What "Crazy" Looks Like

One of the definitions of 'crazy' according to the Google dictionary is: brainsick. If I go by that, I am most definitely crazy, and it was confirmed yesterday when I visited the crisis intake area of Banner Thunderbird's Behavioral Health Center. As I walked in, I saw notices on the doors- something about no food being allowed and purses/backpacks being locked up. But there was entirely too much text for me to get it all as I passed, so I didn't read everything. Maybe if I had, my anxiety levels wouldn't have hit the roof. As soon as the door closed behind me, someone asked for my purse and for anything in my pockets. My belongings were placed in a locker to which I did not receive a key. I was given a clipboard and told to sit in the lobby as I filled them out. The lobby had many chairs, a couple of couches, and some of those convertible seats that turn into cots that are often in hospital rooms. Two people were in hospital gowns, sprawled out on the couches with blankets. A couple other people were dressed, but had hospital bands around their wrists and wore pained expressions on their faces. I immediately felt out of place, and the feeling turned to one of near-panic as I noticed the lobby doors had wires in the windows and could be locked to prevent the inhabitants from exiting. Still, I was fairly confident that I could leave whenever I wanted, and that, along with The Learning Channel, which was on the lobby television, calmed me a bit. Now that I think about it, it's a REALLY good thing I didn't know that you can't even access the crisis intake area unless accompanied by a staff member with a badge, because the door is locked. As in, there's no key and only a badge will make the electronic lock open. Yep, that was a good thing. I wa already frightened enough.

In the last couple of months I have had some pretty bad days, and on more than one occasion I've wondered if I didn't need to be hospitalized to get well. So I looked into it, but when I realized I'd go as many as five days without seeing Alex, it ceased being an option. Luckily, Banner Behavioral Health offers an intensive outpatient group therapy that focuses on recognizing and changing self-defeating behaviors (which I believe are gifts of my childhood that I'd like to get rid of now). I'm way beyond the point of thinking that I can do this on my own (in fact, I am starting to panic by how completely unable I am to help myself these days), and my visits to my therapist with George have turned into marital therapy (even if George isn't there), so I figure adding another form of therapy that focuses more on what I need to do to feel better can't hurt.I waited in that lobby-slash-holding-cell for an hour (during which time a lunch was provided, the most exciting of which was the two chocolate chip cookies provided for dessert) before I was called out by a therapist named Melissa with long, blonde hair and equally long electric pink nails. She took me into her office that was labeled an "interview room," and explained that we had half an hour to decide whether the intensive outpatient group therapy program was a good fit for me. We talked about what I like to do in my spare time; I thought it was interesting that most of the time we talked was focused on positive things, rather than the negative things that brought me to her office. She agreed that the outpatient program was a good idea, especialy because if something wasn't done, I'd probably end up an inpatient at the hospital. I had to complete a Safety Plan that stated my stressors, signs that my stressors are getting to me, and three things I would do whenever I felt myself starting to go into "danger zone." Then a doctor had to agree that it was safe to allow me to go home. Oh, and I had to agree to throw out any extra medication lying around and urge George to lock all weapons in his gun safe (there was an incident about two weeks ago that makes guns a VERY bad idea for me). I start group therapy on Monday afternoon and will go three days a week for four weeks, after which time we'll reevaluate to decide if I need individual therapy that focuses more on me, or if I need to continue group, or if I should just continue the marital therapy.

A retraction

The stuff I wrote about feeling better and being stronger? Not true for today. I didn't make it out of bed until 2 p.m., and even then, I really did nothing. Does it get worse than this?

To Do

Something awesome from http://www.mayyoubeblessedmovie.com/420.html, which you should visit if you haven't already!

There's an old story about a group of monks living with their master in a Tibetan monastery. Their lives were disciplined and dedicated, and the atmosphere in which they lived harmonious and peaceful. People from villages far and wide flocked to the monastery to bask in the warmth of such a loving spiritual environment.

Then one day the master departed his earthly form. At first the monks continued on as they had in the past, but after a time, the discipline and devotion that had been hallmarks of their daily routine slackened. The number of villagers coming through the doors each day began to drop, and little by little, the monastery fell into a state of disrepair.

