A year ago I found out that my youngest child had been accused of having child pornography. He told me not to worry, and said it was no big deal, just a former roommate that had accused him unjustly.
Two months ago I found out he had accepted a plea deal.
Yesterday they took him to prison.
There's no way to describe the utter pain I feel. The shining future that I envisioned for my son is no more. He will be required to register as a sex-offender. He will be restricted from using computers and the internet, and will not be able to be in any position of authority over potential victims. I don't know if he has a problem or it was a stupid teenage mistake. I don't know if I want to know. I've looked back over his childhood, asking myself if there was any sign, any clue, and I can't find anything. There's nothing, no hint, not the whisper of a suggestion that this might happen.
It's like a death. I don't know who he is. As his mother, I don't know who I am. What he's done goes against everything I stand for, personally and professionally. I interview juvenile sex offenders every day.
This morning, I interviewed another one. This kid is young, and clearly has some sort of developmental problem. For the first time, I had some insight into the pain and confusion his mother must feel. She is a teacher. She has been raised in a military family. But she held it together. And so did I.
Then at the end of the interview, she asked me what would happen if he was turned down again for treatment. Twice I'd recommended treatment for this child, specifically residential treatment that is specifically designed for childhood sex offenders. The rate of recidivism in juveniles is much lower than that of adults. Get the while they're young, and they're much less likely to ever offend again.
Twice the medicaid administrator in our state had refused to pay for it.
So I told her, if they refuse again, I'll recommend therapeutic foster care. This is when a kid lives with a specially trained family that is paid to care for him and get him to his outpatient treatment. It's actually less expensive then residential treatment, so Medicaid never turns it down.
As I was explaining this to the client's mother, she suddenly slumped and burst into tears, there in the lobby. With my feeling so raw I was beside myself with what to do. I was having a hard time not losing my own control. All I could do was put a hand on her arm and tell her that she needs someone to talk too, too.
Which means, of course, that I need do take my own advice. So I'm back, talking to this blog.
Also, I spent four hours on that kid's report, pouring out all my sadness into the energy I needed to research and carefully word and craft a report that certainly, medicaid would not turn down. And then I turned it in.
Next week, I'll find out if they finally said yes.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
This sucks. This fucking sucks. All I did was remind you that I wanted to rest the first couple days coming here, and not exert myself. I got sick the last time I did that, and I already put in 20 miles of running today. On pavemenbt. Yet, you went full guns and were all "HEY! YEAH! LET'S GO up to 12000 feet and go hiking!"
I reminded you of my need to rest before exerting myself.
Your response?
"Well, then say here. Don't go."
Then you started freaking out, asking me if I was going to have a big thing. Christ. All I did was remind you, in a calm voice, of what I'd told you was important to me.
Stay here? Don't go? What kind of shit is that? I thought we'd cleared this up. I thought I'd explained to you how left out of everything I felt, and how sick of being left behind I was. ANd, but, despite my need to rest at this altitude, you plan to get up at 6 AM, so we have fucking coffee, and drive for 45 minutes to spend a half an hour someplace, and then drive 45 minutes back?
Didn't we just have a long conversation about how the stress the last time we were here was at least partly due to all the driving we had to do, and to how I felt about constantly being left out?
I'm tired of not mattering.
I'm tired of you not caring how I feel.
I'm tired of being on the back burner.
I'm tired of not being able to simply state an opinion without you freaking out on me and not being able to have a civilized conversation.
I'm tired of all this shit.
Then you tell me that I'm sitting over here and tearing up? What the fuck? My eyes were dry, and I was calm.
I. Am. So. Sick. Of. This. SHIT!!!!!!!
As soon as you finish this fucking race, you're going to hear it from me, too. But for now, so that you don't get too *stressed* I'll keep my mouth shut.
FUCK!
I reminded you of my need to rest before exerting myself.
Your response?
"Well, then say here. Don't go."
Then you started freaking out, asking me if I was going to have a big thing. Christ. All I did was remind you, in a calm voice, of what I'd told you was important to me.
Stay here? Don't go? What kind of shit is that? I thought we'd cleared this up. I thought I'd explained to you how left out of everything I felt, and how sick of being left behind I was. ANd, but, despite my need to rest at this altitude, you plan to get up at 6 AM, so we have fucking coffee, and drive for 45 minutes to spend a half an hour someplace, and then drive 45 minutes back?
Didn't we just have a long conversation about how the stress the last time we were here was at least partly due to all the driving we had to do, and to how I felt about constantly being left out?
I'm tired of not mattering.
I'm tired of you not caring how I feel.
I'm tired of being on the back burner.
I'm tired of not being able to simply state an opinion without you freaking out on me and not being able to have a civilized conversation.
I'm tired of all this shit.
Then you tell me that I'm sitting over here and tearing up? What the fuck? My eyes were dry, and I was calm.
I. Am. So. Sick. Of. This. SHIT!!!!!!!
As soon as you finish this fucking race, you're going to hear it from me, too. But for now, so that you don't get too *stressed* I'll keep my mouth shut.
FUCK!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Taking the MFQ short form, at midnight, because I can't sleep.
For the past two weeks, rate each statement as "never" or "sometimes" or "always or nearly always".
1. I felt miserable or unhappy.
No, not really. What I feel is afraid. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by it. Fear that my life is about to crash. Fear that disaster looms, and that I've caused it, or that there is nothing I can do about it. Sometimes.
2. I didn't enjoy anything at all.
No, not true. There were many things I enjoy. It's only in those quiet moments, in between, or when I wake up at 1 am, that I'm afraid. Never.
3. I felt so tired I just sat around and did nothing.
I wanted to. But I forced myself to do things anyway, knowing that it would make me feel better, even if just for a little while. Because if I didn't, I'd be left behind, left alone, and I hate that. Never.
4. I was very restless.
Not me. Well, sometimes. THere are those times I wake up at 1 or 2 am and can't sleep. I have to get up. I have to do something. So I write. Does that count? Sometimes.
5. I felt I was no good any more.
Hah. Well, there it is, ding ding. I can't make it go away. It's persistent, this feeling that I'm less competent, less worthy, less accomplished, than everyone I know. I feel worthless. I feel flawed. Who could stand to be with someone like that? Nobody. Always.
6. I cried a lot.
Sometimes. I try not to. It bothers him. So I wait until I can do it alone. Sometimes, when things are bad, I will mention it, just a little to see how it goes over, but I don't get much reaction, so I suck it up and try to forget about it. Most of the time, I try to distract myself with something, so that it goes away. But I notice that I cry easier, like at sad movies and even commercials, than I used to. It's not easy to make me cry, but it's easier than it used to be. Sometimes.
7. I found it hard to think properly or concentrate.
No. This is my salvation, my work, it takes my mind off all the awful feelings, the worry, the worthlessness of being me, when I work. I actually feel better, too, when I work. Never.
8. I hated myself.
Does fearing myself count? Does it count that I secretly worry that I'm a fairly worthless person? Does the fact that even after losing nearly 40 pounds, and not being able to see the difference in the mirror, count? Does the fact that I feel like I'm surrounded by people more successful, faster, more accomplished, more talented, more attractive, more interesting, more stable, count?
I would hate me if I were anyone. I would look at my misery and fear and worry, and all of the things about my life that are completely wonderful, and hate me. I would loathe the self-indulgence of it all. Just another upper middle-class woman, alone in her thoughts, feeling sorry for herself, who needs a hobby. Nyah.
Always.
9. I was a bad person.
Sometimes. I think of things that I should be doing, and am not doing. I think of what he said about "being allergic to making money" and how I shouldn't have quit my job 2 years ago. We've been in financial downward spiral ever since, and it's my fault. Always.
10. I felt lonely.
Depression and anxiety are the most self-indulgent places one can imagine. I imagine that everyone is sick of hearing about me, and my problems. I imagine that he's sick of it. So I put on a happy face, so that people won't be sick of it. So that he won't be sick of it. So that nobody will accuse me of being a drama queen. I hate drama queens. As a result, I have nobody to talk to about it, not really. Sometimes in the middle of doing something mundane, like watching TV, I'll suddenly be overwhelmed with sadness - my chest aches, and I come close to crying. Then I either get up and fuss around in the kitchen or go to the bathroom or something, so that nobody sees.
I feel desperate. I wonder if this feeling of isolation will ever go away.
This is my life, this fucked up sadness and worry and loneliness that has no place to go, or to come from.
God, I'm pathetic. I wouldn't want to be with me.
Always.
11. I thought nobody really loved me.
Not often. But in the really bad times, the really, really bad times, I wake up and feel like it's all slipping away, everything, my marriage, friendships, and that nobody truly cares about me; they're just going through the motions to be polite. At those times, I feel like he's with me out of obligation. Again, I know it doesn't make sense. But I can't will it away.
