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.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
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.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Anyone seen my honorary phd?
Ok. So. Every time I make this assertion, my husband declares that I’m crazier than we previously thought. But now, after some… experiments… I’m certain.
At least one psychoactive drug cures lactose intolerance. CURES.
Here are the facts:
- Age 22-27: I become increasingly lactose intolerant. Every time I eat ice cream… bad things happen.
- Age 28-31: I take Lithium, Effexor, Wellbutrin, Seroquel, Ambien on a regular basis. I frequently crave ice cream and eat with no adverse results.
- Age 31-32: I taper off all medications. I continue to eat ice cream. Each time I do, my intestines decide they need to leave my body ASAP.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Maybe I should just invest in some earplugs
You see… we have this annoying neighbor. I fantasize daily about writing an anonymous note, creeping over under cover of night and leaving it on her door. The problem is, I can never decide what kind of letter to write. It’s becoming a way for me to gauge how ill-tempered I am at any give time… like an anger litmus test. The more irritable I am, the meaner this fantasy letter gets. I start obsessing about the most effective wording, the right turn of phrase that will put her in her place. Here’s today’s versions:
Also, I think all the drugs you’re taking have completely destroyed your hearing because you seem to think you need to scream into your cell phone. How do I know you’re taking drug? Um, everyone knows! Since you don’t seem to care about privacy, we’ve all overheard your recent fall off the wagon and visit from the police. Yesterday, we all listened to your ex bang on your door while yelling: “Sue, wake up! You can’t do this to your little girl. If you keep this up, you’re never going to see her again. When you sober up, you better get your shit together!” Nice. Really nice.
How can you even afford your apartment anyway? My husband and I have five college degrees between us and you seem like an uneducated loser! We pay A LOT of rent so we don’t have to live with garbage like you. Thanks for making us feel like white trash every time we come home.
Oh, and by the way, normal people are usually sleeping at 6:30am. I know you have a little kid, but there is this amazing thing called a door. Close it!
Idiot.
I’m not sure if you’re aware, but we’ve been disturbed lately by the noise coming from your apartment. When you’re talking on your balcony, the sound of your voice bounces off the two buildings and is amplified. Because our two buildings are quite close together it sounds as if you are standing in our living room. Naturally, during the day, we understand that you and your daughter have every right to use your balcony. However, if you could keep your voice down at night and early in the morning, we’d appreciate it.
Finally, we have all noticed that you have been going through some substance abuse problems lately. I’m sure you’d appreciate some privacy as you deal with these issues. We would appreciate it if you used some discretion and refrained from exposing your neighbors to this kind of negative influence.
Sincerely, a concerned neighbor.
My name is Juniper and my husband and I live in the apartment directly across from your balcony. (We own the little grey cat who’s always sitting in the window!) I’ve noticed you and your little girl moved a few months ago and I haven’t had the opportunity to introduce myself.
We happen to overhear your conversations quite a bit and I noticed that you’ve been having a hard time lately. If you ever want to go to a meeting together, just let me know.
Take care,
- Angry (7am):
Also, I think all the drugs you’re taking have completely destroyed your hearing because you seem to think you need to scream into your cell phone. How do I know you’re taking drug? Um, everyone knows! Since you don’t seem to care about privacy, we’ve all overheard your recent fall off the wagon and visit from the police. Yesterday, we all listened to your ex bang on your door while yelling: “Sue, wake up! You can’t do this to your little girl. If you keep this up, you’re never going to see her again. When you sober up, you better get your shit together!” Nice. Really nice.
How can you even afford your apartment anyway? My husband and I have five college degrees between us and you seem like an uneducated loser! We pay A LOT of rent so we don’t have to live with garbage like you. Thanks for making us feel like white trash every time we come home.
Oh, and by the way, normal people are usually sleeping at 6:30am. I know you have a little kid, but there is this amazing thing called a door. Close it!
Idiot.
- WASP-y (11am):
I’m not sure if you’re aware, but we’ve been disturbed lately by the noise coming from your apartment. When you’re talking on your balcony, the sound of your voice bounces off the two buildings and is amplified. Because our two buildings are quite close together it sounds as if you are standing in our living room. Naturally, during the day, we understand that you and your daughter have every right to use your balcony. However, if you could keep your voice down at night and early in the morning, we’d appreciate it.
