Monday, February 28, 2011

My week of getting knocked down a few pegs. Thanks everyone.

So apparently I missed the memo, which I like to imagine was delivered in the dead of night by men in hoods and printed on the skin of baby seals and used text visible only under a black light and was sealed with human blood and urine, which was all “hey everybody! Know what would be awesome? Let’s kick Cavett around for the next few weeks. Who’s in? Dibs on her confidence as a musician!”


Evidence 1) I am accompanying high school/Jr. High students for vocal solo and ensemble contest. It’s a total nerve wracking/nerd fest/good experience for all young singers. They get to sing for a judge. Get some positive constructive feedback and receive a score that may or may not send them on to the State Level contest. They don’t compete against each other. Just try and do their best. But apparently one particular judge found much more delight in critiquing me. The adult. Who wasn’t effing competing. Who does this for a freaking living. Old dude decided not only to go ahead and pick apart my general musicianship but then goes on to tear apart one particular song down to the staccatos, the stress marks, the dynamic contrast, the melodic flow. Why don’t you go ahead and pick on my dress while you are at it? Or maybe you don’t have time for that because you are supposed to be judging the freaking singer in front of your face and not me. So aside from just crawling up my hole and irritating the nut outta me all week, it also really attacked my flipping disorder and OCD is all “Oooo girl you suck. See you’ve always sucked. You shouldn’t even be playing. But your earrings are cute.” My confidence was really kicked in the balls.

Evidence 2) I get home a couple days later and there is a note from our fabulous city issuing us a “Warning”. For what? Meth lab? Sex palace? Over grown yard? (not that we have ANY of those things. Really.) No. It seems as though our dear neighbors had filed an “anonymous” complaint because our “dogs bark all hours of the day and night. It has become impossible to even let my children play outside because the dogs bark so incessentaly and rile up our dogs. I don’t know how they are able to sleep through that all night because I know we sure can’t.” What? I would like you to visualize my face looking completely drop jawed and expressionless. Because let’s break down this anonymous complaint. 1) We know exactly who you are. Exactly 3 fences border our fence. One has no dogs nor children. The other has big loud barking dogs and kids that come over to our yard all the time because they are always knocking stuff back there. The other has dogs and kids…using my genius powers of deduction…I know who the frick you are. And we’ve talked. Several times. How ‘bout just come on over and let’s chitchat. I’m not entirely psychotic. You know, providing that I remember to be med compliant. 2) our dogs are a fat little bowling ball and a tiny little cuddle mutt. Not exactly fear inducing. 3) our dogs are indoor dogs. As in they are outside approximately 15-30 minutes total. For the entire day. And night. Combined. I know that my dogs aren’t barking at all hours of the night because they are tucked neatly under my covers in my bed with their heads on the pillow as all self respecting dogs should be. 4) The day after the “Warning” we began counting exactly how many times our dog barked throughout a 24 hour period. Grand total: 7. 7 barks. So, yeah. That must be like water torture for all of our neighbors. Neat.

Evidence 3) A week after vocal contest it was time to play for band contest. Same thing: play for a judge/nerd it up real good/get a score/have constructive feedback. I had spent all week shaking off the bad reviews. Only to have it freaking happen again! I was actually called back into a room after the student had played and told that I play far too loudly etc blah blah. So yeah. Good times.

Evidence 4) I got out of bed and tripped over a box in the pitch dark. I flailed forward and landed with one of the massive 4 posters of our bed right in the middle of my chest, arms out on either side. I plowed my knee into the corner of the post and got a gnarly bruise and stiff knee. How is this relevant? I don’t know. It just totally sucked. And also left a cool battle wound. Because I am nothing if not a badass.

So, yay thanks everybody! Good work this week. I quit piano. Until tomorrow when I must do it again.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

It's not how you say it, it's whether or not you are a complete jerk.

