Head Case or Drunken Post. Your Choice, Really.

Very rarely do my therapy sessions make for interesting posts.  You would think that would not be the case, but sadly, my normal musings are way better fodder for laughs, scoffing and general amusement.  Whoda thunk it?

Many of you may know that i was diagnosed with Major Depression.  Turns out, that is doctor talk for "we don't know what's wrong with this whiny bitch, so please dope her up before we give a shit".  It's also insurance talk for "give this bitch tons of therapy, because she is a certified hot mess". Which works out great for me, really.  Why? Because I am depressed.  But only because I'm in chronic pain.  Pain can be a wee bit depressing. Subsequently, my insurance can't cut me off after 8 introductory sessions that give me some half-assed coping skills,  Instead, I'm stuck with M every Thursday at noon. 

And if you believe in the universe giving you exactly what you need, if you think kismet has anything to do with the world, if you know that things happen for a reason, then M and I are meant to be together.

Why?  Because she recognized symptoms in me, and urged me to get tested for Lyme Disease. After a year, I listened, and the rest is history.  or a bunch of blog posts.  Whatever.

Anyways, I wanted to tell you about my session today.



I was there, kind of thinking, "what the hell are we going to talk about today?".  usually, we work on things like:

• Me accepting my illness
• Me doing less to reduce stress
• Me accepting I have to do less to reduce stress
• Me not looking to the future for what-ifs
• Me not focusing on others, but putting myself first for once (weird, because this blog is all about me me me and I don't even give two shits about you, but in real life, this is a struggle. Really. 

Today was more of the same.  Nothing had changed.  I made the remark, "Now that my symptoms have stopped getting worse, I'm just kind of waiting for things to get better".

Yep.  I said that.  Those of you that are all Maslow-self-actualized will be all, "what is she talking about?"  and to that I say, fuck you, and your lack of therapy need.

The rest of you know what I am saying. 

And M helped me.  She said, "So, not having your symptoms get worse, is not getting better?".  She said it with that "Are you fucking kidding me" voice that I know so well.  I have seen her 52 times-I know her pretty damn well by now.

So we chatted.  We ruminated.  We went back and forth about me accepting this whole "sick" persona. 

I thought I was cool. I really did.  I stopped planning heaps of shit, I try not to sign up for stuff.

But then she asked, "What if things never get better than today?"




WOW.



What if things never get better?  That is an actual possible outcome.  One that my overly optimistic husband won't hear, but still.  It's possible. 


So I am chewing on that.  And I thought maybe I would challenge you all to do so as well.  All 29 of you (and the hundreds of lurkers.  Seriously, people.  Stop stalking.  Follow publicly.  Shout it from the rooftops.  Own it.)


What if-Nothing about your life would improve beyond what it is today?  How would you change your outlook?


I'm just starting to work on that. 


What would change for you? Would you do anything different, or look at today with a different lens?

The Model of Self-Restraint

I go to therapy.  When I got diagnosed, my Rheumatologist said that my primary problem was depression, with fibromyalgia being secondary.  I guess the Reynaud's Phenomenon is secondary, as is the Rheumatoid Arthritis. Or would that be third, and forth?  I could wax poetic about how asinine it is that depression is the PRIMARY problem, but I will save that for another day.

Anyways-I got diagnosed with depression.  It's on my PERMANENT RECORD, y'all. Which is great when it comes to $125 an hour therapists, but complete suckage when it comes to life insurance.  More on this some other day, when I have a final, final, FINAL answer about life insurance-they have dragged their feet since May, and can't decide.  I guess if I die, the answer will be a resounding, "NO".

But, I am protected by law from getting cut off from therapy!  I guess they figure they have a better handle on my craziness if they can track me weekly.  So for $20 every Thursday, I get to hang out with a cool chick named Dr. M. Certain diagnoses are protected by law from getting cut off from therapy from the insurance companies. I have one of them.  I think that is actually a bad thing, but I am ignoring the societal implications of that, for now.

Last week, she asked how things have been going.

Let me just say that she is magical.  I remarked to her, "It is so weird. I drive over here with nothing on my mind. I walk up the steps, thinking, 'what am I going to say?', then I sit down. Maybe it's something magical about this room, this chair, this incense, that makes my brain come up with all the rotten things that drive me to want to stab someone in the eye with an ice pick".  Although, I didn't quite put it that way-therapists don't have nearly the sense of humor you would expect especially when it comes to discussing people that you would like to kinda stab.

