When the Going Get's Tough...

I wasn't going to write this blog.  I was embarrassed, ashamed, and afraid of what people would think.  But then I remembered the whole point of starting this blog. Actually, multiple points.  I wanted to fight the stigma of mental illness.  I wanted to be able to be myself, hence the blog title.  I wanted to share my experience with mental illness so that maybe one person out there would read it and know that they are not alone.  So I had to swallow all the fear and start typing.

My medications are working quite well to stabilize my moods at present.  However, there are aspects of my life that I need to work on that the medication cannot fix.  When I had gastric bypass surgery in December 2008, I knew that the surgery was a tool and not a solution to my weight problem.  I knew that I would have to deal with the problems or emotions that had driven me to eat for comfort in the first place.  It is very easy for bypass patients to gain back their weight and more if they don't work on the hurt that bubbles under the surface. 

My weight loss screeched to a halt in December.  I wanted to eat eat eat lots of yummy foods to make up for the year before when I was miserable and on a liquid diet.  Except the eating didn't just last for the holiday season.  It spilled over into the new year.  For months my weight just stayed the same, but then I gained a few pounds back and I started to get scared.  I don't want to gain back the 100 pounds that I lost.  Yet I couldn't control the compulsion to eat - especially sweet foods or high in carb/white flour foods. 

When I initially had surgery, I couldn't eat at all for awhile, and then when I could it was still minimal amounts and it wasn't the same as it used to be.  I started shopping to deal with upset, anger, sadness; any emotion you can name, I ignored it and buried it with the high that comes from shopping.  I was never much of a shopper, but when I started losing weight, for the first time in my life shopping became so exciting because I could find cute clothes that I could never fit in before.  Between the elation at wearing smaller sizes, and the adrenaline rush it gave me to spend money, I was spending way too much.

Now don't get me wrong.  I was not out on thousand dollar spending binges.  I wasn't shopping Macy's or Bloomingdale's.  No, my favorite hangouts were the discount stores - Ross, TJ Maxx, the clearance aisles at Target, Walmart or just about anywhere.  I couldn't avoid a good deal.  I bought countless items I didn't need simply because I had a coupon for it.  I might only by a shirt here, a book there, but all these little purchases added up quickly, especially since we have been living on one income for almost a year.  I was stocking up on household items, or office supplies.  Nothing fancy.  But I didn't need it, and I often didn't even know where I would put it.  Half the time I gave it away a few weeks later.

How can I explain the feeling an addict gets from her "fix"?  I never would have thought of myself as an addict.  In my mind, an addict is either a drug fiend or an alcoholic.  I never realized that compulsions to eat or spend are very much addictions.  The behaviors behind them are the same behaviors behind alcoholism or drug addiction.  Here are some of the "symptoms" or characteristics of addictions borrowed from the Mayo Clinic:

• Feeling that you have to use the drug regularly — this can be daily or even several times a day
• Failing in your attempts to stop using the drug
• Making certain that you maintain a supply of the drug
• Spending money on the drug even though you can't afford it
• Doing things to obtain the drug that you normally wouldn't do, such as stealing
• Feeling that you need the drug to deal with your problems
• Focusing more and more time and energy on getting and using the drug

All of these are characteristic of myself and my relationship to food and money. 

Here's one of the hard parts.  Drug or alcohol addiction treatment requires the addict to abstain in all ways from using the substance upon which they've developed a dependence.  But food and money cannot be avoided.  Food and money are a very big part of life, and so those of us with addictions that play on these two necessary life elements must learn how to have a better relationship with the two. 

I can't tell you how many lies I have told myself:

•  Okay, I'll just buy this ONE (book, movie, skirt, blouse, candy bar etc.) and then I won't spend anything else this month. 
• Okay, one more candy bar, and then I won't eat anything sweet for the whole week. 
• I deserve to buy a (book, movie, skirt, blouse, candy bar, etc.) because I've had a bad day/week/year.
• This one purchase won't hurt anything.
• Something magical will happen to help me pay for all of this and it will get me out of this mess.

And then there is the juggling act.  How can I squeeze out a little more money from our already tight budget so I can go shopping? Maybe I 'll pay $5 less on each of those five doctor bills and then I'll have $25 bucks.  Or, maybe I just wont' buy my calcium supplements this month. 

