I remember the date very well. It was June 2nd, 1977 and I was 14 years old, spending the night with a friend. Up until that time my musical experience had been limited to the Beatles, Jethro Tull and Cat Stevens, as well as the local easy listening station. Boy was I in for a surprise.
Beth was a metal head. I guess in these days you wouldn;t call her a metalhead anymore than you'd call Led Zeppelin and Queen Heavy Metal, but that's how they were known then. Now I guess they'd just go by the label hard rock. Anyway. Beth started playing me music out of her collection. And blown away doesn;t begin to describe how I felt. I guess considering my listening history it would not have been out of order to suppose I'd hate the stuff she played me, but I loved it. I felt my blood pounding with the guitar and the drums. I felt alive and awake in a way I never had before. And it sure didn;t hurt that most of the guys on the album covers were wearing very tight clothes and were extremely good looking.
She saved her favourite band, Sweet, for last. She really wanted me to like them because a lot of people in our country didn't at the time: they were seen as a cheesy mix of Led Zep and Queen or an ex-bubble pop band trying desperately to make its own way without talented songwriters. But I loved them quite as much as Beth had hoped I would and ended up being obsessed with them for the next few years, even to harbouring a massive crush on their guitar member (incidentally, the only member of the band still playing and one acknowledged as the most talented).
Sweet did start as a bubble pop band. Remember the dreadful "Little Willy?" That was one of theirs. So was the odious "Wig Wam Bam." Both were written by the team of Chinn and Chapman (or Chinnichap) for the up and coming band. If most people think of Sweet they think of those songs, or of the later "Love is like Oxygen," which, though written by my darling Andy Scott, I think is a terrible song. But between the Chinnichap era and the time of the album Level Headed (or Leather Headed, as we called it then) Sweet was one of the rockin'est hard rock bands out there and also one of the most underrated. All anyone really knows of them is "Fox on the Run" and "Ballroom Blitz," and while both those numbers are good in a catchy poppy sort of way, they don;t capture the drive and energy of "Done me Wrong Alright" or "Sweet F.A." or...well anything else that the band wrote themselves during that brief period when they were known for their thundering guitar riffs, rapid staccato drumming and layered vocals.
I once owned the entire Sweet catalog on Vinyl, but years of poverty driving me to sell my most prized possessions soon relieved me of the burden. Now, I've been wanting to hear some Sweet again for years, but all I could find were compilations of their early stuff (ironically called "The Best of Sweet---eughh!). But today I did an Amazon search and found...yes, almost the whole catalog released on CD, Imports and all. Oh to hear "Midnight to Daylight" and "Action" again! What did I do? I bought the whole thing, of course. Even though I couldn;t really afford it. I mean, what are credit cards for?
I can't wait for these discs to come. I'll be ripping them out of the plastic and blasting the house down with the sounds of one of my favourite bands--the only way to listen to Sweet is REALLY REALLY LOUD!!!! And if the neighbours don't approve....too bad!
Now, does anyone have a copy of Strung Up that they're willing to part with?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Depression
I wish I had something more interesting to say than whine about my depression, but I don't. I wish I wasn;t depressed, but I am.
I guess I should be grateful that I'm not as depressed as I was a year ago or so, but I still can't but feel that true happiness is out of my reach. Every day it gets a little harder to get out of bed, a little harder to get dressed. When I do get dressed I most likely put on gnarly old sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt because it just doesn;t seem worth it to put on anything else. No one ever sees me and I rarely see anyone. I don't miss these things. And that's part of being depressed that's frightening to me: how little I miss things. I vaguely remember times when I was energetic and active and had activities in my life that I enjoyed. But these things are distant as the memories of dreams. Like they happened to someone else, or like I read about them somewhere.
This is more familiar, this grey fog that creeps into my heart more and more every day. I've struggled with it as long as I can remember, honestly. I remember feeling this way when I was nine years old. Even then I knew I had no value. But even then I could find things that gave me a moment's happiness. Not so anymore. It's as if I've tried everything, leeched all the hapiness I could out of every activity imaginable and I can't think of anything else I'd like or like to do.
People who don't suffer this can't imagine it. They think you can just snap out of it or perk up at will. But dead flowers don;t come back to life and that's a fact.
I'm tired of this now.
