I'm gonna get my ass kicked lovingly....

...if I don't post something to let you know I'm okay! I'm sorry, that was really rude. I am actually doing...well! Even, dare I say it, happy? Yes, at times I'm feeling happy! I've spent some time away from the Internet almost entirely, partly because work was actually busy so I couldn't surf all day and then when I did think about blogging, it just didn't happen for whatever reason. I actually haven't even opened my email for two weeks. It wasn't intentional, but I think the Internet vacation has been good for my psychically. But I'm not saying I'm not going to blog anymore. And I'm not even saying I'm not going to bitch and blog either. But right now I'm kinda thinking I might try to make this more of a positive experience rather than a forum for my prolonged temper tantrums. We'll see how it goes. We'll PBE it (play it by ear--LilCherie came up with this acronym-expression and I just think it's fabulous so I'm trying to spread it around).

So that's a little update, and I will see you when the juices start flowing again!

karmagirl, you are so sweet to worry about me and I love you and I hope I get to see you again soon!

Today on Oh Well...: It's a PITY PARTY!!!!!

So when you're already feeling suicidal, it's not a great idea to read the journal from when you lost the baby. FYI.

Oh, I'm sure I won't do it. I'm sure my inner voice of guilt will prevent me from checking out, you know, because of Bubba. But oh, why didn't I do it then? What in god's name kept me from chucking it all then? I cannot believe the pain of that. I mean, I remember it, but to see it all in such stark realness, such present-tense agony, is shocking even to me. Please don't try to encourage me by telling me that if I made it through that, I can make it through anything. I am deeply immersed in my own little pity party right now, so don't ruin it!

I have been working with my therapist for two years to try to change my "life sucks" viewpoint, and I've even felt at times that I've been getting there, but tonight I look at my life and think about what a fucking mess it is. What a fucked-up, pitiful conglomeration of tragedy, boredom and pettiness. What, exactly, is the goddamn point?

I am an unfortunate combination of selfishness and bad luck. I don't get what I want. Period. That's the major life-lesson for Depressionista. I wanted a husband who loved me; I got one who yelled at me today for leaving one dirty dish in the sink. I wanted a job that was fufilling; I got one where I have to write meaningless promotional material for the institution that killed my baby. I wanted a baby and my baby died. I wanted to experience motherhood and motherhood has been one fucked-up mental challenge from the day I got pregnant with Bubba. I want to kill myself; I can't, because I've already procreated and I can't do that to him, sweet little innocent Bubba. He's going to have to suffer from all of my mental shit and all of J.'s stupidity and moodiness. I can't even fully enjoy my depression because it feels so self-centered.

I'm sure my depression/suicidalness is wearing on everyone. In fact, I'm sure that before long, even my closest friends will stop feeling concern because they know I won't do it. Sometimes I feel like I should just do a half-hearted attempt, you know, just for the attention. Just to up the ante a little bit. Keep 'em coming back for more. Maybe get a break for awhile. Maybe get to leave my fucked-up mess of a life for a few days. Then come back to one that's even more fucked-up messy. Because everything I do just makes it that way--more messy, more ugly, more painful.

I'm closing comments here because I don't feel like I deserve people's compassion right now.

Responses to the responses, and thanks!

Wow. You guys are amazing! Thanks so much for taking the time to take the test and sharing your scores with me. It actually does help somehow, although again I can't really define why. Maybe I needed some kind of confirmation that I really do have some kind of problem? Maybe I wanted to see that it really isn't normal to feel this way? I don't know. But thanks just the same! I want to respond to a few of the comments--I always feel like I might as well do it in another post rather than in the comment thread, hope you don't mind.

Cobblestone: After reading your comment I did a little net search on Goldberg's Depression Test, it looks like it's a real test developed by a real psychiatrist but I'm sure some companies who peddle antidepressants use it to their advantage.

Anonymous: I am so, so sorry you lost your daughter Erin, and I admire your ability to stay standing. Thanks for coming here and for taking the test for me. I hope things continue to get less painful for you as time goes on.

Thrice: I'm on 225 mg of Effexor and 50mg of Zoloft. Are you on meds currently? Are they helping?

Karmagirl: If you don't think you're depressed, just go with that! Don't let the test get you down for crying out loud! Thanks for the good person comment, you are so sweet!

Meredith: I had no problem reading that you were a 4! I am glad for you, although I stand in utter amazement. I really don't think that I could ever get to a 4, and that's not my depression talking. I mean, I don't think it's in my personal psychological/genetic makeup to be able to get to a 4. I don't think I've ever, in my life, been at a 4. Wow. Good job!

Melissa and Cate: Ditto the above for your scores of 6 and 12, respectively! Holy cow! Good job.
And Melissa, I usually see the therapist every week on Tuesday, although this week I had to cancel because I had two other appointments that day that couldn't be put off. And I really like your advice that "it may seem pointless, but pretend as if it's not." Thank you for suggesting that, because that seems like something I can do!

LilCherie: 37, huh? That puts you just into the "moderate to severe" category. I don't think of you as depressed, but then again, I'm pretty narcissistic these days. Fodder for discussion tomorrow!

Charmedgirl: First, impressive that you scored a 20. That's really good. I'm proud of you. Second, your comment made a lot of sense to me. I'm definitely not going to stop therapy or go off the meds or anything, and I'm going to keep working with the psychiatrist, but I think you get to the heart of matter here. I've been thinking the last couple of days that no pill is going to make my job more interesting or fulfilling; no pill is going to make my marriage more satisfying; and no pill is going to make me enjoy all the "have-to's" in my life.

An interesting and I think related issue that I've been working on in therapy is that when my therapist asks me what I enjoy doing, or what I would like to do if I felt better, or what makes me happy....I come up with a total fucking blank. Is it any wonder that I'm sad? And you know, it's kind of scary to even try to think about it because I'm afraid there isn't anything there. That there isn't anything that will fulfill me. Logically, I know (or think I know) that that can't be the case...but the possibility of it scares me because if that's true then there really won't be much reason to keep going, you know? So I think that's why I put off thinking about it.

Last night I went home and went to bed until the guys came home. Then I really tried to rally and got up for awhile, but went down again at 7:30. I slept through until this morning, and do feel better today. It helps that it's Friday, and that my sister is taking Bubba tonight and tomorrow night and my mom and dad are taking him Sunday night, so we will get a whole weekend to ourselves. It also helps that J. has been really kind and understanding this week. He's done a few things around the house on his own, and taken care of Bubba quite a bit, including actually playing with him and not just watching TV. Last night I guess they worked on making a cardboard Millenium Falcon. J. also actually came into my room last night while I was still awake and laid down and talked to me, asked me how I was feeling, seemed actually concerned. I don't know exactly why he's being nicer, but it's helping things at our house quite a bit. He even got us tickets to go to an antique sale tomorrow, almost like a "date."

So today, so far, is better. Thanks again to everyone who commented.

Why?

Well, I had a couple good days at least.

Everything seems so pointless that it's hard to even write post because I keep asking myself the question, "Why?"

Why do you want to hear about how depressed I am? I guess it really doesn't matter, right? I mean, it's a blog, you can read it if you want or click away if you want.

I see my psychiatrist on Monday. I don't think she can help me. I am pretty much losing faith in the psychiatric profession. It seems that most of the people who become therapists do it because they are fucked up themselves (case in point--I've even thought about it as a possible career!) All the psychiatrists I've seen seem to do the same thing--make me spill all of my deepest, darkest thoughts about why my life sucks and how messed up I am and then suggest a pill or a medication adjustment that doesn't work. It used to work, for awhile. Not anymore. These people have years and years of training and yet it's like they flail around in the dark, throwing pills at people randomly. I mean, I feel like I could do the same exact thing without any training. Let's try Effexor this time. Wait a couple months. Not working? Add in some Zoloft. Still not working? Up the dosage a little. Still not working? Well, let's wean off the Effexor and try the Cymbalta. It never seems to work....it never seems to end.

I almost feel.....uninterested in seeing the psychiatrist again. Again, that question, "Why?" Why go if it doesn't help? What else can she offer except more drugs that don't do anything?

I took this test today and got a score of 79. A score of 54 or higher indicates severe depression--I think the highest you can get is 90. A score of 79 while I'm on Effexor and Zoloft and seeing a therapist and in the first half (i.e. the "better" half) of my cycle. Will you guys do me a favor, if you don't mind revealing? Could you all take it and let me know what scores you get? For a reason I can't define, I feel like it would be a good way to sort of put my own stuff into context.