I know that my health is being jeopardized by my poor decisions.  I am not eating the nutritious food I should be, and I am skipping the important supplements I need so I can spend the money on other highly important things - like a new journal to add to a collection of over ten journals I already have that are still blank inside.  I knew that what I had been doing was not logical, not smart, not responsible.  Yet I have not been able to stop the behaviors. 

When I was younger I would hide foods in my room and hoard them.  I would stock up on them and feel giddy because of my "stash".  Sometimes the good feeling came just in knowing they were there.  Or, sometimes after a crummy day I would come home and scarf down the entire stash, left only with a full stomach and a lot of guilt and shame. 

I have always prided myself on my frugality and my good common sense when it comes to money.  Having grown up in a low income family, I was accustomed to stretching a dollar.  In college, I don't even know how I made it.  I lived for a month on $20 bucks sometimes.  So how was it all the sudden that I was constantly using up our money and not having any left over, halfway through the month?  I should have handed over my debit card and checks to Kyle, but I didn't want to admit that I couldn't be responsible.  I've always been uber responsible.  I felt ashamed to admit that I couldn't keep from spending.

The other aspect of shopping addiction is how much it sounds like an excuse.  "I can't help it, I am a shopping addict!"  I would have never believed that shopping was an addiction or compulsive behavior.  Just stop doing it, I would have thought.  And then there are the people who wave you off saying, "You're a woman, you're supposed to shop!"  Maybe, but not the way I was shopping.  Not shopping when you didn't have a dime to begin with and no business buying inessentials in the first place.   Movies like "Confessions of a Shopoholic" make it look funny, but it's not funny.  It's saddening, it's shaming, and it can tear your world apart.

I certainly spent more and more time trying to get my fix.  I would stock up a ridiculous amount if something I liked went on sale.  I would constantly think about it, knowing I should go back to the store again and again and buy just one or two more while they are on sale.  I wouldn't be able to focus on anything else.  It was like someone whispering in my ear, "Just go buy one.  Go buy  just one.  Then you will be able to stop thinking about it."  Only I didn't stop thinking about it.  I would lie awake all night counting in my head the hours until the store opened.  It is incredible to me the way the compulsions take over my life and allow me to focus on nothing else. 

Addictions lead to dishonesty.  They lead to defensiveness.  I am thankful that I never lied to Kyle through all this.  But I wasn't up front about it either.  I knew that he trusted me to handle the finances, pay the bills, etc., so I knew I didn't have to account for where the money was going.  But it was killing me that he was working so hard and I was spending it, especially not working myself.  I knew that it was incredibly selfish and it was going to kill our relationship if I didn't get it under control.  Again, the shame and embarrassment about this tightens my throat. 

All I really understand about addiction at this point is that it is the same for me as someone holding tightly onto my arm and directing me where to go and what to do at all moments of the day.  If I am trying to do something not related to the addiction, it is there quietly whispering in my ear, reminding me that if I just eat something or go shopping, I will feel better and magically my worries will disappear.  And they do for awhile. Until I realize that I just compounded my problems.  Then the shame and the guilt.  And so I eat and spend to cover the guilt and shame and the cycle just keeps going. 

Because I realize that I am powerless over these compulsions, I have reached out for help.  Because I haven't killed Kyle's trust in my or his undying support, I have reached out for help.  Because I haven't spent us into financial ruin, I have reached out for help.  Because I want a better life, I have reached out.  Because there is a hole in my soul, I have reached out.

I am going away for six weeks to a treatment center in Texas that specializes in addictions but can help also with depression and other comorbidities.  I am terrified and relieved all at the same time.  I know that this is the best decision.  That this trip away will allow me to reevaluate my priorities, clear my head, discover what is compelling these maladaptive behaviors, and to discover what it is that has haunted me for all these years.  I want to start my life.  I've been waiting a long time to start my life.  I'll just get through this or that, then I will start the life I am meant to have.  Unfortunately, life started almost 30 years ago, and I have been emotionally checked out of it for almost 20 years of it. My life starts today.  Actually, it started Monday when I picked up the phone.  When I put it down.  When I picked it up again, and dialed the number to the treatment center and asked for help.  It's time I engaged in my own life, so that I don't wake up someday alone and wondering where it all went.  I will be leaving early next week, and will return to blogging in July when I come home. 