I guess I should be grateful that I'm not as depressed as I was a year ago or so, but I still can't but feel that true happiness is out of my reach. Every day it gets a little harder to get out of bed, a little harder to get dressed. When I do get dressed I most likely put on gnarly old sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt because it just doesn;t seem worth it to put on anything else. No one ever sees me and I rarely see anyone. I don't miss these things. And that's part of being depressed that's frightening to me: how little I miss things. I vaguely remember times when I was energetic and active and had activities in my life that I enjoyed. But these things are distant as the memories of dreams. Like they happened to someone else, or like I read about them somewhere.
This is more familiar, this grey fog that creeps into my heart more and more every day. I've struggled with it as long as I can remember, honestly. I remember feeling this way when I was nine years old. Even then I knew I had no value. But even then I could find things that gave me a moment's happiness. Not so anymore. It's as if I've tried everything, leeched all the hapiness I could out of every activity imaginable and I can't think of anything else I'd like or like to do.
People who don't suffer this can't imagine it. They think you can just snap out of it or perk up at will. But dead flowers don;t come back to life and that's a fact.
I'm tired of this now.
Friday, September 14, 2007
My Family, By Request
I got a comment the other day on a blog I wrote way back in January asking me to delve more into my family dysfunction. Well, I don;t know if I can do that, precisely, but here's a brief picture:
My father was a minister (he's been gone now for some years). My mother was an English teacher (Middle school) She's stilll with us and probably will be for a good many years to come. They grew up during the GReat Depression and I think that shaped a lot of their lives. Also, they lived quite some time in the 1950s, that time of Leave it to Beaver families and not being talked about and specifically not mentioning BAD THINGS that might be going on.
They had five children, four girls and one boy. I'm convinced they meant to stop after my brother was born because there are nearly eight years between him and me. I told my mom once that I thought I was a mistake. Her reply was, "You may have been unexpected but that doesn;t mean we love you any less." Hmmm.
My dad was ten years older than my mom. They met during WWII. her father never approved and never let my dad forget it, from what I can gather. Being married just after the war meant that they brought up most of their children during the '50s. Then the 1960s hit and nothing was ever the same again. I think this is onhe of the defining moments of my parents' lives. They just weren't able to make the adjustment from the repression of the '50s to the freedom of the '60s and when their older girls started marching to a different drummer, well...I hope you get the idea because being about 1 at the time I don;t really have many memories of this.
In 1961 of thereabouts, my eldest sister got pregnant. Of course, my parents wanted to hush it up. They made arrangements for her to go away to a home for unwed mothers. My sister, understandably, wanted noting to do with this. She eloped with her boyfriend and because she was underage, got his mother to stand up before the city clerk and say she was my mother so the marriage could come off (My parents had it annulled later). But the worst thing was the pregnancy out of wedlock, as far as my parents were concerned. This was the defining tragedy of my mother's life, and maybe my father's too. It didn't make matters any better when my next eldest sister became a heroin junkie and ran off to california where she had two children out of wedlock to different fathers (I think; they don;t resemble one another in the least).
Now you;d think, by today's standards of understanding, that someone would have got a clue from this that all was not right in the Lampe household. But all my parents could tink was that the girls were intrinsically bad. Which always puzzled me, as the grandchildren from these alliances were always treated quite a bit better than I was. When I had problems, it was seen as another sign of that intrinsic badness. I don't know how many times I was told, "You;re going to grow up to be just like your two older sisters." It didn;t matter what I did. The thing I remember was wanting to perm my hair. This seems innocent enough to me, but somehow to my mother it was a sign that I was going to get pregnant and run away, I guess, because she just threw a fit at me. I permed my hair anyway, and I never DID get pregnant or even have a boyfriend until much, much later.
I always felt shut out of my family. They don't talk. At least, they don;t talk to me. Between my elder siblings there's a bond--they grew up together. But by the time I was old enough to talk to or even have any idea what was going on, they were all gone. And they continue to shut me out to this day. I've tried communicating with them but the best I get is a card on my birthday, if they remember. My two older sisters don;t send me cards at all. It's like I don't exist on some level. I've never understood why this is. To me, it seems to reinforce the idea that I'm somehow the black sheep of the family and that all the troubles are my fault.
A couple of years ago I had a series of miscarriages. I really wanted my family to be there for me at the time and I went out of my way to write to my next oldest sister (the good one). I was really open and told her all my fears and what it had been like growing up. Her response was, "How could you say Daddy didn't love you? He always loved little children." I remember his holding his grandchildren and even me when I was very small. But my main memories of are him telling me how bad I was and how much trouble I was and that I treated my mother like mud all the time. How can you think someone loves you when this is all you hear?