About that.  I have a slight penchant for being a bit humorous.  Some might even go so far as to say, "sarcastically biting".  I have even heard worse, if you can imagine THAT.
And, wouldn't you know, my therapist sees my sarcasm and snotty comment- those things that have endeared readers to me the world over-as counterproductive!  WTF?

Listen to this shit:

She says, and I  loosely quote,
"When you spend your time focusing on the people and things that make you murderous (my words) you take away from the healing process of accepting the things in your life that you are struggling with."
What I guess this is supposed to mean is that, when I rant and rave about other people and how much they deserve to die-preferably by my hand-for their complete stupidity or annoying behaviors, I lose sight of what my focus should be, and dwell more on their behaviors and my judgement of them.

I don't know about you all, but judging others for their shortcomings makes me feel BETTER-isn't that why we do it?   I can be all, "Well, my hands don't work well which makes driving, writing, typing, cooking and reading a book difficult, but at least I'm not that crazy-ass female with a mustache  and back-boobs and a skunk hair-do, leading my rotten children around on leashes though the Wal-Mart, looking like I stuffed my stretch pants with a sack of doorknobs."  See? The mental picture alone is enough to cheer you up, right?

So, we made a deal.  I get to think the evil thoughts. Then I will blog them.  Then I will explore why the look/behavior/smell/driving ability/lack of common sense bothers me so much, because that is where I will find my true peace and acceptance of the hand I have been dealt.

or something like that.


One model of self-restraint, coming up!

Support Groups

It has been RUFF lately.  I have been grumpy, I have been moody, I have been busy.  I'm so NOT a fan of my current sitch.  I don't mean to complain (Yes, I DO!), but this shit has gotta AT LEAST take a break. Even dictators need a little vacay, why can't health problems?

Here is what I would do if my fibro went to Hawaii for a week:

I would eat and drink til my heart's content.  Pasta, all kinds of fabulous cheeses that I can't pronounce.  And, each meal would have wine, perfectly paired, to each course.
I'm thinking:
Pinot Grigio with a salad of feta, spinach, toasted pepitas, dried cherries
Sauvignon Blanc for the fettuccine alfredo with seafood
a spicy Zin for the filet with carmelized onions and gorgonzola
Something light and dessert-y to go with the chocolate lava cake (I KNOW, so 2005, but it was the most popular over-served dessert for a reason, folks)

I forgot hors d'oeuvres-----
Chik'n Biscuit crackers, salami and spray cheese, accompanied by peach wine coolers.  Or berry?  Maybe the sex on the beach ones.  I always get stuck when pairing chik'n biscuit crackers, I can't remember the rules....

Anyways. After the gorging, I would do all the things I love to do: I would read a great book from beginning to end without stopping (no stopping to walk around and stretch my legs, rub my achy hands, nothing!)
Then, scrapbooking with some other scrappers.
Camping-sitting by the fire eating s'mores, drinking too much, telling stories, going for hikes during the day, watching the kids enjoy nature.
Something out of the ordinary-jet skiing, zip lining, something that will get my blood pumping!
I would also spend a day running all my errands-I would get them all done, and NOT be completely wiped out at the end of it.
I would not take any meds, any vitamins, nor would I visit a single doctor. My week would not be ruled by my health or my limitations.

I could go on for hours, but I won't bore you with my fantasies.

The other night, I was DONE.  Done and done.  I was coming off a flare-up (3 weeks, ugggh) and grumpy as all get out.
I came home, SK said, how are you?  We walked and talked, getting situated for the evening, closing up the house, etc.  I turned to him, and said, "I'm not okay." We sat down to talk and the flood gates opened up. I whined about always being sick, everything being centered around me and my health and how much I hated it, even though I new it was necessary.  He listened (as he always does, man, I'm lucky) and offered up words of encouragement, tried to help me figure out what caused my feelings (Maybe you are stressed with family coming to visit, Maybe you're premenstrual (Really, this does not make me want to kill him, somehow he manages to make it not irritating), Maybe you have still been working too much) when I just got sick of not knowing what is really, fully, wrong, what are the triggers ('cuz 12 hours of work a week is too much to bear...), just sick of the whole thing. (You would think weekly therapy AND a fabulously supportive husband would be enough, but I am SO NEEDY!)

I cried, cried, cried.

Then, SK offered up the concept of a support group.  I found one that meets the last Saturday of each month, about 10 minutes from the house! And, I found a yahoo group, and a facebook group.  So, all in all, I have found some places full of supportive people that HAVE BEEN THERE.  They know me, my story, my situation, like no one else can.

I am feeling positive about this potential piece for me. I will keep you posted!


