“If you want something that you’ve never had, you must do something that you’ve never done.”

I’ve had this quote in my head for weeks, maybe even for months now. I have been trying to use it as a personal mantra of sorts as I deal with the anxieties that going to college have stirred up in me. I don’t know who to attribute it to and I’m certain that isn’t the point.  I’ve spent my entire life believing that if I just worked harder I, and therefore we, would make it. I still think that there is a truth there, but what I am trying to change is what I am working harder at. I’ve had moments this summer,sitting in my math class staring at an algebraic formula on the board in front of me, when I’ve thought, “I was a really good baker. I should just go back to that.” I have to remind myself that my back isn’t going to make it another 30+ years in the food service industry. I have to remind myself that after my last job as a baker I ended up in a nuthouse. My mom hates it when I refer to that time of my life in such a way. Somehow psychiatric hospital is okay with her, but nuthouse, or looney bin is not. I tried to explain to her that I needed to look back on my past with a sense of humor.

The last time that I was called up to the board to solve a problem in front of a class it was chalk I held in my hand. I could sit here and blame my brilliant mathematician father for creating a math phobia in me so deep that certain words my teacher uses trigger panic attacks, or, even better, the feeling that I am going to shit myself. That’s how much math scares me! It’s tied into my goddamn bowels, not that I’ve shit myself yet, but my stomach gets sick. Blaming my dad, or wearing the victim t-shirt, as I’ve come to think of it, hasn’t gotten me very far in life at all.

Defining courage is relative, but for me this summer it has been continuing to go to class everyday. It has been studying when I feel like crying, or napping, doing my homework even when I think I am writing down the wrong answers, and resisting the urge to run out of the classroom in the middle of a test.

If financial aid and possibly a student loan pan out I hope to be able to attend full time in the fall. I have ideas as far as what program I wish to get a certificate in, mostly careers in the medical field that have a high demand, decent pay and benefits, and a reduced potential for continuing to exacerbate my back problems, if that’s at all possible. A lot of these programs are already full of students who got their asses in gear earlier in the year than I did. I’m just going to continue to enroll in classes that will be applicable as prerequisites no matter which path I choose. In that new agey way of speaking I loathe, I believe that if I just keep trying I will find my way. Also, just to brag slightly because I want to, my math teacher told me that I was at a B+ the last time that I checked in with him, and since then I’ve handed in one homework assignment that I got 100% on, and taken an exam that I got an A on, so that puts me at, hell I don’t know, now. I’m doing fine is my point.

1993: I sat across from my psychiatrist. She never wore the same shoes twice. She asked me a lot of questions about my childhood. She asked me if I’d ever thought of harming my son in any way. I was horrified by the thought of hurting my baby boy. It had never occurred to me. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Tammy, what you need to realize is that your life will never be as bad as it was when you were a child.” I nodded, but I didn’t believe her. She was my psychiatrist for years. She was the only one I ever told about the times my dad tried to kill us.

1985: He was trying to kill my mom and us kids. My mom took us and fled. My brother refused to leave. We hid in a trailer. Dad killed himself in the basement of our house. When we drove up the driveway to the house that morning I already knew. I’d tossed and turned all night having dreams where I was choking to death. The threat to my life was over, but I kept seeing him around town. There he was walking down the sidewalks, there’s his face on a bus going by, oh shit and he’s that man in the store. He was everywhere. I started to feel him behind me when I was loading clothes into the washing machine. I would close my eyes and run. My mom came home from work and scolded me for leaving the lid up and the washer half full of clothes. The water was cold by then. I told her that I had to run from the basement and that I was sorry. She hugged me. She bought a new house. I wanted to ask the other five who had survived with me if they saw him but I didn’t.

2009 Mother’s Day: I am sick in bed, shaking with fear, unable to go to work. I can’t get my valium refill. The doctor says he faxed it in and the pharmacy says they never received it. Alex holds me and wishes me a happy mother’s day. “Probably your best yet, huh?” I couldn’t laugh at his joke then but he tries to remain lighthearted when I am in extreme distress. He recommends that I have a shot of Jack Daniels to calm me down. I refuse. I am afraid that it will trigger an alcohol binge.

