Remember the roaches, well, my grandfather’s kitchen floors and lower cabinets got a good cleaning. I guess this coming up weekend we’re going back to clean up. We brought my dog over to see my grandfather, who used to have dogs. Now he just has some neighborhood cats that stop by every once in a while for food. So he enjoyed petting my girl and she enjoyed the attention. She was gentle with him, even though she usually isn’t with guys. Then the usual KFC for lunch. And then back to my parent’s to pack and leave. We got out of there about 3 pm, and was making good time on the way back, until we got stuck in traffic for an hour. What made it even more interesting was that we were sitting on a nearly empty tank. All the range thing would tell us what to get more gas. Nice! Turns out we had 4.5 gallons of diesel in the tank, but we didn’t know that at the time, so it made everything a lot scarier.
We actually got out and did some shopping. Let’s see we got to the first store about 7 or so, so we weren’t one of those die-hard people. We went to Sears and got my mom’s Christmas gift. Then off to Burlington Coat Factory, which we really didn’t find many coats at for some reason. Batteries at Home Depot. Tried to visit Bass Pro Shops but it was rather crowded, and I didn’t even want to go in when I saw all the cars in the parking lot. Dick’s to look at clothing. Burger King for a late breakfast (which was horrible by the way) and Target. Then off to a favorite store of ours: Tractor Supply (yes, I’m a country gal). All of those stores were gotten through rather painlessly. And that’s coming from someone who really hates to shop.
We went to eat dinner at the restaurant my little sister works at. They’ve been treating her bad, and have taken her off of Saturday duty. But it was cool to be served by my darling little sister.
Friday night my dad got in an argument with my husband and I about something silly. But just like the stubborn self he is, he wouldn’t take drop it for an answer and had to keep yelling. That’s the way I lived my life as a kid.
Well, Thanksgiving was the typical Thanksgiving in our house. We cooked food at my parent’s house. We then took the cooked food over to warm it up on my grandfather’s stove. The oven on my grandfather’s stove doesn’t work, and only 2 of the 4 burners do. So it’s always a trick to get everything warmed up just right on the stove and in his little convection oven and get everyone seated so that nothing gets cold. Sounds fun, doesn’t it? But it always is, and we all love a challenge. Which this day was no short of.
My mom opens up the cabinet with the nice plates in it and gets a glimpse of a handful of roaches. Luckily in cooking the food, we brought everything with us. So, the plates got washed before everyone sat down for dinner. Apparently my dad had supposedly taken care of said roach problem, by placing all the roach hotels on the counters, and none in the cabinets. Nice dad. But everything ended up working out ok.
Dinner is eaten, relatively painlessly. There were nine of us there, including my family and my husband’s mom, and sister’s boyfriend and mom’s brother. And of course my man. Everyone decides after pie it’s time to go home. So by 3 or so, everyone’s left. That’s the gathering for the year. 3 hours. Isn’t that nice.
After dinner, was actually kind of fun. My grandfather told us about fighting in the war. Showed me what each of his medals were, and a map of the route that his infintry took. He was a Staff Seargant in the Railsplitters. He was a forward observer, so he had to be able to gauge where the enemy was standing, how far away, etc. We talked for several hours about things he remembered. Also found out that he was one of the three founding families of the church he goes to. Regardless of that fact, I still don’t like the church. But it was nice to get to hear him talk about everything first hand. If I had been smart, I would have recorded everything with our video recorder, that we actually had with us. But I wasn’t.
I had thought of actually putting recipes on here, but it seems most of our recipes aren’t really recipes that have things written down, but ones that are taught generation to generation. Written down no where besides in our taste buds. Oh well, maybe next year.
I had a counseling appointment yesterday. I didn’t get much accomplished in it; and therefore feel like I’m wasting his time. There’s so much I want to say; but the feelings and intensity are hard to describe. Sometimes I just want to sit there quietly crying, knowing there’s some sort of safety there. Don’t ask me to describe that in more detail; I can’t.
