Tag: Mentally Healthy

micacious

Dear Internet,
Housekeeping:

  • I’ve been keeping up with my Silly Pictures goal
  • I’ve meditated for 236 consecutive days
  • Wednesday 3/9 marks my 7th week of smoke freeness
  • I’m making some headway into my 50 Things project
  • I am still exercising, of some sort mainly yoga, a few times a week since November
  • Job application status (Start date: January 24, 2016)
    • Total: 25
      • Academia: 21
      • Public: 3
      • Other: 1
    • Rejections: 4
    • Interest: 2 3 (As I’m writing this, I got an offer to do a video interview. Hell fuck yeah.)

I’m keeping better stats on my job hunt, mainly for my own edification. As for the “interest” bit, the “other,” which was a corporate gig, called me on Friday and left a message to talk about the position in question. I returned the call and two days later, nothing. The other interest was from a public library system that wanted me to complete a civil service test which would last an hour. THEN if I passed the civil service test, I would get a call back for an interview, however, there is no known time from the test to the interview. It’s a 10 hour drive, one way, to the city so I had to politely decline.1
But hey! It’s keeping up with my above average of 1ish in 10 on interest/interviews to applications submitted.
(I have been expecting the deluge of rejections / interviews to start happening around this time. The jobs I applied for at the end of January / beginning of February, closed near the tail end of February so decisions are coming out now.)

I drew up a plan for what I’m going to do on a M-F schedule to keep up with all of my projects. Part of that plan was to write once a week over at the profesh site and in addition to the weekly gratitudes, write here twice a week. We see how well that’s going, but for once I am not beating myself up because things are not on a tight schedule, which is a huge difference from where I was even a few months ago.

Speaking of ThePlan, I had a breakthrough with my therapist this week. For the first time in four months, I sat down and said, “These are the issues I am having and these are the things I want to change.” I know you’re thinking, “Okay, Lisa, you’ve been seeing a therapist for that long of time and you’re just getting to the meat of your crazy?” Au contraire my friend, I’ve been spending the last four months pulling my ass out of the giant hole that exploded back in October. Couple that bullshit with jobs, family, lack of money, and other large topics of discussion, I haven’t had a time to really think about that kind of stuff or really how to fix me. I was more interested in putting out fires.
Along with job hunting process, being crazy is a full-time gig.
I broke down to my shrink about this plan, telling her I was sorting out what I needed to do on a weekly basis (work on TeamTreeHouse, job hunt, DBT, journaling to name a few) into daily chunks and she said, “Lisa. You do understand you’re spreading yourself thin, right?”
Honestly? I thought I wasn’t doing enough. That sounds a reasonable thought, doesn’t it? If you look at my newly planned calendar, I have, on average, six things assigned to each day. Two of them I approximated two to three hours each (and I was being generous). The other four? No idea on time. Just glancing at the remaining objectives, they could last anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour each and that is not including time to yoga, meditate, eat, shower, and housekeeping duties that add-on the daily lists.
My argument to her is, “Look. I need to apply for jobs. I need to work on refreshing / learning new skills using TeamTreeHouse. I need to check my email on a regular basis and I need to keep up with my RSS feeds to keep abreast of library trends. I can not not do these things.” “Maybe something has to go?” “Okay, what?” “That’s for you to figure out and prioritize.”
(This is not a verbatim conversation but you get the general gist.)
When I came home from the session, I gave TheExHusband the tl;dr and he agreed with my shrink. “You’re spreading yourself too thin. You don’t have to do everything right this second and at the exact same time.”
I agree.
Obviously the job hunt is top of that list and it buttresses neatly with the day to day stuff mentioned above. That’s the given.  But as for the rest of it? I have no idea, right now, how to stagger it so I’m not overwhelmed. As I explained above, I don’t have TeamTreeHouse set for everyday, it’s for twice a week. Writing on my profesh blog is only once a week. Writing here is twice a week.
This type of balancing act is what’s been keeping me in my thoughts this week. I’ve been pretty motivated to keep pushing forward because I’ve now got a history of not giving up on projects. The exercise, the meditation, the quitting smoking, and the on going stuff for 50 Things. I am not as susceptible to starting projects and abandoning them as I once was. I’m not saying I’ve perfected the best balance for home / work, as that’s bullshit, but I have a better control on my life than a year ago.
I’ve always been a fighter, that pretty strongly evident through the course of my life, so it’s never been a big concern that I would not pick myself up by my Chucks. I’ve never thought I wouldn’t get out of here. I may have been pissed it was taking so long, but if anything this last 18 months has shown me, I can do this.
Where as before I would think myself as a loser or failure for not following ThePlan or the calendar or whatever I’ve concocted to a T, I get that I’m not perfect, life is not perfect, and if I want to be happy, I need to be fluid on many of my plans.
And if you read anything prior to the last six months on ThePlan, you know to be true.
So all in all, how I’m handling this makes me proud and gives me the hope I can get an even better grip on my life.

After that, “Go get’m girl!” speech, it seems a little spurious to switch gears, but that’s how I roll.
I’ve been pretty open I’ve been having bouts of depression these last few months or so. It’s different from the blow up in October (manic depression) where I was crying on the couch for hours on end, binge eating (skip breakfast, lunch, splurge on dinner or some variant), sporadically showering. No, this was subtle. Quieter. I wasn’t having suicidal feelings. I was able to do things that I needed to do without feeling much issues. I would feel, “Huh. It’s gray outside. I’m gray inside. Whatevs.” and continue on with my day.
It was super frustrating to know this was depression happening and I couldn’t meditate, yoga, or whatever my way out of it.
So when I saw my medicating shrink a few weeks ago, I gave him the above and told him I felt my depression was around 8 out of 10. He put me on Cymbalta, which is fast acting (takes a few days to kick in instead of a few weeks) and hoping this would be enough.
If you’ve been reading my site for a few years now, you know I’m super sensitive to drugs. I’ve had psychotic breaks on ADHD meds, suicidal thoughts on SSRIs, and a whole host of other problems. The currently bipolar cocktail (Lamtical (400mg) and Risperdone (not sure of the amount of but it’s the beginning dose)) works really, really well. The symptoms are in control and I am so fucking aware of my triggers it’s insane. (“You’re one of the most self-aware people I know!”) The anxiety is kept in check with Klonopin and Hydroxyzine, but depression, however, is a whole ‘nother ball of wax based on the aforementioned problems.
I won’t go into too much specifics but anti-depressant drugs fall into three classes: SSRIs, SNRIs, and Atypical. SSRIs are the ones most people know about (effexor, paxil, etc) and the ones that make me, honestly, psychotic. SNRIs is where Cymbalta lives and last week it showed that after metabolizing it for a few days, I felt awesome (3 out of 10) for a few days, and then the rage hit so hard, I would have beaten up the couch if given a chance. Atypicals, where Latuda and Wellbutrin live, are pretty much my last shots. I was on Wellbutrin ages and ages ago and I don’t remember how I reacted to it, but then again, I was on a whole different bipolar cocktail. Latuda, I’ve never been on.
So to finally put this to some kind of ending, the doc put me on Wellbutrin, which I started today, and I should see some kind of result in a few weeks. (And hopefully not in some kind of psychotic rage. 😀 )
Viva la crazy drugs!
xoxo,
Lisa

1. My clearly out of state address was on the app and the follow up email. I half expected they would reject me based on that information. But nope. Go figure.