UPDATE:
I found fibrohugs on facebook, and already made a few friends.  I found a Yahoo group, and have refrained from commenting for now, as they are watching my every move. They say it is to keep spammers away, but I think it might also be a mental illness screening tool, so I'm being extra careful.  AND!!!!! The fibro/CFS group is awesome!  I'm not alone!!!!  They are nice, and helpful, welcoming, etc.  All the things they should be.  More soon!  TTFN

Poision Control and Therapy

I came upon the idea for this post while reading another blog, Snarky Mommy. And, even though I have not had to call poison control in some time, this is the kind of crazy I live with on a daily basis, so I thought I would share.
As a renowned Child Development person (HA!), I am somewhat embarrassed to say that I have called poison control 3 times.

3.

I am not sure how many I could/should have called, but officially, it is 3.

The first time, my son got into some amber resin.

*backstory*

I spent much of my teen and college years working for health food stores. And, I established good relationships with many of the wonderful hippies I worked with, and the hippie customers, too. At one transition in my life, I was moving on, and a regular customer that had grown fond of me had presented me with a small ornate wooden box with beautiful carvings in the top. The box was filled with amber resin, which smells wonderful. Over the years, this little treasure has moved with me.

Fast-forward to parenthood. I am living with my little family, working at my home day care, with my young son. He is 1 and a half, and very curious.

One day, he comes out, upset. He has something yucky in his mouth, and he has developed a rash. For some reason, there is a smell that rings a faint bell. As I get closer, I recognize the smell, and we walk into my bedroom, where the lid of the amber resin box is laying (lying?) on the floor. I quickly realize that MB has eaten some amber.

I look up the number to poison control in the phone book (it's this ancient book, filled only with people's names and phone numbers. And, a listing of all our governmental officials. Strange, I know.) and give them a call. The first thing they want to know is my phone number. This is how they keep track of calls. My paranoid mind goes to, "enough calls and they will come and strip you of your parently duties". So, I reluctantly give it, and go through the process of them trying to figure out what the hell he ate, and whether he will die.
About 15 minutes into it, we mutually decide it is classified as incense, and we move on, accepting he will not die from it.

Call #2. I am currently running an in-home daycare, and it is about 10 AM. I have 4 children in my home, one of them the infamous Monkey Boy. (Who senses a theme?) My son, the acrobat, has climbed inside the TV cabinet (back when TVs were big and heavy, and required a piece of furniture to hold them, along with all their debris). He has grabbed my new air freshener, the kind that you walk by and push the top on to release a blast of springtime freshness. (It has since been discontinued, and if it was due in part to my call, I formally apologize to the company) Well, apparently, when you hold it in your pudgy toddler hands to look at it, your chubby little pointer finger fits perfectly on the "launch" button.  Which seems perfect, since he launched the biggest scream fit I have ever seen.
And, the rash left a perfect ring around his eye. Way to go, chemical company, for expressing a perfect circular ring of air heaven. In his eye.

Poison control told me to flush his eye with cool water. And, at the last First Aid class, I was told that, when you have to flush an eye, to call 9-1-1 to get assistance, because it is impossible to do alone. Well, I weighed the pros and cons of the fire truck, along with the stress to the other kids, and the bad PR. I then called a friend who was a fire fighter, and he talked me through it.

It is NOT impossible to rinse an eye of a toddler alone.  I don't recommend it in public though, as it does look quite violent-me straddling his little body, his hands under my knees (gently, mind you-I'm no sadist), one arm around his head prying his eye open while the other pours a steady stream of cool water into the burning eye.


*Donations to his therapy fund will be accepted by PayPal.*

Thankfully, I changed phone numbers somewhere in here, because my relationship with Poison Control was not over.

Then, Princess came along. She was curious, too. Just not a climber.  Phew-while I was resting on my laurels, she was exploring the doors that were not closed.  Like the bathroom. (Did I mention that each time my son used the toilet, he was remiss in flushing? No matter what manner of filth came out of him?) So, there I am, walking down the hall, and I find my little angel sitting in the hall. At first, I think she has been painted by her brother. Then, I think, maybe she got into some chocolate. Then it hits me.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

After fighting back the gagging, I managed to get her clean, get the bathroom clean, get the carpets clean. A stern lecture to the son, a warning to EVERYONE not to kiss Princess in the foreseeable future, and my (hopefully) last call to Poison Control.