Kay, so Luke and I used to teach newlyweds before our previous church stroked out and decided that we were bad examples and took us off the Jesus list. Anyhow, when we used to mold impressionable young marrieds, we would always include part of a study called 5 Love Languages by: Gary Chapman. It really is a quite fabulous book about communication and interpretation that can have some very powerful impacts relationships. Basically you communicate in one of five ways (i.e. acts of service, words of affirmation, etc etc have I destroyed your marriage/Christianity yet?)


Then a couple of weeks ago at new church which we love and I don’t know if I have mentioned that enough yet, new pastor was preaching from 5 Love Languages. Which is when it occurred to me that yes, Luke and I have characteristics of these 5 languages, but that there is also a secret option 6; sarcasm/being a toolbag. I do believe that we are both primarily fluent in basically being a bag to each other. I don’t know what I would do if he didn’t call my face stupid multiple times per day. It’s like a big, verbally assaulting hug. Don’t believe me? Here, I’ll prove it. Here are some recent interactions of ours:

(facebook)

Me: you make my teeth hurt for your purely irritating voice. Talking to you makes me dumber. You are not my valentine because then I would have to call it valen-craptational-please-club-me-in-the-head-to-release-me-from-your-stupid-tine. And that won't fit on a card. As if you could read anyway. vomit from my mouth, Angela.

Luke: I literally regret every single moment I've ever spent in your presence. Looking back, the high point in my life was when we met at 12 yrs old. My life has steadily gone in the crapper since that moment. Today is the worst day of my life. Tomorrow will be worse. I dream of the day when I can smother you in your sleep and make this world a better place.
(my response to this status) fhashduickaitss - - I just mushed all the curse words together and threw them at you. At your hideous personality.

Luke: I find you less annoying every day... In a couple of years I might even be able to tolerate you!
Me: -Excellent. Maybe by then your face won't make me want to vomit.

(From a text message)

Luke: Training=awful
Me: Sorry baby, (.)(.) There. I texted you some boobs.



Because sometimes boobs just make it better.
And they didn’t want us to be their newlywed teachers?!

I love your stupid face Cavett. You are soooooo lucky.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Thankful: The Ultimate Edition

I think that the reason I have missed Thankful Thursday for the past several weeks is that I needed to add all of them up for this week. I don’t think there could be more thankful or really just honest punch-in-the-guts-can’t-believe-this-happened/didn’t happen. Here goes the story. As best as I can do:


Tuesday afternoon I’m at school and practicing with the kids for the upcoming solo and ensemble contest. Since I am such a highly dedicated pianist, I didn’t want to answer the phone when it rang during someone’s song. It was sitting on top of the piano, so another girl bless her heart, ran over to turn it off. She ended up accidently answering it, but then started just freaking out and staring at it and then just hanging up. All while I am still playing. She’s all “I think that was your husband. I think I hung up on him.” This of course made me laugh. All while still playing. I finished and decided to call him back just to let him know that I didn’t intentionally send one of my minions to deliberately offend him. He picked up right away and I started telling him this funny little tale when he abruptly cut me off.

Luke: Don’t freak out. I need you to be calm right now. Do not freak out.
Me: OK. You know that telling me that is making me freak out right now.
Luke: Do not start freaking out.
Me: What is the problem that I am staying calm about?!
Luke: I got in a wreck but I’m OK.
Me: YOU WHAT!? Where are you? Are you OK? I am coming there right now. Are you OK? I mean I know you are talking but are you alright? Is the car alright? Was this your fault?
Luke: Stop for a second. I’m hurt but I’m OK. I got hit by a semi.
Me: ?the frick you mean ‘hit by a semi’?! YOU WHAT!? I am coming there right freaking now. Where are you?
Luke: I don’t really know.
Me: How on God’s green earth do you NOT KNOW. Do you have amnesia?! How hurt are you?
Luke: I’m on the highway like 40 minutes away from the city. Oh I gotta go…Highway Patrol is here… (hang up)
Me: Mother of all the things. He hung up. He’s hurt, apparently lost, wrecked, and he freaking hung up on me.

