Oh right. I have a blog.
No… I didn’t forget. I have no excuse for not posting. It’s not like I’ve been super busy and nothing bad has happened. I just didn’t think I had anything interesting to say. Frankly, I felt downright boring.
One interesting thing did happen this week. A friend of mine was hospitalized again at the local psych hospital. It’s the same hospital where I did an outpatient, partial hospitalization day program – and where I met her.
I have a student very close to her house, so on Tuesday I offered to pick up some toiletries for her and bring them to the hospital. Today she was discharged and I picked her up and drove her home.
Both times, when was in the psych unit, I was struck by how depressing a place it is. Even though I’ve been hospitalized three times (once for a week, once for a month, and once for three months) I tend to forget.
I forget about the constant florescent lighting, the recycled air and the non-operable windows. I forget how sad the family members look when they’re visiting. I forget how noticeably loud that door sounds when it locks you in. I forget how much it hurts to see the staff leave at the end of the shift – to realize every eight hours that they have the privilege of a life in the real world and YOU don’t.
Each time I left this week, I took a tiny, secret delight each time they buzzed me out. They’re letting me leave, I thought! And when I got home… whew! This apartment may irritate me, but wow. What a delight to have a home and to be allowed to live in it.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Oh, and I'm not a Protestant either.
Our homework assignment this week in DBT was to write down things we want people to know about us. I thought about it all week. There are things I’m proud of… things I’m ashamed of… things I guess I’d like people to know about. But mentioning them seemed more like bragging. So I started thinking about what I REALLY wanted the group to know. Then it came to me.
I want them to know that I’m not what I seem.
I think people see me and think that I’m easily understood. Maybe they see a stereotype, a cliché. I look like a WASPy, white bread, upper middle-class girl from the northeast. Someone who got a degree in liberal arts and has generally had life handed to her on a platter. But that’s not true (well, not entirely… I did get the liberal arts degree.)
I’ve always felt that people have misread me. In the past, people have taken an almost visceral dislike to me. Some people have thought I’m snooty because I’m usually well spoken. Some people have thought I was manipulative or needy because I have this mental illness. But what really bothers me were the people who didn’t dislike me… they just didn’t GET me.
What they don’t see is that there have been these huge rifts, these huge extremes in my life. Hell, these make it hard for me to understand myself
For example, there’s a big difference between my background and my education. My parents may be wealthy now, but my mom’s family is straight out of Appalachia. That whole side of my family has had little education or comfort. I grew up in a very rural town and had a somewhat… primitive childhood; think homespun, old-fashioned.
On the flip side, I’ve had these fantastic opportunities because of my education. I’ve met fascinating and important people. I sang with Dave Brubeck, I got to go inside a nuclear reactor (before it was running) when I was eight. I’ve been to the top of the Parachute Jump at Coney Island (doing an architectural survey).
But the biggest discrepancy by far, between how I look and who I am lies strictly within the confines of my head.
A lot of the time, I think I look normal or sane on the outside and feel completely insane on the inside. I’ve felt this way my whole life. When I was hospitalized or in a residential program, I finally felt like I belonged; like I was surrounded by like minds. I finally felt comfortable.
I want them to know that I’m not what I seem.
I think people see me and think that I’m easily understood. Maybe they see a stereotype, a cliché. I look like a WASPy, white bread, upper middle-class girl from the northeast. Someone who got a degree in liberal arts and has generally had life handed to her on a platter. But that’s not true (well, not entirely… I did get the liberal arts degree.)
I’ve always felt that people have misread me. In the past, people have taken an almost visceral dislike to me. Some people have thought I’m snooty because I’m usually well spoken. Some people have thought I was manipulative or needy because I have this mental illness. But what really bothers me were the people who didn’t dislike me… they just didn’t GET me.
What they don’t see is that there have been these huge rifts, these huge extremes in my life. Hell, these make it hard for me to understand myself
For example, there’s a big difference between my background and my education. My parents may be wealthy now, but my mom’s family is straight out of Appalachia. That whole side of my family has had little education or comfort. I grew up in a very rural town and had a somewhat… primitive childhood; think homespun, old-fashioned.
On the flip side, I’ve had these fantastic opportunities because of my education. I’ve met fascinating and important people. I sang with Dave Brubeck, I got to go inside a nuclear reactor (before it was running) when I was eight. I’ve been to the top of the Parachute Jump at Coney Island (doing an architectural survey).
But the biggest discrepancy by far, between how I look and who I am lies strictly within the confines of my head.
A lot of the time, I think I look normal or sane on the outside and feel completely insane on the inside. I’ve felt this way my whole life. When I was hospitalized or in a residential program, I finally felt like I belonged; like I was surrounded by like minds. I finally felt comfortable.
Monday, February 12, 2007
tap-a, tap-a, tap-a...
So last night, my husband and I were sitting on the couch, chatting. I was tapping my fingers.
As usual.
I've always compulsively tapped my fingers, usually in time to some repetitive jingle or rhythm that gets caught in my head. It's like I'm working out fingering on the piano (I'm a musician). Sometimes, it's been a problem. When I've performed on stage with various music ensembles, I've had to hide my hands or force myself to just stop tapping. I didn't realize this until kids in middle school used to tease me about it.
Last night, I didn't even notice that I was tapping.
"Why are you tapping your fingers?" My husband asked.
"I dunno... " I said. "I'm just tapping."
"I don't buy it." He said. "When you tap your fingers, it means you're thinking about something. It's like when the cat twitches her tail... it's hardwired to her brain. When you tap your fingers, it's a little warning sign. And when you think too much, your thoughts build up until your head explodes and every thing's covered with the bits."
If the man didn't already have a phd, that comment alone would qualify him for an honorary doctorate in psychology.
As usual.
I've always compulsively tapped my fingers, usually in time to some repetitive jingle or rhythm that gets caught in my head. It's like I'm working out fingering on the piano (I'm a musician). Sometimes, it's been a problem. When I've performed on stage with various music ensembles, I've had to hide my hands or force myself to just stop tapping. I didn't realize this until kids in middle school used to tease me about it.
Last night, I didn't even notice that I was tapping.
"Why are you tapping your fingers?" My husband asked.
"I dunno... " I said. "I'm just tapping."
"I don't buy it." He said. "When you tap your fingers, it means you're thinking about something. It's like when the cat twitches her tail... it's hardwired to her brain. When you tap your fingers, it's a little warning sign. And when you think too much, your thoughts build up until your head explodes and every thing's covered with the bits."
If the man didn't already have a phd, that comment alone would qualify him for an honorary doctorate in psychology.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Personality Disorder + gift with string attached = hate^3
I hate, hate, HATE the fact that life exhausts me so much.
We went car shopping today. I managed to look sane in front of strangers. In front of my husband, well, I’m sure I looked a bit more… unhinged.
On Monday night, my husband went online and submitted a request for price quotes from dealers who had the car we are interested in. Six emailed us back by Tuesday morning. Most of the emails didn’t include a price quote and didn’t say whether or not the even HAD the car. I found this troubling and didn’t know how to proceed.
What if the first dealer we talked to was right and nobody had this car on the lot? We’d have to order the car and pay full price. That would not please the people who are paying for the car… namely, my parents. I hate, hate, HATE this process, I kept saying. Buying a car with their money feels very stressful. Maybe it wouldn’t bother others, but if you knew how judgmental my parents are, you’d get it.
--- --- ---
Finally, on Thursday, I worked up my courage and emailed the dealers back. I said that if they had the car and told me how much they wanted for it, I’d come in this weekend and talk to them. I asked them to EMAIL me back.
Three called. One of the callers didn’t really have the car I was looking for, so I made appointments to go see the other two callers today. This morning, we drove out to the first one in the East Bay. We took a test drive and I liked the way the car handled.
It turned out that he really didn’t have the color with leather seats like we were looking for, but everything was pleasant enough. He looked around and thought he could get one for us.
Great, we said, here’s the price to beat.
He beat it.
Great, we said, make sure you can get it.
He got it.
Great, we said, here’s a deposit. We’ll be back to do the paperwork.
No, his manager said, we won’t take a deposit. You have to do the paperwork RIGHT NOW.
Uh… no, we said, we have to get our finances in order and frankly it’s a $30k purchase. We require 24 hours to make sure we’re happy with this decision. (and honestly, we needed to shop his price around a bit and see if we could beat it.)
No, the manager said. Paperwork. Now.
Good bye, we said, and walked out.
--- --- ---
So, we drove over to Target. Where I tried not to have a panic attack about the whole thing. I started in with the familiar negative thoughts:
What if the first dealer we talked to was right…?
Nobody has this car on the lot…
What if we have to order the car…?