Light

I feel human again! Since I last talked to you I:
-Went to the oto, got antibiotics for yet another infection (definitely going for second opinion April 1).
-Actually started using my inhaler thing that's supposed to help me with the cough that is from the sinus drainage.
-Made appointment with ob/gyn for annual exam/hormone discussion/endometrial ablation discussion. Appointment is March 7, not bad.
-Really cleaned my house.
-Played with Bubba.
-Did laundry.
-Had Girl's Night with LilCherie and karmagirl (So fun! Thanks for hosting me, ladies!)
-Sent my husband flowers and jelly beans. I know, you are probably thinking "What the fuck are you doing???" Well....he was depressed last week too, and I felt sorry for him, and I wanted to cheer him up. He appreciated it. It was a nice thing to do. What can I say? I'm a pushover.
-Arranged for my sister to take Bubba next weekend, weather permitting.
-Had a pleasant discussion with my mother. She revealed that in her research on depression (i.e., reading the book I mentioned earlier), she has begun recognizing some of the same stuff in herself and especially in her mother! This is a huge breakthrough in my mother's Great Wall of Denial. I hope it will help her and me.

Aurelia commented on one of my earlier posts that I need to get on the pill. I really think that suggestion has a lot of validity, and I will discuss it with my ob. I took it for a long time when I was younger and didn't have any problems with it...but now only I'm 37 and I smoke. And I know myself well enough to know that I am not going to quit smoking anytime soon, just ain't gonna happen. But I'll ask the doctor about risks/options. I mean, I guess I need to figure out if it's more likely that I'll have a stroke while on the pill, or kill myself/ruin my life from the depression I suffer when not on it? I'm also curious as to whether there's something else screwy going on that's fucking up my hormones that maybe could be fixed to solve the problem. We'll see. But it's pretty amazing how by period day three I'm 80 percent better than the day/week/two weeks before.

I have other stuff I want to blog about but I'm hungry and my pizza is done so, you know, I have my priorities. And I probably should get to the store because tomorrow we are supposed to get ice pellets, then freezing rain, then rain, then 4 to 8 inches of snow. On top of the four feet of snow and ice that we already have. At least it's over freezing today so some of it is melting before we get dumped on again. I can't complain enough about how much this winter has sucked....but right now it's sunny and warm and it's nice to smoke on the porch. What more could I want? (ha ha).

Oh, poor little me!

First, I want to say thanks to everyone and to let you know that your nonjudgmental support means so much to me. I made it through the day (and night) last night, feeling a little better today, especially after writing the dump below. I also want everyone to know that if necessary, I will go to the ER. I'm not there yet, but if I do, I will do it, even though I know, like Charmed said, that it could affect custody stuff. I look at it this way: in the event of a divorce, it would be better for Bubba to have me around and healthy, even if I didn't have primary custody, than it would be for him to have to deal with the after-effects of his mother committing suicide. But anyway...thanks again so much.

Okay...onward. The rest of this post is going to be a major mind-dump of narcissistic bitching about everything. You've been warned.

I was up until 4 a.m. Then I awoke for the 7:45 a.m. scramble that my husband is doing to try to get his own depressed self and Bubba out the door. Bubba wants a cuddle, so I'm cuddling him for a brief moment, and he tells me that "I don't want to go to school. Joe and Hans hit me yesterday. Joe says I'm not his friend." He had already mentioned this to me last night as well. I asked Bubba if he was afraid to go to school and he said yes. So I relay this to J., who says he will bring it up with the teacher. He called me later and said her explanation was "Yeah, yesterday was kind of a crazy day and we'll keep a closer eye on it." J. is calling right now to make an appointment for our meeting with the teachers. Yay.

Then I called my boss. That went well. We talked about maybe reducing my hours for awhile instead of a full leave, which I think makes sense because I don't want to fall off the face of the earth and down into this hole forever, and I think I could handle some work if I knew I also had some time to just...recover, I guess. Anyway, I'm going to take the rest of the week off, try to figure out what to do, and go back Monday.

Then I called my parents. I need to put a big sign up on my wall that says, "If you are feeling depressed, DO NOT CALL YOUR PARENTS." I called them today, mostly because I had worked up my nerve to ask if they could take Bubba for the weekend. I started off telling them I wasn't doing so well and that I was trying to figure out what do about work, etc. My mother starts telling me that if I lose my job I'm "really going to have problems."

"What are you going to do if you don't go to work? Just sit around being miserable?" she says. Then the crying starts. "We need to find something or someone who is going to make you better. You're too young to spend your whole life feeling miserable." She tells me she thinks maybe I need to "go somewhere" to get better, and that she will come with me or pay for it or whatever. She tells me she's even thought about "that place on Dr. Phil where they're always sending people." (Even in my depression, I think this is kinda funny...) "There has to be something I can do to make you better," she says, almost sobbing on the phone. This goes on, with my dad getting on the phone making comments like "If work was fun, they'd call it a hobby" and "It's a state of mind." My mother tells me about how hard this is for them. My mother wonders aloud if I "enjoy being depressed." They both want to know "what's causing it."

The end result for me, in my narcissistic daze, is the following:
*I feel like I am ruining not only my life and my kid's life, but also my parents'.
*I feel bad for causing them so much pain.
*I feel like a failure because I can't just get it together.
*I feel like my parents blame me even though they say they don't.
*I feel like a huge burden on everyone who cares about me.
*I feel like I should just try really hard to conceal this from them from now on, make them believe that I am better, and never confide in them about this again.

I told them that the biggest thing they could do to help me would be to do some research on what depression really is, because I want them to understand that it's not like I choose to be nonfunctional, it just is. It's not like there's some magic pill or magic therapist or whatever that's going to make it all go away. It reminds me very much of when I was grieving Hope and six months out, they told me that I had to get things together or I was going to lose my job and my marriage and that it was time to move on and get better. Like I had control over that. Anyway. My mother says she bought a book called "Undoing Depression" so that she could try to help me undo it, I guess. I told them that I would appreciate it if they wouldn't outline all the ways I'm ruining my life when I call them. I told them that sometimes I just need someone to listen, you know? I'm sure they don't get it. I said at one point that it would help if they took Bubba this weekend but then I said I was afraid to ask because I felt like they were mad at me and the conversation turned to them telling me they weren't mad at me and the Bubba thing was never addressed again...so it looks like that's a no go.

Look, I know that my parents love me and they don't understand and they are doing the best they can...but JESUS CHRIST. How do I keep forgetting that every time I call them with a problem, it becomes their problem that I feel bad about causing?

In the aftermath of the phone call, I am blowing my nose, and suddenly a bunch of fluid pours out of my right nostril. By now I know that it's a cyst in my sinus, because this is like the third time it's happened. So that's what was causing all my pain, maybe there's also an infection causing it to form, I don't know. I called my doctor's office. The phone rang about 10 times before someone answered. I say I need to speak with my doctor's nurse. "Well, they're in clinic in Xtown today," she says. "Okay, then what's the number there?" I ask. "Well, they don't take calls there," she says. "Okay," I say, clearly bitchy by now, "then I need to speak with someone else's nurse." At this point I have to give her my name, which is probably flagged with a huge skull and crossbones at the front desk or something, and tell her what is going on. I give her a terse history ("I had surgery in October, I had infections until January, I think I have another one and a cyst in my right sinus just ruptured.") Someone Else's Nurse calls me back (she's actually pleasant) and miraculously, my doctor has an opening tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. "Someone must have cancelled," she tells me. I think "cyst" and "rupture" were the words that got some action.

Then I called LilCherie's oto, in the town that's 40 min. away, and got an appointment for April 1. I'm going to get my records/scans and take them up there and get a second opinion and see if he can help me. I figure that if I've been having problems this long, I'll probably still be having problems in another month's time, so that should work out alright.

And I'm supposed to go to the dentist today at 4 p.m. to have them start working on fixing my bite, which is completely fucked up because I'm grinding the hell out of my teeth. Still haven't figured out if I'll go or if I'll have to come up with some excuse to get out of it.

Here's what keeps going around in my head. "You are causing problems for everyone who loves you. You are making your life worse by not dealing with it. You are so selfish to be so self-absorbed. Your life is not that bad, why are you such a wuss? Just deal with it!" Hmmm. Pretty much what I got from my parents. Believe it or not, I never really made that connection before. Ahhh, therapy by blogging. It's pretty amazing.

