tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24757894041218225512024-03-13T08:35:46.529-07:00Líon DamháinMedb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-9140886181401867692021-07-15T05:58:00.001-07:002021-07-15T06:00:40.599-07:00Verdict Rendered... So yesterday was my first session with Lori Paul over at SpiderLodge studios. <div><br></div><div>It went well overall. </div><div><br></div><div>Apparently my brain IS lying to me and I'm not a total waste. </div><div>What I hear when I sing is not what the professional vocalist heard and my voice was described as 'lovely' when she was introduced to Kara. </div><div><br></div><div>Yup... </div><div>This has created an interesting situation inside my skull with a twofold benefit. </div><div>- Every time my thoughts try to complete a destructive cycle, an echo of her comment is all it can find to replay and that kind of short circuits the spiral. </div><div>- This short circuit to the comfortable (in terms of routine/known) habits my patterns of thought follow is drawing my conscious attention to just how frequently these spirals occur. </div><div><br></div><div>That is proving to be a significant amount of time each day essentially spent bullying myself. Exhausting and severely counterproductive. </div><div>Can't change what you aren't aware of and, now that I am aware, I can work towards changing those mental habits. </div><div>For the immediate moment, it kind of feels good to actually have something to block the spiral with. </div><div>Brain is still at war with me but I might just have won a battle for a change. </div><div><br></div><div>Looks like I'll be going back next week. </div><div><br></div><div>Also of note - </div><div><br></div><div>Amaya came with and she was absolutely amazing. Lori called her the session's spirit animal (she was wearing a grey cat mask) cause, if it wasn't for her sensitivity, I likely would have succumbed to the panic that manifested when I heard the reverb of my voice in the microphone and the phobic urge to flee that followed. I HAVE fled from the sound of my own voice before but she grabbed my hand at just the right moment and held it through to the end of the song. The panic eased just enough to push through it and I didn't end up humiliating myself with an ugly crying dash from the building never to be seen again. That child gives me courage. ❤️</div><div><br></div><div>I'm hoping that, through exposure, we can entice Amaya to start singing again herself. She's stopped in the last year and that strikes me as a warning bell, based on my own lived experience. Fingers crossed, eh? </div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-33014144206859799082021-05-29T05:22:00.001-07:002021-05-29T05:22:52.088-07:00Elephant has my tongue...I'm working at getting my voice back. <div>I may have mentioned it before. </div><div><br></div><div>So, I keep swinging back and forth between starting to think I might actually be hearing some improvement and absolutely hating how I sound. </div><div><br></div><div>Since there is no way to sing aloud without drawing attention if any one is within earshot, my avoidant arse is finding it challenging to practice regularly. I sing mostly in the van on my way to and from work and, occasionally, while on the job site. I secured a pair of bone conduction earphones to practice with which allows me to use vocal apps on my phone to record, save, and playback practice. What I hear through the playback feature is the hardest to handle; no music recorded (I play the songs on my iPhone with the headphones and record via the apps on my iPad), only my pitiful voice with nothing for it to hide behind. </div><div><br></div><div>Tho generally in tune, I'm sadly out of pitch and I wind extremely easily. My asthma/emphysema messes with my ability to draw enough air quickly while the phlegm in the bottom of my lungs is unpredictable as it randomly breaks free and tries to suffocate me. Having a large glob of thick mucus come blasting through one's vocal cords while trying to sing can make for a thick uncontrolled sound or a violent coughing fit with whatever air is in my lungs (that I was trying to sing with). Any confidence I have in my voice, which I might build while driving, is stripped away soon as I listen to a practice recording. </div><div><br></div><div>Muscle memory helps from time to time - every once in a while I manage a lateral breath (which is the trick that allows a singer to draw a larger quantity of air very quick between lines). It was an interesting moment, while singing Elton John's "That's Why They Call It The Blues" on my way home one morning last week, when I felt my ribs move laterally for the first time since I was 13. Bittersweet was my reaction, with tears in my eyes, as I remembered what that particular proprioceptive sensation was and how easily I used to do it. </div><div><br></div><div>It's tough not to get discouraged in particular when I have ear enough to hear just how rusty my voice is. While not perfect pitch, my ear is pretty close... I likely had PP as a child but hearing loss does play a factor in creating a greater challenge to getting it right. I also am having trouble with the top of the higher and bottom of the lower octave... As I can remember hitting the notes in question back in the day, I suspect that I can, with work, reclaim at least some of my former range. The trouble is in keeping my enthusiasm for trying while the demons in my head -- hypercritical thoughts that are designed to wear away self-esteem -- wreak havoc. </div><div><br></div><div>I think it's safe, at this point, to call my voice Alto in range. </div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-51932378197015993282021-05-15T04:04:00.001-07:002021-05-15T04:12:41.963-07:00Therapeutic Journaling ... Part the Second How do you learn to be normal? Fit in?<div><br></div><div>I honestly haven't a clue. </div><div><br></div><div>I know that you're supposed to learn how as you grow from child to adult but what happens when childhood was sufficiently fucked up that you spent almost the whole thing in a state of survival... Riding the crest of a river's worth of adrenaline daily frantically trying to avoid the Rapids and faring about as well as your average Wiley Coyote. When early life experience is a series of traumas and most of it was spent playing Keep-Away from conflict sources... Well, least-ways those which were avoidable. The two most painful sources of trauma lived at home a with me. In my home neighborhood and at school, active avoidance tended to work well to keep me out of reach of my hunters. </div><div><br></div><div>Let's be frank here - all that running away made for a lonely time and a constant diet of lonely times made for woefully underdeveloped social skills. </div><div><br></div><div>I've had it said that I frame my words oddly, one person even used 'quaintly' as a descriptor to my attempts at conversation. I don't actually understand why anyone would be surprised by that... I learned to communicate through reading. After the singing, reading was my great escape - it allowed me to remove myself from all of it. Within the pages of a novel, even the Elephant could be temporarily evaded. I rarely had others to talk to, as a result I couldn't learn to converse. Conversation is an art and, to gain skill at said art, one kind of has to have other people to practice with/on. I read pre-scripted story based conversation. Makes for an exceedingly awkward time when placed in a situation where small talk is the social norm... lots of painful silences. </div><div><br></div><div>Is it even possible to learn those skills so late in life? </div><div>I'm not expecting to be able to be the life of the party but being able to hold a normal "small talk" conversation without running out of words and ideas surely wouldn't be too much to ask, would it? </div><div><br></div><div>I've tried being more gregarious, trying to organize events or activities for folk to take part in or just trying to come out of my hamster-ball more. I always fail miserably... Invariably screwing up somehow and ending up wishing I hadn't tried. Giving the mess in my head a ton of fodder for self-torture as soon as the anxiety and depression manage to batter my defences down. </div><div><br></div><div>But it's still just running away from possible conflict... Like most humans, I absolutely hate being alone 95-97% of the time but life has well conditioned my avoidant responses.