No one was there for me growing up. In juvenile novels there's slways someone: an aunt, a teacher, a librarian who encourages the protagonist to blossom and grow. But there was no one like that in my life. Just me and my thoughts. Is it any wonder I felt I didn't deserve to live?
Of course I know now that there's a real scientific basis for my continuing depression and flights of mania. But at the time it was just, "Stop being bad. Stop being upsetting." My mother accused me once when I was in tears of "Being a good actress." My therapist asked me just the other day why on earth anyone would act like they were in pain like that. But I get so confused sometimes, I don;t know what I'm really feeling or whether I'm just making it up. I don;t know what's real.
I don;t know if this is what that person wanted me to write but that's what has come to me right now and I don;t think I can go on anymore. Not with this, I mean. My life is still in the balance but I thik I'm coming out okay. THis time.
My father was a minister (he's been gone now for some years). My mother was an English teacher (Middle school) She's stilll with us and probably will be for a good many years to come. They grew up during the GReat Depression and I think that shaped a lot of their lives. Also, they lived quite some time in the 1950s, that time of Leave it to Beaver families and not being talked about and specifically not mentioning BAD THINGS that might be going on.
They had five children, four girls and one boy. I'm convinced they meant to stop after my brother was born because there are nearly eight years between him and me. I told my mom once that I thought I was a mistake. Her reply was, "You may have been unexpected but that doesn;t mean we love you any less." Hmmm.
My dad was ten years older than my mom. They met during WWII. her father never approved and never let my dad forget it, from what I can gather. Being married just after the war meant that they brought up most of their children during the '50s. Then the 1960s hit and nothing was ever the same again. I think this is onhe of the defining moments of my parents' lives. They just weren't able to make the adjustment from the repression of the '50s to the freedom of the '60s and when their older girls started marching to a different drummer, well...I hope you get the idea because being about 1 at the time I don;t really have many memories of this.
In 1961 of thereabouts, my eldest sister got pregnant. Of course, my parents wanted to hush it up. They made arrangements for her to go away to a home for unwed mothers. My sister, understandably, wanted noting to do with this. She eloped with her boyfriend and because she was underage, got his mother to stand up before the city clerk and say she was my mother so the marriage could come off (My parents had it annulled later). But the worst thing was the pregnancy out of wedlock, as far as my parents were concerned. This was the defining tragedy of my mother's life, and maybe my father's too. It didn't make matters any better when my next eldest sister became a heroin junkie and ran off to california where she had two children out of wedlock to different fathers (I think; they don;t resemble one another in the least).
Now you;d think, by today's standards of understanding, that someone would have got a clue from this that all was not right in the Lampe household. But all my parents could tink was that the girls were intrinsically bad. Which always puzzled me, as the grandchildren from these alliances were always treated quite a bit better than I was. When I had problems, it was seen as another sign of that intrinsic badness. I don't know how many times I was told, "You;re going to grow up to be just like your two older sisters." It didn;t matter what I did. The thing I remember was wanting to perm my hair. This seems innocent enough to me, but somehow to my mother it was a sign that I was going to get pregnant and run away, I guess, because she just threw a fit at me. I permed my hair anyway, and I never DID get pregnant or even have a boyfriend until much, much later.
I always felt shut out of my family. They don't talk. At least, they don;t talk to me. Between my elder siblings there's a bond--they grew up together. But by the time I was old enough to talk to or even have any idea what was going on, they were all gone. And they continue to shut me out to this day. I've tried communicating with them but the best I get is a card on my birthday, if they remember. My two older sisters don;t send me cards at all. It's like I don't exist on some level. I've never understood why this is. To me, it seems to reinforce the idea that I'm somehow the black sheep of the family and that all the troubles are my fault.
A couple of years ago I had a series of miscarriages. I really wanted my family to be there for me at the time and I went out of my way to write to my next oldest sister (the good one). I was really open and told her all my fears and what it had been like growing up. Her response was, "How could you say Daddy didn't love you? He always loved little children." I remember his holding his grandchildren and even me when I was very small. But my main memories of are him telling me how bad I was and how much trouble I was and that I treated my mother like mud all the time. How can you think someone loves you when this is all you hear?
