Remember that last post? The one about the fertility clinic?
Right. So we went. We got lots of tests. (By the way, if anyone ever offers to take real-time x-rays while injecting iodine into your uterus - I'd pass. Ouch.)
And, (drum roll please) we're fucked. And not the good kind of fucked - we're screwed (and not the good kind of screwed). The "Houston, we have a problem" type of problem. A LARGE problem.
I'm not going into details but suffice it to say that the odds aren't good. According to our doc, there's a 10% chance we can still get pregnant with medication. There's a 10-20% chance it'll take surgery and IVF. And there's a 70% chance that we'll never, EVER, be able to have a biological child of our own.
And here's the absolute kicker. The odds that we'd be able to adopt are equally grim. Few people/foreign countries would be brave/stupid enough to give me, a thrice committed formerly suicidal, alcoholic borderline, a real-live human child. (Gotta tie everything back to the crazy - this is, after all, a blog about mental illness. Wouldn't want to disappoint.)
[many pages of bitter musings redacted]
So. Here we are. Potentially childless OR facing surgery on tender, unmentionable bits.
Fan. Tastic.
Maybe we'll just buy some more cats.
PS. If you know me in real life, don't call. We're in a bitter/nasty/tragic mood and we're not giving out details. I'll be in touch when we know more.
PPS. Yeah, I know, what did I expect when we moved back to New England... but, COME ON. Is there any freezing rain/ice/sleet left or is it all stuck to my car and my driveway? Dear god, I hate you too. Love, Juniper
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Musings of my inner luddite
Ok, so we’re at the point here where I think I can safely say…
I’m not getting a baby anytime soon.
We’ve been trying to get pregnant for fourteen months with absolutely no success. Yes, ok, we didn’t give it our BEST try every single month. We were stressed and busy and tired some of those months. In December and August we didn’t try at all. (Neither moving boxes nor my parents’ house at the holidays gets us in the mood.)
But most of those months… we did everything right. I read the books. I charted my temperature. I got real up close and personal with all my… well suffice it to say that I learned A LOT about my reproductive cycle.
And now, in addition to my baby-less state, I’m noticing some… unpleasant changes. At least five times since we’ve been trying, my period’s been a WEEK early. Not a few days early – a full, freaking WEEK. And when this happens, it lasts days longer than usual.
So this week, I went to see my new gynecologist. Seems like a nice lady. Wasn’t horrified by my psychiatric history.
She says I have “unexplained infertility.” Fantastic. Just what I wanted. Another diagnosis for my collection.
She referred me to the University Fertility Clinic. As if my weeks weren’t busy enough doctor’s visits.
You wanna know what I think?! (WARNING: No, honestly, you don’t and should probably stop reading RIGHT NOW.)
I think this is natural selection at work. I’m the weak zebra in the herd. I’ve known it for a while now.
So why, given all of the above, do I have the arrogance, the gall to think that I have the RIGHT to reproduce? I’d just be weakening the species. Sometimes, I wonder if the responsible thing would be to leave well enough alone, listen to nature and forget medical science. Maybe it’s better to let the bad DNA end with me.
Except for my husband. He's got some pretty nice DNA. It'd be a shame to let that go to waste.
I’m not getting a baby anytime soon.
We’ve been trying to get pregnant for fourteen months with absolutely no success. Yes, ok, we didn’t give it our BEST try every single month. We were stressed and busy and tired some of those months. In December and August we didn’t try at all. (Neither moving boxes nor my parents’ house at the holidays gets us in the mood.)
But most of those months… we did everything right. I read the books. I charted my temperature. I got real up close and personal with all my… well suffice it to say that I learned A LOT about my reproductive cycle.
And now, in addition to my baby-less state, I’m noticing some… unpleasant changes. At least five times since we’ve been trying, my period’s been a WEEK early. Not a few days early – a full, freaking WEEK. And when this happens, it lasts days longer than usual.
So this week, I went to see my new gynecologist. Seems like a nice lady. Wasn’t horrified by my psychiatric history.
She says I have “unexplained infertility.” Fantastic. Just what I wanted. Another diagnosis for my collection.
She referred me to the University Fertility Clinic. As if my weeks weren’t busy enough doctor’s visits.
You wanna know what I think?! (WARNING: No, honestly, you don’t and should probably stop reading RIGHT NOW.)
I think this is natural selection at work. I’m the weak zebra in the herd. I’ve known it for a while now.
- My eyesight’s crap.
- My GI system’s temperamental.
- My psyche’s all broken and held together with scotch tape.
- There’s massive gobs of heart disease in my family.
- I’m a good 30 pounds overweight.
- I have ingrown toenails and a urinary tract that gets infected if you look at it wrong.
- I can’t even hold a freakin’ soda can for pete’s sake!
So why, given all of the above, do I have the arrogance, the gall to think that I have the RIGHT to reproduce? I’d just be weakening the species. Sometimes, I wonder if the responsible thing would be to leave well enough alone, listen to nature and forget medical science. Maybe it’s better to let the bad DNA end with me.
Except for my husband. He's got some pretty nice DNA. It'd be a shame to let that go to waste.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
How I got my (new) therapist II
Step 4: Call my insurer. My new therapist’s clinic didn’t take my husband’s insurance, despite the fact that he works for the biggest employer in town… But really, who can blame them for not wanting to negotiate their rates down and submit to scrutiny from case managers. So, nervously, I called my insurance company.
Um… I said, I just moved here from California. I was seeing a therapist there. I want to see someone here. I have a history and diagnosis of major depression. (I didn’t say Borderline because – hey, insurance doesn’t cover personality disorders! Subterfuge - what fun.) Oh, no problem, they said. “You have unlimited visits and we don’t require pre-authorization for visits.” That sounds… good, I thought.
Um… what if I find a therapist I like but they’re not in your network? That’s fine, they said. “Just download the claim from our website, submit it and we’ll pay 70%.” Also, not terrible news.
Step 5: Paperwork. I asked my therapist if they’d help me with the claims. No, she said, “we’re not really set up for that.” Uh… I’m not really ‘set up’ for it either! I’m just the patient. But I don’t have a choice! Good point, she conceded.
So I did the forms. They were incredibly complicated. But I’d filled out similar forms in CA so I worked it out. I called the insurance company one last time, just to double-check some details. Oh yeah, I said, “as long as I’m calling, I wanted to ask. You guys pay 70% of ‘reasonable and customary’ for out-of-network providers. What do you consider reasonable and customary?” I was put on hold. For a long time.
Turns out, they consider $130 per hour a reasonable rate. My therapist charges $150. That meant that each week I’d be paying 30% of $130 PLUS that extra, unreasonable, uncustomary $20. Add to that the $15 per week for group. So my therapy was going to cost us about $75 a week. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a LOT of money.
Step 6: Negotiate. I went to my therapist and oulined the situation. I asked if the clinic would be willing to offer me a reduced rate. Would they lower their hourly rate just $20 or even $10 to make up for the difference in the insurance? It’s not my fault they don’t take my insurance. It’s not my fault the insurance sets their rates absurdly low… I picked THEM instead of some in-network bozo that knows nothing about personality disorders*.
*My insurance company did provide me with a list of hundreds of in-network providers. How would I use this, I wonder? How would I know if any of these people know how to treat my VERY controversial, VERY divisive, VERY tricky diagnosis? Should I call all of them and see who’s taking new clients? The good ones are likely booked up. Should I interview the ones who ARE available? That would take lots of visits and co-pays! And ultimately, I’d still be paying $30-40 a week for an in-network provider.
My therapist said that she thought it was a reasonable request. She’d talk to her partners and get back to me. She got back to me today. She said that neither she nor practice could afford to reduce their rates right now. She suggested we talk about it again in January and see if things have changed. I was disappointed, but I felt… responsible.
Step 7: Pray. I’m sure there’s a yearly maximum or some other catch hidden somewhere.
Um… I said, I just moved here from California. I was seeing a therapist there. I want to see someone here. I have a history and diagnosis of major depression. (I didn’t say Borderline because – hey, insurance doesn’t cover personality disorders! Subterfuge - what fun.) Oh, no problem, they said. “You have unlimited visits and we don’t require pre-authorization for visits.” That sounds… good, I thought.
Um… what if I find a therapist I like but they’re not in your network? That’s fine, they said. “Just download the claim from our website, submit it and we’ll pay 70%.” Also, not terrible news.
Step 5: Paperwork. I asked my therapist if they’d help me with the claims. No, she said, “we’re not really set up for that.” Uh… I’m not really ‘set up’ for it either! I’m just the patient. But I don’t have a choice! Good point, she conceded.
So I did the forms. They were incredibly complicated. But I’d filled out similar forms in CA so I worked it out. I called the insurance company one last time, just to double-check some details. Oh yeah, I said, “as long as I’m calling, I wanted to ask. You guys pay 70% of ‘reasonable and customary’ for out-of-network providers. What do you consider reasonable and customary?” I was put on hold. For a long time.
Turns out, they consider $130 per hour a reasonable rate. My therapist charges $150. That meant that each week I’d be paying 30% of $130 PLUS that extra, unreasonable, uncustomary $20. Add to that the $15 per week for group. So my therapy was going to cost us about $75 a week. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a LOT of money.
Step 6: Negotiate. I went to my therapist and oulined the situation. I asked if the clinic would be willing to offer me a reduced rate. Would they lower their hourly rate just $20 or even $10 to make up for the difference in the insurance? It’s not my fault they don’t take my insurance. It’s not my fault the insurance sets their rates absurdly low… I picked THEM instead of some in-network bozo that knows nothing about personality disorders*.
*My insurance company did provide me with a list of hundreds of in-network providers. How would I use this, I wonder? How would I know if any of these people know how to treat my VERY controversial, VERY divisive, VERY tricky diagnosis? Should I call all of them and see who’s taking new clients? The good ones are likely booked up. Should I interview the ones who ARE available? That would take lots of visits and co-pays! And ultimately, I’d still be paying $30-40 a week for an in-network provider.
My therapist said that she thought it was a reasonable request. She’d talk to her partners and get back to me. She got back to me today. She said that neither she nor practice could afford to reduce their rates right now. She suggested we talk about it again in January and see if things have changed. I was disappointed, but I felt… responsible.
Step 7: Pray. I’m sure there’s a yearly maximum or some other catch hidden somewhere.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
How I got my (new) therapist I
Step 1: Research. I asked all my therapists in CA if they knew anyone in New England that specialized in Borderline Personality Disorder or DBT. (I figured if they do DBT, then they know all about Borderline) Then, I searched online for “DBT therapists in my state.” When I was done, I had a list of about a dozen people. I could eliminate a couple of people just based on their titles: One sounded too intensive. One ran a partial hospitalization program. One worked at a mental health center for low-income and low-functioning clients. One specialized in depression. Two were researchers, not practitioners.
Step 2: Phone interviews. I emailed or called the rest of the list. Most, but not all, got back to me and said that they’d be interested in working with me. Then I had a phone interview with the remaining few. By which I mean that I interviewed THEM. I eliminated one person because she was only available one day a week. I eliminated another because I didn’t need couples therapy.
Step 3: In person interviews. By now, there were only two left from my original list*. I made appointments to meet with them as soon as I arrived on the east coast.
*Along the way, the people I had contacted had given me more names of providers. I discovered, to my delight, that I had actually, on my own, already found and contacted almost ALL of the practitioners within 10 miles of my home! I decided to hang onto the other names in case the first couple didn’t work out.
When we finally met, I interviewed them, politely, in depth. I told them about what I wanted and needed. I asked them about their perspectives on Borderline. And I tried to listen to my initial, gut impressions. I liked one a lot. I didn’t like the other one. A lot.
But I’d found someone I liked. Now I just had to pay for her.
