Or at least as official as these things get...
We're leaving the Bay Area.
My husband only interviewed for one job in the Bay Area and we just found out that they're not going to make him an offer.
Don't know where we're going or when we're leaving (yet), but we're not staying here.
Right now, I'm a little disappointed but mostly, I'm excited. I've enjoyed living here, but let's face it... it's extremely expensive. And since grad school ended, our social circle has disintegrated somewhat. Besides, we've spent the last nine years living with a major geological fault in our backyard. That can't be good.
I will, however, miss the grass cutting goats. (They use goats to reduce the brush and wildfire danger on the hillsides here.)
Postscript: I almost forgot to mention, in honor of our impending move, we played hooky yesterday and went skiing at Lake Tahoe! Do you think they'll let us take Squaw Valley with us when we move?
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
part II
The unit consisted of a long, wide, carpeted hall. There were uncomfortable looking chairs scattered throughout and a window at the end. Wide bedroom doors lined the walls. Across from the nurses' station there was a darkened room separated by that kind of security window embedded with wire mesh. I could just make out a TV and some chairs. On the side of the nurses' station there was an empty room, covered with linoleum and labeled "isolation." Everything was pale green.
This was not where I was supposed to be. My heart was racing. Suddenly, a thin girl came running out of a room chased by a heavy-set black woman. Both were yelling. A nurse handed me a stack of papers and asked me to read them. It was a list of the rules. Apparently, there were five “levels” a patient could be. On level one, you were a constant danger so you couldn't be alone. Level two allowed more privacy but no daytime bedroom or bathroom access and fifteen-minute checks. You couldn't leave the unit without supervision. Your bedroom was unlocked on level three, you only had thirty-minute checks, and you could briefly leave the hospital under supervision. There were hourly checks on level four and you could walk to an appointment by yourself. Finally, on level five, there were no checks and you could wander around outside if you liked. Reading it made me tired. I wondered if they were serious.
Then I turned the page and saw the heading: Patient's Personal Belongings. It listed all the things that were denied at each level. Level five seemed reasonable, you couldn't have food, weapons, drugs, or firearms. Also, you couldn't have any recording devices, which seemed a little fishy. On level 4 you couldn't have any electrical devices. That one seemed odd to me. On level 3, battery operated devices and personal razors were banned. I wondered what they'd do with the radio I packed. That's where I started to cry. On level two you couldn't have your own bedding or pillows. I thought I'd be sleeping in a comfortable, normal bed. I was on level one. I couldn't have my own clothes, toiletries, or jewelry. I felt like my breastbone snapped and I drew in a long sob. I would be wearing a hospital gown. I'd look like a crazy person.
I got to keep my clothes for a little while. My parents finally showed up and the three of us were introduced to my new psychiatrist. Supposedly, he was the head of the child and adolescent department. That must be why he’s so old, I thought. My parents were telling him that we were the most normal family around. They painted a picture of a teenager who was bright, stressed, and overly imaginative. I wasn’t surprised; they felt invaded and had resorted to sardonic humor and weary cynicism to demand guarantees. I was amazed they weren’t challenging the doctor’s competence and credentials, accusing him of exploitation. It didn’t take long for my dad to anger and frustrate the best therapist. They wouldn’t even know why they wanted him to go away.
After half an hour, the doctor was paged and stepped out of the room for a minute. My parents focused their eyes on me intently. What did I think of him? I wasn't going to tell them anything anymore.
"He looks like a fish." He did. His head looked flat like a flounder. It broke the tension. When "Fish" came back he asked to talk to me alone. I should say good-bye to my parents since it was almost bedtime. Fine, whatever, good-bye I said. They hugged me and finally left.
Fish asked me what I thought about my parents' description of our family. "It's completely false. I don't know who they're talking about. I hate our house and I like my school." He just nodded and made a few scribbles on his notepad. Then he led me back to the unit.