</div><div>It is better to be miserable alone doing battle with the inside of my skull than to take the chance of adding the drama of others to my already overflowing fountain of stress. </div><div>I can, most times, manage the poison pills that pass for thoughts because I've had a lifetime to learn what my reaction patterns are and the ways my chemically imbalanced brain goes on the attack. Other people, due to my having missed the chance to learn how to be friendly and social on a casual level, bring a level of chaos which is often distressing. </div><div><br></div><div>My concept of friendship is idealized... Having been shaped not by actual experience with other people but by the concepts of nobility and steadfastness found in stories. </div><div>My ability to make friends, downright stunted by the fear that motivates me into avoidance. </div><div>My ability to generate misunderstanding, is astounding... </div><div><br></div><div>Breakthroughs in medical understanding in the physical effects of early/childhood trauma on the developing brain means that my agoraphobia diagnosis is likely to end up changed. I demonstrate textbook signs and symptoms of Avoidant Personality Disorder complete with the associated disastrous childhood backstory and resulting C-PTSD as evidenced by the fact that I relive memories and become triggered by them instead of simply remembering the sequence of events. Unfortunately those Breakthroughs are recent enough that my toolbox of useful coping skills is severely lacking and will take time to build. Trial and error style, or course. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm trying to approach the idea of having a personality disorder from the perspective that this need not be a progressively worsening situation. Because of their nature, phobias can be managed with great effort and persistence but they cannot be cured. I am and will always be acrophobic (pathologically and unreasoning terrified of heights) I can learn to moderate and control my reactions so as not to humiliate myself but the actual fear doesn't go away. A personality disorder, however, is a set of dysfunctional but learned behavioral patterns. As such, it ought to be possible to alter the actual reactions themselves... Dismantling the harmful behaviors </div><div><br></div><div>And then replacing them with ...</div><div>With what? </div><div><br></div><div>Hmm... It would appear I've circled back on myself to the beginning of this post. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-59382447199734912552021-05-13T21:03:00.001-07:002021-05-13T21:03:03.143-07:00Therapeutic Journaling ...I seem to find my way to this little corner of the web whenever things are getting loud inside my head. Not really a bad thing, to be honest, if it's helping me think my way through the mental baggage I need to shed. If nothing else, it's provided me with the ability to review previous entries with a view to trying to unpack said baggage. Shadow work is never pleasant but if I want to reconnect with the person I began as, before I shattered, I absolutely have to be candid and honest in that work. There's no way healing is possible if I try to avoid the unpleasant emotions that inevitably arise. Eh?<div><br></div><div>Had a bit of an understanding breakthrough a few days back and have been ruminating on it since. </div><div><br></div><div>It was shortly after I posted to Facebook about wanting to "reclaim my voice"... Try to undo the trauma from what had been, for me, that final straw and undo also the damage I did to myself as a result of it. To undo the mental gag order and sing... Out loud... After 41 years of being silenced. </div><div><br></div><div>Still not at all sure what I'm to do with it now that I've had it. Been turning it around and around in my head, very carefully in case it's really a grenade with the pin long gone and just waiting for me to disturb it to unleash all hell. </div><div><br></div><div>Simply put : After I was publicly branded a liar to protect his academic reputation, my father made absolutely certain that I knew, to the very core of my being - I'd never be believed again. </div><div><br></div><div>Yeah, there's one hell of a story behind that statement and standing in the way of that story is the Cardinal Rule of the Elephant in the Room. </div><div><br></div><div>The Rule I broke because I was a 13 year old child who just couldn't cope with the constant bullying she experienced at school, in the neighborhood, and at home in addition to the stress and trauma the Elephant brought to daily life. </div><div><br></div><div>The Rule I never meant to break... </div><div><br></div><div>At a breaking point psychologically, I simply answered truthfully the question "what's wrong?" after I was fished, dirty and tear stained, from under the staircase at school where I'd taken refuge after a particularly bad go round with those who hunted me on the schoolyard. </div><div><br></div><div>It all bubbled out of me uncontrollably and with it, any chance I may have had for salvation. </div><div><br></div><div>As you can see, I'm still dancing around that Rule because it is so very well burned into my soul. </div><div><br></div><div>He did his work so well, that the knife in my back is still venomous and potent even though both my parents have passed on and my sister and I have broken ties and gone our own ways precisely as I knew we would. </div><div><br></div><div>And I am beginning to try to grope around the landscape of my mind to see if I can get the thing out so healing can finally begin. Since I've never done this before, I'm expecting a fair bit of trial and error while I figure out what coping strategies will lead to closure and I'd be lying if I said that I relished knowing that I'm going to have to wade, ears deep, into the buried trauma to figure it out. </div><div><br></div><div>Yeah... Shadow work blows... </div><div><br></div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-18925108976898470712020-02-27T08:52:00.001-08:002022-04-30T20:44:38.449-07:00On the subject of losing one's mind...<div>Disclaimer & Trigger Warning... A frank discussion of the events experienced as a result of a 6 month negative cognitive reaction to the medication Zoloft. Whether I may or may not succeed, my aim in this post is to try to dissect the signs and symptoms and my reactions (or lack thereof). Trying to make something good come out of the bad. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"<b><font size="6">Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra... </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="6"> Shaka, when the walls fell.