Finally, we have all noticed that you have been going through some substance abuse problems lately. I’m sure you’d appreciate some privacy as you deal with these issues. We would appreciate it if you used some discretion and refrained from exposing your neighbors to this kind of negative influence.
Sincerely, a concerned neighbor.
- Friendly (3pm):
My name is Juniper and my husband and I live in the apartment directly across from your balcony. (We own the little grey cat who’s always sitting in the window!) I’ve noticed you and your little girl moved a few months ago and I haven’t had the opportunity to introduce myself.
We happen to overhear your conversations quite a bit and I noticed that you’ve been having a hard time lately. If you ever want to go to a meeting together, just let me know.
Take care,
- Scared-y: (one that I’m actually going to send)
Monday, April 30, 2007
Limbo = how low can you go?
Welcome to limbo. Please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are returned to their upright and locked positions. We’ll be circling your final destination for the next… oh, I don’t know MONTH or so.
As I’ve mentioned before, my husband has been interviewing for jobs. This process has felt never-ending at times. For example, here’s what I had to say about this process
In November
In January
In March
In April
Right now, I have no news to report. I have no idea where we’ll land. Seven of the places I mentioned in November are still possibilities. I have no idea when we’ll know. It could be a week, a month, two months.
People keep telling me what an “exciting” time this is. How “rich” it is. Perhaps…
Yet, every time someone says this, I want to punch ‘em. HARD. “Rich” foods are tasty sometimes but they also give you heart disease and high cholesterol. There's something to be said for bland and mild.
Neither my pathology nor I deal well with uncertainty. It helps me to have something to look forward to, something to plan for and keep me slogging through a tough dysphoria-filled day. With no idea of what the future will look like, my mind strains to fill up all that unknown with SOMETHING. And if I let the leash out just a little bit, my mind comes up with all kinds of crazy scenarios. For example, I worry that:
- We won’t like our new town. It’ll be cold or cloudy or less beautiful than the Bay Area.
- We won’t find any good doctors who really understand Borderline Personality Disorder.
- We won’t have a good insurance company that’ll pay for more than a few therapist visits.
- We won’t ever be able to get pregnant and nobody will let a crazy lady like me adopt. If I do have kids, they’ll be just as crazy as I am.
- We won’t make enough friends and we’ll be lonely.
- We won’t be able to afford to buy a home that we like. We’ll always live in a ratty apartment.
- I won't find a job as good and as flexible as the one I have now.
But maybe… it’s that big looming bogey-man of mental illness over there, lurking in the corner. My health has been stable for a little while now. And it’s scary to think that something we do, some choice we make could upset that. We wouldn’t want to do anything that’ll piss off the monster. It feels safer if we don’t poke it with sticks. It’s better not to take risks. It’s easier to stay put, wrapped up in our little cocoon and never change or challenge anything. It makes you wonder if I should just call myself disabled and live a smaller, quieter life.
Great concept. Still. I’d rather live my life to the fullest.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Caution: suffocation hazard
So my dad visited last weekend. I’m not over it yet, but I’m working on it. Don’t get me wrong, It wasn’t a terrible visit. He didn’t openly criticize or yell at us. Still, it was tense and uncomfortable and HARD.
Like I mentioned in my last post, these visits never seem to go that well. For example:
- The last time my dad visited was late October 2004. A week after he left, I started experiencing mild psychosis, the police took me to the hospital and I was committed for a week. Oh and while I was an inpatient, the outpatient program I’d been attending for a year and a half kicked me out.
- The only other time my dad came to the Bay Area by himself was in September of 2002. Midway through his visit I started having intense suicidal urges. After he left, I spiraled down into a major depressive episode that culminated in, yup, you guessed it… the police and a month long stay at a local psych unit. Fun times.
So frankly, the fact that I’m still loose and wandering the streets a week after this most recent visit is quite an accomplishment. Or so my doctor says.
I wish I understood exactly why my dad’s visits are so toxic. The best answer I seem to come up with is that he’s just way too controlling. He’s a gigantic bully who demands that everything: every thought, every action, every moment to be the way he wants it. If it’s not, he’ll throw a hissy fit and make everyone’s life incredibly difficult. NOBODY would want to spend that much time with anyone who acts like he does.
In between our visits, I always seem to forget just how self-centered and full of anger he is. I want to believe he’s not that bad. But then when I’m with him again, I feel shocked and confused. How did I ever think he’d change? How did I live with my parents for seventeen years? Answer: I stayed away as much as I could.
