pronoia

Everything In Me Screams No

I've been a little flippant around here lately. I've caught myself using the same tone of voice I use when my mother asks me how things are going in my life--not untruthful, not exactly, but not all that there is to say, either.

The truth is that lately I've been very scared and very sad. I've told you that Ms. P has been depressed, but I haven't said that she's been suicidal. It's funny--I want to say she's "a little" suicidal; who knew there were gradations? The reality is that she almost always has passive, background-level suicidal thoughts, just as a matter of course. She has, in the past, acted on them. Right now she's having active thoughts, but no plans. So, she's a little suicidal.

When our friend killed himself last spring, I suggested a no-suicide pact. We're always making pacts, little lessons we've decided to learn from other people's mistakes. We once made a pact, for instance, not to do heroin. We’ve got a pact that if either of us wants couple’s counseling, the other has to go, no arguing. Ms. P takes pacts very seriously, and she couldn't promise that would never kill herself. I was inconsolable. Not long after, we were trying to encourage R to enter therapy. "If you call for an appointment in the next month," she told him, "I'll make a pact not to kill myself for a year." In an act I will always love him for, he shot back, "Two weeks for two years." It was agreed. There is a pact, and having that pact matters.

But despite all of the pacts and all of the promises, she struggles and will struggle long-term not to cut short her own life. And while she is doing everything she can to support her own health, the truth is that she has both a mood disorder and a 20-year history of intense verbal abuse inside her own head. It is likely she will be in this place again. More than once.

This week, for the first time, I have been living with the real knowledge that I am likely to outlive my love.  Everything in me resists this knowledge, but it is true. I am likely to outlive my love, and it will break my heart. However difficult dealing with our chronic illnesses is, however annoyed I get at our perpetual housework issues, however exhausted I am by our life, I know that this love and this relationship may be the most important thing I ever do in my life. Loving her is like breathing; it is part of how I'm made.

There is no neat ending here, no tidy narrative conclusion. I am scared and I am sad about the possibility that she may one day be overcome by this illness. I have told her all of this and we have cried, and I tell her again. It is important to me that she not buy into the idea that it won't matter, even in the depths of her depression. It will matter, and it will matter forever. I have no peace about this, no ability to say sadly that if she has to take her own life, I will understand. Everything in me screams no. I know that the force of my will will not determine the outcome, and yet I will continue to scream no, and I will continue to hold her, and I will continue to press her to go to the psychiatrist when that seems warranted, and I will continue to tell her how much she means to me, and I will continue to be scared and sad and not at all resigned.

To You, Who Are Part of the Problem

Just because bipolar is the diagnosis du jour does not mean that it doesn't exist and that no one has it.

Just because you don't like psych drugs does not mean that someone else's mental illness is all in their head and a little positive thinking will make it go away.

Do NOT fucking tell my wife that she should just watch a movie and then she'd understand that she should stop taking her meds. These meds hold out the hope that we won't be having to ride mood cycles forever. These meds have made the abusive voices in her head STOP. These meds mean we have actual professional help when she's suicidal. Therapy is all well and good and it's got a lot to offer for false core beliefs and bad coping strategies and processing a diagnosis but it DOES NOT CURE BIPOLAR. Bipolar isn't a reaction to something bad that happened once; it's a fucking medical illness.

Unless you're going to help, which in this case means making her feel loved and validated and supported, helping her accept her diagnosis, listening to her when she's feeling despairing and hopeless, getting her out of bed every day, making sure she takes her meds, making sure she connects with friends, and reminding her that she's an amazing person, then go the fuck away.

The Rest of the Story, or The Ethics of Writing About Humans

I've been a little flippant around here lately. I've caught myself using the same tone of voice I use when my mother asks me how things are going in my life--not untruthful, not exactly, but not all that there is to say, either.

The problem is that I'm not sure if I can tell the whole truth, because it's not entirely my truth to tell.

Once, when I was in graduate school, I answered the door one day to find a policeman wanting to arrest my roommate for something unpaid. I told the story a few times before she reminded me that she was part of that story and she'd prefer that I not tell it far and wide. It was the story of my experience, but it wasn't really my story.

And it's happening again. There's a lot going on in me right now, and I'd like to put it here. But while it's the story of my experience, it's not really my story. Not entirely. I hope I'll be able to post the post I just wrote, but I have to check in first.

How do you handle such things?

One Thing at a Time

This is the new mantra at Haus Pronoia: One Thing at a Time.

Ms. P's depression is causing her to weep because not only does she not feel able to deal with directions today, we have to pay the bills and fix the fence so Phoebe stops jumping it and clean the kitchen and the house is a mess and we have to do laundry and we need to eat at home and R is moving? One Thing at a Time.

I am overwhelmed because all of those things are true? One Thing at a Time.

I have made mistakes at work because I lost small details amid the towering stacks of paper on my desk? One Thing at a Time.

R. is miserable because he's moving and then he will have to unpack boxes and then the relationship will really be over? One Thing at a Time.

One thing at a goddamned time, and we will make it out of this collective hole we're in.