Soon the monks were bickering among themselves, some pointing fingers of blame, others filled with guilt. The energy within the monastery walls crackled with animosity.

Finally, the senior monk could take it no longer. Hearing that a spiritual master lived as a hermit two days walk away, the monk wasted no time in seeking him out. Finding the master in his forest hermitage, the monk told him of the sad state the monastery had fallen into and asked his advice.

The master smiled. "There is one living among you who is the incarnation of God. Because he is being disrespected by those around him, he will not show himself, and the monastery will remain in disrepair." With those words spoken, the master fell silent and would say no more.

All the way back to the monastery, the monk wondered which of his brothers might be the Incarnated One.
"Perhaps it is Brother Jaspar who does our cooking," the monk said aloud. But then a second later thought, "No, it can't be him. He is sloppy and ill tempered and the food he prepares is tasteless."

"Perhaps our gardener, Brother Timor, is the one," he then thought. This consideration, too, was quickly followed by denial. "Of course not" he said aloud. "God is not lazy and would never let weeds take over a lettuce patch the way Brother Timor has."

Finally, after dismissing each and every one of his brothers for this fault or that, the senior monk realized there were none left. Knowing it had to be one of the monks because the master had said it was, he worried over it a bit before a new thought dawned. "Could it be that the Holy One has chosen to display a fault in order to disguise himself?" he wondered. "Of course it could! That must be it!"

Reaching the monastery, he immediately told his brothers what the master had said and all were just as astonished as he had been to learn the Divine was living among them.

Since each knew it was not himself who was God Incarnate, each began to study his brothers carefully, all trying to determine who among them was the Holy One. But all any of them could see were the faults and failings of the others. If God was in their midst, he was doing a fine job of hiding himself. Finding the Incarnated One among such rubble would be difficult, indeed.

After much discussion, it was finally decided that they would all make an effort to be kind and loving toward each another, treating all with the respect and honor one would naturally give to the Incarnated One. If God insisted on remaining hidden, then they had no recourse but to treat each monk as if he were the Holy One.

Each so concentrated on seeing God in the other that soon their hearts filled with such love for one another the chains of negativity that held them bound fell away. As time passed, they began seeing God not just in each other, but in every one and everything. Days were spent in joyful reverence, rejoicing in His Holy Presence. The monastery radiated this joy like a beacon and soon the villagers returned, streaming through the doors as they had before, seeking to be touched by the love and devotion present there.

It was some time later that the senior monk decided to pay the master another visit to thank him for the secret he had revealed.

"Did you discover the identity of the Incarnated One?" the master asked.
"We did," the senior monk replied. "We found him residing in all of us."
The master smiled.

Affirmations

It has been 53 days (I know, because I just counted) since the bottom fell out from under me, and I am still alive. I'm proud of this. It's scary to admit this now, but there were some touch-and-go moments. Thank God for guardian angels and little boys named Alex! I am a fool if I honestly think that all of that is buried and gone- but I can hope that the next 53 days are more about rebuilding the bottom than falling through it.

I'm not sure I can adequately describe where I've been for the last couple of months, but I can say that it has been dark. I'm not entirely out of the dark yet, but at least now I can see light for longer periods of time. I'm happy about that.

