Polly wanted to make sure I gave her credit for this photo.

I haven’t been even a tenth of the writer I wanted to be here. I had made a vow to also be a reader, to read and reply to my comments and emails, to reach out, to give back. I have been comforted by each of your words, and grateful that you took the time to leave them here.

I noticed immediately after the aforementioned incident with Chef Medium Cheddar that my anxiety level hit a high I haven’t seen in years. I dreaded going to work; I dreaded the hour he would arrive. I think I’ve mentioned before that I work with a group of guys, all of them seeming like boys really, except for one man, Joseph, who is closer to my age at 30. When I returned after the incident where I was yelled at I started to work immediately and he asked me what was wrong. I tried brushing him off and smiling, but he knew. We have had a few opportunities to talk alone since we started working together and we have opened up and shared just enough of our respective stories to know that we have struggled and why, although I must admit when he calmly told me his, a story filled with abusive stepfathers, a mother who abandoned him and the horrors he and his brother lived through in various foster homes, I could have wept for the little boy he once was. On another note, we both suffer from clinical depression and panic disorder, although his panic attacks were only recently diagnosed and treated. The similarities pretty much end there. He is strong and vocal and takes absolutely no shit from anyone, no matter what position they hold.

When I finally told him the condensed version of being yelled at he immediately asked why I hadn’t stood up for myself. When I told him that it was someone who is our superior there he was adamant, “I don’t give a fuck who it was. You respond to that kind of treatment with a demand for respect.” His voice softened quite a bit and he spoke to me softly, “I know that it is hard for you, but you are going to have to learn how to stand up for yourself. The first few times you do it it’s going to be real hard, but it will get easier. Soon enough people will learn that you won’t tolerate it and it will stop. And if you do get fired, you can walk out with your head held high.” I knew he was right in the same way I knew it was going to be something I may never master.

I did talk with Alex about it, and he said that if something similar happens again to bypass all of the cheeses in the kitchen and to head straight upstairs to the office that holds the head cheese of the whole operation where I am to calmly request a meeting regarding the incident. One of the reasons I clung to Alex from such a young age was the fact that he takes no shit from anyone. There is truth in what both Joseph and Alex said to me and if history is any indication, this will continue to come up until I can learn not to flee, not to cry, not to hide.

I haven’t written about my children in some time. Nathan had a wonderful visit to LA with my cousin. My only complaint would be that he came back whining about the weather here in Portland and bemoaning the fact that he wasn’t raised in LA. This type of griping gets old fast and so I have pointed out to him that he will be 18 soon, and at that point he can move himself to LA where everything is “perfect” , as he puts it. He is otherwise doing well. He decided to obtain his GED and is now starting college at the end of this month. He actually consulted me on his course selections and I told him to make sure to take at least one class that would be fun. He seems excited to be moving on and my heart is full as I watch him forge ahead. For a long time I was so afraid for his future. He has mellowed considerably and his anger doesn’t often get the best of him anymore.

Polly is in 8th grade this year. She is still avidly taking photographs and drawing. I am still trying to resist the urge to be way more overprotective with her than I am with Nathan. She has really come out of her shell at this school she is in. She has a solid group of friends and her calendar of events is too hard to keep in my head so I had to create a document for it on the computer to keep everything straight. She is still a voracious reader, something that pleases me to no end, and I can only hope that she knows how much I love her, as she is doing the pull me close push me away thing that is normal, but oh so painful as a parent.

I will try harder to write more. My laptop broke, and Alex can’t fix it, so I need to take it in for repair. I should have paid for the extended warranty. I always figure Alex can fix everything, but sometimes, no. I was actually happy that the damn laptop decided to die when he was using it. I hate being the one with my hand in the cookie jar when it shatters, every damn time.

Why is it that my daughter Polly finds slugs disgusting, yet she will hold a snail and declare how cute he is and can she keep him? I mean, does the shell make one cute? Would a cute little turtle be ugly without his shell? Never mind, I just answered my own questions. Turtles aren’t cute, and I think I remember seeing Franklin without a shell during the days when I had to read the same books over and over to my kids until I thought I’d scream and he wasn’t cute either. Of course I could have said no, but back then I was very worried about being a wonderful mom. Now I am just hoping In Treatment comes back on soon because I want Gabriel Burne , sexually. I am like one of his patients, except I am not a doctor.

Speaking of doctors, a coworker of mine had an asthma attack the other night at work and then he started having a panic attack because he couldn’t breathe. I snapped at him, asking where his inhaler was. He replied that he kept it at home because he didn’t want to rely on it. If I had asthma I’d have an inhaler around my neck on a dog chain. I’d probably carry another one in my purse in case of malfunction.