"Juniper, we went through the things your parents brought and we confiscated a few things. We'll hold them here for you. Now we have to do a strip search." I looked at the nurse with wide eyes. You have got to be kidding, I thought. "I know this is hard but it will just be you and me and it'll only take a second." She led me by the shoulders into one of the bedrooms. I went in the bathroom and took off my dress and sweater. "I'm sorry honey, it has to be everything." She had draped a bed sheet in front of the door, like a partition. I threw my underwear on the floor. "Ok, that's fine, I just need you to turn around and, no stop. I need you to bend over." When she was done, she took off her latex gloves and asked for my clothes. I could keep my underwear, but I had to put on a hospital gown. "Ok, so this is Lucy." She pointed at the large black woman who was standing in the doorway. She had been watching from behind the bed sheet. "You're on what's called 'one-to-one'. That means you have to have Lucy with you at all times. And she has to be within an arm's reach, ok? So you're all set, Lucy'll tell you the rest." Lucy was wearing a pretty cardigan and had long, fancy nails.
"You're just in time Juniper. The wrap-up meeting is just starting in the day room. You can take some socks and a blanket if you're cold."
That night, I couldn't sleep with Lucy staring at me. She had the desk light on so she could read her book. I was cold and I pulled the blanket over my head.
"I'm sorry Juniper, I have to be able to see your face." I turned over and stared at the ceiling while tears ran down onto my pillow. I looked back at all my choices that led me up to that point and saw mistake after mistake. I thought I’d feel safer, more protected at the hospital. But now, even life with my parents sounded like freedom. I was sick and just wanted someone to hold me. Instead, everyone just held tighter and tighter until gradually, all the blood to my brain was being cut off. I knew that if I stayed in here, I'd lose my mind and never find my way out.
Postscript: Eventually I did find my way out. Three months later on June 16th. A much, much better day.
This was not where I was supposed to be. My heart was racing. Suddenly, a thin girl came running out of a room chased by a heavy-set black woman. Both were yelling. A nurse handed me a stack of papers and asked me to read them. It was a list of the rules. Apparently, there were five “levels” a patient could be. On level one, you were a constant danger so you couldn't be alone. Level two allowed more privacy but no daytime bedroom or bathroom access and fifteen-minute checks. You couldn't leave the unit without supervision. Your bedroom was unlocked on level three, you only had thirty-minute checks, and you could briefly leave the hospital under supervision. There were hourly checks on level four and you could walk to an appointment by yourself. Finally, on level five, there were no checks and you could wander around outside if you liked. Reading it made me tired. I wondered if they were serious.
Then I turned the page and saw the heading: Patient's Personal Belongings. It listed all the things that were denied at each level. Level five seemed reasonable, you couldn't have food, weapons, drugs, or firearms. Also, you couldn't have any recording devices, which seemed a little fishy. On level 4 you couldn't have any electrical devices. That one seemed odd to me. On level 3, battery operated devices and personal razors were banned. I wondered what they'd do with the radio I packed. That's where I started to cry. On level two you couldn't have your own bedding or pillows. I thought I'd be sleeping in a comfortable, normal bed. I was on level one. I couldn't have my own clothes, toiletries, or jewelry. I felt like my breastbone snapped and I drew in a long sob. I would be wearing a hospital gown. I'd look like a crazy person.
I got to keep my clothes for a little while. My parents finally showed up and the three of us were introduced to my new psychiatrist. Supposedly, he was the head of the child and adolescent department. That must be why he’s so old, I thought. My parents were telling him that we were the most normal family around. They painted a picture of a teenager who was bright, stressed, and overly imaginative. I wasn’t surprised; they felt invaded and had resorted to sardonic humor and weary cynicism to demand guarantees. I was amazed they weren’t challenging the doctor’s competence and credentials, accusing him of exploitation. It didn’t take long for my dad to anger and frustrate the best therapist. They wouldn’t even know why they wanted him to go away.
After half an hour, the doctor was paged and stepped out of the room for a minute. My parents focused their eyes on me intently. What did I think of him? I wasn't going to tell them anything anymore.
"He looks like a fish." He did. His head looked flat like a flounder. It broke the tension. When "Fish" came back he asked to talk to me alone. I should say good-bye to my parents since it was almost bedtime. Fine, whatever, good-bye I said. They hugged me and finally left.
Fish asked me what I thought about my parents' description of our family. "It's completely false. I don't know who they're talking about. I hate our house and I like my school." He just nodded and made a few scribbles on his notepad. Then he led me back to the unit.