The Old Man is Snoring

The short version of my very long weekend:

I'm still sick, although much improved. Inadvertently following three days home sick with two days of running around the city because some therapists are incompetent is not often prescribed. So, I'm at work, but I'm groggy and unfocused and very, very, slow.

Apparently the ragweed and my itching eyes and my incessant rubbing have conspired with working at the computer 9 hours a day (at least) to make my eyesight go all wonky. I haven't had an eye exam in years, not since I got the surgery to put my 20/800 eyesight back to 20/20 or thereabouts. It's about time. And maybe I'll get cute glasses out of the mix.

Ms. P's depression has continued, and she got squat from the mental health profession last week. Her psychiatrist didn't call her back despite four phone calls saying she needs an appointment ASAP. (She finally, today, got an appointment for tomorrow.) And the new therapist with the cool name is not very cool in person: he challenged her diagnosis, suggested her psychosis might be related to her religion, and wrote both of her phone numbers down wrong, thereby leaving himself unable to tell her he'd changed offices and making us wake up early on a Saturday and STILL have to wait until noon for an appointment. Replacements for both are being researched by the divine J.

R is moving into his new rental house tomorrow, and although he is excited to be able to make concrete changes in his life and towards the life he wants to have, it is understandably sad and awful to finally be moving out of the house he bought with his now-ex husband. So he's miserable.

My world today, between trying to work on the same 4 page report all day, has been wrestling insurance into submission so J can find Ms. P replacements and I could schedule an eye exam.

It's raining buckets, friends, and it's time to start bailing.

When Do I Get to Get Better?

If there's anything more annoying--and more boring--than being sick, I don't know what it is. I'm too exhausted and ill to do anything productive, but I'm not ill enough not to feel bad about not doing anything productive. I keep thinking I'll clean the kitchen, or pay the bills, or work on the website that's dreadfully overdue, or think abo ut how I might freelance in the city, or vaccum up the dog fur that's gracing the carpet, or clean off the dining room table, or clean the bathroom, or clean the litterbox, or do any number of the other necessary but unexciting things our life requires right now.

And I didn't think I'd still be sick four days later. I figured I'd spend one good day in bed, then feel okay enough to resume normal life. Well, I spent Wednesday in bed, and around 4pm I was feeling a lot better so we decided to run a quick errand before spending the evening keeping R company while he packed. By the end of the quick errand I felt too awful to even sit in R's house and chat; I had to come back to bed.

Yesterday I went to the doctor and came home again, spent the day sitting upright playing online and watching X-Files. Again, by late afternoon I felt somewhat better. I drove to get Ms. P from the train and went downhill from there. By dinner eating anything made my stomach hurt.

I woke up this morning feeling not so bad, and torn about going to work. Because I felt so bad last night, I decided I was likely to get to work and feel terrible, so I stayed home today, too. I took Ms. P to the train, and by the time I got home I felt wretched again. It's making me worried I'm going to stay this way, and not only do I have fun dinner plans for tomorrow night I don't want to miss, I can't afford any more sick days at work.

The pressure in my head has gone down, though, so perhaps it's just the getting-better stage. Blech. I hate being sick.

And the Winner Is...

Sinusitis! Since this morning we were afraid my missing fourth wisdom tooth had made an unscheduled appearance, a simple surgery-free sinusitis is kind of reassuring. It was my first visit to my primary care physician (chosen for proximity to the house more than any referral), and I'm pleased to know that she's not terribly dependent on antibiotics since I tend to develop allergies to them. So we're starting with a nasal spray and a decongestant.

While I wait for them to work, I'm going to surf the 'net and watch some of Season 1 of The X-Files. It's not my ideal day, not feeling as I do, but it'll do. It sure beats oral surgery as an alternative.

Today's Beautiful Thing

We heard Grace barking, so I poked my head out the bedroom window. There was a boy, maybe 13, standing on the other side of the fence. Phoebe was stretched out with her paws on the top of the fence. He offered her his hand to sniff, then, while Grace continued to give the odd bark, leaned forward to kiss Phoebe on the nose.

Home Sick

I'm home sick today. I've got either a slow-moving head-cold or that sinus infection that's been going around the 'net. I've been feeling crappy since Sunday, but although I didn't get to leave work early Monday, I did get to leave early yesterday. Stupid sinuses. Here's hoping a day propped in bed with movies and the computer help.

Ms. P is home sick as well. She's got the edges of my sickness, and she's depressed besides. I've finally gotten her to admit it, but now the psychiatrist isn't getting her in to see him ASAP like she needs to. Rather, his staff is not getting her in to see him ASAP. Soon I will declare this an emergency and call his cell phone. Leaving very depressed people to get more depressed is contraindicated.

So, you'll never believe my day at work on Monday. The ribbon-cutting/dedication of the new building was on Tuesday, so Monday was the day when we'd all run around doing random tasks. I knew that I'd end up spending my morning finishing and sending off the revised School Improvement Plan that was due because, like every high school in this city, we didn't make AYP last year. (I'm going to rant about the No Child Left Behind act soon, just you wait.) I'd been reminding our admin folks for weeks that they needed to get this in, but they sent me things to edit on Friday. *sigh* So I walk in knowing I'm going to be dealing with that.