Oh, and I got my period yesterday, so today I'm dealing with Aunt Flo's Second-Day Hemorrhage.

In spite of it all, I am actually feeling a little better today. I'm feeling like I need to and possibly can make a plan to try to get better. It's all very confusing, but what comes to mind right now are the following (in no particular order). It all sounds very ambitious, but really I'm just brainstorming right now, so I'm not ruling anything out.

*See psychiatrist as soon as she's back in town (on vacation now, of course).
*Tell psychiatrist I need some major and immediate help, and that if she can't provide that she needs to send me to someone who can. Ask if it would be helpful to have therapy with her as well as med management.
*Get appointment with ob/gyn. Discuss period-related depression issues, ask about testing my hormone levels or other diagnostics to see if we can find a physiological problem, talk about endometrial ablation.
*Figure out reduced work hours schedule.
*Arrange a short break from everything--i.e., go away by myself for four or five days, spend the money even though I don't have it to give myself some pampering and some respite and some distance from everything that's bearing down on me.
*Look into some alternative therapies like acupuncture, reiki, herbal supplements, whatever. Just doing something else to feel proactive would be helpful I think.
*Try, really really try, to start getting some exercise, any exercise. I know better than to expect that I will be getting up at 5 a.m. to go running or anything, but I need to move my body.
*On the same token, I need to pay some more attention to my nutrition.
*Commit to marriage counseling. The counselor we were referred to has no openings, so I need to talk to J. about finding someone else, even if we have to pick someone out of the phone book. I'm still going to talk to the lawyer on Monday, but right now I don't trust myself very much, and I don't want to make big, life-altering decisions in this frame of mind. This might sound naive and stupid after everything I've written here, but what I really want is for this marriage to work and for us to both be happy--so that's what I should be working toward.
*Look for ways that I can do something meaningful with my life. I think a big part of my dissatisfaction with my job is that it is so pointless and doesn't help anyone or mean anything in the big picture of life. Man, I wish J.'s grandma would just die already so we could get a little money to go back to school or something! She's 98 fucking years old! (I am terrible.)

I'm thinking about actually writing this all down in a calendar book, actually scheduling them in small steps, like "Feb. 27: Call acupuncturist and make appointment" or "Feb. 28: Look into options for getaway" or whatever.

Whew. I do feel better. For anyone who made it this far, I thank you. For everyone reading, commenting, thinking about me...I thank you. Very much.

Dark

My life is falling apart and I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. I can't work. I emailed my boss today and I'm going to talk to her about a leave of absence, which will mean I will have to ask my parents to help me financially, but it's getting to the point where I can't ever make it in for a full week and even when I'm there I can't get much done.

Last night J. came home depressed himself, because he had some disappointing career news that I can't say anything else about, but he wanted to go to bed and I did the big sigh and then said okay, which really means no, so he stayed up and put Bubba to bed and then just went silently into his own bed and went to sleep. Then he got up and did all the Bubba care this morning to get out of the house by 8 a.m. I am such a complete loser. I go on and on about what a jerk J. is here, but I am just as bad. I sent J. an email half an hour ago asking him if he could get out of work a couple hours early and come home and talk to me. He hasn't responded so he either doesn't want to, can't, or hasn't gotten around to reading my note yet.

I think I have a sinus infection, and I called the doctor's office today and they didn't have an opening until next Tuesday. Next fucking Tuesday. This, after we struggled for almost three months, from October to the beginning of January, to get rid of the post-surgical infections. This, after my doctor told me, "If you have ANY inkling that you are getting another infection, call right away." I said to the receptionist, "So I have to wait a week to be seen for a sinus infection?" The receptionist confirmed this. I said, "Just forget it," and hung up on her. But I still have the sinus infection, the only other option in town is the U of WKWKYKBYSOUM. I may have to go to another town 40 minutes away if I switch. I should probably call my doctor back and demand to talk to his nurse, but fuck, I don't care enough. It's weird wanting to die but still worrying about your sinuses. I guess I just don't want any more pain. Ya know?

WHY is this so bad right now? WHY is my brain so screwed up and WHY isn't anything helping? I almost want to say...in fact, I will say that I am worse mentally than I was after Hope died. At least then I could make it in to work most days. At least then I knew why I was in such pain. At least then I didn't have another little life depending on me to be "okay." At least then, people knew and were understanding of why I was screwed up.

After Hope died, I did therapy, meds, got massages from a lady who helped me "talk" to my baby and told me about my auras, saw a shamanic healer, wrote in my journal, reached out for support from my friends and got involved in a support group message board which is where I found Tingle. I remember then thinking "I am doing EVERYTHING I possibly can to get better, and it's not working." That's how I feel right now. I wish it was a physical problem. I wish it was something I could point to, that people could see, so that I wouldn't have to just feel like a loser.

Fuck it all

I am going crazy.
It's scary.

Last night: Woke up at 10:30 to coughing-to-the-point of vomiting child. Got him calmed down, nebulized, and back to bed but I was worried so I slept with him, waking up each time he coughed.

This morning: Woke up, did all the morning shit, got Bubba dressed and ready for school, drove J. to work so that I could have the car to take Bubba to his 10:30 doctor's appointment. When I climbed into the driver's seat I noticed the gas tank was far down into the red. "Thanks for leaving me some gas," I call to J. as he gets his stuff out of the car. He shuts the door and leaves, not saying anything.

Get Bubba to school and am at my desk by 8:40 or so. Finish work project in time to go get Bubba from school and take him to doctor. Doctor can't hear anything wrong with Bubba's lungs, but since the neb worked last night she prescribes an inhaler and spacer that we can use that will hopefully ease the coughing while he sleeps and also take less time/effort to give him, because Bubba doesn't like the neb so much.

Stop at gas station on way back from doctor's office. Cannot get gas cap off. This is an issue that's been going on for about a year, and about a year ago I asked J. to get it fixed. Since then, there have been occasional mentions of this problem, but no action. I wrestle with this thing for 10 minutes. Call J. to see if there's anything else I can try. He has no suggestions. I tell him that if I can't get it off I will call him back and he will have to get a ride to gas station so that he can get it off because I can't go any further without gas, especially with Bubba in the car.

Another five minutes and I get the thing off. Fill car with gas. Take Bubba, who has fallen to sleep in the car by now, back to school. Go to pharmacy to drop off Bubba's prescriptions. Pick up lunch to go and then pick up J. because he wants the car to go to the library over his lunch hour. He takes me back to work. The stress of the whole damn day pretty much has me in overdrive, and by 1:30 or so I'm starting to have the panicky anxiety set in.

At 3:45 I hear wailing on Bubba's daycare's playground below my office. I look out the window and see Bubba crying. He walks over to the teacher, explains something and points, she talks to him and he wanders back to a sled where some kids are playing. The teachers are standing there talking to one another. Bubba gets on the empty seat of a two-person sled, and is promptly shoved off, twice, face-first into the snow. No action from the teachers. Nothing, even though Bubba is seriously crying.

I truck it down to the daycare and take a minute to peer through the door to the playground before making my presence known. I see the teachers still standing there. Then I see one of them rush over to Bubba, at which point I go out to see what the situation is. I am seriously pissed. I call for them to bring Bubba over to me since I have crappy shoes on.

"Joe...pushed....me...off...the...sled," Bubba tells me in between hysterical cries, coughs and gags. I tell the teacher what I saw and that I was concerned that nobody was handling the situation. The teacher backpedals, saying that Bubba had been pretty much crying since he woke up from his nap 45 minutes earlier and that the incident she just took care of was the first one that period (which I know is false because I saw it evolving). I was so upset I was shaking and could barely speak myself. I reiterated that I was concerned and then scooped up Bubba and went in to get his stuff for the day. I ran into the lead teacher in his room and told her the same story, and she pretty much told me the same story that the other one had, you know, that my kid is sick or crabby and THAT's what was causing the problem, not the other kid or the negligent teachers. I am paying them $950 a month. This is the premier center in our entire town/area. The teacher/child ratio in Bubba's room is 1:4. They should be able to make sure my kid doesn't get shoved into the snow, especially after my child alerted them that there was an issue. The kid that shoved him is alternately Bubba's best friend and worst enemy. I know their relationship is difficult, and the teachers know it too. So wouldn't you think they'd pay special attention when they are playing together to make sure nobody gets hurt?