Step 2: Phone interviews. I emailed or called the rest of the list. Most, but not all, got back to me and said that they’d be interested in working with me. Then I had a phone interview with the remaining few. By which I mean that I interviewed THEM. I eliminated one person because she was only available one day a week. I eliminated another because I didn’t need couples therapy.
Step 3: In person interviews. By now, there were only two left from my original list*. I made appointments to meet with them as soon as I arrived on the east coast.
*Along the way, the people I had contacted had given me more names of providers. I discovered, to my delight, that I had actually, on my own, already found and contacted almost ALL of the practitioners within 10 miles of my home! I decided to hang onto the other names in case the first couple didn’t work out.
When we finally met, I interviewed them, politely, in depth. I told them about what I wanted and needed. I asked them about their perspectives on Borderline. And I tried to listen to my initial, gut impressions. I liked one a lot. I didn’t like the other one. A lot.
But I’d found someone I liked. Now I just had to pay for her.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
I can live without the bon-bons. But daytime TV... that's a different story.
So I got myself some employment… and instantly became BUSY. (hence the lack of blogging in recent days).
I kinda had to get some part-time work – unemployment was eating holes in my self-esteem. I don’t wanna work full time but it turns out, I gotta do SOMETHING or else my head starts to feel all bored and slosh-y.
Getting the jobs was easy to the point of being embarrassing. Basically, I sent my resume to six Craigslist ads for tutoring positions. A DAY later, five of them wanted to hire me. It took the 6th a couple of weeks to read their email and then they wanted me too. This of course, made me feel completely proud and guilty and conflicted all at the same time. (Ah black and white thinking, my dear old pal… what would I do without you.) It’s nice to be wanted but getting a job shouldn’t be that easy! I’m left assuming that all those Ivy League words on my resume are doing the heavy lifting – and not me. (Cue the impostor syndrome.)
But could I just take one job and be satisfied? Oh no, I had to pick two. It’s like I’m “controlled by [a] Puritan Lady, some witch of industry who lived inside us, kicking us with her buckled shoes, making maniacal demands: every minute had to be accounted for, an arrow aimed at a target.” Also, It turns out that I’m a sucker who can’t say no. Must. Please. Everyone.
So, on Monday & Wednesday afternoons I’m tutoring at a non-profit charter school in the “inner-city." On Tuesday, Thursday & Friday afternoons I’m teaching at a for-profit, boutique tutoring center in a fancy suburb that provides tutoring from a psychological perspective.
The Monday/Wednesday job has been good for the soul. It's only a two hour commitment each day and I get to feel like I'm doing good - helping kids who really need it. On the other hand, it's a bit depressing. These inner-city kids are SO behind and I feel like my little interventions can only make a tiny dent. At least the student I’m paired with is finally starting to look at me like a human - not a very pale, alien, life form.
The Tuesday/Thursday/Friday job has been almost the polar opposite. Most of the kids I’m working with have limitless resources. AND they’d love to fill up all my free time. I'm supposed to work for four hours on Tuesdays & Thursdays and attend a staff meetings and professional development lectures for a couple hours on Fridays - only about a 10-hour commitment… right? But, add a couple of extra hours of training a day and last week I was working almost 20 hours. I mentioned that the Monday/Wednesday job ends in December and they’re already planning to fill up those days too.
It’s flattering that they want to spend all that time developing my skills and selling my services to clients but…
Do I let on that I have a mental health disability and can’t do everything? If I tell them I have a disability, I open myself up to possible discrimination and judgments. If I don't tell them I have a disability, I worry that I'll come across as this slacker dilettante who only works part time because her husband keeps her in bon-bons and daytime TV. (ok granted, I DO watch a lot of daytime TV...) I know I shouldn't disclose my diagnosis in some settings but sometimes I feel like people just won't SEE the real me unless I do. I know that this is probably the reverse of how people with other disabilities see the issue but then again, with mental illness, people can't see your broken bits.
I kinda had to get some part-time work – unemployment was eating holes in my self-esteem. I don’t wanna work full time but it turns out, I gotta do SOMETHING or else my head starts to feel all bored and slosh-y.
Getting the jobs was easy to the point of being embarrassing. Basically, I sent my resume to six Craigslist ads for tutoring positions. A DAY later, five of them wanted to hire me. It took the 6th a couple of weeks to read their email and then they wanted me too. This of course, made me feel completely proud and guilty and conflicted all at the same time. (Ah black and white thinking, my dear old pal… what would I do without you.) It’s nice to be wanted but getting a job shouldn’t be that easy! I’m left assuming that all those Ivy League words on my resume are doing the heavy lifting – and not me. (Cue the impostor syndrome.)
But could I just take one job and be satisfied? Oh no, I had to pick two. It’s like I’m “controlled by [a] Puritan Lady, some witch of industry who lived inside us, kicking us with her buckled shoes, making maniacal demands: every minute had to be accounted for, an arrow aimed at a target.” Also, It turns out that I’m a sucker who can’t say no. Must. Please. Everyone.
So, on Monday & Wednesday afternoons I’m tutoring at a non-profit charter school in the “inner-city." On Tuesday, Thursday & Friday afternoons I’m teaching at a for-profit, boutique tutoring center in a fancy suburb that provides tutoring from a psychological perspective.
The Monday/Wednesday job has been good for the soul. It's only a two hour commitment each day and I get to feel like I'm doing good - helping kids who really need it. On the other hand, it's a bit depressing. These inner-city kids are SO behind and I feel like my little interventions can only make a tiny dent. At least the student I’m paired with is finally starting to look at me like a human - not a very pale, alien, life form.
The Tuesday/Thursday/Friday job has been almost the polar opposite. Most of the kids I’m working with have limitless resources. AND they’d love to fill up all my free time. I'm supposed to work for four hours on Tuesdays & Thursdays and attend a staff meetings and professional development lectures for a couple hours on Fridays - only about a 10-hour commitment… right? But, add a couple of extra hours of training a day and last week I was working almost 20 hours. I mentioned that the Monday/Wednesday job ends in December and they’re already planning to fill up those days too.
It’s flattering that they want to spend all that time developing my skills and selling my services to clients but…
Do I let on that I have a mental health disability and can’t do everything? If I tell them I have a disability, I open myself up to possible discrimination and judgments. If I don't tell them I have a disability, I worry that I'll come across as this slacker dilettante who only works part time because her husband keeps her in bon-bons and daytime TV. (ok granted, I DO watch a lot of daytime TV...) I know I shouldn't disclose my diagnosis in some settings but sometimes I feel like people just won't SEE the real me unless I do. I know that this is probably the reverse of how people with other disabilities see the issue but then again, with mental illness, people can't see your broken bits.
Monday, October 08, 2007
I don't bite (anymore)
So last Friday, I finally worked up my courage and wrote Paul & Denise a note. I tried to make it as non-crazy sounding as possible.
(although, I decided at the last minute to leave the note on their door instead of putting it in the mail which in retrospect may be construed as a bit stalker-ish...)
I said that we had just moved to the area because of my husband's new job (which I mentioned so they could Google him and see how nice and cute and respectable he looks on his website). I said that I heard they lived nearby and was amazed to discover (through the alumni directory) that they lived in the same apartment complex. I said that if they wanted to get together we'd love to see them but if they didn't that I wished them all the best. (I wanted to respect their sense of privacy. If I am/have become a horrible memory, I don't want them to feel... invaded. I mean, they lived here first.)
But I never heard from them. Now I'm thinking I probably never will. Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I emailed a friend from college to tell her about the note. She congratulated me on being brave. She pointed out that it's good to say things that are lingering in our brains and won't let us move on. At least I won't have to worry about awkwardly running into them in the parking lot. They know where I am now. If they don't want to see me, they can take preventative measures. They can avoid me like the plague.
Still, the whole thing has left me feeling a bit... like a menace to society.
I keep trying to tell myself that lots of people (even people without Borderline!) get into feuds. Lots of people have an ex or a nemesis they worry about running into. But if that's true, why do I feel like this conflict (and it's associated anxiety) is yet another tax I have to pay because of this disorder? Why do I feel like there are scores of people out there who remember me as difficult, pathetic or just plain nuts? How do I explain to them that I've changed, that I've earned a second chance? That it wasn't really my fault that I acted that way but I AM sorry for my behavior.
I wish I could get all those damaged relationships out of the friendship freezer. I'd warm them up and tell them how much I've missed them for all these years.
(although, I decided at the last minute to leave the note on their door instead of putting it in the mail which in retrospect may be construed as a bit stalker-ish...)
I said that we had just moved to the area because of my husband's new job (which I mentioned so they could Google him and see how nice and cute and respectable he looks on his website). I said that I heard they lived nearby and was amazed to discover (through the alumni directory) that they lived in the same apartment complex. I said that if they wanted to get together we'd love to see them but if they didn't that I wished them all the best. (I wanted to respect their sense of privacy. If I am/have become a horrible memory, I don't want them to feel... invaded. I mean, they lived here first.)
But I never heard from them. Now I'm thinking I probably never will. Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I emailed a friend from college to tell her about the note. She congratulated me on being brave. She pointed out that it's good to say things that are lingering in our brains and won't let us move on. At least I won't have to worry about awkwardly running into them in the parking lot. They know where I am now. If they don't want to see me, they can take preventative measures. They can avoid me like the plague.
Still, the whole thing has left me feeling a bit... like a menace to society.
I keep trying to tell myself that lots of people (even people without Borderline!) get into feuds. Lots of people have an ex or a nemesis they worry about running into. But if that's true, why do I feel like this conflict (and it's associated anxiety) is yet another tax I have to pay because of this disorder? Why do I feel like there are scores of people out there who remember me as difficult, pathetic or just plain nuts? How do I explain to them that I've changed, that I've earned a second chance? That it wasn't really my fault that I acted that way but I AM sorry for my behavior.
I wish I could get all those damaged relationships out of the friendship freezer. I'd warm them up and tell them how much I've missed them for all these years.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
All I want for christmas is a forklift
So I’m back. Sorry for the hiatus.
To say I’ve been busy would be the understatement of the year. There were THINGS to take care of.
You see, every single THING we owned (including our car, our bodies and our cat) had to be carefully packed and hauled across the burning August wastelands of all those red states. Man is it hot and dusty and scary in those states. (They don’t clean their gas station restrooms very well either.)
Then all those THINGS had to be unpacked, cleaned and obsessively put away somewhere in an aesthetically pleasing pattern.
All the THINGS we couldn’t move had to be replaced – so in came new ink cartridges, food, toilet paper, spray cleaners, cat litter, and light bulbs.
Finally, every little THING needed to be re-registered and re-approved to exist in our new state.
So now that everyTHING is all clean and legal… now we just have to live.
Oh yeah. And buy a house. So we can do all this all over again in a few months.
To say I’ve been busy would be the understatement of the year. There were THINGS to take care of.
You see, every single THING we owned (including our car, our bodies and our cat) had to be carefully packed and hauled across the burning August wastelands of all those red states. Man is it hot and dusty and scary in those states. (They don’t clean their gas station restrooms very well either.)
Then all those THINGS had to be unpacked, cleaned and obsessively put away somewhere in an aesthetically pleasing pattern.
All the THINGS we couldn’t move had to be replaced – so in came new ink cartridges, food, toilet paper, spray cleaners, cat litter, and light bulbs.
Finally, every little THING needed to be re-registered and re-approved to exist in our new state.
- Gotta organize the money – new checkbooks, grocery discount cards, jobs and IDs to park at the jobs. And 4 million change of address forms so everyone knows where to find us and our money.
- Gotta organize the bodies – new health, dental & eye insurance, a new veterinarian, gym memberships, optometrists, and gynecologists.
- Gotta organize the car – new oil, license plates, registration, and insurance policies.
- Gotta organize the ass – new couches, scratching posts and security systems to protect the precious couches. Oh, and new gas, power, phone, and cable TV subscriptions to make sitting on the couch worthwhile.