I have an amazing opportunity for an amazing life.  I live in a great town, with a sweet little puppy and a husband who is - indescribable. I have a home I love to be in.  I have a good education.  I have a relatively healthy body.  I have everything I need for a do-it-yourself perfect life kit.  Not that life is ever perfect, but I mean perfect for me.  One where I go to the store for bread and I come out with only bread.  One where I sit down to a nutritious meal, hungry, because I haven't snacked on garbage all day.  One where I can afford to go with my husband to a movie because I haven't spent all our money on office supplies.  One where I can look my husband in the eye without the guilt.  Without the knowledge that he could have done so much better.  With the knowledge that I am a good wife - no, a good human being.  My perfect life is not flawless; rather, it is perfect because it simply IS.

Put on a Happy Face...

I try really hard to be an upbeat, glass half-full kind of girl.  I do this because I believe that if I think positively, it helps me keep my chin up.  I also think it's a major downer to be around glass half-empty kind of people for long.  Who wants to hang out with someone who is always down in the dumps?

A great deal of the time, though,  I am not feeling that the glass is half-full.  In fact, most of the time it is darn near empty.  But I generally pretend that everything is fine, both trying to convince others and myself.  I try to be positive, but sometimes life just really stinks.  And the biggest downer about this is that there is seldom a distinct reason that it stinks.  The stars can be aligned perfectly.  All is right in my marriage, my job, my life, but my heart and head tell me something is off.  It's hard to know how to fix a thing that I can't identify as broken.  It's hard to fix one's self when healing means feeling, and feeling, in my experience, has meant hurting.  Who wants to hurt?

At the same time, it's hard to feel alive when one is numb a great deal.  From what I understand, people who "self-injure" or cut or otherwise mutilate themselves, often do so because it is the way they claim they feel alive.  I have never, thankfully, had the urge to cut or self-injure in this way, but I can understand the need, the absolute panic-driven longing, to feel alive.

For a long time, learning and school were what made me feel alive.  Going to college classes as an undergraduate awakened a curiosity inside me that had retreated at some point.  When my depression began to worsen in my early and late teens, I lost the burning desire to know.  As a child, I always loved school.  I read books faster than my parents could keep me supplied.  They would take me to the library weekly, and I would check out a stack of books.  I would go to Goodwill and Salvation Army to stock up on books because I could get four times as many books there as I could spending my allowance on new ones.  And I really loved to keep the books that meant a lot to me.  Books became a world I could retreat to.  It didn't matter that I didn't have the money to travel the world - I could see it through someone else's eyes.  It didn't matter that I didn't have an amazing group of friends that I could rely on through thick and thin.  I could live it through Ann M. Martin's and Judy Blume's books.  It didn't matter that no one understood what it was to be the "fat" kid.  Blubber allowed me to relate.  Books were my escape, and I realized early on that the more I began to know, the more I would never know much at all!  Even when my passions started to die out, my love of, and my need for reading would not ebb.  Thankfully I had parents and teachers who supported and encouraged my reading. 

It has bothered me, especially in the last year or so, how I lost that desire to learn.  Not so much lost, but it did diminish in it's intensity.  Suddenly I felt too tired.  For everything.  For anything.  I hated it.  "Not even thirty yet, and I don't have any desire to do anything, to be anything.  Not even thirty and burned out."  It saddened me.  But more than anything, it frightened me. 

I am not sure what age I was when I began to realize that little old me would one day be able to go to an amazing place called "college".  College, I learned, was where the smart people went.  College was where anyone who was someone was headed.  College was where people went if they wanted to be somebody.  When I saw Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront, and I heard his line "I could have been somebody!", I thought surely he meant he should have gone to college.  My parents promised me I could be anything I wanted; especially if I got a good education.  They didn't push college on either of their children, but they emphasized the importance of a good education, and our behavior at school had better be top-notch!  Before I was even in middle school, or around that time, I started writing to colleges all over the country, asking for materials about their schools.  I would sit for hours and fill out applications for practice.  I would look in amazement at all the learning paths that I could take and try to figure out how one could ever choose from such a buffet of exciting offerings. I couldn't wait to pack up and head for college the way kids in the movies do;  Mom and Dad waving goodbye as the young woman throws a suitcase and a favorite pillow and stuffed animal in the car.  Dad reminds girl to have the oil checked, and Mom reminds girl to be sure and eat - you can't forget to eat.  I couldn't wait.