My husband reminded me last night that I can talk to him. Yes, I know that, but what am I supposed to say? The feelings are so overwhelming that trying to pin down what’s wrong right at this moment is hard. What am I thinking about? Hell if I know. What can you do to help me? Hell if I know that one either.
And what’s more is I can’t connect the feelings I have when I’m really down, like crisis down, to when I’m “normal” – or as “normal” as I’ll ever be. It’s like I myself can’t even comprehend the pain, the thoughts, unless I’m feeling them right at that second. All I can do is write and hope that someone somewhere down the line can understand me. And when they understand me, let me in on the secret, because I’m at a loss too.
So I’ve made an appointment with the psychiatrist. December 1st at 5 pm. Well at least I won’t have to miss much of work to go. I’m tired of having to take off time just to go to counseling sessions. I feel bad for taking off work, but at the same time, I feel upset that these people won’t work with me. I mean, why can’t I work from 7 to 4? These are the only people that I interviewed with that insisted on an 8-5 schedule. Unfortunately they’re also one of the few that offered me a job.
So, back to the psychiatrist thing. I don’t know why I’m going. Actually, yes I do: because my counselor told me to. That’s the only reason I do believe. I have no faith that the medications will help any more this time than they ever have (which is none). I don’t know if I can keep pushing myself to get better when it seems everything is going against me. How does one keep going after they lose all hope? Or better yet, WHY do I keep going after I’ve lost all hope for peace on Earth? I guess I keep going because of others, but that doesn’t quiet the rage I feel sometimes.
It was an interesting counseling session yesterday to say the least. I had written him a letter and given it to him the session before last. It was written on a day I was feeling particularly bad, so it was rather um, well, intense (if you scroll down a few weeks in posts, you will find the post where I typed it out here). He started out that he was worried about me. What a coincidence, I’m starting to get worried about me too… But seriously, sometimes the emotions are scary, and very so intense. It’s hard to think about anything besides how deeply depressed I am and concentration, and thus work, are hard. Tears come so easily now, and even being around my husband isn’t cheering me up as much as it used to. If I can stay busy, like really busy, then it makes things a little easier, but I’m still having problems. I’ve gotten through worse, yes, I know, but that doesn’t make the feelings any easier.
So, counselor suggested a psychiatrist. I had every intention of asking him for a referral yesterday, but just the fact that he brought it up first, made it harder. And I wasn’t even surprised that he suggested one. It just seems like defeat in a way. That I can’t beat this by myself, that I have to turn to medicines to help me get through the day alive. It feels like I’m a failure for not being strong enough to pull myself out of this.
I guess it doesn’t matter. Even if I wanted to, I’m not going to be able to go. I would have to miss too much work. I’m guessing about 1.5 to 2 hours every 4-6 weeks. I can’t afford that time. I only get five sick days a year. If I do happen to get sick, well, no more sick leave. And I don’t want to have to go through questioning as to why I’m having to miss so much. I already miss 30 minutes every other week. Given a choice between counseling and going to a psychiatrist, I would rather use what little time I can afford for a counselor over a psychiatrist. I know, a psychiatrist could make all my problems go away with the swallow of one pill. Maybe, or maybe not. I’m not willing to take that chance. I would rather fight this with the help of a counselor than to fight it with a psychiatrist. And I don’t have time to do both.
Meanwhile I’m looking for another job. One with enough flexibility that would allow me to go to these doctors appointments without having to ask for time off. In a way, it’s also not so much about the time I need off, as opposed to actually having to ask my boss for it off. I don’t want questions, and we have to send an email out to everyone every time we leave the office. I just don’t want any questions. I don’t want to have to reveal how much I’m struggling to everyone, to make my boss question whether I’m too much trouble to keep.
