Tag / connection

by krubesch

Black Eyed Susan

“It’s because people are so perishable. That’s the thing. Because for everyone you meet there is a last moment when your hand slips from theirs, and everything ripples outwards from that, the last firmness of a hand in yours that every moment after becomes a little less firm until you look down at your own hand and try to imagine just what it felt like before their hand slipped away. And you cannot. You cannot feel them.”
History of the Rain, Niall Williams
Susan Posted this quote in her blog titled, “Ah Well”
https://susanmdougherty.me/page/4/

I know that Susan would write this blog post much more eloquently than I am able to and I keep waiting for an alert to let me know that Susan has written about her death on her blog, but she can’t because she is gone. I know what it is like to lose a parent at a young age and it feels like death has surrounded me for a lot of my life, as I have lost many people I have cared about. The difference between Susan’s death and others is that she suddenly passed away while in Spain on vacation (while I was housesitting for her and taking care of her new dog). Most people in my life have died long and slow deaths from dementia and heart disease. I know how to deal with death when it happens slowly over time, but sudden death feels so very different.
There was not any time to prepare or to tell myself that this could be the last time I would see her. I find that I get a lot of closure from telling myself things like, “this is the last time we are going to have a sleepover” or “this could be the last hug I give her.”

It’s still hard to fathom that our evening marathons of Pitbulls and Parolees will never happen again and that I won’t really be going back to the house that felt like my 2nd home. I know that these things sound silly, but so many of these thoughts keep going through my mind. I found myself thinking that I was so happy we finished watching the entire series of Longmire not too long ago. This was a show we started watching with her husband, Patrick, (I was his caregiver for the last 1.5 years of his life) who had Lewy Body Dementia. In a way watching Longmire made us feel close to Patrick and remember the days we all spent together.

My heart feels so achy and burny everyday and I miss her terribly. There are so many moments throughout each day where I go to text her and then remember that I can’t. I had no idea how often we communicated until now. Not only was she my wife’s boss, my former boss, a former classmate, but also one of my closest and dearest friends. I had no idea when I started caregiving for Patrick, that we would become so close. It all still feels like a very bad nightmare.

Susan was the kind of person who put thought into everything she did. She would surprise me with gifts that I had saved on my Pinterest boards for Christmas or my birthday. Her cards were meaningful and beautifully written and she made me feel special. There are not many people that I allow through my walls into my heart and I realize now that is because I have been hurt very deeply in the past and it hurts so much when I do- and something like this happens. This is when I hear Susan’s voice in my head telling me, “it is better to have loved and been hurt than never to have loved at all.” And I know she is right, I just feel like I can’t stand how much it hurts right now. I have been hearing her voice lately (no one needs to worry!) in similar situations. It’s pretty comforting that I knew her well enough to know what she would be saying to me now.

Memories of her consume me in the strangest places. The other day I was in the grocery store and it was like everywhere I turned she was there. I knew her in such an intimate way from working in her home that I am quite familiar with what she ate and how some of these items changed with the seasons. I am reminded of her with the Boar’s Head honey turkey in the deli, the peanut butter and chocolate Cheerios in the cereal aisle, the tiny potato rolls that she used for sandwiches, the pumpkin english muffins that she would eat for breakfast with cinnamon butter in the fall, and Nutella that she would ALWAYS have in the pantry that she liked to spread over Nabisco nilla wafers when she wanted a sweet treat. I also am reminded of Patrick with the chili Fritos, egg malt balls at Easter, and the pudding we fed him at the end of his life.

I am also reminded of Susan on a daily basis, by our new dog, Casey Joy (named by Susan)- who was supposed to be Susan’s new dog when she got home from Spain. I had picked her up from Lifeline after she got spayed and was staying with her at Susan’s house until she was supposed to return home. Leah and I keep joking about how of course Susan would die and leave us with another dog. When Casey acts up, we look at the ceiling and tell Susan to make her dog behave! Having Casey is a nice reminder, especially when she is cuddly and gives me hugs. I know that Susan is watching, loving that Penny and Casey are starting to settle into each other and laughing when we yell at her to control her dog.

I find myself looking at pictures of us over and over and re-reading all the emails she ever sent me. I have screenshot so many Facebook posts and texts that she has sent me over the years because I don’t want to forget her kind words and feel this need to fill this heartbreak somehow. I have been wearing the jewelry she gave me everyday and I freaked out today when I realized my necklace had fallen off until I found it in my car. It’s like I am scrambling to find anything that will make the ache go away and make me feel closer to her.