No one was there for me growing up. In juvenile novels there's slways someone: an aunt, a teacher, a librarian who encourages the protagonist to blossom and grow. But there was no one like that in my life. Just me and my thoughts. Is it any wonder I felt I didn't deserve to live?
Of course I know now that there's a real scientific basis for my continuing depression and flights of mania. But at the time it was just, "Stop being bad. Stop being upsetting." My mother accused me once when I was in tears of "Being a good actress." My therapist asked me just the other day why on earth anyone would act like they were in pain like that. But I get so confused sometimes, I don;t know what I'm really feeling or whether I'm just making it up. I don;t know what's real.
I don;t know if this is what that person wanted me to write but that's what has come to me right now and I don;t think I can go on anymore. Not with this, I mean. My life is still in the balance but I thik I'm coming out okay. THis time.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
A bad day
this major mental illness thing is no joke.
it's funny--even though I now have a real diagnosis from reputable, diplomaed, liscened therapists and psychiatrists I still have a hard time with that major mental illness label. It's not just the label. it's that I spent so long hearing that I was just making things up, that nothing was "Wrong" with me, that I was selfish and sttention seeking, etc...maybe you get the picture. maybe you don't. Maybe you;d have to be me to really understand it, and since you're not me, well...all I can say is these taunting voices are constantly in my head like the buzzing of flies and whenever I try to talk to anyone about my feelings and experience the flies get very loud.
anyway, yesterday was a really bad day. I've been suffering increasing anxiety for weeks now--the kind of anxiety that makes you scared to go out of the house in case someone, god forbid, should actually see you much less try to talk to you. I keep thinking people are coming to get me and although I know in my head that no one is going to some drag me out of my bed and pillory me in the middle of the night in my soul I really don;t know it. I keep expecting that I'll be punished for something, some unmentionable crime I've committed totally unaware. The crime of just being. because in my soul I feel that I'm bad. My therapist keeps telling me I don;t do bad things; in fact, I'm a strangely good and compassionate person. But that doesn;t help. It's that Calvinist idea of grace getting in the way--that if you're on the list you;re good andif not you're irredeemable no matter what acts you may perform in this life. I know I come down on the irredeemable side just for getting born. I don't have to be a mass murderer or anything. It doesn't make any difference, just as doing good things do not add to my total goodness.
well, I finally called my psychiatrist who prescribed more anti-anxiety medication, tank all the gods so I'm doing better today. but he asked me, was there anything about this time of year that I had associations with that might make this a troublesome time. And I started crying uncontrollably and remembered my high school....not just high school, but grade school, from third grade on up. An abominably abusive place. For ten years I had to go and be mentally, verbally, emotionally and even sexually abused at this school. And there was no one to talk to about it. My parents just told me--making matters worse--that I should be grateful for the opportunity to go there because if I didn;t I would be forced to go to the DETROIT PUBLIC SCHOOLS--said in tones that made me understand that this was the lowest circle of hell, at least in my parents' estimation and I was a terribly ungrateful and selfish child for wanting not to be abused every day of my life. I even had to go to day camp there in the summer so there was no escape. Ever. I was scared all the time. When I tried to talk to the teachers about this they blew me off, probably because my mother was also a teacher there. Or maybe they had been told not to listen to me, I don;t know.
It was the most terrible thing remembering this, like I was back there again, helpless, with no where to turn. I cried myself into a migraine.
Then I went to see my therapist. I don;t remember everything I told her but she's of the opinion that I'm in a rapid cycling mixed state, which is something Bipolar people get that I don;t understand, and that I should tell my pdoc what I had told her. But if I can't remember, how can I tell him? the one good thing though, is that I finally convinced her that these voices in my head that contradict everything I say are NOT just old tapes and not just memories of things people have said to me in the past--they're living and present and I don't feel they're part of me at all. I don;t think they're a hallucination either. It's like...struggling always against some loud noise that blots out my own thoughts and makes it impossible for me to speak. And if anyone contradicts something I say, the voices just say, "See, what did I tell you?" So talking about what's going on with me is incredibly difficult.
Anyway, I have permission to take it easy and let the new meds do their work. Which is what I plan to do now that I'm done writing this.
And if you didn;t think I was crazy before I bet you sure do now. I don;t mind though. It feels more honest.
