Cookies make everything better.

I feel a little more connected to the world today. I can tell because I've actually made phone calls to friends and I want them to call back. It's not always the case- in fact, I have been known to wish for complete alone-ness recently. And Alex and I have played together more throughout the day- and I was actually able to get him juice and cookies before he cried desperately because I wasn't responding to his pulling on my fingers to get me up off the couch. He smiled happily when I said he could have the Oreos (I'm usually chanting, "No more cookies.") and did a little dance. Cookies can fix anything- even a mom who doesn't seem to ever get off the couch is forgiven if she gives cookies. Even though I've felt okay all day, I still feel like I'm being held prisoner by The Dirty Bubble (those of you who have ever heard of Mermaid-Man and Barnacle Boy know what I'm talking about). I can feel happy, but not too happy; I am curious, but not too curious....I can see, but not too clearly because there's a film over everything.

I saw my psychologist today. I have really come to like her and I often feel that sitting on her couch for an hour is really visiting a friend who gets me and George and my issues.... oh yeah, and who happens to be covered by insurance. She filled out my FMLA qualifying paperwork and asked me how I felt about not going to work for a while. Her advice is to stay away from work for as long as possible- like until May 31st. I feel like a loser whenever I think about how I can't even teach half a day. As if feeling like a loser isn't enough, I now may have to take my FMLA time (which may not even be approved because I may not have worked 1250 hours in the last year since I'm only half-time) unpaid because though I qualify for the district-offered short term disability, which pays a measly 66 and 2/3 percent of my salary (still, better than nothing), my psychiatrist has a policy of not filling out paperwork, and that qualifying paperwork must be signed by an MD or DO. George says not to worry too much, since I can probably ask our primary care physician to do it....but it's just one more thing to worry about. I couldn't NOT worry, even if I really, really tried. It's one of the gifts of depression.

Speaking of gifts, a while ago I read about embracing all of life's gifts, including that which brings us intense pain or confusion. So I'm supposed to embrace and accept my depression, instead of being mortified by the fact that my mind "plays" tricks on me by making me believe that things are really bad and can never get better. Obviously, I'm not ready to embrace it, and I don't know how to get ready. I have a feeling that accepting that depression is a good thing is one of my key obstacles. How exactly do I stop feeling like my body is worthless and my mind is weak?

Three words: restless, approaching (versus meeting or exceeding), disjointed
Rating: 7 (an improvement! I actually went out in public and accomplished something today!)

In and out....and in.....and out

I'm very tempted to stop blogging. George read my blog and said that I don't paint him in a very good light. I just read my blog and it's so depressing to read about how depressed I am! I don't know how much it's helping….and I'd much rather write about funny things, like Alex's latest adventures. Except I don't find all of them very funny, especially when I'm by myself to deal with the consequences of his adventures (most of them are messy). Last Sunday night I had a bad depressive episode. I wasn't feeling well on Sunday in the first place, but I didn't see Sunday night coming. Let's just say that I sat in the dark of my office (formerly known as George's Den and Tommy's room) and pictured the nothingness after pulling a trigger…and it seemed like a relief. Scary, because in my past suicidal moments, I always thought using a gun would be too messy.

The past week hasn't been good. I can't say there weren't good moments, because there were. Like getting to see Tommy and Alex actually play together instead of witnessing Tommy go after one of Alex's toys and Alex retaliating by giving Tommy a good shove onto the floor. And I suppose there have been other things, like how good my skin looked yesterday after I put on my foundation/moisturizer. It just seems like for every good thing, there are about 100 not-so-good things. And if one more person asks me what's wrong, I might scream at them (but mostly my mother), so here's what's not-so-good: George didn't come home until after 9 a.m. on Wednesday morning. He called on Tuesday night and said he'd be late coming home. I figured it was because of work. He sent me a text message that said, "Way drunk. Sleeping it off. Be home later," at about 5 a.m. I got up, which is a good indicator of how alarmed I was, since I usually can't drag myself out of bed until well after 8 a.m. I was worried about where he was. I was worried about if he was by himself or with friends. I was worried, worried, worried. I didn't know who to call- I called Eara, and I ended up texting some of his friends. When he did finally call after 9 a.m. on his way home from wherever he was, he got upset with me when I said I sent text messages to his friends. He said I overreacted, especially because he'd left me a text message. Luckily, my anger cleared the fog in my head and allowed me to see that no, I was not overreacting, and he had no right to be angry. I don't remember much else about the day. But I do remember him telling me that his friends wouldn't have told me anything if they had known what was going on or where he was. Something about a "cop code." All I know is that even though I'm George's wife, I don't get to know anything unless he wants me to know. And his friends, who may be able to know, won't tell me because I'm obviously not important enough to be privy to information about George…unless he says it's okay. I'm STILL mad about it! I have felt for a long time that I come a distant second to the job- maybe even third behind Alex- but nothing made it more clear than this stupid "it's the way cops are" attitude that George throws in my face at times. I should clarify that I am not mad at George anymore- though I am worried about any time that he starts to drink a lot (which he insists he does all the time, but then why is it that it seems to pick up whenever there's trouble in our relationship?).