I also feel like I'm essentially not worthy of being liked. I feel like I'm viewed as less valuable than others. I know it's fucked up. But there it is. I try to get rid of it, and tell myself it doesn't make sense.
During those times, I get this feeling of coldness, and a sick feeling in my stomach. I wake up with a feeling of dread and fear that it's all falling apart. I try to will it away. Then I take a half of Xanax, and it goes away, finally, but I'm left with the hopeless of it, and that thought that maybe it will never stop. I'll always have it. I'll never get rid of it.
Is that what people think about before they consider suicide? I don't consider suicide, but I worry that none of this will ever go away, that this is it.
Sometimes.
12. I thought I could never be as good as other people.
Always.
13. I did everything wrong.
Never. There are some things I know I do right, and these are the things I hold onto during the worst of times. I know that there are some people who have done things because I've made it seem possible. I know that there are people who have hope because of the things I have done. I know that I write well. I know that I'm a top-notch diagnostician.
Score: 15. Likelihood of major depressive episode: at least 80%.
So much for antidepressants. It's ironic that this screen has 13 questions. I'm not superstitious. But others are. I wonder what they think about the number 13?
I wonder if this will ever get better, or if, god forbid, it can actually get worse.
1. I felt miserable or unhappy.
No, not really. What I feel is afraid. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by it. Fear that my life is about to crash. Fear that disaster looms, and that I've caused it, or that there is nothing I can do about it. Sometimes.
2. I didn't enjoy anything at all.
No, not true. There were many things I enjoy. It's only in those quiet moments, in between, or when I wake up at 1 am, that I'm afraid. Never.
3. I felt so tired I just sat around and did nothing.
I wanted to. But I forced myself to do things anyway, knowing that it would make me feel better, even if just for a little while. Because if I didn't, I'd be left behind, left alone, and I hate that. Never.
4. I was very restless.
Not me. Well, sometimes. THere are those times I wake up at 1 or 2 am and can't sleep. I have to get up. I have to do something. So I write. Does that count? Sometimes.
5. I felt I was no good any more.
Hah. Well, there it is, ding ding. I can't make it go away. It's persistent, this feeling that I'm less competent, less worthy, less accomplished, than everyone I know. I feel worthless. I feel flawed. Who could stand to be with someone like that? Nobody. Always.
6. I cried a lot.
Sometimes. I try not to. It bothers him. So I wait until I can do it alone. Sometimes, when things are bad, I will mention it, just a little to see how it goes over, but I don't get much reaction, so I suck it up and try to forget about it. Most of the time, I try to distract myself with something, so that it goes away. But I notice that I cry easier, like at sad movies and even commercials, than I used to. It's not easy to make me cry, but it's easier than it used to be. Sometimes.
7. I found it hard to think properly or concentrate.
No. This is my salvation, my work, it takes my mind off all the awful feelings, the worry, the worthlessness of being me, when I work. I actually feel better, too, when I work. Never.
8. I hated myself.
Does fearing myself count? Does it count that I secretly worry that I'm a fairly worthless person? Does the fact that even after losing nearly 40 pounds, and not being able to see the difference in the mirror, count? Does the fact that I feel like I'm surrounded by people more successful, faster, more accomplished, more talented, more attractive, more interesting, more stable, count?
I would hate me if I were anyone. I would look at my misery and fear and worry, and all of the things about my life that are completely wonderful, and hate me. I would loathe the self-indulgence of it all. Just another upper middle-class woman, alone in her thoughts, feeling sorry for herself, who needs a hobby. Nyah.
Always.
9. I was a bad person.
Sometimes. I think of things that I should be doing, and am not doing. I think of what he said about "being allergic to making money" and how I shouldn't have quit my job 2 years ago. We've been in financial downward spiral ever since, and it's my fault. Always.
10. I felt lonely.
Depression and anxiety are the most self-indulgent places one can imagine. I imagine that everyone is sick of hearing about me, and my problems. I imagine that he's sick of it. So I put on a happy face, so that people won't be sick of it. So that he won't be sick of it. So that nobody will accuse me of being a drama queen. I hate drama queens. As a result, I have nobody to talk to about it, not really. Sometimes in the middle of doing something mundane, like watching TV, I'll suddenly be overwhelmed with sadness - my chest aches, and I come close to crying. Then I either get up and fuss around in the kitchen or go to the bathroom or something, so that nobody sees.
I feel desperate. I wonder if this feeling of isolation will ever go away.
This is my life, this fucked up sadness and worry and loneliness that has no place to go, or to come from.
God, I'm pathetic. I wouldn't want to be with me.
Always.
11. I thought nobody really loved me.
Not often. But in the really bad times, the really, really bad times, I wake up and feel like it's all slipping away, everything, my marriage, friendships, and that nobody truly cares about me; they're just going through the motions to be polite. At those times, I feel like he's with me out of obligation. Again, I know it doesn't make sense. But I can't will it away.
I also feel like I'm essentially not worthy of being liked. I feel like I'm viewed as less valuable than others. I know it's fucked up. But there it is. I try to get rid of it, and tell myself it doesn't make sense.
During those times, I get this feeling of coldness, and a sick feeling in my stomach. I wake up with a feeling of dread and fear that it's all falling apart. I try to will it away. Then I take a half of Xanax, and it goes away, finally, but I'm left with the hopeless of it, and that thought that maybe it will never stop. I'll always have it. I'll never get rid of it.
Is that what people think about before they consider suicide? I don't consider suicide, but I worry that none of this will ever go away, that this is it.
Sometimes.
12. I thought I could never be as good as other people.
Always.
13. I did everything wrong.
Never. There are some things I know I do right, and these are the things I hold onto during the worst of times. I know that there are some people who have done things because I've made it seem possible. I know that there are people who have hope because of the things I have done. I know that I write well. I know that I'm a top-notch diagnostician.
Score: 15. Likelihood of major depressive episode: at least 80%.
So much for antidepressants. It's ironic that this screen has 13 questions. I'm not superstitious. But others are. I wonder what they think about the number 13?
I wonder if this will ever get better, or if, god forbid, it can actually get worse.
Hello again, stupid anxiety stuff.
At first I thought it was altitude sickness. Then I thought I had a stomache bug, but this shit has held on long enough for me to recognize it for what it is: Oh, hello again, anxiety shit. Goddamn it.
So Monday came home and himself was perseverating over the bills. There is nothing in the world that makes me feel worse that this - not that he does it on purpose. It's just that I'm currently making about 1/3 of what he makes, so I feel utterly responsible for our dire financial situation. The one thing I heard 2 months ago keeps ringing in my ears,
Yeah. Well, none of this helps that idea that I feel like I have that I am completely and utterly useless vocation that I'm very good at, but nobody cares about. Nobody cares that I'm good at diagnosing children, and that I can get kids to talk to me, because nobody cares about children. Anyone and everyone who works with children is horribly underpaid, unless they have MD or PhD after their names. The rest of us, well, we can go fuck ourselves, right? Even those of us with multiple graduate school degrees.
It's been hard to explain this to Himself. He reminds me often of how important I am to him, how much I help him, and that supporting him in his athletics is very important. He tells me that I'm very good at inspiring others, and that I'm brave. I know this.
Still. I'd like to have something for myself, some sort of accomplishment that is mine. Just mine. So far, I have nothing, and I feel like I'm in the shadow, waving my scribbles with a gold star on it in the air, saying, "look what I did!" I'm last, or nearly last, to cross the finish line in everything I do, and there is nothing I do that someone I know can't do better.
So back to Monday. I came home and fuck did I feel like throwing up - two days in a row, after and entire weekend of it. Himself was sitting on the couch going over bills, and worrying, and then of course I took that on, because I feel like everything is my fault. Then it hit me that, well, this is what my panic attacks would start like, so I took 1/2 hit of a Xanax - it took me hours to find the shit - and then 30 minutes I felt all better. ALL better. I did it again when I came home from work on Tuesday. Just once, at about 5 pm both days. But I know I can't keep taking this shit. It's habit-forming.
I slept in this morning and have to run 8 miles later today, while it's hot. Or raining. Not sure how I'm going to pull that off. It takes me, like 2 hours to go 8 miles on the trails.
I need coffee now.
So Monday came home and himself was perseverating over the bills. There is nothing in the world that makes me feel worse that this - not that he does it on purpose. It's just that I'm currently making about 1/3 of what he makes, so I feel utterly responsible for our dire financial situation. The one thing I heard 2 months ago keeps ringing in my ears,
It's like you're allergic to making money.
It's like you're allergic to making money.
It's like you're allergic to making money.