Something that no one knew, including my wife Leah, was that Susan was the person listed on my safety plan with my therapist. What is a safety plan? It’s an agreement I have with my therapist in writing about what I should do is I start to have suicidal thoughts and want to hurt myself. Thankfully, I only had to call or talk to Susan about 4-5 times over the course of about 2.5 years. She was amazing and so helpful when I would get in this head space. She treated me with love instead of fear and seemed to know when I was struggling even before I said anything. She often told me that she would be so mad at me if I ever hurt myself and I took that to heart. It’s really painful to know that I no longer have her as my person and changing that paperwork breaks my heart. I will be forever grateful to her for showing me unconditional love and being there for me in ways that a lot of people are not able to.

I am afraid that over time I will start to forget her voice or what it was like to be around her. She was also the only person who really understood what it was like caring for Patrick and she often told me that I was the only person who truly knew the ins and outs of his disease because we were both in the thick of caring for him on such intimate levels. It hurts that out of what felt like a trio of friends, I am the only one left.
I know that Susan would not want her death to derail the progress I have made with my depression and I keep trying to remember that as I feel like I am swimming upstream through a fog. I am extremely grateful and thankful that I have had the opportunity for the Dougherty’s, Patrick, and Susan to be a part of my life even though I would have liked to be able to have spent more time with them both. A lot more time.

It’s not the weight you carry
but how you carry it-
books, bricks, grief –
it’s all in the way you embrace it, balance it, carry it,
when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.
Mary Oliver

by krubesch

Real Talk

“Write hard and clear about what hurts.”
Ernest Hemingway

Due to the recent celebrity suicides, I have been thinking a lot about what my depression looks like on the outside and how people I am close to would know when I am struggling to keep my footing in this world. I know I have written about my depression and suicidal thoughts before (as this blog is mostly written about these subjects), but each time I put my most vulnerable thoughts on paper and create a permanent record letting everyone know my struggles- it feels like coming out all over again. Let’s be honest, it’s pretty taboo to admit that your brain is fucked up and that is one of the reasons why it’s important to talk about it. A few years ago I had to take a FMLA leave from a job that was very stressful and I was struggling with increased PTSD symptoms along with high blood pressure. I remember being completely distraught when my FMLA paperwork was sent to the wrong fax and a coworker looked through my paperwork and started rumors that I was having a nervous breakdown. I was so ashamed that I had to take a break from work and that my PTSD was a part of the reason why I had to. It felt taboo to show any weakness, especially since I was in management and I was terrified of what people thought of me.

People resort to suicide, or at least I struggle with suicidal thoughts when I am overwhelmed with my feelings and emotions along with the shame and stigma of having these thoughts in the first place. The silence of keeping these thoughts to myself is often deafening and although all of this is embarrassing to admit, we need to talk about it or we will keep losing people we care about. I cannot speak for Anthony Bourdain or Kate Spade, but I can speak for myself.

Today was one of the hardest days I have had in awhile. I had a particularly difficult and draining therapy session last night and being in constant physical pain is starting to wear on me. I feel like I have been hit by a bus, which is how I usually feel the day after I’ve done a lot of work in therapy. I pressed the snooze button for over an hour and fell asleep in the shower. I contemplated staying home from work, but knew that might make things worse. On my drive into work I thought about what my outward signs of depression look like and I came up with this list:

  • I completely stop wearing makeup because I usually end up crying on the days I actually wear mascara and I look like a racoon (it’s harder to hide that I’ve been crying). I also sleep too late in order to have time to put it on.
  • I stop exercising and want to spend most of my time watching tv or laying in bed.
  • I push people away and cancel plans- even though I desperately want to connect.
  • I become forgetful and have a hard time paying attention.
  • My posture is different- it feels like I am moving through my day with a heavy, wet blanket on my shoulders. Every daily task feels difficult.
  • I am way more quiet than normal (crazy, I know!).
  • I have sleepless nights or I sleep for over 10 hours at a time.
  • I avoid eye contact and shut down
  • I use humor in order to avoid serious conversations or in a self deprecating way before anyone else can criticize me