I told him my CPR was rather rusty and he laughed and I offered him a Klonopin. I probably made the right decision when I decided not to go to Nursing School.

Speaking of shells, this would be a great time for a “to circumcise or not to circumcise?” fight in my comments. I personally agree with the idea of letting your son make the choice himself. As for looking at penises, I am indifferent. I don’t really have much interest in looking at penises. When I was in second grade my eldest sister took me to Plaid Pantry and led me to the Kool-Aid section. I thought she was going to buy Kool-Aid and I was all excited because my Mom only gave us juice, water or milk. Or tea, or beer. Pop on special occasions.Forget it, I was writing about penises. My sister reached way back and pulled out some magazine and opened it up to a naked man. He was sitting there looking off to the side with that expression on his face, who me? I am not sitting on this chair naked. I screamed when I realized what I was seeing and pointed at the picture and yelled out, “Oh my god! It’s a slug!” My sister shoved the magazine back as she clapped her hand over her mouth to cover the laughter.

This might come across like reading my twitter, if I had a twitter, but here goes anyway.

I absolutely loved reading your comments and I am not just saying that. I always get very excited when you lovely people comment and I read my comments over and over. Feel free to diagnose me accordingly ; today I am feeling rather good. I had my first appointment with my new psychiatrist yesterday. In case I didn’t mention it, or you forgot, my primary care physician insisted I see someone and then told me she would no longer prescribe psychiatric medications for me, just to give me some “I’m out of Klonopin!” nerves and “I’m running low on Paroxetine! Side effects of withdrawal will be hell!” jitters. I was surprisingly not angry with her for this. I know she knew it was the only way I would go and she used it and I say well played, if her intentions were good, and I think they were. Anyway, I was originally unhappy because there were so few psychiatrists accepting new patients so I got stuck with a man when I had asked for a woman. Now, I love men. I usually get along with them better than women, truth be told. But I have had male doctors in the past and I thought I would be more comfortable with a woman. Plus, this guy’s office is far away from my house and after I wrote down his name and the appointment time Alex googled him and he got his degree from the University of They Have Universities in That Country!?!? I know that sounds horrible, but if I named the country you would know what I mean, as it’s associated with dire poverty, starvation, and death. Angelina Jolie is expected to swoop down in her private jet and adopt a child from that country any minute just because it’s that bad there. Plus, I was worried that he would have an accent I wouldn’t understand and then I’d have to either tell him, “I’m sorry. I am only catching every third word here.” or I’d have to shoot for context and just nod and hope my responses were correct. I don’t have the best hearing and it has become increasingly clear that I need to get a hearing aid or at least a Miracle Ear implanted but I haven’t even wanted to deal with any of that.

I spent yesterday morning fretting and filling out the forms they sent weeks ago. I actually had to attach another sheet of paper to list all of the medications I take. When I got to the family history part I was worried because the first thing on there were the questions about my parents, their ages, are they living, and if not, cause of death. I actually considered lying about my Dad. I feared that as soon as I wrote “Father, Death in 1985 at age 57, Cause: Suicide” that would be the primary focus of the appointment.i went ahead and told the truth, figuring it would be in my medical records anyway. My mom offered to drive me. At first I resisted, but she had a compelling argument; she’s only seen me once since she returned from Australia, and she knew I was going to be taking a bus to a hospital I am not familiar with and she has been there several times. I agreed and when she insisted she would wait until my one hour appointment was over and drive me back home I asked if she would like to go out to lunch, my treat, and then maybe visit a plant nursery. She was excited about the nursery idea, and she knew one that she thought I would like in the vicinity of the hospital.

When we arrived at the hospital and found the wing that contained the doctor’s office I started to have a panic attack in the elevator up. I didn’t say anything but I was considering reaching for my last few Klonopin and popping a couple when my mom reached out and squeezed my hand and smiled. I knew then that she wasn’t there because I was unfamiliar with that part of town, or that hospital. I felt like a big, dopey kid trapped in the body of a thirty five year old woman. I decided against the pills, partly because I thought it might be beneficial for the doctor to see me in the panic state I live in most of the time, but mostly because I was almost out and what if he didn’t give me any prescriptions?