Yeah. Well, none of this helps that idea that I feel like I have that I am completely and utterly useless vocation that I'm very good at, but nobody cares about. Nobody cares that I'm good at diagnosing children, and that I can get kids to talk to me, because nobody cares about children. Anyone and everyone who works with children is horribly underpaid, unless they have MD or PhD after their names. The rest of us, well, we can go fuck ourselves, right? Even those of us with multiple graduate school degrees.
It's been hard to explain this to Himself. He reminds me often of how important I am to him, how much I help him, and that supporting him in his athletics is very important. He tells me that I'm very good at inspiring others, and that I'm brave. I know this.
Still. I'd like to have something for myself, some sort of accomplishment that is mine. Just mine. So far, I have nothing, and I feel like I'm in the shadow, waving my scribbles with a gold star on it in the air, saying, "look what I did!" I'm last, or nearly last, to cross the finish line in everything I do, and there is nothing I do that someone I know can't do better.
So back to Monday. I came home and fuck did I feel like throwing up - two days in a row, after and entire weekend of it. Himself was sitting on the couch going over bills, and worrying, and then of course I took that on, because I feel like everything is my fault. Then it hit me that, well, this is what my panic attacks would start like, so I took 1/2 hit of a Xanax - it took me hours to find the shit - and then 30 minutes I felt all better. ALL better. I did it again when I came home from work on Tuesday. Just once, at about 5 pm both days. But I know I can't keep taking this shit. It's habit-forming.
About the same time, my therapist called me to tell me that Blue Cross had approved more sessions with her. Whew. I hope this helps. I made so much progress before, and was even sleeping through the night now, and I'll start seeing her 2x month starting next week.
I went for a training run last night, with Himself. He taught me some more stuff about posture and such . It was good. I felt good. I feel closer to him when we run together.
I need coffee now.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Why the other dog went to live with a new family.
He has bitten through and completely severed a main drip line hose, and then tore up all the drip lines.
He has torn out nearly every single piece of weed fabric.
he's dug several holes in 30-year-old sod.
He runs around in circles, barking at FUCKING NOTHING. he wakes up my retired neighbors doing this.
He's friendly to all intruders.
He's torn out all the water plants in the pond, disrupting the pH, which caused a fish die-off.
He's chewed a large hole in the side of a wooden shed. You know, because that nice dog door we put in was such a fucking drag.
He's cost us hundreds in attempts to keep him from running amok in the neighborhood.
He has torn out nearly every single piece of weed fabric.
he's dug several holes in 30-year-old sod.
He runs around in circles, barking at FUCKING NOTHING. he wakes up my retired neighbors doing this.
He's friendly to all intruders.
He's torn out all the water plants in the pond, disrupting the pH, which caused a fish die-off.
He's chewed a large hole in the side of a wooden shed. You know, because that nice dog door we put in was such a fucking drag.
He's cost us hundreds in attempts to keep him from running amok in the neighborhood.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
I started watching Bordertown this weekend. I wasn't expecting that first scene, the one where they strangeled the woman to death. It's pretty detailed. It's pretty graphic. It's pretty fucking realistic.
It's not something I needed to see. As I sit here, I can feel the hands around my neck. My neck feels constricted.
I didn't know about this scene. I shouldn't have watched. I don't know how this will affect my sleep tonight. I don't know if I'm going to wind up having another panic episode.
A month ago, I watched the Stoning of Soroya M. I didn't know that was so graphic, but I figured I was safe because it didn't have anything to do with me. The next day, I had a panic attack.
Next week, my trauma work begins. I'm not sure how it will be done. I don't know what to expect.
...
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Crooked, lazy motherfucker workers.
After our house was broken into in February, our company hired a guy to fix our broken door.
-------
Last week a guy was supposed to show up to bury our cable. The first technician had carefully hidden it in a crack in the sidewalk the first Friday in April. He put the cable out of the way, and wound it through a flower bed along a wall until that could happen. They would, he said, call me and make an appointment co come out. s
The following Tuesday morning a man who had a great deal of difficulty understanding me called and said he was at my house to bury my cable. "I can't come home now," I said. I didn't need to, he insisted. "Oh, will you then take care of my dogs so that they don't go through the gate?"
He hesitated. "When can you be here?"
Friday, after 5, I said. Okay, he said, he would see me then.
When I got home that night, a spool of conduit was sitting in my flower bed, and the cable had been pulled up and stretched across the drive way.
Friday, I was here at 4:45. No phone call. Nobody showed up.
Monday morning I called and complained, and was told that the order was showing as "fulfilled". "No, it is not fullfilled. He didn't show up." I had to call, by the way, because they refuse to acknowledge emails. You have to call on the phone, or use their hideous "chat" feature, which involves somebody on the other end whose name is NOT Julie and how repeats the same phrases over and over again,, stuff like "I see that you are upset that your cable is not buried. We apologize for any inconvenience".
They rescheduled for Friday after 4:30.
Thursday morning at 8:15 am the same guy who can't understand me called and said he was at my house to bury the cable. I told him that I had an appointment for Friday at 4:30. He said that he didn't work that late, and he was the only person who could bury the cable in Albuquerque. That's what he said. Nobody else does it, he said. I said, well, "I have an appointment with Comcast for Friday after 4:30. I need to be there to mind the dogs." He thanked me and hung up.
Friday at 5:00 pm I hit redial on my button and called him back, and asked him when he was coming. He informed me that he was in Santa Fe and that there would be another crew coming since there was an appointment. I asked him, how can there be another crew when he was the 'only person who could bury the cable'? No, he said, there are other crews. Another crew would be here.
Friday at 6:15 I started using their hideous chat function and was repeatedly apologized to in the exact same words by someone in some unknown place that I don't think is capable of higher level thought and problem solving. She said the appointment had been canceled. "NO" I typed all in capitals "IT WAS NEVER CANCELED. I WANT SOMEONE OUT HERE TO FIX THIS. STOP APOLOGIZING FOR MY INCONVENIENCE AND TELL ME HOW YOU'RE GOING TO FIX THIS."
She reset the appointment for 8 am, an all day appointment.
Wait, I typed back, Does this mean that I have to wait here all day? She responded, It means that it starts at 8.
Which, of course, I stupidly took to mean that they would start work at 8 am.
I called the local office at 8:30. "Oh, no," I was told. "The drop bury order is for between 8 am and 7 pm"
Fuckers.
I have decided that if they don't show up, I'm not calling again. I'll cable as is until it fails, and then I'm switching to another company. It's tucked among the bushes again, and it doesn't rain here too often, so who knows how long that will be?
Meanwhile, I've clearly missed my calling. I should have been a cable "drop and bury" technician. they apparently don't ever have to work and can arbitrarily cancel appointments without anyone calling them on it.
Oh. And the Saturday guy never showed up. Nobody was able to tell me why.
..
-------
Last week a guy was supposed to show up to bury our cable. The first technician had carefully hidden it in a crack in the sidewalk the first Friday in April. He put the cable out of the way, and wound it through a flower bed along a wall until that could happen. They would, he said, call me and make an appointment co come out. s
The following Tuesday morning a man who had a great deal of difficulty understanding me called and said he was at my house to bury my cable. "I can't come home now," I said. I didn't need to, he insisted. "Oh, will you then take care of my dogs so that they don't go through the gate?"
He hesitated. "When can you be here?"
Friday, after 5, I said. Okay, he said, he would see me then.
When I got home that night, a spool of conduit was sitting in my flower bed, and the cable had been pulled up and stretched across the drive way.
Friday, I was here at 4:45. No phone call. Nobody showed up.
Monday morning I called and complained, and was told that the order was showing as "fulfilled". "No, it is not fullfilled. He didn't show up." I had to call, by the way, because they refuse to acknowledge emails. You have to call on the phone, or use their hideous "chat" feature, which involves somebody on the other end whose name is NOT Julie and how repeats the same phrases over and over again,, stuff like "I see that you are upset that your cable is not buried. We apologize for any inconvenience".
They rescheduled for Friday after 4:30.
Thursday morning at 8:15 am the same guy who can't understand me called and said he was at my house to bury the cable. I told him that I had an appointment for Friday at 4:30. He said that he didn't work that late, and he was the only person who could bury the cable in Albuquerque. That's what he said. Nobody else does it, he said. I said, well, "I have an appointment with Comcast for Friday after 4:30. I need to be there to mind the dogs." He thanked me and hung up.
Friday at 5:00 pm I hit redial on my button and called him back, and asked him when he was coming. He informed me that he was in Santa Fe and that there would be another crew coming since there was an appointment. I asked him, how can there be another crew when he was the 'only person who could bury the cable'? No, he said, there are other crews. Another crew would be here.
Friday at 6:15 I started using their hideous chat function and was repeatedly apologized to in the exact same words by someone in some unknown place that I don't think is capable of higher level thought and problem solving. She said the appointment had been canceled. "NO" I typed all in capitals "IT WAS NEVER CANCELED. I WANT SOMEONE OUT HERE TO FIX THIS. STOP APOLOGIZING FOR MY INCONVENIENCE AND TELL ME HOW YOU'RE GOING TO FIX THIS."