And yet, part of me always felt that I was stepping out of my realm.  For a reason I have not yet identified, I always felt less than.  My gremlin voice would peek over my shoulder at the forms I was practicing filling out and she would admonish me.  "Who are you kidding?  What makes you think you could go there?  Who do you think you ARE?"  Okay, so maybe I wasn't headed to Harvard or Yale, but I was headed somewhere to college.  And I knew it early on. 


Everything I did, I did with the thought of its consequences for college.  If I took a class, I took it because it would prepare me for college.  If I joined in activities I didn't particularly love, I stuck with them because I knew it would look good to colleges.  I studied like mad for the ACT, because that little score is a big influence on whether a school will even look at the rest of an application.  And somewhere along the line, I'm certain someone told me, "If you ever do drugs or drink you will never get into college."  Now, I'm not exactly the type of girl who is really apt to experiment with anything that I'm not supposed to.  My parents said "Don't do drugs" so I didn't do drugs.  My parents told me "Don't drink" and so I didn't drink.  It's not really likely that I would have been using drugs or alcohol in high school, but I had this intense fear of being anywhere near a place where teens were misbehaving and doing anything I considered "wrong".  Because I just knew that if I was ever caught so much as holding an empty beer bottle, I would NEVER get into ANY college; a fate more daunting than hell, in my world.   

Of course, I later learned that I had been cheated by the college gods - for all sorts of kids got into college, history hardly noted.  I had been really really good for nothing.  And while I most likely wouldn't have done anything wrong if I had had the opportunity, it would have been nice to know that I at least had the option.   All that being good for nothing!


Well, not for nothing.  For one, I respected myself (mostly) for not having succumbed to the temptations that face many teens, those serious and not so serious.  But most importantly, I was offered a full two year scholarship for a local community college.  Hardly Harvard, but certainly COLLEGE and even better, free college.  I knew I could transfer to a four year school after I finished some general ed classes locally.  I went into college not having a clue of what to expect, having no friends or relatives that had been there.  But I knew it would be wonderful.  And it was. 


The first year I was in a special English and Speech class for the scholarship recipients, which was wonderful.  Because we were high achieving students the expectations were high.  I loved working hard and having the good grades to show it.  My first year of college flew by and I was excited for the second. 


But something happened in those few summer months.  I had moved to my own apartment with a roommate for the first time.  My financial responsibilities therefore changed significantly and I was starting to feel really overwhelmed about maintaining enough work hours to afford to live while going to school.  I started the semester, but within three weeks I was struggling.  I felt I was stuck in quicksand, and floundering around trying to find something to grab.  I suddenly had an intense desire to quit school.  It blew me away, because school had always been of utmost importance to me.  I promised myself that if I took a year off, I would be refreshed and eager to get back at it.  I also decided that I would apply for a transfer to the four year institution.  I wanted some stability, and a sort of fresh start.  


I didn't realize then how much depression was affecting my decisions, and ultimately my decision to postpone my education.  All I knew was that it was all pulling me in instead of lifting me up.  Within those following months I worked full time, moved back in with my parents to save money, and applied to several institutions within the region.  I finally decided on Chadron State College (clearly one of the BEST decisions I have ever made).  


Late summer of the next year I was packing up my things so that my parents could help me move to Chadron.  Not quite the "girl leaving for college" scenario I'd always had in my head, but at least I was headed back to where I felt I should be.  I didn't know it then, but I was headed to the first place that would ever feel like "home".  Moving so very much as a kid meant I had no hometown.  Chadron became home to me.  I lived with my grandma for part of my time there.  

The first semester I was completely overwhelmed.  I didn't know anything much about college.  I read the handbook cover to cover, writing important dates and events in my planner for the whole year so I wouldn't forget or miss anything.  I wanted to be sure I was applying for financial aid, graduation, or whatever else when I was supposed to be.  I didn't want to mess anything up.  I strove for a 4.0 GPA.   Since I wasn't working, I felt it was my duty to get As in every class.  I wanted to be perfect.  Because if I wasn't perfect, I wasn't good enough.  I had to be perfect so no one would ask me the question I had asked myself for years:  Who do you think you are?  And what are you doing here?  I had to prove I was good enough to be there.  Otherwise, I would be devastated.  This is what I had worked so hard for for so many years.  


But, as we all know, perfection is unachievable.  Even for those who try really really hard.  If I was already prone to that burned out feeling, I certainly should have known that the drive to perfection and its being unattainable would exacerbate the exhaustion I felt.  Although I returned to college feeling better and looking forward to the newness, I didn't feel as refreshed and as driven as I had expected.  

