This is a general rant. I’m stuck on my writing and I decided to just vomit all over this topic.
I’m feeling inadequate. Not helpful. A burden.
Depression demons are the worst.
Insight helps. I actually know why I’m feeling like I do. Understanding my reactions allows me to deal with them better. I’ve always been a big “why” person; I like knowing what makes things tick. Theoretically, knowing how something is supposed to work makes it easier to fix the defective, but there’s another angle to this. Sometimes it’s also so that you know to just accept the defect and learn to manage around it.
I get a lot of “why aren’t you better yet?” from the Bootstrap Brigade. Leave me the fuck alone.
That’s easy to think and type. Saying it— or a more polite version of it— is still difficult.
Being defensive doesn’t help me. I shouldn’t have to justify my process to anyone. Yet I find myself faced with some version of “you aren’t doing enough” or “you should just_____”. Guess what, folks. If involuntary, physical reactions take over, one does not have control over them. Just like you can’t will your heart to stop and start on command, I cannot will my depth perception to stay steady, my body from shaking, and my mind from dissociating. Nike slogans do not apply.
But but but.
I know. Yes, CBT techniques retrain the brain and reactions. I’m using them to manage the OCD. Currently I’m under the impression that getting a handle on the intrusive thoughts will cut down on what I’m calling “self-inflicted anxiety attacks”. Depending on what’s happening around me, it can be difficult to remember to use the tools (unless you have a fabulous stepdaughter who is in the grocery store with you, realizes that you need a frozen orange and hands you a pint of ice cream to hold which breaks the cycle and makes you laugh). I’m getting better at it. It’s like anything that requires practice and remembering to practice brings up a whole slew of issues for me but that doesn’t matter. I see it. I recognize it. I’m working at it. I’m “just do(ing) it”. Thank you, Nike.
It’s the random anxiety attacks that still really piss me off and there are tools for these too but I’m not ready for them just yet. Therapy is like going to the gym. You have leg days, arm days, core days, cardio days, so forth and so on, except the days are counted in months. Maybe years? I don’t know. I’m impatient and switch my focus often. I know, I know… it’s not efficient but hey. I’m a work in progress.
The random attacks annoy me because I’ve been in the Nike mode for a few years. I’m constantly, actively working on recovery. And it’s exhausting. It’s disheartening to be having a fabulous day and suddenly have to deal with anxiety. There’s no precursor to the attack that I’ve noticed. No intrusive thoughts, no visual cues, nothing physical that triggers it. It. Just. Happens. (Yeah yeah yeah… the unconscious is always at work, stirring up trouble, yada yada yada. I’m ranting about it. Leave me alone.)
Here are the key sentences to all this: My plate is full enough. I am handling what I can, when I can. If my process isn’t fast enough for you, I share your frustration. Now back the fuck off and stop adding more stress to my life.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Thursday, June 1, 2017
Little Green Bags
Her name was Pork Fried Rice— because that’s the type of name a cat gets when kids are in charge of the naming process. She was a tortoiseshell calico with an enormous voice and a tendency to drool. She didn’t know how to keep her claws retracted. She would stare at you while knocking stuff off the bedside table.
She was my little buddy.
Pork Pie was part of the package deal. She came with my husband, four children, a dog, and a house in need of attention on a lake. When she was younger, she tore her ACL while playing with a mouse on the stairs. As a result, she limped and used the “I’m a poor, lame kitty” to her advantage when she wasn’t hopping onto the kitchen counter to snack on the butter. She had been known to climb onto the dining room table, flip the pizza box lid up with her nose, and make her self comfortable on top of the pizza she chowed down on as her own.
She was a little brat cat.
She could have supplied the voice for Grumpy Cat. She always sounded pissed off to the highest degree possible and her yelling was so loud that you’d think she was standing next to you even when she was 2 floors up. Despite the tone of her meowing, she was a happy cat. I’d get regular head bunts, purrs, and the occasional grooming sessions. She refused the concept of “next to”, preferring “on top of” whenever she was near me. . She wanted to be cuddled at night and would nag at me until I rolled onto my left side and made a pocket with my arms for her to sleep in. In the morning she would hassle me to get up— presumably for breakfast to be served— but what she really wanted was the bed to herself. She loved to curl up against my pillow in the spot still warm from my head.