The following Wednesday, I am sitting in front of a new psychiatrist. He asks me what happened the weekend prior. I try to explain about the panic attack I can’t stop. He bumps Effexor to 300mg and Valium to 30 mg. He adds Trazadone. He spends an hour with me and tells me I have post traumatic stress disorder, panic disorder, and severe depression that is medication resistant. He snaps my file shut, ready to go, but before he stands he looks at me and says, “If you ever find yourself out of valium again and going into withdrawals, drink some alcohol. It acts on the same part of the brain that valium does. Don’t you go telling anyone your doctor told you to get wasted.” We shake hands. I make a mental note to tell Alex he was right.

I spent some time in the lock down facility. I am panicked the whole time I am on that floor because there is no escape. Only the employees carry key cards. The doctor who gives me a physical tries to make jokes. I can’t laugh. I am trying to behave in a way that will get me out of the lock down floor. For whatever reason, the severe psychiatric patients are locked down with the drug addicts going through their withdrawals.  They are so sick: some pacing and shaking, others vomiting into garbage bins, there is crying and face picking and wails I will never forget. I can’t drink water without supervision and I am watched as I piss. I wonder if I could break through a window and jump out. I want to be outside in the freeway polluted air, smoking a Camel filter. I pretend I am doing research for a novel. I sit still and observe. I want my cell phone back. I want to go home. Dr. Joke asks me how I am doing and I tell him it’s not like I thought it would be. I joke that I am looking around for the table with Jack Nicholson and Danny DeVito playing cards. He says those days are long gone. He asks me if I have ever thought of hurting myself or anyone else. I lie when I say no. I have to sign a contract that if they let me move to outpatient I won’t hurt myself or anyone else. I don’t tell him that I imagine jumping in front of every fast moving vehicle I see. When I am finally set free they put me in outpatient loony bin. I am escorted out by card carrying scrub wearing men.

I am assigned a therapist. They take me to him. He is nice. He already has my file. He asks me if I’ve ever been raped or molested. I ask him if I can go home early. He sighs and says it’s time for lunch. I get into the line and wait. Sugar and caffeine are forbidden. People nibble candy from their purses and pockets; fill water bottles with coke or coffee. It’s finally my turn. I take my cucumber sandwich and sit at a large table. They have little packets of mustard and mayo, but plastic knives and forks are forbidden. I find that amusing. The groups of people sitting around me are talking about work as I choke down my sandwich with warm water. They are comparing notes on patients and discussing how to care for the nonverbal ones. I realize I have sat down at the employee table and try to eat faster. I have 15 minutes until I have to be back from lunch. Smoking is prohibited. I throw away my paper plate .I walk through the door right in front of the woman at the front desk and exit. I walk until I am standing over the freeway overpass and smoke as much as I can. It would be a perfect place to jump. I imagine my body down there, splat.

When I return to the building, room 2, I sit at the table ready for the class to begin. Some of the people I had eaten lunch next to come in and take their seats. They are not employees after all, they are patients like me. There are other patients in the chairs surrounding me. Some have their mouths wide open and the saliva runs down their chins and onto their shirts. Some patients are so drugged their heads fall over and smack the table, startling me. The therapists try to talk to us in calm tones, asking the ones who keep nodding off to please try to stay awake.
There is a woman in the corner reading Twilight with her headphones on full blast. The therapists try to remove them and bring her out of the corner and into the group. It’s a no go. She needs the music to drown out the voices in her head. She said they are telling her to do bad things. I close my eyes and thank the sky that I am not that sick. There is an elderly woman who sits at the front of the class surrounded by bags. I find out over the course of weeks that she believes the feds are watching her and that they will come into her apartment and steal all of her belongings while she’s gone. That is why she must bag them up and bring them with her. Her diaper leaks sometimes. No one says anything about it. Psychiatric facilities involve a lot more body fluid than I’d imagined. I carry hand sanitizer.