But not minutes after I get there, our executive director flies in asking if he can assign a task to our grant writer. I ask him what it is. He says if he tells me, I'll say no. I insist he tells me. He has decided that what we need for the ribbon cutting (the following day) is to have our logo chalked on the lawn because, you know, we need more branding. I recognize that I'm not going to stop this by telling him he can't have the writer, but it turns out she's gone for her required TB test. This lands in my lap.

After calling athletic departments across town, I finally talk to a nice man who lets me know that 1) it's paint, not chalk; 2) it's special paint; 3) you need a stencil. He gives me the phone number of the company who makes their stencils. I call and ask how long they need. They tell me: a month.

Amid my editing tasks, I inform my ED that we cannot get a stencil in time. What if we can get someone to do it freehand, he asks, can I get the paint? Sure, but where are we going to get someone who will render our logo 40-feet wide freehand? He calls our architects, who have done masterful work alongside our contractors in getting this building feat, which should have taken at least 18-months and took 8, accomplished, and used his considerable charm. Sure enough, a poor lowly architect has now been assigned the job. I sigh and return to my editing.

Soon enough, I'm having back-and-forth conversations with the architect. I've found paint, it's at Home Depot. He doesn't have a car. Okay. I don't know if it's spray or can. We need stakes and 1000 feet of string. Okay. He asks casually if we're going to have students doing the painting. I tell him my ED thinks he's doing the painting. Oh no, he says, he has other things to do today. He can come lay it out, but someone else has to do the painting. I tell him I'll call the ED. I know what will happen next, and it does. The ED calls him back and tells him he's doing the painting, that the higher-ups know we've asked for the whole shebang. I finish my editing and send the thing off three minutes past deadline. I ask, hopefully, if we can make them get the supplies. My ED says I need to get the supplies. I demand the credit card, which he happily hands over.

I grab our grant writer, borrow a colleague's car because mine is full of leftover things we've extracted from R's house, and leave for our shopping excursion. We also need to stop at the office supply house for nametags, because aside from editing (which I only suspected), making name tags for the ribbon-cutting is my only non-negotiable task. We get the name tags and stop for a quick lunch at Wendy's. My boss calls us to tell us there was an article on our school in the city paper, and are we in the city? No, we're in the suburbs because that's where the box stores live. Can we swing back to the city to get a city-edition paper? We agree to try, rolling our eyes all the while since our school is in the city and the convenience store down the street likely has a copy.

We get to Home Depot. I've called ahead and checked and they have what I need, so when the guy at the paint counter says he doesn't know what I'm talking about, I very sweetly tell him someone in his department does. The lady in question comes up and shows us what we need. We can find three cans. Since I only have a square-foot estimation for the required paint, I don't know how many cans we need, but I know three isn't enough. Our helper is called off to returns, but promises to come back and climb ladders and find more. We call the architect and get him to convert his square-footage to linear feet, since each spray can will do 75 linear feet. He needs 17 cans for the outline, and another 24 to fill in the picture and the letters. We stand around and wait some more. Our girl finally comes back with the original paint guy, who digs and climbs and manages to come up with a total of 16 cans. Good enough to begin, we decide, and head out to find our other items.

Only no one can tell us where those other items--string, small metal stakes, measuring tape--live in the store. We go to Garden, inside and out. We go to hardware. In the midst of this we run into our paint man again, who gives us no good information but asks for our astrological signs and then reads our palms very badly. He attempts to begin numerology, but we refuse to divulge our birthdates by claiming to be sensitive females. The architect calls in a panic because we still aren't back and there's only four hours of daylight left. We find string and the tape measure. We ask after contractor stakes over and over and find nothing. We finally buy two 5# boxes of 4" nails. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do.

We race back to work, ignoring the newspaper issue. When we get there, our architect and his fellow architect are there, waiting in their office-people clothes, since they didn't anticipate coming to work today would involve spray paint. Our ED comes out to check progress; we tell him we need another 25 cans of this paint and he has to find someone else to do it because we cleaned out the store. He duly assigns the head contractor the job. I manage to make name tags and clean my office (since the ribbon-cutting will involve tours). When I finally leave, head pounding and chest tight, I am only half an hour early leaving and the two architects are hard at work gridding out the logo.

The next morning, before the ribbon-cutting, I get to see it. It looks very good, although not as dark on the grass as would be ideal. The ribbon-cutting goes incredibly well, our student tour guides run good times, and the speeches are inspired. As people are leaving, my colleague asks me how we're going to get it off. "We aren't," I reply. The water-soluble paint has to be ordered online--we had to get the non-water-soluble kind, although it is still designed not to kill the grass.

So we've now got a semi-permanent logo on our grass, and I got my palm read by an incompetent middle-aged spiritualist. It's no wonder I had to come home early yesterday.

Why is the direct mail here so odd?

Today we received a solicitation to help hungry children. It came with a gift--a pewter crucifix. And to think that until this point I had only ever received address labels.