This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2013, 2004, 2003, 2001

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

Dear Internet,
As I’m hot on the heels of the posts about lack of self-confidence and being mindful, it’s time for me to dissect another struggle of mine: self-esteem.

I tend to re-read previous days worth of entries in my paper journals to see where my train of thought has been and if I have missed any of the minutiae of my day to day life. (Remember I want to be the Samuel Pepys of my generation.) I typically don’t read my back entries on the blog too much with the exception when I link to them inside a new post and I scan the content to verify it matches my point.
I tend to forget what I’ve written on the blog (and sometimes in my paper journals) more often than not thus rereading the content always gives me a bit of a surprise. (I also sometimes forget my back is tattooed and it’s always a delightful revelation when I see the black work.)
The almost relentlessly ongoing theme with my paper journal these last few weeks is the story of moving forward, my sense of accomplishments, and letting myself heal. Because I am me, I wonder if these are actual steps to to convince myself that this is actually happening or if I am only fooling myself.

It is harder still when you believe you are stupid and those (it seems many) think you’re awfully, terribly smart and you honestly believe they are being duped. The irony of the believing you are stupid as historically there is no trauma or pattern of being called or treated as if you were / are stupid. You were in fact told about your amazing abilities of reading (age 3) and writing (same), you were singled out with a few others to participate in gifted children classes. They wanted you to skip a grade, send you to a gifted high school, and you refused both.
Finally the belief you’ve held on for so long is cemented when all the tests you were given as a child, and aced, did not lend themselves to various tests when you were older. You “flunk” your SATs. You “flunk” your GREs. You pick colleges and universities who don’t require those tests. You push to excel then because it was either get a degree or pack sausages for the rest of your life. It is not about testing your brain, rather, it’s about survival.
(You did not know then was the insistence of instructors to teach the same widely used learning style which does not fit you and you were untreated as someone with ADHD far into your 30s. (Typical symptoms of ADHD such as poor word retrieval (cannot remember a word when speaking or writing), difficulty in pronunciation and spelling of words, dropping words in verbal and written communication also firmly take hold in your belief of your stupidity.))
How much would have changed if you had believed in yourself, got medicated, and worked with a tutor to help you.)
If you believe in such things, your IQ is in the 130s.
The reason you hide for so very many years of why you want to be stupid is because being smart alienates you. You’re already a taller than average, bespeckled nerd with very few friends. Those who are beautiful and popular have everything. Those who are smart and nerdy do not.
Denying your gifts at least puts you somewhat with the people you perceive to be normal.
No one wants to be special because it does nothing.

Oh! Lack of self-esteem, how you torture me so.
xoxo,
Lisa

This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2004, 2001

eucatastrope

Dear Internet,
When I write pieces like this, this, that, this, or that all in the manner of two weeks, people get nervous.
They think I’m in crisis.
They think I’m having a(nother) nervous breakdown.
I find I have to keep reiterating that I’m fine, I’m not in crisis, I’m not going to harm myself.
Because I’m not. I’m a vengeful fucker.
Think of it this way: Writing those things is, yes, massive navel gazing, and to some extent, attention seeking1, but I like to think of writing as a big ugly cry.

Then I feel better.
What is comforting, besides people caring to make sure I’m okay, is those who come to me privately and tell me they have gone or are going through some of the exact same things. It, perhaps you make think this is odd, feels good to remember these feelings are a shared human experience.
(You are not alone.)

I’ve put together a fairly intricate plan to kick my ass in moving forward on healing. I’ll have a post coming up with the exact breakdown, but here is a summary:

  • I use my Bullet Journal to create my todo lists for the day
  • I use my carding system (explained later) to
    • Track DBT stuff (skill, techniques, pithy statements)
    • Accomplishments
    • Gratitude lists
  • I write (or try to) in my paper journal every day (steady since October!)
  • I exercise 3-5x a week (steady since November!)
  • Meditate (207 days and counting!)
  • Therapy every week
  • I go to my office

So that last part — starting this week I have a co-working place in downtown L-ville. TheExHusband and my therapist agreed it would be a good idea if I had somewhere to go outside of the condo. I researched places where I could work (bookstores, coffeeshops, the library) and it turned out to be far cheaper to use the co-working space than other locations. For $60 a month, I get free snacks/drinks, wifi, ample parking space, business address, mailbox, and locker to name a few perks. Today was my first day and my time went by fast. I loved it.
(I’ve promised myself to not stay on the computer past 5PM at home or at the office but as I cannot access the blog to write here when I’m at work so I’m bending the rules tonight.)
There is only so much one can do in exploring the city, running errands, wandering around, and walking the dog when one has no cash. I’m utterly dependent on TheExHusband and I’m mindful of what I am borrowing2, refrain from asking anything outside of necessities.
What is my job? Oh, loads of stuff.

  • Apply for jobs It takes me 1-2 hours per application (on a good day). I’ve applied for 13 jobs in the last 10 days and that’s 30ish hours of my time already sucked away before anything else
  • Look for jobs Another time suck
  • Work on DBT/RSL I need to be doing this daily — I started out strong and withered. This needs to be part of my everyday routine
  • Treehouse/Linux projects Amping up my back and front end developer skills
  • Writing Blog, Short stories. Non-fiction. Researching magazines and such to send stuff in. Everything encompassing this section
  • Other shit I’m probably forgetting

This is a lot of stuff. It feels at times almost overwhelming so. It became pretty clear I needed an away space when working from home wasn’t doing me any favors. If I didn’t wanna do work I just didn’t. If I wanted to not shower and lay about in jimjams, I did. Add in a roommate who works from home and you two end up not working beacuse you’re busy bugging the other and a dog who needs TO LET YOU KNOW THEY ARE THERE, well, you can see how I was starting to slack on getting work done.
Why am I doing this?

  • Have a place to go to on a daily basis I have to get up, get dressed, do hair and make-up, and go somewhere that is not the general living area in the condo
  • Feel like I’m contributing to society I’m creating content, participating in daily interactions with people, providing air pollution to the environment with my car
  • Socialization As I am taught in Thursday’s obedience class, the reason why most dogs bark is due to lack of socialization and getting acclimated to the world at large. I am slowly getting feral if I don’t head out of the big wide world.

That and this is my job.

I’ve written so fucking extensively on ThePlan, even I am tired of the redundancy. But this time around – it’s different.
(You’ve said that before.)
I know. I acknowledge that. I put an arbitrary time frame on something that is not arbitrary. You cannot plan out when your mental/physical health is going to suddenly be awesome sauce. Big mistake number one.
Big mistake number two is where I loaded myself up to fail. I put together a lot of stuff into the rotation and got overwhelmed. This time around I started out small and I’m adding new stuff as it goes.
Don’t believe me?
Look at the schedule at the beginning(ish) of this post. Three things have been in rotation for at least three months (exercising, writing daily, and meditating). I haven’t fallen off the wagon on exercising. Some weeks I may have only gotten one day in, but I did something and I haven’t given up even when I had shitty weeks. I have written nearly 200 pages in my paper journal since October 25thish. I have not skipped a day in mediation.
At times I may not feel as I’m moving forward but when looking at my accomplishments, no matter how small they may be, they are still accomplishments.
Don’t forget: the best apology is changed behaviour.
xoxo,
Lisa

This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2015, 2015,  2014, 2001


1. As I’ve said before, borderlines need to be the center of your world. TheExHusband hypothesizes my need to put myself out there on the interwebs is to get that kind of attention. I’m not going to argue that there may be some validity to that argument, but my rebuttal is I don’t have a large readership. I have, maybe, 500 or so readers via RSS and email. I maybe get 100 hits a day. I’m not exactly chasing down gawker.com here. There is also the fact I don’t do large scale campaigns to garner hits. When a post is published, it posts to my Facebook page, Twitter, Tumblr, and Google+ accounts. Once. The only exception is Twitter where I’ll set up an auto-tweet with the post info six hours later. There are a couple of other places a link to the site is advertised (my social media info, my email signature) but that’s it. So yes he’s right but only in theory, not context.
2. The number I’ve borrowed is — quite large. TEH doesn’t see it as borrowing but I do. I am beyond thankful for his help but I cannot live with knowing I have not paid it forward, or him, in return.