Words I have heard to describe people who have committed or attempted suicide are lazy and selfish. I personally know that this is not true. Suicide may look selfish to the people who are left behind or those who don’t struggle with this particular demon, but as someone who has contemplated suicide, I have convinced myself that it is the least selfish thing I could do. Depression tells me that I am a burden and that people are tired of dealing with me. It convinces me that everyone would be better off without me and that I would really be doing the world a favor. As someone who has worked really hard and spent thousands and thousands of dollars in order to try to combat (or at least alleviate it, since it appears to not be going anywhere) my depression, I would argue that I am the opposite of lazy, even though American society and I tell myself that I am. Sometimes that is the worst part, working so hard to feel better and it never (my wise mind knows that it is occasionally and not always) feeling like it is enough or that I am trying hard enough. Sometimes I get really mad and feel like it is selfish of people to make me promise that I won’t hurt myself, when I know that they just care. I feel like they don’t understand, but I know deep down that this is not necessarily true. I get mad at them because if they cared so much, then why don’t they do more to make me feel better? Don’t they know that if I am contemplating suicide, it feels unbearable to be inside my body and in my mind? But I know, that it’s really not up to them to make me feel better, it’s all on me.

What do you do when a friend is struggling? It helps me when people check in with me, even though I might have stopped reaching out to them. Talking to or just sitting with someone who I know will just hold space for me helps. I clam up if people tell me how I have it better than others (of course I know that, it does not negate that I still feel this way) or if they freak out about hearing that I have had suicidal thoughts. Please do not tell me to do self-affirmations. Please do not tell me that this too shall pass, because in the moment it feels like it won’t. Something as simple as a text can help me when I am in a funk. Asking me to reach out when I am struggling is complicated. That is the last thing I want to do when I am down in it. I recognize that it is my responsibility to get help when I need it, but I tend to only reach out for help when things are pretty bad.

I can say that the severity of my suicidal thoughts has diminished over the past year and that it does appear my hard work and money spent is helping in that regard. I am too practical to hope that one day I won’t have these thoughts or urges, as they have been a part of my life for a very long time. If you also struggle with suicidal ideation, I can say that is gets better (or maybe more manageable) even as cliché as that sounds.

 

For crisis text line- Text CONNECT to 741741 in the United States.

 National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: tel:1-800-273-8255

 

by krubesch

Honey and Pain

“The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.
They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.”
― Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day

 

I have an impeccable memory when it comes to people, dates, events, and I usually remember these things with how they relate to time. Sometimes this is a blessing and very useful and other times it’s a curse. I am often telling Leah what we were doing a year ago or that 3 years ago today xyz happened. It’s probably normal to start reflecting on the past year during the month of December and I’ve been thinking a lot about all that has happened. It’s hard to believe that a year ago during this time I was making the decision to spend Christmas and New Years in the hospital (and ended up staying there for 3 weeks). It feels like longer than that and also like it was just a few months ago at the same time.

I keep having these eerie dejavu feelings about how this week last year I was completely anxious about going to the hospital and was not sleeping very well at all. In order to quell my anxiety of the unknown, I was obsessed about what I would take with me and finding shoes without laces and clothes that did not require a belt or have any strings. Memories pop up now from my stay when I put on some of the clothes I bought specifically to wear at the hospital and I find myself transported back to that time. Sometimes I wish that I was going back when the tasks of everyday life feel so overwhelming. It was so nice not to worry about anything other than working through my shit. I didn’t have to think about what I was going to cook for dinner or try to figure out how to get everything done (working out, cooking, laundry, grocery shopping, picking up the house, getting up for work when it felt impossible to get out of bed ect.) between work and appointments. It feels like I’ve been taking care of myself for such a long time that I long for being completely taken care of and letting my guard down.

I know now that depression is a liar, at least I know this to be true when I am having good days. On good days when that negative voice sneaks to my head I am able to brush it off and on exceptional days I am able to reason with it. On bad days depression is a fortune teller, the voice of reason, and the decider of all things. I can’t tell the difference between the critical voice in my head and depression, but maybe they are one in the same…or they egg each other on when they are both present. There are days when my critic tells me I am to blame when Leah and I are having marital issues, that I screw up every relationship given the chance, that I’m a failure and lazy. It tells me that things are not going to get better and that my good days never last. That no matter how hard I try it is never enough. There some days where everyday tasks seem to be insurmountable and that scares the shit out of me. I don’t want to go back to that place I was a year ago, I don’t want to have to make a difficult and life saving decision like checking myself back into the hospital. My wise mind tells me that just because I am having a rough patch, does not mean that I will be crushed by the bowling ball of depression. My emotional mind is telling me that it’s only a matter of time before I will need to go back to the hospital.