My parents are going to think I’m stupid because I can’t buy a car…
I hate, hate, HATE this.
But… one dealer in the North Bay actually READ my email and emailed me back as I requested. He said that he’d be getting the car I wanted in a week and would hold it for me with a deposit. So as soon as I got out of the East Bay dealership, I called him up. Yes, it was the car I wanted. Yes, he could go slightly lower in price than the East Bay dealer. Yes, he’d actually TAKE a deposit (what a concept). Done.
--- --- ---
When we got home, we called my parents to tell them the news. My dad was less than exuberant. “Well, that’s $1k less than the MSRP. But the dealer’s still making $2k. Are you sure he’s not adding on a bunch of extra fees? Make sure he’s not adding a cleaning or polishing fee. And what’s he giving you for the trade in?”
I don’t know dad, I said. It’s probably not gonna be the $6 or $7k you want… the car’s got a small dent on one side. And it’s got 95,000 miles on it.
“Yeah, I know” he said. “These guys are all crooks. If they try to give you less than $5k, then you gotta be prepared to walk outta there and wait for someone else. These slime balls… “
And as he launched into another rant, my negative thoughts came marching in…
What if the first dealer we talked to was right…?
Nobody has this car on the lot...
What if we have to order the car…?
My parents are going to hate me…
“Aren’t you excited about all this?” I heard him say. “You’re getting a brand-new car!”
I hate, hate, HATE this.
*update: right after I finished typing this, I got a call from another dealer. He'll give me the same model for slightly less. Sigh. Now I guess I have to pit him against the North Bay dealer to see who will give me the better trade in price. Oh, that'll be fun. I can see it now... this guy won't want to hold the car for me while I run off and see what the North Bay guy'll give me...
We went car shopping today. I managed to look sane in front of strangers. In front of my husband, well, I’m sure I looked a bit more… unhinged.
On Monday night, my husband went online and submitted a request for price quotes from dealers who had the car we are interested in. Six emailed us back by Tuesday morning. Most of the emails didn’t include a price quote and didn’t say whether or not the even HAD the car. I found this troubling and didn’t know how to proceed.
What if the first dealer we talked to was right and nobody had this car on the lot? We’d have to order the car and pay full price. That would not please the people who are paying for the car… namely, my parents. I hate, hate, HATE this process, I kept saying. Buying a car with their money feels very stressful. Maybe it wouldn’t bother others, but if you knew how judgmental my parents are, you’d get it.
--- --- ---
Finally, on Thursday, I worked up my courage and emailed the dealers back. I said that if they had the car and told me how much they wanted for it, I’d come in this weekend and talk to them. I asked them to EMAIL me back.
Three called. One of the callers didn’t really have the car I was looking for, so I made appointments to go see the other two callers today. This morning, we drove out to the first one in the East Bay. We took a test drive and I liked the way the car handled.
It turned out that he really didn’t have the color with leather seats like we were looking for, but everything was pleasant enough. He looked around and thought he could get one for us.
Great, we said, here’s the price to beat.
He beat it.
Great, we said, make sure you can get it.
He got it.
Great, we said, here’s a deposit. We’ll be back to do the paperwork.
No, his manager said, we won’t take a deposit. You have to do the paperwork RIGHT NOW.
Uh… no, we said, we have to get our finances in order and frankly it’s a $30k purchase. We require 24 hours to make sure we’re happy with this decision. (and honestly, we needed to shop his price around a bit and see if we could beat it.)
No, the manager said. Paperwork. Now.
Good bye, we said, and walked out.
--- --- ---
So, we drove over to Target. Where I tried not to have a panic attack about the whole thing. I started in with the familiar negative thoughts:
What if the first dealer we talked to was right…?
Nobody has this car on the lot…
What if we have to order the car…?
My parents are going to think I’m stupid because I can’t buy a car…
I hate, hate, HATE this.
But… one dealer in the North Bay actually READ my email and emailed me back as I requested. He said that he’d be getting the car I wanted in a week and would hold it for me with a deposit. So as soon as I got out of the East Bay dealership, I called him up. Yes, it was the car I wanted. Yes, he could go slightly lower in price than the East Bay dealer. Yes, he’d actually TAKE a deposit (what a concept). Done.
--- --- ---
When we got home, we called my parents to tell them the news. My dad was less than exuberant. “Well, that’s $1k less than the MSRP. But the dealer’s still making $2k. Are you sure he’s not adding on a bunch of extra fees? Make sure he’s not adding a cleaning or polishing fee. And what’s he giving you for the trade in?”
I don’t know dad, I said. It’s probably not gonna be the $6 or $7k you want… the car’s got a small dent on one side. And it’s got 95,000 miles on it.
“Yeah, I know” he said. “These guys are all crooks. If they try to give you less than $5k, then you gotta be prepared to walk outta there and wait for someone else. These slime balls… “
And as he launched into another rant, my negative thoughts came marching in…
What if the first dealer we talked to was right…?
Nobody has this car on the lot...
What if we have to order the car…?
My parents are going to hate me…
“Aren’t you excited about all this?” I heard him say. “You’re getting a brand-new car!”
I hate, hate, HATE this.
*update: right after I finished typing this, I got a call from another dealer. He'll give me the same model for slightly less. Sigh. Now I guess I have to pit him against the North Bay dealer to see who will give me the better trade in price. Oh, that'll be fun. I can see it now... this guy won't want to hold the car for me while I run off and see what the North Bay guy'll give me...
Friday, February 09, 2007
depression + PMS + cranky = meme
Since I've been in a bit of a funk this week (depression + PMS + cranky) I haven't blogged much. Thus, I'll resort to a meme.
10 Firsts
9 Latest
8 Things You Wear (I’m assuming they mean on a regular basis)
7 Have You Ever
6 Things You’ve Done Today
5 Favorite Things
4 People I Can Tell Anything
3 Choices
2 things to do Before You Die
1 Thing You Regret
Something you could happily do an infinite number of times:
10 Firsts
- First best friend: Anonymous Mom (met when we were 1, friends when we were 2)
- First car: 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser wagon with bench naugahide seats. The thing had a V-8 engine and idled at 20mph.
- First love: according to my mom, Mr. Strobitzky, my art teacher in 2nd grade.
- First vacation: Nantucket… I think?
- First job: assistant counselor at a YMCA camp in New England.
- First piercing: none!
- First concert: I’m almost too ashamed to admit… Huey Lewis and the News somewhere back in the 80’s.
- First record/cd bought: something classical probably.
- First real love: an art history professor from London at the YMCA camp. At least he married the girl he left me for.
- First screen name: Juniper
9 Latest
- Latest beverage: drinking Calistoga sparkling water as I type.
- Latest car ride: home from tutoring in Tiburon tonight.
- Latest movie watched: I went to see “Because I Said So” on Monday. It was ok, not great. Mostly, I was annoyed because all the characters have impossibly nice apartments.
- Latest phone call made: called UT to reserve a room. I’m joining my husband on an interview trip in a couple weeks so I can ski for FOUR days!
- Latest jacuzzi bath: hmmm… long time ago.
- Latest played cd: CD? I think we actually played a P-Funk CD while setting up the Christmas tree.
- Latest time you cried: Almost every day this week! Again.
- Latest meal: Reheated leftover pizza for dinner. We were tired.
- Latest curse: Dunno. I’m sure I swore sometime today though.
8 Things You Wear (I’m assuming they mean on a regular basis)
- Do contacts count?
- Trying to start wearing a bit of foundation. Makes me look less blotchy all the time.
- Underwear & bra
- Wedding & engagement rings
- Socks. It’s been too cold lately.
- Watch
- I’m trying to wear shoes that make me look taller.
- A scowl.
7 Have You Ever
- Dated one of your best friends: yes. Married him.
- Been arrested: yes
- Fallen in love at first sight: yup. My husband.
- Been in a TV program: no
- Had your heart broken: yes. See above British professor.
- Said you love someone without meaning it: no
- Made a prank phone call: probably.
6 Things You’ve Done Today
- Tutored the SAT.
- Went to my depression support group.
- Watched 2 episodes of The Simpsons, of course.
- Read part of the New York Times.
- Wrote work emails I should’ve ignored until next week.
- Showered.
5 Favorite Things
- Sushi
- Joni Mitchell
- Grey cats
- Sleeping
- Being in the woods
4 People I Can Tell Anything
- Psychiatrist
- Therapist
- Best Friends
- Husband
3 Choices
- Black or white? Black
- Summer or winter? Summer (provided I have some shade)
- Chocolate or chips? Chips
2 things to do Before You Die
- Be a parent
- Finish my book
1 Thing You Regret
- Getting arrested (and the things I did to get arrested)
Something you could happily do an infinite number of times:
- Wake up next to my husband
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
assume = ass + u + me
For homework in DBT this week, we were asked to observe and describe various situations. One reason we do this is to compare these descriptions to our own, internal assumptions. We all make assumptions about our experiences - but they're not always correct.