When I first realized things were bad (like when I had to go on short term disability instead of going to work), I accumulated a lot of reading material that I thought would help me get through my tough time. I'm just now feeling like I can actually read without being cynical and wanting to track down the authors to bonk them over the heads with my rubber mallet (I don't have a rubber mallet, since George won't allow me to buy one, but I think owning one would enhance my life, since no one has ever suffered death-by-rubber-mallet but I would still benefit from the therapeutic act of bonking someone on the head). I don't suppose anyone who hasn't been depressed can understand how much it DID NOT help me when people (or reading materials) gave me logical reasons why I won't be depressed forever. When I was having a really bad time of things, hearing about how I'll one day feel better only magnified the fact that I didn't feel better right now. I once said to George that I wish I'd had the foresight to document my gloomy periods before, because then I would've understood how I got to the happy pictures I see of myself all over the place. When I don't feel well, seeing my smiling face in records of time past also emphasizes how bad I feel.   When I feel depressed, I am capable of logical thought. I KNOW that there is much in my life to rejoice over and embrace. I just don't FEEL like rejoicing or embracing. And I completely forget that I once endured and overcame- and more importantly, HOW I endured and overcame. I made a big mistake thinking that I could fix myself if I followed the steps in a guidebook- because depression isn't like overcoming an addiction or "getting over" an unpleasant experience. For me, it's about finding a way to survive by remembering HOW to survive. I just re-read what I wrote, and it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. I have noticed that I'm not able to say what I mean as well as I have been able to in the past- and amusingly, this still doesn't stop me from saying stuff. I may have mentioned the cognitive effects of my depression before- but just in case I haven't, this particular episode has messed with my ability to quickly process and produce information. I finally get why some of my students with processing issues looked at me blankly right after I gave them directions- it takes a minute for the comprehension to happen.

But anyway, now that I do feel a little better, I'm open to these "pep talks." One of the things I've read about that reminds me about what has worked in the past is making affirmations. When I was in junior high, I somehow came across the same idea, and I made lists of things that I liked about myself- things that made me feel strong. I'm sad that I couldn't even begin to think about creating such a list until now, but what matters most is that now I can, so here goes:

I am a survivor. I have survived a lifetime of feeling inadequate, unworthy, and unwanted.  I can do it.
I am resilient. I can "bounce back" when bad things happen to and around me.
I am strong. I can withstand physical and emotional pain and it won't destroy me.
I am worthy of love. I can give it away and I deserve to get it back.
I am smart. I have good ideas, and even when my ideas aren't good, I can learn from my mistakes.
I am funny. I can laugh and help others laugh.
I have a lot to offer this world. I am leaving it better than I found it by raising Alex, teaching others, sharing, and being kind.

Here's some advice

Here's some advice: don't eat sandwiches that have mayonnaise on them when you've left them in the car for a couple of hours. This is one of those NO DUH pieces of advice that I totally failed to follow. Yesterday I bought a yummy patty melt from Sonic, but then I went to pick Alex up from my parents' house (where he has been spending A LOT of time lately), and I left the sandwich in the car, thinking I'd just be a few minutes. Minutes turned into hours before I found myself headed home again. To make a long story short, I was hungry at about 9 p.m., so I started to eat this patty melt, since it was readily available. And honestly, I'd forgotten it had mayo on it, so it's not like I made a conscious decision to poison myself, especially since Alex had a bit of the sandwich too. WELL, today I couldn't quite get out of bed. I had a horrible headache and my stomach was doing flips and turns and other things it shouldn't have been doing. I hardly ate anything today (two chicken nuggets, a cup of lemonade, some water, and a toaster strudel, which I'm hoping I'll be able to keep down), and my stomach is making those loud growls I'm all too familiar with. They're the growls of post-really-bad-upset-stomach. I'm pretty sure it was the sandwich that made me sick today. Either that or my being really upset that my paper STILL hasn't been written or turned in. Either way, be sure to heed my advice. I hate to admit it, but George may have a valid argument when he doesn't want me to eat stuff that's been sitting out more than 15 minutes.

Oh yes, I'm the great procrastinator...