She reset the appointment for 8 am, an all day appointment.
Wait, I typed back, Does this mean that I have to wait here all day? She responded, It means that it starts at 8.
Which, of course, I stupidly took to mean that they would start work at 8 am.
I called the local office at 8:30. "Oh, no," I was told. "The drop bury order is for between 8 am and 7 pm"
Fuckers.
I have decided that if they don't show up, I'm not calling again. I'll cable as is until it fails, and then I'm switching to another company. It's tucked among the bushes again, and it doesn't rain here too often, so who knows how long that will be?
Meanwhile, I've clearly missed my calling. I should have been a cable "drop and bury" technician. they apparently don't ever have to work and can arbitrarily cancel appointments without anyone calling them on it.
Oh. And the Saturday guy never showed up. Nobody was able to tell me why.
..
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Happy spring. I think today is Easter, but my kids don't live here and so I don't have any reference for keeping track of christian holidays.
I think I've gotten a handle on my panic attacks. Now I'm just working on worrying in general. Like right now. I'm supposed to get up and go work out, but I just don't feel like going. Bleh.
I'll work on it some more.
I think I've gotten a handle on my panic attacks. Now I'm just working on worrying in general. Like right now. I'm supposed to get up and go work out, but I just don't feel like going. Bleh.
I'll work on it some more.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Second Thoughts
I think I made a big mistake getting those dogs. I've lost all the freedom I gained when the kids grew up and left. No more can I go workout in the mornings; I have to walk and feed the dogs. We can't just take off for the weekend. We have to get someone to watch them. No sleeping in.
The windows and doors in the back are smeared with muddy paw prints. They're torn up sprinkler heads and door mats. They're tearing up the landscaping I worked so hard on - tearing up the weed fabric, tearing out the drop lines, they chew on fucking everything.
Oh, and I think it's safe to say I'm also really sick of the smell of dog shit.
The windows and doors in the back are smeared with muddy paw prints. They're torn up sprinkler heads and door mats. They're tearing up the landscaping I worked so hard on - tearing up the weed fabric, tearing out the drop lines, they chew on fucking everything.
Oh, and I think it's safe to say I'm also really sick of the smell of dog shit.
Monday, March 15, 2010
No title, working or otherwise.
Yesterday I went off, venting about how tired I was. I'd spent 5 or 6 hours cleaning, particularly the kitchen, and I was exhausted. I'd finally reached the point where I realized I can't do it all--I can't train for an Ironman, I can't go to graduate school, and I can't work full time. It just won't happen. And I was pissed because the kitchen was filthy and I felt like I was the only one who cared about how clean the house was.
I probably shouldn't have done that because then I got an earful of why everything is my fault. And you know what? It is. I was the one who quit a steady paying job. I'm the one who can't seem to get a decent' paying one since. I'm the one who parked my car in an alley so that it was broken into. I'm the one who left the security door open so that we were burglarized. It is all, indeed, all my fault.
This is the first time I've felt so much like a complete and utter failure. How nice to know he thinks so, too.
The worst thing is that I can't even kill myself. I don't have any life insurance, so it would just be an added expense. I just have to go on living every single day knowing what I've done to devastate us financially. It's all I think about. There's no relief.
...
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Wednesdays with Nan
er than what we've talked about, you know, being hindered and late and trapped, unable to get home, what kinds of things make you uncomfortably nervous?
- When my partner is cranky.
- When my partner talks about how bad our financial situation is - I start blaming myself for being out of work last year.
- When I think about not making a cutoff, or deadline.
When something goes wrong at work, even if its not my fault.
- When someone looks at me funny.
- When I take a test.
- When my boss wants to talk to me.
- Sometimes I just get a funny feeling that I've done something wrong, but I don't know what, and something terrible will happen, and it will be all my fault.
Well, you now, I try talking to myself and telling myself, "this isn't your fault, you haven't done anything wrong, you don't need to fix this, et cetera," but it doesn't help much. Even himself, he tells me to stop worrying about trying to make him feel better, he gets moody, it's not my fault. Inside me, I know this, but there's that awful feeling, still.
I keeping hearing a repeating theme: you worry that things are your fault. When you're feeling nervous, what goes through your mind?
It's my fault. It's all my fault. I've done something wrong. Now I have to fix it. Or, if there's nothing concrete, but I feel like something bad is about to happen, then I have to stop it from happening.Fix it?
Well, you know, growing up I was always the smart kid, and I had it pretty easy, so but I had trouble focusing a lot, paying attention, sitting still. I was a hyper little shit. My dad usually would say, or not say, but sort of indicate, that there's no reason why I shouldn't have straight As, or have a clean room, or dress appropriately, or any of the stuff that he hated. So I always had this feeling, you know, like there must be something wrong with me. He used to say, "You dont' apply yourself. You're not trying hard enough."
So you feel like you have work harder to make it all right.
Yes. And you know, I mean, like my first husband, he would come home and I would try to read his face. Will this be a good day? A bad day? because I mean, if it was a bad day, I was better off just going to bed. If it was a bad day, I was going to get hit, or shoved, or thrown, at some time during that night, even if I did nothing at all.
Yes. And you know, I know it's rediculous. I mean, I have some insight - in my own practice, I see this kind of behavior in people who have grown up with parents who rage, or are alcoholics...they grow up with this constant desperation to try to ease, soothe, fix. So I know it's wrong . But no matter what my self-talk is, the feeling won't go away, the worry, the dread.
So in your day, what percentage of time would you say you spend worrying about these types of things.
In my waking day? Well, let's see. I'm awake about 16 hours, I guess, so maybe, between 20 and 25%.
I'm going to give you something - it's a picture of the response of the body during a panic phase . I want you to study it, and we'll talk about it next week. I'm also giving you some questions to ask yourself when you find yourself worrying. Fill these in, and we'll talk about those next week.
...
I also want you to study these questions to ask yourself when you worry.
Monday, March 8, 2010
What "lack of insight" looks like.
He talked at great length about all the stuff he'd done for his kids, how awesome he was. This went on until I was ready to mutter expletives. Finally, I asked him:
I'd like to back up just a second and ask you about something you just said, a few minutes ago. You were talking about your sons, and you said, 'I live my life through my children'.
Yeah?
Well, I'm wondering what that means to you.
I don't know what you mean. I mean, I want to do everything for them that nobody did for me. So I do everything for them. My daughter, she's a great public speaker, so I pulled some strings to get her a job working in a TV studio. I always wanted to wrestle, so I pulled some strings to get my kids into wrestling. But do you think they appreciate it? No.
I'm wondering if you know that you can't actually "live your life" through them...that they are distinct and separate.
I don't get what you mean. What's wrong with giving them direction? I pull strings, I make sure they get the opportunities they need. Nobody did that for me, nobody.
Oh, nothing, but I'm thinking, well, you're a self-made man, after all, and I recognize that you pulled yourself with a great deal of difficulty to become the person you are today.
I am. Nobody ever helped me, nobody. It was tough. I mean, I came from shit. Just absolute shit, the barrio. I made my own way in the world. I had nothing. Now I have a $350,000 house, and my own business.
It seems like you're probably a better man for having figured out and solved all your problems. Wouldn't you say?
yes. So, what's your point?
Would you say that you learned a lot solving your problems on your own? That you're a wiser man for it?
Yes. But I don't want my kids to suffer like I did. I do things for them so that they can be successful without having to work as hard as I did.
I'm wondering if you think it might be useful to step back and let your kids make mistakes, and solve problems, so that they can have that feeling that you have, of having solved their own problems.
I don't get what you're telling me. Are you saying that a father shouldn't try to help his children? Are you saying I should just let them fail?
It's just that...when you tell your kids what to do, and how to do it, and as you say, 'pull strings' so that they get what they want, you're sending the message that they can't do it on their own.
I don't see it that way.
How do you see it?
I see it as a dad who loves his kids.
And the feeling you have now, the anger because they aren't becoming the people you think they should become, and they don't appreciate the strings you've pulled, how do you see that?
I don't get what you mean.
...
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Wednesdays with Nan.
More time with my therapist this weekend. She asked lots of questions. Was I uncomfortable in large spaces...small spaces...what was it that made me uncomfortable? I finally figured out some things.
it's not the space that bugs me. It's the ability leave, to get out, to get to safety that bothers me. If it's not there, I'm not feeling safe. I don't like being where I can't get away...get home...get somewhere.
So, traffic. I avoid traffic. I don't mind the freeway, because where i live, it flows pretty well.
So, the grocery...I use the little carts, so that I can maneuver. I think what bothers me about it is that, there's all these things that could happen, so I need to be able to get out of there quickly.