The first year and a half back at it wasn't too bad.  I fell into a comfortable pattern of classes, studies, and living with grandmother, working during summers.  By the start of the third year, living with my grandmother became unmanageable.  I suggested I find a place of my own, and within a week she had moved out taking nearly everything.  I sat in an empty place feeling as if I had just gone through a divorce.  I had no idea how I would pay rent in a few days, or where I would even live through the rest of the semester.  It was devastating, but I instantly went into survivor mode.  I didn't have the time to deal with the emotions of it all.  I had to figure out how I would stay in school - because I had to stay in school.  It was what I had.  It was all I had. 

I'm not pointing blame or saying anyone is at fault. I'm saying how I felt, and how frightened, though I didn't know it, I really was.  A dear friend offered to let me move in, and I would either find a place of my own sometime during the rest of the semester or move into the dorms at the start of the next.  I lived with her for a month, during which time I found an apartment I adored.  My parents returned to help me move into it in late October.  That first night, I sat in my apartment full of boxes, but so empty, and I sobbed.  I had never felt so very alone.  But after feeling sorry for myself for a sufficient amount of time, I sucked it up and got busy unpacking.  Keeping busy is great for ignoring feelings.


It wasn't long though before my introversion kicked in and I fell in love with all my independence.  I could come and go as I pleased.  I could go to therapy and doctors appointments without lying about where I would be (because my grandma had not been aware that I was going to counseling or taking antidepressants).  And I could have friends over.  I had a housewarming party and began to love the way things had fallen into place. 


The problem with living alone when one is struggling with depression, is that there is no one who consistently is aware of your behaviors and how you are doing.  While Grandma wasn't aware of what I was going through, the fact that I had to pretend to be fine kept me motivated to do what I otherwise couldn't find the energy for.  While pretending is awfully exhausting, it is also what kept me going for much of that second year of school.  The pressures of living on my own and the financial aspect of it caused a lot of stress, and my depression deepened considerably.  It began to get incredibly difficult to make it to classes.  I could no longer summon the strength to put on a happy face.  It was quite ironic, because school was essentially my purpose, but at the same time, it was all I could do to get there.  Soon, I often didn't get there.  

I had prided myself on near perfect attendance the first two years.  I had been blown away by the number of students who just didn't come to class or dropped one after too many absences.  Paying for college partly with grants and partly with student loans, I knew that I was footing the bill for my education, and I also knew it would be really hard to get an education if I didn't show up.  I also found it incredibly disrespectful to my amazing professors.  I thought of those "other" kids as immature, lazy, etc.  And so when I began having trouble showing up, I labeled myself that same way, and I assumed that was the way everyone around me saw me, as well.  It devastated me to think that the professors I admired so much might perceive me to be irresponsible and indifferent, when I wanted so much to be there for classes.  

I was sleeping very little.  I would lie awake at night for hours, mind racing with thoughts.  I would get back up, watch a little TV, browse the web, read, take a hot bath, clean, do anything that I thought might make me sleepy.  Some nights it worked.  Other nights, I was awake long into the night, and I would sigh with relief when I would hear the birds start to sing or the sky would start to shift from black to a midnight blue.  Dawn had finally come.  And for some reason, the knowledge of this would allow me to drift into a few fitful hours of sleep.  When that alarm would go off two or three hours later, it was sometimes all I could do to get up.  Sometimes I couldn't.   

It wasn't just that it was really hard to get out of bed each day because I was sleepy.  Countless college students make it just fine on a few hours sleep.  I had also started to develop extreme anxiety about many situations.   I've always been a worrier, and a major what-iffer.  But now I began to feel panic stricken about being around others, especially anyone who I perceived as far smarter/better/superior to me - nearly anyone on the planet, really.  I knew that my ability to perform highly was waning, and this sense of failure left me feeling intimidated and embarrassed about going to class.  

What if I was called on and I didn't know the answer?  What if I said something stupid?  My professor and everyone in the class would think I was dumb.  They would know, finally, that I was a fake.  I was a fraud, sitting in a college classroom in middle America pretending to be worthy of this amazing opportunity for growth and learning, when clearly, I had no business being there.  After all, I couldn't even go to the store for milk sometimes because I didn't want to have to interact with the cashier.  (LOVE self check out!)  Clearly, someone who cannot buy a jug of milk has no business being in a college classroom.  

