Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Friday, February 14, 2014
losing jasmine - 10 years later
Today is the 10th anniversary of Jasmine's death. I am not in the place to go into details for anyone who doesn't know them, not today, and not after the last 24 hours. It's a joyous kind of place, though, just too emotional for work. If you'd like to hear her story sometime, let me know. I can share some things I've written, or I'm always happy to talk about it. We keep Jasmine with us by telling her stories.
What I do want to share is that she came to visit last night AND I had a no-way-it-was-coincidence experience this morning. Last night I went to bed at about 9:30. It's been a long week, and I'm tired, and ... on the nights Jeff works, I just tend to go to bed earlier. I'd been asleep for a bit when I sensed what I thought was Nina - definitely knew it was my daughter, and she came in the dark to Jeff's side of the bed and slid in. I remember the height and the lightness of her face in the dark.
I said, "What's wrong, honey?"
Nina rarely gets into bed with me in the middle of the night, and when she does, it's related to a nightmare.
There was no answer.
"Nina?"
No answer.
I reached over and turned on the light. There was no one there. Frankly, I was a little freaked out for a few minutes. I KNEW someone had gotten into bed with me, and I knew it was a little girl who I instinctively identified as my own. I turned the light back off and laid there for a few minutes before it occurred to me that it might have been Jasmine. She was, after all, the same age Nina is now when she died, 10. Nina may be a little taller, but in the dark (and with my crappy eyesight) that's hard to judge. And after I turned the light on, I couldn't feel the presence at all.
Maybe I scared her away. Or maybe she just couldn't stay long. But I was convinced enough that it was Jasmine to tell Jeff about it when he got home in the middle of the night.
I had to get up this morning and take something out to our CTE campus. I was kind of in a rush and didn't stop to think too much about the date or the night before until I was in the car on my way to the campus. When I got there, I wasn't sure where to go, so I asked a woman in the parking lot who had also just arrived.
As she drew near the car, she saw the "In loving memory of..." sticker that we still have on the back of the Jeep for my dad. We get asked about it a lot up here - these stickers aren't nearly as common here as they are in Arizona and SoCal. She said, "Oh. Who's that?"
"My dad," I said.
"Where'd you get it?"
So I told her that pretty much any shop that does those family stickers and so on could do it, you just needed to ask for it. She smiled and said, "I'd like one. I lost my son in 2008."
I was stunned for a minute and I'm sure I looked like an idiot when I stared at her. In fact, she probably thought I was having the same reaction most people have when you deliver that bit of news - stunned silence and a frantic internal search for the right thing to say. Well, I had the stunned silence, but it was more because of the day and the timing.
"I lost my daughter 10 years ago today," I blurted.
She immediately hugged me, a long hug and one of empathy and solidarity. When we pulled back, we smiled a smile you can only understand if you've lost a child. "How old was your son?" I asked.
"He'd be 25."
I said, "Jasmine would be turning 21 in June."
And we walked off practically arm-in-arm, excited to talk to someone who understands what it's like. I didn't have time to really connect, but we agreed the meeting wasn't accidental. She works on the same campus I do, and we'll be doing lunch very, very soon.
I prayed on Imbolc, or Brighid's Day, to feel reconnected with my dad and my daughter. This can't be an accident.
What I do want to share is that she came to visit last night AND I had a no-way-it-was-coincidence experience this morning. Last night I went to bed at about 9:30. It's been a long week, and I'm tired, and ... on the nights Jeff works, I just tend to go to bed earlier. I'd been asleep for a bit when I sensed what I thought was Nina - definitely knew it was my daughter, and she came in the dark to Jeff's side of the bed and slid in. I remember the height and the lightness of her face in the dark.
I said, "What's wrong, honey?"
Nina rarely gets into bed with me in the middle of the night, and when she does, it's related to a nightmare.
There was no answer.
"Nina?"
No answer.