And all of this in a choir room of high school kids so quiet you could hear their hormones surging. I literally grabbed my stuff and went to my car. I didn’t even know where I was going. Lucky for me I have an awesome friend who directs said choir and she volunteered to take care of my kids who were at school. Off I went. Freaking the poo-balls out. Like a psycho. And I had even taken my pills that day. Also lucky for me, bashed-up-husband called me back to fill me in on his location. 40 minutes away. On the highway. So break this down…I, who previously was unable to drive almost at all and definitely not to random locations on highways, was now headed to exactly that place. I, who previously had crippling and debilitating intrusive thoughts regarding exactly this scenario, was now actually involved in this scenario. I, who previously spent hours each day ritualizing and then repeatedly calling my husband to double check the effectiveness of my ritual, was now really fighting the urge to go full scale OCD. But I did not. I think the need to take care of him overrode the disorder…for that day at least.

After driving the wrong direction for several minutes on accident and then turning around, I managed to get myself moving and got about 40 minutes out of town. I wasn’t exactly sure where the accident was going to be. I knew that there were 2 semis, because if you’re gonna get in a wreck with a semi why not make it 2 for a better story, his wrecked up car, highway patrol, etc. I knew it would be on the opposite side of where I was and I wouldn’t actually be able to get to it. So even having prepared myself, I drove by just in time to see his little car being pulled up out of the ditch and onto the wrecker, As it was literally falling to pieces. And he was hit by an oil tanker. A big one. But I still held it together. Because I knew he wasn’t gravely injured and I knew that I needed to keep my crap together or risk an avalanche of my disorder.

It was decided that the Highway patrol would bring him to me at a gas station. And I got there first. I had called our church, which by the way have I mentioned is awesome, and already I had people praying and calling and texting and volunteering to help however they could. I stayed together. Then my dear husband walked into the gas station. His head was sporting an enormous, red knot that actually squished when he touched it. He had cuts on his arm. And then I saw the back of his head. Bloody, cut up, and generally an absolute punch in this-was-an-incredibly-near-miss guts. And my phone rang. I answered to a friend that Luke and I have had since we were kids. And then I started bawling.

Of course, Luke is a man. Which means that when the ambulance came and strongly recommended he visit the hospital, he was all “no. It’s cool. I’m good.” But lucky for me again, I am a woman and also much wiser and more persistent and I was all “Why didn’t you go with the ambulance? That was stupid. Your head is bloody and you might have all kinds of God knows what going on inside your body. We are going to the ER. So just stick that in your gashed face and suck on it.” And he complained…for about 1 minute. Then it was like “Well, I mean I guess I’ll go…for you…I mean I am hurting in my shoulder and back and neck and head and leg…but I’m just doing this for you.” The ER docs checked him over quite thoroughly. The cleaned his head and gave him a tetanus shot. They pushed and poked and asked him questions. And he left the ER with no signs of concussion, no internal bleeding, no broken bones, not even stitches. And that is probably the most amazing thing that has ever happened.

And just why am I that unbelievably awe-struck thankful to Jesus for this miracle of minor injury? Here’s how the wreck happened: The semi in front of Luke blew a tire and slammed on the breaks. This caused smoke and dust and swerving and required Luke slam on his breaks. There was too much traffic to dodge. Unfortunately, the semi behind Luke wasn’t paying as much attention because he just plowed right into my man’s little car. Hard. Hard enough to smush the storage space and the backseat of the HHR into the back of the front seat. Hard enough to bust out all the back windows and and shatter the back of the car into chunks. Hard enough to actually break the driver’s seat and shift it sideways and lay it back. Hard enough to knock him off the highway and down a grassy ditch about 50 feet. Hard enough that logic would expect him to be hurt much worse.