On bad days depression tells me that I am a burden and an inconvenience. That people don’t want to be around me, that I am a drain. I go from being very excited about making and having plans with my friends to wishing that I hadn’t made those plans. That I won’t know what to talk about or that I won’t have fun anyways. When I listen to depression and cancel, then I’m lonely and sad that I am by myself. I’ve recently had back pain and been unable to do a lot of things for myself. I knew that I was bad at asking for and receiving help, but I didn’t know the extent of it. I thought my difficulty with help had to do more with getting emotional support from others, but it extends to even asking for help with my job duties or tasks around the house that I have deemed as mine.

I still am having difficulty with my body image and managing impulsive behavior, although it is much better. Depression tells me to eat crap. That chocolate or baked goods will make me feel better. And it does, momentarily. It does until I catch my reflection in the mirror and see this fat person staring back at me. I tell myself that I don’t have any discipline, that I’m disgusting, and that I have to go on a diet. I can’t remember a time when I felt good about my weight (I started my first diet in second grade). When my pants are getting tighter around my waist as I try to button them I berate myself for making bad decisions, for not taking care of myself. I know in my wise mind that I would feel better if I ate healthier and went to the gym more often, but it’s a vicious cycle where I am so tired I can’t fathom adding one more thing to my day. I get mad at myself for succumbing to my exhaustion and then bully myself into eating healthy for a day or two until I give in again. And it starts all over.

Depression tells me to buy things. It tells me that a little treat will make me feel better, I get a rush from looking around stores and feel better about my appearance if i can make myself more presentable with something new. It does not have to be something big, I can be something as simple as a t-shirt, but that stuff adds up. I then get mad at myself for spending unnecessary money, especially on myself. I like picking up treats for Leah and have an easier time justifying spending money on her. There is something about spending money on myself that gives me a lot of guilt or maybe it’s shame.

Depression or is it my critic? (sometimes I can’t tell the difference) tells me that I am a failure and that I will never be financially (career wise) successful. It tells me that I buckle under pressure and that I am destined to stay in jobs where I don’t make a lot of money because they are low in stress and pressure. My mind recalls all of my memories in which I feel like I have failed when I am lying in bed trying to fall asleep. It ridicules me for having to drop chemistry and convinces me that I am not cut out for grad school. I feel like I have not pulled my financial weight in my marriage for years now. We used to trade on and off organically as to who is the breadwinner, but Leah has been left holding the bag for awhile. I look at how much money I have cost us since July in doctor’s appointments and the therapy that is out of network with our insurance and I feel guilty and like a drain. My body hurts all the time, but I cannot justify acupuncture visits and massages because we have more important items and appointments that we need to pay for.

I know that a lot has changed this year and that I will be ending 2017 in a better place than it began. It’s hard to remember how much has changed when I am am in the thick of a flashback, a body memory, or letting myself feel emotions that are foreign and difficult. I have to remind myself that a year ago it was rare for me to go through a day without some kind of suicidal thought and that I had come extremely close to giving in. I think about all that I put my wife through and how we are in a much better place today (thanks to a lot of hard work on both our parts). I know that I am better equipped to handle a rough day and that I have started reaching out and talking more when I need extra support. There is a part of me though that thinks that none of this is enough and is impatiently waiting to move past this, to be able to get off my meds completely, to be able to be present in my body without wanting to disappear, to not have depression ever present and looming in the background and to not feel like we are spending so much money on maintaining my mental health.

 

 

by krubesch

Walls Falling Down

The best way to find yourself, is to lose yourself in the service of others.

-Ghandi

For those of you who don’t know, there seems to be an unwritten rule in healthcare (maybe it’s written somewhere) to keep patients at a distance.  You are supposed to follow OSHA guidelines, assist the patient to the best of your ability, to have empathy, but not let that empathy have a profound effect on your personal/ mental health.  Basically to not let emotions and feelings play into the relationship you have with your patient.  I’ve worked in the health care industry for the past seven years and I’ve been really good at this unwritten code.  That is until now.  I am currently a caregiver for a man who has Lewy Body Dementia and he’s completely undone the armour I thought I had in place at the beginning of this job.