My mom lead the way off of the elevator, knowing somehow the exact ways to turn, as I followed carrying racing heart, churning tummy, and a dizzy head. After I’d checked in with the receptionist I looked through the stacks of magazines and pulled out some that I knew my mom would enjoy. I stared down at my dirty clogs and realized that I should have cleaned the dried flour off of them before I came, but I hadn’t thought of it. My mom read bits and pieces aloud from a magazine, some article about saving thousands at the grocery store. A dark skinned man in a well cut suit entered and walked through the waiting room and through the door. My mom was excited like a school girl, bouncing in her seat, “That’s him! That’s your doctor! He’s so cute! Isn’t he handsome? Oh my!” I felt awkward sitting there in jeans and a T shirt, clogs still dirty from baking at work, my face free of makeup, my hair pulled into a ponytail with bobby pins slipped onto the sides of my head to catch those wisps of hair that always slip out and curl around my face.

When he came to the door and called my name I stood on wobbly legs and followed him. We made out introductions but he didn’t shake hands. He led me into the smallest office I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a closet, seriously. There was enough room for a desk and two chairs and that’s it. I had brought a water bottle with me and when I asked if it was OK if I sat it down on the corner of his desk he said, “Yes, it’s OK, I will be drinking my coffee”, and then motioned to his Starbucks cup. I realized that he thought I was asking permission to drink and I smiled and said that I didn’t want to leave a white ring because of the condensation and he just waved that worry off, not the type to bother with coasters I suppose.

He asked for the history of the meds I have taken in the past and believe me, I had to pull out notes for that one. So many years, so many different pills. He asked the history of my depression and anxiety and a few other general questions. Happy marriage? Good kids? Work history? Etc. The only things that gave him pause to question me further were the facts that I admitted I have no friends, the fact that I don’t know how to drive, (he thought that to be absolutely stunning and questioned me in depth about how I’d managed that), and the fact that I admitted to worrying more about my daughter than my son, (he said he felt like I was projecting something from my own childhood onto my daughter). I imagine that I am not the only one who worries more about my teenage daughter than my teenage son (people help me out here, have you experienced this?) but I didn’t argue with him about it. He questioned the fact that my Mom was in the waiting room and took notes about the fact that she drove me there, but whatever.

There was a moment in that hour somewhere where he let an uncomfortable silence hang in the air. I wondered if it was a test to see how I’d react. I sat in silence for some time as I looked around the closet room and then I finally asked him, “So, I am guessing you don’t treat many claustrophobics ?” He looked confused for a few moments until he looked around his office and laughed large. I felt better because I always try to make my doctors laugh at least once and for damn near 200 dollars an hour he’d better find me funny every so often, or at least fake it.

Mostly he talked about anxiety and how much harder it is to treat than depression because anxiety is a normal human emotion and then he went into medications and an in depth account of how they work and although I have done a lot of reading about this myself over the years I didn’t want to interrupt him. He said that he would be happy to provide me with my prescriptions and wrote them out and told me to make a follow up appointment with the receptionist. Basically it was much easier than I had worried about and he gets mad props for not making me tell the whole story of child abuse and my dad’s suicide because I didn’t want to and I was afraid he would say he needed to see me three times a week but nope, just once a month.

Afterwards my mom and I went out for Mexican food even though my mom has this “If it’s wrapped in a tortilla it’s crap” opinion. She selected the restaurant. I ignored the margaritas even though I really wanted oneand we had a nice talk. When we were finished we went to a nursery where I bought a bunch of plants for my garden. When I got home Polly and Nathan came out and helped me plant them, and that my friends was the best therapy of all.

“ Why must you always be around?
Why can’t you just leave it be?
It’s done nothing so far but destroy my life
You cause as much sorrow dead
As you did when you were alive”

SINEAD O’CONNOR You Cause As Much Sorrow

I worked the graveyard shift Saturday night. As I’ve mentioned before, I work with mostly men. A few of them are veterans, and hearing them tell their stories, if they even can, and seeing the consequences they are dealing with now as a result of seeing more violence in a few years than anyone should ever have to face in a lifetime is heartbreaking. One man told me not to come up behind him; he can’t handle it. I’ve tried to walk heavily when I am entering an area he’s working in. He told me of working as a medic in the combat zones and trying to come to terms with losing 80% of his men. He told me of shooting them with morphine when they were hit and holding their hands as they died because, as he put it, “no one should have to die alone out there.” I asked him if he was treating a fellow soldier with a fatal wound and that man asked if he was dying if he told them the truth, or no. He said he always told them they were going to make it, no matter what.

Another veteran soldier tells no stories, ever. He shakes his head “No” and walks away slowly. I wonder how they feel about the people who drive around with yellow ribbon stickers making statements “I Support Our Troops”. I know that they received training that they could parlay into other jobs but they hide on night shifts and don’t use their GI Bill for college, not yet anyway.