I have a paper to write. I've known about it for almost a month, but I still haven't written it. Luckily, I know I can do this- the paper needs only be a couple pages long. I even have an idea what I will write. I just haven't written it yet. I started the first class in my Training and Development Leadership doctoral program a little over two weeks ago, which is the class for which I need to write the paper. I am REALLY enjoying the reading I have to do, because it's all about considering human potential and recognizing and developing natural talents…all stuff I am interested in anyway. I'm overjoyed about getting to think about personality and development AND earn a doctorate too- it's one of the most wonderful things to happen to me in the last six months. It's lucky for me that I can work at my own pace, since the "class" takes place online. Plus instead of panicking about turning a paper in a week late, I can just work twice as hard for the next couple of weeks and get back on track- all without having my grades suffer negatively. Except for the cost (it'll be close to $50K by the time all is said and done-yikes!), I couldn't be happier about my decision to earn my doctorate. I worried for the longest time that it is a frivolous endeavor, since I can most likely accomplish all of my career goals with a shorter (and cheaper) masters program. In talking with the dean of the College of Teacher Education and Leadership at ASU's west campus about it, I even learned that many women question the need for a doctorate- especially because the process by which one is traditionally earned is less than family-friendly. I can only shrug my shoulders and say that it's something I want to do; something for which I am truly proud of myself. I don't know why, but more than ever before, being accepted into the program has been the most compelling proof to me that I am smart and a hard worker who is worthy of joining the ranks of amazing professors and organizational leaders. Up until I was accepted into this doctoral program, I often thought that many of my accomplishments were somehow the product of really good luck. Sometimes I look back at the things I've done and I'm truly awed…like I'm reading a book or seeing a movie about an undoubtedly fictitious person. In my "everyday" moments, I certainly do not feel smart or amazing; for instance, when I'm stuck in traffic, I don't feel brilliant. But now, as I work toward this huge goal, I feel that a seed has been planted within me, and it's starting to sprout- I'm starting to really believe that I'm responsible for the good things that have happened to me.

I am a functioning mass of numbness when it comes to most everything else in my life at the moment. I say I'm functioning because I don't sit on the couch all day- I actually put some of Alex's laundry away today! But I'm definitely numb, which I suppose is better than feeling a sad rage. I've noticed that I have an emotional cycle- or spiral. I'll feel fine (my medicine works as it should), which puts me at the top of the cycle/spiral. I'll feel a bit on edge, which is a downward motion. If I'm on edge for a while, or things are particularly stressful, I keep "going down" until I get perilously close to "rock bottom." If I am at the bottom, I'm not functioning anymore, which is what I have experienced off and on since the beginning of March (and at other times in my life, like senior year of high school and 5th grade). I can start moving upward again, which is what I think it happening now- and that means I function (I actually get out of bed and take care of myself and others), but I feel emotionally bland. Hopefully I'm going to continue going up. Sometimes it seems that I slipped into this depressive episode and I can just as easily slip out of it (especially because this is all due to wacked-out hormones). When I do feel well, I get my hopes up thinking that my hormones have fixed themselves and I will start feeling normal again. But I saw an endocrinologist on Tuesday who ordered all kinds of tests and asked me a bunch of questions- so the reality is that the hormones are still not as they should be.

This morning I visited a Sonora Quest Labs patient care center (why aren't they just called locations anymore??) to have blood drawn. From what I could understand in doing my Google research, the doctor gave me dexamethasone to suppress my adrenal gland function in order to test my pituitary gland, but also to find out if my adrenals have changed in their output since my last round of tests in February. I felt AWFUL after taking the dexamethasone. It made me feel sleepy and a bit grumpy- in fact, I couldn't really wake up today until well after 11 a.m. Now I have a bit of a sore throat (apparently, this medicine leaves you a bit vulnerable to illness) that I'm hoping will go away. I have not felt that exhausted since the early part of March, which tells me that making myself take several million supplements is helping somewhat (I'm taking multivitamins with heavy emphasis on B and C vitamins and DHEA, as well as a large dose of omega 3 fatty acids, or something like that). In a few weeks, I get to go back to have a butt-load of blood drawn to test all of my hormone levels- if it's a hormone, it's listed on my lab paperwork. My doctor is definitely experienced and wise, but unfortunately, he also has a thick Chinese accent that makes him a bit hard to understand. From what I gathered at my appointment, he wants to make sure there are no abnormal pituitary growths (hence the blood test this morning), and determine the extent of the adrenal fatigue. He wasn't too worried about my irregular periods or my polycystic ovaries, since I have been pregnant and I am still ovulating (hence the periods). For the first time since I started feeling yucky (in November/December), I actually am hopeful that a true diagnosis will be made. Plus I'm glad that I've listened to my instincts and not followed the advice of doctors that wouldn't have solved any of my problems (like the naturopath who wanted to treat polycystic ovarian syndrome or the OB/GYN who told me I most likely had chronic fatigue syndrome). I have another appointment with the endocrine guy in mid-May.