"Juniper, we went through the things your parents brought and we confiscated a few things. We'll hold them here for you. Now we have to do a strip search." I looked at the nurse with wide eyes. You have got to be kidding, I thought. "I know this is hard but it will just be you and me and it'll only take a second." She led me by the shoulders into one of the bedrooms. I went in the bathroom and took off my dress and sweater. "I'm sorry honey, it has to be everything." She had draped a bed sheet in front of the door, like a partition. I threw my underwear on the floor. "Ok, that's fine, I just need you to turn around and, no stop. I need you to bend over." When she was done, she took off her latex gloves and asked for my clothes. I could keep my underwear, but I had to put on a hospital gown. "Ok, so this is Lucy." She pointed at the large black woman who was standing in the doorway. She had been watching from behind the bed sheet. "You're on what's called 'one-to-one'. That means you have to have Lucy with you at all times. And she has to be within an arm's reach, ok? So you're all set, Lucy'll tell you the rest." Lucy was wearing a pretty cardigan and had long, fancy nails.
"You're just in time Juniper. The wrap-up meeting is just starting in the day room. You can take some socks and a blanket if you're cold."
- - - - - - - - -
That night, I couldn't sleep with Lucy staring at me. She had the desk light on so she could read her book. I was cold and I pulled the blanket over my head.
"I'm sorry Juniper, I have to be able to see your face." I turned over and stared at the ceiling while tears ran down onto my pillow. I looked back at all my choices that led me up to that point and saw mistake after mistake. I thought I’d feel safer, more protected at the hospital. But now, even life with my parents sounded like freedom. I was sick and just wanted someone to hold me. Instead, everyone just held tighter and tighter until gradually, all the blood to my brain was being cut off. I knew that if I stayed in here, I'd lose my mind and never find my way out.
Postscript: Eventually I did find my way out. Three months later on June 16th. A much, much better day.
Monday, March 26, 2007
March Twenty-Sixth. Worst day of the year.
PART I:
It was March 26, 1990 and we were in the car driving towards Hartford. I kept trying to convince myself to jump out of the car onto the highway. After a while, we passed the courthouse. I recognized the nice part of Hartford near the symphony and the museums. Then there was a long, tall brick wall on the left side of the car. When it stopped, we were at the entrance to the hospital. There was a gatehouse and all I could think was: why are there two guards? Directly in front of us was this gigantic, white building. It looked ancient, with steep rooflines and creepy dormers poking out in awkward places.
It is so dark in here, I thought as we walked into the sterile, white lobby. An intake nurse appeared out of the dark hall. She asked us every conceivable question. My parents answered most of them so I examined the cracks in the ceiling and wondered how the hell this had happened.
Earlier that morning, I woke up thinking I was going back to school after my spring break. It was the first day of spring term. I was pulling my new blue, plaid dress over my head when my mother and father came into my room. Both of them are taller than me, I thought, as they drew closer.
"Juniper, you're not going to school this morning. We're going to New Haven. You're going to go see the school's psychiatrist." They must have known about this all night I realized.
"But it's the first day of school and I don't want to miss my classes. They give out all the important stuff on the first day. What time do we have to go?" They said eleven o'clock. "Ok, so I can still go to my first three classes. Can't I just go and then you can pick me up in a couple of hours. School is on the way to New Haven." My father's eyes relaxed as he considered this. I knew he liked to optimize his time.
"Ok, fine. But you have to be waiting in front of the student center when we pull up at ten-thirty. We're trusting you here." Whatever, I thought as my mind raced.
On the way to school, I tried to remember where my friends would be at this time of day. For the first time in my life, I skipped my classes and looked for anyone who had a free period. Finally, I ran into a girl in my class.
"Heather, can you do me a favor? When you see Brooke, can you tell her that my parents are dragging me to go see the school shrink and I don't know if I'm coming back?"
“Oh wow… that sucks. No problem.”
I ran down to the arts center. My advisor wasn't there but I almost ran smack into another teacher. I told her what was going on and that I needed to see my advisor.
"Oh honey…" she said. I’m not coming back, I thought as she gave me a hug.
We made it to the doctor’s office on time. He and I went into his office and left my parents in the waiting room. Why was he wearing cowboy boots? I kept picturing him in a ten-gallon hat as we talked and I decided I didn’t care much for him. He wanted to know how frequently I thought about suicide.
What’s your unit of measurement, I wondered? I guessed and said every five minutes or so. I was just too tired to lie. I wanted this to be over. He nodded, got up, and asked my parents to come in.