Sunday AM:
OBSERVE: I felt self conscious and insecure while tutoring my noon client.
ASSUMPTIONS: I am a lousy tutor, a lousy adult and an even lousier woman. Also, this is not one of the families who treat me like an educator. They treat me like hired help.
DESCRIBE: I was late because I couldn't find parking. I was surprised when I saw that the student lived in a very modern loft-like building in a very trendy area of town. He looked neat, thin, and kinda athletic. I was wearing old pants and a fleece that were very loose. My hair was still damp from a shower and I wasn't wearing any makeup. I started to think that I looked fat and frumpy. He briefly introduced me to his dad. I started comparing myself to the dad who I saw as a "real" adult. The kid acted unsure of what to expect... he didn't know how much tutoring he wanted. I started worrying that I was talking too much. I forgot to introduce myself and tell the kid about my background. The kid is very smart and I wasn't quite sure what help I could be to him. He was already getting a 780 on the verbal section.
REALITY: Both the kid and I were a little unprepared and uncomfortable. Things'll probably go smoother next time. And I'll wear a nicer outfit so I feel more professional. It wasn't such a big deal and I don't need to beat myself up over it.
Sunday AM:
OBSERVE: I felt self conscious and insecure while tutoring my noon client.
ASSUMPTIONS: I am a lousy tutor, a lousy adult and an even lousier woman. Also, this is not one of the families who treat me like an educator. They treat me like hired help.
DESCRIBE: I was late because I couldn't find parking. I was surprised when I saw that the student lived in a very modern loft-like building in a very trendy area of town. He looked neat, thin, and kinda athletic. I was wearing old pants and a fleece that were very loose. My hair was still damp from a shower and I wasn't wearing any makeup. I started to think that I looked fat and frumpy. He briefly introduced me to his dad. I started comparing myself to the dad who I saw as a "real" adult. The kid acted unsure of what to expect... he didn't know how much tutoring he wanted. I started worrying that I was talking too much. I forgot to introduce myself and tell the kid about my background. The kid is very smart and I wasn't quite sure what help I could be to him. He was already getting a 780 on the verbal section.
REALITY: Both the kid and I were a little unprepared and uncomfortable. Things'll probably go smoother next time. And I'll wear a nicer outfit so I feel more professional. It wasn't such a big deal and I don't need to beat myself up over it.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
February fourth. Best day of the year.
Arthur's Seat. Kinda looks like a camel, doesn't it?My husband fit the image of an Irishman, intense and enigmatic. He was infamous for being opinionated and funny. I thought he seemed too smart, too confident for twenty-two. A tormented writer, he claimed his work turned to crap the instant it hit the paper. You got the sense that he would be very famous, although his disposition suggested his fame might arrive posthumously.
The second week of school, we went sightseeing. We walked down the wide Georgian streets of New-Town and up the hill to the famous kirkyard overlooking the castle. The granite buildings seemed relaxed with their plumbing hanging out their backsides. At the National Museum we sat by the pools of carp under the nineteenth century glass arcade. In the mediaeval cathedral, a small, old man approached and asked where we were from. When we told him we were from New York the man showed us a plaque donated by a New Yorker. I watched my husband listening patiently and realized how proud I'd be if we were a couple.
The next week, my husband helped me buy a bike and I lent him the use of my laptop. We spent a week of evenings together. We sat up drinking and I’d play with his feet. One night I had a dream we were married. Finally, on February fourth, I kissed him. The first time, it was the way you kiss a corpse, softly, slowly, and on the forehead. I thought, if I marry this man, and spend the rest of my life with him, I might kiss him for the last time in the same way.
For our first weekend trip we went to Glasgow. We both had grandparents born there. My grandfather had been a steam-hammer man and his had owned a brass works. I’d read about how dire the tenements had been. I remembered the tintype pictures of blackened oval staircases hanging from ship's steel and rust. The narrow closes filled with washing hung from every window and the buildings coated with coal dust, too heavy for the ocean gales to blow away. The tenements had been torn down but we saw the rows of warehouses and "to let" signs. The streets led to no great cities, only thousands more granite houses with walled gardens and sodium lamps that paced out, up to the tops of the hills.
Back in Edinburgh, we liked to walk through the residential streets by our dorm. The tiny stone houses squeezed into plots of land that could be more than a sixteenth of an acre. Hand in hand, we analyzed the gardens, talked to dogs, and described what sort of house we'd like to live in. We paused at one window, looking at a room filled with bookcases and plants and deep red walls. The street signs were bolted into the granite walls.
One night, we found ourselves back at Arthur's Seat, sitting in the tall scrub. It was June, but cool, and he put his jacket around me. He told me about his family as we watched the castle lights. We were so far north that the sky never really got dark. It always stayed a deep indigo blue.
We spent Sundays in bed that year, watching the slanting sun while we fooled around. I knew that I'd remember these days when I was old and know that this was what it felt like to be twenty-one. I lived abroad and fell deeply in love with a very kind and interesting man.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Search me
I've been keeping a list of searches that brought people to this blog. Some themes have appeared.
By far and away, there were three EXTREMELY popular searches. I don't want to mention the keywords here because frankly, I kinda hope these searches will taper off. Someday. Here's a hint about the general areas:
There was a lot of hate out there. Some was reserved for husbands:
There was a lot of parental/in-law hate to go around too:
By far and away, there were three EXTREMELY popular searches. I don't want to mention the keywords here because frankly, I kinda hope these searches will taper off. Someday. Here's a hint about the general areas:
- A LOT of people are having trouble with the cars of a prominent German manufacturer. Specifically, one dashboard light.
- Nobody seems to understand what constitutes a good score on the standardized tests students take to get into private high school.
- An oddly large amount of people want to take karate. In NJ.
There was a lot of hate out there. Some was reserved for husbands:
- my husband hates me
- dealing with hurt husband
- i think my husband hates me
- hate husband
- i love my husband even when i mean to him
- my husband seems to hate me
- borderline personality disorder i don't love my husband
- why my husband hates me so much
- husband hate
There was a lot of parental/in-law hate to go around too:
- my parents hate me
- is ok that my mom wears a long
- narcissistic mother controlling
- my parents hate my husband
- my father hates me
- my husband hates my parents
- my husband's parents hate me
- 2006 never ending cold virus
- i really had to pee
- my glands hurt
- she apologized for her voice hoarse laryngitis
- chest wall muscle pull
- my glands hurt when i turn my head to the side
- fall forward ikea poang chair dangerous
- seroquel and ambien
- seroquel taper
- tapered off seroquel
- desiprimine recreation [Recreation? Seriously?]
- desiprimine
- diazepam tapering have the morning but not the afternoon
- taking darvaset while pregnant
- borderline personality unusually perceptive
- do borderlines really hear voices
- how do borderlines goodbye
- what's annoying
- my therapist is annoying me
- dbt workbook
- dbt opposite action worksheet
- linehan invalidating environment cry about
- dbt emotion regulation homework sheet 1
- rachel reiland blog
- rachel reiland pseudonym
- who is rachel reiland
- rachel reiland parents
- entropy explained
- standing motionlesssubmissive
- how to make curly fries
- george seinfled t-bone
- institute of living/hartford is crazy
- institute of living underground tunnels
Monday, January 29, 2007
Dear Future: any day now...
Dear Future:
I've got a bone to pick with you. Lately, I've begun to notice how many things are, well... hanging. Too many things. I'd like to have SOME concept, some vision of what my life will look like in five or six months. This lack of direction is starting to annoy me. Here are the items I would like you to resolve ASAP:
1. All future travel plans. Are those trips to Utah, North Carolina and Santa Fe going to happen? Are they going to happen by the end of March? Will I need to make more trips to prepare for relocation in April-June? Will my father be visiting in the coming months? And who will watch the cat while we jet around the country?
2. My husband's job. Will he get one? How soon? Will it be nice? Will he like the salary? Oh yeah, and where the hell will it be located? Can we narrow it down to one time zone at least?
3. My job. If we stay here, will I keep it? Do I even like it? If we live somewhere else, would I continue tutoring or will I go back to architecture? Full time or part time? Hmmm?
4. Babies. Like... will I ever have one? I know we've been only trying for six months and some months have been half-hearted attempts. But, I'd kinda like to know. NOW. And if I'm not pregnant this month (I don't know yet) why is my chest so swollen and tender? And why is my GI system all screwy? Just for fun?
5. The new car. What color will it be? How much will it cost? And when will I get it? How much will they give me for the trade in? Will it run ok or will it be a lemon? When will it get it's first scratch?