The Phoenix Police Department is not the only thing "wrong" right now. I feel guilty about Alex's hearing. I think I've thought something was wrong with his hearing and speech for over a year, but it's only in the past month or so that I've actively done anything about it. My poor baby. There's nothing that can help me get over feeling guilty, except for maybe him to turn out to be a normal speaker by the time he starts kindergarten. But that's a while away.

Then there's my overwhelming exhaustion. I am often so tired during the day that I must nap in order to function (not that I do a whole lot in my waking hours most of the time). In fact, it took the embarassment of having dirty laundry all over the place for me to do something about it…like stuff it into plastic bags and throw it into the laundry room…we've hired a new cleaning lady, Carla. She's remarkable and likeable and definitely likes to talk. She and Alex get along famously, since Alex seems to have inherited my father's gift of gab. But anyway, I did more work on Wednesday afternoon than I've probably done all month. And why? Because I was sooooooo worried about how dirty my cleaning lady would think my house was! That's another thing- I care way too much about what other people think, to the point of obsession.

Alex is obsessed with liquids right now. A few weeks ago he had water flowing from the dispenser in the kitchen- an entire gallon must've emptied before I realized what was going on. Then there's his favorite- take a drink and let the liquid dribble out of your mouth and down your shirt. This morning I gave him milk in a cup- no lid or straw- and he was fascinated by it. So he dipped his donut into it repeatedly. Just now, he was awed by how quickly his juice flowed from his cup to the floor. One of these days he's going to figure out how to open the child-proof door lock, and then I'm sure I'll catch him playing in the toilet.

George said he had a meltdown last night. I figured one was coming, since he practically had a heart attack (numb arm and chest pain, etc.) on Sunday night when I told him what I was thinking. Anyway, he told me today that he's most frustrated that there's nothing he can do about my depression. When we met and I finally told him what was going on with me, I told him that I didn't think I could see him anymore. Ever the white knight (even now, when he knows that the battle could be long and weary), George swore we'd get through this and he'd take care of me. The last week I've been insistent that if he can't handle me or this, he can certainly "be excused" from us. Today he informed me that it was his decision whether or not he would leave, and he chooses to stay. Though I know he loves me, I can't help but feel that we're doomed. He can't fix this.

He wants to go back to working in the Maryvale precinct. Maryvale, where his accident happened. Maryvale, where he had chronic heartburn and hated his bosses and his squads and felt that nothing he did made a difference. I keep begging him to not make the change. But it doesn't look like anything I say makes a difference in this case.

Frequently Asked Questions

How are you? What's wrong? How are you feeling today? Are you going to work today? Will you continue your studies? What about Alex? Do you need help? What do you want me to do?

These are just some of the questions I've been asked a lot lately. I've been responding, "I don't know," a lot, or saying, "I've been better." There are also the standard "Yes," and "No." Then there are the questions I ask myself: What's wrong with me? Why can't I feel better? Why can't the doctors agree on what is wrong with me? Will the Mayo Clinic Internal Medicine doctor be able to figure it out? Will I have to drastically change my lifestyle? Should I really take time off from my current teaching job, since it's one of my major sources of stress? Why isn't my depression medicine working? How long is this going to last?

Unfortunately, there are no clear answers. I keep thinking about a quote I used to have up on the wall in my childhood bedroom (I had a quote-a-day calendar two years in a row, and each day that I liked the quote on the calendar, I stuck it on my wall. It was actually pretty cool- looked like a quote museum, and whenever I felt dumb and lost, I could just read my wall and feel enlightened.) that said, "There are years that ask questions, and there are years that answer." I want to say Pearl Bailey said that, but I can't remember. This is DEFINITELY a year of questions.

I have no short term memory these days. I keep asking the same questions because I can't remember the answers. For instance, I asked Eara THREE TIMES today if she had cold water. Yikes! If I don't write things down, they could be lost forever, like Amelia Earhart. Even if I do write something down, there's no guarantee I'll remember why I wrote it or what it means. So not only are people asking me the same questions, I'm doing it to some people. Crazy.