Yet, I didn't give up on college.  More importantly, I didn't give up on myself.  I kept going when I could.  If I couldn't make it to class, I studied endlessly at home.  Those nights when I couldn't sleep were spent perfecting my assignments and rewriting papers.  If I couldn't make it to class, I would do what I could to learn as much as I could on my own.  I felt saddened that I missed lectures, and now that I look back, I missed so much of the college experience as a whole.  But what I did have was wonderful, and I wouldn't have traded it for anything.  As tough as it was, it was worth it all.  


I had a hard time talking to my professors about what was going on.  I felt that my explanation for why I missed so much class would be seen as an excuse instead of a reason.  And I hated to say I was experiencing depression.  It didn't seem like a good enough reason for my hit or miss attendance.  


I totally underestimated the understanding nature of  nearly everyone I knew.  My professors first became aware of my "situation" upon learning of my first (short) hospitalization.  My advisor talked to each of my professors about what was going on with me, and explained that I was going to be at my parents' house for a few days after my exit from the hospital before returning to school.  Later that week as I emailed professors to find out what I was missing I was astonished at the outpouring of support I received.  "You've lost no ground", one wrote.  "I'm so glad to hear from you" said another, "We've missed your insight in class".  I couldn't believe that they cared so much about me.  They weren't worried that I was missing class and lectures.  They were worried about how I was doing.  If I could have cried, I would have.  Not out of sadness, but out of the awareness of and profound gratitude for such heartwarming messages.  I hadn't realized how alone I had felt for a very long time.  Clearly, I was not alone.  I still have many of these emails tucked away in a safe place, for they remind me that I am appreciated, cared about, and most importantly, that I matter.  


Upon my return to classes, simple "Glad you're back" or quick comments after class reminded me once again that I was not alone.  One professor in particular read a piece that deeply touched me upon my return to school.  Again, I felt at home - such a foreign feeling.  They say that home is that place where, when you have no where else to go, they have to take you in.  CSC was home for me.  More specifically, the English department was home to me.  


A certain burden was lifted a little at this point, because I knew that my teachers were aware at this point of what was going on with me.  Whatever their response to that, was beyond my control.  Most were more than willing to work with me on attendance issues.  I got due dates ahead of time in case I missed a class.  I never turned in a paper late.  I didn't expect any special treatment other than some understanding about why I couldn't be in class.  I honestly think I worked harder on my own than I would have worked had I been  going consistently to class.  I felt I had to prove something, so I did my absolute best on my work that I did from home, and I went to as many classes as I could.  It didn't relieve the negative feelings I had about myself, but it did relieve some of the fear of what other people might think about me. 


Despite one more hospitalization, I was finally set to graduate with honors.  I was excited, yet part of my heart ached because graduation meant leaving home.  I was also getting married shortly after graduation, and moving back to Wyoming.  It was bittersweet to walk across that stage to receive my diploma that gorgeous May day.  I was flooded with a mix of feelings, but mostly I was intensely proud.  I had done it!  Despite it all, I had done it.  I had my degree.  That degree felt a million times more amazing than it did getting my Masters.  


I got a special surprise that graduation weekend.  Ivy Day is a celebration of achievement at CSC, and as such an awards ceremony is held the Friday evening before Saturday graduation.  I was planning on going because I knew I would be receiving my honors medal, and I wanted to wear it the next day to the graduation ceremony. My parents were there, too.  I sat through the ceremony, chattering with those sitting beside me, getting up and then sitting back down to let people out of the aisle to go up and receive one honor or another.   I hadn't been to an Ivy Day ceremony before, so I didn't know that each department also gave out an award for achievement.  I sat and listened as each department awarded their certificate to some deserving graduate.  I was curious who would receive the English department honor.  I had been honored to be among some incredibly intelligent peers, and I knew there must be many strong candidates.  I can't  describe my astonishment when "Most Outstanding Senior in English" was named.  "Miss Roxann Gilbert".  What?!?!?  Someone made a huge mistake! How could I have received such an honor?  After all, my attendance was spotty, and there were clearly more deserving/smarter/better English students.  I don't quite remember getting up there to accept the certificate, but I must have because it's framed on my home office wall.  