I reached over and turned on the light. There was no one there. Frankly, I was a little freaked out for a few minutes. I KNEW someone had gotten into bed with me, and I knew it was a little girl who I instinctively identified as my own. I turned the light back off and laid there for a few minutes before it occurred to me that it might have been Jasmine. She was, after all, the same age Nina is now when she died, 10. Nina may be a little taller, but in the dark (and with my crappy eyesight) that's hard to judge. And after I turned the light on, I couldn't feel the presence at all.
Maybe I scared her away. Or maybe she just couldn't stay long. But I was convinced enough that it was Jasmine to tell Jeff about it when he got home in the middle of the night.
I had to get up this morning and take something out to our CTE campus. I was kind of in a rush and didn't stop to think too much about the date or the night before until I was in the car on my way to the campus. When I got there, I wasn't sure where to go, so I asked a woman in the parking lot who had also just arrived.
As she drew near the car, she saw the "In loving memory of..." sticker that we still have on the back of the Jeep for my dad. We get asked about it a lot up here - these stickers aren't nearly as common here as they are in Arizona and SoCal. She said, "Oh. Who's that?"
"My dad," I said.
"Where'd you get it?"
So I told her that pretty much any shop that does those family stickers and so on could do it, you just needed to ask for it. She smiled and said, "I'd like one. I lost my son in 2008."
I was stunned for a minute and I'm sure I looked like an idiot when I stared at her. In fact, she probably thought I was having the same reaction most people have when you deliver that bit of news - stunned silence and a frantic internal search for the right thing to say. Well, I had the stunned silence, but it was more because of the day and the timing.
"I lost my daughter 10 years ago today," I blurted.
She immediately hugged me, a long hug and one of empathy and solidarity. When we pulled back, we smiled a smile you can only understand if you've lost a child. "How old was your son?" I asked.
"He'd be 25."
I said, "Jasmine would be turning 21 in June."
And we walked off practically arm-in-arm, excited to talk to someone who understands what it's like. I didn't have time to really connect, but we agreed the meeting wasn't accidental. She works on the same campus I do, and we'll be doing lunch very, very soon.
I prayed on Imbolc, or Brighid's Day, to feel reconnected with my dad and my daughter. This can't be an accident.
Friday, January 17, 2014
fleeting equilibrium
You know how sometimes you have that moment of knowing you're in exactly the right place you need to be right now, surrounded by exactly the right people and doing exactly the right things (even if they're difficult)? That's how I'm feeling right now.
Being social is still a challenge, but one that's lessening with the adjustment in my brain fixers. Given that my job kind of requires this, that's a good thing. Given too that my psyche kind of requires this, or at least small amounts of this, it's a good thing.
There isn't an end in sight ever, really, and I suppose that when there is, then it's time to call it a day for this lifetime, but at least I'm back to feeling some kind of equilibrium. Writing always helps. I should tattoo that on my hands.
Being social is still a challenge, but one that's lessening with the adjustment in my brain fixers. Given that my job kind of requires this, that's a good thing. Given too that my psyche kind of requires this, or at least small amounts of this, it's a good thing.
There isn't an end in sight ever, really, and I suppose that when there is, then it's time to call it a day for this lifetime, but at least I'm back to feeling some kind of equilibrium. Writing always helps. I should tattoo that on my hands.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
oh happy day
Not crazy, over-the-top, unreal happy, but pleasant and not in the depths of depression happy, which is maybe more like content, but either way, it's due to getting the dose right on my meds. Thank. The. Gods.
One of the things I hate the most about depression is how it warps my view of myself and how I perceive others to be reacting to me. When I'm in the dark depths, I am convinced that everyone can see all my flaws just like I can, that they all know what an imposter and faker I am, and that they're hating me for it. I can FEEL it, and sometimes my ear matrixes sound so that I can almost hear it. Even though I know what I'm feeling and perceiving isn't real and isn't permanent, it doesn't take away the horribleness of that feeling. Sorry mindfulness and positive-psych-pushers. It's all well and good to cognate, but the underlying feeling of SHITE is still there, and still sucks, and still needs medication (for some of us) to go away.