We always tell Bubba that if he's having a problem with another kid, he should go tell a teacher rather than hit or act out. I saw that that's exactly what he did, and the teacher did nothing. That makes me feel like I failed him.

I will be setting up a conference to talk to his teachers about this. Anyway.

I take Bubba up to my office and call J. to come get us (he has the car so he could go to the library, remember). I wait 15 minutes or so then go down to meet J., who is wandering around looking for us at the daycare (he can't call me because he hasn't gotten a new cell phone yet...another bone of contention since he hasn't had one since September and it causes a lot of problems). We get in the car and talk about the incident. I am shaking, sick to my stomach, crying but trying to hide it from Bubba, in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. It's 4:15 p.m. on the day that J. is technically supposed to get off of work at 3:45 p.m.

"Please tell me you're not going back to work," I say to him.
"I have to. I didn't shut anything down or anything and I have stuff I have to do."
"But isn't this your early release day?" I ask.
"Well, it just didn't work out that way today."

Nevermind that I spent three hours of the morning with Bubba/doctor/pharmacy, and now I'm leaving an hour early due to the playground incident. Let's not let that infringe on J.'s day at all.

So we get home, J. finds the time to get Bubba settled before racing back to work for another hour. I take an anxiety pill and vent, rather crazily and panicked, to LilCherie while Bubba watches a movie. J. gets home at 5:45 p.m., 15 minutes before the pharmacy closes. I give him a blank check so he can run up and get Bubba's meds (and mine, which I also had refilled). You see, he couldn't pick them up on the way home because he has no fucking money, even though he never gave me one dime from his last paycheck.

He gets home and I go lay down. I only intended it to be for a couple minutes, but the pill conks me out. I wake up at 11:30 to Bubba coughing and throwing up in his bedroom. J. is in there trying to get Bubba calmed down enough to take a neb treatment. Did J. think to give Bubba a neb treatment before bedtime? Nope. Did J. take the new spacer out of the soapy water I'd put it in to let it dry so we could use it? Nope. Did J. wake me up before Bubba's bedtime to get the spacer and inhaler together and give it to Bubba? Nope. Bubba coughed and threw up for about 15 minutes before he could calm down enough to have the neb, then had to watch a movie for awhile to settle back down for bed. Meanwhile, I'm starving since I missed dinner, and because I am the only one who buys groceries, and I haven't gone for a few days, there's not a damn thing in the house to eat, so I go to the store at midnight and buy $140-worth of food.

And here I am now, sitting in the living room, listening to Bubba's terrible cough and stressing out about it. I haven't eaten anything yet because I'm going back and forth between nausea and hunger and it seems like so much of an effort and nothing sounds especially good.

I hate my life, oh my god I hate it so fucking much. I am trapped. I can't live like this and maintain my sanity. I can't check into a hospital because I can't leave Bubba in the care of my worthless husband. I can't kill myself because of the same reason. Fuck.

Don't feel like you have to comment. I know it's getting old.

More of the same--Updated

I called in sick to work again today.

I made an appointment with my psych for Monday to talk about how my depression is uncontrolled. That is the word that came to me today, and that is how I'm going to describe it to her. Uncontrolled. I feel like the antidepressant I'm on is doing nothing--but then, I don't know how bad it would be if I wasn't taking it, right?

I don't know how much is my mental illness and how much is my marriage.

I got the name of another marriage counselor from my therapist. I told her what we were looking for and she recommended this guy, and to be truthful, I was kind of glad it was a guy because I think that might work better for J. and hopefully he won't be so fucking sappy. I know I'm making assumptions here, but sometimes they're right. I gave J. the name and number and asked him to make the appointment since his schedule is always so busy.

I spent the day cleaning the house, which was a disaster even though J. had just had two days off (he went to a concert Wednesday night that was 2 hours away so apparently, that was worth two days off, even though he had to go back to work Tuesday night, leaving me alone with Bubba again, to finish up all the work he had to do). I packed up all his books, CDs, DVDs, and other crap that is always just stacked around the house in disarray and dumped it in a big box and set it on his bed. I know he'll be pissed, because I've disrupted his "organization" method...but my answer is going to be that if I have to clean the house, I'm cleaning it my way. If he doesn't like it, then he can find a place to put this crap so I don't have to look at it all the time. In an admittedly immature move, I also dumped all of his clean laundry into a basket without folding it and put it on his bed as well. I know that's petty, but it made me feel better at the time. Wow, not folding his laundry! What a bold move there! Jesus. I am pathetic.

I called J. and asked him to take Bubba out to dinner tonight because I don't want to deal with either of them. Really, I don't want to deal with anything.

I'm thinking about starting another blog just to bitch about my marriage, because I worry that people will just get really sick of reading about how my life sucks and I never do anything about it. Then I worry that if I did that, I wouldn't have anything to write here. What do you think? Is this getting just too fucking depressing to read?

Updated to add: Tonight when J. and Bubba got home, I did my best to be "okay" and volunteered to do Bubba's bedtime. Bubba and I were reading a book about emotions. We got to the "angry" page which shows a little cartoon face all red and angry, and Bubba said, "That look like you, mommy. I don't like that page." I lost it, I really lost it. I couldn't talk. I started shaking. I choked out the last two pages then told Bubba my tummy hurt a little bit so I was going to have his Daddy come in. I haven't gone to bed at all tonight; it's 5:30 a.m. I'm just shaken. I'm so disappointed in myself.

Still crazy after all these years

Like many people, when I think of therapy, I generally think of dredging up the old shit that's dragging me down, exploring it, airing it out, coming to peace with it, and then moving on to the next piece of shit. My therapist, however, believes that it is better to just dump the old shit without giving it any more energy. Just jettison it, wipe the slate clean, and move forward. My therapist counsels from a Sufi perspective. Generally, I like this and it speaks to me more than any other therapy model has--but this idea of just getting rid of the shit without digging into it is hard for me to figure out.

I have a natural urge to really get in there, but only when the time is right. Which is why I've been putting off delving into some of the more traumatic stuff in my life--because I never feel like the time is right. On one hand, I think maybe my therapist is right--what will reliving it do? On the other hand, I feel like until it is dealt with in some way, it just sits inside of me, stewing around, and bubbling up in other ways that seem totally unrelated but aren't, and the only way to rid myself of it is to get it out there.

My emotional memory is caught in limbo. I am afraid of going back into the darkness, but I can't seem to find the light either. There's some kind of comfort in the idea of telling other people your story. Maybe I long for the sympathy; I have been known to enjoy my share of that. I think what bothers me the most about my hidden pain is that it is hidden. It bothers me, somehow, that people can't look at me and know what I have been through. I mean Hope, of course, but also the depression, the vulva issues, the other surgeries, the way it's scarred me inside, the way it's affected everything. I don't especially want special treatment--I just want people to know, for some reason. Maybe it's because I feel like so many health care professionals denied my pain, both physical and emotional, at different points in my medical past. Maybe it's because of society's emphasis on "getting over it" and "moving on," or even society's preoccupation with "being happy" (and the associated pressure that goes along with that). Maybe I resent the fact that people think I'm "fine" now, or count me among the "normal" people, when inside I still identify myself as someone who is broken in many ways.

The next logical thought is the old, "Maybe I enjoy being a victim." But I don't think that's a fair statement (feel free to weigh in here). I think maybe I just want recognition or acknowledgment (in what way, I don't know) for what I've gone through, and that doesn't come very often in this world, and especially not years after the fact.

It's odd because after Hope died, I tried so hard to just fit in with the world around me even though I felt so alien...and now, sometimes, I wish there was some kind of special mark that just arises on your cheek or something after you've been through the loss of a child. Like a medal of honor, of survival. A lot of us would have that mark, and that in itself would be comforting in a way. Terribly sad, yes, but comforting. To know that we are not so unusual.

Maybe that's what my problem is--that I still feel like a freak after five years, and I'm sick of the shame of it, the way I always have to think about it when someone asks how many kids I have, the way my heart beats a little bit faster whenever I know I am going to mention her name and the way my stomach drops in self-disappointment when I decide not to, the way I use her memory to punish people who seem to have forgotten. I shame myself by going around and around with her memory, telling myself that tomorrow will be the day when I really try to start talking to Bubba about his sister but knowing that I won't because it's just too hard to explain and then realizing that he is growing up not having a clue about her.