It will always rank highest among my achievements.  Not because it represents what was, in retrospect, a lot of sweat and tears and hard work.  Instead it represents the real me.  I have no idea how one gets chosen for this award.  I imagine there is some sort of ballot circulated among the department professors and whittled down to one recipient.  I would have been highly honored to have even made the list of those considered, let alone be the one selected.  Despite my absences, despite my feelings of being less than, undeserving, and completely and utterly out of my element, someone, no - several someone's, believed enough in the work that I managed to do and the potential within me.  They saw the imperfect me and still believed I was good enough.  I can't express what that means to me.  Sometimes I still have to wonder a little if they just printed the wrong name on the certificate at the last minute and didn't have time to fix it.  But I like to believe they got it right.   


It turned out that I wasn't able to keep the happy face going through the years.  I couldn't always be upbeat and full of life and wonder and drive.  But people saw that part of me that wasn't perfect and could still appreciate what I could do despite the flaws.  If others could see me that way, maybe someday I would be able to see myself that way too.  

I still try too much to keep the happy face on.  It's exhausting, but it's still easier than explaining why I'm depressed (because I often don't know why) or why I am afraid to answer the phone (because that person on the other end might want something that I can't do) or why I perpetually feel like a fraud.  It's easier to appear happy, because that's what most people want.  At least, that's what most people want who don't really want to know the real me.  The people who do care about the real me have patiently and consistently stood with me through it all, and have allowed me to be less than perfect.  They have taught me that I don't have to be the girl with the happy face to be loved, to be important, to merely be acknowledged.  I can just be me. 

Finished Week in the Life Album

I FINALLY got my Week in the Life album completed.  Here are most of the pages that I scanned.  A few were not included due to personal information that was included on them. 

 

So that's it.  For some reason my end page didn't show up, but it looked very similar to the front page.  Leave me a link to yours!

Spinning My Tires...

One aspect of bipolar disorder than never fails to scare me a little is how quickly life can begin to spin out of control when something is off.  Maybe a medication needs tweaked.  Maybe an extra stress or two have creeped into life.  Or perhaps I'm just feeling off.  Regardless, without care and without listening to the signals my body almost always gives me, life can quickly unravel and pretty soon I am in trouble.  

Usually my sleep pattern is the first sign that all is not well.  Suddenly I want to sleep all the time, or I can't sleep  at all.  I lay down and my mind races with thought after thought.  Usually I get back up and journal, hoping that getting all those thoughts on paper will quiet the mind.  Sometimes it works, or sometimes the extra time up allows for my sleepy-time meds to kick in.  Other times nothing works and so I am up all night long.  The good part of this is I often get a lot done.  The bad part is when my husband gets up to go to work and I'm still up.  He worries, I feel crazy, and we know something is off.  

Other signs that I'm out of check is that I want to spend money like mad (and more than likely don't have any to spend), or I want to eat and eat and eat even though I am not really hungry and nothing really satisfies.  I feel that large void back in my soul gaping as ever and nothing comes close to filling it satisfactorily.  

This cycle occurs over and over and over again in my life.  Sometimes I am able to acknowledge it and just live with it.  What else can you do?  But at other times I get so incredibly frustrated that despite my medical appointments, my cocktail of many medications and THOUSANDS of dollars spent on therapy, it all returns and it is every bit as difficult the 50th time as it was the first time around.  And every bit as frightening. 

I always have to wonder how far out of whack things will go.  Will a couple of sleepless days and nights find me back in my usual patterns by the weekend?  Or will one thing add to another and require me to call my doctor, frantically trying to keep on top of things?  I never know.  That not knowing eats at me.  

I have never liked change.  I've had more than my fair share of it, too.  The constants in my life are the key people, places, events and whatever else that I cling to when my life ship starts taking on water.  Those are the things that I focus on while I start to feel the pull of the water as it creeps higher on my body...first just puddling around my feet as I take note of those early warning signs.  Later, threatening to overcome my entire being, smothering me.  Constants are really important for me, and probably for many other bipolars. 

Like with any other illness, all one can do is keep plugging away.  Oh, how I hate that term sometimes.  Sometimes I want to throw myself on the floor, kick my heels in a tantrum and demand that life be good to me.  Or at least better to me.  I get all crabby and I don't want to have to fight the fight anymore. I don't think I have the energy.  But I do.  It's the only viable option, really. 

And life has been really good to me in so many ways.  Let me not lose sight of that.  Because those little perks here and there are like the sprinkles on a cupcake.  On it's own, a good cupcake is enough in and of itself.  But isn't it oh so much better  with those colorful little sprinkles?  

