I fully anticipate feeling more and more each day. I guess at this point, if I had to pick a feeling, I would choose the feeling of fatigue. But I continue on. I'll try to let you know about it as time goes on.
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