It's that time of year again where the veil between adult reality and childhood fantasy thins, giving us glimpses of the long forgotten and the wholly cherished.
As a parent Christmas morphs into something even more meaningful, more complex, more important, and vastly more simple.
I've had a few "episodes" as the holiday stress has gotten to me, or when I'm gifted by my children (as I so often am) with massive crises. The children are getting more comfortable with my malfunctioning brain. For them it is just another new thing to be adapted into our lives, like getting a new car, or changing the carpet. They know I love them and that so long as I'm careful I won't go back to the hospital. I take my "shaking medicine" when it gets bad, and they seem to be pleased there's something I can do to make it lessen if not stop entirely.
I try to remember I am their guide while they are my teachers. The idea makes me think of the intricately knotted grasses the girls would make in Ireland. Loose braids and knots that are almost soothing to look at as the different lengths and kinds of grass twist and blend together until they all become part of a single piece.
Perhaps that's how I see family in the idyllic part of my mind. It is a constantly moving blend of unique colors that fit in and out and through one another so that, where each is its own, following a single thread of color would be impossible.
Ah, my time's up. I foresee cuddling and watching TV (well, Netflix through the xbox) in the glow of the collage of family history that surrounds us in the Christmas room.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Sleep
Today I'm tired. That kind of tired that clings to you like the sock out of the dryer on the back of your good shirt. It's out of place and slightly uncomfortable, and you just can't quite reach it.
I've started dreaming again, those frighteningly vivid dreams that blur the line between reality and fantasy. Most of them seem pleasant while I'm sleeping, so much so I don't want to wake up. I want to stay wrapped in the tentacles of something that wouldn't make any sense if I were to open my eyes and try and retell the broken time line and twisted logic that all make such perfect sense while I'm still asleep.
They leave me feeling as though I've been at least partly awake all night. I attend long complicated parties in my dreams, with people who do and don't exist. The social politics are an unseen bog littered with hidden snakes and even occasional treasure. Sometimes it's a ball in some far away fanciful castle in a time that doesn't and hasn't ever existed. Sometimes it's a mystery with all the wonderful trappings of the best of Film Noir. Often people I know and love make cameos, and occasionally they may play a supporting part, and only rarely do they get above title billing.
Last night had something to do with making greeting cards for a friend...and an old ababdoned parking lot surrounded by vast expanses of flat fields of delicate yellow flowers. There was a sense of being excited and proud of the cards I'd made and then, in the moment of finally getting to give them feeling the need to explain my intentions, but being limited by a childish vocabulary.
I wonder what tonight will bring, if I even make it that far. Today may be a day of dream filled naps for me. My eyes keep closing on their own.
I've started dreaming again, those frighteningly vivid dreams that blur the line between reality and fantasy. Most of them seem pleasant while I'm sleeping, so much so I don't want to wake up. I want to stay wrapped in the tentacles of something that wouldn't make any sense if I were to open my eyes and try and retell the broken time line and twisted logic that all make such perfect sense while I'm still asleep.
They leave me feeling as though I've been at least partly awake all night. I attend long complicated parties in my dreams, with people who do and don't exist. The social politics are an unseen bog littered with hidden snakes and even occasional treasure. Sometimes it's a ball in some far away fanciful castle in a time that doesn't and hasn't ever existed. Sometimes it's a mystery with all the wonderful trappings of the best of Film Noir. Often people I know and love make cameos, and occasionally they may play a supporting part, and only rarely do they get above title billing.
Last night had something to do with making greeting cards for a friend...and an old ababdoned parking lot surrounded by vast expanses of flat fields of delicate yellow flowers. There was a sense of being excited and proud of the cards I'd made and then, in the moment of finally getting to give them feeling the need to explain my intentions, but being limited by a childish vocabulary.
I wonder what tonight will bring, if I even make it that far. Today may be a day of dream filled naps for me. My eyes keep closing on their own.
Friday, October 10, 2008
In the Information Age
So far we have:
Wolfie
lil'Wolfie
Lesli
Kassha
Mrs. Kassha
Zelrig
& Nob
Last night was when it all started, and like so many things, it all happened at once. The downstairs toilet started backing up and gracefully rolling raw sewage onto floor, which then traveled in a slow but determined manner into the laundry room...giving all the dirty clothes on the floor that extra push towards needing to be washed right away!, and eventually meandering into the kitchen where things like raw sewage are enemies to be vanquished as quickly as possible. Of course, an after-hours emergency call to a plumber couldn't be the end of all that seemed to happen at once.
The middle child needed retrieving from football practice leaving me with the incessantly barking huge dog, the strange snake-bearing man in my front yard, the 2 other children, and the impending delivery of a pizza.
The pizza made its appearance just as the husband and middle son arrived, adding to the bedlam. As I juggled dogs, an excited son who wanted to tell me all about his day, a daughter who kept wandering off as I was trying to hand her pizzas & drinks, a husband who was attempting to get past me to get into the house, aaaand sign and tip the delivery guy the phone, of course, started to ring.