One is the Loneliest Number...

One aspect of my mental illness that is hardest for me to deal with is the isolation I sometimes feel.  Most of the time I relish alone-time, and I require it in order to re-energize and remain a normal human being.  At certain times, though, I feel utterly alone.  It's not so much a feeling of physical aloneness, but of emotional aloneness.  A combination of several thoughts and beliefs leave me feeling so.  Part of it is the frustration that no one understands what my life is like from moment to moment.  No one understands that inner gremlin who intrudes upon me, criticizing my every move and thought.  Of course there are countless people out there going through many of the same things, but it's sometimes hard to remember that when I am in the moment.  

I have often sat in a crowded room and felt utterly and completely alone.  Large social gatherings leave me feeling completely left out instead of part of the gang.  I especially felt this way when I was very overweight and I felt like I physically stuck out.  I wanted to just blend in, to fit in, but I felt like I was the elephant in the room.  I will never know the extent of damage my weight did to my sense of self and well-being, but I know that it significantly impaired my ability to love myself and to understand how others can love me for who I am.  

I've never felt like I fit in.  From the time I was in elementary school, I felt that there was something different about me.  I didn't have many friends.  I didn't think the same way other kids did.  I didn't even act like a kid.  I already felt a sense of being on the outside very early on.  Moving all the time didn't help, but mostly, I just felt disconnected. 


That sensation of disconnection sums up my current isolation.  I just don't feel a part of things most of the time.  I almost feel out of my body at times, because I am there, but I'm so removed from what is going on around me that I often have recall and memory problems.  This greatly affects my relationships with other people and my ability to function normally at times.  It was highly embarrassing when I forgot a student's name after teaching him for six months, or hanging up the phone and not being able to recall what the conversation was about.  It was scary, too.  


I don't think much about being alone or feeling alone, but once in awhile it shows up vividly in my thoughts and I am struck with the realization of how lonely I really am sometimes.  I am super good at avoiding thoughts and emotions.  But at times they require me to admit that I am not doing as well as I like to make myself believe.  And this is good in many ways because it pushes me to be authentic and recognize where my pain resides. 


Twice in the last week I have been included in situations that truly made me feel like I belonged.  It was a very new experience for me, but I loved every minute of it and didn't want it to end.  And I noticed I was talking more than I usually do - I was participating instead of staying on the fringe.  The best part of both experiences is that they were with people who are not my blood relations, and despite that I totally felt part of the "family".  It was a great feeling. 


I've learned that it's easy to pretend I don't need other people, friends, family, etc.  But that's a big lie I tell myself.  Life is a web of connections, some distant, some deeply intricate.  And that's the way it is meant to be.  We all help each other along.  And that's the way it should be.

 

Whirlwind...

Not only has the wind been utterly atrocious, but my life has been a whirlwind of activity as well.  We hit gusts of 65 mph+ this week.  We're used to wind in this fine state, but it was not a great deal of fun to put up with.  We're all more than ready for Spring. 


I finally got my prints ordered for my Week in the Life project.  I resorted to ordering them from Snapfish.com because it was hard to find someone with affordable matte prints locally.  Hard to believe!  They shipped today so I am anxious to get them.  I had a horribly difficult time deciding which ones to get.  I took about five hundred photos over the course of the week.  I have a really hard time picking photos of special people and a certain dog.  

I babysat Daisy (my god-daughter) while her mom decorated for her 4th birthday party, and we worked on a Mother's Day present while I had her.  Then I curled her hair and put her in her party dress and Kyle and I took her to her house for the party.  I also had  a very hard time picking which photos of her to use. 

Nap time!  

Party ready!

Party princess!

Cake time!

 Later that night - Kyle and I with the light of our life!

Then there were the random images.

So once the prints get here and the Ali Edwards Font CD I ordered, I will start putting this all together.  I am currently working on the journaling part of it, but I am super excited to see the fonts on the CD when it gets here.  Once this is all put together, I will scan it and show you.  Originally I was going to compile it in 12x12 scrapbook, which is what I usually use, but I finally decided to go outside of my comfort zone and utilize an 8.5 x 11 inch album, especially so I could use baseball card holders to include pictures and scraps from the week.  I also need to decide how many pages per day I will use.  Lots of decisions to make here!  But the hardest ones are done - which photos to use!

Would love to see others' layouts from the Week in the Life project.  Link me to yours in the comments section!