And more miracle: The truck hit him at enough of an angle to push him off the road and not into the truck in front of him. As he left the road he missed the guardrails and the overpasses by very close distances. He didn’t get pushed the other way into the rest of the swerving chaotic traffic. As he left the road, he felt an instinct to let go of the wheel and the breaks and just let the car go. The highway patrol officer said that this is what saved his car from rolling over. The car only spun around instead of rolling. He was alone in the car. This particular ditch was grassy and free of trees or shrubs. Don’t tell me he wasn’t protected.

So that is my Thankful day/week/month/forever. Thank you Jesus.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

An amazing blog post that I did not write

I didn't write this. But I feel like I understand every word. Since I've read this posts (multiple times) I have found myself saying "You really need to read this amazing blog" to everyone from other mentally ill people, family of mentally ill, and just pretty much anyone who will listen. Please read this. And then head on over to her blog

I want you to know this:


A colleague wrote me this morning to ask if I’d be arguing the “pro-Prozac” side of an upcoming article about prescribing medication for children and teens.


I’m not writing either side of that article. I’m not sure I could. I know the pros and cons of psych meds pretty intimately, as they apply to my adult life. But I haven’t had to make that choice for my own kids.


Still, my poor colleague got an earful (actually, an eyeful, as I prefer email to the dastardly phone). He also received this suggested and entirely unsolicited reading list.


I’ll tell you what I told him: if some part of you still believes that manic depression (or any mental illness) is about as valid as Scientology or the bogeyman, it’s time to get that Kindle cranking, or get thee to a bookstore.


Here are four books that say it so much better than I can. If you haven’t been affected by mental illness (either yours, or a friend’s or a relative’s), count your blessings—and then, read. If you have been affected and continue to be affected (what a nice, benign way of putting it, “affected”), then, read.


1) An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness by Kay Redfield Jamison. Unsparing, funny and wise.


2) Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness by William Styron. Sparse, restrained and exquisitely observed.


3) Unholy Ghost: Writers on Depression (anthology) by Nell Casey. A potent collection of work by writers who struggle with mental illness.


4) Sunbathing in the Rain by Gwyneth Lewis. I find Lewis’s words soothing, graceful and grounded.

5) If poetry is your thing (as it is mine), then read anything by Jane Kenyon, especially her poem “Having It Out With Melancholy.”


*****


I want you to know this:


Depression is a constant state of churning violence. It is a storm of violent words and self-hatred. It is a maelstrom.


This may come as a surprise to you. You may be irritated by your loved one’s seeming sluggishness, by your perceived assessment of your loved one’s inability to participate, by their mute stillness.


Know that their internal terrain is anything but still. It’s a freaking war of the mind. It’s bloody, it’s loud and it’s ugly. They can’t move because they can’t hear. They are in battle mode, stuck in a trench, with enemy fire zipping overhead.


In this state, it is difficult, if not impossible, to assess what the correct move should be.


*****


I want you to know this:


I believe in the mind, I believe in the soul, and I believe in the body. I think there’s a Venn diagram where the mind, the soul, and the body agree to overlap. But I think the three are ultimately separate entities.


It is fine to disagree with me. There are many debates in the world, and this is an old one. Why shouldn’t we join in?


I happen to know I am made up of three parts. In my case—the case of my significantly insignificant existence—my mind, soul and body have very different agendas. They like to make sure that I understand that. They duke it out, sometimes, and I need to take a step backward, out of the fray.


But I watch. I always watch, to see who will win, today.


*****

I want you to know this:


I have two important men in my life, my therapist, and my psychiatrist.


My therapist couldn’t care less about my “diagnosis.” He and I talk soul, and its mysterious ways and wants. He keeps me on the straight and wide.


My psychiatrist couldn’t care less about my soul’s mysterious ways and wants. He and I talk mind. He uses my diagnosis as a tool to help him help me live better. He prescribes meds. I take them, because in the past six years, I have learned the painful way what happens when I do not take them.