6. Our home. Ok, I realize that I won't be living here in this particular crap-shack in six months... that's good. But what will I be living in? Will we have purchased our first home? Will we still be in an apartment? Will it be nicer? Will this furniture be coming with us?
7. Will all the spiders and mold hiding in this apartment eventually rise up in the night and suffocate us? Or will the gas heater finally explode? Will this shack eventually do us in before we make it to our new home?
8. Will my patience give out?
'cmon future. Let's see a few results here. Understand? Good.
sincerely,
Juniper
I've got a bone to pick with you. Lately, I've begun to notice how many things are, well... hanging. Too many things. I'd like to have SOME concept, some vision of what my life will look like in five or six months. This lack of direction is starting to annoy me. Here are the items I would like you to resolve ASAP:
1. All future travel plans. Are those trips to Utah, North Carolina and Santa Fe going to happen? Are they going to happen by the end of March? Will I need to make more trips to prepare for relocation in April-June? Will my father be visiting in the coming months? And who will watch the cat while we jet around the country?
2. My husband's job. Will he get one? How soon? Will it be nice? Will he like the salary? Oh yeah, and where the hell will it be located? Can we narrow it down to one time zone at least?
3. My job. If we stay here, will I keep it? Do I even like it? If we live somewhere else, would I continue tutoring or will I go back to architecture? Full time or part time? Hmmm?
4. Babies. Like... will I ever have one? I know we've been only trying for six months and some months have been half-hearted attempts. But, I'd kinda like to know. NOW. And if I'm not pregnant this month (I don't know yet) why is my chest so swollen and tender? And why is my GI system all screwy? Just for fun?
5. The new car. What color will it be? How much will it cost? And when will I get it? How much will they give me for the trade in? Will it run ok or will it be a lemon? When will it get it's first scratch?
6. Our home. Ok, I realize that I won't be living here in this particular crap-shack in six months... that's good. But what will I be living in? Will we have purchased our first home? Will we still be in an apartment? Will it be nicer? Will this furniture be coming with us?
7. Will all the spiders and mold hiding in this apartment eventually rise up in the night and suffocate us? Or will the gas heater finally explode? Will this shack eventually do us in before we make it to our new home?
8. Will my patience give out?
'cmon future. Let's see a few results here. Understand? Good.
sincerely,
Juniper
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Blame the graveyard shift
Soooo… did you all have a good week? Yes? Good. Glad to hear it.
Oh me? Uh… yeah, I had an ok week.
What did I do all week? Uh…
Nothing. No seriously, nothing.
Hence the lack of blogging. Early Wednesday morning, my husband left town for his first job interview. He got back yesterday afternoon. So, in celebration of my three days as a single woman I became…
a zombie.
Don’t get me wrong; I did manage to leave the house occasionally. I had one client each afternoon and group therapy on Wednesday and Friday. But other than those commitments, I did as little as possible. Lots of TV, hours of sleep, and some quality time with my couch. Sometimes this happens when my husband’s away. It’s like my brain tells the day shift to go home and lets the graveyard shift take over just the necessary operations.
I wasn’t exactly PROUD of this. I avoided a lot of things that shouldn’t have been avoided. Work, friends, exercise, housework… Most of the week I was pretty hard on myself about it, worrying I had become a permanently lazy slug. It’s hard to know what comes first with depression… being depressed or being depressed about being depressed.
But, let’s face it, after last week’s trip to New Jersey, I needed the rest. When I got back I felt discombobulated and rattled. I was exhausted from the journey itself, the jet lag and my busy schedule. But I was more emotionally exhausted. Spending time with my parents always wears me out, especially when the visit is intense, like this one was.
I’ll write more about that later.
Finally, on Friday morning, I woke up feeling more like myself… like I had a vague interest in doing something that might not include my couch. Yesterday I made it to the gym and today we actually started the onerous task of car shopping.
My husband leaves for another interview trip first thing tomorrow morning. He now has eight interviews! Eight! And an invitation to a conference in Madrid! It’s going to be a busy couple of months… Hopefully I won’t resort to being such a hermit, stuck in my own head. It’s a lot nicer to be out in the REAL world with the day shift.
Oh me? Uh… yeah, I had an ok week.
What did I do all week? Uh…
Nothing. No seriously, nothing.
Hence the lack of blogging. Early Wednesday morning, my husband left town for his first job interview. He got back yesterday afternoon. So, in celebration of my three days as a single woman I became…
a zombie.
Don’t get me wrong; I did manage to leave the house occasionally. I had one client each afternoon and group therapy on Wednesday and Friday. But other than those commitments, I did as little as possible. Lots of TV, hours of sleep, and some quality time with my couch. Sometimes this happens when my husband’s away. It’s like my brain tells the day shift to go home and lets the graveyard shift take over just the necessary operations.
I wasn’t exactly PROUD of this. I avoided a lot of things that shouldn’t have been avoided. Work, friends, exercise, housework… Most of the week I was pretty hard on myself about it, worrying I had become a permanently lazy slug. It’s hard to know what comes first with depression… being depressed or being depressed about being depressed.
But, let’s face it, after last week’s trip to New Jersey, I needed the rest. When I got back I felt discombobulated and rattled. I was exhausted from the journey itself, the jet lag and my busy schedule. But I was more emotionally exhausted. Spending time with my parents always wears me out, especially when the visit is intense, like this one was.
I’ll write more about that later.
Finally, on Friday morning, I woke up feeling more like myself… like I had a vague interest in doing something that might not include my couch. Yesterday I made it to the gym and today we actually started the onerous task of car shopping.
My husband leaves for another interview trip first thing tomorrow morning. He now has eight interviews! Eight! And an invitation to a conference in Madrid! It’s going to be a busy couple of months… Hopefully I won’t resort to being such a hermit, stuck in my own head. It’s a lot nicer to be out in the REAL world with the day shift.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Wise-Ass Onesie Wednesday (a day late)
So, I know that this one isn't exactly "hand-crafted" but I can't keep making onesies until I have a baby to put them in!For now, the onesies are going to be digital.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
I love my job... ?
Today I went to see one of my regular clients. She's a 7th grader at a local private school; one of the most academically challenging in the area. I've worked with her for a while now and her homework kicks my ass.
Right before Christmas, she was asked to write an outline for an English paper on "a controversy." Some of her classmates wrote about why they should offer lunch a bit later. My kid... she wanted to write about racial profiling. Hmmm... Did I mention that she's African American and I'm so white I'm practically translucent? I tried to be... delicate. Ultimately, she did a lot of great research and has since written a pretty good rough draft.
Right after the holidays, she told me that she had a new history assignment. She has to lead a class discussion on a topic relating to "race." Not again, I thought. She then proceeded to tell me how she'd decided to talk about "scientific racism." Um... did I mention that she's in 7th grade? (When I was in 7th grade, the most challenging thing Mrs. Oliver asked us to do was a research paper on animals in poetry.) When we looked at the assignment, we discovered that she was supposed to find a primary document (relating to this topic) to present and discuss with her class. Did I have any suggestions, she asked?
Oh yeah. I'm just a wealth of primary documents. I drive around with a reference section in my trunk. Better yet, I have a microfiche reader and 100 years of the New York Times in my bag. The only thing I could think of off the top of my head was The Bell Curve.
Well, thank god for the internet. We looked up scientific racism on Wikipedia which led us to the Eugenics article. Which led us to the Nuremberg Laws. Perfect, I thought! Nazis + racism = social studies gold. Why don't you focus on one kind of scientific racism like eugenics, I suggested. Everyone was happy.
Until she talked to her teacher. Who reminded her that this was an AMERICAN history class. Fantastic.
So tonight, we spent 1/2 of an hour trying to get her dad's laptop to work and the other 1/2 of an hour trying to find another primary document. We found part of the Immigration Act of 1924 online... not the interesting part, of course. Finally, I had to leave and we'd made no progress. I told her to talk to her school's reference librarian and I'd be back in a couple of days.
Honestly, sometimes I feel like this job asks the impossible. Find a primary document on scientific racism in one hour? Sure. That can be found online? Uh, ok. That can be comprehended by a 7th grader? Wait... does that exist?
Anyone have any suggestions?
Postscript: Next month, she has to do a presentation on socioeconomic or class issues. Thank god we read Nickel and Dimed this summer. Can you believe this is 7th grade!
Right before Christmas, she was asked to write an outline for an English paper on "a controversy." Some of her classmates wrote about why they should offer lunch a bit later. My kid... she wanted to write about racial profiling. Hmmm... Did I mention that she's African American and I'm so white I'm practically translucent? I tried to be... delicate. Ultimately, she did a lot of great research and has since written a pretty good rough draft.