I was recently asked if stigma wasn’t an issue, how far would I be willing to go for help. It’s a good question, a reflective one. One that requires me to figure out what I want from life… do I want to get better, or do I want to die. If no one would judge me because of my “problems” would I be more willing to be hospitalized and get help or would I take a different route. This has been a question I have struggled with since I was a kid. Counselors have tried to tell me, oh I don’t really want to die, I just want to pain to stop. I’ve always questioned that. I guess I believe that even if the pain did stop for some strange reason, it would only be temporary. What’s the point in struggling to get better, if I am just going to fall again? I can’t remember the last time I was happy; so in a way, it’s kind of one of those things where I don’t know what it’s like to be happy. So what am I missing? Heck if I know, or care…
It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that some day I might get better. I might get better, really? What’s that like? Who will I be like if/when I get better? It’s always been something I’ve thought about. I’ve dealt with the depression for so long, that in a way, it defines who I am. I know people say that depression isn’t who I am, but I think that is wrong. Depression affects so much of my personality, who I’m willing to reach out to, who I’m willing to put up with, that to say that depression doesn’t define me is wrong. Even IF I do get better, depression has still defined my life. I have struggled with it for way to long for it not to have.
Back to the question at hand though. What lengths would I be willing to go to if the stigma wasn’t there? I’ve thought about hospitalization for some time, as in years, um, lots of years. Unfortunately, even if the stigma wasn’t there, I would still have to leave my husband and dog behind for the length of the stay. Yes, I know, lame, but still. I would have to leave work for this length, and if I don’t have the sick days, then I would have to take a cut of pay. I would have hospital bills. A five day stay I have little hope for helping, as I am always so slow to trust, and I have no hope medications would work in that short time span. Even a thirty day stay I have little hope for helping. So, what’s the point?
Suicide won’t work either. How fair would it be to leave everything behind, including bills, work, etc just because the pain was too great? How fair would it be for someone to have to find me dead because I couldn’t handle everything everyone else seems to be able to handle alright? So I keep trudging along, wanting the pain to be over, and knowing it won’t go away.
So the bigger question, finances and stigma aside, which choice would I chose. Well, both are there, and aren’t going away, so I’ll just leave that up for you to guess.
Remember the blog post from yesterday? Well, more of the same today. I’m exhausted and deeply depressed.
My birthday is coming up soon. Sooner than I would like. 11 days from today I will be 30. Turning 30 isn’t really depressing. I don’t care one way or the other how old I am. I know I’m a failure; and guess what: I’ll be one when I’m 50 too. So, what difference does it make as to whether I’m a 30 year old failure or a 50 year old one?
Having my birthday is depressing for another reason. When I was younger, it was the day that most of my “plans” pivoted around. I always thought it would be cool to die on my birthday. To have both the same start and stop dates. The chances of that happening are pretty slim … though my grandmother did die the day before her birthday, so maybe there is hope for me yet.
I guess having my birthday reminds me of how cowardly and weak I was when I was younger. Of the one thing that I still want to do so badly, but can’t.
What’s interesting is that so many people have told me over the years that I don’t want to die, I just want the pain to stop. I’ve concluded this is untrue. I don’t care whether or not the depression stops. I want life to stop. To say that things are going to get better is just patronizing anyways. They aren’t. I lost hope in that years ago.
If you’re worried, I’m safe. But that doesn’t make the feelings any less overwhelming. It doesn’t make them any easier to deal with or to handle.
I’ve been fighting this depression for so long. Well since I was 11, so that’s what 18 years. The prospect of having to fight this for 18 more years is more than I can handle. The funny thing is though, I don’t feel like trying to get better. Just about every thing that used to get me through the days, doesn’t matter anymore. I have a counseling appointment tomorrow. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go back. I know I’m not going to get better, so what’s the point? Nothing’s comforting, nothing takes the edge off anymore. I used to habitually say I’m scared. I think for one of the first times in my life, I can say I’m no longer scared. Saying that makes me feel uneasy.