</font></b>" </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Here I am, one day shy of four weeks since my Dr switched me back to Cipralex from the Zoloft which was the source of 95-97% of my cognitive decay (with the remaining 3-5% proving to be menopause related: nausea, power surges so strong that I can raise the temperature in a room by ten degrees just by sitting still, night sweats, low grade headaches and very mild difficulty focusing). My thoughts have cleared enough now that I'm hoping to be able to discuss the experience, mostly as a means of self-analysis to ensure that, if ever this should happen to me or to anyone else around me I should have not only a means of recognizing but also a chance to intervene before it gets as severe as this did. <div><br /></div><div>I used the term 'cognitive decay' to describe what I've gone through, it's the best concise descriptor I have been able to come up with so far. I figure I'm still at around 70% of normal cognitive function but it's still improving daily so there's a good chance I'll stabilize somewhere close to my pre-Zoloft IQ.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I got confirmation of this cognitive decay as a seldom seen negative drug reaction from one of Kara's psychology professors . I know this professor because I had him for Psych 102 back before raising the grandkids became the priority (Funny story about him, I'll tell you later). He's spent time in research and, where it comes to the mind altering properties of psychiatric medications, he is better versed than most. Having asked my permission beforehand, Kara made time to talk to him about what happened to me and he confirmed that dementia-like side effects can occur... I did not previously know this but it definitely explained a heck of a lot. </div><div><br /></div><div>The last six months have been terrifying, the decline was masked by symptoms of other illness (iron anemia, menopause, fibromyalgia, anxiety, phobia, take your pick) I was navigating at the time so, by the time the extend of the problem started to be recognizable, I had already lost the capacity to communicate in a precise manner. As thinking became increasingly difficult, my distress and anxiety increased in what felt like exponential increments and my ability to retain a train of thought evaporated. Though I could remember how I used to be -- higher level communication skills which I had taken for granted and a facility with language that allowed me to discuss topics of self-awareness, identity, building a mental health toolbox, managing ideation to minimize harm, etc with a depth of understanding that has amazed mental health counselors, psychologists, and psychiatrists -- but I could no longer remember HOW TO be that person. </div><div><br /></div><div>Looking back, strictly from my perspective as it's the only one I have to offer, I can identify my first stumbling efforts to try to communicate the problem as being the point where I started telling the people around me that I couldn't regulate my tone of voice... I could hear myself becoming increasingly snappish and over reactive. It got to the point where, no matter how I tried to moderate my tone, Walter level cranky grouch was all I could manage. My sense of humor disappeared, as did my personality and I literally turned into an angry dullard drudge. Why angry? Because I was fighting so hard to appear normal and I tried using meditative techniques to manage the anger but, as many will have heard me say before, the brain uses anger as a fight or flight response. I've experienced it numerous times when a careless human has slathered themself in stink (perfume) and then has come into proximity to me and my COPD lungs (hovering at the border between severe asthma and mild emphysema) and trigger an attack that can leave me needing a trip to emergency. Anger is the emotion that powers the fight reflex so it's a common response to a strong allergic reaction. I was fighting with myself for my mind and, all the while, </div><div><br /></div><div>Because my intellect was evaporating and my short term memory along with it, and with my experiences with dementia with my mum and Kara's mom, the possibility entered my consciousness that I could be having an early onset dementia or Alzheimer's. And that, in and of itself is a soul chilling prospect... terrifying... but, not knowing what I do now, what other possibility fit the bill? Almost as much "fun" as the cancer scare back in 2005 to navigate emotionally... And I mean that with the thickest slice of sarcasm I can dish. </div><div><br /></div><div>By the time November had rolled around, my inability to communicate both the nature and degree of my distress combined with my symptoms reduced me to the point where I was in a panic state all the time... my train of thought reduced to a handful of minutes with up to two out of three sentences I started plummeting off my mental rails to the memory dump. Now, not only could I not communicate my distress but neither could I make decisions any more. I got to the point where the people around me (Kara, the grandkids) had to tell me what to do (do the laundry, make dinner, sweep the floor, etc - simple tasks that I could perform without requiring much cognitive effort. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm starting to be clear headed enough to begin calculating what watching me deteriorate has put Kara and the grandkids through. Gods, it breaks my heart that Kara confided in me today that she was starting to worry about dementia also, due to the cognitive changes, she was worried it was Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. A fast paced progressive deterioration accompanied by personality degradation with less than a 10 year lifespan. Yeah, it has to have been horrible watching a normally able and alert person devolve into a useless near stranger who was frequently given to angry overreaction to any stimulus she could neither control nor block out. Yeah, I owe them all a great debt of gratitude for tolerating me at my increasing worst and an equally great apology for being the source of their distress. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was around this point when I first saw the animated movie Finding Dory and, unable to verbalize why coherently, I identified so strongly with the anxiety, hopelessness and emotional distress of the titular character with her " I suffer from short term remembery loss " that I started using " I feel like Dory" in an attempt to communicate the depth of my distress at what was going wrong. The problem was, though I could never generate enough coherence to explain, what I needed the listener to do was take that image of Dory, lost and alone in the dark, from the movie and place themself emotionally in the character's role of the memory challenged fish and then draw the parallel to what I was going through. Unable to marshal my intellect, I was resorting to an instinctual use of metaphor. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which garnered me the same kind of response the Tamarians had in ST:Next Generation when trying to communicate with the Enterprise crew (quote posted at top)... confusion and failure. Getting desperate, I started throwing out the Dory references at anyone who spoke to me, hoping someone would clue. Considering I couldn't figure out what the hell was happening, it'd be pretty unreasonable of me to be upset with anyone else for missing it. I tried again and again with Kara and other family members, the contractor who did our reno, strangers who tried to talk to me. Everyone had the same reactions : 1. Had not seen the movie so had no clue what I was referencing, and 2. Had seen the movie and had an amused reaction to my comment, completely misunderstanding what I was talking to convey. </div><div><br /></div><div>Early December is when I stood in my bedroom and said to Kara, "it's getting bad in here" while tapping my right temple. She heard and responded but completely misunderstood the significance of growing danger in the words. I was getting more despondent and my Depression growing stronger as I gradually had no choice but to abandon the attempt to engage in conversation and still the deterioration continued. I tried a little harder in the truck with Chris Danton the day he ran rescue for me in the snowstorm. Quick to catch the implication when I responded to his chuckle with a sour "yeah, everyone always laughs, but that level of distress..." He got past the initial amusement with the Dory reference and was able to make the jump to ask himself "what would it feel like to be Dory?" but I was so far gone into the dullard state by that time, I just couldn't steer the conversation where it needed to go and it got missed again. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was pretty much the last time I made the attempt. I was starting to accept that this was my lot in life and, since I've made a lifetime practice of maintaining a tight control of my outward responses, my rapidly dwindling resources all became focused on just getting through each day until I could fall into bed and escape into unconsciousness. Then the sensory processing issues became severe enough to necessitate the chopping off of my hair to derail activities of self-harm and the instances of suicidal ideation began to climb, frequent enough to be recognizable now (looking back with a much clearer head) as the signal that I was entering the last stages. I slept more and more, withdrew from social media (not because I was trying to avoid anyone even though I was avoiding everyone, but because I just didn't have the resources to shield myself from the numerous toxic elements inherent in Facebook so I avoided them.. I gave up on communication and started grieving the loss of me. I entered the threshold and began a sort of emotional free fall into the grey. </div><div><br /></div><div>I want to mention at this juncture that I had been trying to be heard by my Dr. during this whole time. I had Kara make me several appointments so I could talk to him about the memory loss, inability to communicate more than basic wants and needs... He missed it. My deterioration made me unable to press my point (it's hard to even have a point when your memory lasts less than three minutes) and so it made for some very awkward appointments where I would babble at him ineffectually in poorly contained state of Anxiety and he would reiterate his standing opinion that my plate has been over full for several years now, between my own health (mental and physical), the grandkids, Kara's health and schooling, M'Lady dying. Not grasping the severity of the situation, he felt that my troubles were pretty reasonable versus my functional stress level + the loss of my #1 pillar of strength, my blessing on four paws. I knew ahead of time that losing her would be devastating, and it was. Duck is coming along nicely but he was nowhere near ready for the level of support I needed as I lost my equilibrium... Almost ready now, tho.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's something good to take away from any situation, if you just look for it... even if that good is simply to learn what you won't permit yourself to go through again. I can't go through that again, the cognitive deterioration, not for real. I will not allow myself to should either dementia or Alzheimer's turn up in my future. I could not possibly be more thankful that Denese was able to catch me before I hit bottom. I may be suicidal but I don't actually want to die... I would hurt too many people who depend on me. Lucky for me, my rational self has no wish to inflict trauma on my loved ones. So long as I have a working antidepressant, I'll resist that whisper. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I bless whatever spark managed to kindle in my brain to make me question the Zoloft. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm mentally wrung now, out of words for the moment. </div><div>I'll be back, possibly tonight, to puzzle out some more. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-56156322697831391262020-02-11T12:21:00.001-08:002020-02-11T12:21:47.593-08:00A short while later.. Last time I posted here, I was in a pretty dark place and, for a while, it continued to get worse. Made an emergency appointment with my Dr and he switched me back to Cipralex from the Zoloft which just wasn’t doing the heavy lifting that I needed it to. <div>Not quite been two weeks and I’m not done transitioning over (1st week = two of the old pills and one of the new; this week = 2 of the new pills and one of the old; next week = 3 of the new and discontinue the old. Once that is done, I’m going to need to tinker with the dosage (with Dr help, of course) to find the right amount. </div><div>I can feel the grey starting to recede. </div><div>Not ok yet but on the road to. </div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-66213267352084914092019-12-30T02:30:00.001-08:002019-12-30T02:30:49.320-08:00Well, Shit...Yeah. <div><br></div><div>There's a difference between being solitaire and actively avoiding folks. And I have to admit that, though I qualify as a dedicated former, I have been doing the latter. <div><br></div><div>Still am, really... After all, no one actually reads this thing. I could post on Facebook but the reality is that all the people on my friends list will suddenly turn well-meaning and concerned but more as a means to assuage their guilt at not staying in touch more and thus this post catching them out of the blue and all. </div><div><br></div><div>THAT would do more harm than good as it would simply prove my brain's point that, while I have plenty of acquaintances, I have few real friends (less than one full hand's worth if I'm being honest) ... most of whom are either too embroiled in their own shit trying to survive Life while others have become part of the problem. Suddenly chirping in with "thoughts and prayers" after not even remembering I exist unless I post something on public media serves only to make them feel better while I'm forced into the frame of the grateful recipient of their empty platitudes. Might as well be handing me a weapon and then making space inside my skull for me to wield it with terminal efficiency. </div></div><div><br></div><div>Oh well. Far less fear of that happening here. </div><div>Here goes...</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_4f72_fda3_77f3_2d8e" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/WBCdh6t8dODuzTzpfE6QpqYWUlVGBwh7bWo_Tka3CQL6vWDQpk8OIUvVQxo" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 153px; height: auto;"><br><br>This is a face of mental illness </div><div><br></div><div>It's one I know well, being mine own...</div><div><br></div><div>I've been avoiding posting any photos of myself, indeed I've been avoiding posting on Facebook (nothing beyond Some likes and today's post about the boy at PlayAbby), for over a week now. Well, until now ... Mainly because I don't have the internal fortitude to deal with the reactions. </div><div><br></div><div>Really don't care if anyone likes my new look or not because I loathe it. But it was necessary so I'm trying to console myself with the "at least it will grow back " line of reasoning though it's not working so I just do my best to avoid looking in any reflective surfaces. </div><div><br></div><div>Why was it necessary? In a nutshell because my brain is trying to kill me hence the mental illness comment above. </div><div><br></div><div>Looking back, I suspect that this has been brewing for a while; probably since M'Lady crossed over. And I also suspect that hormonal changes due to menopause are playing a role in this as well since it went active (I've been peri- menopausal since my mid-forties) this past spring. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_1f8f_87be_a000_732e" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/5dYUKtxIH_2acTr7PXMQ5bTQygTENLN4_MpF5XN4i9-tcYHIhVu0zDgpyZg" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 156px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div>I've been having sensory processing issues... the worst of which manifests as a powerful, crawling, painful/itchy sensation in the hair follicles of my scalp. The mental distress caused by these sensations is significant. Enough that I have been ripping at my head with my nails and then pulling the hair that gets wrapped around my fingers. I do this subconsciously and also in my sleep, leaving welts and waking to dried blood under my nails. </div><div><br></div><div>The pressure built to a point where I had to do something to make it stop. Since the whole thing was making me want to hurt myself (because the pain I was inflicting on myself felt better than what my scalp was doing) and that is a terribly dangerous situation to allow to persist, I did the only thing I could. </div><div><br></div><div>Went into the hairdresser and got my hair chopped shorter than its ever been since it grew in when I was a baby. I hate the look of it but not having the length to tangle around my fingers has provided enough decrease of distress to allow me to weather this processing issues a bit longer. I'm still scratching furiously but not as hard as previously (for now anyways). </div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_12ad_eae3_241d_1d38" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/Jfzi2k12ebK3ZeVVpckCyxAU8NcS1_Jln_t-rpxc7txcB3ayX2a_LoB3QGs" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 331px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div>Yeah... For now </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-9196983766548664152018-11-24T09:12:00.001-08:002018-11-24T09:12:36.248-08:00Baby steps ... <p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Is starting to see more of 'her' Darius showing through ... the cuddly, bubbly, happy, helpful boy she knows is in him ... and a gradual, almost glacial, lessening of the anxious, angry, rage filled mini-monster who invaded her home back in September. </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 30.8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Progress is being made and, interestingly, FB Memories is helping me understand and appreciate how incremental Amaya's improvements were when she came to us. It's helping me remember how far she has come and how much work it was to get her to a point where she could figure out for herself that life was better when the home was calm and tempers (hers and that of others) were controlled. </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 30.8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It's encouraging and I need that. </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 30.8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I don't know if it is because him being a boy is dredging up garbage I haven't dealt with from when my boys were little (Gods know that is likely enough) or if it's because I'm that much older than I was with Amaya but this time the work is hard. I'm spending a great deal of time counting ... often with my eyes squeezed tight shut to increase my focus ... to 10 before responding to Darius' antics. </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 30.8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The strength of my reactions is eye opening and, as such, puts me on notice that I really have to watch and moderate them if I want to achieve my goal of bringing the best of the boy out in him. The key is to sensitized him to a gentle response to his actions ... He is so used to the loud, aggressive, over the top reactions of an abusive household that he can't yet respond to a subtle correction. And Amaya going back and forth from protective little-mama to aggravated or nagging big sister ups the challenge level significantly. </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 30.8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Well, no one's ever claimed personal growth and self-mastery was easy, eh?</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 30.8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Darius too will get there ... </span></p> Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-74611224237204214372018-11-19T11:05:00.001-08:002018-11-19T11:06:55.668-08:00Navigating the slackline ... Depression management<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d99nv" data-offset-key="9qsqb-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9qsqb-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="9qsqb-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">So, some folks might have noticed I haven't been around social media much the last two weeks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In response to losing M'Lady, things got pretty bad inside my head so I conferred with my Dr and he agreed that a lateral move on my antidepressant was warranted.</span><br />
<span data-offset-key="7rhs9-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span data-offset-key="7rhs9-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I've been switched to Zoloft from Cypralex and, while the Z helped me avoid the worst of the C withdrawal symptoms (blood pressure irregularityes that can be life threatening in a sudden discontinuation), it's not been a pleasant time to be me (or around me ... </span><span blockkey="7rhs9" class="_247o" contentstate="j { "entityMap": [object Object], "blockMap": OrderedMap { "9qsqb": a { "key": "9qsqb", "type": "unstyled", "text": "So, some folks might have noticed I haven't been around FB much the last two weeks.", "characterList": List [ j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null }, j { "style": OrderedSet {}, "entity": null } ], "depth": 0, "data": Map {} }, "5nrf0": a { "key": "5nrf0", "type": "unstyled", "text": "", "characterList": List [], "depth": 0, "data": Map {} }, "97jd1": a { "key": "97jd1", "type": "unstyled", "text": "In response to losing M'Lady, things got pretty bad inside my head so I conferred with my Dr and he agreed that a lateral move on my antidepressant was warranted. 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a { "key": "bjfi2", "type": "unstyled", "text": "", "characterList": List [], "depth": 0, "data": Map {} } }, "selectionBefore": h { "anchorKey": "7rhs9", "anchorOffset": 280, "focusKey": "7rhs9", "focusOffset": 280, "isBackward": false, "hasFocus": true }, "selectionAfter": h { "anchorKey": "bjfi2", "anchorOffset": 0, "focusKey": "bjfi2", "focusOffset": 0, "isBackward": false, "hasFocus": true } }" data-offset-key="7rhs9-1-0" decoratedtext="Kara" end="266" entitykey="1" offsetkey="7rhs9-1-0" spellcheck="false" start="262" style="background-color: #dce6f8; font-family: inherit;"><span data-offset-key="7rhs9-1-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: inherit;">Kara</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="7rhs9-2-0" style="font-family: inherit;"> is a saint!).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Z is finally getting up to full loading dose and I'm starting to notice the difference. I feel like crap from the flu bug but emotionally/mentally I'm experiencing a sense of stability and lightening of mood that I didn't get with the C. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="fiprt-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I think a lot of that has to do with the actual formulaic differences between the two prescriptions. The Cypralex (or escitalopram as the generic version is called) is taken in the morning upon waking while the Zoloft is taken right before bed and actually acts to encourage restful sleep as part of it's target actions. This seems to be doing the trick in my case ... I can say that I haven't slept this well in a long time and, using the Z in conjunction with my 4:1 ratio CBD/THC night time tincture, I have been waking rested for the first time in a VERY long time.