Still, that’s the only kind of family I knew so that’s what I adapted to. When I’m with my dad, I see how I MUST have grown up warped. I’ve tried to unbend myself but thirty plus years of twisting has to leave permanent damage. Sometimes, it makes me feel like I shouldn’t even try, like I’ll always be crooked.
A while back, my doctor said that I had to shut down and drown my natural instincts and personality to survive with my parents. I stopped trying to be myself. I stopped feeling like myself. I shut down any and all natural responses that caused me trouble. The only time I ever let myself off the hook was to get drunk and that stopped working after a while. Nothing. Was. Ever. Right. And when you keep everything under such control for that long it causes a kind of paralysis.
I have to be very, VERY careful when I’m around my dad. He had me twisted around for so long that when I’m with him, I feel like I can’t even trust my own thoughts. I lied to myself and forced my real self down so I could exist with my parents. Still, it was the only way to survive, like the woman in that movie who muffles her baby’s cries to hide it from the enemy, only to discover that she’s suffocated it.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Analogy Lessons
Husband is to Juniper as Spinach is to Popeye
I’m going to pick up my husband from the airport this evening! It seems like this loooooong interview process may finally be winding down. If he goes on any more trips, hopefully there won’t be a lot more. Since January, he’s traveled to interview for 8 different jobs in 7 different states. Three jobs had him back for a second visit. That’s a lot of traveling!
Perhaps once he’s back I will return to life. Since he left at lunchtime on Tuesday, I’ve been bored and lethargic. I don’t know why I seem to become a dysphoric hermit when he’s out of town, but it’s the truth and it does me no good to ignore it. Sure, I’ve managed to get a couple of things done each day, but they’ve been interspersed with long hours of cable TV.
Parents are to Juniper as Kryptonite is to Superman
I’ve been a bit down since this weekend anyway. My dad was in town for a couple of days, visiting us and giving a speech nearby. It was not our best visit and my mood and sense of self is still trying to recover. It seems like the times when he comes to our house by himself go worse than when he visits with my mom or when we go to their house. There’s just something about getting him alone, on our territory that makes it impossible to ignore just what an…. pain he really is.
By the way, don’t ever try to mix Spinach, Kryptonite and Juniper. You get a new, unstable element that smells bad and gives off an unpleasant, tense vibe. Makes the Kryptonite much, much stronger. More about that later.
I’m going to pick up my husband from the airport this evening! It seems like this loooooong interview process may finally be winding down. If he goes on any more trips, hopefully there won’t be a lot more. Since January, he’s traveled to interview for 8 different jobs in 7 different states. Three jobs had him back for a second visit. That’s a lot of traveling!
Perhaps once he’s back I will return to life. Since he left at lunchtime on Tuesday, I’ve been bored and lethargic. I don’t know why I seem to become a dysphoric hermit when he’s out of town, but it’s the truth and it does me no good to ignore it. Sure, I’ve managed to get a couple of things done each day, but they’ve been interspersed with long hours of cable TV.
Parents are to Juniper as Kryptonite is to Superman
I’ve been a bit down since this weekend anyway. My dad was in town for a couple of days, visiting us and giving a speech nearby. It was not our best visit and my mood and sense of self is still trying to recover. It seems like the times when he comes to our house by himself go worse than when he visits with my mom or when we go to their house. There’s just something about getting him alone, on our territory that makes it impossible to ignore just what an…. pain he really is.
By the way, don’t ever try to mix Spinach, Kryptonite and Juniper. You get a new, unstable element that smells bad and gives off an unpleasant, tense vibe. Makes the Kryptonite much, much stronger. More about that later.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Goodwill? Yes. Good will? No thanks.
Now that we know that we're moving this summer, I've started trying to get rid of stuff. I took a couple bags to Goodwill this morning containing the items shown above. I was having a hard time last night deciding if I should let go of these things. I realized that I didn't really need or want any of it - I was just hanging onto this stuff because someone gave it to me and I thought i'd feel guilty for getting rid of it. So I took a picture. That way, I'll still have the memory without having to drag the stuff around too. It's amazing how every object has a story, no matter how long I've been hanging onto it.