I suffered from severe abdominal pain in my lower left side on Easter weekend. I was worried it was an ovarian cyst (if you know about Eara's experience, you certainly understand), so George took me to Urgent Care. Curiously, the doctor asked me all kinds of questions, did a pelvic exam AND sent me for a CT scan of my abdomen to try and figure out what was causing the pain, but everything appeared normal and nothing suggested my life was in danger, so he finally (and reluctantly) gave me a prescription for Vicodin. But not before he asked me if I'd ever considered visiting a homeopath (doctor who practices homeopathic medicine). I shared that I'd already seen a naturopath, but he insisted that the homeopath experience would be different and possibly more enlightening. Given my adventures through health diagnosis navigation, I agreed I'd give a homeopath a shot. So I'll see one on May 21st. Supposedly, the remedy they suggest will be one that addresses all of my issues, from the depression to the mysterious side pain, to the crazy hormones. Here's hoping.

If I have learned anything in the last six months, it is that I should listen to my body more closely and act based on what it's telling me instead of putting off the inevitable "breakdown." I know now that I probably could've felt better sooner (and possibly have avoided my major depressive episode all together?) had I taken the time to realize that my level of exhaustion was not normal, even though I'd been sick quite a bit and I have a two year old. Ever the teacher, I have to point out the lessons here! I must encourage others to listen to their bodies. Listen to what your body tells you! Pain means you need to stop. Exhaustion means you need rest. Tension means you need to eliminate stress. And be aware of your instincts. Doctors are people who are trained in medicine and caring for us, BUT they are not always right, just like we're not always right about whatever it is that's our line of expertise. Had I not listened to mine, I might be sitting around, thinking I am doomed to always feeling so tired.

Hi, my name is Darna, and I'm a complainer.

I'm a complainer. I've been in denial about this, but I can't pretend any longer. I'm a complainer, and I'm most likely comfortable when I'm complaining. I'm pretty sure I haven't always been such a complainer, but I won't dare announce that I have been a non-complainer in the past. Although I do remember days when I wasn't so quick to start whining. Those days are gone.

I have a lot to complain/whine about these days. I wish I could say that I rise above it and only think of pleasantly positive things, but I don't. If something seems difficult, I have to wonder if it's because of my depression, or if it's just because it's a hard thing to do. But either way, I'll complain about how hard it is. Often, since no one is around, I'll complain to myself. How sad. In my head I'm constantly complaining about the state of my house. I've never been freakishly neat (a trait I've adamantly avoided), but I'm pretty sure my home has never been so…..cluttered. I don't have enough energy, and when will the energy come back? I start projects, but then I can't finish them because I get bored. Except that's a ridiculous thing, because I have so many things I could do that I don't really have enough downtime to be bored. So I complain about having so much to do, even though I do very little to accomplish anything, and I feel ashamed about my complaints because I know other people have much busier lives than I have. I don't like feeling this way- disjointed and cognitively fuzzy.

My huge complaint these days is about how I feel. I'm miserable sometimes. Truly. Today I felt such despair so quickly that I once again was tempted by the big sleep. It's scary how tantalizing the idea of not having to deal with anything anymore can be. I know I'm supposed to call someone when I feel this way, but I'm often at a loss when the feeling hits; I don't want to call George because he gets anxious, and I don't want to bother Eara, because she has a lot on her plate, and I don't want to unload my burden on any friends. My parents would be the last people I would call when I feel this way….and the idea of talking is exhausting anyway. It makes it worse that I don't want to call anyone, though a small voice in my head keeps telling me that there are people in my life who would much rather I call than hurt myself. I isolate myself, and I'm not sure how to quit doing that. I need help, but I don't want to bother anyone to help me. It would be a lot easier if I could not be myself…maybe I could make some progress.