- And don’t forget the brain – new therapists to organize the brain, of course. More on that later.
So now that everyTHING is all clean and legal… now we just have to live.
Oh yeah. And buy a house. So we can do all this all over again in a few months.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Like “Goodnight Moon” only in reverse
Well the movers were sure productive! They were supposed to come and pack yesterday and load the truck today but instead they decided to do everything in one day.
Soooo… we are leaving town in an hour - a day early.
Yesterday evening felt ODD. We furiously cleaned the apartment until it almost looked… well, it still looked like crap. This felt pretty stupid (since the place is a crap shack and the new owners tell us they're remodeling) but we don't want to take ANY chances of losing our security deposit. And then we spent one last night in our now empty home. My husband kept saying “it still feels like we live here… but we don’t.”
And honestly, it’s about time because this apartment well… it tried our patience.
Good-bye front door that stick so bad I have to yank it open with two hands and my body weight.
Good-bye ugly view of very loud neighbor’s balcony.
Good-bye seasonal leak and big ugly patch on the ceiling.
Good-bye dozens of cracks in the walls.
Good-bye filthy wall heater (yes the only heat in the entire 1000 square feet!) that smelled and threatened to blow us all up.
Good-bye porch so filthy we never used you except to grill.
Good-bye nasty-ass broken down old filthy cabinets. There is not enough fire in the world to clean you. And say good-bye to your friend, burnt formica countertop.
Good-bye rickety shower doors with not-so-decorative doves.
Good-bye window & bonus soap holder - each with hole rusted through.
Good-bye bathroom floor with so many, many uncleanable gunked-up caulk-filled patch jobs.
So good-bye apartment and good riddance. We never really liked you.
And good-bye Bay Area. We really liked living here for the past eight years. We’ll miss your sometimes green, sometimes brown hills. And your grass cutting goats.
Wish us luck.
Soooo… we are leaving town in an hour - a day early.
Yesterday evening felt ODD. We furiously cleaned the apartment until it almost looked… well, it still looked like crap. This felt pretty stupid (since the place is a crap shack and the new owners tell us they're remodeling) but we don't want to take ANY chances of losing our security deposit. And then we spent one last night in our now empty home. My husband kept saying “it still feels like we live here… but we don’t.”
And honestly, it’s about time because this apartment well… it tried our patience.
Good-bye front door that stick so bad I have to yank it open with two hands and my body weight.
Good-bye ugly view of very loud neighbor’s balcony.
Good-bye seasonal leak and big ugly patch on the ceiling.
Good-bye dozens of cracks in the walls.
Good-bye filthy wall heater (yes the only heat in the entire 1000 square feet!) that smelled and threatened to blow us all up.
Good-bye porch so filthy we never used you except to grill.
Good-bye nasty-ass broken down old filthy cabinets. There is not enough fire in the world to clean you. And say good-bye to your friend, burnt formica countertop.
Good-bye rickety shower doors with not-so-decorative doves.
Good-bye window & bonus soap holder - each with hole rusted through.
Good-bye bathroom floor with so many, many uncleanable gunked-up caulk-filled patch jobs.
So good-bye apartment and good riddance. We never really liked you.
And good-bye Bay Area. We really liked living here for the past eight years. We’ll miss your sometimes green, sometimes brown hills. And your grass cutting goats.
Wish us luck.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
A world of thanks
Oh jeez… this could get maudlin.
I had my typical pre-move day today – lots of cleaning, packing and organizing. But (interspersed with the 400 change-of-address calls to every company we have an “account” with) I could detect the growing scent of inevitability.
Tomorrow is my last session with my psychiatrist.
I’ve really liked working with this guy and I don’t know how I’m going to say goodbye. I worry it could go like this.
When I first met him four and a half years ago, he sort of reminded me of a young Santa Claus - heavyset and jolly with a graying beard and thinning hair. But THOROUGH. In all the years of meeting new doctors, I'd never had such a thorough intake. Besides the usual medical and administrative paperwork, we talked about my entire history. He asked me about each phase of my life: how it felt, what did others think of me, and what problems did I have. I gave him a sketch of my parents and all my other relatives. The interest he showed was so intense that he almost seemed a little hyper.
But that’s just what he’s like. Every day. So engaged he’s almost… wired.
We shared a relentless determination to figure problems out. When we made a discovery our smug satisfaction couldn’t be contained – it was like discovering an extra limb. I’d get pissed when I couldn’t make use of every second of our time. Our discussions could get pretty abstract, filled with odd metaphors and references. We traded favorite psychology books. Like sleuths, we traced my deepest motivations back through action, motivation and behavior. We decoded my history like a puzzle - discovering the structure of my oh-so-labile emotions. He always seems glad to have a patient who was analytical and smart.
He could be a bit too bold at times but I liked that he had opinions about things. We didn’t always agree - my job as a patient was to exaggerate my misery and explain how things weren't working. His job was to exaggerate his competency and confidence. Normally, I liked how his sense of humor contrasted the extreme seriousness of our task. Sometimes though, it gave me the sense he didn’t think my problems were a big deal, that I was making a lot out of nothing. I'd get annoyed and so we’d fight and bicker. I hated that he had all this experience and information I wasn’t privy to. He’s seen hundreds of patients so maybe my problems seemed tiresome. Maybe I was freaking out while he was just screwing around.
Most importantly, he let himself be warm and genuine and close in an appropriate way. When I was going through a particularly rough patch, he’d call me while he was driving home from the office. Doctor-patient bullshit be dammed. We were both living, breathing, human beings and treated each other like such. Were we a good match? Yes. Was it good luck? Sure, probably. Did he do a good job? No question about it.
Sometimes it made it harder, knowing that under any other circumstances we’d be friends. And I didn’t want to NEED his attention because… well, what would I do with all the other hours of the week? Besides, I was tired of being sick. I wanted to be better. And he wanted me to be better.
And so,
gradually
and with his help,
I got better. Finally.
Thank you Mike. When nothing else did, our conversations gave me a sense of purpose.
I had my typical pre-move day today – lots of cleaning, packing and organizing. But (interspersed with the 400 change-of-address calls to every company we have an “account” with) I could detect the growing scent of inevitability.
Tomorrow is my last session with my psychiatrist.
I’ve really liked working with this guy and I don’t know how I’m going to say goodbye. I worry it could go like this.
When I first met him four and a half years ago, he sort of reminded me of a young Santa Claus - heavyset and jolly with a graying beard and thinning hair. But THOROUGH. In all the years of meeting new doctors, I'd never had such a thorough intake. Besides the usual medical and administrative paperwork, we talked about my entire history. He asked me about each phase of my life: how it felt, what did others think of me, and what problems did I have. I gave him a sketch of my parents and all my other relatives. The interest he showed was so intense that he almost seemed a little hyper.
But that’s just what he’s like. Every day. So engaged he’s almost… wired.
We shared a relentless determination to figure problems out. When we made a discovery our smug satisfaction couldn’t be contained – it was like discovering an extra limb. I’d get pissed when I couldn’t make use of every second of our time. Our discussions could get pretty abstract, filled with odd metaphors and references. We traded favorite psychology books. Like sleuths, we traced my deepest motivations back through action, motivation and behavior. We decoded my history like a puzzle - discovering the structure of my oh-so-labile emotions. He always seems glad to have a patient who was analytical and smart.
He could be a bit too bold at times but I liked that he had opinions about things. We didn’t always agree - my job as a patient was to exaggerate my misery and explain how things weren't working. His job was to exaggerate his competency and confidence. Normally, I liked how his sense of humor contrasted the extreme seriousness of our task. Sometimes though, it gave me the sense he didn’t think my problems were a big deal, that I was making a lot out of nothing. I'd get annoyed and so we’d fight and bicker. I hated that he had all this experience and information I wasn’t privy to. He’s seen hundreds of patients so maybe my problems seemed tiresome. Maybe I was freaking out while he was just screwing around.
Most importantly, he let himself be warm and genuine and close in an appropriate way. When I was going through a particularly rough patch, he’d call me while he was driving home from the office. Doctor-patient bullshit be dammed. We were both living, breathing, human beings and treated each other like such. Were we a good match? Yes. Was it good luck? Sure, probably. Did he do a good job? No question about it.
Sometimes it made it harder, knowing that under any other circumstances we’d be friends. And I didn’t want to NEED his attention because… well, what would I do with all the other hours of the week? Besides, I was tired of being sick. I wanted to be better. And he wanted me to be better.
And so,
gradually
and with his help,
I got better. Finally.
Thank you Mike. When nothing else did, our conversations gave me a sense of purpose.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Plan B
Wow. I can’t believe I haven’t blogged in almost a month. We have been busy – lots of good-bye dinners, last appointments, and calls to the east coast.
There’s so much going on right now… it feels like our entire lives are changing. We’re moving across country. My job has ended. My husband’s new job comes with double the prestige and salary. Not to mention the fact that we’re getting new sofas.
And thankfully (THANKFULLY!) very little of it has to do with my mental illness. Thus, since I started this blog as a forum to talk about how I live with my mental illness, I haven’t really been sure what to blog about lately.
But... I COULD talk endlessly about all the anxiety I’ve been dealing with lately. Or, more simply put, worry. Lots and lots and LOTS of worry. My fears stick (incessantly) to a few major themes – movers, security deposits, apartments, ect.
My biggest fears center on how I’ll manage my mental illness after the move - Will I fall apart without my therapists in California? Will I find new ones who aren’t idiots? Will our new insurance company pay or will I need to sell a kidney? I’m also worried about my tendency to isolate. Will I make friends and find support groups? Will I find some work or value to add to the world or will it just be the TV, the new sofa and me?
So where do I channel these fears? I obsess. About pointless things. Like liquids.
Um… liquids? Juniper?
Well, you know, you shouldn’t really move liquids across country. They can spill or leak. In the middle of August, they can get cooked and explode in the moving truck. And believe me… everyone’s house has a lot of liquids. There are three major categories: cleaning supplies, beauty products and food. Oh and don’t forget the propane and white gas for grilling and camping. Yeah… those really can’t come.
So Juniper, you may be thinking, throw them all away before you move. Done and done!
No way Jose. I paid good money for those bottles of shampoo and pasta sauce. I have this irrational need to use them all up before we leave. This requires some planning and discipline.
And maybe a few spreadsheets.
Don’t even get me started on the fancy mustards. HOW did we accumulate four jars of fancy mustard? There’s no way we’re going to finish all four jars before the movers come on Monday. And there is no plan B – I can’t give them away because they’re already opened. Sigh. I guess they’re going in the trash.
Betcha forgot that I what I’m REALLY worried about is getting depressed and isolated after the move. See how good I am at avoidance and obfuscation?
Postscript: after writing this, I discovered a can of spray shellac. Damn. How does one properly pawn this off on a friend?
There’s so much going on right now… it feels like our entire lives are changing. We’re moving across country. My job has ended. My husband’s new job comes with double the prestige and salary. Not to mention the fact that we’re getting new sofas.
And thankfully (THANKFULLY!) very little of it has to do with my mental illness. Thus, since I started this blog as a forum to talk about how I live with my mental illness, I haven’t really been sure what to blog about lately.
But... I COULD talk endlessly about all the anxiety I’ve been dealing with lately. Or, more simply put, worry. Lots and lots and LOTS of worry. My fears stick (incessantly) to a few major themes – movers, security deposits, apartments, ect.
My biggest fears center on how I’ll manage my mental illness after the move - Will I fall apart without my therapists in California? Will I find new ones who aren’t idiots? Will our new insurance company pay or will I need to sell a kidney? I’m also worried about my tendency to isolate. Will I make friends and find support groups? Will I find some work or value to add to the world or will it just be the TV, the new sofa and me?
- - - - - - - - -
So where do I channel these fears? I obsess. About pointless things. Like liquids.