It feels weird sometimes to post these things on the internet where anyone can see them. But I feel a lot less exposed here than I do in general, so that's okay too.
it's funny--even though I now have a real diagnosis from reputable, diplomaed, liscened therapists and psychiatrists I still have a hard time with that major mental illness label. It's not just the label. it's that I spent so long hearing that I was just making things up, that nothing was "Wrong" with me, that I was selfish and sttention seeking, etc...maybe you get the picture. maybe you don't. Maybe you;d have to be me to really understand it, and since you're not me, well...all I can say is these taunting voices are constantly in my head like the buzzing of flies and whenever I try to talk to anyone about my feelings and experience the flies get very loud.
anyway, yesterday was a really bad day. I've been suffering increasing anxiety for weeks now--the kind of anxiety that makes you scared to go out of the house in case someone, god forbid, should actually see you much less try to talk to you. I keep thinking people are coming to get me and although I know in my head that no one is going to some drag me out of my bed and pillory me in the middle of the night in my soul I really don;t know it. I keep expecting that I'll be punished for something, some unmentionable crime I've committed totally unaware. The crime of just being. because in my soul I feel that I'm bad. My therapist keeps telling me I don;t do bad things; in fact, I'm a strangely good and compassionate person. But that doesn;t help. It's that Calvinist idea of grace getting in the way--that if you're on the list you;re good andif not you're irredeemable no matter what acts you may perform in this life. I know I come down on the irredeemable side just for getting born. I don't have to be a mass murderer or anything. It doesn't make any difference, just as doing good things do not add to my total goodness.
well, I finally called my psychiatrist who prescribed more anti-anxiety medication, tank all the gods so I'm doing better today. but he asked me, was there anything about this time of year that I had associations with that might make this a troublesome time. And I started crying uncontrollably and remembered my high school....not just high school, but grade school, from third grade on up. An abominably abusive place. For ten years I had to go and be mentally, verbally, emotionally and even sexually abused at this school. And there was no one to talk to about it. My parents just told me--making matters worse--that I should be grateful for the opportunity to go there because if I didn;t I would be forced to go to the DETROIT PUBLIC SCHOOLS--said in tones that made me understand that this was the lowest circle of hell, at least in my parents' estimation and I was a terribly ungrateful and selfish child for wanting not to be abused every day of my life. I even had to go to day camp there in the summer so there was no escape. Ever. I was scared all the time. When I tried to talk to the teachers about this they blew me off, probably because my mother was also a teacher there. Or maybe they had been told not to listen to me, I don;t know.
It was the most terrible thing remembering this, like I was back there again, helpless, with no where to turn. I cried myself into a migraine.
Then I went to see my therapist. I don;t remember everything I told her but she's of the opinion that I'm in a rapid cycling mixed state, which is something Bipolar people get that I don;t understand, and that I should tell my pdoc what I had told her. But if I can't remember, how can I tell him? the one good thing though, is that I finally convinced her that these voices in my head that contradict everything I say are NOT just old tapes and not just memories of things people have said to me in the past--they're living and present and I don't feel they're part of me at all. I don;t think they're a hallucination either. It's like...struggling always against some loud noise that blots out my own thoughts and makes it impossible for me to speak. And if anyone contradicts something I say, the voices just say, "See, what did I tell you?" So talking about what's going on with me is incredibly difficult.
Anyway, I have permission to take it easy and let the new meds do their work. Which is what I plan to do now that I'm done writing this.
And if you didn;t think I was crazy before I bet you sure do now. I don;t mind though. It feels more honest.
It feels weird sometimes to post these things on the internet where anyone can see them. But I feel a lot less exposed here than I do in general, so that's okay too.
Monday, September 10, 2007
My Day, and welcome to it.
Some of you may know and most of you may not know that I'm Bipolar and I suffer from PTSD. Because of this, I haven't ever held a job for longer than two years and the last time I "worked" was some ten years ago. I feel really guilty about this. Even when my therapist and my pdoc say it would be a BAD IDEA for me to try to get a job as of yet, I feel guilty. I feel like I don;t contribute anything to our household. I feel bad that my husband has to be the wage-earner eventhough he's told me repeatedly that he'd rather have less money and a sane wife than someone who's suicidal from going to a job she hates. It's not just a particular job. It's any job. The concept of JOB, to me, means pain, never earning enough, never having tiome to yourself, being exhausted all the time...you get the picture.
So Anyway, this summer I took the plunge and decided to apply for disability because I can't work.
