Remembering Summer's Peaches

A Fraction of the Apples

Just One of the Varieties of Tomatoes I Preserved

My First Try at a New Dog Treat Recipe

In the months following my discharge from the psychiatric hospital I became fixated on food. Not on eating food, but on researching prices until I’d found incredible deals, buying frequently used items such as flour, yeast, oil, dried beans, rice, etc. in bulk and learning how to store them correctly, and taking advantage of some incredible produce prices in the summer. I learned a lot about myself through this. I realized that in many ways I express my love for my family through food. I had to let go of the need to please everyone every time and just know that I was providing my husband , myself, and our teenagers with the healthiest, tastiest food I could find while still sticking to the very tight food budget. I was then, as I am now, having trouble focusing on books or TV or my writing. In the kitchen I felt as if I was keeping busy doing something worthwhile. It helped to throw my mind into making applesauce, or bread, or spaghetti sauce. It helped me feel less afraid about not having as much money as we used to. I knew the medical bills would be coming in soon, and even though my therapist had directed me to focus on getting well and not on money (ha!) I felt responsible for the burden I was placing on my husband’s shoulders.

Looking back now at the year 2009 I can clearly see what decisions I had made that led up to the time in the hospital. I ignored all of the warning signs that trouble was looming and continued to work too much, sleep too little, and consume far too much caffeine . I was so consumed with guilt and worry over leaving my children at night and then sleeping during the day. I constantly missed doctor’s appointments and let my prescriptions run out because I was so tired and taking hours  on the bus to go to different visits seemed to be a bad idea because it cut into the small amount of time I had each day for sleeping.

Tonight I sit here, not cured, but accepting of the fact that I need treatment still. I have been doing my physical therapy because I must take this gift of time and strengthen my back. I continue to see my primary care physician as needed and my psychiatrist for medication management. It is quite a process, but I am pushing myself to learn how to take care of myself.

Christmas will come, whether I feel ready or not. All of our utilities are on. We have a roof over our heads.  We were able to purchase gifts for Nathan and Polly. I have taken both of them to the doctor and dentist and they are healthy. For that I am so grateful. Both of them are doing well in school and have friends with whom they socialize happily. Polly managed to pull her math grade up from a D to a B and I am so proud of her, as that was the subject she was really struggling with. I now have more time to spend with both of them and just a seemingly simple thing like having a family movie night at home with a bowl of popcorn means a lot to me.

The time that I spent earlier in the year stocking the freezer and pantry are paying off big time now. Not having to constantly run to the store on foot or bus in the cold and rain is so nice. After being invited several times by my 22 year old niece Audrey to join her book group I shared a copy of the book with her from the library, read it, and went to the book club last Tuesday. I was tempted to cancel because I had a bunch of painful dental work done the day before and I had been informed that the group started with dinner. I knew that Audrey would be disappointed and so I went anyway. I ate mashed potatoes and chewed on one side of my mouth and nobody cared. I don’t know why I was so worried.  I was able to talk about the book with the group. A few of the women I knew from my past but hadn’t seen in years: Audrey’s grandmother, her mother, and her aunt. I was concerned that seeing them might bring up some painful memories for me, and it did. There was a moment during dinner when someone asked some questions about things that I had done in 1985. Poor choices that I had made at the age of 12, immediately following the death of my father. Before I could slowly inhale I felt a sob rising up in my chest. Time froze and I wondered about the correct protocol involving cloth dinner napkins and tears. A woman I hadn’t seen since 1988 rose, grabbed me some tissues, and turned to the inquiring woman,” Stop being mean! This is obviously a painful subject for her, and she was only 12 at the time. Jeez!” I dried my eyes and smiled my thanks. The moment had come, the moment had passed. My initial reaction to flee the house dissipated and I was able to get my breathing back under control. The subject was changed and the night went on.

Having gone made me feel proud of myself. It also made me realize that I can have personal limits. I know that is probably common knowledge to most, but to me it was a good realization. There are certain subjects I don’t wish to talk about with most people. There are certain decisions I made as a child that I am tired of apologizing for.

Last May I felt as if suicide was my only option. Today I am looking forward to what 2010 will bring. It wasn’t easy to get here, and it is still filled with pain and challenges. There are bits of joy mixed into my life too and for that I am grateful.