This needs to be the time I don't shame myself for taking medication, and in a few more weeks, when I feel like sometime approaching normal and my perception of myself and the people around me is something approaching real, I need to not try to convince myself that I really don't need serotonin. Because I do. And that's just how it is.
Anyhoo, I thought an update was due, so here 'tis. I'm not out of the dark yet, but I'm in the light gray, at least, and that's just fine.
One of the things I hate the most about depression is how it warps my view of myself and how I perceive others to be reacting to me. When I'm in the dark depths, I am convinced that everyone can see all my flaws just like I can, that they all know what an imposter and faker I am, and that they're hating me for it. I can FEEL it, and sometimes my ear matrixes sound so that I can almost hear it. Even though I know what I'm feeling and perceiving isn't real and isn't permanent, it doesn't take away the horribleness of that feeling. Sorry mindfulness and positive-psych-pushers. It's all well and good to cognate, but the underlying feeling of SHITE is still there, and still sucks, and still needs medication (for some of us) to go away.
This needs to be the time I don't shame myself for taking medication, and in a few more weeks, when I feel like sometime approaching normal and my perception of myself and the people around me is something approaching real, I need to not try to convince myself that I really don't need serotonin. Because I do. And that's just how it is.
Anyhoo, I thought an update was due, so here 'tis. I'm not out of the dark yet, but I'm in the light gray, at least, and that's just fine.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
dark days
My dad told me that when he was young, he'd gotten in trouble for DUI and had to attend alcohol abuse counseling. The counselor he worked with was in recovery himself, and laid down some of the fundamentals of alcoholism, including how the people around you enable alcoholism. When he came home to talk about it with his mom, she came unglued, accused him of blaming her, and he didn't complete the counseling.
Given what I know of my grandmother's upbringing, this isn't a shocking reaction. She herself had to deal with alcoholism, rarely drank, and definitely didn't have a healthy psyche. Er... not because she didn't drink, but rather because she never actually dealt with her "issues" (and not many in her generation did, it wasn't what was done). So as was (and is) often the case, the disease of alcoholism swiftly passed down to my dad, aided by genetic and environmental factors.
Threaded into those factors, almost certainly, is depression. I've done the dance with alcohol for sure, but also with depression. The older I get, the more aware I am, and the less I am willing to give in to the completely useless exercise of self-medicating with alcohol, the more I feel like I'm losing the battle.
I was thinking last night and yesterday about how the people around me have reacted to my own struggle to come to terms with depression. The struggle is, of course, ongoing. I recalled when I was first diagnosed and medicated, which was not so long ago. 2007.
Per usual, I spent a lot of time educating myself about depression after the diagnosis. I realized that I've always struggled with it, that it probably started to show up somewhere in my pre-teens, and that it dogged me through the years. Instead of viewing my struggle as a struggle with an illness, I viewed it as a personal shortcoming. A lost battle with personality defects. When I had a term and a biological explanation, I felt freed. But then I started talking to my friends and family.
Many of my friends also viewed my struggle with depression as a personality defect, something I could decide not to have. My family was (and probably still is) skeptical of my decision first to abstain from alcohol, and then to try to find a way to be healthy with it. (And that's a whole 'nother post topic, which I'll make some day.) Jeff was (and is) very supportive, though I think he wants to save me from my depression, to chase it away when the dark time comes, and it just doesn't work that way. Things have changed over time, but that's the initial reaction I had back in 2007 when I first started to try to deal with depression head on, with therapy and pharmaceuticals.
When I think back to my own reaction to various people I knew who struggle with mental illnesses, I realize that I too once thought it was a choice and a weakness. Maybe that's why it was, and is, so hard to change that view. Maybe that's why my friends and family have struggled with accepting it. Maybe if there is such a thing as mental illness, and it can't be cured by just making a choice to be happy, maybe that's really fucking terrifying. Because why? Because at the end of the day, I/we have tools to fight it, but it still comes back, every. fucking. time. And I/we have a very small amount of control over that.
I exercise, and that helps a little. I take vitamin D. I take Prozac. I'm experimenting with how food affects my mood. I do little CBT exercises to "cognate" my way through it when it comes. I meditate. I pray. My depression surfboard is an eclectic-looking thing. I surf, and I keep my head above water, but it doesn't always feel like a sure thing.