The meds help my mind, but they sometimes harm my body. So, sometimes, my psychiatrist and I talk body. The mind and the body, more often than not, play on the same team. They are wary of soul.


*****


I want you to know this:


In the middle of the line segment that is A/B (therapist / psychologist), there is C (me). I am a point on the line. They stay put. I move. Sometimes, I need to talk soul. Other times, I need to talk mind and its mechanics.


I am okay with this arrangement. I am not my diagnosis, but I’m not stupid enough to kick it to the curb, either.


I am Something, as you are. And some of that Something, in my case, gets away from me. When that some of that Something gets away from me, I get away from myself, and I get away from the people who care about me.


So I have to play close attention to the peculiar interplay of mind, body and soul. Or I might get away, and never come back.


*****


I want you to know this:


I have daughters. I have a diagnosis. These two things are not mutually incompatible, not by a long shot.


My diagnosis—and all the quirks and difficulties that come with it—keeps me on my toes. It makes me, if you can understand, a better mother. Because I am in the habit of paying attention. To my own waxing and waning, and to the ebb and flow of my children.


I was diagnosed after my children were born, which meant I never had to have the argument with myself over whether or not to replicate my dark circus of genes. I wince when I read articles or comments suggesting that people who live with mental illness should not have children.


When you live with a mental illness for a long time, you learn that you will only live if you begin to give yourself a break, if you give yourself credit for all that you are and all that you do, in spite of your illness. You are the moving blur between “handicapped” and “challenged,” the tick-tock between “victim” and “survivor.”


It is difficult to define yourself when your self is always in motion, defying terms easily understood and identified by the world surrounding you.


Children are glorious, because they are not tethered to labels. They can handle shades of gray, if we are brave enough to show them.


My illness nearly killed me. My illness nearly left my children motherless.


These are not dramatic statements. This is merely fact, a fact worth noting.


I have learned this: If you are determined to slay the beast, it will slay you. It is not going anywhere. You may dispel it down a dark corridor for some time, maybe even years. But eventually, it will be back to claim you, well-rested and ready for a fight. Trust me on this.


If you can lay down your weapons and show your open palms to the disease, it will spare you your life. If you can learn to befriend it—the way you might take in a stray dog of fearsome countenance, against better judgment—you befriend yourself.


That’s when some beautiful living can happen. That’s when some beautiful parenting can happen. The energy put into resisting the dark can now be put into creating light, for you and for the ones you must guide.


For now, at least, my children’s eyes are clear, bright and untroubled. They know I struggle, sometimes, and that this is okay, and has nothing to do with them. This gives them room to struggle in their own ways, and to know that it’s okay, more than okay—an intrinsic part of what makes us human.


Our home is a haven for the flawed, the overlooked, the stray beasts (furred, or of the mind).


*****


I want you to know this:


I am a better mother than I was before my diagnosis, although my battle scars show, no matter what I wear.


*****

I want you to know this:


I am in a strange place right now, a place of dissonance.


My soul is relatively content, for a change. There is nothing that I hunger for—at least, I am not starving. I am, for the most part, at ease with my being, with choices I have recently made, although sad.


But my mind is making itself known.


When my mind is misbehaving, I know it. I know it because it feels like I am riding a big, dark horse I have no business riding. I’d hop off if I could, but my brain won’t stop. It thunders along at a terrific pace, splattering mud, trampling anything that gets in its way. There is not much to do but hold on, and pray.


Meanwhile: My soul sits up in a leafy tree, watching my mind gallop and froth and overheat.


I haven’t been sleeping. My soul and my body are aligned for a change; they would both give anything for a decent night’s sleep.


I talked to my psychiatrist. We decided it was time to add back another med, one I’ve had before.


So far, I can feel the side effects, but not the benefit. I am shaking and sick. My mind is outrunning even the strongest medicine. It laughs at my drug cocktail, keeps zooming.


I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a sense of pride in this, that my brain can resist the effects of a chemical cocktail that could bring down a baby rhino.