A couple of them have erupted at work, showing anger and frustration by throwing things, swearing, yelling. Me being me, with my own issues; I get scared when this happens. Saturday night when one man blew up I moved away quickly and tried to work in a far away area. There’s a new woman on the maintenance crew; she was on her first night. I was trying to breathe through a panic attack and fighting the urge to run out the door when she came up to me and asked, “What man did that to you in your life, made you afraid like that when someone yells?” I was a bit taken aback. We’d only been introduced once and her name had slipped out of my head as soon as I heard it.

“Your Daddy?” she pushed, and I just nodded, not wanting her to think I am in an abusive relationship now. She nodded back and smiled. “It’s gonna be O.K.”, she said as she walked away.

Later on we were all sitting outside on the patio chilling out and relaxing at the end of our shift. I decided to tell my coworker that it had scared me when he blew up like that. He looked surprised and then sad. “I’m sorry! Sometimes I just need to let off a little steam and then I am fine.” I nodded, but I felt better having said my truth.

The conversation switched to Father’s Day and everyone reminded everyone else, “Call your Dad and tell him I love you and thank you!” I remained silent. The woman whose name escapes me said, “My father is deceased, thank you very much.” She glanced over at me and asked, “You too?” I nodded in the affirmative and she asked me how old I was when it happened.

“Twelve”, I answered, “I usually call my Mom and wish her a Happy Father’s Day but she’s out of town this year.”

“Me too! I call my Momma on Father’s Day too!” and then she rose and sat right down beside me, pulling out her cell phone. She texted her Mom so I could see, “Happy Father’s Day, Momma. I love you.” and the reply came quickly. “Thank you baby. I love you too. Signed Daddy Momma”

As she picked up her belongings and prepared to leave she told me, “Every bit of fathering I needed I got from my Daddy Momma, even before he died when I was 17.”

I know what she means and even though my Mom is in Australia right now and I have no way of calling her because she’s traveling about the country I sent her an email when I got home from work on the off chance she might stop into an internet café or something. It took me a few years, but I’ve finally been able to convince my Mom that she can check her email from anywhere in the world. She thought that it lived inside of her computer only.

***

Thank you all for your wonderful dessert ideas and opinions. I printed everything out and I look forward to getting back into the kitchen to try out some new recipes. I get bored making the same old things every night so hopefully getting to play around with the dessert specials will help. The comments that even took the time to say sweet things about me and my writing were a pleasant surprise. Maybe I should ask you all for advice more often. Do you think that now that I have hit the ripe age of 35 I should cut my hair above my shoulders? What about the color? Continue to get it highlighted at a salon even though I can only afford to do it once a year and I always have roots, or go back to doing it at home the way I did when I was in my teens and twenties?

***

One last thing, before I go. For those of you who have been following my stories, ChefHisName called and offered me a job. I actually considered it for a second because it would be a Mon.-Fri. day shift, but it’s several dollars less an hour and the benefits aren’t as good. Plus, and this really sealed the deal, the job was as a breakfast cook and the thought of cooking eggs for 200+ people every morning is more than I can stomach. It was nice to learn that he wasn’t just feeding me a line of bullshit when he said he’d keep me in mind for another position.

I have known for quite some time that I have been drinking too much. There is admitting it to yourself and then there is the part where you actually admit it to yourself. I don’t know how to describe the difference. I guess I can say that although I knew that at times I was being excessive with it, I wasn’t willing to take any steps to change my behavior until I started to notice that alcohol was having negative effects on my life. So I decided to stop. I had a really bad headache for about four days and that gnawing anxiety like I was going to just chew my arm off if I didn’t get a drink into me, and quick, but now I am feeling better.

Now I can see things like how I always planned out what I was going to drink on my time off from work or when I went out. Just in the last few days I’ve felt that something was missing, and that is sad. I am hoping that soon I will feel better. I have been taking time to eat healthy foods and to drink lots of water.

I felt that now that I was really honest with myself I would be honest here too. I am going to drop the crutch and start hopping.

***

Ashleas, I did read your comment on my last post and it touched me deeply.I wasn’t sure how to respond. I know what you are saying and I wanted to say to you, “Go home and see your Dad.” but then I wasn’t even sure if that was the right thing to say. It’s always struck me as odd with all of the “How are you?”s and “Take Care”s that people throw around how little we reach out to those around us. I hope that you can find someone to talk to and a group if you want to be a part of one, but please know that you can always drop me a line and I am here to listen.

Bonnie, I hear you on the being hungry and still unable to take a half of someone’s sandwich when offered. I’ve been there, done that too. The part that kills me is if I found out that someone around me was hungry and felt as if they couldn’t ask me for help it would break my heart.