à la débandade

Dear Internet,
After all the cheeriness of #lismentalhealth week, it’s time for happier random updates.

Hah. I (sorta) fibbed.
This morning I woke up with the overwhelming feeling of TheSads, which are feelings that come in waves, typically lasting a few hours or sometimes a few days. There is no cause for TheSads, I’m often not triggered, and they leave just as quickly as they come.
There are a number of reasons of why TheSads are hanging out today: I’m going to start ovulating in a few days (my mood is all over the place when I start ovulating), I’ve been job hunting for the last few days and that’s always depressing, and I’ve been smoke-free for the last six days which is also a grump inducing mood.
These are legit reasons for TheSads to shuffle hop step across my mind’s stage.
These are normal things to feel.
After dragging myself into the shower and getting ready for the day, I started clutching various particular straws on the pretense if those things were firmly, and safely, in my corner my life would be so much better.™
I know that’s not true. I know I’m deluding myself on those things.
I know there are lots of things I cannot control that are a part of my life and I have to just keep putting one step in forward of the other. It’s hard. It feels like a snail’s pace. Sometimes I don’t feel like I’m making any progress when I am.
The usual bullshit.
At the meeting with my therapist a few hours later, the conversation turned to that morning’s feelings: Why am I clutching at straws? Why do I think I can change the past? Why blah blah blah? (To be fair I’m not concentrating on one specific thing in my past to change, there are a whole host of things I would adore to change, but that is neither here nor there.)
After talking this out with her, I started to feel better. I teared up (mascara that actually doesn’t run for the muther fucking win!) in therapy, as I tend to do, when discussing certain subjects which are really facades for my frustration levels of not being to make the massive changes I think/want I need: Job, place of my own, my own money.
I keep harping on those things because those are things that plague most of my thoughts. Sometimes I can keep those thoughts in a cage and smile evilly at them and other times they gang up like, well, gangbusters. Most of the time these days they are in the cage but this morning they decided to make an unwanted appearance.
After the discussion with my therapist, I felt better — I always feel better. It could have been the coffee I was consuming during my hour. It could be the release of those thoughts. It could have been the greasy lunch I had later.
I spent the afternoon starting this entry, combing through job sites looking for positions to apply, and prepping for Thursday’s obedience class this evening. TheSads, which were starting to abate, came back in full force: Why did I fuck up this particular job interview? Why did I fuck up that job interview? How much different would my life would have been if I had not done X,Y, or Z?
I started feeling awful all over again. The feelings of failure, worthlessness, and my own stupidity came crashing down in waves.
It’s always a struggle to get them under control.


I got new glasses. How exciting! (Not as exciting when I figured out how to safely wax my under arm hair last week but I do like living on the edge.)
Still. Very exciting!
This is my fourth pair of glasses in the last 20 years. I’m thankful my script hasn’t changed too much and rotating the previous three pairs hasn’t been that big of deal as time went by.
Until last year.
Last year I discovered I needed progressives. You know, bifocals.
I’m officially old.
I couldn’t afford new glasses and contacts thus the optometrist recommended getting contacts but adding a pair of those cheap reading glasses you find everywhere to help with the near sightedness. I didn’t like pairs I found so I continued working with just contacts and sort of winging it which really didn’t seem to be that big of deal.
After it hit the one year mark of my last appointment, it was becoming pretty clear, despite my attempt to convince myself regular contacts were just fine, I needed those new glasses. Contacts be damned. (Honest truth: I have enough unused contacts from the last few years, due to slight difference in scripts, to last me another solid year.)
TheExHusband agreed to front me the cash for the new specs and trying on new pairs was that week’s excitement. (Did I mention I liked living on the edge?)
I had the following demands:

  • Buddy Holly frames. I’ve done the fancy, quirky pairs over the years and I wasn’t loving those frames so back to my trusty Buddy Hollys.
  • Anti-glare/scratch and a few other thingies
  • Black. Preferably matte.
  • Lenses sit far enough away from my eyes so mascaraed lashes don’t streak the glass. (Yes, this has been a problem in the past.)
  • Properly fitted.

The last one was the most important as left alone to my own devices none of my previous pairs really fit my face and after a while, some of the arms were stretched out due to my large head and mounds of hair.
With the optometrist’s help, I found the perfect pair and hoo boy, am I pleased as punch!
I am a vain, vain person and I would not have considered wearing glasses as a regular thing until the last few years. (This despite almost everyone I met would mention at least once how great I looked in said frames.) Now that I have found a pair I love and look fabulous in, I feel more confident in wearing my new specs.
(It was pointed out to me I could have gotten said specs way cheaper at Zenni Optical but as fit was more important to me, there is no guilt for what was paid. Now that I have the specs for my specs, I’ll be buying from Zenni in the future. (Also Zenni is optometrist approved.))
When I posted the above image on Facebook, in addition to the usual “you look great!” comments, numerous women posted my eyebrows, make-up, and skin is on point. Here are my secrets:

With the exception of Yes To, Rimmel, and Kat von D products, everything else was recommended by rankandstyle.com. Since I’m on a drugstore budget, I’m pleased as all get out I was able to find products that worked and worked well with spending a small fortune.

If you’re into librarian-y things, I’ve started the redesign of my librarian profesh site which includes starting and updating a blog in addition to the occasional site updates. One of the suggestions from a prof was to start writing about my experiences in the job market, trends in library land, and commentary on current practices. THIS! I can do.
I’ve been importing the librarian-y posts from EPbaB over to lisa.rabey.net and it’s been going fairly well and it keeps the site current where as before it was a bit more stale. I’m also updating my, “So, You Want To Be A Librarian” series which you should check out if you’re thinking about getting your MLIS.

This week is finally my mammogram appointment which has me alternately relieved and a bit scared.
From a few weeks ago,

“…able to find the benign lump in my right breast, discovered a year ago (2014/15) with my first mammogram. (If you recall, I had a total of six mammograms including an ultrasound over six months and it was decreed everything was fine.) The lump is located at the intersection of my armpit and my breast, so I would not have found it if I was doing a self-exam.
Speaking of which, I go in for my yearly mammogram this week and hopefully the benign lump is still benign. I shudder at the thought of getting a biopsy to make absolutely fucking clear it’s benign.
LADIES! Get your tits checked.”

I’ll obviously update the status once I know, but whatever deities you pray too, keep me in your thoughts the lump is still benign.
xoxo,
Lisa

This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2015, 2014, 2011

…and zombies

 
#LisMentalHealth week is an initiative started by my good friend Cecily Walker and Kelly McElroy. You can follow along on Twitter, add resources to the Google doc, or check out the Storify of Monday’s chat. Please do not diagnosis yourself via the internet — if you are concerned about your mental health or someone else’s, see a professional immediately.
 