Since I didn’t call anyone, I decided to hang out on my bed. Alex wasn't entirely happy with that, as he wanted me to play blocks. (He says, "Play blocks? Okay, play blocks," as he pulls on one of my fingers AT LEAST TEN TIMES A DAY.) This time I didn't move or respond. We had a tough day, and there were times that I'm horrified to admit that I wanted to yank his little arms off so he would stop throwing things. I considered locking him in his room, but that seemed cruel and I'm pretty nervous about doing anything that could leave him with mental/emotional scars, understandably. Not to mention my fear that he would figure out how to climb his dresser and jump off of it (he did a lot of leaping off the couch this afternoon, much to my dismay. Is that gut-wrenching fear when it comes to his safety ever going to go away???). Our day was tough because he was tired but refused to nap (did I mention he was up at 4 am?). Couple that with my agitation, and it was torture. But we survived. At about 6:30 pm, he finally agreed to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich after turning his nose up at other foods I offered for dinner. What he really wanted was cake, but I refused to give him some of George's birthday cake (he's consumed enough sugar between Easter and today that he could go without sugar for the rest of the year), so he threw a five-minute tantrum. Eventually, he calmed down and became agreeable. Then we read some books, and by 7:30 he was snoring away. He's so sweet when he's sleeping. And he was adorable as he brought me book after book about trains and when we talked about circles and he pointed out that his drawer knobs are circles. We even counted them, though he kept insisting nine came after three and had to count to ten even though there were only six knobs. I'd planned to give him a bath tonight, but there was no way it would've gone well. He likes to throw water out of the tub….and that might have sent me over the edge of the edge I'd gone over earlier in the day. I'm a horrible mother because my son went to bed with horrendously dirty feet from running around all day barefoot. And I'm also a horrible mother because he doesn't bathe every day. Doesn't that count as neglect?

My complaints and general negativity have taken their toll on George. He's never been one to focus on the positive, so now that I'm not my idealistic, optimistic self, things are pretty dreary. Instead of being grateful that he doesn't tell me to go away and come back when I've gotten my act together, I rant and rave and make him listen to my complaints about how little he does around the house and how he must not love me because he doesn't gush about how much he loves me. He rarely yells at me, and even when he does, he is good about having issues with my actions, rather than with me. I don't mean to paint him as an angel, because he has major issues with expressing himself and his emotions, but the fact is that George really is trying. He tries to do everything I ask. I've been a witch (replace w with b). He's still nice to me, even though I'm probably laying the foundation for a stress-induced stroke. Someday I will make this up to him. I just am too exhausted to figure it out right now. In the meantime, I have realized that I was holding him to unfairly and unrealistically high expectations. I'm humbled now by the fact that I have to see him for who he really is and what he really does and not keep yearning for everything I want exactly as I want it whenever I want it.

George and I went to a parent/teacher conference at Alex's school on Monday. Apparently, Alex is wonderful except for his constant need to run around the room (can anyone say ADHD?? But I'm joking about that….kind of). He is even exhibiting leadership and social skills, since he can get all of the boys in his class running around the room with him. I can't help but be proud of my little ring-leader. It is really nice to hear someone else say that my child is delightful and funny. I can totally understand why some parents dread conferences now- because they haven't had a teacher point out their child's wonderful qualities. If I ever find myself on the opposite end of the table again, I'm totally going to emphasize the terrific things about my students, no matter how devious or lazy they can be, if only because I think that compliments about our children stroke our egos and make us realize that there must be something right about us if it has come out in our children. Or something like that. When I consider that who I am is reflected through Alex, I can't help but cry because I'm so grateful that the happiness and the impulsive hugs and kisses and the singing and the creativity are there. There must be happiness somewhere within me, but I've lost it now. Oh, how I wish it wasn't so hard to find it again. I have a feeling that if I hang out with Alex enough (on days when he's not gotten up at an unusual hour AND has had a proper nap, of course), it'll come back.

growing bladder + 10-20 oz.=3 x (leaky diaper+wet mattress)

Before I started feeling really miserable (I'm thinking it was back in September), I think I was truly starting to accept myself. I was developing an understanding of my limitations in a way that allowed me to feel at peace instead of feeling like a victim; I held on to the fact of the amazing power of my body and the miracle it produced (Alex) as a way to combat the inner desperation I sometimes feel about my body; and I was no longer afraid of sadness or anger, because they were controllable. I wish I could say that I know exactly when things started to change, but I don't know, and I think that's because the deterioration of my health has been a gradual process.