I haven't been writing because I have been sooooooo tired by the time 7 p.m. rolls around that I just sit down and be still. I've caught myself just sitting, and staring into space, absorbed in a fog of nothingness, really, because I'm not necessarily aware of what's going on around me. Yesterday was a curious exception to the sitting still. Alex fell asleep at 3:45 p.m., naked (except for his diaper- a recently developed favorite activity) and slept until 5 p.m.-ish. He asked for cookies when he got up (interestingly, "cookie" was one word he learned to say clearly right away), so we walked to the kitchen and I got him a snack-size bag of Chips Ahoy (the 100-calorie packs, for those of you who didn't know that they exist and/or that they taste like the real thing, and so much so that my finicky toddler LOVES them). He started to cry. I asked him what was wrong. He cried harder. I got him juice. I had to go to the bathroom, so I started to walk out of the kitchen. His cries became louder and more intense. I went back to him and took him by the hand. He screamed and cried and threw his cookies all over the floor, but then seemed extremely distressed by not having any cookies in his bag, so he then threw himself onto the floor. "Spongebob Squarepants" was on TV, so every now and then he'd stop crying and watch, but then he would just start crying again. Needless to say, I was beside myself. I didn't know what to do. I grabbed him and held him tightly, but he didn't want that. I followed him around the house, but he was so upset that he couldn't even gesture for what he wanted. When Alex cries I feel especially bad because he has little-to-no verbal language skills, and his frustration then becomes my shared frustration. It's kind of hard to be the calm grown-up when you wish you could throw yourself on the floor and cry too.

After nearly thirty minutes of this crying/screaming, I broke down and started to cry. I'd already called George (at work) a few times, who was quick to offer suggestions to get Alex to stop crying (none helped) and who had the nerve to ask me, "What do you want me to do?" I wanted to reach into the phone and put my hands around his neck to make it crystal clear that I am really unable to handle stressful and upsetting situations like this and I absolutely need help, but I am also unable to articulate what I need when I am feeling panicked and scared and frustrated and convinced that I am the worst mother ever. I did tell him that I thought I was the worst mother ever. He didn't argue with me or tell me I was wrong. So now I'm convinced that on some level, he thinks he's a better parent than I am.

That's another wonderful gift of my gray cloud, aka depression. I am an expert at assuming that people think the worst of me. When in doubt, I believe that people are upset with me, or they don't like me, or they're talking about me behind my back. What is nuts is that I KNOW this is not always true. But when I don't feel well- when my medicine isn't working as it should- even things that I know are true are things that I question. This morning I asked George if he loved me. He didn't come right out and say so until I asked him to tell me that he loved me, and then he said it (but maybe it was because I insisted?). My heart felt broken and I seriously question whether or not he loves me. He sure isn't acting like it these days. Once, a while ago, he told me that he was mad about my depressive episodes because he wondered if they were real, or if I was faking. Since George's mother is a piece of work who is manipulative (and a bunch of other unpleasant things), he grew up thinking that all women are manipulative and they don't ever say what they mean. Though we have had many a fight about how NOT his mother I am, he still doesn't entirely trust that my words and feelings are genuine. So right now, I wonder if he's thinking I'm faking? I would LOVE to be faking, because I would absolutely stop faking right now and not be considering leaving my job for an extended amount of time to rest and take care of myself so that my adrenal glands can start working again so I can not be depressed even though I am taking high doses of antidepressants!! I wish I were faking. Being thought of poorly for faking seems better than going through my unstable emotional condition.

I saw both my psychiatrist and my psychologist on Tuesday. I also have a primary care physician, an Ob/Gyn, an optometrist, a dentist, a naturopathic doctor, and soon, an internal medicine specialist and an endocrinologist. Wow. Maybe I should throw a party for all these health care providers. And invite my insurance company, because I'm sure CIGNA is LOVING that I am single-handedly funding their company this year.

Anyway, my psychiatrist, whose opinion I very much respect, did not feel it is wise to change the dosage of my antidepressants, since my problems are all hormone-related, and until the hormones are back in balance, no amount of antidepressants would help. Though this means I have to continue feeling the way I feel, it also means that I haven't gone crazy or lost my mind or become mentally/emotionally weak to cause my depression to come back so severely- it means that my body's hormonal catastrophe is messing with my head. Literally. Okay. So the depression is not my fault. When I told my psychologist I was nervous about going back to work (I didn't go to work on Monday or Tuesday) because I felt people would think negatively about me and my absences and that I felt guilty, she threw her hands up in the air and said, "Of course you feel guilty, Darna! Your mother instilled guilt in you when she blamed you for everything as a child. She invented ways to make it your fault. But it's not your fault. You haven't done anything wrong." Fireworks went off in my head. She's right. My mom blamed me for everything, from speeding tickets to why her friends didn't call to why her marriage was so unhealthy. She used to always ask me why I was so bad. She threatened to tell people at school "who I really was," suggesting that if they knew they would all hate me. I was afraid of her. For a long time. I thought she was right. It turns out that I was an absolute angel compared to some children (especially Alex!) and what she considered bad was a bright child's natural curiosity shown by asking questions about almost everything (my mom STILL hates that about me, I think. She doesn't like to be questioned because she sees it as challenging her authority.). But I still was anxious. I called George at work. He agreed that I did nothing wrong. I felt a little better.