Dear Internet,
The last couple of posts discussed what was going on inside my head, some background on being bipolar and borderline, suicidal thoughts, and how that conflates in every day life. I want to excavate deeper into the every day life part because it’s necessary, important, and gives others a chance to know they are not feeling alone.
(Punctuated with GIFs from Pride and Prejudice & Zombies, Becoming Jane, and Pride and Prejudice (1995 AND 2005 editions). Because obviously.)
People with mental illness are bad ass mother fuckers.
As we stabilize, and start to integrate into regularized life, we have to still have to navigate all of the pitfalls of being mentally ill.
Alone.
Inside our head.
This is not to say we don’t have a support system, a good therapist on call, or even the wrong drugs. But those things can only do so much and we need to be prepared to handle the rest.
We’re fighters.

And when we’re in crisis, which does not always mean suicidal, we’re kind of straying off track of the fight. But give us a moment and we’re back into the ring, ready to do another battle.
Sometimes we are down on the mat, and the ref is counting. Sometimes we feel the only way to win is to die. But those who walk that path are still brave for they took their own life on their terms. It’s hard to digest, I know, but there are something bigger than us, all of us, that cannot always be beaten.
They are not cowards. Death is not shameful. They deserved to make that decision.
I’m not advocating for suicide. I’m not saying everyone who is mentally ill should go kill themselves. I refuse, however, to put on the facade that this wasn’t the person’s choice. It is their choice. They made this decision to end it on their terms, they should have the dignity for making that decision.
(Some of us just need something to keep us here. If you feel like you’re going through a rough time and you need help, call the National Suicide Prevention Line at 1.800.273.8255.)

I know from my own experiences the line between wanting to fight and dying on my terms has been pretty blurred. What’s pulled me out of making the decision to die is my need to be a vengeful asshole and want to prove the world wrong.
I haven’t been suicidal in a very long time. I get into crisis mode which can be akin to waiting out a bad storm. I have too much to do in this world and like I said, I’m a vengeful asshole.
I wanted to die because I didn’t feel like anyone understood what I was going through. I wanted to die because I thought no one loved me. I wanted to die because I could not imaging going through life in this kind of pain.
It took a long time for me to accept people love me. People want to make sure I’m okay. When it looks like I’m going into crisis mode, people text/call me to make sure I’m okay or if I need anything. I know it will get better some day, so I let the tears out and the frustration, I take my drugs, I write in my journal, I meditate, and the sun starts to pinprick the clouds.
(And I’m a vengeful asshole, because fuck you non-believers of me.)
(My meditation guru, headspace, has this technique called noting. Instead of acting out on whatever (feeling, emotion, thought), you let the thing wander into your brain and you say to yourself, “oh. that’s just a feeling.” and the feeling, instead of overpowering, you acknowledge it which knocks it out of your way. I found that whenever a feeling / thought / emotion starts pushing its way forward, I note it, and it doesn’t feel so intense anymore. Headspace acknowledges that depression cannot be erased simply by noting, but it helps to better manage the symptoms.)

When I was 10? 11? 12? I wanted to write a book on suicide. Was I suicidal then? To be honest, I have no idea. I was sewing my fingers together and pulling out clumps of my hair, so who knows.
I went to the library constantly. Checked out books, memoirs, medical texts, anything I could find about suicide.
I was convinced they had it all wrong. No one knew what being suicidal was like. I knew. I could write this book.
Again, what does a middle schooler know about suicide? No one I knew had died by their own hand. Where did this come from? I cannot even guess.
I apparently thought I knew everything.
I have no idea what was going on through my mind. This was beyond writing a paper for school, there was this real big need to write a book.
No idea what happened to the papers or my thoughts on the matters.
But I did want you to know I’ve been there, it’s okay, and we can get through this together.


One of the big traits of being a borderline is our lack of self-image. What does that mean?
It means we cannot or have trouble with defining our own personalities. What we like. What we don’t like.
When you think of me, what do you think? My about page has a pretty good description of who I am and what I like. You follow me on Twitter or are a BFF on Facebook, my interests are pretty straight forward.
Every or nearly every day I think about what I like: James Bond, Doctor Who, Jane Austen, Vikings,  MINI Coopers, Regency, Edwardian, and Medieval history, Caravaggio, knitting, England, Scotland, Wales, BBC, literature, graphic novels & comic books, Jazz Age, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Baroque art, technology, travel, Shakespeare, Sherlock Holmes, Downton Abbey, Italy, and West Ham Football Club.
These are just a few of my favorite things.

Why do I like these things?
You could argue a lot of people pick up traits of the people they are involved with, regardless of the intimacy level. We’re being introduced to new things and those things resonate with us, so we make them ours and explore them on our own terms.  But with borderlines, we want to be like that person, so their things are now our favorite things, typically discarded when the relationship ends and we start all over again with the next person to get a whole another set of interests.
When I look at my main interests, listed above, some of them follow that described pattern. TheEx was heavily into F1, MINIs, West Ham United, James Bond, and knitting. Now they are my interests but if I’m honest with some of them I haven’t picked since we split nearly eight years ago. Some of them I follow half-heartedly. Others I keep with abandoning passion.

(That’s amazing thing about interests — spend a half-hour google searching and you can get up to date on that item real quick.)
I used to have a really hard time with music, television shows/movies, and anything else people find of interest. If you’ve been to any place I’ve lived, I’ve got a thousand and one things that look like I’m interested in, but in reality I’ve started and given up on most because I got bored or not everyone was doing the same thing anymore.
(Remember, we want to be loved so what you like, we like.)
It took a really long time for me to learn how to like something. I had to teach myself how to like something and honestly? I have a hard time moving beyond that thing.
Like music.
Music was a poultice to medicate, not to be enjoyed.
Bands like R.E.M, New Order, and The Smiths really resonated with me in high school, so I followed their careers obsessively for years and the cool kids I was desperate to join liked them. I also liked them because it was myself in their songs.
(I listened to industrial to drown out the crazy.)
I started paying attention to songs on the radio, in clubs, at friend’s houses. Why did I like this song? What could I like about this song, albums, band? I like the words. Okay, that’s good. I like the sound. Okay, even better. One plus one = two. Turn it into a logical equation and it’s easier to swallow.
I am really simplifying this as it’s not that straight forward.
A lot of you know I’m a big fan of Joy Division. I knew they were the precursor to New Order. The lead singer killed himself when he was 23. It was thought he was bipolar or at least depressed.
A man I could get behind.
I didn’t get into them until I was in my early 30s when I was researching something and came across Joy Division’s biography. Based upon what I found out and what I later learned, they became my band de jour.
My favorite song is not Love Will Tear Us Apart or Transmission but She’s Lost Control.