As an aside, I am a ridiculous perfectionist when it comes to things I bake. I can’t post that photo of the dog treats I baked above without mentioning what I learned from trial and error. The original recipe called for rolling the dough out very thin and then cutting it into squares and baking them for 25 minutes. I followed the directions, except I just cut them into pieces with a pizza wheel, and I will admit that I placed too many on the sheet pan because I was feeling lazy. The ones around the edges began to bake faster than the ones in the middle and I had left no room to move them around. Another thing that had bothered me was the mess. I was looking to save money by making dog treats at home, but the clean up was horrible, as the dough was very sticky and difficult to roll with a pin. The second time that I made them I doubled the batch and after it was mixed shaped it into logs that I then placed in the refrigerator. When the dough had firmed I took a log out, sliced it with a knife and baked them that way. It was so much easier. Yes, I realize that I just wrote a whole paragraph about dog treats. Oh, and my German Shepherd? She loved all of them, even the ones that I thought were too dark. If anyone is interested in the recipe let me know and I’ll post it.

Edited to add that I posted the recipe for the dog treats in the comments section of this post.

The Dough Rests But The Baker Does Not

I have been trying to write here, but I can’t seem to finish anything. I set my standards too high and then get disappointed when I can’t make the words dance the steps I choreographed. I have decided to listen to Thursday and Jean and their encouraging words in my comments for my last post. Haven’t read the comments? What’s the matter with you, go and take a look, it’s fun. Join in. Everyone is welcome. I want the communication to flow both ways here. I’m lonely. Christ. I’m lonely.

Yesterday I tried to write a post about anger but I got so pissed off recalling the tale I was telling I ended up furiously weeding in the garden on a very blustery day instead.

That food group I mentioned joining, well, I can get large quantities of apples amazingly cheap and so I do. I did just about everything you can do with an apple and it got a bit nutty, my quest to make sure none of them went to waste.For dinner the other night I baked a beautiful lasagna and an apple crisp. I pointed out to my family that the sauce was from the tomatoes, zucchini and basil from our garden and Nathan said, “Yeah, I don’t really like basil.” and later Alex said, “The next time that you make that crisp could you cut the spices in half, it was way too spicy.” I had to excuse myself to the bathroom where I sat on the toilet and had a little cry because I’m tired and I sometimes fantasize about living alone, leaving my husband and two teenagers here to clean up after themselves and to cook their own fucking meals. I cried because I wanted to be a writer when I was a little girl, and a clown who could make people who were sad laugh, and a photographer, and a sculptor, and the person who took on world hunger, because when someone is down and out and you take away the pain of hunger it means so much more than words like love.  I cried because I want a room of my own with no TV noise in it so I can just sit in peace. I cried because I have been longing to fill this emptiness inside of me for so long, a lifetime of longing, and I don’t know how to do that. I cried because last week I got a coupon in the mail for some crappy chain salon so I decided to take myself down there all by myself on the bus and get my hair trimmed. I asked for two inches of the ends and she chopped my hair into a mullet. English was not her strong point. I came home and tried to brush it into a ponytail and now it won’t go. I found some barrettes and clipped the sides back and Nathan laughed and laughed at me when he saw it and I wondered how he could be so cruel. Polly patted my hand and told me that it wasn’t bad and that I looked pretty and I wondered if she meant it. I know it’s just hair. It’s not about the hair. It’s me, never knowing how to be a wife, mother, daughter, sister and aunt and still have time to do a few little things to feed my soul before I dry up. When is it OK to say, “Fuck it. The garbage needs to be taken out again, the toilet keeps clogging, I have to get some towels in the washer if they’re going to line dry in time for everyone to shower, but I am going to take a walk to the library and spend the afternoon sitting amongst that wonderful old book smell?” Oh yeah, I wanted to be a librarian when I was a girl too.

Moving on now…

***

Jean was asking me about a recipe of her mother’s that she had tried to recreate. She was kind enough to share it with me (it’s in the comments of the last post) and so I will be giving it a try as soon as I can.  I wanted to talk  a little bit about baking here. This advice is general, and not directed at anyone in particular.

One note about the photo of the dough up there resting before I shaped it: If someone ever wanted to hire me to bake for them again I would check the kitchen for wood benches.  In my dream bakery, the one that I fantasize about opening, I have wood benches for dough. It’s the way. I also have the fantasy about taking this city by surprise with the simple goodness of fresh baked goods coming from a woman who, at the age of 36, decided to go for her dream. I just need the financing. It’s a dangerous idea  in this economy, but it’s fun to imagine designing it.

OK. Simple advice for home bakers.