Just recently I’ve been having trouble eating anything (see part above about too much alcohol) . There are a few men who come in each night and clean the floors of the restaurant. I get a free meal each night as a perk of the job but I haven’t been eating anything. The other night it occurred to me that they might be hungry and so I threw together a meal and gave it to them to share and they were so incredibly grateful. Now if I see that one of the chefs is going to throw out food that is perfectly edible I’ll stash it away for when the maintenance guys come in and give it to them. I realize now when I see the excitement in their eyes over the food how hungry they were the whole time.

The other night I was being teased pretty heavily (which is par for the course in the industry) by one of my coworkers and I was getting pretty burned out on it when one of the maintenance guys stepped up and told the other man to lay off me. “I look out for her. Cut the shit.” was what he said. And then it was over. I can remember making eye contact and smiling but I don’t even know if I said thank you. I don’t know if if needed to, honestly. Sometimes I feel there are so many words and other times I think so much of it is total bullshit; we have actions so why the fuck is there so much useless talking?

Most of the men I work with have been very kind, but that one guy in particular I mention above seems to have gone above and beyond. I have to admit that I fear sometimes that this was motivated because he knows that I am not OK, that he can look at me and tell. I noticed the other day when I was alone in the kitchen that he rattled his belongings before he entered. I looked up and he said that he was trying not to scare me by popping up unexpectedly but he could see that he had failed. “I wasn’t scared”, I told him, “I was startled.” Then I laughed, because I wasn’t sure what the difference was. “Never mind me, I have baggage” I mumbled and he said “Yeah, me too”, and briefly I saw his hand rest across his heart.

I have been feeling out of sorts since I started working again. I think that it has something to do with being now forced out of my self imposed isolation back into life. I see people socializing everywhere around me; groups at fine restaurants with candlelight faces, huddles over morning coffee and scones. I feel at times a pull to be a part of a group once again. I haven’t been able to maintain a friendship in years. I don’t want to have to explain my sometimes total lack of ability to function. The real me shows through the cracks on the surface anyway. A coworker stops me at work the other night, “What’s wrong?” I told him I was just feeling mad, but then he wanted to know why, and I could only shrug and turn my face down until he walked away. I was hot, tired, had been in front of the oven for hours, and I was longing for a chance to take a break and to get something to drink. I thought of asking him to bring me some water but I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave the oven because otherwise I would burn something, and I couldn’t ask a fellow worker for a glass of water. He stopped by later and glanced at my face, checking for something. He broke out in the biggest smile I’ve seen in ages and I surprised myself by smiling back; a real smile. I searched for some meaning in the smiles but shoved it away, knowing my tendency to over think everything.

“I feel as if I have been standing in front of this oven for hours and hours.” I told him. “That’s because you have”, was his reply, because there are no clocks up there by the oven and I wasn’t really sure how long it had been. It was a busy night and time flew by.

Later he tried to arrange for me to get a ride home when I was finished but I brushed him off, telling him I had a bus to catch. I don’t want to get close to anyone again. I don’t want to make friends or have other people being concerned about my well being. I just want to hide in plain view.

After I’d gotten both kids off to school this morning I started to prepare the items I’d sold on Ebay for shipping. My Mom called and asked what I was doing ;I told her and she offered to come and take me to the post office so I didn’t have to carry all of the boxes of books on the bus and then she wanted to go out for coffee. I finished with my packages and called ChefHisName. As soon as he said hello I realized who he reminded me of, that guy who plays Dr. Cox on Scrubs. That helped me feel less nervous. After I’d gotten off the phone I took a shower and kissed and cuddled Maggie until it was time to go.

My Mom was telling me about her upcoming trip to Australia and after I spent too long in the post office (are they always busy?) I went back to the car and my Mom asked where I wanted to go for coffee. I thought it might be a nice treat to actually sit down somewhere instead of drinking in the car so when she was finished talking I told her of a Starbucks up ahead. I decided to go ahead and tell her about the conversation I’d had with ChefHisName. I told her about how I had called him and he’s asked me to come down tomorrow for a drug test and after that and the criminal background check the job is mine. She looked away from the road at a red light and placed her hand on my leg. “Oh, Tammy. I am so proud of you.”

Something had been nagging me in the back of my mind all morning and I hadn’t talked with anyone about it, so I told her that I was worried that the drugs I’d been given in the ER and for a few weeks after I injured my back were going to make me test positive because they were in the opiate family, you know the family that actually works when you’re in severe pain. She snatched her hand away and said “TAMMY!!!” in that voice that makes me feel so little again, that voice that shows me just how disappointed she really is.