I could live a little better with the myths and the lies,
When the darkness broke in, I just broke down and cried.
I could live a little in a wider line,
When the change is gone, when the urge is gone,
To lose control. When here we come.

https://youtube.com/watch?v=QVc29bYIvCM%26w%3D640%26h%3D360
Here was a band who released this single when I was 7 and they are as relevant to me today as they were over 30 years ago.
They have a distinct sound. I call it the Mancuian sound, music straight from Manchester, UK. Every band I have fallen in love with either emulates that sound (Interpol), is from that period (Factory Records), or is heavily influenced by Joy Division. Almost without fail, when I hear a new song on the radio and I like the song, they are 90% not only from Britain but from Manchester.
Everything from food, to clothes, to where I want to live — nearly every aspect of my life is thought out, ruminated, digested, and researched before I decide to like it or not.
And all of this is going on with rapid fire thought, subconsciously without fail, every second of every day.
Teaching myself to like something was a big step towards being whole. My interests listed above? Took me a long time to separate the interest from the thing associated with it and make it mine. Now when I meet someone, I have very clear boundaries on what I like, I have ideas what I don’t like, and it’s work to maintain this is me rather this is me being you.
I sound aspie, but it’s not about keeping to a pattern, it’s about discovering what it is that makes “you” you and making it your own. This also does not mean I’m not open to new experiences or adventures, but please understand that to even consider that thing, I’m making rapid fire decisions, a 1000 a second.
Now tie this in with being bipolar, the mania, the need to be an exhibitionist. You are HERE and you’re living in this moment. But do you like this moment? Can you trust this moment?  I AM THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. But do you like me to being the center? Can I be in your world?
You stabilize the brain with drugs, so the needs become less punishing. Yet it physically hurts to think sometimes, so much is going on in my head.
And people wonder why I’m chaotic neutral.
xoxo,
Lisa

This Day in LIsa-Universe: 2011, 2007, 2004, 2003, 1999

Crazy – The Jane Austen Edition

#LisMentalHealth week is an initiative started by my good friend Cecily Walker and Kelly McElroy. You can follow along on Twitter, add resources to the Google doc, or check out the Storify of Monday’s chat. Please do not diagnosis yourself via the internet — if you are concerned about your mental health or someone else’s, see a professional immediately.
Dear Internet,
When I was a kid, I used to sew my fingers “…together with needle and thread, through the upper layers of your skin. You would sew and sew and then rip it out gingerly and start over again.” As a teenager “…start a new habit of breaking things. You get angry and start breaking anything made of china or glass.” I used to stand in my bedroom, on top of my bed, smashing glass things on the floor. Never too much for my mother to notice, but enough so that she eventually did.
At one point I used to pull huge clumps of hair out. I’m surprised my hair hasn’t thinned or I have bald spots.
I no longer sew my fingers together. I not longer throw glass on the floor. I no longer pull huge clumps of my hair out.
Now I tattoo and pierce. Much more aesthetically pleasing.

I began this post with something wholly different in mind, with plans on concentrating being borderline as it is enough of an obscure disorder that had barely has been written on it in the public sphere other than medical chit chat. What I have found for community support and personal perspective is buried deep, deep into google search — essentially useless since hardly anyone goes beyond the first page of results. If interested, I’ve put together a list of resources found on websites, subreddits, and books I recommend/use are at the bottom of this post. (Be warned, some of the content can be triggering.)
If these posts helps someone not feel alone or to get help, that’s enough for me.

The above quotations comes from a piece I wrote in 2001, about a girl, dealing with the crazy to the point I was thisclose to having a mental breakdown. I found the piece when looking for the bit on sewing my fingers together that I was originally going to reference. I read about a girl, cried, and re-read some more. I’m no longer self-harming, hitting/punching people, or planning my death. TheExHusband, who was kind enough to listen when I read it out loud, pointed out if I was in the same state now as I was then, the pile on what happened in the last two years convinced him I would have killed myself because I couldn’t take it anymore.
He’s right. So yay me?!


So I’ll talk about being borderline interspersed with Jane Austen gifs. Get the word out. Find some other peeps who suffer, create a community. Think about how far I’ve come (I can marginally cook), I am not suicidal or do (as crazy) crazy things. I lived beyond the age of 40. Some good, yes?
Everything changes. Nothing changes. I will deal with this for the rest of my life.


I need your approval and adoration or else I do not exist

One of the tl;dr’s of about a girl was my mother’s lack of validation of me as a child. Who in thee fuck sends their nine year old to therapy? Grounds them for years for being a “bad” child, which meant punishing you for the mess your younger brother did?
I did not have validation, so I need validation from you or else I don’t exist.
I will do anything of that validation. Anything. I will get into a shitty relationship with you, I will do things I’m not comfortable with doing, I will lie for you. I am your pet trained monkey, say what you will and it is done.
I would deny the date rapes, the sexual harassment, the rapes and almost rapes because it meant someone(s) finally loved/wanted me. What more could a girl ask for?
Is it so terrible I have a credo which states I will do anything as long as I don’t land in jail? Bully for me I’ve been able to keep that creedo on point.


You will stay with me forever, even if you don’t like it.
Relationships, platonic and romantic, end. Some just drift apart, others there is a trauma, and yet still others you just manage to grow out of your mutual interests. Some of the endings are mutuals, others are not. Some of this sounds familiar to most of you — I can’t imagine anyone whose life is so perfectly balanced they haven’t navigated these waters.
With borderlines it’s different.
You could dislike me / break up with me for a host of a million reasons, all of them legit, but I need to know why. Why don’t you like me? What have I done that I can fix? What can I change to myself to make whatever has been fucked better for you and for me?
I don’t understand why there can’t be a change.
I don’t understand why you don’t like me.
I have made relationships worse with this behaviour. Relationships that could have been naturally saved if I had not decided to forcefully intervene.
I have burned bridges.
But after burning the bridges, after forcefully intervening, we tend to apologize for our behaviour.
A lot.

I throw out the lines “fuck ’em if they don’t like me” and “I don’t want to be with anyone who doesn’t want me” and “I’m not to everyone’s taste” but secretly I need you to validate who I am. I put on a brave face because that is what I am to do but secretly…I need you to like me.
A lot.


We are charming as fuck
We want your approval and we’re trained circus monkey’s who will do any trick we can to make you love us. We want you to validate us and by having you remember us, we will be adored.
For me, it’s anything I can do to make you remember me whether it’s as simple as remembering who you are to sending thank you cards (truly, I AM grateful when those are sent) to providing you with something you are missing in your life. So many people don’t remember names, send thank you cards, or do simple gestures so when someone DOES do those things, they are more memorable than not.
And I am validated.
My sarcasm and with tend to bring the smart people around to my side. My fashion choices tend to hook others.
I’ve got a million ways to charm you and if you’re a potential sex partner, some that will make your toes curl.


I am a pretty, pretty princess and I must always be the center of your world

Borderlines have to be the center of your world.
A fight means a break-up. A change in plans means you hate me. A missed phone call and you never want to hear from me again. Platonic friendships invoke jealousies. Friendships with ex-partners? Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re fucking cheating on me and you’re never going to change.
If we can make those things not happen (validation) and tap dance our charming ass off, borderlines will always be the center of your attention and therefore, we are finally whole.