I knew I would be great at this job because I have (at this point HAD is a better word) a great poker face and the ability to push my feelings, thoughts, and emotions away.  I’ve been told that people often think I don’t like them because of my cool, collected demeanor.  I just don’t show a lot of emotion one way or another.  When I began caregiving for Patrick in September I thought that I could handle watching him decline into the shadow of LBD.  I didn’t know him before he was in the midst of his battle so I didn’t have the memories of “old Patrick” to tug on my heart-strings.  What I didn’t count on was how I would develop a friendship with Patrick and I would/do feel my heart-break little by little as this disease takes him further away from himself and his loved ones.

I spend more time with Patrick in a week than I do with my wife, so it’s funny that it’s surprising to me of how well I feel like I know him.  I can anticipate his needs and can tell how our day is going to go simply by how our morning starts.  I know that we will be able to communicate and joke around more according to how long he stays in bed.  If I get to the house and he’s pulled out all his shirts, socks, and underwear I know we are both in for one hell of a day.  If he naps throughout the day, I know he’s going to be less restless and comprehend more of what is happening around him.

For instance, today has been a challenge.  Patrick tried to get up and dressed several times throughout the night and I can definitely tell he did not have a restful night.  There are no jokes, words I can’t understand and body movements have been difficult for him.  A big indicator that we were in for a challenging day was that I had to bend his knees for him to sit down and pants were extremely difficult to get onto his body.  He usually spends these kind of days watching hours of cowboys on the tv and is not interested in leaving the house or doing other things around the house.  He’s taught me that I need to go with the flow instead of having our days together planned.  He’s teaching me to be less rigid and more in the moment.  Days like today make my heart ache for him. I know that if I had these kinds of days I would be in the throes of a deep depression.  This ease and openness I have with him is only going to make me hurt more when he’s gone, but it would also make me feel less alive while he’s still in my life.

I think the face of healthcare could change if providers, managers, and staff weren’t as concerned about volume as they were quality.  Every practice I’ve worked with has had their goal be to maximize the amount of patients that they see.  I wonder what our health as a society would look at if we were more concerned about maximizing the quality of our care and establishing an actual relationship with our patients. I know that I am able to take better care of Patrick through establishing a relationship with him instead of treating him like a stranger or looking at this situation simply as a source of income.

For more info about Lewy Body Dementia www.lbda.org

by krubesch

The Dating Game

“Be Here Now”

Ray Lamontagne

Don’t let your mind get weary and confused
Your will be still, don’t try
Don’t let your heart get heavy child
Inside you there’s a strength that lies
Don’t let your soul get lonely child
It’s only time, it will go by
Don’t look for love in faces, places
It’s in you, that’s where you’ll find kindness
Be here now, here now
Be here now, here now
Don’t lose your faith in me
And I will try not to lose faith in you
Don’t put your trust in walls
‘Cause walls will only crush you when they fall