"In my opinion, Juniper needs to go to the hospital immediately. She is at great risk of hurting herself sometime in the near future." My mother was crying and I didn't know why. This seemed like what we’d all been wanting. I pictured the hospital as a large Victorian house where I would have my own room and be able to sleep as much as I liked. I would have a break. "Locally, the hospital she would go to is…” My father cut him off.
"Actually, a friend of mine is on the board of directors at The Institute of Living in Hartford. We can probably get her in there." The doctor nodded in approval. Back at our house my mother wouldn't let me go to my room. She made me lunch and watched as I didn't eat it. My dad came in and said that it was all arranged. We’d leave in an hour so he and I went upstairs to pack. I was filling up my green, monogrammed duffel when I heard him crying. I didn't know what to do so I tried to cheer him up.
"Dad, it's ok. I'm going to be fine. I'm not upset. Don't get so upset."
“Ah… Juniper… you don’t know what this is going to be like.”
When the intake nurse finished with her paperwork, she called for someone from the adolescent unit to come get me. Two men in white scrub suits entered. They told me to come with them, my parents would join me later. We went to the end of the hall and entered a dingy back stairwell.
It was at that moment that I realized my mistake. I shouldn’t be here.
Why was there was water flooding the steps? A leak, they told me. We exited into an underground tunnel lined with dull yellow tiles. Tunnels linked all the buildings, they said. Every so often the tunnels connected and there was a series of locked doors. I had to get inside the vestibule and the men wouldn't open the next door until the last one was locked. Who they hell did they think I was, some dangerous criminal? Finally, we ascended another stair to a blue-carpeted hallway. At the end of the hall there were two desks and two locked doors. A nurse pressed a loud buzzer and I flinched. And then we were on the unit.
Tomorrow: Part II
It was March 26, 1990 and we were in the car driving towards Hartford. I kept trying to convince myself to jump out of the car onto the highway. After a while, we passed the courthouse. I recognized the nice part of Hartford near the symphony and the museums. Then there was a long, tall brick wall on the left side of the car. When it stopped, we were at the entrance to the hospital. There was a gatehouse and all I could think was: why are there two guards? Directly in front of us was this gigantic, white building. It looked ancient, with steep rooflines and creepy dormers poking out in awkward places.
It is so dark in here, I thought as we walked into the sterile, white lobby. An intake nurse appeared out of the dark hall. She asked us every conceivable question. My parents answered most of them so I examined the cracks in the ceiling and wondered how the hell this had happened.
- - - - - - - - -
Earlier that morning, I woke up thinking I was going back to school after my spring break. It was the first day of spring term. I was pulling my new blue, plaid dress over my head when my mother and father came into my room. Both of them are taller than me, I thought, as they drew closer.
"Juniper, you're not going to school this morning. We're going to New Haven. You're going to go see the school's psychiatrist." They must have known about this all night I realized.
"But it's the first day of school and I don't want to miss my classes. They give out all the important stuff on the first day. What time do we have to go?" They said eleven o'clock. "Ok, so I can still go to my first three classes. Can't I just go and then you can pick me up in a couple of hours. School is on the way to New Haven." My father's eyes relaxed as he considered this. I knew he liked to optimize his time.
"Ok, fine. But you have to be waiting in front of the student center when we pull up at ten-thirty. We're trusting you here." Whatever, I thought as my mind raced.
On the way to school, I tried to remember where my friends would be at this time of day. For the first time in my life, I skipped my classes and looked for anyone who had a free period. Finally, I ran into a girl in my class.
"Heather, can you do me a favor? When you see Brooke, can you tell her that my parents are dragging me to go see the school shrink and I don't know if I'm coming back?"
“Oh wow… that sucks. No problem.”
I ran down to the arts center. My advisor wasn't there but I almost ran smack into another teacher. I told her what was going on and that I needed to see my advisor.
"Oh honey…" she said. I’m not coming back, I thought as she gave me a hug.
We made it to the doctor’s office on time. He and I went into his office and left my parents in the waiting room. Why was he wearing cowboy boots? I kept picturing him in a ten-gallon hat as we talked and I decided I didn’t care much for him. He wanted to know how frequently I thought about suicide.
What’s your unit of measurement, I wondered? I guessed and said every five minutes or so. I was just too tired to lie. I wanted this to be over. He nodded, got up, and asked my parents to come in.
