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.

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.

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?

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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.

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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?