Just because you set your oven for 325 doesn’t mean it heats to that temp. Get a hanging oven thermometer and see what temperature it really is. The piece of shit oven in my house is off by 50 degrees. Adjust! It can make a huge difference in the finished product. If the recipe calls for you to preheat your oven, do so. When your bread, or your cake, or your muffins are ready to go into the oven they need to get in there and have that heat ready. Muffins, cakes, etc. are usually leavened by baking soda and/or powder. When the wet ingredients hit the dry it is activated. With yeast breads and pastries that need to be proofed (allowed to rise) they need to be placed in the oven at the correct time, where they will rise for the final time.

Baked goods continue to cook after they are removed from the oven. Resist that urge to slice into that loaf. Allow yourself the time to gently lean down and listen to the crackling of the bread as it finishes. Don’t burn your ear!  When I first started training new bakers I was amazed at how many of them burned the cookies. You want most cookies to finish cooking on the hot sheet pan after you pull them out. The trick is learning  exactly when to pull them. Practice. You can always eat the mistakes.

Bake times. This is yet another reason why I have trouble training people. Night after night I had people come to me with things that they had burned. They used the same excuse every time, “But the recipe said to bake for 25 minutes!!” The time listed is a guideline. Set your timer earlier than the recipe states. I call this my check timer.  Check fast! Every time you open the oven you lose heat. Sometimes things are done early and sometimes they take longer.

Yeast. Oh how I love yeast. Baking sweets gets old fast, at least for me, but I am always fascinated with yeast doughs. Before I lost my job I was working on developing breads using no added yeast at all as it is everywhere, wild and in our air and water.  Check the expiration dates on your yeast. To test if our Active Dry Yeast is still good use this simple test :

Fill a 1-cup liquid measuring cup to the 1/2 cup level with warm water (110 to 115 degrees F). Stir in 1 teaspoon sugar and sprinkle with 2-1/4 teaspoons yeast (1/4-oz package). In 3 to 4 minutes, the yeast will have absorbed enough liquid to activate and start rising to the surface. If at the end of 10 minutes, the yeast has multiplied to the 1 cup mark on the measuring cup and has a rounded crown, it is very active. The yeast mixture may then be used in your recipe if baking immediately. Adjust the recipe for the 1/2 cup water used in the test. Discard yeast with slow activity.

Instant yeast needs no blooming, or proofing before it is mixed into the flour.  Bread Machine Yeast and Rapid Rise Yeast is instant yeast that may include ascorbic acid, a dough conditioner.   To substitute instant or bread machine yeast for active dry yeast, use 25% less instant yeast than active dry. I have heard this debated by others numerous times, some say the reduction should be closer to 33%, blah blah blah, but I’ve never had any trouble with the substitution and I’d rather get busy baking than stand around debating.

Fresh Yeast, also known as compressed or cake yeast, is active yeast.

It is sold in tiny cakes in the refrigerated section of your supermarket. I have baked with it at various commercial kitchens with success, but I’ve only purchased it for home use once because it doesn’t keep long, and I hate to waste.

A .6-oz cube of cake yeast is roughly equivalent to 1½ to 2 tsp. instant yeast or 2 to 2¼  tsp. active dry yeast. It needs to be proofed in tepid water (80-90 degrees F) before use.

Speaking of water temperatures, I recommend that every baker have a thermometer. I use one of those instant read probe thermometers, but you can also use a candy thermometer. Active Dry Yeast is proofed with water, (or whatever liquid you are using), at 110 – 115 degrees F. Ideally, the other ingredients you are using should be at room temperature. Did you forget to pull the eggs out? Soak them in a bowl of warm water to bring them up to room temp.

Instant yeast does not require proofing, it can be added right along with your other dry ingredients. I will admit to being an instant yeast convert. I use SAF Red Instant Yeast. I found a store here that sells 1 pound for $2.99. I empty it into a mason jar and store it in my refrigerator. With instant yeast you can use cooler water, as the granuales are smaller and they disolve into the liquid much faster.

If you can’t find it at your local grocery store, here is a link to buy the yeast I recommend. 1 lb. lasts a long time and you can save a lot of money if you were previously buying the little envelopes from the grocery store.

There are numerous reaons for bakers to have a thermometer handy. If the liquid you use in your dough is too hot, it will kill the yeast. Yeast dies at approximately 138-140 degrees F. This is yet another thing I’ve heard debated endlessly in kitchens. Who cares! There’s work to be done! Why are you arguing over 2 degrees? After the dough is mixed, the optimum temperature for it to rise is 78-80 degrees F. Higher temperatures will adversely affect the texture of the finished product. Doughs at lower temperatures will rise slower and have a higher alcohol content. It is of course possible and fun to play around with cold fermentation and I recommend trying it at some point. It’s all about letting time do the work instead of kneading. I recommend this recipe.