"In my opinion, Juniper needs to go to the hospital immediately. She is at great risk of hurting herself sometime in the near future." My mother was crying and I didn't know why. This seemed like what we’d all been wanting. I pictured the hospital as a large Victorian house where I would have my own room and be able to sleep as much as I liked. I would have a break. "Locally, the hospital she would go to is…” My father cut him off.
"Actually, a friend of mine is on the board of directors at The Institute of Living in Hartford. We can probably get her in there." The doctor nodded in approval. Back at our house my mother wouldn't let me go to my room. She made me lunch and watched as I didn't eat it. My dad came in and said that it was all arranged. We’d leave in an hour so he and I went upstairs to pack. I was filling up my green, monogrammed duffel when I heard him crying. I didn't know what to do so I tried to cheer him up.
"Dad, it's ok. I'm going to be fine. I'm not upset. Don't get so upset."
“Ah… Juniper… you don’t know what this is going to be like.”
- - - - - - - - -
When the intake nurse finished with her paperwork, she called for someone from the adolescent unit to come get me. Two men in white scrub suits entered. They told me to come with them, my parents would join me later. We went to the end of the hall and entered a dingy back stairwell.
It was at that moment that I realized my mistake. I shouldn’t be here.
Why was there was water flooding the steps? A leak, they told me. We exited into an underground tunnel lined with dull yellow tiles. Tunnels linked all the buildings, they said. Every so often the tunnels connected and there was a series of locked doors. I had to get inside the vestibule and the men wouldn't open the next door until the last one was locked. Who they hell did they think I was, some dangerous criminal? Finally, we ascended another stair to a blue-carpeted hallway. At the end of the hall there were two desks and two locked doors. A nurse pressed a loud buzzer and I flinched. And then we were on the unit.
Tomorrow: Part II
Sunday, March 25, 2007
The emotion du jour = intense
Ya wanna know what Borderline Personality feels like? No. You really don’t.
Ok... are you sure?
Well, it's easy. Just pick an emotion, any emotion and jack it up about 100%.
The end.
More details? Keep reading.
Monday = sad:
I see a VW beetle that looks like the car I just traded in. I start to wonder where my old car is. And if it misses me. Or resents me for trading it in. Or if it has been (god forbid) stripped apart into pieces by a wholesaler. I start to get misty eyed over my old friend… the machine.
Wednesday = anger:
My DBT coach asks me how my latest visit to my parents’ house went. I proceed to tell her. She listens and suggests I do a chain reaction analysis worksheet about it. I get miffed. It feels like she asked me to talk, then cut me off and told me to shut up and do a worksheet instead of wasting valuable group time on my pathetic whining. Although somewhere deep down, I know this interpretation of events is totally inaccurate, I now resent her and contemplate never going to group again. Oh yeah, that’ll learn her.
Friday = guilt:
I get an email from my boss telling me that he needs to change my job description a bit. He needs me to do more tutoring and less administrative duties so the company can bring in more revenue to cover my salary. At the end, he wrote: “I'm sorry that we didn't better understand all these details at the beginning of the year. It turns out that we did calculations based on kids never missing a single tutoring session, and on every week being at the top of your average tutoring hours.”
So basically, he’s admitting that he did his calculations wrong and I kept up my end of the deal. But how do I interpret this? I feel incredibly guilty. I feel like a slacker whose slacking has ruined the company. Even though I’ve been tutoring almost exactly the amount he asked me to since September, IT’S ALL MY FAULT. He hates me. Even though there's only 10 weeks left in my contract, I should just quit and stay in bed and never work again. Ever.
Update:
the car dealer called yesterday to see how I liked the new car. He told me they sold my old car yesterday. Now I’m worried that the new owner is mean and drives it… I dunno, cruelly? What would that even LOOK like? Cornering too hard? Not changing the oil frequently enough? Leaving numerous soda bottles strewn about the floorboards? (Oh wait, that last one was me.)
Ok... are you sure?
Well, it's easy. Just pick an emotion, any emotion and jack it up about 100%.
The end.
More details? Keep reading.
Monday = sad:
I see a VW beetle that looks like the car I just traded in. I start to wonder where my old car is. And if it misses me. Or resents me for trading it in. Or if it has been (god forbid) stripped apart into pieces by a wholesaler. I start to get misty eyed over my old friend… the machine.