This morning when I woke up, I felt like I was losing the battle with getting out of bed. I did it, eventually, because there are appointments on my calendar, people who are counting on me. But I've been having mini-anxiety attacks at work for the past week. I fear I'm losing it, at least for the extra things, like planning big events and going out and doing presentations. And I can't afford that.
How can I explain it?
"I'm sorry, I can't go do this job you hired me to do because I'm struggling with depression and I can barely drag myself out of bed each morning?"
"I'm sorry, I know I volunteered to do this thing, but right now getting out of bed feels like facing death, no really, and I don't know if I can do more than the barest minimum."
"I'm sorry, I know other moms do all the things with the brightest of smiles and happy intentions. I'm an absolute coward and I'd rather stay home and hide."
That's probably not going to go over very well, and I certainly can't quit any of those things.
I have an appointment tomorrow to talk to my doc about all this. We'll probably do some more pharmaceutical intervention. I'll continue to exercise and fiddle with my diet. Maybe I'll pick up a light therapy thingy.
I want to be better. I want to get up every morning like it seems every one else does. I want to be excited and energized about my work. I want to look forward to meeting people, to reaching out beyond my office. I want to be good at organizing and connecting. I want to not only NOT feel like I'm whining, but to know that I'm inspiring people to do their best. I'm just afraid that I can't. And that is the most terrifying thing of all.
Given what I know of my grandmother's upbringing, this isn't a shocking reaction. She herself had to deal with alcoholism, rarely drank, and definitely didn't have a healthy psyche. Er... not because she didn't drink, but rather because she never actually dealt with her "issues" (and not many in her generation did, it wasn't what was done). So as was (and is) often the case, the disease of alcoholism swiftly passed down to my dad, aided by genetic and environmental factors.
Threaded into those factors, almost certainly, is depression. I've done the dance with alcohol for sure, but also with depression. The older I get, the more aware I am, and the less I am willing to give in to the completely useless exercise of self-medicating with alcohol, the more I feel like I'm losing the battle.
I was thinking last night and yesterday about how the people around me have reacted to my own struggle to come to terms with depression. The struggle is, of course, ongoing. I recalled when I was first diagnosed and medicated, which was not so long ago. 2007.
Per usual, I spent a lot of time educating myself about depression after the diagnosis. I realized that I've always struggled with it, that it probably started to show up somewhere in my pre-teens, and that it dogged me through the years. Instead of viewing my struggle as a struggle with an illness, I viewed it as a personal shortcoming. A lost battle with personality defects. When I had a term and a biological explanation, I felt freed. But then I started talking to my friends and family.
Many of my friends also viewed my struggle with depression as a personality defect, something I could decide not to have. My family was (and probably still is) skeptical of my decision first to abstain from alcohol, and then to try to find a way to be healthy with it. (And that's a whole 'nother post topic, which I'll make some day.) Jeff was (and is) very supportive, though I think he wants to save me from my depression, to chase it away when the dark time comes, and it just doesn't work that way. Things have changed over time, but that's the initial reaction I had back in 2007 when I first started to try to deal with depression head on, with therapy and pharmaceuticals.
When I think back to my own reaction to various people I knew who struggle with mental illnesses, I realize that I too once thought it was a choice and a weakness. Maybe that's why it was, and is, so hard to change that view. Maybe that's why my friends and family have struggled with accepting it. Maybe if there is such a thing as mental illness, and it can't be cured by just making a choice to be happy, maybe that's really fucking terrifying. Because why? Because at the end of the day, I/we have tools to fight it, but it still comes back, every. fucking. time. And I/we have a very small amount of control over that.
I exercise, and that helps a little. I take vitamin D. I take Prozac. I'm experimenting with how food affects my mood. I do little CBT exercises to "cognate" my way through it when it comes. I meditate. I pray. My depression surfboard is an eclectic-looking thing. I surf, and I keep my head above water, but it doesn't always feel like a sure thing.