I don’t self-mutilate, I pierce and tattoo (which is totally different. Ha. Ha. Ha.)
Borderlines tend to have incredibly self-destructive behaviour. They are alcoholics, drug users, risky with sex, self-mutilate, and attempt suicide at least once.
I tell myself, “Oh boy. Aren’t I lucky I’m not into those self-destructive behaviors!”
Self-destructive behaviors started when I was eight or nine and I would sew my fingers together. Then the hair pulling in clumps.  Then throwing glass against the floor. The manic behaviour in my 20s.
The the risky sex partners.  (How I’ve never gotten a STD from the crazy early 20s is a goddamned miracle. In the last ten years it’s been a string of long relationships with three separate men. Yay me? )
I forgot all of that. I forget a lot of things. It’s buried deep deep inside of me. A pomegranate seed I refuse to let grow. I do not water it. I do not tend to it. Yet it lurks its leaves under the soil waiting to bury it’s roots deep and its flowers high.
Instead I pierce. And I tattoo.
Nearly 15 years ago (jesus lord), sitting on the couch of an ex-boyfriend who in one breath wanted to fuck me and in the other called me a prision bitch. WHY LISA, WHY? You’ve ruined your innocence, he said.
You cry. But I tell him what the tattoos really mean: a protective seal to protect me.
If you see the tattoos, you’ll more than likely not fuck with me, if you don’t fuck with me, I’m safe. No worries about abandonment issues because I won’t let you in close enough to hurt me. As long as I played the guise of loudmouth, tattooed, bitchy bitch face, I was safe. People would respect me for it (which always blew my mind when they did. Which is a lot. People do like assholes.).
Because obviously tattoos and piercings, for some, are not a sign of self-mutilation but for me, they very subtly are.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
If you saw I was really a bookish, nerdish girl who would rather knit and read a book rather than get rowdy enough at a bar to get thrown out a bar (like I was at 21), you wouldn’t like me. No one liked me when I was a four eyed square in primary and middle school because I was different from everyone else (hoo boy, things changed when I grew breasts and got contacts), no one was going to like me now. Honestly? When I do show that side of myself, no one really expects it and think it’s some facade. What they can’t figure out is the opposite is true.
And the bitchy sarcastic cuntface continues to live supreme because that’s what people want, and I want them to like me, so it will remain so.

Resources

Find more materials on Amazon.
xoxo,
Lisa

Today in Lisa-Universe: 2015, 2011

Mental Illness, Shame, and the Art of Asking – 2016 Edition

#LisMentalHealth week is an initiative started by my good friend Cecily Walker and Kelly McElroy. You can follow along on Twitter, add resources to the Google doc, or check out the Storify of Monday’s chat.
Dear Internet,
If you’ve been reading (or following me on social media), it’s no surprise I’m open about my mental health. I talk pretty extensively on being bipolar (especially since I’m bipolar one which means I creep towards mania than depression), mental health in general, borderline personality disorder, adhd, depression when I get it, anxiety, and about my drugs, shrink, and fuck, probably a lot more I’m forgetting.
While I try not let me be these diseases, so much of what they do is an integral part of my life, it’s very hard to talk about them in some sort of context, “I’m being cray today. Ugh!”
So here is a week where I can talk freely and abundantly about my brain with professionals in my chosen career only to find as I opened up this editor to write — I am stumped on what exactly to say.
Three years ago (!), spurned by a TED Talk by Amanda Fucking Palmer, I wrote this piece: “Mental Illness, Shame, and The Art of Asking.”
In case you missed it, here is Amanda’s talk:
https://youtube.com/watch?v=xMj_P_6H69g%26w%3D640%26h%3D360
What I said three years ago

Yesterday, I was part of a panel at MSU Comics Forum where we gave a presentation on Golden Age: Comics and Graphic Novel Resources in Libraries. Our schtick is to present on this topic at non-library conferences because we knew it was important for artists, writers, creators, educators, and comic book lovers to be aware of what/how libraries are doing with comics and graphic novels. Within the library world, it is a given. Outside the library world, not so much.
 
While prepping for my talk, I was debating on whether or not to mention I was bipolar and relate that to graphic novels available on the topic. If part of my argument is graphic novels should be in libraries is because they help broach difficult topics, is this not a difficult topic and ergo a perfect example? The other question that would be asked is what kind of obligation do I have in mentioning I am bipolar to anyone about anything? Why does the onus fall on me?
 
This debate went on in my head up until I took the podium.
 
When the slide came up I had earmarked to mention being bipolar, I found myself just saying it as naturally if you please:
 
“I’m bipolar. I’ve had several friends who’ve read Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo, and Me and say to me, ‘Okay. I understand what you’re going through. It was eye opening.’ And this is perfectly illustrates how graphic novels and comics can help broach difficult topics.”
 
Several heads in the audience nodded with agreement.
 
In the space of a few minutes, I had negotiated in my head the trust relationship between myself and the audience. I gave myself permission to be candid. The floor did not open up and swallow me nor did fire come reigning down the heavens.
 
While I was feeling manic up until that moment, and then the world shifted into focus. When my 15 minutes was done, I felt my body relax for the first time in weeks.
 
Before watching AFP’s talk last night, I had not realized the mental negotiations taking place in my head about having a mental illness were about exchanges in trust with whomever. Oh, not you Internet, but with those in contact of my daily life, who don’t follow me across the social sphere or read this blog. There is a price tag on honesty, and on revealing, one that was too high in the past to contemplate, and one that is constantly always under scrutinizing but is becoming easier to negotiate.
 
AFP rationalized it is not about taking a risk, rather it is trust. Shame comes in when those not part of the negotiation attempt to criticize it. I am currying trust with my readership by telling them about my crazy, but someone who doesn’t read my blog, or know me, starts to make judgements on the already established link between me and my readership, they are installing shame on the affair. Anything different is open to criticism and this needs to change.
 
My name is Lisa and I am bipolar.
It needs to be said, it has to be said, I will continue to say it.

That piece still sums up what I feel today, except when it’s not.
Bipolar can be controlled with drugs and therapy. I’ve been on the same cocktail for over a year now and 9 times out of 10, life is pretty even keel. Now Borderline Personality Disorder is taking center stage, rearing its ugly head and that has been running my life for the last year+.
BPD has ruined a lot of things with the most current such as TheBassist1 breaking up with me not because he didn’t love and want me, but because I was a flight risk2 and will always be a flight risk until I got my shit together.
BPD has ruined not only romantic relationships, but platonic relationships; it’s distorted my world view; it’s fucked a lot of things for me and sometimes I feel utterly and completely out of control. “I hate you, don’t leave me!” “Everyone hates me; I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread.” “I have made a mistake somewhere and now I will be shunned/fired/etc.”
Coupled with being bipolar, I’m often surprised I’ve made it past 40. Hell, past 30.
I talk a lot about the domino effect which has plagued me these last few years. But what I haven’t discussed is exactly how that affected me on a much more personal level:

  • The #teamharpy case has made me a leper in the library world
  • nina and I racked up $15K in legal fees
  • I ran myself into $40K credit card debt between September 2014 and June 2015
  • On paper I’ve been homeless, on and off, since October 2014
  • I’ve had several breakdowns, starting with a long period of mania that lasted for about six months, then a bout of depression, back to mania, which finally came to a head in October when TheBassist broke it off with me.
  • From October to mid-December I rarely left TheExHusband’s condo or got out of my jimjams or did any kind of self-care. I ugly cried nearly every day
  • I’ve rarely smoked more than a couple of cigarettes a month until this past summer where I’m coming up to half a pack a day
  • While not suicidal, I’ve been in crisis at least twice in the last year

I’m probably missing a few things but this is the laundry list of ills that have been the albatross in my life for the last 18 months. A lot of these are my own choices, “If only I had…”

  • …used the word ‘alleged’ in that fucking tweet
  • …stop spending money on useless shit since I don’t have a job
  • …stopped denying everything was great and I was sick
  • …listened to what my loved ones said instead of thinking I could go at this alone