Wednesday = anger:
My DBT coach asks me how my latest visit to my parents’ house went. I proceed to tell her. She listens and suggests I do a chain reaction analysis worksheet about it. I get miffed. It feels like she asked me to talk, then cut me off and told me to shut up and do a worksheet instead of wasting valuable group time on my pathetic whining. Although somewhere deep down, I know this interpretation of events is totally inaccurate, I now resent her and contemplate never going to group again. Oh yeah, that’ll learn her.
Friday = guilt:
I get an email from my boss telling me that he needs to change my job description a bit. He needs me to do more tutoring and less administrative duties so the company can bring in more revenue to cover my salary. At the end, he wrote: “I'm sorry that we didn't better understand all these details at the beginning of the year. It turns out that we did calculations based on kids never missing a single tutoring session, and on every week being at the top of your average tutoring hours.”
So basically, he’s admitting that he did his calculations wrong and I kept up my end of the deal. But how do I interpret this? I feel incredibly guilty. I feel like a slacker whose slacking has ruined the company. Even though I’ve been tutoring almost exactly the amount he asked me to since September, IT’S ALL MY FAULT. He hates me. Even though there's only 10 weeks left in my contract, I should just quit and stay in bed and never work again. Ever.
Update:
the car dealer called yesterday to see how I liked the new car. He told me they sold my old car yesterday. Now I’m worried that the new owner is mean and drives it… I dunno, cruelly? What would that even LOOK like? Cornering too hard? Not changing the oil frequently enough? Leaving numerous soda bottles strewn about the floorboards? (Oh wait, that last one was me.)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen
Well, if anyone needs any nuts, bolts, screws or nails, I know where to find ‘em. ALL of them. They’re ALL in my father’s woodshop.
I just spent the last few days helping my father organize his new woodshop. Now that he’s retired, woodworking is going to be his main hobby. So as a Christmas present, I promised to come out and help him get everything organized. And when I say everything, I mean everything. The man has amassed a HUGE collection of every woodworking tool, gadget and accessory possible.
But this collection was useless in its current condition. You see, while waiting to retire, he stuffed everything into thousands of boxes and let it ripen... in his basement. Then he stuffed those boxes into larger boxes and shipped them across the country. (You don’t even wanna know how much it costs to ship a lathe.)
So anyway, since one of the not-so-destructive coping mechanisms I developed to combat dysphoria is a mild case of OCD… I’m really good at organization. I actually kinda like it. It sets my mind at ease to see everything all neat and orderly. (Also, years of mental illness have carved out nice little places in my mind where I can escape the crushing boredom, just for occasions like this. Ah, dissociation...)
So suffice it to say, this is not the first time, I’ve attempted to help my dad get his shop organized. Which brings me to The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen.I was sorting through old metal cracker tins filled with nuts, bolts, screws, nails, rivets, and all kinds of microscopic metal bits. Once sorted, the bits got filed away into neat little plastic drawers that my father will never look through. (That would defeat the purpose of the daily trip to the hardware store.)
Inside the little plastic drawers I started to find little scraps of paper with writing on them:
“Misc wood screws – copper” or “Hex head bolts – 2 ¼ in”
They were leftovers from an old attempt to help my dad get his shop organized.
But that’s not the saddest thing.
The saddest thing was – it wasn’t my handwriting; it was Anonymous Mom’s. You see… when we were about 14 years old, she was hanging out at my house during one of our school vacations. My dad asked for our help down in the basement woodshop.
AND I AGREED.
I should’ve said: “Gee dad, since I’m a 14 year old girl, and my friend is too, I don’t think it’d be a really great way for us to spend our vacation. You know, she might think I’m a weirdo and not want to hang out with me anymore if we ask her to do this. Instead, we’ll be upstairs doing something more enjoyable with our time. Like watching paint dry.”
But no. It never even occurred to me. I went along with this crazy idea and we spent some long hours sorting screws. All because I was too wrapped up in pleasing him, to say no to my dad. The man is a master of control. With an upbringing like that, it’s a wonder I know how to talk to people, comb my hair or engage in other human niceties.
For the record, thank you Anonymous Mom for still speaking to me.