I tried explaining it to her, the pain, the not being able to walk, the you just drove by Starbucks but she was just cruising on down the road. I pointed in a direction and said, “There’s a little coffee shop down that way that’s nice.” As I snuck a look her face was set, her lips gone, her eyes facing forward. “”What time is it?” she asked, “I have a lot to get done today.” We rode the rest of the way to my house in silence. I was sorry that I had trusted her with that, kicking myself for thinking that she would understand.

When I got home Alex was still awake. I hadn’t told him about the call either and so I crawled into bed beside him and told him that I was afraid that I was going to fail the piss test. He told me about the drug tests he’s taken and how they ask him if he’s on prescription medication first. I imagined writing out the list of medications I am taking. I imagined ChefHisName, or ChefCox, as I think of him now, reading the list and shaking his head at his foolishness. He actually mentioned something today about a position where I would be a supervisor [oh my god I haven’t had to keep track of kids who aren’t my own in three years] and now this fear in my head after I’d told him I’d have no trouble supervising a crew. “No Problem!” I had replied.

Anyway, Alex talked me through my fears and when I asked what about a hair follicle test he said with a straight face as he eyed my hair hanging all the way down to the middle of my back, “Hair Follicle? You’re fucked!” There was something about the way he said it and then the way he rubbed the top of my head afterwards. We laughed and I wondered aloud if I should Sinéad O’Connor it right now. He doesn’t think that would be a good look for me, somehow.  As he spooned me I whispered, “What if I don’t get the job?” and he whispered back, “Then you will get another one.” and it was all OK then. I should have gone to him first, not to my Mom.

You were all very sweet in the comments and I want to answer everyone but I can’t right this minute so I will just say thank you for now and hope you know that I truly felt those good thoughts coming my way and it was very important.

The test is tomorrow at 1p.m. PST.

I have had a few interviews now. I have applied for so many jobs that I can’t keep them all straight and sometimes when someone calls and says ,”Hi, this is Jude” and then starts talking away I am wondering,  “Jude from where?”

I should have kept records. Anyway, I am liking the over the phone interviews. I think that in many situations time can be saved on both sides with a preliminary phone interview. Case in point: the woman who asked me if I wanted a position on call, rotating shifts. The money was very good and the benefits package was better than anything I’ve ever had but the truth is that the job is 90 minutes away by bus and since our buses don’t run 24/7 I had to answer honestly when she asked me if I could jump up and rush to work at a moments notice if she called at say 3 a.m. I thought that even if it was bus accessible I would be a nervous wreck with an on call job. There is no one in the world I want to talk to at 3 a.m anyway. Sometimes I miss the days when only drug dealers and doctors had cell phones or pagers. Now we are so accessible.

I had an interview last week, I can’t remember the day now. Anyway, I was on the phone with the boss/man who called and I had gone up to Alex’s and my bedroom to try to get away from the kids and the pets for a bit of quiet. Alex came upstairs and heard me refer to the man as ChefHisName. When I hung up the phone Alex made a crack about it. I told him that it was something I’d encountered before and it didn’t bother me. Certain chefs will demand to be referred to as Chef whatever and others don’t care. There is also the whole thing in kitchens about who gets to wear which uniform and who gets the big hat and the in between size hat and who gets no hat at all. I have actually witnessed arguments amongst cooks when one feels that the other is wearing a hat he hasn’t earned. It’s sort of like the Catholic church and the priests, bishops and the pope. It’s all in the special hats. Look next time. I personally don’t need a hat so I just put my hair in a bun with a hairnet over the top.

Anyway, he must have liked whatever I said on the phone because he asked to meet with me in person. I arrived early, even getting off a few stops ahead of the place so that I could have a cold drink, work on my breathing for relaxing as I get very nervous in these situations, and to have a cigarette (oh by the way Chantix isn’t a magic pill and you have to actually want to quit smoking and I really was more determined to cut down, not to quit, so I quit taking them after a month. )

I’m so frazzled lately I can hardly focus. I read my resume over few times because the jobs I did in the 80s and early 90s? I wasn’t so sure I’d remember everything. I decided to enter 20 minutes before the interview because nerves+ cold drink= must pee. The woman at the entrance greeted me and I told her that I was there for an interview with ChefhHisName and could she please point me in the direction of the facilities? I was only in there for a few minutes and when I walked out the door ChefHisName thrust his hand out and shook mine vigorously. I had this moment of panic that maybe my hands weren’t all the way dry. Maybe there was some moisture between my fingers and he had felt that when he shook my hand. Another woman in a uniform met up with us as we walked toward the breakroom and I noticed how fast the employees were all moving and I realized that I have been out of the professional kitchen for a few years and my speed walk has turned into a saunter.

