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.

I have been examined by two doctors in the last week. Go ahead and skip this entry if it’s boring to read; I understand.

My back was examined by a specialist. I had to remove all of my clothes and get into one of those gowns with the ties in the back. I wanted to sneak into the cupboard and grab another gown after the nurse left and before the doctor came. I like to wear two, one covering my front, one covering my back. Doctors do not like it when you do this but it makes me feel more comfortable. I realized that I was going to have to let it all hang out as the pain is low, down into my buttocks even. Every time I think of the word buttocks I think of it the way Forrest Gump pronounced it. I left my socks on because it made me feel better wearing them.

The doctor did an exam that consisted of pressing on different parts of me and asking me what hurt. He checked my reflexes and touched me in different places by running his finger across my skin on one side and then the other and asking me if both sides felt the same. He ended up leaning over and pulling off my socks because he needed to check my feet too. I felt like a stupid child for having left them on.

Because I was able to pinpoint the exact spot that hurts so severely he deduced that I probably injured my Sacroiliac Joint. He also thought that it might me two other things, but I can’t really remember the second one because at that moment he was lifting my legs up as I lied on my back. He kept commenting on how tight my muscles are. I was trying to position myself so that I wasn’t exposing myself fully. He said something about possible nerve damage. His third guess was a herniated disk. I asked if I could have an MRI to find out more, but he said that my insurance won’t cover it because I present no signs of neurological symptoms. Basically he said that he was going to treat me for an injury to my Sacroiliac Joint and see if that works. If that doesn’t work he’ll try something else. He also recommended physical therapy once a week. He prescribed several medications. I have to follow up with him in two weeks. I thought of something my grandfather said, “They call it medical practice for a reason.”

I saw my primary care physician later. She told me that she is uncomfortable with my current anxiety level and I said, “If you’re uncomfortable, imagine how I feel.” She put my Paxil up to the highest level you can get and then added in some more prescriptions.

I remembered this one time I was watching “Breaking Bonaduce” and he said that he took enough pills a day to get full from them. I thought it was funny in a sad way and now I am swallowing piles of meds, some of them I have to take three capsules three times a day. The good news is that I am practically pain free except for first thing in the morning. The bad news is that I am so tired, and I am having a hard time forming my thoughts into words and writing them.

I am often tempted to go off the medications all together but I have to remember that I relapse every time. I don’t want to live this way, but the alternative is even worse. I am working on another entry; it’s just taking longer than usual. I thought I would post this update for the people who kindly emailed and asked how I am doing. Thank you to everyone who took the time to email. I was very touched by that.

Hopefully I’ll be able to clear my foggy brain and put together something else to write about besides pills and pain soon.

Thank you for your responses to my latest query. I saw a little of myself in everyone’s comments. I especially enjoyed the vision of Cynthea’s husband carefully selecting his coins for each day.

I realized lately that I can learn a lot about where I am presently at with my anxiety level based on which bag I select to leave the house with. I have a large Timbuktu messenger bag that holds everything I need and then some, a medium size Kipling bag that holds everything that I need but not some of the stranger things I feel that I must have when I am particularly panic ridden, i.e. a complete change of clothes, a large water bottle, several different choices of reading material etc., and a small purse from The Sak that is tiny but if I am feeling very good and not so dependent I can tuck in ID and bank card, cash and coins, lipgloss (I have a thing for lipgloss, especially the sets. I can never have enough varieties and when I flip through the Sephora catalog I go crazy with lust for the sets of different colors), keys, cell phone, cigarettes and a lighter. I am Goldilocks and the three bags, but it depends on the day which one is just right.

Basically my number one security item is the Klonopin tablets that I photographed for the header of this site, although the pills pictured are .5 mg and I am now carrying 1mg. tablets; they are green. I always carry these in the pill holder Alex bought me and I keep them in my pocket. I have had my purse stolen three times ,so when I select a purse for purchase it must have a long strap so I can wear it over my head. The purse snatching might sound alarming but the first two times it happened were a direct result of me being out in public and under the influence of death-be-awaiting quantities of alcohol and drugs. I was wasted to the point that people were able to rob me and I didn’t notice until later. I blame myself for those incidents.