When I do my one on one time with my therapist I ask him about all of the patients who are nurses, CNAs, LMTs etc. He says that those in the care giving industry are statistically number one on the list of people who seek help there, followed by teachers, and then insurance salesmen. I laughed, just about the insurance salesmen part. I ask him where and how the doctors go for treatment. He pauses for awhile before telling me that they go to hospitals outside of the one that they work for, and that they don’t identify themselves as doctors during the group sessions.
As the days go on I start to like the structure there. I start to worry about some of the patients when they don’t show up for a day or two. There is a woman with trickatilamania who sits across from me. Once, when I was speaking during group, she announced that my voice is a trigger for her. She asks them to stop me from speaking. I hate her suddenly; her head a pattern of long curly hair and softball sized bald spots. I over think why my voice would be a trigger. She cries a lot and lets the snot run free. There are tissues everywhere in the room. I don’t know where I fit in.

I encourage a few others I feel comfortable with to come out and smoke with me on the lunch break. After a few weeks more and more patients are there now. There is a tiny little 20 years old girl with two babies at home. She likes to spread out on the grass and close her eyes to the sun. She came to the treatment center from the hospital where she was treated for a suicide attempt. She wears the tiniest outfits, little halter tops and shorts, overall shorts with no top underneath. Her arms and legs are covered in scars; fresh bloody cuts over old purple skin where she had started to heal. She tells me that they have taken all of her meds away now that she had tried to OD. I want to hug her but I don’t. I have never seen someone with that many cuts on their body in my life. I talk to her about ways to take care of herself while taking care of her babies. I bring her a recipe for edible play dough she can make with her kids. She offers me a hook up on the opium poppy seeds she’s been buying. I just laugh.

There are a few patients who swap their pills with others, the smell of marijuana hangs in the air and that guy named Josh under the tree there is smoking heroin. I can’t imagine that a group of us who have decided to have our lunch outside goes unnoticed but it’s never mentioned inside the hospital. I crave coffee but since it’s forbidden inside the building I sometimes walk around to the little corner shop and buy a cup. It’s nasty but I chug it hot, just trying to get something into me to make it through the rest of the day. I wonder if I’ll ever be OK and what OK is.

There is a pregnant woman in the program. She dresses up each day in patterned thrift store dresses, stockings and heels. She makes no attempt to hide the track marks on her arms. She smokes Marlboro Reds and talks in the group about wanting to get sober before her baby comes. She is six months pregnant. She’s always asking people for things: a piece of paper, a pen, an Advil. She deals drugs to some of the other patients. I recognize it immediately because I used to be part of that world and I’d recognize the drug/money pass off anywhere.
I am standing alone during lunch on a sunny day, not far from where Josh sits with his rolled up tinfoil smoking heroin, when she approaches me. “Do you have a tampon?” she asks. I immediately dig into my purse and pull one out for her, but as I do I can’t help but look at her swollen stomach. “Are you bleeding? You should call your OB/GYN.”I say.  “Nah”, she answers, “This is my ninth pregnancy. I’ve had eight miscarriages already so I’m sure everything is fine.” She staggers away on her high heels, the backs of her feet covered in Band-Aids. I remind myself once again that I am not the doctor here. I am a patient. I try not to judge her, but I do.

With my insurance running out I begin to feel more pressure to be better. In a private one on one with my therapist he asks me if I am starting to feel the effect of the doctor doubling my Effexor. “I am beginning to think”, I spit out, “that this quest for happiness is bullshit.” He looks taken aback and he comments that I seem irritable. I look at him sitting there calmly and I tell him the conclusion I’ve come to, “I think that life is just a series of hrumph moments, sometimes punctuated by joy, or sadness, in varying degrees.”
He looks at me for awhile before smiling. “Tammy, you just described life.” It hadn’t occurred to me before that this could be true. I had imagined that most people were happy most of the time, with a few ho hums bits and grief only on occasion. “So how do I get there?” I wanted to go from the constant sadness to the ho hum. He didn’t really have an answer. When I left that day I didn’t know it would be for the last time. I made the decision the following morning that I had learned all that I could there. The medical bills piled up.

December 23, 2009: I sit in front of my psychiatrist. He asks me how I have been feeling and I try to explain that going through the physical therapy has brought up a lot of old memories and emotions. Taking the huge step of wearing a bathing suit and getting into the pool at the hospital every week was hard, but I did it. I tell him that I joined a book group and that I am now attending family functions instead of hiding at home. I think that this is all good news, but he wants to know what I have been doing about getting enrolled in college. “You’re not twenty anymore, but you’re not sixty either. You still have time.” I can’t explain to him that I want someone to take me there and stay by my side as I go through the process of enrollment. I can admit to him that I am scared that I am going to fail. “You’re not going to fail.” His response surprises me. I wonder where it comes from. Is it because he makes $300 per hour to talk to me? Is it because he been seeing me for over a year and he really believes that I can do it?