Be here now, here now
Be here now, here now

The process of finding a new therapist feels a lot like dating.  I’ve googled countless names, tried to find pictures on Facebook, stalked to see what other people are saying about them (reviews), and worried about who’s going to make the first move.   Will she start our sessions by talking to me first? I don’t work well with therapists that just sit down and expect me to make the first move.  I’m not even sure what the hell I need to talk about, isn’t that why I am paying her?  The difference here is that she’s not going to buy me dinner before I have to reveal who I truly am.  I don’t get to learn about her before I have to talk about some of the hardest moments in my life.  There’s no flirting or witty banter to make me feel more at ease. I’m also alone in a room with this person I just met and all her attention is focused on me.  That’s what makes me feel the most vulnerable. There are no distractions and I have nowhere to hide.
Then there’s what you wear to the first session. I make sure I’m not in sweatpants (I’m not that depressed!), but I can’t look too nice because then she’ll think that I’m putting on a front.  Dark clothes make therapists think that I am in the depths of despair, but I don’t feel like wearing bright colors.  I also have to time my arrival because I’m the first appointment of her day.  If I get there too early I look desperate and being late is not an option.  What if I get lost?  What if she’s incredibly thin and I have to talk about my body issues? I hate talking to skinny people about how I’m a short stocky linebacker. Or chub rub.  If you don’t deal with chub rub then we just shouldn’t talk at all.
At least I don’t have to worry about any awkward kisses or hugs. That’s how meeting a therapist is better than dating.  I do however have to worry about what base we will get to- will we talk about my past experiences and sum up all my issues in 50 minutes? Or will we have to talk about my thoughts and feelings? There’s definitely a third or fourth session waiting period for that.  I have to decide if I like her first and if it’s worth the effort.
Like bad dates, I’ve had my fair share of shitty appointments.  There was the therapist that twisted my words.  She asked me, “is anyone else in your family gay or an alcoholic?” I had simply stated that I was questioning my sexuality and had not determined if I was gay or not!  I also was a college student who drank socially, maybe slightly excessive, but I was not an alcoholic!  She also kept her hair pulled back over her glasses, hiding her ears and it bothered me throughout the entire session. I remember looking at the clock on the wall and being dismayed that we were only 10 minutes into the session.  The longest 50 minutes ever.
There are also deal breakers: the therapist who wanted me to pray with her and talk about my relationship with God.  I should have known that my mother would have helped me find a Christian therapist.  I have cross cringe.  Yes, that’s correct. Some of my issues stem from being raised in a conservative Presbyterian church, so needless to say I don’t want to pray or talk about God in therapy. Period.
There was this awesome therapist that I was actually excited to work with and then I realized that she was not in network with my specific insurance plan.  Talk about being left with the check.  My favorite psychiatrist was a holocaust survivor.  A short adorable jewish man who would try to set me up with his children. He even asked me,  “boys or girls?” before I knew that I would be asking myself the same question years later. I loved his German accent and his photography hobby. He passed away several years ago.
In college I saw someone on campus that I really liked.  Right about the time I started actually talking (I shot the shit in therapy for give or take 15 years) I was told that I had exceeded my allotted sessions and that I would have to find someone off campus. That’s totally easy to do when you don’t have a car and hate talking to people you don’t know.
Breakups with therapists are similar to a breakup with a partner.  I recently broke up with my therapist.  It was the long distance that was killing the relationship. Driving to Alpharetta from Decatur to be there for an appointment at 4pm took up most of the day.  Traffic starts to get bad at 3pm so the latest I could leave Decatur is 2:45pm and that’s pushing it.  Then the hour and a half to two hours sitting in traffic on my way home is almost unbearable.  The absurd amount of traffic combined with sitting alone with my thoughts from our session was a sure way to make sure I arrived home in a touchy or horrendous mood.  Finding the right words to breakup with the person who knows you in a way no one else really does is difficult.  I found myself using the phrase “it’s not you. it’s me. I just can’t stand the commute.” How cliché is that? I worried that I might be hurting her feelings and then I realized that there will be many other patients after me.  I’m simply a year-long blip on her radar.  Once I told her, she wanted to talk about how the past year has gone from my point of view and then I listened to her tell me how I’ve enriched her life.  That’s the most uncomfortable for me.  I get extremely uncomfortable when I’m paid complements or shown special kindness.  It would be easier to accept criticism.
A couple of days after our last session I start to freak out. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake or what if she’s the only person I feel comfortable trusting?  Even though she felt that I did not truly trust her.   Deep down I also know that I’ve been holding back with her. Tip toeing with the caution I use in any situation where I feel vulnerable.  I know that introducing myself to her and re hashing the intimate details of my life may make me feel worse before I start to feel better.  I hate the sympathy looks when I talk about my abusive father or knowing more than I ever cared to about sex at the age of four.  Just don’t feel sorry for me. It is what it is.  Then I start to wonder if I’m just hopeless.  A lost cause.  I’ve been depressed most of my life, what’s another 30 or 50 years? (I think early 80’s is a good age for me to meet the man upstairs).  I remember that the health problems are the real clencher.  They are the reason I’m going to keep putting myself out there and risk being vulnerable.
by krubesch

Empty

“Empty”

She lifts her skirt up to her knees
Walks through the garden rows with her bare feet, laughing
And I never learned to count my blessings
I choose instead to dwell in my disasters

Walk on down the hill
Through grass grown tall and brown
And still it’s hard somehow to let go of my pain
On past the busted back
of that old and rusted Cadillac
That sinks into this field collecting rain

Will I always feel this way ‒
So empty, so estranged?

And of these cut-throat busted sunsets,
these cold and damp white mornings
I have grown weary
If through my cracked and dusted dime-store lips
I spoke these words out loud would no one hear me?

Will I always feel this way
So empty, so estranged?