My god, it will five years this June since I lost my daughter. Five years. Having her and losing her was the defining moment of my life, even more so than having my son. I don't know what that means about me, or whether it's good or bad, but it just is.

"You happy now Mommy?"

Disclaimer: This is a long post bitching about being a mother. Which makes me feel guilty because I wanted him so bad and I'm a deadbabymama and had infertility and all that stuff. And guilty that some of the people reading this have suffered infertility and losses, some recent. So if you don't want to read the bitching, please, don't feel obligated. I understand.

Do ever get to work and think OH MY GOD because the last two hours you spent at home seemed like more work than the next 8 to 9 you are going to spend at work and then you know that the four hours after that will be more work than the two you just did?

Last night I came home and crashed at 6:30 p.m. The next time I awoke was at 3 a.m. when Bubba was having a hysterical meltdown because he wanted Daddy to sleep with him. Once again, we are trying to get Bubba to sleep in bed, by himself. J. actually started crying last night because it hurt him so much to say no. Eventually Bubba settled in on the floor in the hallway, and apparently later moved to the couch. Is this acceptable? I'm not sure where I should stand on that one so input is welcome!

This morning I woke up and took the morning shift because I knew J. had been up most of the night on the computer/dealing with Bubba. So from 6:30 to 8:15 a.m., I threw some clothes in the dryer, folded the laundry that J. has been working on all week but apparently just couldn't take it that extra mile and bring it upstairs while watching Bubba while he played with his Thomas toys in the basement.

Then I took a shower, got myself ready, dug through the clean laundry that was hidden in J.'s room to find Bubba's fresh jammies--one of only two pairs that really fit him--because today is jammie day at school. (Yesterday was blue day; we narrowly missed disaster because J. forgot and was about to dress him in a khaki theme before I figured it out. Next week I have to bring an orange-colored food to daycare for the coup de grâce of their colors week.) Then I fixed Bubba breakfast, put away the clothes I folded, fixed Bubba more breakfast because he was still hungry, and cleaned up the kitchen. Then lotioned and dressed Bubba, had the "we HAVE to go to school today, Bubba," argument while J. was getting ready, found him some Monster snacks for the car because apparently two waffles and three glasses of juice wasn't enough for him, got all suited up for the Arctic cold, and got in the car, where Bubba spent the next 20 minutes alternately arguing with us ("No it's NOT wintertime! No the sun ISN'T shining!") or telling us in detail the parts he really likes on Lilo & Stitch.

I'm sure this post is really boring, but I just had to get it out because my kid is driving me crazy. I think that's why I've been sleeping so much this week--I just can't take it! Yesterday I tried taking half an anxiety pill about half an hour before going home. I figured half a pill might keep me calm but conscious enough to function. I guess not.

Lately I just dread going home. Wednesday night (remember Wednesday? The day I posted about what a good mood I was in?) we got home and J. had to work late so it was Bubba and me. Because Bubba holds his poop in and it's a problem even with the Miralax he's on, I've been trying to get a habit going where every night, a few minutes after supper, he sits on the potty and just tries. Wednesday night he threw a huge, hysterical, kicking, screaming fit because he didn't want to do it. After I got him calmed down and on the pot (he didn't go), then he had another huge, hysterical, kicking, screaming fit because he didn't want to take a bath. Then he didn't want to get out of the tub. Then he fucked around while I was trying to get him in his jammies. Every fucking thing is a struggle. At that point I got the closest I've been to slapping him in a long time. I was kind of proud of myself because I didn't. Which is kind of pathetic. (One of the few things I can pride myself on in my parenthood "journey" is that I've never hit him.) He realized I was at the snapping point and started listening a little bit more, and then asks, "You happy Mommy?" I just could not bring myself to "get over it." I told him no, I wasn't happy. A few minutes later he says, "I'm listening now, you happy Mommy?" I barked back, "No! I'm still not happy!" Oh is he going to need therapy.

I feel like every time I start enjoying him, he enters a new phase that is totally and completely infuriating. I feel like I keep going back to that postpartum time when I couldn't stand being a mother. Then I wonder if I really did have postpartum depression or if it was just that I'm really not cut out for this parenthood thing. Then I feel really guilty because I finally got my living, healthy kid and this is how I feel.

Sore throats and itchy bungholes

I woke up today with a one-sided sore throat with white all over it and a sore ear on the same side. Mustered up the energy to go to the doctor; not strep, possibly virus, possibly draining sinuses (fucking sinuses!) She also checked my lungs which are still fucked up from whatever respiratory ailment I was fighting off before Christmas, so it's back on the inhaler for another MONTH, and back to the sinus rinses until I see my oto later this month.

The doc talked with me about possibly going to the University of We Know We Killed Your Kid But You Still Owe Us Money to have some sophisticated blood tests done for rare immune deficiencies because she is stumped by why I a) catch so many viruses, illnesses, etc., b) end up with so many secondary infections and c) have such a hard time getting over them even with treatment. (The obvious reason would be diabetes but I've been checked multiple times and don't have it...yet.) I'm considering it because I figure that just running some blood tests, especially since we're not investigating something that's immediately life-threatening, is possibly within the UofWKWKYKBYSTOUM's realm of competency. In the wake of my sore throat/sore ear/debilitating depression, I rescheduled my root canal, which was supposed to be this afternoon, to next week.

Why am I SO FUCKED UP?

In more health-related news, we are going to call Bubba's doctor today to find out what to do about his itchy bunghole. Dr. Google suggests pinworms, which gross me out so completely that the thought of "waiting and seeing" for the weekend makes me want to puke. I've had a longstanding phobia about any kind of parasitic bugs like lice and pinworms and the like, and thank Allah I have never had any of those...but I imagine that dealing with them will be just one more of the joys of motherhood that are to come my way. It isn't even the social stigma attached to these things, because I realize it's just a contagious bug like a virus or a bacterium--it's more the thought of a living, visible insect feeding off of our flesh...and the word "infestation" that goes along with it....eww, chills, yuck, eek! Thankfully, J. is handling this chore given my general malaise and depression. To give credit where it's due, I have to say J. has been very good the last couple of days, other than the housekeeping disaster yesterday morning. He came and gave me the car for my doctor's appointment then ran me back home so that I wouldn't have to deal with picking Bubba up from daycare, and is being pretty sympathetic during the 10 minutes or so every day that we have to talk to one another.

Finally, on the depression front--can't really tell what's depression and what's just general illness today. I feel like it may be lifting a little bit because I found myself interested in a couple of different things today: I was pleased that Obama won the democratic caucus here in Iowa even without J. and me; and I was intrigued by the latest Britney Spears spectacle. I can't help it, I feel sorry for her.

I'm also feeling a little more in the mood to write, which is nice. So, I will attempt to do the Mayfly meme that Melissa tagged me for. The goal is to sum up your year 2007 in 24 words to see what was constant, what really mattered, what the big stuff was. So here's my attempt:

Confusion. Considered divorce, still married; realized age three is better and worse than two; felt trapped, Girls' Nights (and my girls) kept me sane.

I think I'm supposed to tag someone else now, so how about Complicated Mama--don't know if she ever even comes here but I recently discovered her and I LOVE her writing; Nicole, who is a devoted commenter here and I really appreciate it; and Yodasmistress, who just visited here for the first time and whose blog I am interested in delving into more.

Still here.

Thanks everyone for your comments on my last two posts. I really appreciate the support and the encouragement.

So I went to the psych yesterday (since we are a one-car family, I had to wait for J. to come pick me up. He was late!! Can you believe it? My appointment was at 11:45 and he got to our house at 11:43. That was helpful. If I would have been in a better mood, I would have laughed at the fact that all the way to the psych office, the song on the radio was "Love Isn't Always On Time.")
Anyway, she upped my dosage of Effexor. I'm not really sure this is going to be effective; the way she explained it is that at the dosage I was at (150 mg) it acts as a pure serotonin booster but at the higher dosage (225 mg) the norepinephrine part of it kicks in so it's almost like adding an additional medication. We'll see.