I know that our time is running short so I ask him the question that has been weighing heavily on my mind for most of my life. “Do I have to go through life feeling so incredibly sad all of the time?” He responds that it is not normal for someone to feel sad most of the time, as I do. He suggests adding another medication to my list, a tricyclic antidepressant, checking back with me in a month, and if I’m still feeling so sad adding a drug called Abilify. I want to ask him if he could prescribe something with a weight loss side effect as well as a daytime boost of energy, but the timing seems wrong. I thank him and leave.

I see my dad riding with me in the elevator down to the first floor. He’s not stuck at 57 this time. This is what I imagine he might have looked like had he lived. He has shrunk in size and has difficulty walking. I think about that and feel no rage against him. He would be approaching his 82 birthday. In my mind I want to believe in God and in a place where people who die go and spend eternity in peace. I don’t believe it. I want to believe that maybe my dad is now my guardian angel. Before I take the two hour bus ride home I go to the chapel in the hospital and sit in silence for awhile. I feel empty but calm. I feel stronger.
I imagined that 2009 would be the date on my death certificate. Now it feels like more of a rebirth. I have no idea what’s ahead but I feel ready.

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.

Thanks everyone. You are wonderful, all of you. I am feeling better. There was only the option of going even lower than I was when I wrote that last post, and I’ve been there and hope to never return, or getting better, and I managed to pull myself up to functional. My Doctor added a new med after my appointment with him on Monday. Right now I just feel tired, but I am no longer suicidal. I don’t think I’ve often spoke here about my suicidal ideation. I know what suicide does to those left behind, but it still exists inside my head as a plan B, or C, or D… I am still working on trying to stop that.

I just wanted to check in in case anyone was worried. Today was Polly’s 1st day of high school so she wants to whine about how much she hates it and Nathan got a PT job at a pizza place, so he is at the hospital right now taking a UA. I asked him if he was going to pass, just in case, and he laughed and said he hasn’t smoked pot in years. WTF? He’s 17. I think he was joking with me. Anyway, you have to pee clean to make pizza. I am proud of him for getting the job. He has been looking for a while and was starting to get down. Unemployment is around 12% here so it’s tough.

I’m off to get dinner started and really, thank you all again. It meant a lot to read your comments.

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.

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.

These ten basics are the foundation of the treatment program that I recently took part in at a local hospital. I thought that they might be useful to other readers, so I am typing them up to post here. To hopefully avoid any confusion I’ll type my words in italics, and those from the hospital in regular font. Oh, how I wish we owned a scanner. Here goes.

Good Food: 3-6 small, healthy meals per day help your brain keep a steady pace to support positive impact of medications, ease side effects, supports clear thinking, concentration, memory and problem solving
Do not use alcohol, or other non-prescribed mind or mood altering substances of any kind. Keep your intake of caffeine and refined sugars to a minimum.

Good Sleep: Keep a regular sleep schedule with a soothing pre-sleep routine, no PM caffeine and no naps.

Meds & B Vitamins: Take medications as prescribed. Let your doctor know if you have troublesome side effects, or if, after a reasonable time, the medications don’t seem to help. Take a time release Multiple B vitamin with breakfast or lunch to increase energy and help build neurotransmitters. (Make sure it’s time release, otherwise you just get a single burst of energy that won’t last throughout the day.)

Laughter: Whether you feel like it or not, enjoy it or not- do something that makes you smile or laugh.
Relaxation:  Relaxation is the best antidote to anxiety. Any activity that slows breath, calm the mind, relaxes muscles, and lets your heart rate slow. Guided visualization, slow, calm breathing, listening to relaxation tapes or music, etc. Several times a day, practice the skill of relaxation.

Relaxation: Relaxation is the best antidote to anxiety. Any activity that slows breath, calm the mind, relaxes muscles, and lets your heart rate slow. Guided visualization, slow, calm breathing, listening to relaxation tapes or music, etc. Several times a day, practice the skill of relaxation.