Um… liquids? Juniper?
Well, you know, you shouldn’t really move liquids across country. They can spill or leak. In the middle of August, they can get cooked and explode in the moving truck. And believe me… everyone’s house has a lot of liquids. There are three major categories: cleaning supplies, beauty products and food. Oh and don’t forget the propane and white gas for grilling and camping. Yeah… those really can’t come.
So Juniper, you may be thinking, throw them all away before you move. Done and done!
No way Jose. I paid good money for those bottles of shampoo and pasta sauce. I have this irrational need to use them all up before we leave. This requires some planning and discipline.
And maybe a few spreadsheets.
Don’t even get me started on the fancy mustards. HOW did we accumulate four jars of fancy mustard? There’s no way we’re going to finish all four jars before the movers come on Monday. And there is no plan B – I can’t give them away because they’re already opened. Sigh. I guess they’re going in the trash.
- - - - - - - - -
Betcha forgot that I what I’m REALLY worried about is getting depressed and isolated after the move. See how good I am at avoidance and obfuscation?
Postscript: after writing this, I discovered a can of spray shellac. Damn. How does one properly pawn this off on a friend?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
My week in pictures
Damn! Has it been a week already? Man we've been busy!
Wednesday:
Monday:
Wednesday:
- Put deposit down on new apartment!
- Went for a run in 90 degree heat… ow.
- Had dinner and watched fireworks with friends who gave us this (thus proving that they know us pretty well):
- The moving company informs us we own 6000lbs of crap. Approximately ½ of which are books…
- Sold husband’s car in less than 12 hours! (thanks Craigslist!)
- Went to my depression support group.
- Attempted to do yoga DVD.
- Finished this kick-ass biography about recovery from mental illness:
- Watched 4000 hours of TV:
- Attempted to do aerobics DVD.
- Bought cheap sundresses for our upcoming vacation to Hawaii!
Monday:- Swam laps at my favorite pool. Tried to savor it since they don’t have outdoor pools surrounded by redwoods where we're going in New England.
- Bought nifty Alyssa Ettinger coasters:
- We notice (at 9:30pm) that the cat is limping badly. We get all paranoid and take her to kitty ER. $300 and one x-ray later we learn that nothing’s broken – it’s probably just a sprain. We are instructed to “jam some kitty Aleve down her throat and call us if it doesn’t improve.” Oh, and by the way, the x-ray shows signs of arthritis. Goody. (although, according to the article I read in “Cat Fancy Magazine” in the waiting room at 1am last night, 90-100% of 12 year old cats have some arthritis which makes me feel a bit better.)
- We're woken up at 3:30am by a cat fight outside. Both my husband and I sit straight up, immediately worried that it's our cat crying out in pain. We call her name and she comes limping into the bedroom - ka thump... ka thump... ka thump.
- First day of the SAT prep class I’m teaching this week. 3 hours of defining words. “Juniper, what does justify mean? What does deception mean? How about alleviate and wary? Juniper, why do they make these questions so hella tricky?”
- Bought mom a Recycled Kimono Handbag for her upcoming birthday:
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Now I ask you... who won the argument?
WHEN: today
WHERE: inside my head
WHAT: a continuation of the never-ending argument between the nagging, anxious voice in my head and me, Juniper.
Juniper: I guess the UTI’s finally gone. It took a week but I’m finally starting to feel back to normal.
Voice: No thanks to you.
Juniper: What the hell are you talking about? When the gallon of cranberry juice didn’t help I went to the doctor and got some antibiotics. I took the antibiotics and now I’m better.
Voice: Still. You did it all wrong.
Juniper: HOW. How did I do it all wrong?! You make no sense!
Voice: The urinalysis wasn't conclusive. You can't be sure you even HAD a UTI. Maybe you were just being paranoid.
Juniper: No. That can happen. I'd been drinking a LOT of fluids. The doctor didn't think I was faking it. That's what you're worried about right - that he thought I was a faker. If he thought that, he wouldn't have given me the antibiotics.
Voice: Still. You got the wrong antibiotics. You didn’t make the doctor listen to you.
Juniper: I tried… I told him I had good luck with old-fashioned antibiotics like penicillin in the past but he wanted to give me that ‘Macrobid’ stuff. He was just too busy and I didn’t think it was worth it to argue with him.
Voice: Whatever it was, it didn’t agree with you. Up until last night you thought it had messed up your stomach.
Juniper: I didn’t think that – YOU kept telling me it had. But it didn’t. I’m fine today. It was probably just my IBS. Or the lactose intolerance. I don't have the greatest GI system, you know.
Voice: Still. It could have. Don’t forget that Cipro you took in 2001 – it knocked out your intestinal flora. Or at least they THINK it did. You’re so irresponsible; you never even went back to the hospital the next day with a stool sample like the doctor told you too.
Juniper: It was September 11th. THE September 11th, 2001? I was a little busy. The world was coming to an end. Remember??
Voice: Still.
Juniper: What is that, your favorite word?
Voice: Ok, ok. So you’ve returned to health. Good for you. What are you going to do for the rest of the day?
Juniper: I’m going to the store. We’re out of canned cat food, vitamins and seltzer water.
Voice: Right now? The day before a holiday? The store will be mobbed! AND you just got your car detailed a few hours ago… now you want to drive it into a dirty parking lot? Aren't you trying to sell it?! And that seltzer water – it can’t be good for your stomach… Still, if you don’t get the cat food, you’ll be depriving the cat of wet food. Are you sure she’s ok? She’s been sleeping a lot…
Juniper: Dear god... If I beat on my head with a rock, would you go away or just shut up for a little while?
WHERE: inside my head
WHAT: a continuation of the never-ending argument between the nagging, anxious voice in my head and me, Juniper.
Juniper: I guess the UTI’s finally gone. It took a week but I’m finally starting to feel back to normal.
Voice: No thanks to you.
Juniper: What the hell are you talking about? When the gallon of cranberry juice didn’t help I went to the doctor and got some antibiotics. I took the antibiotics and now I’m better.
Voice: Still. You did it all wrong.
Juniper: HOW. How did I do it all wrong?! You make no sense!
Voice: The urinalysis wasn't conclusive. You can't be sure you even HAD a UTI. Maybe you were just being paranoid.
Juniper: No. That can happen. I'd been drinking a LOT of fluids. The doctor didn't think I was faking it. That's what you're worried about right - that he thought I was a faker. If he thought that, he wouldn't have given me the antibiotics.
Voice: Still. You got the wrong antibiotics. You didn’t make the doctor listen to you.
Juniper: I tried… I told him I had good luck with old-fashioned antibiotics like penicillin in the past but he wanted to give me that ‘Macrobid’ stuff. He was just too busy and I didn’t think it was worth it to argue with him.
Voice: Whatever it was, it didn’t agree with you. Up until last night you thought it had messed up your stomach.
Juniper: I didn’t think that – YOU kept telling me it had. But it didn’t. I’m fine today. It was probably just my IBS. Or the lactose intolerance. I don't have the greatest GI system, you know.
Voice: Still. It could have. Don’t forget that Cipro you took in 2001 – it knocked out your intestinal flora. Or at least they THINK it did. You’re so irresponsible; you never even went back to the hospital the next day with a stool sample like the doctor told you too.
Juniper: It was September 11th. THE September 11th, 2001? I was a little busy. The world was coming to an end. Remember??
Voice: Still.
Juniper: What is that, your favorite word?
Voice: Ok, ok. So you’ve returned to health. Good for you. What are you going to do for the rest of the day?
Juniper: I’m going to the store. We’re out of canned cat food, vitamins and seltzer water.
Voice: Right now? The day before a holiday? The store will be mobbed! AND you just got your car detailed a few hours ago… now you want to drive it into a dirty parking lot? Aren't you trying to sell it?! And that seltzer water – it can’t be good for your stomach… Still, if you don’t get the cat food, you’ll be depriving the cat of wet food. Are you sure she’s ok? She’s been sleeping a lot…
Juniper: Dear god... If I beat on my head with a rock, would you go away or just shut up for a little while?
Monday, July 02, 2007
Havin’ little arguments with myself…
WHEN: last Monday night
WHERE: inside my head
WHAT: argument between the nagging, anxious voice in my head and me, Juniper.
Juniper: Oh CRAP… I think I’m getting a UTI. Damn. Not another one! Why am I so susceptible to these?
Voice: It’s your fault Juniper. You’re just an icky, unclean girl.
Juniper: No, I’m not! Remember that ER doc who quizzed me about how to avoid UTI’s? He said I knew everything – that I could teach a course on how NOT to get them.
Voice: I remember. I remember that he SAID that if you know everything AND you still get UTI’s then there’s probably something wrong with your anatomy. You have bad kidneys or you have screwy plumbing. He said that if you keep getting them, you should get an ultrasound.
Juniper: Oh. Right. I remember. But my kidneys are fine - my shrink checked their function all the time when I was on Lithium. Besides, I had an ultrasound…
Voice: Yeah, when you were in third grade! You know, you saw that ER doc five years ago. You should’ve followed up on that.
Juniper: OK, I grant you, that was a while ago… but I’ve had other things to deal with.
Voice: Well, you don’t have the time right now to deal with getting to a referral and starting a series of tests with a urologist. You’re in the process of moving across the country, you know. Just add it to the long list of things to do when you get to New England. SIGH. Your new insurance company is going to LOVE you.
Juniper: Still, It’s not my fault.
Voice: Yes it is. Somehow it is. At the very least you should’ve pushed fluids. You knew you didn’t pee enough on Saturday…
Juniper: Ok, ok! You’re right. But I can do that now; I can nip it in the bud. I’ll go to the store first thing tomorrow morning and chug a huge bottle of cranberry juice. Ok?
Voice: Hrumph. We’ll see.
To be continued...
Friday, June 29, 2007
Let's give 'em something to talk about
In the past week I've been emailing a lot of people, trying to make a lot of plans for our upcoming adventures. As a result, I've had the opportunity to read emails that other people sent about me. I didn't have to sneak around to read these - they were attached to replies or cc'd to me.
But reading them left me feeling strange, nonetheless. I assume people don't talk about me much - I'm not that interesting. But it felt odd to see what people say about me, even when they know I'm listening:
Example 1: from my mom to a friend who works at the Hawaii Tourism Bureau
"Hi J!
[paragraph of pleasantries deleted]
Our daughter and son-in-law will be moving from the west coast back to the east coast this summer. Our son-in-law just finished his post-doctorate work in the Bay Area. They have had a long struggle getting to this point. He will be going on to Very Famous University in the fall now. They’d like to take a much needed vacation to Hawaii, where neither have ever been, before leaving the west coast, in celebration of all their hard work. They’ve been at this for about eight years. Our daughter, Juniper, will be in touch with you soon to get some suggestions from you about where they should go. Any help that you can give them will be much appreciated by them and by us.
[more pleasantries] Hope all is well with you.
Best regards,
Juniper’s mom"
My thoughts: Jeez mom! "long struggle," "all their hard work," "at this for eight years!" You make it sound like we've been on a chain gang! OK granted, the past eight years have been hard, but the way she tells it, my husband barely managed to get by!
Example 2: letter from my husband's therapist to a friend of his in New England:
"Dear L,
I have a patient who is moving with his wife to take a job at Very Famous University. I’ve treated him for three years, with moderate success. V and I also treated his wife in group therapy for a time.
She is a borderline personality who has responded well to intense treatment and will be looking for a therapist in town. I would very much appreciate referrals for her. As you can appreciate, confidentiality is a high priority. Thanks.
Hope you and M are enjoying your summer,
B"
My thoughts: uh, apparently I've become a new kind of species: "A Borderline Personality." I know this is the way a lot of docs talk but can't I at least have a diagnosis? Do I have to BE my disorder?
My husband's reaction: "I've only had moderate success? What's he talking about?!"