I plead with my soul and my body to stay out of the way until I can coax my mind back into a trot, then a walk.


*****


I want you to know this:


If your loved one has had a mental illness, chances are good that they still have a mental illness. This makes your loved one no less and no more than you. We all have our demons. Only you can say what yours are.


If you can’t think of any demons or ghosts that chase you, then thank your lucky stars. Then, thank them again. And again.


If you have a mental illness, chances are good that you are not always as compassionate with yourself as you are with others.


I extend a hand. Trust me when I say that your disease is plenty capable of beating you up on its own; it doesn’t need any help from you.


Be kind to yourself. Be thoughtful to yourself. You are no less and no more than anyone. You can create light where there is none, and you can do it on your own time.


Yes, there is stigma. Yes, putting it out there means that every choice you make, every desire you express, every gleeful or sorrowful moment you experience, will be viewed—by some—as your illness manifesting itself.


There is nothing you can do about this, not ever. Let it go.


Sometimes, you will not be sure what is you, and what is the illness.


There is nothing you can do about this. With time, comes wisdom. Let it go, for now.


Today, you may need your bed, and covers over your head. If you are a parent, the only people you owe an explanation to are your children, a fair and honest and compassionate explanation. Your children are far, far more resilient and far stronger than you know. You just need to trust in their strength, and give them a chance to exercise it.


Talk to them about soul. Talk to them about mind. Talk to them about body. Trust your own words. Above all, be clear that this is your battle to fight, not theirs. Let them know that they are blameless and good, and you alone are the responsible party for your own well-being.


I cannot say this enough: our children want our honesty, in plain words they can understand. They do not need a mother or a father demonstrating self-loathing. The disease can make you more, not less, if you take hold of it even as it takes hold of you.


Be kind. Be kind. Be kind. It is real. It is painful. It is hard not to hate yourself when you are shaking uncontrollably and gaining weight by the day from your meds. It is hard not to hate yourself when you can no longer do the job you used to do—and have no effective way of explaining this to others, without a three-hour conference. It is hard not to hate yourself when the world around you seems to be full of success stories, and you are sitting in a muddy trench, knowing full well if you stand up, you are likely to have your head blown off by sniper fire created by your own mind.


Your experience is real.


Refuse to give in to self-hatred. If you are not in denial about your illness, if you are not running from it and cursing it, if you use what energy you can muster to get help, to care for yourself and to care for your children, you and your children have more than a fighting chance. You have an opportunity to teach and model unconditional love of others, and of self.


I am no Pollyanna. Ask my friends, my family, my kids. I am grim. I grit my teeth. I shake my fist at the heavens.


Mental illness sucks donkey balls.


But if I can keep going, you can too.


If you’re the sporting type, think of it this way: Unnecessary roughness to self will be penalized, and you and your children will be the ones receiving the penalty.


Go easy. Go kind. Learn to be honest. Do less. Let go of those who create drama and conflict. To survive this fight, you need those who understand you are in a fight, a fight that does not go away, as much as you and they would like it to.


Remind them, from time to time, that their innards and your innards are not the same.


Remind yourself, from time to time, that their innards and your innards ARE the same.


Your kids need you. If you are considering taking your own life because the pain is devastating, I understand that.


Consider your own death. Imagine it fully, the details of your chosen scenario: the nausea from the overdose; the moment of impact; the noose tightening; the brain splattering; the sudden recognition that there will be no more breaths of air, not today, not ever.


Now consider your children. No guilt. I know how you got to this place, and I do not judge you. Indulge me. Just breathe and consider, for your children, now. Imagine the details, imagine them, for the rest of their lives, trying to explain your death by suicide. Imagine their every milestone—not as you’d be missing it, but rather as they’d be missing you.


If you can bear even one more day of sticking around, I am here with you and for you, in the trenches. I’d pass you a cigarette, if I smoked.