The third time I was preparing to leave the house for the first time with two children instead of just Nathan. I was a bit daunted by all that I had to carry for a simple trip to the store. I had Polly’s diaper bag packed; Polly was in her infant carrier; Nathan was ready to go. I carried out the diaper bag and my purse and set them on the swing on the front porch and then went back inside to get the kids. When I came out my purse was gone. I was so stunned I sat down on the front steps and just stared at the sidewalk as Nathan ran back and forth asking when we were leaving. Not even 15 minutes passed before a young man approached my house, looking from my ID card up at the numbers on the houses.

The man spoke. “I was walking by the empty lot around the corner and I saw a purse with things strewn out everywhere. I collected the items and followed the address to return the purse.” His voice seemed shaky and I felt bewildered until he said, “I, um, saw your, um, things, um, everywhere, and I, um, picked them all up for you.” I was confused until I realized that I was still bleeding from Polly’s birth. I had shoved a large quantity of pads into my purse and he felt uncomfortable calling them by name. He probably felt uncomfortable picking them up too, but he did it. I felt embarrassed that he knew. I thanked him and smiled, relief washing over me as I realized I wouldn’t have to replace all of my cards. I wondered if I was supposed to offer him some sort of award or something but he just asked me if I was OK and walked away when I said I was.

That morning when I was getting ready I had shoved $200 I was planning on bringing with me to the store into the pocket of my jeans. I don’t know why I did that because usually I placed it in my purse. This was 1995, before Alex and I started relying on debit cards and only carrying small amounts of cash. The thief had gained about two dollars in coins for their efforts. I imagined this person throwing super sized maxi pads around in anger. I gathered my things and went to the store as planned. I never felt the same about my front porch again, realizing that someone could and would travel the fourteen stairs to steal something from me in less than two minutes. I imagined them waiting, watching for me to slip up again, but I didn’t know where they were hiding. I just knew that they were out there, somewhere.

A few years back whilst at work, I was operating a dough sheeter to roll out puff pastry. The sheeter was located next to the time clock, so I often had constant streams of people asking me who was punched in, who was out, who was on lunch etc. I found it irritating, to say the least, and I really only attempted to answer truthfully if a supervisor asked. On this particular day a young man approached, walking with difficulty. I had seen a coworker get his hand caught in the sheeter, fracturing several fingers, so I merely used my peripheral vision to glance quickly. I figured he was a visitor, perhaps a relative of an employee. When he made it to the cards and reached for one I remained silent as it took him fifteen minutes to grasp his card and drop it in the slot. The whole time was agonizing. He said nothing, but I wondered if I should offer assistance. As I rubbed the dough down with more flour and checked its thickness I glanced at him again. From the way he held his hands and his walk it appeared to me that he had cerebral palsy.

Hours later when my supervisor and I had time to slip out back for a quick smoke break I asked her who he was. She explained that his name was Ben and he worked in a separate part of the buildings. Our paths had never crossed before because we worked opposing shifts, but with the upcoming holiday everyone was on overtime. I wondered aloud to her what job he could do as his hands were practically frozen at his chest and his gait suggested wheelchair needed more than high volume, fast paced production work. She exhaled a long stream of smoke, smashed out her cigarette, and said his parents were friends with the owners. I nodded.

As the days went by I was introduced to him and we started doing the hi and the bye and the have a nice day. When bread roll season arrived he started hanging around my area at the moment I was racking up the rolls and rolling them to the cooling area. The kid had a good nose and an affinity for fresh from the oven bread. Even though I had been sternly warned by the owner about the employees eating the profits and instructed to make anyone who asked for one to produce a receipt I turned a blind eye to Ben’s sneaky fingers. He started smiling a lot in my direction.

Soon after, pie season hit its peak and I struggled to keep up. When the orders hit the thousands I was promised a helper. There I was, filling and topping pies, when who should appear but Ben. I had trained several women to make pies before Ben and I told them to try to keep my pace. I could fill, top, egg wash and sugar a pie in 45-60 seconds. To Ben I just showed him the steps and let him try. So much egg wash, intended for the lip of the bottom crust, ended up in the fruit filling while he was trying to work the pastry brush that I feared he was turning them to quiche. After a few hours I had him sprinkle the sanding sugar for me while I did the other steps. He was quite chatty, rather smiley, and I found myself liking having him around just to help the hours fly by.