For me to even acknowledge that my health has deteriorated is a major step for me. Up until Friday, when I visited my primary doctor and heard a brief account of my health over the last year, I think I honestly believed that what I'm experiencing right now is a minor setback, like a cold or the flu; something that will be gone quickly and then I can get back to living my life the way I used to with the range of emotions I used to feel and the capability to multitask (I'm woefully unable to do it now, since doing more than one thing will result in 1- frustration and potential shut-down on my part and 2- any tasks I'm trying to do simultaneously being done poorly, at best.). I finally get that something is really wrong with me that left unaddressed could limit and shorten my life, and what's more, it has sunken in that fixing what's wrong will take a couple months at the least. It's going to take a major paradigm shift (I use that word at the risk of regurgitating all the Stephen Covey stuff I studied my freshman year of college in Leadership class)- and the thought is so overwhelming that I wish I could just go buy a new brain at Target. They'd probably have a better deal than Walmart, as far as quality for price goes; besides, Walmart would probably end up unethically taking down smaller brain stores/factories in third world countries to achieve their amazingly low price on brains.

I almost didn't go to my doctor appointment because I was so afraid that she wouldn't believe that my depression is so debilitating. How ridiculous is that? Somehow, I've convinced myself that people will automatically think that I'm not really depressed and assume I'm trying to cheat the system. Where is this paranoia coming from?? Especially because so many people have been wonderful to me about this, including my doctor yesterday. (I had to see her for my short term disability paperwork to get filled out because my psychiatrist doesn't do paperwork, which caused me to shed a lot of tears when I heard that.) Anyway, the rest of the day was fairly uneventful until Alex woke up from his nap and decided to "help" me with putting stuff away by throwing a ton of cards EVERYWHERE. I can't explain how I crumple when Alex makes an amazing mess that will take more than a minute to clean up. I know he's a little boy who is experimenting and experiencing and learning….but the fact remains that I already feel overwhelmed by life most of the time, and when Alex gets into one of his "messy" moods, it pushes me over the edge. Luckily, instead of flying into a rage (as my mother used to do), I shut down. I usually go numb and sit on the couch until the numbness goes away, and then I either leave the mess (no energy to clean it up) or I start to clean up a little at a time. If Alex is agreeable (meaning he's had a proper nap), I can get him to help me. Otherwise, he can very quickly make the mess worse than it was in the first place. It doesn't ever seem that I'll accomplish anything significant around the house, which I guess is okay since Carla, our fabulous angel-disguised-as-a-cleaning-lady, insists on doing more than I ask. For instance, this past Wednesday she brought all kinds of books and toys over for Alex. And she picked up dog poop and cleaned off my patio; things which are totally unrelated to cleaning the house. But anyway, since I've become a mother I've had to accept the fact that any plans I make are indefinite until they actually happen, and there will always be something on the floor- blocks, cards, Legos, cars, paperclips, whatever…if Alex can get to it (and sadly, he can figure out a way to get to just about everything), it will end up on the floor.

So let me get to the newest gift of motherhood: leaky diapers. But not leaky diapers like the ones when Alex was born and we had to find a diaper that fit well; oh, no, we're talking diapers that get so full that they can't absorb any more so that urine flows freely from baby to bed. Would it be a big deal if Alex slept on his own bed? No, not really, because he has a waterproof mattress. But does Alex sleep on his own bed? Actually yes, but he gets up in the middle of the night to come sleep on mine. THAT is the big deal. It happened three times before George suggested we get a waterproof mattress cover. George is brilliant! Why didn't I think of that sooner?? I suppose some day we'll have to limit Alex's drinking liquids after lunchtime, since it seems like he saves all his liquid from the afternoon for peeing while he's sleeping, but in the meantime, Alex seems content with the way things are. Oh, and he has found a new place to pee: my shoes. Yesterday he took off his diaper, ran around the house gleefully due to the free feeling, and then ran into my closet and peed on my new shoes. Isn't motherhood glamourous?