Me: "Well, I wouldn't know since I've responded well..."
But reading them left me feeling strange, nonetheless. I assume people don't talk about me much - I'm not that interesting. But it felt odd to see what people say about me, even when they know I'm listening:
Example 1: from my mom to a friend who works at the Hawaii Tourism Bureau
"Hi J!
[paragraph of pleasantries deleted]
Our daughter and son-in-law will be moving from the west coast back to the east coast this summer. Our son-in-law just finished his post-doctorate work in the Bay Area. They have had a long struggle getting to this point. He will be going on to Very Famous University in the fall now. They’d like to take a much needed vacation to Hawaii, where neither have ever been, before leaving the west coast, in celebration of all their hard work. They’ve been at this for about eight years. Our daughter, Juniper, will be in touch with you soon to get some suggestions from you about where they should go. Any help that you can give them will be much appreciated by them and by us.
[more pleasantries] Hope all is well with you.
Best regards,
Juniper’s mom"
My thoughts: Jeez mom! "long struggle," "all their hard work," "at this for eight years!" You make it sound like we've been on a chain gang! OK granted, the past eight years have been hard, but the way she tells it, my husband barely managed to get by!
Example 2: letter from my husband's therapist to a friend of his in New England:
"Dear L,
I have a patient who is moving with his wife to take a job at Very Famous University. I’ve treated him for three years, with moderate success. V and I also treated his wife in group therapy for a time.
She is a borderline personality who has responded well to intense treatment and will be looking for a therapist in town. I would very much appreciate referrals for her. As you can appreciate, confidentiality is a high priority. Thanks.
Hope you and M are enjoying your summer,
B"
My thoughts: uh, apparently I've become a new kind of species: "A Borderline Personality." I know this is the way a lot of docs talk but can't I at least have a diagnosis? Do I have to BE my disorder?
My husband's reaction: "I've only had moderate success? What's he talking about?!"
Me: "Well, I wouldn't know since I've responded well..."
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
The Circle Game
Drum roll please…
We’ve made a decision. My husband took the job at Very Famous University (VFU) in New England. We would’ve preferred to stay on the west coast but none of those universities made him offers. Still, after we visited VFU a few weeks ago, it quickly became our first choice. It just felt right… familiar… like coming home. Literally.
You see, my husband grew up less than 50 miles from VFU. My hometown is less than 25 miles away. Most of our family and friends live just an hour or two away. When we moved to the Bay area in ’99 we tried to keep in touch, to visit at least once a year. But it’s taken a lot of effort. And a lot of the time we’ve felt pretty isolated. We’ve envied our friends who have the support of an extended family nearby.
I’m still scared to be leaving California, my therapists, my friends, my colleagues. But knowing that we won’t be so alone in our new home - it removes a lot of the anxiety. And, at our house, anything we can do to reduce anxiety is a good thing because we… we've been a little out of our minds with the stress of having to make such a big decision.
I can't believe we're going back home. My husband and I have lived in so many towns, so many states, even a couple of countries. I almost can't believe we have a home. It's surreal and eerie and kind of nice. It's like that song I've known since I was small... the one with the lyrics I can sing without even having to remember:
We’ve made a decision. My husband took the job at Very Famous University (VFU) in New England. We would’ve preferred to stay on the west coast but none of those universities made him offers. Still, after we visited VFU a few weeks ago, it quickly became our first choice. It just felt right… familiar… like coming home. Literally.
You see, my husband grew up less than 50 miles from VFU. My hometown is less than 25 miles away. Most of our family and friends live just an hour or two away. When we moved to the Bay area in ’99 we tried to keep in touch, to visit at least once a year. But it’s taken a lot of effort. And a lot of the time we’ve felt pretty isolated. We’ve envied our friends who have the support of an extended family nearby.
I’m still scared to be leaving California, my therapists, my friends, my colleagues. But knowing that we won’t be so alone in our new home - it removes a lot of the anxiety. And, at our house, anything we can do to reduce anxiety is a good thing because we… we've been a little out of our minds with the stress of having to make such a big decision.
I can't believe we're going back home. My husband and I have lived in so many towns, so many states, even a couple of countries. I almost can't believe we have a home. It's surreal and eerie and kind of nice. It's like that song I've known since I was small... the one with the lyrics I can sing without even having to remember:
And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on a carousel of time.
We can’t return, we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.
- Joni Mitchell
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on a carousel of time.
We can’t return, we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.
- Joni Mitchell
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Summer & Shame: part 4 - Full Circle
But in the long run, I doubt the people at my camp would remember much about my troubled childhood. Maybe, somewhere in some file, it says that I was clingy and needy and troubled. But I’m sure there were lots of kids who wanted more attention from their counselors. Besides, it all happened so long ago… such ancient history.
But when I got into my late teens, I became a staff member. Whenever I wasn’t in school, I was working there. Those are some of the memories I cherish and regret the most. There are a lot of quirky kids in the world, but I was a needy, clingy, troubled young woman. In retrospect, I wonder if it was glaringly obvious.
I’d always planned to do the counselor-training program when I turned fifteen. It seemed like the perfect summer job; to become the strong role model I’d always looked up to. There was only one problem. I’d spent the spring in a locked psychiatric unit. My parents warned me that the camp might not want to employ me with such a history. When we called to ask the camp director said it was no problem. They trusted me – heck, they’d known me forever. My parents were slightly amazed but let me go.
It was wonderful. For the first time in months I was taking care of myself. At the end of the summer, I went camping alone, up in the hemlock forest for a couple of nights. It was part of the program, a test of our survival skills. At night, the sky was barely blue and everything else was black. I couldn’t see my sleeping bag just a foot away. The ground below felt hollow, layered with soft, brown needles. It was still warm and the air smelled clean, like the trees. I listened to the crickets and the rest of the world down by the lake. I felt strangely confident. I hadn’t just survived the hospitalization - I wanted to live.
For the next four summers, I was a full counselor. I loved being in charge. When the kids paid attention I taught them rappelling, respect, and the breaststroke. I became captain of the lifeguard team; my shoulders tanned while I watched the kids and twirled my whistle around my fingers. My hair hung almost to my waist and around my neck I wore a large green stone on a leather cord. I cuddled my girls through thunderstorms and gave them my hot dog when theirs fell in the campfire. At night, my campers climbed into their small bunks and I sang Joni Mitchell songs by flashlight. On nights off, the staff all went bowling or drank beer at bonfires in the woods. I had a station wagon so I was frequently the driver. The only time the police hassled us I was sitting in the back seat and they didn’t ask my age.
I wanted to look like I didn’t need anyone to take care of me. But inside, I desperately wanted a boyfriend – anyone – to love me. Every summer I’d try to find the right guy and wind up with a loser or someone who’d dump me in the fall. There was Chris, the drunk from Maine who never let me go all the way with him. There was Eric, the Trekkie who played the trombone in the marching band. There was the art history professor from London who I feel deeply in love with. On our weekends off we’d stay in nice hotels or go to Greenwich Village on the train. After we’d fool around, he’d order tea from room service and we’d drink it in our underwear. I fantasized about moving to London, about marrying him and having a home together. When I went back to college that fall, I went straight to the study abroad office and got brochures for all the London Universities. He met the woman he would later marry and dumped me via airmail.
My last summer at camp, I started wondering if I was barking up the wrong tree. Our director had just come out of the closet and I’d always wanted her to like me. One night while we were sitting around the campfire I told her that I thought I might be interested in girls. Then a week later, I hooked up with Joe, the counselor from Namibia. He was fun to work with - a charmer with an Afrikaans accent. I wasn’t attracted to his long thinning hair but he told great stories about Africa; Zulus, Victoria Falls, elephants, wildlife preserves. We stayed together through the fall but when I cut off his comb-over and I still wasn’t attracted to him, I ended it.
By that point, I was twenty and embarrassed. There had been too many boyfriends, too many cries for help. After all the different personas and personalities I’d tried, how could I look anyone in the face? Surely, I had lost everyone’s respect. I never went back to camp. And I never forgave myself for ruining my home away from home.
Until…
well, until I wrote all this and saw just how innocent it really was. I was very young and I was struggling. I did the best I could. I’m sure the people at camp didn’t notice a lot of what I was going through. And what they did notice, I’m sure they didn’t mind because… well, I think they cared about me.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Summer & Shame: part 3 - The Cape
When I turned 13, I decided to go on the camp’s teen adventure trip, cycling up the length of Cape Cod. When I arrived at camp that July, the other teens were flirting and figuring out who would hook up first. I surveyed the situation and decided that the best I could hope for was a big, plain wrestler named Matt. He was a meathead, but he liked me and we made out in the back of the van on our way to the Cape.
The first night out, we camped in a scrubby forest in Sandwich. In the sandy soil, the trees grew short and twisted. Narrow paths crisscrossed throughout the vegetation, each one looking alike. I tried to navigate my bike through the maze but I got lost. I rode faster and faster in the dusk, panicking, convinced I’d never find my way back to camp. Later that night, safe in my tent, I felt like I might cry just thinking about it.
The next day we loaded up our bikes and left our vans behind. We rode across the fat, bicep part of the cape and stopped for the night at Nickerson State Park. After we pitched our tents and ate, we wandered around the place. There were strange abandoned buildings everywhere. It wasn't clear if the place had been a summer camp or a sketchy amusement park. We found an old bandstand so we climbed onstage and dangled our legs over the edge. It was pitch black and windy. All kinds of creaking and snapping noises came from the woods. The guys teased us by telling stories about ghosts and ax murderers until we screamed and ran off the stage.
Matt caught up with me and led me by the hand with his flashlight to a large building. The swinging door slammed shut behind us. It was an old gymnasium. We couldn't see much, but our sneaker squeaks resonated around the high ceiling. We lay down in the middle of the basketball court and I didn't say a word. We kissed for a while and I let Matt put his hand up my shirt. I could feel him on my leg and I pressed up hard against him. Soon, my shirt and Matt's pants were lying next to us. Suddenly, someone slammed through the screen door. Hey, the voice yelled, bouncing around loudly for a second. A flashlight scanned the floor and the person asked, 'who's in here?’ It was our counselor. He spoke our names and told us to get out. He sounded disappointed and annoyed.
I ran back my tent with my bra stuffed in my hand and collapsed, face up onto my sleeping bag. Oh god, I thought. I was so angry with myself. Now my counselors were going to think I was just a slutty little idiot. But that wasn't me. It was some version of me I’d created to impress the other kids. The real me went to camp to be ‘one’ with the woods. Why did I want to impress these stupid kids anyway? Just because they seemed cooler than me didn’t mean I had to completely change myself to match. I didn't see how I could do this trip now that my counselors had seen both versions of me. I couldn't be two different people at the same time.
My friend was still asking me if I was ok, but I didn't feel like talking. I started to think about how close we were to the ocean. I could walk down there, straight into the water. Maybe I could probably drown myself if I got out far enough. How would I keep myself from floating? The scene played like a film, over and over. By now, my friend had called for the female counselor to come over. She poked her head through the flap and asked me what was going on. I didn't respond to her either. I just concentrated on the noise of the wind and blocked out the sound of their voices.
Eventually, I realized that time must have passed because my friend was asleep. I didn’t want to let myself move or think, otherwise the momentum might carry me to the beach. My mind played thoughts like dreams, while I lay awake. When it started to get light, I knew we'd need to pack up and leave soon. Mary looked in to say good morning and to ask if Matt could talk to me. I tried my mouth and was surprised to see that it still worked. No, I said, I don't want to have a boyfriend anymore.
Outside, I could hear Matt swear, and then swear again louder like he was in pain. My friend dashed in delighted to tell me that Matt had punched a tree and had maybe broken his hand. Slowly, I got myself sitting up, then standing, and walked over to the campfire where everyone was eating. I still wasn't talking much. I was wondering what it meant that I was thinking about suicide again. The last time I’d entertained the thought was five years earlier, in the fourth grade, when I was eight.