Comparing the Z's drowsy action to the Zopiclone (actual sleeping pill) that I have had to take for short periods over the years, I don't experience any of the nightmares I normally get with the Zo AND, should I have a bad dream, I'm not locked into sleep so I can wake myself up to escape the experience.
Looking forward to kicking this bug out of the house so I can see if I'm really experiencing an upturn in my mood. Cautiously optimistic at this time.
:D</span></div>
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Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-85311317550837987542018-10-07T23:23:00.001-07:002018-10-07T23:23:42.104-07:00Just keep breathing ... breathing ... breathing ...I've been feeling very vulnerable since posting that video the other day. <div><br></div><div>Even as I mentioned in the vid, there's been nary a single response ... depressing but not a surprise. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm shaky today ... It's hard to breathe and I'm doing my best to be present enough to catch myself when I am doing the apical thing. I'm quite jumpy enough as it is without pinging my fight or flight instincts by breathing quick and shallow. </div><div><br></div><div>Got caught by surprise by a heartbreaking scene in the Netflix movie 'Born in China' wherein they had been following the adventures of several different animals and one of them was shown as having died ... it was an adult female snow leopard (my favorite of the cats) ... and the image caused such an emotional shock that I actually said aloud "I didn't need to see that" </div><div><br></div><div>First chink in my armour of dissociation ... tears did run while I did my best to breathe regularly through it. </div><div><br></div><div>Then I got an email from our Shih Tzu breeder wishing us a Happy Thanksgiving and asking how everyone is doing. I truly love my breeders ... they care so much not only about the dogs they adopt out but also the families they become part of. Of course, providing a quick update included talking about M'Lady ... so the tears are back. </div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-64665273134582134402018-09-01T13:59:00.001-07:002018-09-01T13:59:04.575-07:00Lessons in Survival ... <div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Day 1 Fallout ...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Very grateful for good neighbors. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, yesterday, Kara and I had a very unsettling experience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Driving near our home, we were approached by a young male teen (15-16 is my guess but I'm terrible with ages). Kara stopped the car and I lowered my window so we could see what was up. There was something very off in his demeanour and that he was high as a kite and tweaking on something was apparent even to me (and trust me, I can be quite oblivious to those things when my nurturing/concern circuits are engaged). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His face looked like someone had rubbed dirt on it and he approached saying that someone had beaten him up (cue concern circuits). But, even to me, his words didn't ring true ... Kara's natural skepticism kicked in and she told him we couldn't stop as I had to get to work and we quickly drove away home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">30 minutes later, as I'm loading Duck and my lunch into the van, this same boy rounded the corner of the townhouse coming from the direction of the hole in the chain link fence that leads to the house development being built behind us and wearing the bag he had claimed had been stolen as motivating for his supposed beating. As he passed my vehicle, he grabbed the driver side view mirror and wrenched it violently forwards ... luckily it can move in that direction by design or he'd have broken it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was the loud thunk sound that caused my to notice him passing ... Kara noticed too. We both went into immediate mental <b><i>defcon 1</i></b> ... K into a 'protect Llyn' mode and me into a near phobic state of hypervigilance ... we both instantly knew there was about to be trouble. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The boy got about 3/4's the way down our row when he happened to look back and, because I was wearing a high visibility shirt in preparation for my evening shift, he recognized me and turned back. He was asking for a ride and K tried to warn him off while I fought the need to flee and scanned the area for help. He came right into our open garage and was confronting K (her first experience of the awful feeling of being under threat and the accompanying helplessness of knowing that one cannot get out of it alone that genetic females learn to endure and work through almost from birth).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As he began escalating, ramping himself up for violence, at her ... I did a mental inventory of which neighbors might be able to help vs who might be home. As I went to go to the open garage of one of our close neighbours, I spotted the very fellow at the side of my unit supervising his two young kids playing (twitch-boy had to have walked right past them). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The look on my face must have spoken volumes, for he immediately came on guard and looked at me quizzically. I motioned him over and told him that there was a druggie in my garage that I needed to have removed. He asked me if I knew the person and my voice broke, betraying my fear, as I replied "NO". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My neighbour immediately moved to round my van and interposed himself between K and twitch, while I kept his kids busy. He was cool as ice as he gently but firmly moved the kid out of the garage while engaging him in conversation designed to disarm the escalation long enough to be able to physically guide him outside (someone has done nonviolent conflict resolution and can put it into practice VERY well ... and the fact that our neighbour is buff as hell probably didn't hurt either). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Having been rescued, Kara came over and ordered me to be off to work. Knowing that she'd be able to calm down faster if she didn't feel the need to protect me, I let the neighbour know that K had eyes on the kids and drove off. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">According to K, the drama lasted a while longer and involved another male neighbour before twitch literally ran off. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm having the natural byproduct of not only the confrontation/phobic fallout but also of the half trained concern of a certain Fluffy Duck who insisted on being attached to me at the hip all shift and on my head/pillow all night. M'Lady is now past responding to my issues as she is navigating enough of her own but she still stayed close all night. Being that the timeline of the process is well established, I know today will be bad ... tomorrow worse ... Monday back to bad and, on Tuesday, I'll be much better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's Kara who has gotten the worst of the encounter, it's her first time dealing with that sense of imperiled survival instinct that is unique to the female condition ... the horrible sensations that come with it and the certain knowledge that only a man can help/rescue you. Damsel in distress does not sit well with anyone but, coming from her previous privileged background, she was/is completely unprepared to process or deal with it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank goodness for good neighbors ... Gratitude 🙏 is me. </span></div>
Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-32947444367979798172018-06-24T09:31:00.000-07:002018-06-24T09:32:03.680-07:00Fear and Loathing between my Ears ...I have to get this out of my skull and somewhere where it can do less harm ...<div><br></div><div>I'm really hating human-kind right now ... </div><div><br></div><div>I'm working on a shawl, the purpose for which was to help me get my crojo (crafting mojo) back. The last thing I need is to build the thoughts I'm currently having into the project which I'm either going to wear myself or give away to some innocent other. And I don't fancy burning this piece, which would be a good way to cleanse the tormented emotions I'm dealing with.</div><div><br></div><div>I remember hiding under my desk in elementary school, curled tight into the floor as the school intercom blasted the siren for the nuclear raids. Even then, no older than my granddaughter is now, I wondered why we were made to perform an action that was so useless ... trying to process why the adults around me experienced such fear.</div><div><br></div><div>As I grew older, I came to understand the danger and I learned to fear ... not the intangible fear of the unknown that is part of childhood ... nor even the unreasoning terror that came with the acrophobia ... but a fear of my own species. A fear that came from a knowing so old that it felt that it came from the very marrow of my bones ... a ken from deep within that these creatures with which I share biological kinship are not to be trusted and will, with great certainty, prove to be the authors of their own extinction.</div><div><br></div><div>Then as I made my progression from adolescence to adulthood, the world entered a period where it seemed as though there was actual point in hoping for better. And, gradually, I forgot how it felt to live with a constant fear of death ...</div><div><br></div><div>The true lesson of Generation X is helplessness ... and the world turns yet again.</div><div>Once again my species seems bound and determined to repeat lessons we swore never to forget.</div><div>And prove just how small-minded and easily led we really are.</div><div><br></div><div>Beating my head and heart against walls of misinformation</div><div>Feeling so utterly alone and so very angry</div><div>Pointlessness rules</div><div><br></div><div>This is fodder for my enemy ... my mind.</div><div>Best it stay here than get poured into and handiwork where it might remain enmeshed.</div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-61769938989704253342018-05-06T21:57:00.001-07:002018-05-06T22:34:59.145-07:00Brought to you by the letters A and D, and the number <0On the whole, today isn't a good day ... The <i>things</i> that lurk at the back of my mind aren't so much skulking about as they have donned a large pair of parade drill boots and are indiscriminately stomping my grey matter into goo taking me along with it.<div><br></div><div>It's not the pain so much, I mean it's THERE but then it's always there isn't it? That's why it's called <u style="font-weight: bold;">chronic</u> pain, ya? </div><div>Today isn't a bad pain day. I have just enough spoons to get through today's shift and then fall into bed when I get home ... well, physically at least.</div><div><br></div><div>When fear and misery are your natural default setting, well ... it's not all that tough to run psyche first into mental walls. Agoraphobia with severe social anxiety and Depression (chronic depression it used to be the clinical diagnosis) are the one - two punch of Mental Illness. </div><div><br></div><div>Depression is often described as being mired in the past. It's not inaccurate as the brain scours the memory for each and every instance where one has either screwed up or where perception can be twisted to the negative and then replayed in the mind's eye in such a way as to guarantee that one's self-worth is systematically stripped away. Chiseling away one's sense of Self as inexorably and painfully as water dripping upon stone. For me, it goes one step further ... draining away colour, scent, and emotion itself until even pain cannot reach me and all is a dull grey fog from which "feeling sad" would be a welcome improvement. That's when the thoughts come out to play like little gremlins smashing the gears of my though processes and whispering evil suggestions into the echo chamber my mind has become. Whispering that make themselves heard multiple times per day, sometimes multiple times per minute. Thoughts that I dare not heed -- that I will not heed -- so long as there is one person yet in my life to whom my absence would cause harm. Currently, I have several ... spouse, children, grandchildren and even a few good friends who find it within themselves to care for me even when I cannot. For them (armed with grim determination, a better understanding of my disability than the average lay person, the correct prescriptions and an understanding that the ways in which I am broken cannot be fixed or cured only managed) I continue even on those days like today when the best I can manage is to just keep breathing and make it to bedtime. </div><div><br></div><div>Anxiety is described as being stuck in in a future of worst case outcomes ... when fueled by pathological, unreasoning phobia its debilitating effect increases exponentially. My every action, word, gesture or interaction is forever under the electron microscope of my own distorted perceptions as are those of everyone around me. I am a prisoner of my own head ... locked in a solitary confinement born of chemical imbalances, CPTSD, a natural proclivity to introversion and a childhood of enforced solitude. I am afraid all of the time, a nervous system so locked in near constant fight or flight that adrenal fallout is a frequent event. Even when I might like to reach out, go out, be social with someone I actually deem as safe no sooner have I made plans than my mind begins applying the thumb screws in an effort to force me to cancel. The closer time comes to the agreed upon outing, the worse the mental and physical discomfort becomes until I either force myself to see it through or I break and run. Giving into the terror and canceling on the person I was to meet up with. If I grin and bear it, as I often can manage so well that my own spouse forgets I am disabled, I spend the time/event medicated (one of which has short term memory problems as a side effect) and grimly quashing the urge to just go home. I often decide whether I enjoyed myself a day or two later after reviewing what I can recall of the experience. Should I break and run, the fear wins and I am rewarded by a rush of endorphins that flood my brain, telling me how good a job I did of avoiding that worst case danger and ensuring that the next time I face that fear, it is stronger and more deeply entrenched.