What about traveling? you have to be gone from home for a long time...how do you manage that?
I'm always with Himself. He takes care of everything. No matter what I need, he'll get it for me. He's safety. I'll go anywhere with him.
it's not the space that bugs me. It's the ability leave, to get out, to get to safety that bothers me. If it's not there, I'm not feeling safe. I don't like being where I can't get away...get home...get somewhere.
So, traffic. I avoid traffic. I don't mind the freeway, because where i live, it flows pretty well.
So, the grocery...I use the little carts, so that I can maneuver. I think what bothers me about it is that, there's all these things that could happen, so I need to be able to get out of there quickly.
What about traveling? you have to be gone from home for a long time...how do you manage that?
I'm always with Himself. He takes care of everything. No matter what I need, he'll get it for me. He's safety. I'll go anywhere with him.
Is there anything you absolutely won't do because it's so uncomfortable, this feeling of not getting away/
Uh, well, hell yeah. I won't cycle. Not with friends. I've been stranded, I've had accidents, you're clipped into this stupid contraption and if you decide to go off in a different directions, you can't always do it those tiny wheels restrict your travel surface. So does the traffic. Not with running. You can pretty much run anywhere.
But didn't you tell me you were having panic attacks before big runs? What are you thinking then?
Sometimes. I like to be close to home, or to the car.
What do you imagine will happen? What do you do to prevent it from happening?
So, to be safe on long runs, I'll take a whole bunch of shit with me. TP, inhaler, whatever I might need. Money. Bottles. Still. it's not easy.
Have you ever tried to travel alone?
Yes, but I had a lot with me, way more than I needed, just in case.
How do you manage being in places where time isn't a constant...like at the hair dressers?
I create a huge cushion around the time, so that there is no chance of me being late anywhere else. I hate being late. I hate it when people make me late. I guess, what it all boils down to, is that I hate being hindered in any way.
Hey. Maybe that's why I get so bitchy when Himself makes me late for something. it's being confined, it's being, well, held back.
What do you imagine will happen as a result of being late?
I imagine....I imagine, well, that I'll be...um, well, not on time. It's not the late. It's the feeling that I'm being prevented from being where I need to be. When I'm late, I'm rushed. I hate that.
Hmm. So here we have: I don't like being hindered. That explains a lot, I guess.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Last weekend.
I did an ultra marathon this weekend. I did it without Xanax. I started having a panic attack, so I slapped myself in the face instead.
I'll have to process that one with my therapist. All I know is, it worked.
I'll have to process that one with my therapist. All I know is, it worked.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sell-outs.
This, for the record, is a for-profit company. The longer they can hold onto money, the more money they make. For instance:
- I told them that a patient had a history of running away, including from treatment, and had attempted suicide 3 times, and was once found stoned, wondering down the highway (on foot). They asked me to "please specify the patient's high risk behaviors".
- I told them that another patient had been raped more than once as a child, was hypervigilant, tried not to think about it, avoided things that reminded her of it, had nightmares about it, and drank heavily to forget about it . I was then asked, "please specify the details regarding this patient's diagnosis of PTSD."
- I told them about a boy with Asperger's disorder who needs hospitalization because he keeps punching himself in the face when he's angry, and if that doesn't make him feel better, he starts punching the wall and anyone around him. He's about 6' too, so that's pretty formidable. They wanted to know if I had "met him face-to-face."
There's one person in particular, who is a local, in charge of "utilization and review" for this company. That's corporatespeak for, "try to pay as little in claims as possible" or, "hang onto the money a day or so longer"
Turns out, she and I know some of the same people. She's got the same kind of license I do. Things I'd like to say to her include Tell me, when exactly did you sell out?
and: When did you decide, "hey, what I really want in life is a job where I deprive children and the disabled of the care that they need?"
or what it: "When I grow up, I want to work for a company that sucks so badly that small health providers are forced to close their doors due to lack of payment, and the state sanctions them...and then finally tells them that they are fired as of this next summer."
Are you some kind of derranged Republican asshole who things that adding several more layers between treatment and patient will surely make things more efficient?
I'm glad the state has put your company on notice and that you'll be replaced soon. I hope you have a real hard time finding a job. I hope you suffer, you sell-out. I sure as crap wouldn't hire you. I don't trust you do act in the best interest of patients.
Signed,
That hippie you keep emailing stupid questions.
...
Signs of a bad economy.
Saturday I literally, I mean literally, didn't have time to have a panic attack. Every time I felt nervous, I would fun faster. That'll teach you, panic attacks!
Well, I have now had my car broken into and my home broken into, within weeks of each other, by motherfuckers too lazy and antisocial to go rape their sisters. There, I said it. Fuckers. They stole our very nice huge flat screen TV, a blue-ray DVD player, another flat screen in the bedroom, and Himself's laptop, and they kicked in the door, breaking the doorframe and lock. We have another flatscreen in the garage that I am, for now, too lazy to move.
We bought very high deductables back when we were both gainfully and well-employed and didn't have two mortgages. The first night after the break-in, I was okay, but the 2nd night, well, I lay awake imaging that I heard all sorts of noises. I know, wah, wah, but still. We are hurting. We will not have TVs for a while.
I feel like shit because I'm the one that forgot to lock the security door on the only vulnerable door in the house, the one they kicked in to get in the house.
Himself used this as an excuse to suggest dogs, to, you know, make me feel safer. And I, of course, went along with it. Why not? How much trouble can a dog be?
Well. So now my garage is full of dog crap smell. The shed that I was going to convert to an artist workshop some day I WAS, I AM NOT KIDDING SOMEDAY, DON'T PUSH ME is now a dog house.
But. I noticed that on my first run with my pooch, I didn't have time to stop and have a panic attack. I was too busy trying not to get jerked off my feet. I also ran a loop I've run before faster than I ever have before. This morning, by 6 am, I'd run a dog around the block and was WIDE FUCKING AWAKE.
At one point we had them out in the back yard, but then I happened to walk by the kitchen door and saw them both huddled together, shivering. Well, shit. I'm not cruel. So we had them come in. Someone walked up to the front door, and they barked like mad, and then settled down. One of them lay on my feet while I worked on a paper. Ahhh. Safety. I like it. Even if it does smell like dog.
A person said to me recently that between the no tvs and dogs, I should lose like, a million pounds. I'd be happy to lose the nervousness I feel when I'm home alone. But the pounds would be nice, too.
...
Well, I have now had my car broken into and my home broken into, within weeks of each other, by motherfuckers too lazy and antisocial to go rape their sisters. There, I said it. Fuckers. They stole our very nice huge flat screen TV, a blue-ray DVD player, another flat screen in the bedroom, and Himself's laptop, and they kicked in the door, breaking the doorframe and lock. We have another flatscreen in the garage that I am, for now, too lazy to move.
We bought very high deductables back when we were both gainfully and well-employed and didn't have two mortgages. The first night after the break-in, I was okay, but the 2nd night, well, I lay awake imaging that I heard all sorts of noises. I know, wah, wah, but still. We are hurting. We will not have TVs for a while.
I feel like shit because I'm the one that forgot to lock the security door on the only vulnerable door in the house, the one they kicked in to get in the house.
Himself used this as an excuse to suggest dogs, to, you know, make me feel safer. And I, of course, went along with it. Why not? How much trouble can a dog be?
Well. So now my garage is full of dog crap smell. The shed that I was going to convert to an artist workshop some day I WAS, I AM NOT KIDDING SOMEDAY, DON'T PUSH ME is now a dog house.
But. I noticed that on my first run with my pooch, I didn't have time to stop and have a panic attack. I was too busy trying not to get jerked off my feet. I also ran a loop I've run before faster than I ever have before. This morning, by 6 am, I'd run a dog around the block and was WIDE FUCKING AWAKE.
At one point we had them out in the back yard, but then I happened to walk by the kitchen door and saw them both huddled together, shivering. Well, shit. I'm not cruel. So we had them come in. Someone walked up to the front door, and they barked like mad, and then settled down. One of them lay on my feet while I worked on a paper. Ahhh. Safety. I like it. Even if it does smell like dog.
A person said to me recently that between the no tvs and dogs, I should lose like, a million pounds. I'd be happy to lose the nervousness I feel when I'm home alone. But the pounds would be nice, too.
...
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Bet you never tried it.
So. Himself redeemed himself pretty well by telling that he never thought I'd feel that strongly, and apologizing.
Today. Well, today was the day I do my long training run. Twenty miles planned. I spent most of the pre-dawn morning ringing my hands and worrying. About what?
The running was impossible. So, I told Himself that I could hike it. Not run it. So we hiked it. As much as I dreaded this run, as much as I dreaded leaving the house, I knew I had to get out there. So, I did.
Himself has the annoying habit of telling me how slowly we're going. This is a fairly useless endeavor; it's not unlike being tailgated by a large 4x4. I slow down. I don't speed up.