By the end of the week I felt a little better. It had been good to push myself, to ride so far. I learned that it didn’t kill me to be sweaty, and gross and sore. We celebrated our last night in a youth hostel on the narrow wrist part of the cape. The town wasn't much more than a sandbar covered with huge dunes and sea grasses. Later that night, lying in my bunk, I couldn't stop thinking about the ocean.
At dawn, we all walked to the end of the sandy road and watched the sunrise from the top of a dune. The water turned gold for a minute as the arc of the sun appeared. While we watched, a familiar ache crept back into my chest - like I was an actor following a scripted play. There was a plot and I knew that the dramatic climax was about to happen. The play just took me along with its momentum and all I had to do was yell and cry at the right time. Damn it, I cursed, why does every thing feel so intense for me? This doesn't have to have some profound meaning. The sun rises every day, I argued. Still, my heart wouldn’t let go of that heavy, stepped-on feeling.
Next: last part - Full Circle
The first night out, we camped in a scrubby forest in Sandwich. In the sandy soil, the trees grew short and twisted. Narrow paths crisscrossed throughout the vegetation, each one looking alike. I tried to navigate my bike through the maze but I got lost. I rode faster and faster in the dusk, panicking, convinced I’d never find my way back to camp. Later that night, safe in my tent, I felt like I might cry just thinking about it.
The next day we loaded up our bikes and left our vans behind. We rode across the fat, bicep part of the cape and stopped for the night at Nickerson State Park. After we pitched our tents and ate, we wandered around the place. There were strange abandoned buildings everywhere. It wasn't clear if the place had been a summer camp or a sketchy amusement park. We found an old bandstand so we climbed onstage and dangled our legs over the edge. It was pitch black and windy. All kinds of creaking and snapping noises came from the woods. The guys teased us by telling stories about ghosts and ax murderers until we screamed and ran off the stage.
Matt caught up with me and led me by the hand with his flashlight to a large building. The swinging door slammed shut behind us. It was an old gymnasium. We couldn't see much, but our sneaker squeaks resonated around the high ceiling. We lay down in the middle of the basketball court and I didn't say a word. We kissed for a while and I let Matt put his hand up my shirt. I could feel him on my leg and I pressed up hard against him. Soon, my shirt and Matt's pants were lying next to us. Suddenly, someone slammed through the screen door. Hey, the voice yelled, bouncing around loudly for a second. A flashlight scanned the floor and the person asked, 'who's in here?’ It was our counselor. He spoke our names and told us to get out. He sounded disappointed and annoyed.
I ran back my tent with my bra stuffed in my hand and collapsed, face up onto my sleeping bag. Oh god, I thought. I was so angry with myself. Now my counselors were going to think I was just a slutty little idiot. But that wasn't me. It was some version of me I’d created to impress the other kids. The real me went to camp to be ‘one’ with the woods. Why did I want to impress these stupid kids anyway? Just because they seemed cooler than me didn’t mean I had to completely change myself to match. I didn't see how I could do this trip now that my counselors had seen both versions of me. I couldn't be two different people at the same time.
My friend was still asking me if I was ok, but I didn't feel like talking. I started to think about how close we were to the ocean. I could walk down there, straight into the water. Maybe I could probably drown myself if I got out far enough. How would I keep myself from floating? The scene played like a film, over and over. By now, my friend had called for the female counselor to come over. She poked her head through the flap and asked me what was going on. I didn't respond to her either. I just concentrated on the noise of the wind and blocked out the sound of their voices.
Eventually, I realized that time must have passed because my friend was asleep. I didn’t want to let myself move or think, otherwise the momentum might carry me to the beach. My mind played thoughts like dreams, while I lay awake. When it started to get light, I knew we'd need to pack up and leave soon. Mary looked in to say good morning and to ask if Matt could talk to me. I tried my mouth and was surprised to see that it still worked. No, I said, I don't want to have a boyfriend anymore.
Outside, I could hear Matt swear, and then swear again louder like he was in pain. My friend dashed in delighted to tell me that Matt had punched a tree and had maybe broken his hand. Slowly, I got myself sitting up, then standing, and walked over to the campfire where everyone was eating. I still wasn't talking much. I was wondering what it meant that I was thinking about suicide again. The last time I’d entertained the thought was five years earlier, in the fourth grade, when I was eight.
By the end of the week I felt a little better. It had been good to push myself, to ride so far. I learned that it didn’t kill me to be sweaty, and gross and sore. We celebrated our last night in a youth hostel on the narrow wrist part of the cape. The town wasn't much more than a sandbar covered with huge dunes and sea grasses. Later that night, lying in my bunk, I couldn't stop thinking about the ocean.
At dawn, we all walked to the end of the sandy road and watched the sunrise from the top of a dune. The water turned gold for a minute as the arc of the sun appeared. While we watched, a familiar ache crept back into my chest - like I was an actor following a scripted play. There was a plot and I knew that the dramatic climax was about to happen. The play just took me along with its momentum and all I had to do was yell and cry at the right time. Damn it, I cursed, why does every thing feel so intense for me? This doesn't have to have some profound meaning. The sun rises every day, I argued. Still, my heart wouldn’t let go of that heavy, stepped-on feeling.
Next: last part - Full Circle
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Summer & Shame: part 2 - The fire
My favorite class at camp was called “Adventure.” For the first few days we’d make our way through the obstacle course: the wall, the swinging log, the swinging rope, the tight wire, the trust fall, the caterpillar walk, the parachute, and the trapeze. All the challenges built teamwork and leadership for the high ropes course later in the week.
The high ropes course was in a clearing, way up in the Hemlock forest. The main element was a log suspended forty-five feet off the ground. To get to this catwalk, you climbed an inclined log, and crossed a two-wire bridge. At the other end of the catwalk, there was a long zip line that sped you deep into the woods. At the end of the week, we spent the afternoon rock climbing at dead man’s cliff.
My counselor, Becky, let me belay the other kids and tie their harnesses. She was a sturdy coed with a mess of curly blond hair. Everyone called her ‘Grizzly.’ She called me “wild-woman’ and I wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.
One afternoon, as I was securing our safety line to a tree, I looked up into the scrub above the cliff. Twenty feet ahead I could see a small wisp of smoke. When I looked closer I saw an orange smudge and heard a crackling noise. I called down to Becky “There’s a fire up here!” Becky told me to gather up the rest of the kids and lead them back to camp. On the path we saw other counselors running fast back towards the fire.
As we reached the field, we heard the blast of the air horn. That was the camp’s disaster signal and our cue to line up on the basketball court. I could hear the lifeguards shout as they swept the cabins looking for stragglers. We sat on the basketball court and watched the smoke spread above the trees as fire-fighters pulled into the driveway.
After the fire was out, I saw Becky walking out of the woods. She came right over to me to ask me how I was. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her that I’d found the whole thing exhilarating – almost electrifying. That wasn’t the way to keep her attention. Instead, I started to shiver a little so Becky sat with me a while. I only felt a little shocked but I played it up, crying and shaking so she’d stay.
At the end of the season, we had the candlelight ceremony. All the staff would stand around the campers in a circle. Each counselor would take two candles and then they’d call for a camper to join them. With each candle that was lit, the night would get brighter and you could pick out everyone’s faces. I never got picked. But I thought for sure that this time, Becky would pick me. When she called out the name of another girl I just stared at the outline of the trees and shadow of the lake beyond.
Next: Part 3 - Cape Cod
The high ropes course was in a clearing, way up in the Hemlock forest. The main element was a log suspended forty-five feet off the ground. To get to this catwalk, you climbed an inclined log, and crossed a two-wire bridge. At the other end of the catwalk, there was a long zip line that sped you deep into the woods. At the end of the week, we spent the afternoon rock climbing at dead man’s cliff.
My counselor, Becky, let me belay the other kids and tie their harnesses. She was a sturdy coed with a mess of curly blond hair. Everyone called her ‘Grizzly.’ She called me “wild-woman’ and I wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.
One afternoon, as I was securing our safety line to a tree, I looked up into the scrub above the cliff. Twenty feet ahead I could see a small wisp of smoke. When I looked closer I saw an orange smudge and heard a crackling noise. I called down to Becky “There’s a fire up here!” Becky told me to gather up the rest of the kids and lead them back to camp. On the path we saw other counselors running fast back towards the fire.
As we reached the field, we heard the blast of the air horn. That was the camp’s disaster signal and our cue to line up on the basketball court. I could hear the lifeguards shout as they swept the cabins looking for stragglers. We sat on the basketball court and watched the smoke spread above the trees as fire-fighters pulled into the driveway.
After the fire was out, I saw Becky walking out of the woods. She came right over to me to ask me how I was. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her that I’d found the whole thing exhilarating – almost electrifying. That wasn’t the way to keep her attention. Instead, I started to shiver a little so Becky sat with me a while. I only felt a little shocked but I played it up, crying and shaking so she’d stay.
At the end of the season, we had the candlelight ceremony. All the staff would stand around the campers in a circle. Each counselor would take two candles and then they’d call for a camper to join them. With each candle that was lit, the night would get brighter and you could pick out everyone’s faces. I never got picked. But I thought for sure that this time, Becky would pick me. When she called out the name of another girl I just stared at the outline of the trees and shadow of the lake beyond.
Next: Part 3 - Cape Cod
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Summer & Shame: part 1 - I can't sleep
When we were in New England last week, I worked up the courage to visit my old summer camp. I hadn’t been back in almost ten years, so I thought a visit was overdue. As we drove through the leafy, rolling hills over to the river valley, I had some time to worry. I wasn’t sure I should go back. Would anyone at the camp still remember me? Would they want to see me? Would they think it was strange that I wanted to visit? I looked at the late afternoon summer storm clouds pursuing us overhead. Would it start to rain?
And why was I so worried??? After all, I spent thirteen straight summers at this camp. This place was like my home away from home. For me, camp was a placed to be young, healthy, confident, and most of all, myself. Sure, most of the staff were seasonal college students and wouldn’t know who the hell I was. But I knew the director and her family were still there. They’d remember me.
But what would they remember? Or should I say… how much would they remember? These people watched me grow up. And it was a bumpy process. So many good memories and so many things to be ashamed of. Sometimes, at this time of year, at midsummer, I lay awake, thinking about camp and how intense each day felt.
- - - - - - - - -
There was a click and then the noise of a needle being placed on a record. Two seconds passed then a recorded bugle playing reveille bounced through the ancient loudspeakers. God, I loved camp. Last week, some of the British counselors hijacked the loudspeaker and played God Save the Queen. I slid out of my slippery sleeping bag and into my clothes. I didn’t even comb my hair; it just fell in place. Everyone moved slowly, especially the counselors who’d had the night off. I’d been awake when they came in at one in the morning.
I was the cabin waiter that day so I’d be spending a lot of the day at the dining hall. I headed out early, letting the cabin door slam behind me. I walked to the dining hall along the lake. The water was still and the cool air made the hairs on my bare legs stand up. At the dining hall, I grabbed my busboy bucket full of plates and silverware. I picked up sugar and syrup and butter from the kitchen. Outside, the flag raising song played. Everyone pushed in and the giant room filled with noise. When it was quiet and we were standing around the big round tables we sang grace. I omitted the words God and Lord as usual.
I munched on my frosted flakes and studied the names of foreign counselors that covered the walls. Each of their flags hung from the ceiling. I liked the symbols on the Korean flag. My counselor was going to be on lifeguard duty so I asked if anyone wanted to be buddies for free swim – just so I could be near her. After breakfast, I cleaned the table and ran back to my cabin. We had inspection today, so we took the towels off the rafters and shoved our clothes in our cubbies. At least I didn’t have to clean the bathroom.