Postscript: The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen – 1st runner up: the 17 ft x 16 in x 1 ¼ in slab of Honduran Mahogany I watched my dad buy Saturday morning. I don’t know what made me sadder; the fact that he spent $300, the fact that you never see a giant piece of wood like that anymore, the fact that we had to chop it in half to get it home, or the fact that my father couldn’t just admire it… he had to possess it.
The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen – 2nd runner up: people are selling those saltines cans on ebay for $25. I stuffed three into a hefty bag on Sunday. Sigh.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
You win some, you lose some
Update number one:
I talked to my boss about The tutor I wrote about last time and we decided that she might be able to help us at the after school drop-in center we run. We've been looking for extra help there anyway and, at the center, she'd have other tutors around if she needed support. AND she wouldn't have to deal with parents.
But first, just to be sure, I asked my colleague who runs the center to interview her too. I didn't tell her anything about the tutor's history or disability - I just said that she was a friend of a friend and I didn't feel that I could be completely objective. Yesterday, my colleague called after their meeting and said that she thought we should hire her!
"Her math seems a bit rusty, but I think she'll be ok." She said. "I have to ask you though... she seemed SO nervous when I met with her! When she first sat down, she was trembling. We talked for almost an hour so by the time we were done... it seemed like she'd relaxed, but I was just a little worried about how nervous she seemed."
"Yeah..." I said.
So I filled her in a bit more. My colleague was really understanding about the tutor's disability and my desire to advocate for her. (I'm very up front and matter of fact with my colleagues about the fact that I have a mental health disability.)
Now it's all up to the tutor. I hope she turns out to be good. I really want this to work for her.
Update number two:
The kid I blogged about a month ago? Doesn't want to work with me anymore. I guess he originally wanted to work with my boss but he wasn't available so he said he'd try me. Now he's insisting on working with my boss. His only complaint about me? There was ONE math problems on the SAT I couldn't remember how to do. ONE stinkin' problem.
DBT's great and all, but there's something to be said for relying on your instincts. One of the fringe benefits of having Borderline is my heightened sensitivity to the emotions of the people around me. I'm pretty good at detecting if people are uncomfortable/annoyed/upset around me. I don't always know why, but I know something's up. Still. I KNEW the kid didn't like me. Twerp.
I talked to my boss about The tutor I wrote about last time and we decided that she might be able to help us at the after school drop-in center we run. We've been looking for extra help there anyway and, at the center, she'd have other tutors around if she needed support. AND she wouldn't have to deal with parents.
But first, just to be sure, I asked my colleague who runs the center to interview her too. I didn't tell her anything about the tutor's history or disability - I just said that she was a friend of a friend and I didn't feel that I could be completely objective. Yesterday, my colleague called after their meeting and said that she thought we should hire her!
"Her math seems a bit rusty, but I think she'll be ok." She said. "I have to ask you though... she seemed SO nervous when I met with her! When she first sat down, she was trembling. We talked for almost an hour so by the time we were done... it seemed like she'd relaxed, but I was just a little worried about how nervous she seemed."
"Yeah..." I said.
So I filled her in a bit more. My colleague was really understanding about the tutor's disability and my desire to advocate for her. (I'm very up front and matter of fact with my colleagues about the fact that I have a mental health disability.)
Now it's all up to the tutor. I hope she turns out to be good. I really want this to work for her.
Update number two:
The kid I blogged about a month ago? Doesn't want to work with me anymore. I guess he originally wanted to work with my boss but he wasn't available so he said he'd try me. Now he's insisting on working with my boss. His only complaint about me? There was ONE math problems on the SAT I couldn't remember how to do. ONE stinkin' problem.
DBT's great and all, but there's something to be said for relying on your instincts. One of the fringe benefits of having Borderline is my heightened sensitivity to the emotions of the people around me. I'm pretty good at detecting if people are uncomfortable/annoyed/upset around me. I don't always know why, but I know something's up. Still. I KNEW the kid didn't like me. Twerp.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Together, we shall take back what is ours.
I do all the interviewing and hiring for my tutoring company. I like this part of my job. It's nice to meet people who like algebra and essay writing as much as I do. Sometimes, it gets more complicated. Like the woman I interviewed on Thursday.