Right after the holidays, she told me that she had a new history assignment. She has to lead a class discussion on a topic relating to "race." Not again, I thought. She then proceeded to tell me how she'd decided to talk about "scientific racism." Um... did I mention that she's in 7th grade? (When I was in 7th grade, the most challenging thing Mrs. Oliver asked us to do was a research paper on animals in poetry.) When we looked at the assignment, we discovered that she was supposed to find a primary document (relating to this topic) to present and discuss with her class. Did I have any suggestions, she asked?
Oh yeah. I'm just a wealth of primary documents. I drive around with a reference section in my trunk. Better yet, I have a microfiche reader and 100 years of the New York Times in my bag. The only thing I could think of off the top of my head was The Bell Curve.
Well, thank god for the internet. We looked up scientific racism on Wikipedia which led us to the Eugenics article. Which led us to the Nuremberg Laws. Perfect, I thought! Nazis + racism = social studies gold. Why don't you focus on one kind of scientific racism like eugenics, I suggested. Everyone was happy.
Until she talked to her teacher. Who reminded her that this was an AMERICAN history class. Fantastic.
So tonight, we spent 1/2 of an hour trying to get her dad's laptop to work and the other 1/2 of an hour trying to find another primary document. We found part of the Immigration Act of 1924 online... not the interesting part, of course. Finally, I had to leave and we'd made no progress. I told her to talk to her school's reference librarian and I'd be back in a couple of days.
Honestly, sometimes I feel like this job asks the impossible. Find a primary document on scientific racism in one hour? Sure. That can be found online? Uh, ok. That can be comprehended by a 7th grader? Wait... does that exist?
Anyone have any suggestions?
Postscript: Next month, she has to do a presentation on socioeconomic or class issues. Thank god we read Nickel and Dimed this summer. Can you believe this is 7th grade!
Monday, January 22, 2007
You don't know what you want... 'til it's found
Last week, I blogged a bit about some tension I was having with my therapist. Here's what I wrote at the time:
"Three years ago, when she was my counselor at the residential program, she confiscated four pocket knives that I was occasionally using to cut myself. I don't cut myself anymore so this summer, I asked for them back. They were gone. Someone had taken them from the "locked" medicine cabinet that only staff have the keys to. Thanks guys. To replace the knives would cost about $200. She said she'd talk to the director (who hates me and kicked me out two years ago) about getting my money back. For the last six months, she's chickened out. Finally today, I told her that if she didn't talk to the guy in the next two weeks, I was going to skip two sessions with her to recoup the $200. I told her that I didn't think it was fair that she should lose the business and I should lose the therapy, but what other choice do I have??"
My husband was NOT happy about this decision. He said that the only person I was punishing was myself.
My doc wasn't crazy about my decision either. He thought I shouldn't penalize my therapist since she's not the one who lost the knives. He suggested that I should write a letter to the director of the residential program.
Just Me had some similar advice:
"I wonder... if maybe the therapist is in a bad situation but doesn't have the balls to say THAT either. The gripe really is between you and the hospital. The therapist is the go-between. You can't really blame the messenger, right? So suck it up yourself and go to the hospital... and ask for your personal property... [and] put in a deadline... If [your therapist] doesn't want to do it, she should say that. If she does, why doesn't she do it? you should GO to the two sessions but NOT PAY."
Oh and there was an added bonus: I felt like a complete LOSER, blogging about how much I missed my knives. How unfair... some nice people tried to keep you from cutting yourself. Boo hoo you big baby.
Well... last week, (only two days after the conversation with my therapist, by the way) she called and said that she'd finally spoken to the director. He promised to look for the knives and if he couldn't find them, he'd cut me a check.
"I know you didn't want to do this, so I really appreciate it." I said. "I just didn't want to have this between us any longer."
"Actually, I thought you handled it pretty well." She said. "You were pretty skilled about it."
Really? Glad she thought so.
So I was getting pretty happy about the situation. Soon, I'd have a big fat $200 check! And the check is from someone I truly hate. Beautiful.
Then today, when I met with my therapist, she said that she had good news.
"[The director] told me that he thinks he found your pocket knives!"
Yay. Four pocket knives. I think I really just wanted the check.
"Three years ago, when she was my counselor at the residential program, she confiscated four pocket knives that I was occasionally using to cut myself. I don't cut myself anymore so this summer, I asked for them back. They were gone. Someone had taken them from the "locked" medicine cabinet that only staff have the keys to. Thanks guys. To replace the knives would cost about $200. She said she'd talk to the director (who hates me and kicked me out two years ago) about getting my money back. For the last six months, she's chickened out. Finally today, I told her that if she didn't talk to the guy in the next two weeks, I was going to skip two sessions with her to recoup the $200. I told her that I didn't think it was fair that she should lose the business and I should lose the therapy, but what other choice do I have??"
My husband was NOT happy about this decision. He said that the only person I was punishing was myself.
My doc wasn't crazy about my decision either. He thought I shouldn't penalize my therapist since she's not the one who lost the knives. He suggested that I should write a letter to the director of the residential program.
Just Me had some similar advice:
"I wonder... if maybe the therapist is in a bad situation but doesn't have the balls to say THAT either. The gripe really is between you and the hospital. The therapist is the go-between. You can't really blame the messenger, right? So suck it up yourself and go to the hospital... and ask for your personal property... [and] put in a deadline... If [your therapist] doesn't want to do it, she should say that. If she does, why doesn't she do it? you should GO to the two sessions but NOT PAY."
Oh and there was an added bonus: I felt like a complete LOSER, blogging about how much I missed my knives. How unfair... some nice people tried to keep you from cutting yourself. Boo hoo you big baby.
Well... last week, (only two days after the conversation with my therapist, by the way) she called and said that she'd finally spoken to the director. He promised to look for the knives and if he couldn't find them, he'd cut me a check.
"I know you didn't want to do this, so I really appreciate it." I said. "I just didn't want to have this between us any longer."
"Actually, I thought you handled it pretty well." She said. "You were pretty skilled about it."
Really? Glad she thought so.
So I was getting pretty happy about the situation. Soon, I'd have a big fat $200 check! And the check is from someone I truly hate. Beautiful.
Then today, when I met with my therapist, she said that she had good news.
"[The director] told me that he thinks he found your pocket knives!"
Yay. Four pocket knives. I think I really just wanted the check.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
For my 100th post, I shall attempt to demonstrate how labile emotions can make you weep with exhaustion
So… my dad’s retirement dinner on Tuesday night… Many have asked how it went. And, I don’t have a great answer. That’s probably why I haven’t blogged for a few days.
That, and the extreme psychological exhaustion. Allow me to explain:
Tuesday was a blur: After 3 fitful hours of sleep, I meet my parents for breakfast at 7:30am. My parents dislike the waiter and leave him no tip. A stellar way to start the day… After breakfast, we drive to see this school my dad helped build. Apparently, it wouldn’t have been built if it weren’t for his leadership. The faculty and staff seem incredibly appreciative and fawn over him. This is… nice, but confusing to watch. I’m proud of my dad but embarrassed at the same time. Oh yeah, did I mention that the school is still under construction? Walking around the job site reminds me of my abandoned architecture career. My dad introduces me to everyone as “an architect.” Throughout the tour, I feel my emotions welling up… like I’m about to cry.
Mom and I have a couple of hours before our appointments at the salon so we drive back to her old neighborhood. We try to catch up with a meeting of her old garden club at the local library but miss them. We go to lunch instead. Question: if you order a “Thai shrimp wrap” would you expect that to be a do-it-yourself plate with separate piles of lettuce, cold shrimp, various nuts, rice, and spicy clear goo? No, you wouldn’t. For $20 you’d expect them to, I dunno, COOK?
We spend 3 hours at the salon. I submit to the most painful “blowout” I’ve ever had which leaves me with a puffy head of straw. Yes, I did suggest “volume” but… OW. After that torture is done, the nice lady applies so much makeup that I look… plastic. She complements me on my eye color and tells me that I could even wear blue eye shadow if I wanted. Ummm…. Really? Let’s just stick to browns, I tell her. This is as much conversation as we will have all afternoon. The rest of the time she just frowns and I try to dissociate. I’m feeling REALLY uncomfortable… kinda like a whore.
We drive back to the hotel, change and go to the retirement dinner. More about that tomorrow.
Wednesday, I spend the day with my friend, her wife, and their one year-old son. He. Is. Adorable. And only bit me once! I had a great time hanging out with them but… I am extremely tired at this point. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep for five days. And, it’s a little depressing to see my friend’s baby. Why can’t I have one of those? What’s wrong with me?