Soon he was in my station everyday. He told me his life story, in a way, but he never mentioned his disability. I did my breathing exercises through the panic attacks that kept washing over me while I worked and smiled at his jokes, funny or no. At some point, as it always has when I’ve worked side by side with anyone for awhile, the topic turned to sex. He admitted that at 24 he was still a virgin and had never even had a date, let alone a girlfriend. When he said that he would probably never get laid, not ever, I looked up from my work as he tried to push his glasses up off of his nose, leaving a slimy smear of egg and course sugar across his face. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” I told him, “If I was single and younger I’d totally go out with you.” His smile lit up his whole face and I felt good to have made him smile. He was a nice guy and I wondered to myself if I knew anyone I could set him up with.

I thought that I had handled myself well until the other bakers started teasing me about my new boyfriend. Apparently, Ben had mentioned my comment about how I said I would date him, only he substituted the word “fuck” for “date”. I was mad at Ben and shocked for a moment until my coworkers started talking about how Ben couldn’t even get a pity fuck and he was destined to remain a virgin unless he hired a prostitute and paid big.

“You didn’t really mean that you would fuck him, did ya?” they asked me. I decided that I needed to put an end to this so I selected my words carefully. “How do you know I haven’t already?” The whole kitchen erupted into laughter, hoots and hollers.

Later as I was pulling off my hair net and tugging on my coat I saw Ben again. This time he was with the other guys and they were teasing him about me and slapping him on the back. His eyes met mine and he waited for that instant, his eyes shifty, nervous. I smiled at him and winked as I left the building.

I awoke Sunday morning to Maggie’s cold nose gently prodding me, this is her way of saying, “Hey get up! I need to go pee.” It was around 6:30. After she had been outside and I had brought her in to prepare her breakfast I remembered that I was out of coffee filters. I was thinking about using a paper towel and cursing myself for not buying one of those reusable coffee filters when I realized that it was so cold in the house I could barely stand it. I went and turned the thermostat on 68 and eyed the couch. Maggie jumped onto it and curled herself into a circle. I decided to join her with a blanket and snuggle up until the house warmed up. Of course I fell asleep.

A few hours later there was a furious banging on the front door. Maggie was barking and spinning in circles and in my confusion I thought that it must be the mailman delivering a package. I always think that I am getting a package, even on Sundays, because I am self centered that way. I stumbled to the window to peek out; I am a paranoid sort who doesn’t open the front door often. I saw my next door neighbor with her two little girls. At this point she was screaming, “911! 911! 911!” I opened the door and she yelled, “Our house is on fire! It started in the basement and it’s spreading to your house. Evacuate now!” I don’t remember what I said to her. I slammed the door in her face and ran to Polly’s door and pounded at it yelling for her to get dressed and get outside. Next I ran to Nathan’s door and did the same thing.

My kids used to ask me if there were a fire in our house and I could only rescue one of them, which one would I rescue. I hate questions like that; there’s no way for a mother to answer them. I always stated that I would rescue them both. The truth was I always knew that it would be Polly who would need to be rescued and she proved that yesterday morning by following me around the house asking questions. “Why do I have to get out of the house? What about the cats; where are the cats? What is happening?” Nathan listened to my instructions clearly without questions. I ran upstairs to wake Alex. He had worked the graveyard shift the night before and was fast asleep in our bed. “Get up!” I told him, “The neighbor’s house is on fire and they say it’s heading for our house!”

He mumbled, “Why do we have to live next door to such stupid fucking people?” and slowly rose from our bed and sauntered out of the room. I was confused and having a panic attack and I literally spun around in a circle trying to figure out what to wear. Not in that “I have a job interview way”, but in the “I am wearing a nightgown what should I do?” way. I pulled on a pair of sweats underneath my nightgown, thinking that was faster than taking everything off and starting over. I grabbed my coat and saw Alex peeking out the window. He was quite literally sauntering around. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t running. “You need to calm down”, he said. I grabbed my purse thinking it had everything I needed, money, bank cards, cell phone, cigarettes, tampons, lipgloss, medication for a major panic attack…

We all ended up on the sidewalk in front of our houses, waiting. Alex looked around for flames and sniffed for smoke. My neighbor is chatty under any circumstances; a fire is a whole new world of talk. Speaking a mile a minute she blurted out that she loaded her dryer, turned it on, later smelled smoke and went to her basement to see that her fuse box was on fire. I reassure her that she did the right thing. Her mom walks out of the house, comments dryly on the fact that the fire engines are taking so long, saying, “It’s a good thing the house isn’t on fire or anything.”