</div><div><br></div><div>The one thing that is the most difficult thing for someone like me to experience is the present ... this moment ... right now. There is such a barrage of thought from both conditions simultaneously that the <b>NOW</b> slips by almost unnoticed. I've been working on teaching myself to tune into the moment for around 5 years now and I can sometimes manage almost a minute of Mental silence. It's a blessed feeling, to not think, when the inside of my head is so often congested with useless noise who's only purpose is to prevent me from being able to function. Some days are easier than most, today is not one of them.</div><div><br></div><div>But hey, my shift is almost over ... only an hour to go ... and then it's home to bed and I'll have made it through another day.</div><div>Tomorrow might be better ... </div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-50405871474458987352018-04-03T05:41:00.001-07:002018-05-06T22:06:11.033-07:00SusurrationEarly morning at work and I'm listening to the sound of the rain as it falls on my van ... I, not being a fan of getting wet, stay cozy and dry if not exactly warm in the driver's seat while I wait for my shift to be over. <div><br></div><div>A sudden shift to hail makes me grateful that I am so ensconced. </div><div><br></div><div>Welp, I survived another FeBlueAry and made it almost all the way through March without too many mental hiccoughs on my part. Jys' mother passed away a few days before Llethander's birthday. A blessing for her but rough on J who has never lost anyone near to her before. Jys is doing ok ... as well as can be expected considering and is making decent progress assimilating and really processing the fact that her mom is really gone. </div><div><br></div><div>We have the cremation tomorrow morning and the memorial on Friday at 4pm at the same funeral home that handled the kids' father. So at least I don't have to worry about their professionalism and respect for the remains.</div><div><br></div><div>Medication is my friend. It pays to recognize and understand that I'm broken and not care about the supposed stigma of pharmaceutical neurotransmitter replacement. I saw a cross-stitch picture the other day that read: </div><div><u style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">If you can't make your own neurotransmitters and endorphins, store bought work just fine.</u> </div><div><br></div><div>I love that saying so much for its simple truth.</div><div><br></div><div>My crafting mojo is MIA, has been for well over a month now. Just can't seem to bring myself to pick up hooks, needless, spindle or wheel. I want to, have a couple of WIP that is really like to see moved to the finished stack but they sit in their project bag or on the seat beside me while they wait for ??? </div><div>No clue what I need to get past this but I really need to get making again.</div><div><br></div><div>Have an idea for a marionette that I'm trying to get designed, but it's just not coming easy. Hope to have something to show sooner than later. </div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-89723072655479080202018-02-06T20:29:00.001-08:002018-02-06T20:29:23.996-08:00FeBlueArySigh ...<div><br></div><div>I _really_ HATE February.</div><div><br></div><div>28 (+1 every 4) of the darkest, greyest, numbest days in my year. </div><div><br></div><div>At this time I'm at my lowest ebb ... the thoughts that batter me are loudest and most insistent, shredding me, and I feel _nothing_. </div><div><br></div><div>It's a time to simply endure ... to cling tightly to the knowledge that this is the 50th February I have witnessed and, as with all 49 previous, this soul sucking grey will pass and the inside of my skull will become easier to manage (relatively speaking). </div><div><br></div><div>I don't think it's so much that this month is in any way worse than the 11 others in the calendar, although the lack of sunlight and SAD could account for some of it. It's more like, during this month, I just can't maintain the facade of functionality that I seem to the rest of the year. This is when I isolate the most, drawing away from as much of the world and the people in it as I can ... the agoraphobia demands that I maintain a tight control upon my responses so that I do not lose control and draw attention to me and this is when I'm least able to do it.</div><div><br></div><div>A current catch-phrase going around is "invisible disabilities are real" and, while true, mine aren't nearly as invisible as I'd like to pretend they are right now. </div>Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2475789404121822551.post-27855276071840207282018-01-08T16:51:00.001-08:002018-03-31T19:14:42.835-07:00Erasure ...So, here I am once again with a blank space that I've a mind to try to fill up with ...<br />
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What?</div>
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That's the question and I really have no good answer. </div>
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I'm only half aware of what exactly prompted me, with the coming of the new year, to delete all of my posts and leave myself this blank slate. On some level, I guess, I'm just unwilling to delete this little space ... even when I have no expectation that anyone might be interested reading whatever makes it up in here. </div>
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I just knew that the old needed to be left behind in favour of the new me that I'm crafting.</div>
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A holding pattern is all I seem to have known for years ... but my time of waiting is past. It began with the breast reduction ... as traumatic as that turned out to be, what with the infection and all. It really stuck me hard, once I was actually on the mend and done with the twice daily antibiotic infusions, that I had not credited my situation realistically. I had been of the mental perspective that it was all 'no big deal' instead of the invasive surgery and major infection that followed. </div>
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It wasn't till nine weeks had passed and I found myself healthy but weak as the proverbial kitten that I started taking apart my own thought processes concerning the whole situation and, by extension, my attitude towards myself. </div>
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I have come to the conclusion that I need work ... from the ground up and on all levels.</div>
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So I'm beginning with my physical self ... Not being to climb a flight of stairs in my own home without needing to stop for a breather fails to please me in a pretty major way. Knowing that a majority of the weakness is a result of nine weeks flat on my back as antibiotics help me fight of a pretty aggressive infection that could have been avoided if the surgeon had trusted me to know my own body doesn't really help ... while truth, it just frustrates me all the more. </div>
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So ... I'm tackling the <a href="http://home.insightbb.com/~eowynchallenge/Tools/Hobbit_BE_to_Rivendell/hobbit_be_to_rivendell.html" id="id_397c_29bb_3921_d720" target="_blank">Éowyn Challenge</a> ... by which I mean that I'm using their data to associate my daily walking as tracked with my fitbit to the distance covered in the journey taken by Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit. Just a wee bit of geeky incentive for me to help get myself moving. It'll be interesting at least to see how far I might go.</div>
Medb Damhanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05583070789550448575noreply@blogger.com0