Well, I looked my demons in the eyes
laid bare my chest, said “Do your best, destroy me.
You see, I’ve been to hell and back so many times,
I must admit you kind of bore me.”
There’s a lot of things that can kill a man
There’s a lot of ways to die
Yes, and some already dead that walk beside me
There’s a lot of things I don’t understand
Why so many people lie
Well, it’s the hurt I hide that fuels the fires inside me

Will I always feel this way
So empty, so estranged?

Ray Lamantagne

I have two states of being: 1. full steam ahead and 2. done.  There is nothing in between.  I seem to keep going until I’ve exhausted myself and then I have to build up my energy again by being almost completely lethargic.  This lethargy then brings me full circle to depression and then it starts all over again.  I’m noticing lately that the full steam ahead is taking a lot more effort and is happening less frequently than in the past. I never thought that I was a person who was addicted to anything.  I’ve always been able to quit things cold turkey.  I tried smoking cigarettes in college and it didn’t take.  What I’m realizing now is that my addiction isn’t related to one thing, it’s whatever I use to help me escape from myself.  I am addicted to staying busy and whatever vice at the moment takes me away from this emptiness.

From January 2014-May 2014 it was alcohol. I had a love affair with red red wine, so much in fact that I was afraid I was becoming an alcoholic.  I’ve been sober since May, with maybe 3 beers or ciders total since then to now.  It was almost magical how that liquid created a courageous, calmer, funnier Katie.  I used this liquid courage in almost every social event to ending up drinking by myself because I wanted an escape from myself. I also used to erase the awfulness of my day or to banish a very difficult therapy session.  I had forgotten that just as fast as the wine made me more fun to be around, it also unleashed dark brooding sad Katie.  It was a toss-up to which guest would make an appearance at my house when I would be 3/4 of the way finished with my Argentinian Malbec.   After I made an asshole appearance one evening at my house, my wife kindly asked me if I would consider not drinking for a while.  It’s funny how it was her request that turned me around, not the fact that drinking to excess and taking xanax on a nightly basis could kill me.  My attitude was que sera, sera.

Since my breakup with red wine, I have not really missed alcohol except over Thanksgiving and today.  I have used alcohol as a coping tool to get through the holidays as long as it was legal for me to drink (and maybe a few years before that too).  This is the first holiday season that I have not had my liquid courage.  It’s been pretty difficult.  Someone asked me, “why I don’t just drink one glass to take the edge off?”  It’s not the alcohol that I’m afraid of.  I’m afraid of that feeling as much as I crave the escape.  I’d rather feel empty and aware of the world around me and the feelings that come with that awareness.  I know that with the first taste of that escape, I might never come back.

The absence of the possibility of escape is weighing on my mind today because I’m also a foodie.  I love flavors and smells.  I love it when I find a unique taste combination and get to share it with my wife.  Today it’s crossed my mind that maybe I just traded alcohol for food.  The healthier I get the harder it’s been to dissociate and I think I’ve been grabbing onto whatever I can.

  • Bill Cosby is a rapist? where the hell is the chocolate?!
  • Some dude has decided that Ferguson was caused because of feminism…I’ll take chocolate covered bacon while reading that article.
  • Mississippi beats Georgia in marriage equality…time to go to Taqueria del Sol for a veggie taco add slaw and a fried chicken taco.  Add an order of guac and chips.
  • My favorite show now has a character that was raped as a child and thinks it’s her fault….I want a milk shake and I don’t care that it’s served with a side of Christian hate (Chik-fil-a will only do at a time like this).

My Gastroenterologist told me today that it sounds like I am having some severe symptoms of reflux and I have to go back on a bland diet and start taking my prescription twice a day.  I also was told that if I lost 10-15lbs I might have fewer symptoms.  Not like I haven’t been trying to lose weight since I could stand tall enough to look in a mirror.  I’ve been in a funk since I received this news.  All I’ve wanted to eat today are things that contain acid. I told my wife that my only two vices that were left were food and shopping.  I can’t really afford either right now and it seems pretty dismal (first world problems, I know).

Maybe this is my body’s way of telling me that I need to really deal with my shit.  Obviously making myself crazy busy, obsessing about the problems of our country, drinking, and now food have slowly created different health problems when I’m using them to hide this mess of jumbled feelings and hidden memories that stay pushed down inside me.   I guess this holiday season I get to deal with my demons.