A: Strange, ugly woven purse my parents brought back from Japan. Owned: 1.5 years
B: Bowls that came with “salsa” themed gift basket (salsa broken upon arrival). Contents: three small picture frames various weddings (were used as place cards). Owned: 2.5 yearsC: Necklaces I never wear:
- Wooden necklace from ex-boyfriend. Owned: 13 years
- Faux pearl necklace from grandma. Owned: 20 years
- Faux black pearl necklace from parents. Owned: 13 years
- Silver necklace mom gave me for wedding rehearsal. Owned: 5.5 years
D: Soap dish from friend (soap long since used). Owned: 1.5 years
E: Wooden box from friend in college. Owned: 13 years
F: Blue bracelet a friend gave me in the hospital. Owned: 4 years
G: Glow in the dark “glasses” from (I’m not kidding) when my parents went to the last republican national convention. Owned: 2 yearsH: Box I made from a kit I bought at a Japanese paper store. Contents: push pops & ring pops from our anniversary party last year. Owned: 3 years
J: Nice dragonfly pin I got as a Christmas present. I don’t wear pins. Owned: 2 years
K: Little felt dolls my parents got at a cool toy company in junior high. Owned: 20 years
L: Three decks of playing cards my husband bought because we once thought we might collect a deck from each of our vacations.- Old Chesapeake Railroad deck. Owned: my whole life
- Deck we got in Yosemite. Owned: 6 years
- Deck we got in Glacier National Park. Owned: 6 years
M: Travel game of Connect 4 my husband got me at target because my neighbors owned one and I always wanted to play it and they never let me. Owned: 7 years
N: Game of tiddlywinks we got as a stocking stuffer. Lame. Owned: 5 years
P: Loofa scrubby thing from my husband. Nice, but too hard on my skin. Owned: 2 years
Q: Photo storage box we got my mother in law as a gift at our wedding. Had the wrong initials so they let us keep it and we gave her the right one. Owned: 6 years
R: Tea towel embroidered with “love” we got for Valentine’s Day gift from my mom. Owned: 7 yearsS: Candles:
- Green one a friend gave me that smells too weird to burn. Owned: 0.5 years
- Sparkly Christmas one my student gave me but is too ugly to put out. Owned: 1.5 years
And to think... all that came out of one box under my bed. It's scary what I hold onto just to keep myself from feeling any glimmer of guilt.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Ah Borderline… Act II & III
ACT II: at home later Friday night
I got an email from Colleen. It was sent to me and Gwen, the other woman who had stayed after group to talk to her. It sounded bad:
“I can't remember being more depressed…. Why should I come to the "next" meeting, prepared to… do what? Ask someone why they don't like me? Why should I come back, and ask that person's permission to exist? What's wrong with me? What did I do wrong? I am leaving the world. I can't bear it anymore… LEAVE ME. As I leave others.”
I called Gwen. She agreed to call Colleen. They talked for a while and then Gwen called me back. It was now 11pm.
“Colleen says that she doesn’t want to die but she still doesn’t want to live. I don’t know what to do. Do you think I should call her doctor?” Yes, I told her. If she were to hurt herself and we hadn’t called him, we’d never be able to live with the guilt.
Gwen called her doctor, whose voicemail message said that he was out of town. So she called the psychiatrist who was covering his practice and told him what was happening. He called the police who showed up at Colleen’s house at midnight.
Then, Colleen called Gwen and asked her why she had alerted the police. She wished she hadn’t – and said that it had only made things worse.
So Gwen called me back, wanting to know if I still thought we’d done the right thing. ABSOLUTELY, I said. I don’t fool around when suicidal people make threats. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to “turn in” a friend to an authority figure. They weren’t easy decisions, but I’ve never regretted doing it. I’ve watched too many people die.
ACT III: at home Sunday afternoon
I got another email from Colleen. Her mood had obviously changed:
“I'm so sorry for involving you in the Great Storm. Truth is, I was crying so hard I could barely read the screen when I wrote that message, and then just kept crying on and on after I sent it and so didn't really remember/realize how frightening what I wrote would be until the shrink-on-call gave my language back to me as a real reason to call the cops. I'm truly sorry I frightened you both, and involved you at all in this.
I wish I could have done better. I was overwhelmed, and could only feel that feeling in that moment. And part of me… well, part of me that overcame me then… was in so much pain that's all I could hear in my head and I guess I just wanted somebody to hear that, too. A form of selfishness brought on in the extremity. Please forgive me.