We’re uncertain as to her actual birth date, but she was a kitten when carried into the house by our eldest 18 years ago. She had a brother named The Gray One. Our daughter said, “We don’t have to keep both of them.” Uh huh.
I met PFR in 2010. I liked her immediately. She was a straight shooter who would evaluate your worth with an unapologetic stare. When I officially/legally joined the family in 2012, she accepted me right away, maybe because I was the only other female in the house, or maybe because I’d cuddle her (mostly) whenever she asked. Honestly, it was probably the scrambled eggs. But I really don’t care why.
I loved her right back.
She had slowed down a lot in May, feeling her age. Over the weekend she stopped eating, save for the few pieces of cheese and chicken we fed to her by hand. She would drink if we put the water bowl directly under her nose. I still got little head bunts.
Porkie was considerate enough to wait for our youngest to return from work before scampering over the rainbow bridge, giving our normally stoic-on-the-outside son a chance to say goodbye. (He’s not fooling any of us. He’s a sensitive mush and we all know it.) I petted her while she took her last breaths, reminding her she was loved and that it was ok to let go. Once she left us, DH gently placed her in her bed for her well deserved rest.
Little green bags…. The crematory our area vets contract with places your departed pet’s ashes in an urn, write a little certificate of death and attesting to a private cremation, and a small clay heart with their paw print into a little green paper bag. I’ve had to pick up two others over the past five years— one for Patchy the Cat and then Ragamuffin.
The lifespan of pets is far too short when counted in years but infinite when measured in love.
She was my little buddy.
Pork Pie was part of the package deal. She came with my husband, four children, a dog, and a house in need of attention on a lake. When she was younger, she tore her ACL while playing with a mouse on the stairs. As a result, she limped and used the “I’m a poor, lame kitty” to her advantage when she wasn’t hopping onto the kitchen counter to snack on the butter. She had been known to climb onto the dining room table, flip the pizza box lid up with her nose, and make her self comfortable on top of the pizza she chowed down on as her own.
She was a little brat cat.
She could have supplied the voice for Grumpy Cat. She always sounded pissed off to the highest degree possible and her yelling was so loud that you’d think she was standing next to you even when she was 2 floors up. Despite the tone of her meowing, she was a happy cat. I’d get regular head bunts, purrs, and the occasional grooming sessions. She refused the concept of “next to”, preferring “on top of” whenever she was near me. . She wanted to be cuddled at night and would nag at me until I rolled onto my left side and made a pocket with my arms for her to sleep in. In the morning she would hassle me to get up— presumably for breakfast to be served— but what she really wanted was the bed to herself. She loved to curl up against my pillow in the spot still warm from my head.
We’re uncertain as to her actual birth date, but she was a kitten when carried into the house by our eldest 18 years ago. She had a brother named The Gray One. Our daughter said, “We don’t have to keep both of them.” Uh huh.
I met PFR in 2010. I liked her immediately. She was a straight shooter who would evaluate your worth with an unapologetic stare. When I officially/legally joined the family in 2012, she accepted me right away, maybe because I was the only other female in the house, or maybe because I’d cuddle her (mostly) whenever she asked. Honestly, it was probably the scrambled eggs. But I really don’t care why.
I loved her right back.
She had slowed down a lot in May, feeling her age. Over the weekend she stopped eating, save for the few pieces of cheese and chicken we fed to her by hand. She would drink if we put the water bowl directly under her nose. I still got little head bunts.
Porkie was considerate enough to wait for our youngest to return from work before scampering over the rainbow bridge, giving our normally stoic-on-the-outside son a chance to say goodbye. (He’s not fooling any of us. He’s a sensitive mush and we all know it.) I petted her while she took her last breaths, reminding her she was loved and that it was ok to let go. Once she left us, DH gently placed her in her bed for her well deserved rest.
Little green bags…. The crematory our area vets contract with places your departed pet’s ashes in an urn, write a little certificate of death and attesting to a private cremation, and a small clay heart with their paw print into a little green paper bag. I’ve had to pick up two others over the past five years— one for Patchy the Cat and then Ragamuffin.
The lifespan of pets is far too short when counted in years but infinite when measured in love.
Rest in Peace
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)