I laugh, too loudly. I wonder if it’s OK to smoke while the neighbor’s house is on fire. I finally break down and pull one out. My neighbor sighs, “Oh thank god. Can I have one?” We all light up, except the kids.

The fire engines finally pull up, no sirens. Maybe sirens are reserved for those who live in nicer neighborhoods? Once things are clearly under control my neighbor apologizes for beating on my door like that. “I really thought that it was going to spread to your house!” “It’s OK”, I try to reassure her.

Back inside my house Nathan goes back to bed. Polly goes to pour herself cereal in the kitchen, and Alex is wide awake. Waking up someone who works graveyard is always a difficult call, but I thought that this time was easy. It didn’t even occur to me not to wake him. He asks me, “Did you look out the window before you woke everyone?”

Of course I didn’t! I was thinking that time was of the essence, for fuck’s sake.

Alex asks me if the neighbor’s husband was home. “No, he wasn’t” I remember her mentioning that he was out of town. “If he’d been here, none of this would have happened. Women blow things so far out of proportion.” Alex claims.

Now I am pissed. I tiptoe around all day so as not to wake him. I really believed that this was an emergency.

As he heads back to bed he says one last thing.
“Next time wait until the flames are licking the house to wake me.”

Oh don’t worry, I think. Next time I’ll wait until they’re licking your feet, and then I’ll think about it.

Is this a gender issue? Did I overreact? What do you think?

First, a big thank you to Robyn for linking to me and sending so many readers my way. It is very exciting to have someone I have been reading for so many years find my journal and recommend it.

I have been answering a larger than normal array of emails, which has been fun, really, as I like to get to know my readers better. Due to the fact that I have publicly shared my own battles with child abuse and drug addiction, depression and panic disorder, it is not uncommon for people to tell me of their own struggles. What I haven’t learned is how to achieve a balance between writing here and answering email. So here I am again, and if you’re still waiting for a response from me I hope to get caught up on all email this weekend.

From the comments: Lori, thank you for pointing out your new url. I was indeed wondering where you had gone and was about to get all stalkerish and email you. MichelleW why oh why didn’t I know about the pain that is Spanx before I wasted my money? I should have known better when the overenthusiastic woman at the clothing store kept pushing them on me, telling me that, “Oprah recommended them” and “She’s got like a trillion dollars and can have the best of anything so you know if she’s using them they must be good…”

Belle, I loved this line , “As long as it holds the fluff in and the straps are wide enough, I’m happy!” Fluff! I might have to borrow that word.

In other news, I have had a rough week with the depression and the anxiety. Sometimes I can go quite some time forgetting I even have panic attacks and then bang! one will hit, hard. The same goes for my depression. I could feel myself slipping lower and lower after my nanny died so I thought it was related to that. I emailed my favorite cousin because chatting with him always makes me feel better and he wrote back describing the funeral and I felt worse. It is hard to be so far away from family.

I contacted my doctor and she wanted to speak with me again face to face. I told her about the constant sadness, the thoughts of suicide, the never ending anxiety , and the panic attacks that come from nowhere and I can’t seem to calm down. She likes to play around with my medication so I didn’t even want to be there, even though I really like my doctor, and not only because she uses google when she can’t remember something. She’ll just log on to the computer while we’re talking and double check something. I don’t know why I find that endearing but it might have something to do with the fact that she doesn’t hide it, she’s just human. Plus, she laughs at my jokes. That is a big requirement in a doctor.

I have been smoking so much lately that I have a permanent wheeze. My doctor asked me to try Chantix. The only problem is Chantix has been linked to depression and suicide. I went ahead and filled the prescription. When the pharmacist called me over for a consult, she asked more questions than she ever has, “What other methods had I tried?” Well, I tried cold turkey but I am a vegetarian, so that one didn’t work and I tried Wellbutrin but my anxiety went up so much I stopped it after a month because my smoking doubled, and I tried the gum, but I could remember to tuck it into my cheek, I kept chewing it, and I tried the nicotine patches but they didn’t work either. She asked if I had nightmares while using the patches and I said no, but as I told her, I had the wildest, sexist dreams I have ever had in my life. Seriously. I almost kept using the patch for the aphrodisiac properties. That was all I needed to say. Drug stuffed in bag and I was out the door.