My first day back at work was a nice one. The kids were happy to see me. And amazingly, I pulled things together and was prepared for my lessons. But I was so tired. I came home and cried because I was still reminded, through e-mail messages and things that were said, that I cause(d) a lot of needless stress for my students and my colleagues.

Yesterday my heart raced and I was dizzy for much of the day. When I got home, I started to experience chest pain. And this morning, I woke up shaking/trembling and couldn't stop until well after I got to school. There have been a lot of unusual physical things going on with me.

I subscribe to a daily mental health newsletter, specifically tailored to discuss depression-related topics. Last night I read all about studies that are showing that children suffer brain damage when exposed to extreme stress- particularly those stressful situations caused by physical, sexual, or emotional abuse. There were pictures (CAT scans?) showing the brains of abused children and those who were fortunate to not be abused. I sobbed. Most of my life I've been lucky to be smart. I was identified gifted in 3rd grade and had stellar grades in my accelerated and AP classes. I graduated suma cum laude from ASU (only one 'B' in four years) after having earned several merit-based scholarships. But I sobbed. Because I know my brain was damaged. I have severe depression which requires medication to help my brain chemicals be normal. How many more great things could I have done if I'd not had a damaged brain? Would I have been able to pull off starting a Summerbridge in Phoenix? (Summerbridge is a really cool educational workshop. Google it if you're interested.) Would I have pursued medical school? Would I have had enough confidence to go after the many things I didn't go after because I thought I wasn't good enough? I don't know. And I guess it's a waste of time to wonder. It makes me that much more determined to make sure Alex NEVER suffers as I did. I'd rather die than subject him to that. And I think a crime of passion could happen if my mother ever subjects him to it.

I'm angrier the past two days. Mostly at myself, but also at my parents. Eara said that my dad thinks he had a part in the development of my depression. Wow! He must've really been in denial, especially in sixth grade when I gave him a big stack of research to support my theory that I was being emotionally abused by my mother. You know what he said when I did that? He said, "We'll talk about it later." But we never did. In college, I did make him pay for my therapy. I insisted he owed me that much. I was much angrier back then- but he was still convinced that I just needed to pull myself up by the bootstaps back then too. And then there's my mother, who calls me up to four times a day to ask me if I'm okay and what's wrong and if I need her help. I usually let her leave a message.

I'm told I should be honest and open about how I feel as I "write" because it will help me. I hope it starts helping soon. I did feel better today after I left school. I was genuinely happy to see Alex and I laughed and joked with both Alex and Tommy. But now I'm having a hot flash. I'm going to try to stick my head in the freezer.

Rating: 5

Three Words: spacey, angry, tired

Survival of the Fittest?

I had a disheartening revelation today while driving south on State Route 51: if I'd been around in the days when Darwin's theory applied (though some argue it still applies today), I wouldn't have survived. I was a sickly kid, I'm blind as a bat without contacts or glasses, and then there's this mental health issue. This isn't a good thought to ponder when you're already questioning your existence, but it just popped into my head. A lot of my thoughts are like that these days. My thinking is fuzzy because my mind seems to be experiencing some kind of numbing fog, and every now and then there's a moment of clarity, but it's some kind of negative message that makes me wonder why I can't spend the rest of my life in bed.

I woke up this morning and I was irritable. I grumpily got out of bed, but I didn't have much time to be irritated because Alex wanted to play with his cars. He can say "play" now, and he usually says it as he pulls on your hand to get you to sit on the floor. George slept. I feel bad for him because he is facing a lot of stresses without the addition of my problems, so even though I wanted desperately to sleep, I let him sleep while I kept Alex occupied.

Then George left on a mission (to prepare for a big test tomorrow) and I was left alone with Alex, who most likely was just himself. But I felt that he was being naughtier than usual, and I was so irritated with him that I contemplated locking myself in a room to get away from him. When I told George that I'd had this urge, his face practically turned to stone- any threat to Alex, even if it's just perceived- gets this reaction from him. I still wonder how "bad" Alex really was. Maybe I was just so irritable that I picked up on every negative thing? I don't know. But it can't be good for my son to deal with a mom who doesn't think he can do anything wonderful, even if it's only sometimes. When I'm well, Alex is an amazing miracle who is sweet and funny. When I'm not well, he is still that, but it's harder for me to realize. As if I'm not frustrated enough, now I worry that I'm a bad mother, and I'm frustrated that I can't think of one good thing I do for him.

In a rare glimpse of my true self today, I made a funny comment that made George laugh this evening. I can't remember what I said, but I remember laughing, and it felt good.

Rating: 3 (When will the day be a 10 again?)
3 Words: angry, frustrated, irritated