It's hard for me to say "can't work." In my brain I believe I just WON'T work because I'm lazy. But I've been told I can't work and I try to believe that. It's hard.
Well, I just got a big package of MORE FORMS to fill out to verify the extent of my disability. The very first question was, "Give a detailed description of your day from the time you wake up until the time you go to bed at night." The problem with this is that they only allowed you about a third of a page to give this detailed description. I had to continue on the back of the page but it still wasn't enough. A real analysis would go something like this:
"I get up really late because I want to be asleep all the time because my bed is the only place I really feel safe. I pour myself a cup of coffee left over from the coffee my husband made in the morning. I feel bad that I don;t get up earlier and see him off to work or school, and that I don't have a job of my own. I spend a few moments thinking about how lazy I am. Then I spend about two hours in front of my computer perusing internet headlines and visiting various forums where I have the only friends in my life because I'm so afraid of real people that I don't have any real friends. After I've done this for a while, I begin to feel guilty because I'm spending time on something so unimportant, so I get up from my chair and make breakfast, which is always the same thing (yoghurt and granola with a sliced banana, if anyone cares). I take my numerous meds if I remember. Usually it takes me a while to remember and I have a moment of, "Oh, meds, right, I'm not normal." After this I clean up the kichen a little so at least last night's dishes aren't strewn all over the palce. I wash my face and wonder if I'm going to get dressed today. About this time, I start having an anxiety attack because I start thinking of all the things I should be doing, like cleaning the house and weeding in the garden and going downtown to check the post. My palms start sweating. Sometimes I manage to force myself to go out despite the panic and sometimes I don't. So I spend the rest of my day feeling bad because I didn't go out and do things. I berate myself constantly for the state of my yard and house. I tell myself I know people with far greater disabilities than I have who not only manage to do all these things but have jobs as well and kids too, and I wonder if I''m just a lazy piece of shit.
I try to read sometimes but I can't concentrate on anything more than about 30 minutes before I have to put it away and do something else. I stare at my flute case and think about practicing and don;t. Then I spend some time feeling bad about that. After which I probably play computer games and continue to cruise the internet for a while. I think about writing and don't. I feel guilty about that. I tell myself that a real writer would just get over all this, that it's the censor in me trying to make me not write and I should fight it but I don;t feel I have what it takes to fight--or is that just an excuse?
When my husband comes home we sit around for a while and stare at the walls, him because he's so tired from working or from school and me because I can;t think of anything to say. He asks me how my day has been and it's always the same. After a while we throw together some dinner and I think about all the elaborate Indian dinners I used to cook before I got so depressed, that I can't be bothered to deal with now. Sometimes I'm not even up to cooking and my husband does it.
After dinner, we sit around and drool some more before my husband starts on his homework. I try to read some more but usually end up playing computer games until bedtime and thinking about all the things I used to do.
And that's what MY day looks like. How's yours?
So Anyway, this summer I took the plunge and decided to apply for disability because I can't work.
It's hard for me to say "can't work." In my brain I believe I just WON'T work because I'm lazy. But I've been told I can't work and I try to believe that. It's hard.
Well, I just got a big package of MORE FORMS to fill out to verify the extent of my disability. The very first question was, "Give a detailed description of your day from the time you wake up until the time you go to bed at night." The problem with this is that they only allowed you about a third of a page to give this detailed description. I had to continue on the back of the page but it still wasn't enough. A real analysis would go something like this:
"I get up really late because I want to be asleep all the time because my bed is the only place I really feel safe. I pour myself a cup of coffee left over from the coffee my husband made in the morning. I feel bad that I don;t get up earlier and see him off to work or school, and that I don't have a job of my own. I spend a few moments thinking about how lazy I am. Then I spend about two hours in front of my computer perusing internet headlines and visiting various forums where I have the only friends in my life because I'm so afraid of real people that I don't have any real friends. After I've done this for a while, I begin to feel guilty because I'm spending time on something so unimportant, so I get up from my chair and make breakfast, which is always the same thing (yoghurt and granola with a sliced banana, if anyone cares). I take my numerous meds if I remember. Usually it takes me a while to remember and I have a moment of, "Oh, meds, right, I'm not normal." After this I clean up the kichen a little so at least last night's dishes aren't strewn all over the palce. I wash my face and wonder if I'm going to get dressed today. About this time, I start having an anxiety attack because I start thinking of all the things I should be doing, like cleaning the house and weeding in the garden and going downtown to check the post. My palms start sweating. Sometimes I manage to force myself to go out despite the panic and sometimes I don't. So I spend the rest of my day feeling bad because I didn't go out and do things. I berate myself constantly for the state of my yard and house. I tell myself I know people with far greater disabilities than I have who not only manage to do all these things but have jobs as well and kids too, and I wonder if I''m just a lazy piece of shit.