I am committed to getting healthier. The photo above shows me starting the day with a well rounded breakfast. Alex brought cookies home  because they were left over from some meeting he had at work. Waste is wrong and I had to have one.

I have been sick again. Not the kind of sickness that comes from a virus, but the kind that comes from not having the medication I swallow to make it possible for me to face life. There was some misunderstanding between my doctor’s office and my pharmacy regarding the refill of my Klonopin. I have been on this medication for over a decade. It enables me to risk daring feats such as leaving my house. My doctor’s office blamed my pharmacy and they in turn blamed the office. It was all a jumble of miscommunication through fax and phone calls that eventually led to me calling the doctor on call for my doctor and begging him to help me out by calling me in a refill. He coldly refused, stating that he didn’t “deal in controlled substances over the phone.” It was all that I could do to keep it together, to not explode and tell him off. Being treated like a junkie is something that happens to me from time to time. I know that when I pick up my prescriptions sometimes the people behind the counter glare at me and ask me for two pieces of picture ID and insist that I have a consult with the pharmacist (who happens to be busy right now but won’t you have a seat?) even though this medication and I go way back, to the 90s even.

I know that this will be the case if I switch doctors. I have finally realized that the doctors work for me and if they won’t give me the pills to help me function I will find another doctor who will, and don’t you tell me about yoga and exercising and breathing and cognitive behavioral therapy because I have tried all of those things. Exercising while having a panic attack? Good one.

My doctor was out of town for a week and now she’s back. She apologized for the confusion, refilled my Klonopin immediately and I scribbled a swirl on the signature line when I picked it up; I flashed my ID and nodded to the pharmacist when he asked me if I’d had this before because I was sick and I was tired of trying to explain it to everyone so I just grabbed the bottle and walked away to take it. I feel better now.

Once, years ago, I ended up in the ER because my refill wasn’t ready and after waiting for 11 days I checked myself into the hospital because it was the only thing I could think of to stop the panic attacks that kept coming. This time I didn’t want to do that so I tried other things, like Tylenol PM to help me sleep and alcohol to help me calm down. I tried breathing exercises and placing a rubber band around my wrist and snapping it. I tried. My Mom says that I should be proud of myself and I can’t imagine why. I can’t help but think that this wasn’t the dream my parents had for me as they whispered in bed about what I would be like when I grew up. It wasn’t the grandiose idea I had for myself either.

My uterus is still negotiable. I have arranged for a second doctor to give me an exam and also to look at the images I have in my medical history. I don’t want to have any body parts removed unless I absolutely have to, thank you very much. My sister Monica helped me come up with a list of questions to ask this doctor. Last time I just dropped my mouth open and stared in disbelief. My sister Maria called with suggestions of herbal remedies and vitamin solutions. I do believe in some natural remedies, sometimes. I wish more of them worked for me. At one time I gave St. John’s Wort a good long try, just in case. I am not opposed to the idea; I am just not going to eschew western medicine entirely. My appointment is next Monday.

My kids are doing well. School starts up again Thursday. They are spending these last moments being as lazy as they possibly can. I told them to enjoy it while they can. Polly is going back to the same middle school she loved last year, and Nathan is attending a new program designed for special needs kids. It became clear that I wasn’t able to home school him very well last year, but I was hard at work trying to find another solution. I don’t think I have ever typed both “special needs” and my son in the same sentence together. It’s sort of the elephant in the living room here. Everyone knows it, but we don’t talk about it much. I told Nathan last night that I would never give up on him, no matter what. Fifteen is a fun age. He knows everything and I know nothing. It’s OK though, because I got to know everything when I was fifteen so it somehow evens out.

Polly asked me last night what I wanted my kids to be when they grew up. I told her that I wanted them to be good people, and that I wanted them to be happy. Of course I have big dreams for them both but I want them to decide their future. I will just sit here and hope for the best and try to help them along the way.