Exercise: 15-30 minutes a day, move in ways that work your heart, muscles & lungs-walk, run, stretch, bike, swim, dance, lift weights, do yoga, etc.

Affirmations/Positive Self Talk (“Cognitive Exercise”): Consciously and consistently give yourself credit; acknowledge the hard work you’re doing, say affirmations. Encourage yourself, catch and challenge thinking errors with rational truths. (Some of the references here are things you would learn more about in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Most of us have been doing what is referred to as thinking errors for so long, and so frequently, that we might not even be aware of it. An example is thinking that you are a failure or that you are never going to get better. An affirmation doesn’t have to be some new agey statement that you cringe while reading. I used, “This too shall pass” when I was having panic attacks or anxiety, or even, “I’ll feel better in 15 minutes”. Putting some sort of time limit on how long I was going to be that uncomfortable helps me. I also used a lyric from a John Lennon song because it was easy for me to let it flow through my brain, even if I didn’t believe it every time, “Every day in every way, It’s getting better and better”)

Spirituality: If religious faith or spiritual practice has ever been an important part of your life, don’t neglect it now. Every day do what feeds your spirit. (I had actually forgotten that I was in a Catholic hospital until this one was read to me. Being someone who went to church 6 days a week as a child and went through 9 years of Catholic school only to run away from the Catholic church as fast as I could when my Dad died I must admit my first thought was ,”Oh Shit!” I thought they were going to get really preachy with us but they never did and I realized that it was OK for me to “feed my spirit” in other ways, so to speak.)

Journal: Every day take a few minutes 5-15 to put your thoughts and feelings down on paper.

Reach Out: Connect with others; resist the tendency to isolate; ask for, and accept, support from others.
Track your progress! Be sure to add anything that is important for YOUR recovery every day, but might not be on someone else’s list of basics…assertiveness, sobriety, etc.

OK. Me again. One thing that I learned to do, even though it wasn’t listed, was to get up and take a shower everyday and prepare myself as if I was leaving the house, even if I wasn’t. I got dressed, did my hair, even put on a little makeup. It made me feel a little bit better about myself and I found I was less likely to just crawl back into bed if I was dressed. Now I’ll be the first to admit that in the state I was in when I first entered the hospital I received all of this information, went home, and promptly took a nap. Part of the program, in the first few weeks at least, is working closely on how to follow the basics. The basics are simply a list of things to do that help you learn how to take care of yourself. Hey, look at me! I am 36 and I don’t know how to take care of myself! Sad, but true.

The list was overwhelming to me and having a morning check in daily where I had to speak out loud in front of a group of strangers regarding how I had done made me want to leave. I decided to start with three of the basics: Good Food, Good Sleep, Meds and Vitamin B. After that it was easier to take a walk, or work in my garden, or to spend time learning how to relax. Laughter came at unexpected moments, such as the morning when one of the therapists asked a new guy how he had done the night before and new guy responded, “Great. I spent the night with my good buddy Jim Beam, and then I passed out in my chair and slept for ten hours.” “Oh, how wonderful”, she responded, “you reached out to a friend and you slept well, two important basics!”

I didn’t expect the laughter, it just burst forward and I had to swallow it down. For the record it’s not funny that he got drunk on Bourbon and passed out in a chair, it was just the way it went over her head and she complimented him for it. Maybe you had to be there.

Anyway, I hope some of this helps someone. I have now graduated from the program and I feel that the daily structure was something that I needed. My graduation was brought about by my insurance company refusing to pay anymore but I am grateful for the time that I had there. I did a lot of notebook journaling both while I was there and on the buses to and from and I’d like to post some of that here to. I am moving onward, to where, I don’t know. I don’t feel as anxious as I was. I am truly trying to take it one day at a time. I am still hoping to go to college. I went over to my sister Maria’s house last week and she helped me fill out the forms for financial aid.
I don’t know what I want to study yet, but I want to help others, that I do know. If I can do that now through this site, that would be pretty cool too.