Thursday morning, I wake up at 6am. Shower, dress, and say good-bye. Then gas up the rental car, out to the Belt Parkway, drop off the car, take the air train to the terminal, check in, walk what feels like FIVE MILES through the terminal to the gate and onto the plane by 8:30am. Whew. The guy next to me orders four drinks. Thanks buddy. I enjoyed watching you drink those three bloody Marys and that beer.
When I arrive at SFO, I’m shattered… emotionally and physically worn out. I wasn’t feeling that great when I left for this trip (see last week’s posts) and now I feel even worse. When I call my husband’s cell phone and see that it’s not turned on, I lose it. Where is he? Is he on his way to get me? Will I be sitting outside on the curb for hours? Why can’t he turn on his phone? I’m starting to panic. I leave him a cranky voicemail. Then, I see him walk into baggage claim. And I start to cry.
Sooo… I’ve spent the last 48 hours trying to get my feet back under me. There’s been hours of sleep, lots of unpacking, cleaning, and many, many hugs from my husband. And slowly, but surely, I’m starting to feel like myself again.
I hate how… weak all this has made me feel. It seems so… stupid. Why should a trip like this wear me out? I was only gone for 4 ½ days! It’s so hard for me to accept the limitations of my diagnosis. Even though I’ve spent the last four years working hard to treat my Borderline Personality Disorder, it still slows me down. Whenever I talk to my doc about this, he reminds me that some people deal with this by cloistering themselves. They never travel, never do anything new, never break out of their rut. And you know what? It helps them deal with their symptoms… cuts down on the dysphoria and anxiety and mood swings that come with this disorder. But, he always reminds me, they miss out on a lot.
So those are my choices… slow way down and regulate my emotions more easily OR live my life and get bounced around by the ride. Aaaand… the only way I’m going to know what too much looks like… is by experience. You know, like this past week? Whee.
That, and the extreme psychological exhaustion. Allow me to explain:
Tuesday was a blur: After 3 fitful hours of sleep, I meet my parents for breakfast at 7:30am. My parents dislike the waiter and leave him no tip. A stellar way to start the day… After breakfast, we drive to see this school my dad helped build. Apparently, it wouldn’t have been built if it weren’t for his leadership. The faculty and staff seem incredibly appreciative and fawn over him. This is… nice, but confusing to watch. I’m proud of my dad but embarrassed at the same time. Oh yeah, did I mention that the school is still under construction? Walking around the job site reminds me of my abandoned architecture career. My dad introduces me to everyone as “an architect.” Throughout the tour, I feel my emotions welling up… like I’m about to cry.
Mom and I have a couple of hours before our appointments at the salon so we drive back to her old neighborhood. We try to catch up with a meeting of her old garden club at the local library but miss them. We go to lunch instead. Question: if you order a “Thai shrimp wrap” would you expect that to be a do-it-yourself plate with separate piles of lettuce, cold shrimp, various nuts, rice, and spicy clear goo? No, you wouldn’t. For $20 you’d expect them to, I dunno, COOK?
We spend 3 hours at the salon. I submit to the most painful “blowout” I’ve ever had which leaves me with a puffy head of straw. Yes, I did suggest “volume” but… OW. After that torture is done, the nice lady applies so much makeup that I look… plastic. She complements me on my eye color and tells me that I could even wear blue eye shadow if I wanted. Ummm…. Really? Let’s just stick to browns, I tell her. This is as much conversation as we will have all afternoon. The rest of the time she just frowns and I try to dissociate. I’m feeling REALLY uncomfortable… kinda like a whore.
We drive back to the hotel, change and go to the retirement dinner. More about that tomorrow.
Wednesday, I spend the day with my friend, her wife, and their one year-old son. He. Is. Adorable. And only bit me once! I had a great time hanging out with them but… I am extremely tired at this point. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep for five days. And, it’s a little depressing to see my friend’s baby. Why can’t I have one of those? What’s wrong with me?
Thursday morning, I wake up at 6am. Shower, dress, and say good-bye. Then gas up the rental car, out to the Belt Parkway, drop off the car, take the air train to the terminal, check in, walk what feels like FIVE MILES through the terminal to the gate and onto the plane by 8:30am. Whew. The guy next to me orders four drinks. Thanks buddy. I enjoyed watching you drink those three bloody Marys and that beer.
When I arrive at SFO, I’m shattered… emotionally and physically worn out. I wasn’t feeling that great when I left for this trip (see last week’s posts) and now I feel even worse. When I call my husband’s cell phone and see that it’s not turned on, I lose it. Where is he? Is he on his way to get me? Will I be sitting outside on the curb for hours? Why can’t he turn on his phone? I’m starting to panic. I leave him a cranky voicemail. Then, I see him walk into baggage claim. And I start to cry.
Sooo… I’ve spent the last 48 hours trying to get my feet back under me. There’s been hours of sleep, lots of unpacking, cleaning, and many, many hugs from my husband. And slowly, but surely, I’m starting to feel like myself again.
I hate how… weak all this has made me feel. It seems so… stupid. Why should a trip like this wear me out? I was only gone for 4 ½ days! It’s so hard for me to accept the limitations of my diagnosis. Even though I’ve spent the last four years working hard to treat my Borderline Personality Disorder, it still slows me down. Whenever I talk to my doc about this, he reminds me that some people deal with this by cloistering themselves. They never travel, never do anything new, never break out of their rut. And you know what? It helps them deal with their symptoms… cuts down on the dysphoria and anxiety and mood swings that come with this disorder. But, he always reminds me, they miss out on a lot.
So those are my choices… slow way down and regulate my emotions more easily OR live my life and get bounced around by the ride. Aaaand… the only way I’m going to know what too much looks like… is by experience. You know, like this past week? Whee.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Where's a good rut when you need it?
The trip was going pretty well up until this point. It’s now 2am and I can’t sleep. I slept poorly last night so I probably COULD sleep, but every time I close my eyes, my lovely brain won’t shut up. Have I become such a creature of habit that I can’t sleep without my… my what? My own bed, husband, apartment, state… time zone? I have my little habits and bedtime rituals and apparently, the comforts of a nice cushy Hilton just mess that all up. No… just let me stick in my nice familiar rut please.
Yesterday went pretty well actually:
Then, on the way to the airport to pick her up, I mentioned the clothing thing. Really casually, I just said that mom seemed really focused on what we were all wearing tomorrow. He said that she told him she "can’t talk to me about clothes anymore.” That kinda stung. It makes it sound like I’m the difficult one. He also said “You don’t normally hang out with all the senior executives at his company.” True… but I still felt like he was saying I couldn’t dress myself. Things felt more stilted once mom showed up. Back at the hotel, mom and I tried on our outfits for each other. Honestly, the skirt looks really stupid on me and now I’m worried.
Last night, when I couldn’t fall right asleep, I wasn’t too hard on myself. Even though I didn’t get a full night’s sleep the previous night, I just don’t sleep well in strange places. I know this. I just lay there patiently, drifting from one thing to another. Tonight, that wasn’t happening. I just started thinking about well… I don’t know, EVERYTHING. (And thinking about how silly and unattractive I was going to feel all day tomorrow didn’t help either. Now I’m going to look tired as well as fat and pasty and weird.)
Nights like this, I miss my buddies, Ambien and Seroquel.
Tomorrow could be be rough. There’s the tour of the school my dad built (well, project managed) in the morning, the afternoon of staring at myself in the mirror at the salon, and then, the evening of awkward conversation and feeling like a bloated Barbie.
Maybe, I’ll just overload on DBT skills. Be mindful of myself. Take care of myself. Be mindful of the brevity of the day and it’s importance to my parents. Take care of myself but remember it’s not about ME tomorrow. It's a big transition for my dad and I want to support him.
And then Wednesday (which is now, technically tomorrow) I’ll get to hang out with my friend in Queens. And the next day, I’ll get to go home and squeeze back into my nice little rut. My nice little comforting rut that keeps my moods from flying around and banging into all the nice people.
Oh hell… and now one of my glands on my neck feels sore and swollen. If I get sick as soon as I get back… well there goes the rut...
Yesterday went pretty well actually:
- Got a decent night’s sleep and woke up halfway rested at 6am.
- Everything at SFO went smoothly and the flight was on schedule.
- JFK wasn’t too bad and neither was the traffic into NYC.
- I had a good time at my friend’s house and didn’t feel like too much of a fifth wheel around her family.
- Her one and four-year old daughters seemed to warm to me a bit.
- I had a nice talk with her husband last night.
- I didn’t get much sleep, but I didn’t feel wrecked this morning.
- I had a good time playing with my friends’ little girls in our pajamas.
- My friend and I snuck in some decent conversations about parents (although I worried that was talking about myself too much).
- Not too much traffic in NJ and I even got an hour to myself at the hotel (which is very nice and has wireless Internet.)