After we had all sat down the questions began. I had carefully thought this out beforehand so I would be ready with the “Why did you take a break from working?” to the “What is your best feature” and “What is your biggest flaw?” I’ve always hated the questions they ask in interviews. I know that you’re supposed to flip the answer around to a positive i.e. “I am a perfectionist” but I hate that shit. I had also researched the place online in case they asked me questions about it but this guy caught me off my guard by opening the interview with, “Why are you applying for this position? You are way overqualified.”

I told him that I was attracted to the schedule. It’s a Mon-Fri gig on the day shift. I mentioned that when I was baking it was 18-20 hours a day during the holidays and then I was lucky to get 20 hours a week during the off seasons. He seemed satisfied with that and after he had talked with me awhile he let the don’tcallmechefwoman ask me her questions. The whole thing was pretty quick. The chef said he’d like to cross train me so I could fill other stations and I said that was fine. We talked about wages and benefits and the fact that if I am a felon I might as let them know because they were going to run and background check and oh by the way you have to take a UA. I said that was fine and he said that as far as he was concerned he wanted to hire me right then and there but they still had two more people coming in so call Tuesday (tomorrow) morning and he will give the yes or no.

I don’t know why but I have been extremely nervous about it. I am nervous that I won’t get it, and nervous that I will. I have kept on searching just in case and I have felt frozen when it came to trying to write. I am worried that my back can’t do this type of work anymore and fretting because I don’t know how to do anything else.

That’s all for now. I just thought it might be helpful to jot this down as it’s something that is difficult for me, this going out into the real world and hoping that I can control my anxiety and depression enough so that neither of them will interfere with my ability to do my job . As much as I believe that the stigma surrounding mental illness needs to be lifted, I don’t want to be a spokesperson or a poster child for it in a work setting.

I have been asked, countless times now, to describe my depression. I was never able to articulate it. Today I was thinking about it as I loaded yet another load of soiled clothes into the washer and I remembered that line from John Irving’s amazing book “The World According To Garp” “Beware of the Undertoad”. It sums things up quite nicely. I feel as if I am being pulled under water. Sometimes I fight and fight when I feel this horrific sadness, this horrible weight wash over me, and still other times I just submit. There is comfort here anyway, in this sadness, in this fatigue.

I appreciate everyone who took the time to comment on my last entry. The one part that I left out was that the cousin I mentioned was this one, the one I had been so incredibly close to. I emailed him and he hasn’t answered back, although he wrote my mom to thank her for her hospitality. I think that if I was being completely honest with myself I would say that as much as I have missed him, I don’t want him to see me, not like this.

For those of you who can commiserate about the tendency to hide I am sorry. I wouldn’t wish this on another person. For those of you who thought that I wouldn’t be obviously mentally ill in person I guess it would depend on the day. I go up and down.

Jane asked about whether or not I was reluctant to work on my phobias and the only answer I could give is I am tired of working on it. I have had three doctor’s appointments in the last week alone. I am on a few more prescriptions so now I have an even longer list and I am starting to forget the names of the pills. I just make a little pile in the morning. I quit going to my psychiatrist awhile back. He was a nice man, but he spent most of the sessions telling me stories about his life and his mental illness. I was appreciative that he was open and honest about his life but he soon started to tell the same stories over and over and I would sit on the couch listening. My insurance pays for 20 visits in a 24 month period and I am afraid that I wasted them telling a man that I understood why he freaked out that one time and whipped his dog. I really didn’t understand but I didn’t know what to say to that one. I need to go through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy again. I did it in the 90s and I need to do it again, never mind how much I hated it, it helped in the end.

Spring break is over today and I dread waking the kids in the morning. I think they had fun. Nathan spent the majority of his time hanging out with his girlfriend, asleep, or on the phone. Polly went to a variety of sleepovers, as well as having a few girls stay the night here. That involved meeting some moms I hadn’t met before, and although I dreaded and fretted I made it through those meetings and they let their girls stay the night in my home so I must not have done too badly. I’ve noticed that I don’t know what to do with my hands when I am talking. I need to remember to wear something with pockets because sometimes my hands shake and seeing them shake makes me even more nervous.

We had Maggie spayed this week. She is recovering nicely. Except for her shaved belly and the strip of fur missing from her arm where they put the IV in you wouldn’t know it to look at her. The first day she was sore and very sleepy and now she is back to chasing cats and birds around with glee.