We all walk that ground together, and each of us knows its intensity. So you would have known the risk. But no hospital for me, I managed to talk them out of it, with the support of my husband. And now the storm deepens into the gut, as depression has its way.”
I was SO happy to read this. Not just to see that Colleen wasn’t mad at me; that our friendship was preserved. I was more impressed that she could look back at her extreme emotions and how they affected the people around her. Yes, it sucks to have this personality disorder. Yes, other people have to learn to accommodate us when we can’t control ourselves.
BUT. In my experience, it’s very, very important for a borderline to see how much their actions affect others. I watched many people walk away from me because I was too difficult, too emotional, too volatile to be around. I threatened suicide one night in their bathroom and the next day they didn’t want to be friends anymore. It hurt me, but gradually, I changed. I learned. My relationships became easier.
I want this for Colleen. I don’t want this to be the third support group she feels rejected by. I want her to have more ease and grace in her life and the people she interacts with. Yes, she’ll have to change who she is to accommodate them, but sometimes… it’s worth it.
I got an email from Colleen. It was sent to me and Gwen, the other woman who had stayed after group to talk to her. It sounded bad:
“I can't remember being more depressed…. Why should I come to the "next" meeting, prepared to… do what? Ask someone why they don't like me? Why should I come back, and ask that person's permission to exist? What's wrong with me? What did I do wrong? I am leaving the world. I can't bear it anymore… LEAVE ME. As I leave others.”
I called Gwen. She agreed to call Colleen. They talked for a while and then Gwen called me back. It was now 11pm.
“Colleen says that she doesn’t want to die but she still doesn’t want to live. I don’t know what to do. Do you think I should call her doctor?” Yes, I told her. If she were to hurt herself and we hadn’t called him, we’d never be able to live with the guilt.
Gwen called her doctor, whose voicemail message said that he was out of town. So she called the psychiatrist who was covering his practice and told him what was happening. He called the police who showed up at Colleen’s house at midnight.
Then, Colleen called Gwen and asked her why she had alerted the police. She wished she hadn’t – and said that it had only made things worse.
So Gwen called me back, wanting to know if I still thought we’d done the right thing. ABSOLUTELY, I said. I don’t fool around when suicidal people make threats. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to “turn in” a friend to an authority figure. They weren’t easy decisions, but I’ve never regretted doing it. I’ve watched too many people die.
- - - - - - - - -
ACT III: at home Sunday afternoon
I got another email from Colleen. Her mood had obviously changed:
“I'm so sorry for involving you in the Great Storm. Truth is, I was crying so hard I could barely read the screen when I wrote that message, and then just kept crying on and on after I sent it and so didn't really remember/realize how frightening what I wrote would be until the shrink-on-call gave my language back to me as a real reason to call the cops. I'm truly sorry I frightened you both, and involved you at all in this.
I wish I could have done better. I was overwhelmed, and could only feel that feeling in that moment. And part of me… well, part of me that overcame me then… was in so much pain that's all I could hear in my head and I guess I just wanted somebody to hear that, too. A form of selfishness brought on in the extremity. Please forgive me.
We all walk that ground together, and each of us knows its intensity. So you would have known the risk. But no hospital for me, I managed to talk them out of it, with the support of my husband. And now the storm deepens into the gut, as depression has its way.”
I was SO happy to read this. Not just to see that Colleen wasn’t mad at me; that our friendship was preserved. I was more impressed that she could look back at her extreme emotions and how they affected the people around her. Yes, it sucks to have this personality disorder. Yes, other people have to learn to accommodate us when we can’t control ourselves.
BUT. In my experience, it’s very, very important for a borderline to see how much their actions affect others. I watched many people walk away from me because I was too difficult, too emotional, too volatile to be around. I threatened suicide one night in their bathroom and the next day they didn’t want to be friends anymore. It hurt me, but gradually, I changed. I learned. My relationships became easier.
I want this for Colleen. I don’t want this to be the third support group she feels rejected by. I want her to have more ease and grace in her life and the people she interacts with. Yes, she’ll have to change who she is to accommodate them, but sometimes… it’s worth it.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Ah Borderline… a play in 3 acts
ACT I: our Friday morning depression support group
I walked into group and noticed that Colleen AND Jane were both there. Uh oh, I thought.