“Dying is easy it’s living that scares me to death.” Annie Lennox -Cold

I am still in treatment, although not with anyone who can act as if he cares as well as Gabriel Bryne does; I am doing better some days, worse other days. It’s frustrating and it is always in my mind that I should be able to work, that sitting around in a hospital doing what I have started to refer to as going to college feels incredibly selfish at times. Now, feelings aren’t facts. I do know that much. But what do I have left?

I shall continue. I wanted to say thank you again for the love and support I have received from you all. I know I owe some emails and I will as soon as I can. Tomorrow there is a Farmer’s Market not a long walk from my house. I am going to try to go, and let that be OK. Just the trying.

I baked at home yesterday and it was lots of fun. I made a large rhubarb coffee cake and two loaves of rye bread. It’s been awhile since I really felt like baking at home. I am still planting seeds in my garden. Several people have said it’s too late but whatever. I have been finding seed packets around the house as I try to clean and get more organized and I don’t care if they’re expired. They grow, or they don’t grow. I’m fine either way.

Oregon State Hospital

The number one thing that I wish to say is that the kindness and support I’ve received here from my readers has meant so much to me. I printed out the comments and I carry them with me one the bus to and from the hospital. I am still struggling with agoraphobia, depression and panic disorder, so it helps me to have something to pull out and read when things feel helpless.

Number two, and this one was perhaps the hardest for me, was that I have recognized that I am very sick at this time and so I made the decision to ask Alex to place a paypal donate button on the sidebar. A few people have offered assistance and I have been hesitant to ask for help. I am trying to remember how good it feels for me to give and that others might feel the same. I am on FMLA right now with no concrete date as to when I’ll be well enough to work again. I went ahead with the application process for social security disability with the help of my therapist. The process takes 3-5 months and there is no guarantee that I’ll be approved. If anyone is willing and able to donate it would be greatly appreciated and I can promise that I will spend my life paying it forward.

I understand now my Mom’s comments about me being brave, and of her being proud. My Mom dedicated her life to various care giving jobs. She spent some time working as a CNA at the Oregon State Hospital, the building where One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest was filmed, and I realized that I’ve never really talked to her about that job. I used to think that was cool when I was a teenager, the fact that she worked in an insane asylum, but I am guessing that it was as far from cool as a job could be.

The treatment program I am in at a hospital here in Portland is the hardest thing that I have ever done. The primary focus at this stage is for the patients to work on the basics, a list of ten things to do to help us deal with our mental illness. I’ll type them out here later in case they might be useful for anyone else. It is a fairly simple list of ways in which we are to take care of ourselves i.e. eating frequent small meals, getting sufficient sleep, practicing different methods of relaxation etc. I imagine that this list is common knowledge for many people, but I never learned how to take care of myself and my coping mechanisms have been mainly self destructive my entire life. There are psychiatrists to diagnose and prescribe medications, but most of the one on one time is spent with the counselor we are appointed. The counselor comes up with a list of classes that he/she feels will be the most beneficial and we use these schedules to move from room to room as the hands on the clocks dictate. There are also group therapy sessions. It is heartbreaking seeing so many people suffering, and it is in my nature to want to reach out and help them. I have to remind myself that I am a patient there too, and that there is a staff to help them. I can offer up a few supportive words or even just a nod to acknowledge that I understand what they are saying . I also find myself moving the tissue box closer when someone breaks down and weeps because the first few days I was in there I ended up in tears several times, and no one should have to cry into their hands while a circle of strangers watches.

My mood goes up and down. I think that I am feeling better and then I find myself slipping again and it is disheartening. I am trying to recognize that this is a process. There are certain things that are off limits for discussion during groups. Vague references to past abuse are allowed, but no dwelling and no details. Admitting, for example, that you have a problem with self harm, such as cutting, is allowed, but no graphic details. It is believed that words such as those I describe can be triggering for the other patients. Some of the counselors will allow you to speak to them privately about past abuse, others believe that although it is normal for these memories to resurface , that they are not to be dealt with now as we are supposed to be focusing on the here and now and learning how to care for ourselves. I like my counselor. He is easy to talk to and very supportive.

My future is unwritten and that is OK. I am trying to realize that it’s not too late and that it  is actually a sign of strength for me to get up everyday and to try again rather than hiding in my house, or trying to escape by sleeping too much, or by trying to numb the pain with drugs and alcohol.

Thank you.

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.