Teaching people how to learn how long to let the dough rise, how to shape it, how long to let it rise before it is ready etc. takes time. I’ve noticed that certain people seem to have a knack for this. I have always struggled with people who want exact times ie, exactly how long do you let it rise before it goes into the oven? I tried to train a girl who asked me that question every single night. I kept trying to explain that it varied, that she was going to have to use her eyes and her hands. She wanted exact times and there are too many variables. I trained a young man who was a complete natural. Although he had never baked before he caught on so fast it was amazing. When I complimented him he replied, “That’s funny, because I fucking hate this job. I hate baking.” We laughed. One note about training guys versus girls, if you leave the guys alone with the dough they will eventually shape some of it into a penis. I haven’t finished conducting my research on this, but I will, one day.

When to pull the bread from the oven? I finally started training my bakers to probe their loaves to check the internal temperature. I was so tired of seeing so many loaves with raw middles. Novice bakers often pull bread too soon because it is getting dark and they get scared. The internal temperature you are shooting for is another heavily debated topic. Shoot for the 190-210 range and you’re good.

Most of all, relax. Have fun and remember that everyone has flops and failures no matter how long they have been baking.

One last point before I go, things that come out of the oven are hot. I seem to need to learn this one over and over again.

Damn, I had forgotten how isolated and depressed I can feel being a stay at home mom. I am reminded of when I was pregnant with Nathan; I was the lead party chef supervising a small group of women on the graveyard shift. They were always kind to me, and I wanted to be the type of boss who worked harder than her employees, and never asked them to do anything she wasn’t willing and able to do herself. I wanted them to respect me, but thinking back I guess I wanted them to like me too. There was one woman who was a born again Christian. She was a hard working, kind mother of two, and as long as she wasn’t trying to convert me we got along well. Being an unmarried 18 year old, I was nervous about telling her that I was pregnant. I played fat for awhile but it soon became obvious. After I told her about my pregnancy she asked me constantly when Alex was going to marry me.
There I was: broke, 18, pregnant and working for $7.75 per hour with no insurance. Alex was out of work and I was traveling 90 minutes each way by bus to a restaurant where I constantly picked up extra hours out of a desperate need for cash. I had an envelope hidden in my desk at home. The outside was marked Crib Fund. At times I needed to sit down to rest when before I’d been able to work twelve hours straight no problem. I lived on 7UP and those little saltine cracker packets they served with the soup. I hated Alex at times. He hadn’t asked me to marry him. He hadn’t wrapped his arms around me and told me that everything would be OK. I was mad at myself too, and I kept thinking that if Alex would just get a job and I could be a stay at home mom I would be happy and I would never complain ever again.

Finally Alex did find a job, and I was able to rest for a few weeks before Nathan was born. In the beginning I felt OK resting during the day while Alex was at work. I was recovering from pregnancy, labor and delivery. I was breast feeding. Then I started to feel guilty. The laundry piled up, as did the dishes, and I had no idea how to go grocery shopping with a baby and no car. When Alex would get home from work I would have him watch Nathan so I could have a shower. That shower was the highlight of my entire day. One evening as I stepped out of the tub, wrapping myself with a towel, I glanced at my face in the bathroom mirror and burst into tears. This sucked too! I had envisioned myself at home with my baby, making all of our food from scratch, and greeting Alex at the door every evening wearing a crisp clean apron and saying, “Hi honey, how was your day? Dinner is almost ready.” I felt like a complete failure. I knew that for thousands of years women had managed to keep house, cook and raise children, I just didn’t know how they had managed it. I didn’t expect to be bored, and so fucking lonely.

Over the years I have tried being both a SAHM and a working mom. Both options have their pros and their cons, as I am sure a lot of you with children know. My self worth is and always has been tied closely to my ability to earn some income. I am not saying this is good; I am just being honest. I like having a check with my name on it. Another thing that work gives me is structure to my day and a chance to interact with my coworkers. To be honest, I don’t have any friends. So when I need someone to talk to I either talk to Alex or I call my Mom.

My original plan to return to college was something that scared the hell out of me, but I was excited about it. When I was laid off from my job after taking Family Medical Leave that plan was put on hold as I filed for unemployment and then dealt with interview after interview with the man who was deciding the case. I ended up winning, probably because my employers weren’t returning his phone calls. I had documentation proving that I was laid off eight days before my Family Medical Leave ended.