The panic attack got worse. I'd already taken a Xanax, so finally, reluctantly, I took a 2nd.
WELL.
Have you ever tried to run just chock full of sleeping medication? Me neither. At one point, I was stoned and stumbling. Finally the real sleepiness part wore off and I finished over twenty miles.
But I finished it.
Then I ate a pizza, and drank some nice red wine.
Today. Well, today was the day I do my long training run. Twenty miles planned. I spent most of the pre-dawn morning ringing my hands and worrying. About what?
- What if I twist my ankle?
- What if I break my leg?
- What if I get really cold?
- What if I trip and run headlong into a tree?
- What if I fell into a ravine?
- What if I get hit in the back by a mountain biker?
- What if I can't run any more, and it's too cold to walk?
The running was impossible. So, I told Himself that I could hike it. Not run it. So we hiked it. As much as I dreaded this run, as much as I dreaded leaving the house, I knew I had to get out there. So, I did.
Himself has the annoying habit of telling me how slowly we're going. This is a fairly useless endeavor; it's not unlike being tailgated by a large 4x4. I slow down. I don't speed up.
The panic attack got worse. I'd already taken a Xanax, so finally, reluctantly, I took a 2nd.
WELL.
Have you ever tried to run just chock full of sleeping medication? Me neither. At one point, I was stoned and stumbling. Finally the real sleepiness part wore off and I finished over twenty miles.
But I finished it.
Then I ate a pizza, and drank some nice red wine.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Uh. Yeah.
I have a job that I love.
I'm good at it.
They love me. In fact, I was told that I was awesome.
I've talked about it nonstop at home, to you: I've told you how I love it, how they think I'm awesome. How, for the first time, I feel like a professional, and like I'm doing something that is just mine. All mine.
Why on earth would you tell me that there's a job opening where you work, that has nothing to do with what I'm doing, and that you've had the idea that I should apply for it? Then get all pissy when I tell you that I don't want to apply for it?
"It's double the money," you said.
So now I feel like shit, because I'm the selfish one.
Well.
I spent my kids entire childhood working in public schools so that I could be a better mother. I picked up kids from school, went to school meetings, usually alone.
I was the one in charge of children, all day long, mine and everyone else's. I was the one who put my life on hold, for twenty years. Me.
When my friends were in college, I was wiping noses and changing diapers, making people feel good, and being there. Just being there. When my family needed me.
I watched the world around me, the people in that I knew, start their careers, change their careers. Live their lives. Go places. Have experiences.
My friends went to graduate school and started doing the things they love. When my kids were going through puberty and slamming doors at me, I was getting postcards from everywhere.
I waited until I was old enough to have to compete for jobs against girls fresh out of grad school and nearly 20 years younger than me. I put together graduate school, and experiences, and developed an area of expertise that quite frankly, is a critical need. I spend my days solving riddles and changing lives.
And I'm good at it. Really good at it. All those experiences and education converged to form a professional--me--who knows kids, can talk to parents, and has a nice wealth of knowledge to do a job properly.
People I work with, who have been in the field longer, are asking my advice.
I thought you heard the pride and excitement in my voice. I thought you were proud of me, too. You seemed enthusiastic.
I've had parents hug me because I told them that there kid didn't have some intractable mental illness, when some other dufus had. I give people hope. I've had people consult with me from places around the state.
And I thought that you heard me. I thought that you actually respected me for being good at something important, something I loved, something I was trained for, where I was respected. What else is there? You've live with me for how long now?
So how could you be so thick, so dense, as to say, "hey, here's this job that is nowhere near your interest, experience, or expertise. It's tangentially related to your line of work, but it's higher pay, and it's where I I work, so you should apply for it"
Why on earth would you even think to do that, except that you don't really think that what I'm doing is serious, or important? How could you not see that when you did this, you clearly were not taking me and my work seriously?
Well
You're pretty fucking insensitive.
You bet I'm pissed.
....
I'm good at it.
They love me. In fact, I was told that I was awesome.
I've talked about it nonstop at home, to you: I've told you how I love it, how they think I'm awesome. How, for the first time, I feel like a professional, and like I'm doing something that is just mine. All mine.
Why on earth would you tell me that there's a job opening where you work, that has nothing to do with what I'm doing, and that you've had the idea that I should apply for it? Then get all pissy when I tell you that I don't want to apply for it?
"It's double the money," you said.
So now I feel like shit, because I'm the selfish one.
Well.
I spent my kids entire childhood working in public schools so that I could be a better mother. I picked up kids from school, went to school meetings, usually alone. I was the one in charge of children, all day long, mine and everyone else's. I was the one who put my life on hold, for twenty years. Me.
When my friends were in college, I was wiping noses and changing diapers, making people feel good, and being there. Just being there. When my family needed me.
I watched the world around me, the people in that I knew, start their careers, change their careers. Live their lives. Go places. Have experiences.
My friends went to graduate school and started doing the things they love. When my kids were going through puberty and slamming doors at me, I was getting postcards from everywhere.
I waited until I was old enough to have to compete for jobs against girls fresh out of grad school and nearly 20 years younger than me. I put together graduate school, and experiences, and developed an area of expertise that quite frankly, is a critical need. I spend my days solving riddles and changing lives.
And I'm good at it. Really good at it. All those experiences and education converged to form a professional--me--who knows kids, can talk to parents, and has a nice wealth of knowledge to do a job properly.
People I work with, who have been in the field longer, are asking my advice.
I thought you heard the pride and excitement in my voice. I thought you were proud of me, too. You seemed enthusiastic.
I've had parents hug me because I told them that there kid didn't have some intractable mental illness, when some other dufus had. I give people hope. I've had people consult with me from places around the state.And I thought that you heard me. I thought that you actually respected me for being good at something important, something I loved, something I was trained for, where I was respected. What else is there? You've live with me for how long now?
So how could you be so thick, so dense, as to say, "hey, here's this job that is nowhere near your interest, experience, or expertise. It's tangentially related to your line of work, but it's higher pay, and it's where I I work, so you should apply for it"
Why on earth would you even think to do that, except that you don't really think that what I'm doing is serious, or important? How could you not see that when you did this, you clearly were not taking me and my work seriously?
Well
You're pretty fucking insensitive.
You bet I'm pissed.
....
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Good days.
I have good days, and I have bad days. Good days, I'm happy, I like me, and I feel perfectly entitled to the good life that I have. On bad days, I fear that when the people who know me really find out how useless, stupid, what have you, that I am, I'll lose it all.
This week, I've had good days. I attribute this, possibly, to the increased workout schedule. It's helped in the past. I'm takin bupoprion, but therapeutic levels aren't generally reached for several weeks. I was a little shaky on Monday, but nothing since then. I worked out hard for nearly two hours on Wednesday, and did a nice little workout this morning.
I like good days. I like days that are good.
This week, I've had good days. I attribute this, possibly, to the increased workout schedule. It's helped in the past. I'm takin bupoprion, but therapeutic levels aren't generally reached for several weeks. I was a little shaky on Monday, but nothing since then. I worked out hard for nearly two hours on Wednesday, and did a nice little workout this morning.
I like good days. I like days that are good.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Choice.
She sat across from me, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She'd been doing that almost continuously throughout the interview. Not long after selecting the chair in the office that was furthest from her parents, she'd pulled up her knees and hugged them as she talked.
I asked her questions. Lots of questions. What do you do for fun...what do you do to make yourself feel better...what do you do when you're mad, angry, or sad?
"Get high."
I asked her who she talked to when she felt like she needed to talk. She said that she used to call her best friend, or her aunt, but then her mother took her phone away, and when she complained, her mother said, "You can talk to me."
Her mother, for the record, disagreed with anything anyone in the room said. The girl said she was closest to her father, mom said, "No, you're not, you're closest to me". When the kid said, "Dad understands me more" and Mom said, "No, I do." Mom always made these assertions loudly, and stridently, frequently interrupted everyone in the room, talked over people, and answered questions were weren't asked of her.
At one point I turned to mom, and said in a gentle, friendly tone, Do you see what you just did there? Just now? I asked your daughter a question, and you answered it.
Mom looked surprised. "I thought you asked me."
Nope, I said, smiling. I said your daughter's name, and looked away from you, to her, and you answered.
Mom was recalcitrant. "Well, I thought you were talking to me," she mumbled. Then she pouted a little.
I asked mom what she thought would help this problem, and she launched into a lengthy description of how bereaved she was when her mother died, 7 years ago. I waited patiently, and then asked the same question again. Same answer. Finally, I said, I'm not really hearing how you think this problem can be solved. Mom finally said that she had learned to solve her problems, so she thought her family should solve theirs the same way.