I also talked to her about the possibility of me having bipolar II, which I discovered recently in my obsessive googling. It's characterized by periods of deep depression alternating with periods of being in a really good mood but not quite mania, as well as the problem of antidepressants "pooping out" after a few months. I would put a link here but my computer has been infected, I think, with some kind of virus that hijacks my google searches so until I get that fixed googling is a pain in the ass. Anyway, it's a milder version of bipolar, and one of the big parts of it is that antidepressants don't really work for it--you have to use mood stabilizers instead. My doctor doesn't think I have that, but I'm not so sure. I didn't think I have the periods of really good mood, or hypomania, but when I talked to Tingle she thought I did. Anyway, my doctor said if we can't get things under control with the antidepressants then she can try adding in a mood stabilizer drug and see if it helps.

I didn't specifically talk to her about going to the hospital because I figured that she would be able to discern from my depressive symptoms whether or not I should go. I was completely honest with her. I was a little surprised, really, that my symptoms warranted nothing more than a few sample packs of Effexor and a "come back in two weeks." I mean, what warrants hospitalization? I told her how I was so depressed it was hard to move; that I was fantasizing about shooting myself in the basement (in the little-used bathroom down there, because I wondered how many days it would take J. to find me there); how I usually dismiss the suicide thought because of Bubba but that yesterday and the day before I was actually trying to talk myself into it by telling myself things like Bubba would be better off without having a psycho mother, etc. I admit I was a little disappointed that she didn't recommend the hospital. Is that sick? I guess I wanted some kind of break, to get out of this environment that seems to smother me, and to have my depression validated by something as serious as hospitalization so that my work wouldn't think I was just a fucking slacker.

So after my appointment yesterday I came home and went to bed. Sometime during the evening J. put Bubba in bed with me, thusly ensuring that I would be up every two hours or so every time Bubba cried, had a nightmare, needed to go potty or needed cream on his butt because he's had some itching issues from a large poop a few days ago. Meanwhile J. sat in the living room and played on the computer.

This morning I woke up when Bubba did, at 7 or so, and came out into a complete disaster of a house. Candy wrappers, movies all over the place, Bubba's toys strewn all over, dirty clothes on the floor, dirty dishes all over the kitchen. It really pissed me off that J. couldn't take 15 minutes to at least straighten things up a little bit. Sometimes I am amazed at what an asshole he is. Then I think I'm being a jerk because I should at least be grateful that he takes care of Bubba when I'm incapacitated for whatever reason. Then I think, well, Bubba's his kid too, and I manage to take care of him AND clean up the house, so why can't he?

So to update you on the sex issue, I woke J. up on Tuesday night and made him read my letter, which outlined in humiliating detail exactly what I was hoping for on Monday and why he hurt my feelings, etc. His response was that he was sorry, he "just wasn't on the same wavelength" as I was. That he just didn't "pick up on the vibe." When I said that maybe the bigger question is why he didn't think of it himself, he responded that our last six months or so of pretty much avoiding each other was still affecting his behavior. I told him I was dealing with the same stuff but still was managing to overcome it to try to make our relationship better. I can't really remember the last time he initiated sex. He said he's afraid of rejection. Ain't that a kick in the pants? Jesus.

So I'm home again today, but feeling a little bit better after my sleep marathon. I am hoping to go into work again tomorrow. I still feel tired, so I'll probably sleep some more. Tonight are the caucuses in Iowa and I really wanted to go and caucus for Barack, but I'm not sure I'm up for it. We'll see how it goes. I feel an obligation because even after this depression lifts, I'll still be living in this country, and I really want to have some influence on who will be running it.

Thanks again everyone for reading and commenting.

Has anyone ever gone to the hospital for depression? Updated

I'm thinking about doing this today but I'm scared.

I called my psychiatrist and I'm meeting with her in an hour and a half and I'll discuss this with her then. Thanks to those who commented so quickly, it helped me make the call.

Fucking 2008

My parents took Bubba for New Year's Eve so we could party with LilCherie and her hubby. We were to go pick him today at 6 p.m. and have dinner at parents'. We spent the night at LilCherie's and then had a whole day to spend as adults.

The day dawned bright and cold, finding me and in a pretty good mood with the thought of maybe, possibly having sex with my husband, since we could go home to an empty house and do it up, if we so chose. After a many-months-long dry spell because we couldn't stand each other, we finally did it a week and a half ago -- the culmination of us actually getting along for a few weeks.

I blatantly hinted to J. my plans for the day shortly after he woke up. He then spent the next hour and a half playing videogames in LilCherie's basement with her husband and son, even after I called down nicely to "remind" him that we needed to get going if we were to have any time to ourselves today.

I let it slide, and we got back to our house around 1:30. I took a shower, put on a little makeup, put in the diaphragm. So far, so good. Went into the bedroom with some old notes J. had written me in high school. They were sweet and loving and funny. I laughed out loud, calling out to J. (who was in the living room playing his trivia game on the computer) many times about how great they were and how he should come read some.

Now tell me this, friends--to me, it seems pretty obvious that no kid+fresh shower+earlier hints+wife calling out to you from the bedroom=sex. Is it just me, or is that pretty clear?

J. never came to the bedroom. He continued to play his trivia game. I packed up the notes, went out and had a smoke, came in barely holding back the tears then retreated to the bedroom. THIS is when J. chooses to get off his ass and come find me--when I am so humiliated and depressed that he is the last person I want to talk to. I try to pass it off with the "I'm just tired," excuse but it is unconvincing so I admitted I was depressed and told him I just wanted to be alone. He leaves me alone. I sob in bed for awhile. Come out to get a drink and take some leftover painkillers. I ask if J. can go get Bubba by himself so that I can be alone to spiral down into suicidal depression. He agrees. Painkillers cause coma and I fall asleep for three hours.

I wake up, write J. a long letter that he doesn't know about yet because there hasn't been a moment without Bubba around since he got back. Eat something. Start feeling a little calmer. J. and Bubba come home, Bubba's wired. J. lets me know that my parents seemed disappointed that I hadn't come for supper/the Bubba pick-up. I call my parents to apologize for my absence and to explain that it wasn't them, it was me and my depression, etc.

My dad decides to ignore the fact that I was calling to fucking apologize and tells me that I "owed" them at least a phone call to let them know I wasn't coming. He gives me a good old-fashioned guilt trip: about Mom slaving away in the kitchen all day, about how J. and I never seem to get any better and that it's causing HIM problems because he's so worried about us, about how unfair it is that he and Mom and everybody else has to deal with my emotional problems.

I pretty much went off on him. Told him I have an illness and yep, they have to fucking deal with it or not be around me because I have a fucking illness and it's not like I choose to be this way. That I'm not that shitty of a daughter. That reaming me out about not calling to tell them I wasn't going to be there is not "being supportive." That I can't solve my parent's marital problems and he can't solve mine and that's just the way it is. That the reason I couldn't "just make a phone call" in the midst of my emotional and psychological pain is that I was too busy fantasizing about going into our basement bathroom and putting a bullet in my head before I conked out in a drugged stupor from medication to try to calm myself down. When he started ragging on me about something else I said, "I learned from the best!" and hung up on him.

Then I cried, went to the store to get my son some popsicles and ice cream because he was incessantly asking for them, watched half of Shrek 3 while intermittently and surreptitiously wiping tears away from my face. The evening winds down and the bedtime battle with Bubba is beginning. "I wanna sleep in your bed," he whines, over and over again. What does my husband say?

"No, Bubba, you're going to go into your bedroom and Mommy's going to read you a story and then she'll lay with you until you fall asleep." Fuck me. The fucking LAST THING I CAN HANDLE IS FIGHTING WITH MY KID ABOUT GOING TO SLEEP, JESUS CHRIST, I'M TRYING TO FIGURE OUT IF I SHOULD GO TO THE GODDAMN ER AND GET ADMITTED TO A PSYCH WARD AND YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING PUT THE KID TO GODDAMN BED???? I tell him I can't handle it tonight. He sighs and trudges into the bedroom to do it. It seems I've failed once again.

I suck.

I'm Wearing My Grumpy Pants

I am seriously grumpy today. I called in to work because I just couldn't face it. I'm counting on the assumption that if my absences become termination-worthy, someone will warn me and then I will have to start hauling my ass in even when I'm emotionally in the shitter.