There are a lot of “If onlys.” Aren’t there always?
Being mentally ill is a goddamned highway with lots of on and off ramps. You make decisions based on your illness, it backfires, and you lose something important. You make a decision based on your illness, it comes up smelling of roses. You just never know how the die is going to roll and we keep taking the chance that what we decided was right.
We’re gamblers, we are. We worry by not telling anyone, we’ll not be able to get help when we need it. We worry if we do tell someone, we’ll lose out on life/partners/jobs. We worry how drugs will affect us or if self-care will actually work. We worry about the stigma, the pain, the anguish, the shame. We make ourselves sicker because we cannot disclose our sickness without fear something terrible is going to happen.
And the most painful thing? No one trusts you. TheBassist doesn’t trust me. TheExHusband doesn’t trust me. I’ve lost a lot of friends who can no longer trust me. What comes out of my mouth today can and has been either half-way true or another variation tomorrow3. It’s hard to ask for help when no one trusts you, even if they love you.
A lot of hard questions are coming up in the #lismentalhealth chat. Questions I want to be the queen of all that is mentally ill and bestow my wisdom to everyone as I have all the answers (“I am the greatest thing since sliced bread.”). I’m afraid to post because I don’t want to be seen as a scene stealer (“Everyone hates me.”). I don’t want to seem “weak” (“I can control this thing no matter what you say”), whatever that means, and I don’t want people to take pity on me even though I crave their adoration (“Don’t leave me.”). I’m a raging, sarcastic asshole towards people (“I hate you.”)
Being mentally ill is goddamned exhausting. I think this is one thing we can all agree upon.
One of the questions that did come up I can, somewhat, safely answer is about disclosing your illness to current and future employers. Right now I’m of the mindset of “No.” In my last position, because I was hell bent on being open and honest, I told my immediate boss. Within a few months, they used my illnesses against me. See the revised job description they put up when they did a call after my contact was about to expire. Look particularly at 12. They also would use verbiage such as, “Go take more drugs,” and “have you seen your therapist lately” out of spite. (Yes, I did try to get them reprimanded for such impertinence but since no one heard them, I had no physical proof…you get the idea where this going, right?) Despite the disability act/equal opportunity form you can volunteer to answer when you apply for a job, I choose “no response” to the question or I don’t fill out the damned thing at all. I cannot take the chance if someone sees I’m bipolar they will automatically disqualify me from getting a job. While this is illegal, I’ll never know since I will just get your standard rejection.
I have nothing to say. I have everything to say. I have a zillion answers. I have no answers.
I wish I did.
xoxo,
Lisa

1. One day there will be a day when I don’t mention him in a piece but today is not that day.
2. I can’t blame him for this part of why our relationship failed this time around. When the love of you life is leaving you every couple of months and then calls you ugly crying, you’d probably cut ties off too. But that’s a post for another time.
3. Pinky swear, on my grandmother’s grave, everything I’ve written in here, my world, has been true. It may have been fucked up, crazy sounding, or depressing as fuck, but this is the only place I have always felt like my safe space and thus can be completely honest.

This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2013, 2011, 2011, 1997

only you can save yourself


February 5, 2016:  No, you’re not seeing things — looks like I originally wrote this on 12/14/2015 and never posted it — hence the abrupt ending.

Dear Internet,
I’ve started seeing my local L-vill therapist a few weeks ago and it’s going pretty well — which is important when working with a therapist. A shitty one can fuck you up but good.
I can’t seem to shake the, “What the fuck have I done with my life?” mode which is, of course, pissing me off. Again the reiteration of, “it takes time” came from her lips just as it does from TheExHusband, Krazy Kate, and others. I just feel so stalled. Most days, demotivated. Other days, overly excited about the changes that are to come.
I used to not read my old entries as it was often painful to read the bad, even mixed along with the good, as I mainly fixate on the bad that I’ve written. Considering all the upheaval this last year has been (emotionally, mentally, even physically), I need to find those patterns to see where I am going, how I’m doing, and what kind of progress I’m making. Along with my therapist (and commentary from TheExHusband whose seen me at my worst and my best), the following is true:

  • I’m more mentally stable than I give myself credit for. TheExHusband was on the money when he remarked, “… in comparison to this time last year, hell even six months ago, how I handle things, coping with things, just doing LIFE is a 180 degree turn around.” And it’s hard to admit that I AM making progress because training your brain not to be an asshole is HARD WORK. So the good is:
    • I work out four to five times a week and have been keeping at it for the last five weeks.
    • I’ve continued with cutting my sugar and dairy intake down and between the exercise and eating better,
    • I’m losing 1-2lbs a week. (Down almost 10lbs.)
    • I’m getting up, dressed, working out, and having my day every day.
    • I’ve been taking care of the dog without nary a complaint or issue (Welll.. more on that in a bit.)
    • I’m starting and completing projects ranging from coding to knitting
    • I’m leaving the house on a daily basis, even if it’s just to run errands
    • I’ve had two fabulous job interviews in the last month which have turned into two fabulous second in-person job interviews.

Some of this seems trivial, even to me even though it’s not, as this is all ADULTING. The takeaway for me is I’ve been able to do these things for some time and I never give myself credit for it. It’s hard when you’ve spent most of you time beating yourself up because your brain is so broken. Or you think it’s broken. Or you’re just being an asshole to yourself.
My shrink, medicating shrink, and others keep remarking on the rarity of my coping skills. I see what’s going on (I’m having a panic attack), I put a coping mechanism into place (This is how I’m going to handle the panic attack), and I self-care when that thing is done (I’m going to meditate).
A month ago I said,

I, of course, sent myself into tizzy if I had to come out to CT for the second interview and should I contact TheBassist and OMGHERD. What would I do?! First, calm the fuck down Lisa and get through the Skype interview. If you have to come out to CT for the in-person interview, so what? It’s a job. You need money. You’ve wanted this position for a year (it’s a repost). The money, even with the higher cost of living, is fabulous. The area is lovely. You’re close to NYC and Boston. The social plans you’re putting in motion in KY can be applied to CT. You’re 43 years old, buck it up lady.