Poo Facts:

Did you know LOTS of children eat poo in their toddler years? The difference (which made the poison control dude gag a bit) in my case is that most toddlers get into their own diapers. NOT the toilet, after their soon-to-be-yelled-at brother filled it to capacity.
Did you know that the e-coli in a person's colon is most likely the same as the e-coli in a close relative living with you? I didn't, either! The good news is, this meant that she would most likely not die from her escapade.
Did you know that what I now lovingly refer to as re-fried poo is exponentially worse the next cycle through?
Did you know that it also multiplies in volume the next "go round"?


Did you know that the taste is NOT a deterrent to toddlers?

Thought not.


* Donations to her therapy fund will be accepted by PayPal.*





See, now you can tell your boss that you were researching little-known poo facts and incense digestibility when you were supposed to be working.

Therapy 1.0

For those of you that don't know-I am taking a mindfulness class that my therapist offers.  Also, it may not be obvious to the naked eye, but I have a wee bit of a problem with control.  It's tiny, you may not have noticed.  Tiny like a teensy freckle in the center of a microscopic mole. 

Where was I?

That's right---me, control, therapy, blah blah blah.

So, at the last meeting, we were given homework. We had to work on what we practiced in the meeting. I hurried to fill out the paperwork, because I had my regular session with her today.  So, I walk in, all bummed because I didn't get it all done. This is how the conversation goes:

Me: So, I had a really hard time, doing the mindful breathing.
Her: Oh? (In that calm voice she uses to disarm me)
Me: Yes! I got to 3 breaths, then kept losing track, my mind would wander! It was aggravating!
Her: Is 3 bad?
Me: Ummm, yeah! You said, do 5.
Her: Did I? I don't recall giving specific goals, I just asked each person to practice.
Me: Oh. Well, I did some breaths, then.
Her:And, how did it go?
Me: Ok, but I wanted to get more done.
Her: Like what?
Me: Well, I figured I would do 5 breaths on Friday, then knock out some more on Saturday, maybe meditate for Sunday, adding 5 minutes each day, to wrap it all up by.....
Her:  :::::Laughing hysterically::::
Ummm, well, the point wasn't so much to get it done. The point was more about experiencing the process, working on it, seeing how it went.  It is more of a lifestyle change, a practice that you will hopefully be able to use as.....(I stop listening, wrapping my head around YET AGAIN missing the point)
Me: Oh.  Shit.

See?  I come so far, only to find out that the big long road I spent the past 4 months traversing through seemingly insurmountable odds like sleet, snow, hail, and vengeful acts of defiance is actually only my damned driveway.

How the hell am I supposed to be intrinsically motivated? I'm a freaking American, people!

Why am I here?

Well.  Ahem.

I have not been real honest with you.  I think it is time I came clean.

I don't blog for you.

I am a fairly selfish person, and I don't want to shell out more $20 co-pays than necessary, so I thought that blogging would give me an outlet that I needed to get through some of this crap I got goin' on.  Well, okay, maybe I thought I could also help others going through the same blah blah blah.
So, I enjoy writing-I like to be funny (AND, the center of attention), and I need extra therapy-hence, blog.


Also, I read somewhere that I was going to be limited to 9 therapy sessions by my insurance, unless my therapist requested more. So, I thought I better start learning how to vent before she cuts the cord.  I told her last week about my brilliant plan. And here comes the good news.  And bad news.  Same sentence, by the way:
Her: Why would they cut you off?
Me: Umm, 'cause they only give me 9 sessions, unless I need more
Her: Oh no!  With certain diagnoses, they can't cut people off! It's protected by law. (cue happily surprised look on my face).  Yes, they cover it for bigger things like, oh, let's see, Bi-polar disorder, schizophrenia,, things like that, and in your case, severe depression (cue glazed over look in my eyes).
Me: (In my brain) SEVERE?  REALLY? You had to say that?  Great, something else to obsess about. Because I was just getting used to the idea to depression at all.  Now, it's severe.
Me: (Out of my mouth )Oh, great!

So, good news (covered therapy FOREVER, holla!) bad news (SEVERE DEPRESSION).  What a roller coaster.

But, I had already begun the blogging, and I have a whole 2 official followers, so I'm in it to win it.  Or something like that.  My loss, your gain, right?

UPDATE: I talked to my therapist about her rotten label. Turns out, she did NOT say "severe".  (phew!)  She said "Major". (Gulp).  I must have looked alarmed, because she explained what that really meant, and it was about insurance billing, not stereotypes in my head (hey, how does she know that?).  Then, she said, "and, your case is mild". To which I said, with hardly any sarcasm at all, "Oh! Mild major depression. Phew! Glad ya clarified!"  Still love her, though.