I'm not sure exactly what it is. I think it's partly Christmas fallout. I woke up yesterday morning in good spirits, actually, and we had a fine present-opening with Bubba. with only a little bit of disappointment about the fact that my husband hadn't gotten me anything at all. I kind of expected it because he never has any money, but I figured maybe he could have found a little token something just so I'd have a present to open. It was a little bit sad when I gave J. the books I'd bought him, and the calendar with Bubba's picture and handprints that we'd made for him, and then Bubba said "Where's your present, Mommy?" and I had to say "I don't think I have one, honey." Sigh. J. said, "Mommy's going to get her present later. That's how it works sometimes." Yeah right. I don't even want the THING, whatever it is, I really just wanted to have something to open. Next year I'll buy myself a present to have under the tree, I guess.

Anyway, the plan was to do our little family Christmas and then head back to my parents' house (about an hour's drive) for the big family Christmas. There weren't any deadlines we had to meet, or so I thought--I just figured as long as we were back before noon things would be good. We all got cleaned up and loaded the car and dragged Bubba away from his V-Smile and were just about to get in the car at 10 a.m. when my sister called.

"Where are you?" was the first thing out of her mouth.
"Well, we're still at home," I said.
"Are you frickin' kidding me?" she says, and I didn't detect any kind of joking tone.
"Well, we had to do our Christmas here first," I said.
"Yeah, but Bubba gets up at 6 a.m. so you should have had plenty of time by now!" she says.
"Bubba didn't get up until 8:30," I reply. "We're just about ready to get in the car."
"Okay...well, Mom says the turkey will be done by noon. But don't speed to get here."

I got off the phone, and I felt like my Christmas mood had just been deflated like a popped balloon. I took my anxiety meds and we got in the car. About 15 minutes into the drive we realized we'd forgotten blankie and puppy, two critical items for both the drive there and back and for any hope of a nap for Bubba, so we had to go back, thus making us even later. We still got home by 11:15 because yes, we did speed--although J. does that regardless.

By the time we'd gotten there I was pretty mellowed out from my pill, and things went fairly well for most of the day, other than Bubba not taking a nap and his incessant neediness, which I feel bad complaining about but jesus, it's tiring. I was also a little disgruntled about how our family Christmas has devolved over the past several years to opening presents, eating, and then my husband and both my nieces playing video games all afternoon. I sat there yesterday wishing we could do something where we could actually connect as a family rather than just be stuck watching them play a game. Oh well!

At about 5 p.m. Bubba falls asleep so I have to wake him up so there will be a chance of him sleeping at night. I was cuddling with him on the couch and we were talking about "the sunshine song" that he likes me to sing to him. It's the "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine" song. I started singing it to him when he was a baby, only I could never make the "please don't take my sunshine away" part come out of my mouth because it always reminded me of Hope and how she had been taken away from me, so I changed the words to "and I know you'll never go away."

I said in passing to my mom and sister that I had changed the words and I sang my version to them. My sister, in one of her typically intense outbursts, says "Oh my God! When I said I would love for my children to live with me forever you were the one who told me I had to let them go and now this is what you're singing to your son!" Like I was some kind of hypocrite or something. I actually sat in silence for a moment wondering if I really wanted to drop the dead baby bomb and then decided fuck it, I'm telling her and I hope she feels bad about it. So I said, "I sing it that way because after Bubba was born it always reminded me of how one of my kids had already died and I didn't want another one to be taken from me." Then I got up and went to the other room, and was explaining the whole incident to J. when she came in and apologized and of course started crying. Her apology was genuine and I let it all go, but I really, really wish she would realize that she is very harsh sometimes and that the things she lets fly out of her mouth can really be hurtful. I don't suppose she will ever change, it's who she is...but in spite of all my therapy and drugs I just can't let it roll over me all the time.

So that incident got me sort of focused on Hope and remembering that first Christmas without her. I think of her every day, and especially on holidays, and in fact J. and I had gone to the cemetery earlier in the day to visit his parents' graves and we stopped by the baby section and I remembered Hope while looking at the stones of other little ones who were gone. So it wasn't like it was a shock or anything to be thinking of her, but usually I can remember her peacefully, and that incident with my sister got me thinking about the pain instead.

We headed back home about an hour later, and I sullenly sat in the car until I fell asleep, then grumpily hauled myself into the house and just went straight to bed, leaving J. to entertain Bubba who was oddly still awake. And I woke up today feeling pretty much the same way I did when I fell asleep. Now I am looking around my house at the post-Christmas disaster and dealing with mood where I just don't know what the hell I feel like doing because really, I just don't feel like doing anything, and yet I also don't feel like doing nothing.

God, it sucks being an emotional mess.

So that was Christmas. Thank god it's over! Hope you all had good ones, or if not, I hope you'll blog about the drama so that I can feel some cameraderie with you all!

This moment is unveiling the divine

I just got back from my therapy appointment. I came away with a few good things that I want to note for future reference.

I told her I've been in a rut lately where I feel like I slog through 8 hours of work and then gear up for another shift at home. I told her how I tend to dread doing some of the things that make up our evening routine, like playing with Gary, until they're actually underway and then I usually find myself having at least some fun.

She said, "So what you're telling me is that you get to go home after work, lie on your bed and listen to your son talk about love? Boy, that sounds terrible!" She helped me look at it as a way to unwind rather than something I have to do (even though I do have to do it, because if I didn't, the resulting tantrum would be so not worth it). Truthfully, though, it's my attitude more than anything else that makes it seem like a chore.

Another thing she said really made an impression on me. She said that when Bubba wants me to play with Gary, or "crash cars," or whatever, that he's inviting me into his world, and that as much as I can, I should accept those invitations so that when he's 30 and out on his own with his own family he will still be inviting me in (she's really good at saying things that I know I know as soon as she says them, but that I hadn't really brought up to the conscious level). This really made a lot of sense to me.

The final nugget, one that I think I'm going to post on the wall in my house, is something along the lines of "This moment is unveiling the divine." Translation for those who aren't all Sufi like my therapist: this moment, no matter how challenging--in fact, the more challenging, the more powerful it is--is an opportunity to stretch yourself to see how patient, how loving, how merciful you can be, either to yourself or to the person you are with.

My homework is to dance at least once before our next meeting in January, and to try to think of things that I think are fun, because I told her how I was trying to think of ways to make our time at home more fun and I came up with a big blank space that scared me so I stopped thinking about it.

My Life as a Trichotillomaniac

So. I wanted to talk to you today about....trichotillomania, otherwise known as a "hair pulling disorder." I also want to give a shout out to Melissa, who bravely came out in the comments on my last post. Good for you!

I started pulling my hair in fifth grade. I remember the very first time I pulled out one of my own head hairs. I was in science class, and Mr. Hansen made everyone pull out a hair from their scalp and look at it under the microscope. I was fascinated by the root. It hurt, but not enough to prevent me from pulling out another one now and then to examine the root again. By the time I was in sixth grade, it had become a habit that I have lived with ever since. It didn't hurt anymore at all. I knew it was weird so I tried to hide it, but one day my mom found a huge pile of my long hair next to the chair where I used to sit and read. I told her what I was doing and she just told me to stop and seemed kind of disgusted, so after that I was more careful about cleaning up after myself.

I have always pulled from one primary location on my head, at the crown on my right side where I also have a cowlick. I also pull from the other side, but not as much. Throughout my school years, I don't remember it being so bad--I could do a comb-over and spray it with hairspray and it was pretty much undetectable. Now it's more noticeable, because along with adulthood has come more anxiety and thus, more pulling. I used to agonize over what I freak I was, try to stop, fail, and then feel even worse about myself. Now, I've kind of let myself go with it. Sometimes I still feel like a freak (like when I have to visit my stylist), but in general, I've kind of accepted it as part of who I am.

The only problem is that because I pull more, my bald spots are harder to hide. I now have long hair, so I'm able to pull it back into a barrette or put it up and hide the spot. I can never go out of the house with my hair down, because it would just be too apparent. Plus, because of the constant stress on those follicles, all the hair there is white.

So why do I do it? I tend to do it in two different situations: stressful ones, or times when I'm bored. I do it a lot at work. I do it a lot in the car when the drive is boring. There is a ritual to it: I feel for a hair that is particularly coarse, pull, examine it, and then usually chew on the root. I know, it's disgusting, but not that uncommon amongst those of us to have this disorder. It somehow relaxes me, even though there's still some residual shame that comes on after a big pulling binge.