About a month ago, Jane told us she was glad Colleen hadn’t come to group for the last few months. She didn’t like Colleen – she thought she was too emotional, too flamboyant, had too little insight and took up too much space in the group. If Colleen came back, Jane didn’t want to be in the group anymore. I tried my best to stick up for Colleen. She’s a fellow Borderline, I said. I know how Borderlines can turn people off, I said. I feel uncomfortable when Colleen cries at the drop of a hat too but on the other hand… I can relate. I just take her mood swings with a grain of salt and try to appreciate the depth and passion she brings to the group.
Well Friday morning, it became clear that Jane’s feelings had not changed. Every time Colleen started to say something, Jane interrupted her. She wouldn’t even look at her. It was noticeable; yet not so overt that anyone stopped her. I wasn’t sure Colleen noticed, but as soon as Jane left, Colleen broke into tears. She wanted to know why Jane disliked her so much. We told her what Jane had said in our previous group… as gently and sweetly as possible. Colleen did not take it well. She summed up her thoughts in a later email:
”I would have been very oblivious indeed if I didn't know Jane didn’t like me. I've known it from the very first meeting. It never changed. You confirmed what I already knew. Since the beginning of that group she regularly turns her back on me when I talk, won't make eye-contact at other times, turns her body away from me and makes sure I get that body language loud and clear. She wanted me to know, from the very FIRST time I came back to the group, that I was unwanted. Barely disguised disgust and downright aggressive cruelty were the means of delivering the message. I got it.
Maybe her not-so-latent anger and disdain are an automatic, buried response to women like me. Maybe I represent something uncontrollable, and unpredictable. Maybe she sees that I’m not living in awe of much of anything, much less psychoanalysis. So I CAN'T be controlled. And so I speak out. And I have a life, and an intelligence that is outside a predictable and known line. And I can match her wits, point by point. And maybe, just maybe, it's because I'm not the "normal" she used to: I have my own sense of it.
My best guess is that she will deny it, turn it back on me, and make me feel even more terrible. And then I would run out of the room in tears.”
We talked for a long time after group ended. When she left, Colleen seemed sad but not quite as despondent. Still, we were worried.
tomorrow: act II
I walked into group and noticed that Colleen AND Jane were both there. Uh oh, I thought.
About a month ago, Jane told us she was glad Colleen hadn’t come to group for the last few months. She didn’t like Colleen – she thought she was too emotional, too flamboyant, had too little insight and took up too much space in the group. If Colleen came back, Jane didn’t want to be in the group anymore. I tried my best to stick up for Colleen. She’s a fellow Borderline, I said. I know how Borderlines can turn people off, I said. I feel uncomfortable when Colleen cries at the drop of a hat too but on the other hand… I can relate. I just take her mood swings with a grain of salt and try to appreciate the depth and passion she brings to the group.
Well Friday morning, it became clear that Jane’s feelings had not changed. Every time Colleen started to say something, Jane interrupted her. She wouldn’t even look at her. It was noticeable; yet not so overt that anyone stopped her. I wasn’t sure Colleen noticed, but as soon as Jane left, Colleen broke into tears. She wanted to know why Jane disliked her so much. We told her what Jane had said in our previous group… as gently and sweetly as possible. Colleen did not take it well. She summed up her thoughts in a later email:
”I would have been very oblivious indeed if I didn't know Jane didn’t like me. I've known it from the very first meeting. It never changed. You confirmed what I already knew. Since the beginning of that group she regularly turns her back on me when I talk, won't make eye-contact at other times, turns her body away from me and makes sure I get that body language loud and clear. She wanted me to know, from the very FIRST time I came back to the group, that I was unwanted. Barely disguised disgust and downright aggressive cruelty were the means of delivering the message. I got it.
Maybe her not-so-latent anger and disdain are an automatic, buried response to women like me. Maybe I represent something uncontrollable, and unpredictable. Maybe she sees that I’m not living in awe of much of anything, much less psychoanalysis. So I CAN'T be controlled. And so I speak out. And I have a life, and an intelligence that is outside a predictable and known line. And I can match her wits, point by point. And maybe, just maybe, it's because I'm not the "normal" she used to: I have my own sense of it.
My best guess is that she will deny it, turn it back on me, and make me feel even more terrible. And then I would run out of the room in tears.”
We talked for a long time after group ended. When she left, Colleen seemed sad but not quite as despondent. Still, we were worried.
tomorrow: act II
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Well, it's official
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?
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?
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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