- Running errands with dad wasn’t too bad.
- We had a good, light, talk at dinner.
Then, on the way to the airport to pick her up, I mentioned the clothing thing. Really casually, I just said that mom seemed really focused on what we were all wearing tomorrow. He said that she told him she "can’t talk to me about clothes anymore.” That kinda stung. It makes it sound like I’m the difficult one. He also said “You don’t normally hang out with all the senior executives at his company.” True… but I still felt like he was saying I couldn’t dress myself. Things felt more stilted once mom showed up. Back at the hotel, mom and I tried on our outfits for each other. Honestly, the skirt looks really stupid on me and now I’m worried.
Last night, when I couldn’t fall right asleep, I wasn’t too hard on myself. Even though I didn’t get a full night’s sleep the previous night, I just don’t sleep well in strange places. I know this. I just lay there patiently, drifting from one thing to another. Tonight, that wasn’t happening. I just started thinking about well… I don’t know, EVERYTHING. (And thinking about how silly and unattractive I was going to feel all day tomorrow didn’t help either. Now I’m going to look tired as well as fat and pasty and weird.)
Nights like this, I miss my buddies, Ambien and Seroquel.
Tomorrow could be be rough. There’s the tour of the school my dad built (well, project managed) in the morning, the afternoon of staring at myself in the mirror at the salon, and then, the evening of awkward conversation and feeling like a bloated Barbie.
Maybe, I’ll just overload on DBT skills. Be mindful of myself. Take care of myself. Be mindful of the brevity of the day and it’s importance to my parents. Take care of myself but remember it’s not about ME tomorrow. It's a big transition for my dad and I want to support him.
And then Wednesday (which is now, technically tomorrow) I’ll get to hang out with my friend in Queens. And the next day, I’ll get to go home and squeeze back into my nice little rut. My nice little comforting rut that keeps my moods from flying around and banging into all the nice people.
Oh hell… and now one of my glands on my neck feels sore and swollen. If I get sick as soon as I get back… well there goes the rut...
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
My mom dresses me funny
After posting my last entry, I walked away from the computer a bit worried. I don’t want this blog to devolve into a forum for my rants and whinging. I worry that I’ve been doing too much of that lately. I’d prefer that this blog illustrate what it’s like to live with (and recover from) Borderline Personality Disorder. Yes, along the way, you’ll get a healthy dose of the everyday, but hopefully the everyday as seen through the (oh so perceptive) eyes of a Borderline.
So yes, in my last post, I bitched about a lot of things: my apartment, my car, store clerks, my ass… But the topic that stood out the most, the topic that was largely to blame for my bad mood in the first place…
My mom dresses me funny.
So, how does this illustrate what it's like to live with Borderline? Ummmm.... Well, for starters, it illustrates how my emotions swing between extremes that are hard to manage. Like my intense anger. And it explains (pretty well, in fact) the kind of invalidating environment that CREATES Borderline. Like how my mom trying to dress me invalidates my individuality and oh, I dunno, my adulthood.
I’ve spent a lot of the last few days trying to explain to people (ok, mainly therapists and my husband) how I wound up in this situation. Again.
Here’s the conclusion I’ve come to. It happens by degrees. It’s not like my mom just walks up to me, slaps me on the back and says “Well Juniper, it’s obvious you’re a wreck and can’t manage to look presentable in public. To avoid a lot of embarrassment, your father and I are going to strap you down and make you look like the good little preppy clone we always wanted.” Maybe that’s what she’s thinking, but these situations tend to unravel more sloooowly.
Here’s the chronology of this current mess:
ACT I:
Among my birthday presents are a black skirt and white sweater. I don’t love em’ but then, you don’t always love birthday presents. I feign happiness and gratitude. Mom suggests I wear them to my dad’s party. Hmmm. I hadn’t even been thinking about what I was going to wear. The party’s not for weeks. I don’t want to spend money on a new outfit… I make some non-committal murmurs, not realizing that in her mind, this equals “Yes, thanks mom. Don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t save me from my own ineptitude.”
ACT II:
Christmas morning, I get a gift certificate for shoes at Nine West. I like Nine West. I need some dressy black sandals. Good gift. I’m happy. “Maybe you can use this to get some nice shoes to go with your new outfit!” Mom happily suggests. That’s NOT gonna happen, I think. But do I have shoes that go with that outfit, I wonder? Maybe I will have to use part of it.
ACT III:
Mom tells me she’s getting her hair done while she’s in NJ. She loves that salon and has missed it ever since she moved. Would I like to get a haircut too? Uh, yeah, sure. I was gonna get a haircut in January anyway… why not. Saves me the time and money. And that way they can “style” my hair too. She says. That way I’ll look nice for the party. Ummmm… ok. I don’t usually do that much to my hair but I always let the stylist do something to it after I get a haircut. It’s fun to have “styled” hair for a day.
ACT IV:
On the last day of our visit, mom asks us to try on our new clothes and see if everything fits. The white sweater doesn’t fit that great. Probably because it’s incredibly ugly and unflattering. I tell mom that it’s not going to “work.” She sighs. “Oh noooo, really? And that’s the one I had to go to two stores for and then they had to order it in another size and have it shipped… “ Well thanks mom. Thanks for being so gracious about it. I’m trying to save her the money and she’s giving me a guilt trip. “I’ll just give you a check for what it’s worth and you can go get yourself something that works with that skirt.” Uh… what? Did I just agree to go shopping for an item of clothing I don’t really need to match a skirt that I don’t really expect to get a lot of use out of?
ACT V:
In the week and a half since we’ve been home, mom has reminded me to get some new shoes and a new blouse. About six times. In emails, letters, and phone conversations. Here’s the most recent email:
“Just wondering – did you get some new nice dress shoes yet? And also did you find a top you like for the black skirt? Hope so. Let’s talk about outfits for Dad’s big “do” next time we talk. By the way, when we go to the salon, Ann Marie, the tiny one with long black hair, who is from Maine will be cutting your hair along with shampoo and styling. Would you like her or someone there to do a make-up application for you while you are waiting for me to get beautified? Might be fun.”
So now the shoes and skirt have become mandatory. Great. I leave in less than a week and now I have to fit in a shopping trip.
As for the makeup, this was my reply:
“I’m ok with them doing my makeup... As long as it’s not too “NJ.” I’ll have to be firm with them and remind them that I’m a CT/CA “natural” girl. But it’s a nice idea.”
This was NOT what I originally wrote. This was probably the third draft of my reply. The polite draft. Don’t wanna seem ungrateful, now do I.
So you see… I agree to a new skirt, and a few days later, I’m in over my head. It’s not for any lack of will or spine on my part. It just sneaks up on me… like sinking into quicksand. THAT”S what makes it so hard to escape. (thrashing makes you sink more quickly, right?)
So yes, in my last post, I bitched about a lot of things: my apartment, my car, store clerks, my ass… But the topic that stood out the most, the topic that was largely to blame for my bad mood in the first place…
My mom dresses me funny.
So, how does this illustrate what it's like to live with Borderline? Ummmm.... Well, for starters, it illustrates how my emotions swing between extremes that are hard to manage. Like my intense anger. And it explains (pretty well, in fact) the kind of invalidating environment that CREATES Borderline. Like how my mom trying to dress me invalidates my individuality and oh, I dunno, my adulthood.
I’ve spent a lot of the last few days trying to explain to people (ok, mainly therapists and my husband) how I wound up in this situation. Again.
Here’s the conclusion I’ve come to. It happens by degrees. It’s not like my mom just walks up to me, slaps me on the back and says “Well Juniper, it’s obvious you’re a wreck and can’t manage to look presentable in public. To avoid a lot of embarrassment, your father and I are going to strap you down and make you look like the good little preppy clone we always wanted.” Maybe that’s what she’s thinking, but these situations tend to unravel more sloooowly.
Here’s the chronology of this current mess:
ACT I:
Among my birthday presents are a black skirt and white sweater. I don’t love em’ but then, you don’t always love birthday presents. I feign happiness and gratitude. Mom suggests I wear them to my dad’s party. Hmmm. I hadn’t even been thinking about what I was going to wear. The party’s not for weeks. I don’t want to spend money on a new outfit… I make some non-committal murmurs, not realizing that in her mind, this equals “Yes, thanks mom. Don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t save me from my own ineptitude.”
ACT II:
Christmas morning, I get a gift certificate for shoes at Nine West. I like Nine West. I need some dressy black sandals. Good gift. I’m happy. “Maybe you can use this to get some nice shoes to go with your new outfit!” Mom happily suggests. That’s NOT gonna happen, I think. But do I have shoes that go with that outfit, I wonder? Maybe I will have to use part of it.