Later, I told daughter, in private, that her screen was positive for depression. She dabbed at her eyes. "I didn't think I was depressed," she said. I also told her that results of another screening showed that she was in danger of developing a substance abuse disorder, based on her feelings and attitudes. I asked her, You've been crying the entire time you've been in here. Does it surprise you to hear that you were depressed?
"No, I just thought that, you know, I was reacting like we all do--trying to get over living with my insane mother."
I think, based on what I've learned, and the results of your screening, that you would benefit from residential treatment here...just to have a chance to get out of the house, to think, maybe to learn to make good decisions, but I want to know what you think.
"What difference does it make? It's not like I have a choice."
It makes a huge difference, and you do have a choice. In our state, at your age, you have the right to refuse, unless your life is in immediate danger. I recommend it, just for you to have a chance to get away, but we also have a day treatment option, which doesn't involve living here.
She stopped crying for a second, and started at me, astonished. "I get to choose? I never get to choose anything."
Well, you get to choose this.
Mom, for the record, was furious. In the waiting room, she said, "I thought that if I told you to lock her up, you'd do that. Why does she get to choose? I know what's best for my daughter." Daughter lifted her head up, and walked out of the room. She was going to come to day treatment. We'd shook on it. Or banged knuckles, whatever that's called.
Dad looked relieved, and walked out with his daughter, his hand on her shoulder . He didn't really think his daughter needed to be locked up either.
Mom, well, she's still pissed.
I hope she's able to get some help managing that.
,..
I asked her questions. Lots of questions. What do you do for fun...what do you do to make yourself feel better...what do you do when you're mad, angry, or sad?
"Get high."
I asked her who she talked to when she felt like she needed to talk. She said that she used to call her best friend, or her aunt, but then her mother took her phone away, and when she complained, her mother said, "You can talk to me."
Her mother, for the record, disagreed with anything anyone in the room said. The girl said she was closest to her father, mom said, "No, you're not, you're closest to me". When the kid said, "Dad understands me more" and Mom said, "No, I do." Mom always made these assertions loudly, and stridently, frequently interrupted everyone in the room, talked over people, and answered questions were weren't asked of her.
At one point I turned to mom, and said in a gentle, friendly tone, Do you see what you just did there? Just now? I asked your daughter a question, and you answered it.
Mom looked surprised. "I thought you asked me."
Nope, I said, smiling. I said your daughter's name, and looked away from you, to her, and you answered.
Mom was recalcitrant. "Well, I thought you were talking to me," she mumbled. Then she pouted a little.
I asked mom what she thought would help this problem, and she launched into a lengthy description of how bereaved she was when her mother died, 7 years ago. I waited patiently, and then asked the same question again. Same answer. Finally, I said, I'm not really hearing how you think this problem can be solved. Mom finally said that she had learned to solve her problems, so she thought her family should solve theirs the same way.
Later, I told daughter, in private, that her screen was positive for depression. She dabbed at her eyes. "I didn't think I was depressed," she said. I also told her that results of another screening showed that she was in danger of developing a substance abuse disorder, based on her feelings and attitudes. I asked her, You've been crying the entire time you've been in here. Does it surprise you to hear that you were depressed?
"No, I just thought that, you know, I was reacting like we all do--trying to get over living with my insane mother."
I think, based on what I've learned, and the results of your screening, that you would benefit from residential treatment here...just to have a chance to get out of the house, to think, maybe to learn to make good decisions, but I want to know what you think.
"What difference does it make? It's not like I have a choice."
It makes a huge difference, and you do have a choice. In our state, at your age, you have the right to refuse, unless your life is in immediate danger. I recommend it, just for you to have a chance to get away, but we also have a day treatment option, which doesn't involve living here.
She stopped crying for a second, and started at me, astonished. "I get to choose? I never get to choose anything."
Well, you get to choose this.
Mom, for the record, was furious. In the waiting room, she said, "I thought that if I told you to lock her up, you'd do that. Why does she get to choose? I know what's best for my daughter." Daughter lifted her head up, and walked out of the room. She was going to come to day treatment. We'd shook on it. Or banged knuckles, whatever that's called.
Dad looked relieved, and walked out with his daughter, his hand on her shoulder . He didn't really think his daughter needed to be locked up either.
Mom, well, she's still pissed.
I hope she's able to get some help managing that.
,..
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Anxiety.
All throughout my adulthood anxiety has found some way to poke its head out. Generalized anxiety is when anxiety from an event, or a cause, spreads out, like a thick, black fog, until the person is anxious about lots of things.
As soon as I figure out what's going on, it finds another way to get at me.
For a while in the 90s, it was just a feeling of unworthiness, and fear that people would figure that out. Lots of education later, I was able to talk myself out of that feeling.
Then the muscle spasms started. In my neck, in my legs, for no reason. I'm working on those. But meanwhile, now I have panic attacks. Joy.
Hopefully, before it can turn into something else, I'll be getting some therapy. There's this cognitive behavior place in town. I'm hoping that someone there can use something called "Prolonged Exposure Therapy". It is THE thing for PTSD. Here's hoping.
As soon as I figure out what's going on, it finds another way to get at me.
For a while in the 90s, it was just a feeling of unworthiness, and fear that people would figure that out. Lots of education later, I was able to talk myself out of that feeling.
Then came a time when I would look in the mirror and see a hideous troll. Gross. How could anyone love me? Look at that mishapen face. Look at that stomach, those legs. Then one day I realized what was happening, and started the self-talk, the logic. It worked. Mishapen me went away.
Then the muscle spasms started. In my neck, in my legs, for no reason. I'm working on those. But meanwhile, now I have panic attacks. Joy.
Hopefully, before it can turn into something else, I'll be getting some therapy. There's this cognitive behavior place in town. I'm hoping that someone there can use something called "Prolonged Exposure Therapy". It is THE thing for PTSD. Here's hoping.
~~~
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Just Today.
Just today, he was brought in because he was hitting himself in the head, and wouldn't stop. He wasn't screaming, or yelling, or being disruptive--according to his teachers, he's actually a sweetheart, but in the past couple weeks his performance had been declining, and then today, he started hitting himself in the head. When his teacher grabbed his hand, he looked her straight in the eye and said, "I need to make the mumbling go away."
Also, there were shadows following him. That is to say, he could see menacing shadows out of the corner of his eye--
The voices had been getting louder over the past couple weeks, and it's like, really hard to learn Algebra when someone is constantly mumbling at you. Try it. So he got the idea to hit himself in the head. He figured that would do it. He's right, actually. Hit yourself in the head enough times, and everything stops.
--How did you know they were menacing?
"I just do."
So he's being followed by menacing shadows. That he knows are trying to hurt him. He walks very, very fast, so they can't catch him, to get away, to be safe. Same reason he hits himself in the head. To be safe.
The olanzapine helps a little. I asked him if the voices say anything to him in particular.
The olanzapine helps a little. I asked him if the voices say anything to him in particular.
"Not really. I mean, it's like I can almost just make out what they're saying...but if I stop, they stop. They only talk when I'm doing stuff."
Insight is what is used to describe whether someone with a psychotic disorder understands that the voices aren't real. I once had a client tell me that the entire time she was in therapy with me, voices would tell you to stop listening, and yell "NO!" and sometimes, they'd say, "she's lying to you." However, she knew they weren't real, so she just ignored them. Maybe this kid will reach that point and realize that none of it is real--the shadows, the voices, the belief he was being followed.
But today....
Today he's doped up on all sorts of stuff, so that he won't hit himself in the head, and he thinks the voices are real, and he can make them stop.
Today, he also thinks that if he tries hard enough to make out what it is they're saying to him, then he can do what they want and maybe then they'll stop.
Today, he's only thirteen, and he just wants the voices to stop.
....
Saturday, January 16, 2010
It all began
Way back in my twenties. I think. I mean, I think that's when some things that happened to me, things that were not good things, things that should, ideally, happen to no one. I'm using this place to journal and vent a little and for parts of this. I'm disabling comments, because my only reason for writing them is to get them out of my head, not discuss them. Discussion is the for the therapist.
I'm from stoic people. We don't how our emotions. We joke and intellectualize. We don't experience them, and if they're really, really unpleasant, and threatening, we push them away, kind of like that closet that some houses have, when you toss things in there and then shut the door really fast, before anything can fall back out.
The problem, though, is that those closets get full. And each time I peak in, I have to slam the door really fast, before something falls out. It's getting harder and harder to peek. I keep the door shut all the time now, because if by some silly impulse I were to fling the door wide open, there would be this avalanche falling out, burying me with these feelings, experiences and panic.
So. What is in the closet?
The closet includes all the times when my first husband, unexpectedly, would suddenly put his hand against the small of my back and push as hard as he could, propelling me across the room and over a piece of furniture. I never knew why. Sometimes he's just push me into a wall. It'd hit so hard I'd bounce off the wall and fall backwards.