You can read a lot about trichotillomania on the web. Some of the more interested tidbits to me are that the disorder is possibly related to Tourette's syndrome; some hypothesize that it's kind of an overexpression of normal self-grooming behaviors that our primate relatives engage in. There are also a couple of disorders related to trichotillomania including compulsive skin picking, which I also engage in, and obsessive compulsive disorder, one that I somehow escaped. While some think trichotillomania is or could be classified as OCD, right now it is labeled an "impulse control disorder." There's also a hereditary component, which I know is true in my case. My dad is a skin picker, and at my grandma's funeral I happened to catch one of my cousins pulling her hair out during the service.

The whole thing has given me a lot of angst in the past. The first person I ever really told was J., who probably knew already but still, reacted very supportively. Then I told LilCherie, and later on, Tingle. A few months ago my mother saw my bald spot and seemed completely shocked, even though I'd told her before that I do this. "What's this from?" she said sort of gaspy. "Mom, I told you--I pull my hair out," I said. I guess maybe she finally believes me!

By far the worst part of this disorder is--or I should say was--going to the hairdresser. They'd come across the bald spot and look troubled, then really examine it and say something like, "What's going on here?" or "What happened here?" I'd usually feign ignorance, like "I don't know, I just noticed it and I don't know how it happened." It was mortifying every time. I started seeing my current guy, Shawn, about 8 years ago. We were acquaintances already before he did my hair, so I felt a little more comfortable with him, but I gave him the same line or variations for several years. He is so cool, though, that I finally decided to just tell him. He didn't act like I was a freak at all. He asked me a few questions about it, like why I do it, but not maliciously. Then he just said "We all have our thing, you know?" Last week when I got my hair cut I came clean right away and told him I'd been pulling a lot, and he was totally cool. No big deal.

And this is going to sound minor but it does cause me a little bit of grief--I hate, hate, hate the saying "I was about ready to pull my hair out!" It's amazing how much people use this expression, which I'm sure I wouldn't notice if I didn't actually pull my hair out!

I have to say I feel much less stress about this part of my life since I've decided to be open about it with those who are close to me and my hair guy. It's easier to be myself when I don't have to worry about my bald spot showing. Nobody has acted like I'm a freak, which surprised me because I always felt like one. But really, is it that much different from chewing your lip or biting your fingernails, which people do all the time, openly?

I wish more people--hair stylists especially!--knew about this disorder and I wish it could be discussed more openly, because I think it's really sad that something that is such a minor quirk in the big scheme of things causes people so much angst and anxiety for years. It's so not worth it.

So, to all you closet pullers out there, my advice is: come out, accept yourself, and realize that it's just not that big of a deal. If you want to pull, pull, and don't beat yourself up about it. You're not a freak, you're not alone, and you're not crazy. It's okay. Like Shawn said, we all have our thing.

I'm happy to answer any questions you may have about my disorder. Thank you. Goodnight!

Notes From My Life

Monday: During half-hour battle with 3-year-old son to get him to take Tylenol, he states with all the petulant, serious anger he has in his little body that the whole idea was "Tartar sauce!" (Toddler-friendly expletive courtesy of SpongeBob SquarePants).

Tuesday: Third ice storm of the month hits Iowa on the same day that Aunt Flo's Second Day Hemmorrhage floods my underpants. Bubba's still sick, so it's me and him, along with Manny, Sid and Diego (from Ice Age); Peter Pan, Wendy and "the Injuns" (have you watched this movie recently? Wow.); and SpongeBob, Patrick, Squidward and Gary for approximately 9 hours. Tree branch in backyard cracks just moments before my own sanity does same.

Wednesday: Morning with Bubba (still sick) and then on to the endodontist. LilCherie and I share the same endodontist who has a stunningly bad bedside manner but has the magic hands with the root canals. I am in his office for literally five minutes. He looks at the x-ray sent over by my dentist, puts an ice cube on my tooth, I say "Ow," and he says, "Yep, needs a root canal." For that, I am charged $60. If you break it down, he earned $12 for each minute I sat in his chair. I guess that's cheap compared to the approximately $40 per minute he gets for the actual root canal. Luckily the procedure can wait until after the first of the year, since I've already maxed out my dental coverage on this year's root canal/crown/pulp cap follies.

On my way back from that appointment, I stop at a convenience store for smokes. I am musing at the hillbilly who's ringing me up -- he's a hefty guy, with a lot of erratic facial hair and eyes that go in two different directions -- when suddenly one of his eyes seems to focus at something behind me and he says, "Hey. Ah laak that hat." I turn my head and there's an older guy behind me wearing a baseball cap emblazoned with a Confederate flag. "Yeah, me too," says the hat-wearer. "Ah'm a proud and true Tennessean!" Hillbilly cashier says, "Yep. Ah'm frum Kentucky." Luckily I get away before I overhear them talkin' 'bout the ole fashion lynchin' goin' on down at Redneck Corner at sundown! Christ!

Stay tuned for more excitement, as tonight I am going to my stylist for the first haircut I've had in about a year and a half or something like that. I've been putting it off because I have trichotillomania, and have been pulling a lot lately, leaving a couple of nasty bald spots on the top of my head. I've come clean with my guy, and he's really cool about it, but still...it's like having someone examining your freakitude.

What a trip.

I heard her complain, often and loudly

Today I dragged myself into work by 9:20 a.m. At approximately 9:35 a.m. I blew my nose. A big chunk came out; nothing new there, at least not since surgery almost a month ago now. Then watery fluid came pouring out of my right nostril, down onto my desk and onto the floor. With visions of a ruptured sinus and cerebrospinal fluid leak, I called J. for a ride, called my otolaryngologist’s office and started crying when she told me they didn’t have any doctors in the office at that time (what the fuck?) In a semi-hysterical state on the way to the car, I said “Well, do I go to the emergency room or what, because I’m sick and I’m scared and I need someone to look at me so you tell me where to go.” She sent me to the ER since my oto was there anyway in surgery, and he could see me in between cases.

Alas, no cerebrospinal fluid leak—but a CT showed that the fucking infection I’ve been fighting since the week after surgery is still there. It is now apparently invisible to the naked eye, since my oto thought everything looked good on Friday and again today when he looked before the CT. So is it in my bones now or what? I have to ask on Wednesday when I go back for my next follow-up. I got an IV infusion of antibiotics and a prescription for yet another one to take over the next week.

In the last two months, I’ve been on Amoxicillin for an unrelated respiratory infection; Levaquin for the sinus infection that broke the camel’s back and sent me to surgery; Ancef during surgery; Cephalexin prophylactically for the week after surgery; Augmentin for a week for the post-surgical infection, which I finished last Thursday; Rocephin today in the IV, and now Bactrim. As well as methylprednisolone prescribed last Friday for inflammation. And hydrocodone for pain, which I’m trying to limit but did take again today. Strangely, I still haven’t really lost faith in my doctor. I feel like his actions and recommendations have been rational and appropriate given the symptoms I’ve been exhibiting—they just aren’t helping so far. So I’m sticking with him, for now anyway.

I spent most of the six hours we were at the ER in tears. I am so, so very tired. We had to reschedule our marriage counseling appointment this afternoon, and we needed it. J. did come through pretty well at the hospital today, a real sacrifice for him I know since missing work is about his number one pet peeve. I feel like I’m trying to save my sanity, my health and my marriage all at once, and failing at all to various degrees.

I’ve been ordered off work for the rest of the week, which is only three days because of Thanksgiving. I have to give credit where it’s due and report that my Mom and Dad happily and cheerfully took Bubba on Sunday to Monday to give us a break, and then today volunteered to keep him over another night, which they are. So all I have to do tonight is rest…and for once, I just can’t. I’m lonely, but J. had to go back to work for the remaining two hours of the day, and then volunteer for a reception his workplace was hosting for a local athletic team. He is picking me up dinner on the way home so I guess I shouldn’t complain, but I sort of wish he would have just stayed home. Even though we don’t talk anyway. So scratch that. I don’t know what I wanted. Just to feel better, I guess.

I struggle with blaming myself for my bad health, but you know, I'm so tired of it all that I'm not even going to do the blame game. It's pointless. As Best Friend Tingle would say, it is what it is. I'm sick a lot. I've always been like this. What sucks is that I don't really have the mental stamina to deal with it. I've specifically instructed my loved ones that if I died from some kind of painful disease they are to make it known that I complained every chance I got. I hate it when i read about how "She had XYZ Most Horrible Painful Disease in the World but she never once complained." I mean, let's be real, people. Being sick sucks. And I complain about it, a lot, in real life and--so lucky for you--here.