Maggie the puppy is doing wonderfully. She has gained eleven pounds since we got her, and I have lost eight. She wakes me every morning around 6:30 to go potty and although I hate getting up early she is good for me, forcing me to get up and to go outside. She has mastered “sit” and “lie down” and “Maggie come”. I really do hate saying that to her as we take walks and she has to stop at every single leaf, rock, and blade of grass. It makes me sound like one of those sex partners who yell out “COME! COME! COME!” Not that I know anything about that. I think I saw it in a movie somewhere.

Itty Bitty the kitty has resigned himself to the fact that we have a puppy. They play together each day, sometimes a bit roughly, and then they pass out together and take a nap. They share each others toys and eat each others food if they can get away with it. Polly is constantly yelling out, “Quick, get me the camera, they are doing something cute!” I’ll look at them and they will be doing a slightly modified version of what they were doing ten seconds ago. I now have hundreds of pictures of these animals, thanks to Polly. I think we’ll get her a camera of her own for Christmas.

I have been weaning myself off of the Effexor. I was doing wonderfully until yesterday. I was pushing my cart around the grocery store and I burst into tears, right in front of the Tylenol section. I didn’t feel sad as much as I just felt tired of it all. I wanted to abandon my cart and just walk out of the store. I took a deep breath and kept going. My doctor is supposed to be adding in Paxil at some point, but I am still waiting. I called today and left a message for the doctor after Alex approached me and asked me what was wrong. I wasn’t really aware that anything was wrong, on the outside at least, but he said I was acting “weird”, which is always great to hear when you think that you’re keeping it all together and that no one knows. Truth is, Effexor withdrawals are the worst antidepressant withdrawals I have ever been through. Remember kids, I kicked coke and meth and heroin. And pot, because it made me panic in the end, god damn it. I liked smoking pot. That is how I kicked cocaine, meth and heroin. Anyway, if someone has reached my site doing a search about Effexor my thoughts after years of experience are this: Effexor is a good drug. It gave me a lot more energy to go about my daily tasks, something that none of the other SSRIs did. Somewhere in that capsule must be some speed. But, the withdrawal is very hard. I would recommend doing it slowly, under the advice of a skilled doctor. My doctor had to up my dose of Klonopin considerably.

I hope that you are all doing wonderfully. Does anyone have any exciting news to leave in my comments? Questions? Answers? It gets lonely here inside my head.

There are times, like when I am scrubbing dog shit out of the carpet, when I wonder how in the hell I expected this puppy to help me with my depression. Then there are other times when she is cuddling me, or chewing on her squeaky squirrel, or running along beside me on her leash, when I think, YES! this is what I wanted.

Maggie is doing well. Housetraining is about as fun as I expected. Sometimes she does very well using the yard to go potty and other times when Alex and I can’t figure out how we could have taken her outside for an hour only to have her come inside and crap on the floor. In the beginning, when we were doing research about caring for a puppy, Alex would mention crate training. I didn’t want to do it because I thought it was mean. By Tuesday, I was asking Alex, so what about this crate training? To my surprise, Maggie actually likes sleeping in her crate. And I like being able to sleep through the night. Except for last night when she cried so hard at 3 in the morning that I had to take her bleary eyed to the yard to pee. But that was only one time. The first few nights we were in and out of the door so many times that I was getting loopy from lack of sleep. I am happy that Alex has some time off work right now because oh my god this is wearing me out. At least with my babies I didn’t have to do much besides change their diapers and fling a breast in their faces. Well. Nathan’s face. With Polly I could nurse because I had to go on medication for the crazy as soon as she was born, and yes, I still have guilt about not having been able to breastfeed her.

Today I have to go to work and Alex will be caring for Maggie. I should be in the shower right now, in fact. One more day of work and then I get the weekend off. I am so tired. My doctor has decided to wean me off the Effexor and onto Paxil. I know she’s doing the right thing, because although the depression is manageable most days my anxiety level is so high I want to eat my Klonopin like Pez. I am just tired of this whole thing. Tired of having these illnesses, tired of swallowing pills that don’t work, tired of talking to psychiatrists. Tired in general. I just want to be better. Even me, a nonbeliever, if I saw Jesus walking by I might make a grab for the hem of his robe, just in case.

The conclusion to my search for answers regarding Brett Reider can be found at Brett Reider Is Alive and Doing Well.