I try to find things in my life that I need to live for. Paying bills. Taking care of my dog. My dog is getting closer to my husband. She no longer needs me. I guess the only thing keeping me going is bills. I’m sure that husband could sell the house and not have to worry about money. But I’ll keep it there just to keep one thing on the list, even though I don’t believe it.
Days are getting harder and harder for me to get through. This isn’t just a small passing depression. This isn’t just someone looking for attention. This is being so depressed eating is unenjoyable. This is being so depressed that on a scale of 1-10, the pain wouldn’t even register. Most people don’t get it. Just snap out of it, they say. Just trust God more. Just, this… just, that. I’m a complete failure. I’ve learned to accept that; apparently others don’t so easily. It’s easier to tell me all the things I’m supposedly doing wrong then it is to listen to me, and try to comprehend the pain I’m in. I know most people won’t get the feelings, but dang, at least try. I’m glad all you had your moment and figured out the exact time you believed in God. I did too; that’s why despite the immense emotional pain I go through and the constant fight with tears, that I survive.
I still have to write a letter to my counselor. I have no clue what to say to him. How to convey the intense feelings I go through to him when I can’t even figure them out myself. I don’t know much of anything anymore it seems.
Yesterday I spent crying. Today I have to be better. There’s a kid coming from the local high school to shadow us engineers. So I have to be happy. I can’t cry, but that’s all I feel like doing. That’s all I ever feel like doing anymore. Crying. Sleeping. Certainly not working. Certainly not facing people.
I remember when I was in college. My counselor then made me go through a worksheet. I think it was from the book Mind over Mood. I forget who wrote it though. I had to think of people who cared for me, and write down logical facts as to why I believed they cared for me. I think she ended up doing more of the worksheet than me, and she believed it more than I did too. Looking back at it now, I still don’t believe it. I still have a hard time believing that anyone cares for me. I just don’t understand why anyone would. And it’s been obvious that even in an online situation, people don’t give a crap about me. They are there for me during the “good” times (which basically means never, because there are no good times). Most people who stand by me don’t know the extent of how I feel. They don’t understand how difficult it is to face the day alive, much less face it without crying. A few people who battle the same feelings as I do stand by me, but those are few and far between. And I have to go through the weeding process, trusting those who tell me that they care about me and finding out the hard way that they don’t just to get to the few that do. I’m starting to think that being alone is better than having to go through that weeding process. I have a few that I *think* care about me. I’ll just stick with them; no more new friends. No more trusting. No more bawling my eyes out because I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. I feel alone already. I’m just making that feeling seem more… I don’t know… real?
So I’m back to the question… who do I talk to when trusting is an issue, and I can’t talk to my counselor about something? Who can I talk to, and no matter what I say or feel, it stay confidential?
It’s one of those days, days when I wonder if getting out of bed was really worth it. I know… I have to go to work, make money, to survive. But what happens when that is no longer important? When I could care less if I get to the next day? The depression is so bad all the time. I want relief, anyway I can get it.
My senior class is planning a 12 year reunion to replace the 10 year reunion we should have had. We didn’t have a 10 year reunion because our class president was a loser. Or is a loser. I don’t even know if she is even still alive, out of jail. I just got the email for planning the 12 year reunion. It also announced the reunion committee members. The president was one of the people that tortured me in one of my classes because I was white, and therefore I responsible for all her problems. I was repeatedly felt up by one of the guys in that class. The class stood around me while he did this so the teacher couldn’t see. I was the only white in the class, he a gang leader. What was I supposed to do? I never told my parents, still haven’t today. What good would that do now? I felt so alone that year.
I know I’m supposed to forgive her. No problem doing that. I’ve been told over and over by counselors and friends I’m supposed to hang out with people that make me feel good, that don’t contribute to my depression. Why should I go to this reunion then? So I can be surrounded by a bunch of people that were happy to make my life a living hell? Why would I go through that again? I know it will only be for a weekend, but still. The people I want to see have kept in touch with me over the years. All the other people don’t care about me, so why waste my time?