I joined this food buying club in my neighborhood where people get together and order food and since it ends up being large quantities we get the food for the wholesale price. It took me a little while to get the hang of it, as there are several different purveyors offering different things, and there are several different dates during the month when you have to have your order and payment in by or you miss out until the next order. Before I applied for membership I told the head of the group that I don’t drive and she said that she lives close to me and wouldn’t mind dropping off my orders. I have tried to give her gas money but she always refuses. When she asked me what I did for a living I told her that I was an artisanal bread baker and a pastry chef. She exclaimed that it would be great if I could teach bread making classes to the group. One thing about me, I hate training people, even when I am being paid to do it. I told Alex about it and admitted my regret over those words. “Why the fuck didn’t you just say you were a housewife?” was his response. I realized that it just didn’t sound good to me. I wanted to BE SOMETHING. I was ashamed of myself and when asked an innocent question by a woman who went to college and earned letters to place after her name I wanted to at least have a trade to be proud of. Why do I care what others think? Why do I define myself so much by what I do or don’t do for a living?

So, to make myself feel better about not working I have been working extra hard at home. In addition to my fall garden I have been buying cases of tomatoes, apples and peaches. I have a freezer neatly stacked with tomato sauce, spaghetti sauce, applesauce and apple butter. I peeled and sliced the peaches and froze them too.  I even made salsa from scratch and tried to freeze a couple of pints of that. I’ve never frozen salsa before so I’ll have to see how it tastes after it thaws. I have been making huge pots of soups and freezing those to have on hand for fall. Sometimes I like to open the freezer and look at the fruits of my labor. It makes me feel good to see everything neatly stacked and labeled. Yes, I do realize that I could have canned everything instead but I didn’t want to mess with it. Plus, Alex won’t eat home canned foods because he read somewhere about someone dying from improperly canned food and he never shakes stories like that. I’ve also been growing my own bread starters and baking at home. It’s fun now that it’s not a job.

My sister called me yesterday to ask if I could babysit her three kids some Friday in October. I told her that I would check my calendar and get back to her. When I did I realized that my calendar is just scattered with various doctor’s appointments and the physical therapy for my back. Ouch.

I always get excited about the mail even though it’s always bills and junk mail. Yesterday I received a letter that read in part, “Recently President Obama announced that people who receive unemployment benefits may receive financial aid to pay for job training or education. You may be able to continue receiving unemployment benefits while enrolled in an approved training program. Studies have shown workers with more education and training have more secure jobs and higher wages.”  (Duh)  It used to be the case that those who were on Unemployment weren’t allowed to attend college because you had to be available for work 24/7.

I am excited about looking into this because school was what I had wanted to do in the first place. Thank you Obama!
Hopefully I will find a job training program. My primary care physician took some new images of my back last week and gave me a stern lecture about finding a new way to make a living. She said something about me ending up in a wheelchair within a couple of years if I continue at this pace and being totally narcotic dependent by the time I am 40. Zipping around on a Hoveround while wasted on Percocet sounds pretty awesome, but I’ll give this job training a try.

Besides, my freezer is getting really full and my kids just want to eat Hot Pockets and spicy hot Cheetos anyway.

when I don’t think I’ll make it. Days when I can hardly bring myself to do the very basic things, eat, swallow pills, take my dog out, do a load of wash. I am so tired of fighting. I can’t calm the racing of my heart. My hands won’t stop shaking. I don’t want anyone to look at me. Everyone knows I am sick; it’s tattooed right across my forehead. I can’t explain to my husband why I am too scared to leave the house. I can’t ask for anything more from him. I can see him already weighed down by the burden of me. My mom said yesterday that she has done all that she can to help me. It’s true. I’ve asked too much. I think about checking myself into the psychiatric ward of the hospital. I don’t want to have to explain what is wrong with me. The last time I had to call for emergency help on a weekend the woman on the other end of the phone said, “You are so strong to have made it this far, so brave.” I didn’t believe her.

I’m tired. I’m down on my knees. Every single bit of me has been drained and what’s left is a burden. I don’t know where the hope goes, where that feeling of being destined for something much, much better is. People going on and about their daily lives, smiling, working, laughing, talking. I don’t understand. I want to know their secret.

I think about different quotes therapists said while I was in the hospital. “Every single one of you can get better, but there are different degrees of better.”  “Mental illness can be a dangerous gift.” “The introverted mind would never be discovered unless that person took the time to write things down.” “You can live with your illness, but with less pain.” “Your choices increase or decrease the stress symptoms.” “Focus on changes in your behavior, everything bigger has to wait.”  “Feelings are not facts.”

I have an appointment with my doctor on Monday. I can do this.

Remember pagers? Oh, I’ve been paged! Now I need to get to a phone.