She was referred to me by a former therapist who knows that I help run a tutoring company. The therapist told me that this woman is a member of a group I used to attend - a group for people with severe, chronic mental illnesses. I left this group about a year ago because I felt like I had improved to the point where I became too high functioning to fit in anymore.
From her resume, this woman seemed perfectly qualified, so I called her and we chatted briefly on the phone. She has a car, she has free time, and most importantly, she can teach calculus and physics. She sounded like an ideal candidate.
Then I met with her in person. Her academic and teaching skills seemed fine… maybe a bit rusty, but adequate. But her social skills seemed poor. She made eye contact but she seemed very anxious and awkward. And she was extremely shaky, probably due to medication, I assumed. Moreover, she seemed a little disheveled and distracted. Nothing extreme, but these mannerisms were still quite noticeable.
I wasn’t sure I should hire her. Students and parents might pick up on her shaky awkwardness and might realize that she’s not completely well. They may not feel comfortable with her. We offer a lot of scholarships at our company, but we also work with some very wealthy, powerful and often difficult and demanding families.
Personally, I think everyone should be exposed to people with a visible mental health disability. It helps to de-stigmatize these illnesses and can prove to people that their fears of the mentally ill are unfounded. Even though she’s disheveled, this woman can probably tutor just as well as our perkiest, preppiest tutor. And they should learn that.
More importantly, I WANT to hire her. I like helping and advocating for the mentally ill. I know that other interviewers at other companies might see her quirks and reject her out of hand. The mentally ill deserve employment, just like everyone else.
Yet, I know it's more complicated than that. More about that tomorrow.
Yes, the title is from tonight's episode of the Simpsons.
She was referred to me by a former therapist who knows that I help run a tutoring company. The therapist told me that this woman is a member of a group I used to attend - a group for people with severe, chronic mental illnesses. I left this group about a year ago because I felt like I had improved to the point where I became too high functioning to fit in anymore.
From her resume, this woman seemed perfectly qualified, so I called her and we chatted briefly on the phone. She has a car, she has free time, and most importantly, she can teach calculus and physics. She sounded like an ideal candidate.
Then I met with her in person. Her academic and teaching skills seemed fine… maybe a bit rusty, but adequate. But her social skills seemed poor. She made eye contact but she seemed very anxious and awkward. And she was extremely shaky, probably due to medication, I assumed. Moreover, she seemed a little disheveled and distracted. Nothing extreme, but these mannerisms were still quite noticeable.
I wasn’t sure I should hire her. Students and parents might pick up on her shaky awkwardness and might realize that she’s not completely well. They may not feel comfortable with her. We offer a lot of scholarships at our company, but we also work with some very wealthy, powerful and often difficult and demanding families.
Personally, I think everyone should be exposed to people with a visible mental health disability. It helps to de-stigmatize these illnesses and can prove to people that their fears of the mentally ill are unfounded. Even though she’s disheveled, this woman can probably tutor just as well as our perkiest, preppiest tutor. And they should learn that.
More importantly, I WANT to hire her. I like helping and advocating for the mentally ill. I know that other interviewers at other companies might see her quirks and reject her out of hand. The mentally ill deserve employment, just like everyone else.
Yet, I know it's more complicated than that. More about that tomorrow.
Yes, the title is from tonight's episode of the Simpsons.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Well, there went February. That was fast.
There's been a lot going on lately. Here's the highlights.
- We got our new car. It was quite an ordeal requiring multiple visits to the dealership and some borderline-y and bitchy behaviour on my part. Believe me, they deserved it.
- My friend that I blogged about last time got out of the hospital. Picking her up and driving her home was surreal.
- My husband has completed most of his job interviews. The result: lots of trips to the airport and one tired husband. Oh yeah, and one job offer so far. He would prefer I not blog about this part of our lives so that's all I'll say.
- We went skiing for four days last week in Utah. I thought about Dooce a lot... what it would be like to move there (it's a possibility). Tuesday it snowed a foot. Wednesday, sunny and in the 20's. Thursday it snowed another foot. Friday, sunny and in the 20's. We came home and it was 65 degrees in the Bay Area. Hmmm.
- Both my husband and I got colds this weekend. I hate airplanes.
- Still. Not. Pregnant. And I've even given up caffeine for the past month. Grrr.
- I'm going to visit my parents next weekend for three days. Again. Yes, I know. I'm crazy. Look... I have the paperwork to prove it.
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