My first class of the day was Jewelry. We braided strands of metal together to make bracelets. Then the noise was everywhere as we pounded them flat with big, wooden smacking mallets. I made one and spent the rest of the time wandering around the room; looking at all the cool stuff people had left behind. The arts and crafts building was built into the side of a hill and back by the kiln there was a huge boulder that protruded into the room. On the rafters, someone had painted old logos from 70’s rock bands I’d never heard of. My next class was windsurfing so I had my bathing suit under my clothes. I’d taken the class so many times I knew how to rig my own sail and board. I’d get the sail up and glide for a couple of minutes. Then when I lost my balance I’d leap into the cool, deep, water.
Lunch was gross and I almost got Sloppy Joe sauce on the card dad sent. After we ate, I cleared the mess and we stood up to sing “Father Abraham.” At each refrain we flailed part of our bodies until we were leaping around in spasms. After lunch I dozed on my bed. It was peaceful, listening to the small waves lapping outside the cabin door. If everyone was quiet, you could hear the kids yelling at the public beach across the lake. Sometimes, a motorboat would pass nearby and the waves would get slightly louder.
After the hour-long siesta was over, I ran across the soccer field to the rifle range. My 22 caliber bolt-action rifle had bad sights but I got two bulls-eyes in the prone position. Paul, my Kiwi instructor, tapped my foot and asked me where I learned to shoot like that. From you, of course, I answered, grinning, careful not to turn my torso to look at him. I was too tired by free swim. I sat by the water watching the raft rock and sway as the swimmers jumped off the diving tower.
At dinner, everyone was starving and I had to go back to the kitchen for thirds. We waited, watching for the chef to come out and hang the giant fork or spoon. Today was a spoon so we’d have pudding or Jello for dessert. When everyone had left, I wiped down the table one last time and waited for my turn with the broom and mop.
I found my counselor on the beach with the other girls, dragging a huge aluminum war canoe. My counselor sprayed us with bug spray and we climbed in. The mosquitoes could be vicious in the evening. Eventually, we got our paddles in unison and we sped across the lake, echoing repetitive camp songs. When we got close to the mouth of the river, we picked up our paddles and the canoe slid through a patch of lily pads. Noiselessly, we floated along, looking for turtles and lizards. A few years before, I’d walked through the swamp. I never forgot the feel of the knee-deep mud, the fear of the snakes and the leeches. We had a campfire on the beach before bedtime. Rob, the shaggy-haired counselor played guitar and sang folk songs. Michael told a story with sound effects and different voices.
By the time the bugle sounded the call to quarters it was past dusk. Everyone made their way back to their villages by flashlight. I went the other way, across the empty fields to the infirmary to get my nightly vitamin. When I got there, the kids were lined up, joking around as they waited for their medications by the light from the screen door. Once, when I was very little, I had passed out in the dining hall from heat exhaustion. My counselor brought me to the infirmary and I spent the day in the quiet screened-in sick room laying in bed and reading old MAD magazines.
After I got my vitamin, I headed back into the dark night. Halfway back to my cabin, I stopped and lay down on the dark soccer field. The sky was a clear expanse and I could feel the earth spinning underneath me. I wanted to hug the dirt - to embrace it - and never leave this place.
I got back to the cabin, climbed in my sleeping bag and pretended to fall asleep. The counselors crept over to my bunk and whispered how sweet I looked. After they left to go hang out on the picnic tables by the field, I pretended to wake up so I could talk to the other girls.
After an hour or two, everyone else was asleep. I lay there, searching my mind for the courage to go outside and talk to my counselors. I wanted as much of their attention as possible without seeming like a needy brat. I just wanted someone to hold me and take care of me. Last year, I told them I didn’t want to go home. They rubbed my back and sent me back to bed. I could tell them again but I doubted anything would change. They never believed me.
Instead, I lay there and tried not to think about all the snaps and creaks coming from the forest outside. I was supposed to be a brave and fearless wild-woman. I wasn’t supposed to need anyone to protect me.
Next: Part 2 - the fire
Friday, June 15, 2007
I have no life.
I have no life.
No, seriously. Right now, I have NO life. My job is now officially over. Slowly, my relationships with my various therapists are winding down. I’m still cultivating the few friendships I want to keep when I leave the Bay Area, but the rest I’m letting go to pasture. My gym membership has ended and there’s no sense in renewing it just for a month or two.
(Granted things will probably get busier when we decide where we’re moving. I’ll have a new job title: Vice President in charge of moving, planning and anxiety.)
But right now, I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve watched more movies this week than I have in the past month. I got my annual physical. I’m trying to become the housewife I’ve always failed at being. This morning, I even packed my husband’s lunch. I got the car tuned up. I’m even considering digging out our ironing board. Pretty soon I might have to crack open a novel.
Don’t get me wrong… the irony is not lost on me. When I’m busy, I want to have more free time. When I have free time, I look for things to keep me busy. Apparently, the damn grass is NEVER green enough to satisfy.
And once we’ve moved, I will have even less of a life. For a while (at least) I won’t have any work, therapists, support groups, routines… friends…
So I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of life I WANT to have. I know I shouldn’t complain. Lots of people would kill to have the kind of flexibility I have right now. Some would consider it a luxury to have this opportunity; to redo every aspect of their lives would seem… inviting.
But for me… I think about starting over, and I start to feel really inadequate – like I just don’t have a lot going for me. I wonder if I’m just getting by with my mediocre life, telling myself that it’s ok I’m not contributing much. I was sick for a few years and HAD to take it easy. My husband is going to get this new job and THEN I’ll get my life in order.
But. When I see how flimsy my life really is, I wonder if the future will hold any personal or professional success. I know that most people don’t have perfect lives, yet I can’t help but compare myself to those around me. It just seems like everyone I know has a more impressive sounding career or personal life than me. It’s probably not true, but that’s how it feels.
So I start questioning every decision I’ve ever made. Maybe I should stop tutoring… maybe I should go back to architecture… I know that’s probably not the answer, but at least I’d feel like I had a “title” that defined me when I introduced myself: “Hello, I’m Juniper the fancy, important architect… the one with a life?”
No, seriously. Right now, I have NO life. My job is now officially over. Slowly, my relationships with my various therapists are winding down. I’m still cultivating the few friendships I want to keep when I leave the Bay Area, but the rest I’m letting go to pasture. My gym membership has ended and there’s no sense in renewing it just for a month or two.
(Granted things will probably get busier when we decide where we’re moving. I’ll have a new job title: Vice President in charge of moving, planning and anxiety.)
But right now, I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve watched more movies this week than I have in the past month. I got my annual physical. I’m trying to become the housewife I’ve always failed at being. This morning, I even packed my husband’s lunch. I got the car tuned up. I’m even considering digging out our ironing board. Pretty soon I might have to crack open a novel.
Don’t get me wrong… the irony is not lost on me. When I’m busy, I want to have more free time. When I have free time, I look for things to keep me busy. Apparently, the damn grass is NEVER green enough to satisfy.
And once we’ve moved, I will have even less of a life. For a while (at least) I won’t have any work, therapists, support groups, routines… friends…
So I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of life I WANT to have. I know I shouldn’t complain. Lots of people would kill to have the kind of flexibility I have right now. Some would consider it a luxury to have this opportunity; to redo every aspect of their lives would seem… inviting.
But for me… I think about starting over, and I start to feel really inadequate – like I just don’t have a lot going for me. I wonder if I’m just getting by with my mediocre life, telling myself that it’s ok I’m not contributing much. I was sick for a few years and HAD to take it easy. My husband is going to get this new job and THEN I’ll get my life in order.
But. When I see how flimsy my life really is, I wonder if the future will hold any personal or professional success. I know that most people don’t have perfect lives, yet I can’t help but compare myself to those around me. It just seems like everyone I know has a more impressive sounding career or personal life than me. It’s probably not true, but that’s how it feels.
So I start questioning every decision I’ve ever made. Maybe I should stop tutoring… maybe I should go back to architecture… I know that’s probably not the answer, but at least I’d feel like I had a “title” that defined me when I introduced myself: “Hello, I’m Juniper the fancy, important architect… the one with a life?”
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Postscript
Yes, there is a real post below this one...
I just wanted to apologize for my recent lack of blogging. I know I don't have to, but I wanted to anyway.
I've been working a lot - trying to keep my students from failing their finals. I've had logarithms, quadratics, series, conic sections, and rational functions coming out my ears. "Rational means ratio... you know, ratio? Like a fraction? Functions in the form of fractions? Now what happens when you have a fraction with a zero on the bottom? Right! There's no solution! Now remember those asymptotes? See?"
And on and on...
And we were traveling and stressing out. A lot.
So, sorry.
Aaaaand... am I the only one who noticed when Tony Soprano said his mother had a Borderline Personality? I'm glad to finally have a celebrity with my illness but does it have to be a fictitious harpy who spawned a sociopath? That doesn't do much for the whole stigma thing.
I just wanted to apologize for my recent lack of blogging. I know I don't have to, but I wanted to anyway.
I've been working a lot - trying to keep my students from failing their finals. I've had logarithms, quadratics, series, conic sections, and rational functions coming out my ears. "Rational means ratio... you know, ratio? Like a fraction? Functions in the form of fractions? Now what happens when you have a fraction with a zero on the bottom? Right! There's no solution! Now remember those asymptotes? See?"
And on and on...
And we were traveling and stressing out. A lot.
So, sorry.
Aaaaand... am I the only one who noticed when Tony Soprano said his mother had a Borderline Personality? I'm glad to finally have a celebrity with my illness but does it have to be a fictitious harpy who spawned a sociopath? That doesn't do much for the whole stigma thing.
Sorry Paul. And thanks for that saving my life thing.
I didn’t sleep much when I was a freshman in college. I’d stay up late at night catching up on all the TV I had been denied as a child. Some nights, my friend Paul and I would hop in his four-wheel drive station wagon and drive aimlessly through the dark upstate New York wilderness. He had welded a skid plate to the bottom of his station wagon’s chassis so it was safe to take it off-road. We drove up abandoned dirt roads until they became open fields or impassable forest. Then he’d tease me, wondering aloud what we’d do if an ax murderer suddenly appeared, silhouetted against the horizon. Sometimes he’d reach over and pull the lever so my seat would slam back. Then he'd lean across me and growl suggestively, "Hey baby."
I couldn’t decide if I was attracted to Paul or if he was the big brother I’d always wanted. When we were cuddled up, doing homework on my roommate’s futon, I wondered if he might have feelings for me. I pretended to fall asleep, my cheek resting on the curly brown hair over his heart.
Sophomore year, Paul and my roommate’s boyfriend got an apartment off-campus. My roommate slept over every night so I spent most of my time there too. Paul was a cross between a renaissance man and an overgrown child. He spent a lot of his time repairing an old typewriter he found on the street or cooking macaroni and cheese on his camp stove in the middle of his bedroom. When it was time for bed, he’d make the twenty-minute walk with me back to my dorm. By late fall, I gave up on the dorm and just slept on the scratchy wool couch.
That winter, my summer boyfriend dumped me and I spiraled into the third major depressive episode of my life. My behavior had always been erratic and needy, but now I had become all-consuming. I lost my temper too much and some people stopped talking to me. I started stealing from my roommate’s liquor cabinet.
Paul was back together with his old girlfriend, Denise. Even though I was jealous, I started hanging out at her place because she was older and would still buy me alcohol. One night, Denise fell asleep early while Paul was at the library. I drank all the alcohol she had in the apartment and decided to kill myself. Then Paul came home. Why was my coat on and where I was going, he asked? I was going to fall asleep in a snow bank and hopefully, freeze to death, I said. He pushed me away from the door and I fought back. It was like shoving against a bull. He picked me up and pinned me to the floor. I finally passed out around three in the morning.