***

With summer nearing its end my teens seem to want to spend every last second doing either nothing, or hanging out with friends. I feel a rush inside, things to get ready for that probably have already been taken care of. Polly is starting her first year of high school. She was originally excited about the school she will be attending, but the friend who was going there as well up and moved over the summer. Now it’s as if her life is ending, she has been crying at random moments, exclaiming that she won’t go, no matter what, slamming her door, yelling at me for not giving her any choice, for ruining her entire life. I reminded her a couple of times that it was she who selected that we apply to this school, she begged to go there, but really, in the face of her at times extreme angst, it’s best for me to say nothing. She has always been resistant to any change of school and I remember the tears when she started at the junior high she quickly grew to love. I hope that she settles in comfortably to this school as well. Alex and I have asked her to give it a chance.

Nathan is back to school soon as well. At 17 he is about as calm as he could be. I think back on the rough years with him, the times when I never admitted it to anyone, but I feared he’d end up dead or in jail. Every once in a while I remember those years, if only to be grateful for how far he has come and to remember that this too shall pass with Polly.

I am recognizing the power of my own thoughts. I am acknowledging my fears over what the future holds for me, for us, as well as trying to keep a mental list of my hopes, my dreams, and all that I have to be thankful for.

I know that I feel better when I take a walk everyday. I know that gardening feels so right. I know that no matter what I can pick up my phone and call my Mom, or my sister Maria. Most of the time just knowing that is enough. In the middle of the night, gripped by panic, sadness, anything, I could call either one of them and they would be here for me. Having that is a gift.

I can’t ask too much from Alex. I can remember a time years ago when I was sick and I reached out for him. He said, “What do you want me to do, lay my magic hands on you and cure you?” The response stung at the time, but I realize now that he had given all that he could at that particular time. It was time for me to ride out the rest of that virus alone, for the most part, resting in bed. Mental illness is much different than a flu of course. I notice my ups and downs more now that I am not working. Before I was able to throw myself into baking and it kept me occupied enough that I could push a lot of my negative thoughts out because I was focused on the different doughs and what stage they were at. I was always counting, making sure there was enough of every product for the next day. I was trying to think ahead with the dessert work, making sure that nothing ran out. It was an escape. I miss it sometimes, as well as the camaraderie I had with my coworkers.

I have some seedlings to transfer into the ground now.  I am excited that they grew and happy to be trying to grow several different vegetables I’ve never grown before.  I am lucky to have my dog, Maggie. She loves to be by my side and I can chatter away to her all day if I feel so inclined.  It’s a beautiful day today. I’m headed out to get my hands dirty.

In the days since I last posted here, boy have I slipped back down.  It seems like one thing after another. The washing machine broke; we were able to scrounge up the money to buy a used one, and then the dryer broke. Our kids asked when we were going to get a new one and I just shrugged and continued to hang clothes on the line and on the drying racks. Fuck a dryer. It’s been hot here. Our stove is down to one working burner. I just hope that burner keeps going. I have cancelled cable, netflix, and greatly reduced our grocery budget. I have cut down on the cigarettes substantially. I have been baking and cooking from scratch and Alex has been sewing ripped clothes instead of looking for new ones. We have been through worse than this.

I just feel so drained. I feel as if I am just going through the motions. I honestly don’t think I would have lived through this without Alex and my Mom. My Mom stops by and checks in on me. Last weekend I was showing her what I felt like was a pathetic attempt at a garden, my few zucchini plants, a few tomato plants, acorn squash and several different herbs. “Remember Tammy, Fall is coming, and your Fall garden will be great.” I had somehow forgotten about Fall. I started broccoli seeds this week, as well as chard and collard greens. I keep going. I made a lovely pesto out of my huge basil plant, substituting walnuts I had in the freezer for the pine nuts.It was delicious.

Alex is watching me. I know this. Sometimes he reminds me to take my medication, or checks to see if I’ve eaten, as I often forget. He will gently suggest that I get some rest when I am in one of my manic modes and I feel as if I must stay upright to keep doing things around the house or we won’t make it. He tells me to calm down, to lie down, to watch a dumb TV show with him. He knows the exact spot on his chest where I like to cuddle up and press my face against him, listening to his heart beating, his slow, regular heartbeat such a contrast to my own.  I know he is not much for snuggling, especially when it’s so hot, but he doesn’t complain. I wonder why he has stayed beside me for 21 years. I am afraid to ask.