I had an entry all planned out for today, complete with photos that I took on Alex’s camera, but he was too tired when he got home from work and I don’t know how to upload them, so this will have to suffice for now. Speaking of cameras, I called the shop that’s had mine since May and the woman who answered the phone acted all shocked when I said, “Uh, yeah, I am calling to check the status of my camera that I dropped off a long time ago”

“Oh my God!” she responded, after typing my name into the computer, “You should have had your camera back a long time ago!” No shit. Apparently the part they need is on backorder and it should be ready by next week. I am so excited, because I will actually be able to take pictures and put them up by myself without asking my husband to do it for me.

As I’ve mentioned, I have two older sisters, Monica and Maria. I have detailed the closeness of my relationship with Maria here, but I don’t think I’ve talked much about Monica. When we were growing up we didn’t get along. Even as adults we have had huge arguments that have involved yelling and then not speaking to each other for months. Today though, she did me a huge favor and took Polly to see the new Harry Potter movie. She has two daughters, ages 13 and 12, and they get along well with my daughter, so for the sake of the girls I have tried not to fight with their mother. I really do appreciate her taking them to the movies because me, I wasn’t looking forward to it so much. I wanted to wait until the hoopla died down a bit before we went. Monica bought tickets online in advance. So today has been quiet, with Alex sleeping and Nathan just hanging out and talking on the phone or watching TV.

My medication has been upped even more than it was, so I am now taking three times the amount. Every doctor I’ve seen has tried this with my antidepressants to see if they can eliminate the panic attacks and anxiety and reduce my reliance on benzodiazepines. The side effect is more panic, a constant state of anxiety and insomnia. Last night I was up until 6:30 this morning. I had a quick nap on the couch and then woke at ten. These side effects do go away in time; you just have to ride them out.

When dealing with insomnia I usually try very hard to go to sleep before I just say fuck it and either get up or watch TV or something. This morning I was flipping through the channels and I came across a documentary on HBO titled “Brett Killed Mom”. I was totally sucked in. The lives that my siblings, my mom and I lived in the years before my father’s suicide are not ones that I have ever been able to convey to anyone. A psychiatrist once asked me how bad the abuse was, and I told her that it was bad. Really bad. She asked me if my father had ever broken any bones. I said yes, and she explained that the abuse scale put physical abuse into two categories; one with broken bones and a less severe form with no broken bones. I never knew there was a scale, and I personally think that the emotional abuse has left the most crippling scars. I have spent many years in therapy and I am frankly tired of trying to make sense of my past. I want to deal with now. I know, I know, I can’t move on until I deal with what happened.

One aspect of being an abused child that I’ve had trouble coming to grips with is the fact that as the years moved on and the abuse grew worse and my self esteem was nonexistent I used to spend a lot of time thinking about killing my father. I honestly felt that someone was going to have to do it or we would never be safe. I imagined how I would do it and I knew that I would go to prison for it. I felt that it would be a fair exchange; my freedom gone, my father’s life taken and my mom and siblings would be free. I never acted on those plans because I physically was not strong enough to fight back in self defense and I knew on some level that if I did I would only manage to make things much worse. After my dad died it was years before I admitted this dark secret of mine. When I told my psychiatrist she said that it was a normal reaction, a matter of self-preservation. She said that it wasn’t uncommon for the abused to contemplate killing their abusers. On different occasions I spoke with my mom, my brother, and both of my sisters about it. They admitted that they too had thought about killing him. My mom went so far as to say that she felt that it was her duty to protect her children by any means necessary. She too felt as if she would one day have to kill or watch her children die. Somehow none of this makes it any easier, or maybe it does, I don’t know.

When I was watching “Brett Killed Mom: A Sister’ Story” I literally felt as if it could have been me there on the screen being interviewed from prison. I wanted to hug him; to tell him that I understand how it had happened. Brett Reider’s story is one that I feel everyone involved in the system should see; whether it is police officers, social workers, teachers or just people who can’t understand the results of a life where the one who should love and nurture you becomes the one who you have to get away from to save you.

Tomorrow: A deep longing that I have had for years will be fulfilled by my husband. I’ll have to get pictures of tomorrow to share with you. Hopefully I’ll be able to sleep tonight.