Stick it out with me. You are good. We are good. (We are also creative, imaginative, smart and funny. The universe likes to make sure it also doles out plenty of the good stuff to those facing depression or bipolar or schizophrenia. You have to have a good sense of humor if your wallpaper or toiletries talk to you from time to time.)


Let us be as compassionate to ourselves as we are to others. Let us be compassionate to our disease. Let us feed it scraps, while we create a life of feasts. Let it know its place, but be kind. The enemy you do battle with is your own mind. This requires different tactics. It will never be easy, but it may become easier.


Give yourself the chance to get to that day.

This is by Jennifer Mattern at Breed 'Em And Weep

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Things I done did

It feels like we were trapped in our house for years. I know that isn’t true, but have you ever been snowed in with a 5 and 6 year old, 2 dogs, and your husband who can’t seem to sit still even when you slip him drugs ask him nicely? Once we were finally released from our prison I found myself extraordinarily busy making up for all the things that had been re-scheduled and all that. Here are some highlights:


I ended up with a weird work schedule last week so I ended up all confused and thought Friday was Monday and I thought that Saturday was Sunday and then yesterday I woke up and I was all “Wear that dress to school today and then you can wear it to church tonight” and Luke is like “Why are you going to church tonight?” and I’m like “Duh, choir.” And he just stared at me. Then he’s all “You know it’s Tuesday, right?” all superior and condescending like he is soooo smart because he knows his days. Whatever.

I judged a piano festival this last weekend. I love doing that. My problem is that I hate just writing on the forms. I want to talk to the students and know them and know their process and give them positive constructive criticism right away. So I ended up running way behind. At one point I actually wrote on the judging sheet. “You know. We talked about it.” So basically I am about like the best comment giver ever.

The day after the festival I did a concert with a group that I sing/play with. Mostly I play the piano. They only let me sing on the one song. And then when I get introduced it’s like “Here’s Angela. We don’t usually let her speak unsupervised.” But it’s cool. Because that is totally true. Just handing me a microphone in front of a captive group of people and then just saying “GO” is about probably the most dangerous thing you can do. I’m not so good with the filter. And it was a church. I think I behaved.

So now here we are at 80 degrees with snow on the ground. That doesn’t mess with me at all.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Soon...once my phone battery dies or someone physically takes it from me

Hey remember that one time when I had all these blog ideas and plans to write them all and post them but instead I played Sims for like about 100 hours?

Yeah, that was fun.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Communion is not OCD compliant

I’m not a contamination OCD person. I mean I have a healthy respect for germs and chemicals and that sort of thing, but as far as my OCD is concerned I have zero percent issue with contamination. I’ve fully experienced what seems like about every other single common and uncommon behavior and I even made up quite a few on my own just for kicks. So it surprised me on Sunday when I suddenly became acutely aware of the contamination involved with taking Communion.
I won’t explain it, because for those of you who struggle in this area it would only make it worse, but it for sure made me think. I was thinking, we really do live in a world not aware enough to understand us. So my rambling brain was thinking, should we create more awareness? Or should we just learn to adapt? Should we strive for complete eradication of our mental illnesses? Is asking for separate Communion or asking other people to take part in our compulsions in some way ok? As long as the compulsions only involve our own selves should we keep it to ourselves?

I decided: No. Because I fancy myself the boss of things.

Well, I mean it could be a combination of both. I don’t want to have unreasonable requests for those around me, and I don’t want to spend all of my waking and non-waking moments being Obsessive-Compulsive; however I still am how I am. I have mental illness and I don’t want to be ashamed by it. I’ve been working towards management of my disorders, not eradication. I think that might be kind of like asking diabetics or allergic people to just bring your own food to stuff. No special orders, none of that insulin or epi-pen business up in here. So until people know about your disorder and understand it, they can’t be helpful. And I think we should all be helpful to one other. Providing that we aren’t asking them to just do really weird and/or time-consuming things that may be creepy.

That is all.