I have been able to spend time with both Nathan and Polly, time that I didn’t have when I was gone 16 hours a day. I can’t believe my babies are 17 and 14. I want to be here to watch them grow and learn. Alex and I certainly had so difficult times over the years, but our children are still excitedly planning about their futures. I long for happiness for them. Sometimes I fear that I may have passed my illnesses on to them. It is genetically linked. I wasn’t thinking of that when I was wanting babies.

I went to my psychiatrist recently for my monthly check in. This is just medication management and a brief 10 minute chat. He asked me about returning to work and I told him I have been going through the steps to attend college in the Fall. His brow furrowed briefly, “You’ve never mentioned any desire to do that in the past.” He flipped through the notes from our sessions. “So, you have a GED. You have a long way to go then. You are going to go for your Associates at a community college then?” That tiny little sliver inside that actually believes that I may have some type of potential answered, “Yes. And then I am going to university until I get my PhD.” He usually pushes me out the door after ten minutes (and then bills my insurance for a whole hour) but this time I stood up to leave. I am on the wait list for a new shrink but it’s a long wait.

I feel as if I can’t go on. I push myself everyday. I have no energy, no appetite. I feel as if everything is falling in around me, yet there is a huge part of me that has shut down, perhaps as a self defense mechanism.

I miss the structure of the daily therapy at the hospital. I sometimes look through the notes that I took while I was in that program for inspiration.

I try to remember my goals and the dreams that have stayed with me over the years. I am looking to hold onto that sliver of self esteem I still have that tells me that I can accomplish anything I set my mind to. Onward, forward mostly.

A bottle collection under a tree. I like to imagine the person who lives in this house.

Camel Filters I presume?

Danger! All animals in need of a home must come to me. I have a love hate relationship with pet stores. They break my heart, but I always have to stop and look when I pass by one. I can’t help but wonder what happens to the animals as they grow older and remain homeless.

I used to step on lots of things with no thought as I walked, now I stop and wonder. I feel as if someone slowed me down. I needed to slow down.

My mom painted this rock for me years ago. I always have it tucked in my garden no matter where I live, even if my garden is just a couple of pots on an apartment patio. My pet rock makes me smile.

My kitty is a big boy now, two years old. He sleeps with me, right up near my head. It amazes me how much room in the bed he can take up when he stretches out.

Some of the flowers and vegetables sprouted and grew, and some of them sprouted and died. I felt like I might be able to save them there for awhile, after all, they had looked so promising with their little green selves poking out of the peat pots. I continued to water the dead ones as well as the thriving ones until I realized that I could let the possibility go.

This last photo is the Central Library in downtown Portland, OR. Words cannot express my love for this building, the excitement I feel when I enter the heavy doors; the smell of thousands of books around me.

My Mom called to check on me today. I had a rough weekend as my prescription for Effexor wasn’t ready to be picked up Thursday and despite making numerous phone calls the communication between my doctor’s fax machine and the pharmacy wasn’t happening. I foolishly decided that I would just give up and tough it out until Monday morning. I did ok and we managed to have a nice family 4th of July. Sunday the side effects of withdrawal became so severe that Alex called the doctor on call, explained my situation, and managed to have a few pills called in to a pharmacy that is open 24/7. I don’t remember a lot about Sunday. I know that Alex was there beside me and he made sure I ate and drank water and took my medication and rested. That side of him isn’t one that I see often.

I had only one thing to tell my Mom when she called today, I told her that over and over again my gut is telling me to go to college. My body can’t handle another thirty odd years of baking and this might be crazy talk, but I want to get well and get a job where I can help others who are suffering.

Soon after I started writing here Jane linked to me. We emailed a little bit, and I remember her commending me on a particular entry. Her words came with a warning, however. “You can’t write like that everyday.” I didn’t really understand her words until last night. I have been agonizing over entries here, which seems kind of ridiculous, honestly. I need to just type and get it posted and move on. Sometimes something I am proud of might come of this, but I need the release it could provide, and the practice writing I long for. The longer I wait between entries the harder it is.

Speaking of writing, I have a couple of fiction ideas I have decided to pursue. It started out as the kind of joking around that occurs when sleep deprivation kicks in and everything is even funnier than it would be normally. Working graveyard shift with a small group of fellow bakers means that there are inside jokes, stories we have shared that become classics referred to over and over, laughter and more laughter. I was speaking with my cousin on the phone, and seeing how his wife is in the industry in LA, I ended up telling him one of my ideas. He put me on speaker and I was able to chat with her about the first idea and then my second idea. I had thought that they would make good screenplays, possibly. I have never written a screenplay and I can’t say that I know how, but I decided to try. Having been brave enough to tell my ideas to someone other than my sleepy coworkers felt empowering. Having someone say, “Hey, you might have something there”, felt even better. Sure, she might have been saying that because we’re family, but I don’t think so. We spoke again last night and she asked me how it was going, my writing. I mentioned that I had just been taking notes of ideas at this point. She gave me some excellent pointers and it felt really good to have someone in my life that actually lives the idea of “You can do anything you set your mind to.” I might try posting some excerpts of the fiction here if anyone is interested. Right now it’s very rough, but it’s fun. Moving away from the autobiographical type of writing I usually do feels good.