This morning when I woke up, I felt like I was losing the battle with getting out of bed. I did it, eventually, because there are appointments on my calendar, people who are counting on me. But I've been having mini-anxiety attacks at work for the past week. I fear I'm losing it, at least for the extra things, like planning big events and going out and doing presentations. And I can't afford that.
How can I explain it?
"I'm sorry, I can't go do this job you hired me to do because I'm struggling with depression and I can barely drag myself out of bed each morning?"
"I'm sorry, I know I volunteered to do this thing, but right now getting out of bed feels like facing death, no really, and I don't know if I can do more than the barest minimum."
"I'm sorry, I know other moms do all the things with the brightest of smiles and happy intentions. I'm an absolute coward and I'd rather stay home and hide."
That's probably not going to go over very well, and I certainly can't quit any of those things.
I have an appointment tomorrow to talk to my doc about all this. We'll probably do some more pharmaceutical intervention. I'll continue to exercise and fiddle with my diet. Maybe I'll pick up a light therapy thingy.
I want to be better. I want to get up every morning like it seems every one else does. I want to be excited and energized about my work. I want to look forward to meeting people, to reaching out beyond my office. I want to be good at organizing and connecting. I want to not only NOT feel like I'm whining, but to know that I'm inspiring people to do their best. I'm just afraid that I can't. And that is the most terrifying thing of all.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
perspective
I just met with a student who's homeless. Here's what he told me.
He told me he came out here from Midwest for a girl. (He's 19). He said when he got here, her story changed. He worked at a restaurant, but the season ended. He worked at a cannery, but the season ended. He's being kicked out of the "Christian" shelter because he wants to go to school. (He's smart and thoughtful, scary to fundamentalists, I guess). He told me he didn't have a place to sleep tonight because the mission won't have him back. The next closest shelter is about 25 miles away. He has no friends here. His mother has passed. His dad won't answer the phone when he calls.
There was no lie in his voice, and he said to me that he didn't want to lie to the Mission (we told him to say he wasn't coming to school just to buy some time until his financial aid can arrive). He said his mom told him to think of others first, so he shared his food stamps with others. He told me that it's hard to get a job when you can't take a shower. He said it's hard to read in the shelter because it's noisy and people bother him.
I had to let him walk out the door into the rain and fog. He probably won't sleep inside tonight. He said he's coming back on Monday to bring me a paper that might let me help him. I hope he does. I really do.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
at the end - NaNoWriMo
So I didn't win, by which I mean, I didn't finish 50,000 words by the end of November. In fact, I became paralyzed halfway through when I hit a rough spot at work and let it get to me. I think I'd do better with some group support, and maybe next year I'll find some local write-ins before they happen, rather than after.
That said, I do have a solid outline for a book, and a plan to continue working on it at my own pace. That's more than I've ever had before at the end of a NaNoWriMo, so I'll take it.
I'm not going to lie, it tastes like bitter failure in an old record kind of way, but I'm working through that. Every reason just feels like an excuse, which as it turns out, isn't really a great way to move myself forward, but rather a great way to be glued in place. Having awareness helps though, and so far that's been the key to moving forward, however long it takes.
This process of writing is much like witchcamp always was for me. Really fucking hard to get through with moments of beauty and epiphany, followed by weeks of crying and laughing and processing, followed by a permanent, though sometimes subtle, shift. So it goes.
That said, I do have a solid outline for a book, and a plan to continue working on it at my own pace. That's more than I've ever had before at the end of a NaNoWriMo, so I'll take it.
I'm not going to lie, it tastes like bitter failure in an old record kind of way, but I'm working through that. Every reason just feels like an excuse, which as it turns out, isn't really a great way to move myself forward, but rather a great way to be glued in place. Having awareness helps though, and so far that's been the key to moving forward, however long it takes.
This process of writing is much like witchcamp always was for me. Really fucking hard to get through with moments of beauty and epiphany, followed by weeks of crying and laughing and processing, followed by a permanent, though sometimes subtle, shift. So it goes.
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