I try to read sometimes but I can't concentrate on anything more than about 30 minutes before I have to put it away and do something else. I stare at my flute case and think about practicing and don;t. Then I spend some time feeling bad about that. After which I probably play computer games and continue to cruise the internet for a while. I think about writing and don't. I feel guilty about that. I tell myself that a real writer would just get over all this, that it's the censor in me trying to make me not write and I should fight it but I don;t feel I have what it takes to fight--or is that just an excuse?
When my husband comes home we sit around for a while and stare at the walls, him because he's so tired from working or from school and me because I can;t think of anything to say. He asks me how my day has been and it's always the same. After a while we throw together some dinner and I think about all the elaborate Indian dinners I used to cook before I got so depressed, that I can't be bothered to deal with now. Sometimes I'm not even up to cooking and my husband does it.
After dinner, we sit around and drool some more before my husband starts on his homework. I try to read some more but usually end up playing computer games until bedtime and thinking about all the things I used to do.
And that's what MY day looks like. How's yours?
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Today: Words
I'm always amazed, when I read other writers' works, how many words are misused. I can;t beoieve they slip past the editors, copy editors, and proofreaders. Like, in one quite excellent book, the author kept talking about "The yolk of slavery," which gave me an great image of slaves with eggs all over their heads but I think was not what the author had in mind. It's "Yoke" in that sense, my dear.
So today, for your edification (and to take out some of my frustrations), here are some commonly misused words and their definitions.
Nauseated Vs. Nauseous.
Nauseated is how you feel after you eat something bad, or when you have the flu. Nauseous is something disgusting. So you might be nauseated after eating a nauseous mess of porridge. You don;t feel nauseous; that would mean you;re likely to make someone sick. Well, I've known a few people like that.
Aggravated Vs. Irritated
You're irritated with a person. A condition is aggravated by something. You might be irritated because the cream your doctor prescribed aggravated the boils on your bum. You are not aggravated. Your skin, however, might be irritated as a result of the aggravation. (Thanks to Robbie Merliss, O.D. for this one)
Venemous Vs. Poisonous
Something is venemous if it bites you and you get sick. Something is poisonous if you bite IT and you get sick. So snakes are venemous, not poisonous (unlesss you happen to eat bad snake meat and become nauseated).
Whence, Hence, Thence etc.
I'm always amazed at how often I see these misused. Whence means "from where." So saying "From Whence..." is redundant. Likewise hence means "from here" and thence means "from there." You don;t need the "from to be stated again when using any of these words, even if you think it sounds better. It's just wrong. Their relations, whither, hither and thither are similar. Whither means "To where." Hither means "to here." Thither means "to there." So you don;t need to say "to whither are you going?" It's redundant. please try to remember this one as it drives me bananas.
Wherefore?
Wherefore means "why." Juliet says "Wherefore art thou Romeo?" because she's wondering why he has to be who he is, NOT because she's wondering where he's got to.
Its vs. It's
Another of my pet peeves. Its (no apostrophe) is the possesive of the pronoun "It." It's means "it is" or sometimes "it has." Remember: It's a shame that the cat lost its collar. If you can't replace one word with two, there's no call for the apostrophe.
Lie vs. Lay
lie is an intrasitive verb. this means it does not take an object. Lay is a transitive verb. this means it DOES take an object, always. You LIE down. A hen LAYS an egg.
And that's enough instruction for today. I hope you have found the above useful and informative!
So today, for your edification (and to take out some of my frustrations), here are some commonly misused words and their definitions.
Nauseated Vs. Nauseous.
Nauseated is how you feel after you eat something bad, or when you have the flu. Nauseous is something disgusting. So you might be nauseated after eating a nauseous mess of porridge. You don;t feel nauseous; that would mean you;re likely to make someone sick. Well, I've known a few people like that.