My depression seems to be waning, due in large part to the fact that I am not in as much physical pain as I was. My feet were throbbing the other morning when I got off of work and so I stopped by the Nordstrom Rack and found a pair of Adidas for 20 bucks. I tried them on and they were so cushiony and comfortable that I bought them. I also got several pairs of new socks. I had so few pairs without holes that I have been wearing Alex’s socks for months now. He said nothing, but I suspect he is glad to have me no longer raiding his sock drawer everyday. I also bought some thick insoles for the shoes and oh my god the difference in how I feel is amazing. I have been baking in clogs for years, but they just weren’t doing it for me anymore. My back, knees and feet all feel better. Money well spent, I should have done it months ago.

I haven’t answered every comment lately and it bugs me because I don’t want to be someone who appears to not listen to her readers. For those of you who are also suffering from panic disorder and/ or depression, you are the reason that I started this site. You are not alone and there are treatment options available. Yes, I still struggle everyday, but I am holding down a full time job; I have been able to go out in public socially a few times already this year; I can attend school functions with my kids etc. I have a life I never dreamed possible 10 years ago. Things could be much better, but they’ve certainly been worse. I am still not driving but I am not going to beat myself up about that.
Those people who stop by to check in on me amaze me. Thank you so much for caring.

The responses to my last post were truly heartwarming and I want to thank you all. I’ll admit that at times like these past few weeks I feel as if I am not going to make it through this. I say this not as a cry for help, or sympathy, but because I want my readers to know the gravity of the disease depression. Those of you who have suffered or who are currently suffering from depression might already understand. Those of you who do not have this disease most likely know someone who does. I understand why so many people commit suicide. Dealing with depression is exhausting and frustrating, and it is easy to give up all hope. Everyday I see the toll this has taken on my family and I have at my lowest wondered if they wouldn’t be better off without me.

Having had a father who suffered from depression and who took his life I know the lifelong effects this has on those left behind. I know the pain and the guilt. I used to wonder in anger how he could have left behind a wife and four children, one who was expecting his first grandchild, but I understand that now. I thought that I wanted to know how and why, but I didn’t want to find out this way.

My husband still loves me, even though I want him and need him in ways that are impossible and exhausting for him. My kids still need a mom and I still believe that they are better off with me than without me.

I am looking forward to spring, my thoughts turning to seeds, and even all the way ahead to picking tomatoes warm from the sun.

My physical pain is getting worse, no doubt due in large part to my job. My doctor is trying out some new medications and I am working on physical therapy.

I’ve been looking for another job, something that doesn’t require so much physical excursion, something that isn’t on the graveyard shift even, as these hours are not healthy for me. I realize (again) that I have no skills that I can translate into a job and then comes fear. Sometimes I wish that I could dooce this fucking site to the point where I could bring in some money to support my family. Seriously, I think that. Sometimes.

Alex has a few collections that seem a bit strange to me, such as his collection of glass eyes. He has always been fascinated with blindness. In the early years we were together he used to approach the blind people we saw while out and about and ask them if they had been blind since birth. If the answer was yes, he would ask them to describe their dreams. I was always interested in hearing their answers, but I never would have asked strangers such questions. He has had the above book for quite some time, but I have never looked at it until tonight, when Nathan picked it up and gave me the test. About 3/4 through Alex got up and said, “Wait a minute. You see numbers here, in these dots?” I instantly felt nervous. Yes. Yes I saw numbers .  After I finished the different tests Alex studied the results and told me which colors I had deficiencies in. Then my family members brought things to me and said, “What color is this?” until I said “Enough!”

Alex stared at me for a moment and said, “All my life I have been wanting to meet someone who is color blind.”

I laughed. The whole thing seemed so silly, but at that moment I remembered him at 16, that young man who just wanted to know how people who had never seen anything dreamed. Here I’ve been, sleeping in the bed beside him, for soon to be 21 years. We celebrated our second wedding anniversary on the 17th of this month by kissing twice before he left for work. One day we’ll have that trip away together we have been putting off for years. For now, I guess we’ll just keep learning new things about each other.