ACT III:
Mom tells me she’s getting her hair done while she’s in NJ. She loves that salon and has missed it ever since she moved. Would I like to get a haircut too? Uh, yeah, sure. I was gonna get a haircut in January anyway… why not. Saves me the time and money. And that way they can “style” my hair too. She says. That way I’ll look nice for the party. Ummmm… ok. I don’t usually do that much to my hair but I always let the stylist do something to it after I get a haircut. It’s fun to have “styled” hair for a day.
ACT IV:
On the last day of our visit, mom asks us to try on our new clothes and see if everything fits. The white sweater doesn’t fit that great. Probably because it’s incredibly ugly and unflattering. I tell mom that it’s not going to “work.” She sighs. “Oh noooo, really? And that’s the one I had to go to two stores for and then they had to order it in another size and have it shipped… “ Well thanks mom. Thanks for being so gracious about it. I’m trying to save her the money and she’s giving me a guilt trip. “I’ll just give you a check for what it’s worth and you can go get yourself something that works with that skirt.” Uh… what? Did I just agree to go shopping for an item of clothing I don’t really need to match a skirt that I don’t really expect to get a lot of use out of?
ACT V:
In the week and a half since we’ve been home, mom has reminded me to get some new shoes and a new blouse. About six times. In emails, letters, and phone conversations. Here’s the most recent email:
“Just wondering – did you get some new nice dress shoes yet? And also did you find a top you like for the black skirt? Hope so. Let’s talk about outfits for Dad’s big “do” next time we talk. By the way, when we go to the salon, Ann Marie, the tiny one with long black hair, who is from Maine will be cutting your hair along with shampoo and styling. Would you like her or someone there to do a make-up application for you while you are waiting for me to get beautified? Might be fun.”
So now the shoes and skirt have become mandatory. Great. I leave in less than a week and now I have to fit in a shopping trip.
As for the makeup, this was my reply:
“I’m ok with them doing my makeup... As long as it’s not too “NJ.” I’ll have to be firm with them and remind them that I’m a CT/CA “natural” girl. But it’s a nice idea.”
This was NOT what I originally wrote. This was probably the third draft of my reply. The polite draft. Don’t wanna seem ungrateful, now do I.
So you see… I agree to a new skirt, and a few days later, I’m in over my head. It’s not for any lack of will or spine on my part. It just sneaks up on me… like sinking into quicksand. THAT”S what makes it so hard to escape. (thrashing makes you sink more quickly, right?)
Monday, January 08, 2007
What's annoying me:
today... EVERYTHING
But I'll give you the top ten:
Oh yeah. And her. She just looks annoying. Grrr...
But I'll give you the top ten:
- My apartment - specifically, its inability to come clean. When will my landlord ever learn that a millimeter of caulking is not the way to fix everything. Also, how can one 6 pound cat shed 100 cubic meters of fur?
- My car - specifically, how much time I spend in it. Today, for example, I left the house at 8:45am and didn't get home until 6pm. Throughout the day, I had three, one hour long meetings. The rest of the time... driving from one store to another.
- Those stores. Yes, shoe shopping is usually a happy occasion, but not today! Today, I had to use half of a Christmas gift certificate on shoes I didn't want. My mother was dead set on me wearing new shoes for my father's retirement dinner next week. I didn't fall in love with anything at the store, but I don't have all week to go hunting around. I have this thing... maybe you've heard of it... it's called, A JOB. Oh, and ladies (the ones working at the shoe outlet) not everyone else loves R&B as much as you do.
- Oh yeah, my job. What is wrong with our company's tutors? Today a young man told me that he couldn't take a student because it wasn't worth his while to drive to the kid's house for only one hour. If I could magically whip another student (immediately afterwards and in the same neighborhood, of course) out of MY ASS, then maybe he'd consider it. Dude. Sorry work is so much... work. Suck it up.
- My ass - specifically, its large size. Thanks to years of therapy, I now actually care enough about myself and my appearance that it's finally starting to bug me. Thanks doc. What a gift of health.
- My therapist. Three years ago, when she was my counselor at the residential program, she confiscated four pocket knives that I was occasionally using to cut myself. I don't cut myself anymore so this summer, I asked for them back. They were gone. Someone had taken them from the "locked" medicine cabinet that only staff have the keys to. Thanks guys. To replace the knives would cost about $200. She said she'd talk to the director (who hates me and kicked me out two years ago) about getting my money back. For the last six months, she's chickened out. Finally today, I told her that if she didn't talk to the guy in the next two weeks, I was going to skip two sessions with her to recoup the $200. I told her that I didn't think it was fair that she should lose the business and I should lose the therapy, but what other choice do I have??
- Waste. Today, I brought two bags full of stuff to Goodwill. One whole bag was full of awful clothes my mother has bought me. Exhibit two: these socks.
Seriously woman. I used to be an architect. I used to dress all in black. Do these look like they're for me? - My mother. She's always dressed me funny and now she's trying to get me appropriately gussied up for my father's retirement party. I already mentioned the shoes. Exhibit 3: the sweater I managed to avoid at Christmas (similar to this but in white):
Exhibit 4: the skirt from Talbots I did not manage to avoid. 
It's got a very special 1950's Donna Reed, big hips kinda thing happening. Thaaanks. Oh yeah, and did I mention, she wants me to get my hair and makeup done that afternoon. Hair and makeup. In New Jersey. Why did I give up medication? - My freaky subconscious and the sleep it robs from me. For some reason, I've slept horribly the last two nights. I've particularly hated all the disturbing baby dreams. In some, I have a baby and then I lose it. In some, I have a baby and its deformed. And then in others, I have a baby and it's wonderful but then I have to wake up to realize that I do not, in fact have a baby yet.
- PMS. I wish I could say that my intense emotions today were due to raging pregnancy hormones but most likely, it's just PMS. Let's just say that spending the holidays with your family = great birth control. And if I'm not pregnant, why did I wake up at 4:30am craving dim sum?!! That's just adding insult to injury. (See number 5.)
Oh yeah. And her. She just looks annoying. Grrr...
Sunday, January 07, 2007
The flip side
In my last post, I promised to write about the flip side to an "intellectually balanced life." After posting, I realized that I kind of alluded to it already:
"I was ill a lot in high school.... I was stressed out and irritated and frequently difficult to spend time with.... I felt fortunate to have survived those four years. Prep school put me through the wringer.... my high school experience was hellish..."
It was thrilling to work so hard. But mostly, it was exhausting. If someone could've taught me the pleasures of doing nice things for myself at a younger age, I would've learned what REAL balance is. At some point, we all have an obligation to ENJOY life. What a concept!
"now that I’ve been out of school... there’s even less time and money for these things. There are dishes and dinner and laundry and work..."
Oh yeah... money. I wasn't exactly supporting myself in high school. To support oneself, specialization becomes somewhat... necessary! It's fantastic to be a generalist and renaissance woman, but how many people get paid for that? (Um... ok, tutors frequently do. Perhaps THAT explains my affection for my adopted profession.) And I wasn't exactly keeping a house, a husband or a child in those days (as anonymous mom so rightly pointed out). All those things require work. Hard work. And loads of time.
Finally, I'm learning that this desire to recapture every lost bit of knowledge, every abandoned pursuit is really just another way for me to be hard on myself... how I beat myself up, compare myself to others. I hold myself to the high standards that were suggested to me when I was younger. And there's nothing that says that those were the RIGHT standards. Or that such a thing even exists.
"I was ill a lot in high school.... I was stressed out and irritated and frequently difficult to spend time with.... I felt fortunate to have survived those four years. Prep school put me through the wringer.... my high school experience was hellish..."
It was thrilling to work so hard. But mostly, it was exhausting. If someone could've taught me the pleasures of doing nice things for myself at a younger age, I would've learned what REAL balance is. At some point, we all have an obligation to ENJOY life. What a concept!
"now that I’ve been out of school... there’s even less time and money for these things. There are dishes and dinner and laundry and work..."
Oh yeah... money. I wasn't exactly supporting myself in high school. To support oneself, specialization becomes somewhat... necessary! It's fantastic to be a generalist and renaissance woman, but how many people get paid for that? (Um... ok, tutors frequently do. Perhaps THAT explains my affection for my adopted profession.) And I wasn't exactly keeping a house, a husband or a child in those days (as anonymous mom so rightly pointed out). All those things require work. Hard work. And loads of time.
Finally, I'm learning that this desire to recapture every lost bit of knowledge, every abandoned pursuit is really just another way for me to be hard on myself... how I beat myself up, compare myself to others. I hold myself to the high standards that were suggested to me when I was younger. And there's nothing that says that those were the RIGHT standards. Or that such a thing even exists.
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