Aggravated Vs. Irritated
You're irritated with a person. A condition is aggravated by something. You might be irritated because the cream your doctor prescribed aggravated the boils on your bum. You are not aggravated. Your skin, however, might be irritated as a result of the aggravation. (Thanks to Robbie Merliss, O.D. for this one)
Venemous Vs. Poisonous
Something is venemous if it bites you and you get sick. Something is poisonous if you bite IT and you get sick. So snakes are venemous, not poisonous (unlesss you happen to eat bad snake meat and become nauseated).
Whence, Hence, Thence etc.
I'm always amazed at how often I see these misused. Whence means "from where." So saying "From Whence..." is redundant. Likewise hence means "from here" and thence means "from there." You don;t need the "from to be stated again when using any of these words, even if you think it sounds better. It's just wrong. Their relations, whither, hither and thither are similar. Whither means "To where." Hither means "to here." Thither means "to there." So you don;t need to say "to whither are you going?" It's redundant. please try to remember this one as it drives me bananas.
Wherefore?
Wherefore means "why." Juliet says "Wherefore art thou Romeo?" because she's wondering why he has to be who he is, NOT because she's wondering where he's got to.
Its vs. It's
Another of my pet peeves. Its (no apostrophe) is the possesive of the pronoun "It." It's means "it is" or sometimes "it has." Remember: It's a shame that the cat lost its collar. If you can't replace one word with two, there's no call for the apostrophe.
Lie vs. Lay
lie is an intrasitive verb. this means it does not take an object. Lay is a transitive verb. this means it DOES take an object, always. You LIE down. A hen LAYS an egg.
And that's enough instruction for today. I hope you have found the above useful and informative!
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Anxiety and Guilt
bad day for me today. I woke up later than I would have liked and still wanted to pull the covers over my head and hide. moved slowly through all my morning routine and could barely get dressed (if you call natty old sweatpants and a t-shirt dressed...). Couldn't stop thinking of all the things I meant to do today, SHOULD be doing and the more I thought about them the worse I felt.
anxiety like a lump in the pit of my stomach. sweaty palms. it's a body sensation, no thought to it, just "run away, run away." Apparently the thought of all the things I meant to do--like going downtown--triggered my flight or fight response. Apparently this is part of PTSD and I'm just going to have to live with it happening from time to time. So nothing got done.
and to make matters worse there's the guilt. my therapist says I feel guilt when I don;t do something I think others want me to do or do something I think others don;t want me to do, but the only person putting pressure on me today is me. unless you count the ever-present societal expectation that a person should be a certain way. or maybe it's my belief that other people think I should be a certain way? I don't know.
guilt feels like...fear to me. not good to say a feeling feels like another feeling, but that's as close as I can get. it feels like the fear of being punished. So does anxiety. so I wonder if for me anxiety and guilt are somehow inextricably linked. Like feeling a whip across your shoulders. In school we used to call it "the hunched feeling."
Sometimes, like now, I get these horrible moments of deja vu and I'm sure something bad is going to happen. I see myself writing this exact blog and I know I've seen this scene or montage before and then something bad happened. like a phone call telling me my husband has been in an accident or something--that's what I always expect. It's just a moment then it's gone but the fear remains.
I have no more thoughts about this, but I was trying to write a blog and I think I succeeded in that. So I'm done now.
anxiety like a lump in the pit of my stomach. sweaty palms. it's a body sensation, no thought to it, just "run away, run away." Apparently the thought of all the things I meant to do--like going downtown--triggered my flight or fight response. Apparently this is part of PTSD and I'm just going to have to live with it happening from time to time. So nothing got done.
and to make matters worse there's the guilt. my therapist says I feel guilt when I don;t do something I think others want me to do or do something I think others don;t want me to do, but the only person putting pressure on me today is me. unless you count the ever-present societal expectation that a person should be a certain way. or maybe it's my belief that other people think I should be a certain way? I don't know.
guilt feels like...fear to me. not good to say a feeling feels like another feeling, but that's as close as I can get. it feels like the fear of being punished. So does anxiety. so I wonder if for me anxiety and guilt are somehow inextricably linked. Like feeling a whip across your shoulders. In school we used to call it "the hunched feeling."
Sometimes, like now, I get these horrible moments of deja vu and I'm sure something bad is going to happen. I see myself writing this exact blog and I know I've seen this scene or montage before and then something bad happened. like a phone call telling me my husband has been in an accident or something--that's what I always expect. It's just a moment then it's gone but the fear remains.
I have no more thoughts about this, but I was trying to write a blog and I think I succeeded in that. So I'm done now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