The 23^rd anniversary of my dad’s death passed on the 27^th. Unlike last year I didn’t write about my feelings. I did talk with him in my mind, but I do that everyday. I used to be so angry at him for leaving me. Now that I understand more how sick he was I will ask him how he made it to the age of 57, ‘cause I am 35 here and I don’t know how to keep going. I think though that I am selfish and egocentric. I want to create at least one masterpiece before I go. Just one.

When I first started this site I imagined that it was going to be my way of reaching out to others who were living with depression and panic disorder. I thought that having lived with these illnesses for so long I would have something to say that might help others. I quickly realized that in order for me to cope, to function, to move on, I couldn’t spend a lot of time focusing on my symptoms. I needed to get busy doing other things or I would exasperate my symptoms and trigger new ones.

One of the side effects I haven’t really been too keen on divulging to anyone is the guilt I feel at my inability to function properly in social situations. About a week and a half ago my mom called to let me know that one of my cousins would be stopping in Portland for the weekend on his trip around the globe. She also told me of some friends of the family who currently live in New York who would be here in April. Before the weekend, which has since passed, I began to fret. I first started fretting about my appearance. I imagined that I needed a haircut and something had to be done about my fingernails with the ragged cuticles and torn hangnails. Then I began to fret about my clothes. I pulled out my skirts and dresses from where they hang forgotten and dusty and tried each one on, fretting over dry cleaning and ironing and oh my god I am going to have to wear stockings and I need a new pair of shoes because my best pair is caked with mud because I am always outside with the dog, in the rain.

After I had perused a few websites looking for shoes I can’t afford I came to the conclusion that I also needed a new dress because everything I own is black, and I realized my cousin’s visit fell on Easter weekend and I wouldn’t look very spring like.

I found the perfect dress and the prefect shoes. I found a control undergarment that promised to flatten my not so flat belly and I started to calm down imagining myself entering the door of my mom’s house dressed in the pastel hue of a freshly dyed Easter egg with my hair freshly trimmed and my makeup carefully applied.

Later that evening as I was undressing for my shower I glanced in the mirror. My roots, they are so grown out. I realized then that I wasn’t going to be able to go until I had my highlights touched up. As I lathered myself in the shower I tallied up my mental purchases and came to the staggering sum of 500 dollars needed for me to feel comfortable enough to be seen. It was only when I was faced with the dollar sign that I knew I needed to step back and look at what was really bothering me.

What I came up with, after much personal reflection, was I was afraid to be seen by someone who hadn’t laid eyes on me in so many years not only because I have low self esteem about my physical exterior, although that doesn’t help, but because I have never been able to shake the suspicion that people can tell that I am mentally ill just by looking at me. I fear that they will know that I am in the midst of a panic attack. I fear loss of self control, creating a scene, having to flee the party but having no way to get out because I have arrived in someone else’s car.

I have heard countless times that when you have panic disorder your fight or flight response is skewed. I understand that, but my flight response only kicks in when I am away from home. My number one response is TO HIDE.

I tried to calm myself down in the days to come. I finally called my mom and told her that I would not be going. She protested heavily and ended by telling me that if I changed my mind I only had to call for a ride. As Saturday, the day of the party, approached my phone started ringing constantly. I let everything go to voicemail. My mom called and tried to convince me to go. Maria called and said, “I am here if you need someone to talk to.” I cried as I listened to her message because I knew she really meant it, but I didn’t call her back. Monica called and offered to come over and pick up my kids and take them to and from the party. I took her up on the offer because I didn’t want my kids to miss out because of me.

On Saturday my kids went and I stayed home. It was a beautiful day and I imagined everyone eating outside, my younger nieces and nephews running and playing in the grass. I spent the day with my puppy and my guilt. I thought about my sisters. Between them, they have been married three times. I missed all three weddings. I thought of the Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners I had avoided, of the birthday parties, the graduations, the school performances, the funerals I had skipped. I let myself think of all of these moments that I had hidden from and I let the shame wash over me. This is me, who I have let myself become.

When my kids came home clutching the gifts my cousin had brought with him from Australia Polly was filled with words about the day. She told me all about who was there and what they ate. She said over and over, “You should have come. It was so much fun. Why didn’t you come?” I couldn’t explain it to her in a way that she can understand now, at 12. She told me that everyone kept asking her where I was and why didn’t I come and it was then that I realized that by not coming I had brought more attention to myself than I would have by going.

I really wanted to be honest when I wrote this, even if I am opening myself up to ridicule. Yes, I know that my inability to function affects my children, my marriage and my extended family. I understand that my fear of driving has resulted in my family always planning on taking turns picking us up and dropping us off when the location of a family gathering is not bus friendly. I know all of this and so much more because even though I try to hide it way down deep I think of these things daily. I carry this shame and it is mine; I own it.