Sometimes he punched me in the face, or in the arm...sometimes he'd hold me down and force me to do whatever he felt like doing to me at that point in time, in whatever part of me he wanted to do it, regardless of whether I wanted to. Even when pregnant. It didn't matter. Whatever he wanted, he got; he was bigger than me, so there you go.
And. Of course, his family said that if I had better been a better wife, that would have never happened.
The closet includes all the times when my first husband, unexpectedly, would suddenly put his hand against the small of my back and push as hard as he could, propelling me across the room and over a piece of furniture. I never knew why. Sometimes he's just push me into a wall. It'd hit so hard I'd bounce off the wall and fall backwards.
Sometimes he punched me in the face, or in the arm...sometimes he'd hold me down and force me to do whatever he felt like doing to me at that point in time, in whatever part of me he wanted to do it, regardless of whether I wanted to. Even when pregnant. It didn't matter. Whatever he wanted, he got; he was bigger than me, so there you go.
And. Of course, his family said that if I had better been a better wife, that would have never happened.
Well, the closet includes the time that my first husband forced me to strip, held me down and tried to strangle me to death. I did believe I was dying. I wondered who would take care of my son. He was interrupted when a friend of ours, who had the annoying tendency to walk in without knocking, did just that.
Also in the closet is the time, several months later, that he hid my keys when I came over to argue with him about child support. My choices that day for getting my clothes back were to strip, leave my clothes, and drive home naked, or have sex with him. I don't remember what happened. I know that I reluctantly chose the latter, but I can't remember what actually happened.
There are other things in that closet, I'm sure, but like said, I haven't been in there for a while, because whenever I looked in there, those two incidents were staring me right in the face. SLAM!
I got busy, raising kids and living life. I was fine.
I got busy, raising kids and living life. I was fine.
I was fine.
Sometimes a person can put things away just out of sheer business of living their lives. Sometimes they stay put away. Other times, for whatever reason, memories are triggered by some event or reminder, or perhaps they suddenly find themselves less busy. It was the former that got me in the 90s. It was the latter that got me in 2010.
I remember where I was standing when they aquitted OJ Simpson. I remember my mouth falling open, and saying to myself, well fuck me. At about the same time there was a local case about a woman named Tammy Haas which has never been resolved, and the most likely suspect was set free.
Within days, I found myself crying for no reason. I thought about things briefly, carefully not too deeply, but not experiencing them, because whenever I've tried to do that, I feel this rising panic. I didn't deal with it then. It passed. Not long after, I took a serious of tests, one of them being the MMPI . The results were read to me and I remember a brief mention of something like, “residual PTSD symptoms”. The report was lost, and I never saw it again.
Within days, I found myself crying for no reason. I thought about things briefly, carefully not too deeply, but not experiencing them, because whenever I've tried to do that, I feel this rising panic. I didn't deal with it then. It passed. Not long after, I took a serious of tests, one of them being the MMPI . The results were read to me and I remember a brief mention of something like, “residual PTSD symptoms”. The report was lost, and I never saw it again.
Most of the time after that, I was busy. Really busy. I went to graduate school, taught high school, moved several times, remarried, and finished raising my kids. It wasn't until 2010 that several factors converged, and the door to the closet, which was bulging, to burst open.
First, the last kid left the nest, leaving me free to be in my own head - not the best place to be sometimes - Second, I got a new job, which involved reading casefiles of abuse. These casefiles included graphic descriptions of abuse, and I found myself feeling a little pensive as I drove home each day.
Third, my usual drug—running--was thrwarted when we had the longest coldest winter in nearly a decade. It was dark when I drove to work, and dark when I drove home, and it was too cold to run in the dark. My mood began to deteriorate until one weekend, I woke up crying. It was crazy. I had no reason to be crying. I loved my job more than any job I'd ever had. I have a great marriage. We' just moved into a dream home. And I couldn't stop crying all day. I went for a run, and felt a little better. It was a Saturday, so I could run.
Third, my usual drug—running--was thrwarted when we had the longest coldest winter in nearly a decade. It was dark when I drove to work, and dark when I drove home, and it was too cold to run in the dark. My mood began to deteriorate until one weekend, I woke up crying. It was crazy. I had no reason to be crying. I loved my job more than any job I'd ever had. I have a great marriage. We' just moved into a dream home. And I couldn't stop crying all day. I went for a run, and felt a little better. It was a Saturday, so I could run.
The following week I had a series of panic attacks that kept me awake all night, and then the next day while I tried to do my weekly long run. I felt this horrible feeling that I needed to get away, now, but home was 6 miles away, so I was trapped--trapped out in the open. I made deals with myself, moving from bench to bench, sitting down each time, my arms over my head, closing my eyes, trying to calm down. Self talk wasn't working.
- You're not having a panic attack.
- Your heart rate is rising because you're running, and you've been up all night.
- You're not having a panic attack.
I went to my family doc, who prescribed Wellbutrin, to get me through the rest of winter, and Xanax, for the panic attacks. I made an apppointment to see a Cognitive Behavior Therapist to try to empty out my closet.
And so here I am.
~~~
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Bullies.
At age 6, he killed a cat by trying to twist its head off. Then he burned down a neighbor's fence.
At age 12, he was beating on his younger brothers. He stripped one naked and beat him with a belt. He told a teacher, "I'm going to kill you, bitch." He got a gun from an uncle, and went after his father.
The police intervened, but didn't arrest him.
His mother took him to treatment, but then pulled him out because he said that the counselor were "mean".
At age 14, she brought him back to treatment again. He was willing to see a doctor, who prescribed medication, which he promptly refused to take. He refused therapy. He was still beating on his younger brothers, but she didn't know that. he'd started ditching school to get high, and putting holes in walls. Her landlord told her they couldn't live there any more.
He talked her out of putting him in residential treatment.
He ran away. The police brought him back.
-----------------------------------------------
At age 15, he mugged his first victim, and started huffing.
At age 16, he started stealing cars. By now he told his mother that if she reported him, he was going to beat the crap out of her. The police didn't catch him.
At age 17, she asked for him to be put in treatment. He begged her to reconsider. She changed her mind. Then months later, he was finally arrested. His JPO told him that to get off probation, it would look good if he got treatment. That's when he came in, and I met him. He sat across from me, and told me that he thought that his family needed to learn to communicate better, and that he considered himself a "people person". WTF? He showed no remorse, just reiterated what his JPO told him.
That's when I got to know him, through his history. I read through it all. And I started wondering, while mom is fucking around, rescuing her baby from the police and treatment therapists, who is protecting those three younger brothers? I gave the kid some instruments to see if maybe, just maybe, he had a cognitive deficit, or maybe he's traumatized, or severely depressed, or anxious.
Nope. nothing like that. He has a real high opinion of himself, too. He's never been abused. He has no internal controls to stop him from violating the rights of others. The only thing that seems to work, it appears, is a probation officer, and the threat of jail. For now.
Mom isn't sure how long he's been beating on his brothers; she just found out about it recently. We're now treating one of them, who sleeps most of the time and cries every day. The kid, the younger brother, is showing signs of trauma from living with this animal.
So, I turned the kid away and recommended another facility. I won't subject an abused child to his abuser day after day. I also called child protective services, since Mom is so busy protecting her baby from consequences that she's willing to let three other kids suffer.
I'm furious nobody has ever done this. We are required to call CPS whenever a crime is committed against a child, even if it's by another child. What bullshit.
Listen. If you don't have the stones to consequence your kid, at least protect your other kids.
Mom helped create a monster. She should live with it. Her other kids shouldn't.
...
Friday, January 1, 2010
The right to parent.
This week I saw a kid who was just the biggest liar ever. Holy cow, he was fun. I interviewed him for about an hour before he finally started to relax and actually cracked a smile.
He has a bad temper, but still tells his mother that he loves her, for no reason at all. His mother, who'd taken them both across the country away from a life of physical abuse and neglect, figuring he'd heal on his own. He'd recently begun to turn his anger outward, until his school sent him home because they couldn't handle him any more.
He wanted so desperately for me to see how dangerous he was, but he's only ten, so he hasn't quite gotten that bravado down yet. He alternated between malingering and socially-desirable response sets. He stopped once to let me know there was an earring under my desk, and then told me that he likes being viewed as "scary". He brightened when I told him about the sports he'd get to play as part of recreational therapy.
He told me how he'd done every drug (he hadn't) and how he'd killed many, many animals (he hadn't). I guess, if you aren't sure you can make people like you, maybe you can get them to respect you and be afraid of you. If you're ten, and watch a lot of movies, that must look like a viable option.
How lonely he is. How devastating is abuse. We got him early. We can help him.
Meanwhile.
If you can't love your kid and raise them properly, fucking give them to somone who can.
...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)