When I woke, Paul and Denise were making breakfast and ignoring me. Finally, Denise said, “Now I know why your roommate told me to keep you away from alcohol. You can’t come over here anymore, Juniper. Not when you’re doing this. I can’t take the responsibility.” I quickly walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Crying hysterically, I lay down and put my cheek against the cool tile floor. Denise’s razor stared at me from the shelf in front of my face. I held it to my wrist for a while. Eventually, they pounded on the door and I went home.
A few weeks later I told my roommate that Paul and Denise didn’t like her boyfriend. It had been a secret. Paul and Denise stopped talking to me. They were struggling to get through their engineering degrees and didn’t have time for my bullshit.
I missed them a lot. Especially Paul. But. They really taught me something.
I was tired of everyone thinking I was “crazy-Juniper.” Nobody saw how scared I was. Acting crazy and sick just left me alone and more depressed. Wanting to die was pointless, selfish, indulgent, and a stupid way to get attention. College students didn’t know what to do with me anyway. I realized that if I controlled myself, I could take responsibility for my actions and emotions, put away all this noise and be more mature. I stopped bothering my friends and tried to be more responsible. I didn’t want to drive everyone away.
I’ve always wanted to get in touch with Paul and Denise: to thank them and apologize. Occasionally, I Google Paul’s name to see what he’s up to. He married Denise a few years ago and now lives…
Oh my god. Paul and Denise live in the apartment complex my husband and I visited this weekend. We were in New England looking at my husband’s last job offer. The offer we’re probably going to take. Which means Paul and I could be neighbors again. I don’t know what they’d do if we ran into each other…
Denise became a psychologist so maybe she understands borderline now…
Maybe she’d think I was stalking them…
Woah.
I couldn’t decide if I was attracted to Paul or if he was the big brother I’d always wanted. When we were cuddled up, doing homework on my roommate’s futon, I wondered if he might have feelings for me. I pretended to fall asleep, my cheek resting on the curly brown hair over his heart.
Sophomore year, Paul and my roommate’s boyfriend got an apartment off-campus. My roommate slept over every night so I spent most of my time there too. Paul was a cross between a renaissance man and an overgrown child. He spent a lot of his time repairing an old typewriter he found on the street or cooking macaroni and cheese on his camp stove in the middle of his bedroom. When it was time for bed, he’d make the twenty-minute walk with me back to my dorm. By late fall, I gave up on the dorm and just slept on the scratchy wool couch.
- - - - - - - - -
That winter, my summer boyfriend dumped me and I spiraled into the third major depressive episode of my life. My behavior had always been erratic and needy, but now I had become all-consuming. I lost my temper too much and some people stopped talking to me. I started stealing from my roommate’s liquor cabinet.
Paul was back together with his old girlfriend, Denise. Even though I was jealous, I started hanging out at her place because she was older and would still buy me alcohol. One night, Denise fell asleep early while Paul was at the library. I drank all the alcohol she had in the apartment and decided to kill myself. Then Paul came home. Why was my coat on and where I was going, he asked? I was going to fall asleep in a snow bank and hopefully, freeze to death, I said. He pushed me away from the door and I fought back. It was like shoving against a bull. He picked me up and pinned me to the floor. I finally passed out around three in the morning.
When I woke, Paul and Denise were making breakfast and ignoring me. Finally, Denise said, “Now I know why your roommate told me to keep you away from alcohol. You can’t come over here anymore, Juniper. Not when you’re doing this. I can’t take the responsibility.” I quickly walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Crying hysterically, I lay down and put my cheek against the cool tile floor. Denise’s razor stared at me from the shelf in front of my face. I held it to my wrist for a while. Eventually, they pounded on the door and I went home.
A few weeks later I told my roommate that Paul and Denise didn’t like her boyfriend. It had been a secret. Paul and Denise stopped talking to me. They were struggling to get through their engineering degrees and didn’t have time for my bullshit.
- - - - - - - - -
I missed them a lot. Especially Paul. But. They really taught me something.
I was tired of everyone thinking I was “crazy-Juniper.” Nobody saw how scared I was. Acting crazy and sick just left me alone and more depressed. Wanting to die was pointless, selfish, indulgent, and a stupid way to get attention. College students didn’t know what to do with me anyway. I realized that if I controlled myself, I could take responsibility for my actions and emotions, put away all this noise and be more mature. I stopped bothering my friends and tried to be more responsible. I didn’t want to drive everyone away.
I’ve always wanted to get in touch with Paul and Denise: to thank them and apologize. Occasionally, I Google Paul’s name to see what he’s up to. He married Denise a few years ago and now lives…
Oh my god. Paul and Denise live in the apartment complex my husband and I visited this weekend. We were in New England looking at my husband’s last job offer. The offer we’re probably going to take. Which means Paul and I could be neighbors again. I don’t know what they’d do if we ran into each other…
Denise became a psychologist so maybe she understands borderline now…
Maybe she’d think I was stalking them…
Woah.
Friday, May 25, 2007
In my spare time I'll see about that cure for cancer
Even though we don't know where we're moving yet, I decided I better get started planning 'cause DAMN. We've got a lot on our plates over the next three months. Also, by the time we know where we’re going, we may only have a few weeks to get ready to go...
I don't know if making this list has increased or decreased my anxiety... oh who am I kidding. Of course it increased it. Right now I’m vacillating between feeling so anxious I want to cry and avoiding my thoughts with as much TV as humanly possible. Oh, and lots of trigonometry. All my kids seem to be doing trig right now. Which is good, since I love trig and anything (except worrying) seems like a giant hassle right now.
So here's my plan which will very quickly become completely fictitious, I'm sure:
Week of May 28 (next week) – Still working
I don't know if making this list has increased or decreased my anxiety... oh who am I kidding. Of course it increased it. Right now I’m vacillating between feeling so anxious I want to cry and avoiding my thoughts with as much TV as humanly possible. Oh, and lots of trigonometry. All my kids seem to be doing trig right now. Which is good, since I love trig and anything (except worrying) seems like a giant hassle right now.
So here's my plan which will very quickly become completely fictitious, I'm sure:
Week of May 28 (next week) – Still working
- Friend is visiting from out of town.
- Fly to east coast to look at last job offer.
- Last few hours of work.
- Get complimentary 5,000 mile tune up on new car. (yes, I've driven 5,000 miles since March 1st. Feel free to blame all the hurricanes this on me this fall.)
- Interview & hire whatever moving company isn't completely booked.
- Celebrate 6th wedding anniversary (use gift certificate to Chez Panisse)
- Get husband’s car cleaned, repaired & tuned up.
- Plan upcoming vacation & buy tickets.
- Sell husband’s car. (Anyone want a '99 Corolla with a couple dents?)
- Look for new apartment online. Call and make appointments for next week.
- Shop for husband's birthday gifts.
- Find an apartment with 6 month lease.
- Bake cake & celebrate husband’s birthday.
- Sell furniture we’re not taking with us.
- Get boxes from moving company.
- Give notice on current apartment. (good-bye crap shack!)
- have fun & relax. (ha!)
- Throw (and maybe attend) going away party.
- Donate and throw away as much as possible.
- Change utilities, addresses, subscriptions, & insurance policies.
- Clean out apartment. Get security deposit back.
- Stop at parents’ and friends’ houses on the way. (Spend entirety of signing bonus on $4/gallon gas)
- Find part-time job, therapists, fitness center, doctors, some friends, a baby and a house.
- Live happily ever after.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Caution: I bite.
I haven’t been ignoring this blog. I’ve been busy. And mad. Very very mad.
Why mad? Anger is my native tongue. Angry parents raised me so it’s the emotion I’m the most comfortable with. Sad? Just wait a few minutes and it turns to anger. Tired? Not for long… Scared = anger too. No matter what emotion a situation begets, it inevitably morphs into anger. Actually, more than anger… I feel pure, unadulterated meanness. Take the last week for example:
What’s really going on? I am scared and sad to be moving. I've worked hard to make the life I have right now and I don't look forward to starting all over from scratch. In the 11 years that my husband and I have been together, we will have moved to six different towns and seven different apartments. Maybe when we know where we’re moving I can plan and get excited. Right now, I’ll just get angry.
Why mad? Anger is my native tongue. Angry parents raised me so it’s the emotion I’m the most comfortable with. Sad? Just wait a few minutes and it turns to anger. Tired? Not for long… Scared = anger too. No matter what emotion a situation begets, it inevitably morphs into anger. Actually, more than anger… I feel pure, unadulterated meanness. Take the last week for example:
- Friday: When I come home, there’s a note on our door. They’re selling our apartment building and are having an open house for realtors the next day. Great. Now I’ve got strangers traipsing through my house while I’m at work. Jerks. I hate ‘em all. I leave a strongly worded note on our door warning them not to let our cat out.
- Saturday: I normally don’t work on Saturdays, but today, in preparation for an upcoming trip, I’ve scheduled three clients. Even though I know I’ve got the next three days off, I’m cranky and pissed off. Besides, when I get home I have to pack, a task I hate. I call a friend to complain.
- Sunday: I fly to the east coast to meet my husband where he’s been at a conference all week. He’s been offered a job there and we’re supposed to spend the next two days getting wined and dined and showed around by realtors. Of course, the fact that this is a free trip is not enough to make me ignore the incredible inconvenience and pain that is air travel. I resent every minute of it. By the time I land it’s too late to get dinner at the hotel. I’m ready to murder someone until my husband takes me out for late-night sushi. It’s pretty good. Can’t complain about good sushi. Still, the ikura tasted a little different… maybe I’ll get food poisoning and die. Grrr.
- Monday (morning): Why. Must. I. Get. Up? Jet. Lag. Bites. The horror.
- Monday (later): I don’t like the first few houses the realtor shows us. Finally, there’s a few I do like but they’ll be off the market by the time we’re ready to buy. I become certain we’ll never find a good house. They’ll only be cruddy, dirty houses that need a lot of work. We’ll be too lazy or poor to remodel so we’ll be the ugly house on the block. My life will suck. That night we have dinner with some of my husband’s colleagues. They talk too much so they must suck too.
- Tuesday: I have lunch with the daughter of my parents’ best friends. I’ve known her for decades but today, I’m certain she’s judging me. I feel awkward and fat and obviously crazy. This is all her fault. Bitch.
- Wednesday: It is early in the morning AND I’m back on a plane. I’m so mad at the world I’m almost homicidal. The man in the seat in front of me is kissing his wife, repeatedly. They keep talking about how much fun they’re going to have on their vacation to San Francisco. PDA and visible happiness. How DARE he. I start fantasizing about punching him in the head. Hard. I want to do it so badly I worry I wouldn't be able to stop myself.
- Thursday: Halfway through my appointment with my psychiatrist, he asks me if I’m excited to be moving. Excited? EXCITED? What!!?? He can’t be serious. Why doesn’t he want to hear how I REALLY feel about this whole process? I spend all day, every day, telling everyone how "excited" I am about all our upcoming changes, only talking about the bright side of things. At the same time, my head is filling up with all these worries, regrets and disappointments about the future. When I talk to him, I want to express how I really feel - not just repeat the platitudes I tell my parents, my friends, my colleagues, and random real estate agents. I leave the appointment early, in a serious huff.
- Today, Friday: My husband learns that he’s not going to be offered the job in southern CA. Fine. Whatever. Wasn’t sure we wanted to move there anyway. Still, when we find out who they’re offering the job to… I'm pissed. It’s the same chick who’s beat out my husband for two other jobs. I ask my husband if we can have her killed. He thinks I’m kidding but I’m just wondering how we could avoid being caught.
- - - - - - - - -
What’s really going on? I am scared and sad to be moving. I've worked hard to make the life I have right now and I don't look forward to starting all over from scratch. In the 11 years that my husband and I have been together, we will have moved to six different towns and seven different apartments. Maybe when we know where we’re moving I can plan and get excited. Right now, I’ll just get angry.
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