xoxo,
Lisa

This day in Lisa-Universe: 2014, 2013, 2012, 1999, 1998

antikythera mechanism

Dear Internet,
I scored an in person (second) interview with the Connecticut institution and it’s happening this upcoming week. The length of the scheduled time turns out to be shorter than I was told/planning on, which is leaving me some hours to hang out in and see what’s what in the area. One thing I am not looking forward to is Connecticut drivers as they drive like assholes. Turn signals are not accessories, fuck twats!
The Louisville institution second job interview went well and you can find my presentation here (which seemed to get a lot of positive commentary from the internet). The job is really quite spectacular as it’s a new position in which the person who gets the job can write their own job description and responsibilities, much like the Connecticut position. Both of the positions are super flexible and if there is one thing pulling Connecticut ahead of the job game is the ability to wear jeans to work. As we all know, I’m not a business casual kind of person and oh I can DO business casual but if I don’t HAVE to, awesome. Thanks!
I’m now two for two vis-à-vis second person interviews thus making my chances of a job offer higher than previously thought possible (at least in my mind). I’ve been going over and over mentally how to figure out what to do here if by some miracle both institutions extend offers. If only one extends the offer then it’s a easy choice – I go where the money is but if two? I keep meaning to write down the pros and cons for both so I’m better prepared to make this (if needed) choice.
The backup plan if there are no job offers is to start looking for academic librarian positions, nationally, in January and junior developer courses here in Louisville. I’ve been working with Code Louisville by fast tracking coding courses via Treehouse. This week I’ve spent nearly forty hours spread out over three days on said fast tracking. Code Louisville’s goal is to put people into the work force by giving them marketable skills and if there is ever an up and coming tech sector, it’s Louisville.
Overall, I am excited to be in this position. It’s a long time coming but if there is a chance I can make the choice, that would be wonderful.
I have been evading FEELINGS on a manner of all things these last few weeks. Feeling are vulnerabilities and trying to get some semblance of a life together when having FEELINGS is fucking terrible. FEELINGS trigger anxiety, I take the anti-anxiety drugs to quell the panic, feelings are suppressed. Take anti-anxiety drugs to prevent the attacks, suppress the FEELINGS.
It’s a no fucking win situation over here. (And why I sleep 10+ hours a night on all of the anti-anxiety drugs I’m on.)
I could blame it on a number of things such as not addressing them properly this year, new med adjustments, the weather, time of year — a whole host of things normally attributed to this place I seriously don’t want to be. My paper journal is filled with page after page of how much I hate feeling like this, how I am so desperate to change this emotional space, how I just want to stop treading water and learn how to swim again.
I can’t remember a time when I was feeling this emotionally bare. (I lied. Spring of 2013.) Even with not renewing the contract on my last position, the law suit, the divorce, the constant moving, breaking up with TheBassist — all within the last 18 months — somehow I’ve handled those more or less with aplomb (I thought) and was better managing emotional hiccups. But it’s pretty clear every goddamned thing that has happened in the last 18 months has, finally, taken its emotional toll and it takes every ounce of my being to wake up, work out, plan a day of doing stuff, go to bed at a reasonable hour. I’m trying so hard to put one foot in front of the other, to just keep moving forward.
I’ve got shit to do! People to see! Places to go!
The hardest part is knowing this is all a temporary glitch. There have been worse emotional spaces and I can dig myself back out again just as I had before. I’ve done this dance and I can take it to end coming out smelling like roses. I akin it to growing pains: You know it happens and you have to remind yourself that at some point this too will pass. (Or you get better drugs.)
As I wrote this, I mentally went back through the last five or so years and realized I HAVE been here before and it had everything to do with change in medication (primarily). Circumstances, sure I’ll buy it. Swallowing 18 months worth of feelings and having it resurrect its ugly head? Absolutely. Scrapping down the emotional bone into the marrow?
Drugs. 95% of the time it is always the goddamned drugs having gone awry.
Fuck it all to hell.
Even though I am bipolar-1 (manic), I get bouts of depression here and there, most of the time ranging for a few days and passing just as quickly. In the early spring of 2013 when I went through a med change with my then medicating doctor, I felt a whole lot worse than this. How I was able to function in the capacity that I did is amazing. What we had to do was get me off the drugs by slowly weaning me off the anti-depressants / bipolar  as well as the ADHD  drugs and get me acclimated to just using Lithium, which then stopped working.
My brain chemistry metabolizes medicating drugs too quickly. What should happen to most people in weeks, happens to me in days. Ritalin last a few days before I had to go off of it. Same with Lithium. SSRIs made me suicidal. Bedrock between desperately wanting some normalcy and a brain that won’t let you have it.
Since that last bought in 2013, I’ve been ever so careful with how I take and manage my drugs. Now I’m furious with myself for not having recognize these signs sooner.
I saw my medicating therapist last week and per his edict, if I wasn’t feeling some relief by the weekend (which is now), I’m to double up on my anti-depressants, which I’ve done. I’m to call tomorrow and leave a message to have him call in more of the anti-depressant. I need to be razor sharp and on point this week and for a long time coming. Fucking around with my brain chemistry is a delicate balance.
TheExHusband agreed this is slightly reminiscent of that time in 2013 but then I wouldn’t leave the house for days on end, I curled up in a ball and cried. A lot. I barely showered or took care of myself compared to this morning where I walked nearly three miles with him and the pug, did six loads of laundry, gave the pug a bath, about to put the laundry away, and chill for the evening. My brain may be fuzzled but goddamned wasn’t I productive.
He also remarked in comparison to this time last year, hell even six months ago, how I handle things, coping with things, just doing LIFE is a 180 degree turn around. And I reject the idea of stabilization — who is ever perfectly stabilized? Life is a hot mess — but being able to handle life with grace and dignity, which despite my whinging on and off here, is what I aim for and what I’m doing.
And I take pride in that.
I stumbled across a post this morning on rejection, the psychological break-down of why it hurts so much (it’s wired to the same place in the brain as physical pain), why it’s prolonged (we take too critical look at ourselves. Rejection is not personal – it’s about “fit” and circumstance), and how to fix it (re-affirming our self-worth by the good things we have to offer in whatever circumstance the rejection comes from). It makes for an interesting read.
This time of year it’s especially poignant to remember not everyone is in a safe space, mentally, emotionally, or physically. I’m lucky, and if you want to call it blessed then so be it, despite all my faults, I’m physically in a safe space, I have mental and emotional support. Not many can say that, especially now.
xoxo,
Lisa

META NAME=”description” content=”Link to me and I’ll…”

Dear Internet,
Re: Today’s title. It’s been languishing in my drafts for years (and I don’t recall what the original intent of the piece was going to be) and comes from a very earlier incarnation of this site (1999ish) when you could throw anything in the meta tags because you could. It was not about SEO, following HTML rules, but about being clever and perhaps a bit naughty. At one point I had t-shirts printed with a spin on the wording.
So there’s that.
Sunday finds us a bit lethargic as we laze about the cabin if you so please. We are both on the mend from ThePlague but it seems even going out and about, even for a little while, is exhausting. I have several appointments this week I cannot reschedule again (they were reschedules from the previous week when ThePlague was in full bloom), including an appointment with a local therapist.
I’m a bit unsure about this local therapist thing. When I called to reschedule, the scheduler seemed a bit, how do I say this delicately, as if he didn’t give a shit. “What time is available?” I says. “Anytime you want,” he says. Err, okay. Do they not get crazy people up in here? Aren’t the therapists have at least some bookings?
I hope this isn’t a waste of my time. Am I in crisis? To some extent yes, but I need to feel a bit assured as I search for support. My experience in Louisville this summer was emotionally debilitating:

Things came to a head when TEH and TheBassist both insisted I up my Lamictal to the last dosage as approved by doctor in Grand Rapids and take myself to the free clinic to talk to someone.
The free clinic in Louisville is designed mainly for the homeless and those on their last hopes. As a walk-in, I was told they could see me when first available slot came open. Four hours later I requested more info to discover the therapists were all at lunch and they closed at 3:30. Would I liked to make an appointment? Sure, why not. Okay, we can fit you in two weeks. Two weeks? Yes. What if I came back tomorrow? You’ll have to start the waiting process all over again.
(…)
I called six places in Louisville and every single one was booked out for weeks and months. If I was suicidal, which I wasn’t but I was in crisis, I could check myself in at the local emergency room who could throw me in a locked ward for 48-72 hours. THEN I could get help.

Being your own advocate about your mental health is a full time job. Every little process, every move, every counsel, every everything needed to keep your brain in a place where you can at least function on a daily basis Is. Up. To. You. So how in the hell can the system expect those who are really sick to keep up with this? The short answer is: They can’t. They fall through the cracks. Lives are destroyed, dignity is stripped, and humanity is pummeled.
I will have been at Throbbing Cabin for two solid months. Was it stupid of me to pull this while in the midst of starting therapy? Absolutely. That’s something I have to take on as my responsibility. But it shouldn’t be that hard to get even temporary help.
It’s even worse when you have no insurance.
xoxo,
Lisa

This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2005

Exit mobile version