After getting everyone and thing into the house the husband answred it. Woohoo! An oppertunity to take part in a Town Hall meeting with our Congressman. I knew what this meant to him, so I assured him I could handle everything else. Which I managed fairly well, really. Lesli called to say she was on her way, the snake-bearing plumbing guy walked in and seemed as shocked to see me as I was to see him (mostly I was surprised by his youth and his openness...my fears of the stranger evaporated). While juggling the Town Hall on the phone the husband found some plumbing access point that had been expertly squirrelled away under the front bushes and the ivy ground cover. This avoided major surgy on the house's plumbing and, instead, it underwent an outpatient procedure (saving us a few hundred dollars along the way).
The plumber left, happy not to have had to come in to the house of children, computer games, and barking dogs just before Lesli arrived.
It would be hard to exagerate how grateful I am for her. She's a remarkable woman in her own right, and has a large gentle and kind heart. I remember her coming in, I remember going into the living room to try and help fold laundry and to tell her the goodnews about Little Man (after all, I think a lot of the confidence he found in reading came from her private lessons)...the next thing I remember is counting by twos, somewhere around 60, I think. Lesli was hugging me from behind, leaned awkwardly over the back of my office chair. The numbers didn't come easily, but she helped. I had a moment of being embarassed, even though I knew it wasn't a bad attack...but I dismissed it quickly, I didn't have any energy for being embarassed. We talked a bit while I came out of it and when she went to help the husband herd the children towards bed he came in to see if I was ok with her having seen that, and with her help. I had another moment of wondering if I should have been ok with it, or if I should be ashamed. I am ok, though...my friend saw the truth. She didn't run away, she still loves me...maybe loves me more since she can understand a bit more now. God gives us gifts of light even in the darkest of shadows, we just have to be willing to open our eyes and see beyond the black that seems to hover before our eyes.
I know she left at somepoint to go get Nob from the airport, and I went to bed. I took a mildly dodgy combonantion of meds, but after reading on the Net I'm certain it was well within the safe zone.
I woke this morning to my wonderful husband and the dogs, well, dogpiling me. His kisses tasted of coffee, which definately helped me shake off the last of the cobwebs. I went downstairs and said goodmorning to Nob while the husband brought me a cup of coffee.
*sigh* Unfortunately, I'm suddenly tired and I'm meant to be recouping before even more people show up. Everyone went to dinner without me, and no one made a fuss about it...which was wonderful! Some of these people are really good friends.
Hooray for the Information Age
Wolfie
lil'Wolfie
Lesli
Kassha
Mrs. Kassha
Zelrig
& Nob
Last night was when it all started, and like so many things, it all happened at once. The downstairs toilet started backing up and gracefully rolling raw sewage onto floor, which then traveled in a slow but determined manner into the laundry room...giving all the dirty clothes on the floor that extra push towards needing to be washed right away!, and eventually meandering into the kitchen where things like raw sewage are enemies to be vanquished as quickly as possible. Of course, an after-hours emergency call to a plumber couldn't be the end of all that seemed to happen at once.
The middle child needed retrieving from football practice leaving me with the incessantly barking huge dog, the strange snake-bearing man in my front yard, the 2 other children, and the impending delivery of a pizza.
The pizza made its appearance just as the husband and middle son arrived, adding to the bedlam. As I juggled dogs, an excited son who wanted to tell me all about his day, a daughter who kept wandering off as I was trying to hand her pizzas & drinks, a husband who was attempting to get past me to get into the house, aaaand sign and tip the delivery guy the phone, of course, started to ring.
After getting everyone and thing into the house the husband answred it. Woohoo! An oppertunity to take part in a Town Hall meeting with our Congressman. I knew what this meant to him, so I assured him I could handle everything else. Which I managed fairly well, really. Lesli called to say she was on her way, the snake-bearing plumbing guy walked in and seemed as shocked to see me as I was to see him (mostly I was surprised by his youth and his openness...my fears of the stranger evaporated). While juggling the Town Hall on the phone the husband found some plumbing access point that had been expertly squirrelled away under the front bushes and the ivy ground cover. This avoided major surgy on the house's plumbing and, instead, it underwent an outpatient procedure (saving us a few hundred dollars along the way).
The plumber left, happy not to have had to come in to the house of children, computer games, and barking dogs just before Lesli arrived.
It would be hard to exagerate how grateful I am for her. She's a remarkable woman in her own right, and has a large gentle and kind heart. I remember her coming in, I remember going into the living room to try and help fold laundry and to tell her the goodnews about Little Man (after all, I think a lot of the confidence he found in reading came from her private lessons)...the next thing I remember is counting by twos, somewhere around 60, I think. Lesli was hugging me from behind, leaned awkwardly over the back of my office chair. The numbers didn't come easily, but she helped. I had a moment of being embarassed, even though I knew it wasn't a bad attack...but I dismissed it quickly, I didn't have any energy for being embarassed. We talked a bit while I came out of it and when she went to help the husband herd the children towards bed he came in to see if I was ok with her having seen that, and with her help. I had another moment of wondering if I should have been ok with it, or if I should be ashamed. I am ok, though...my friend saw the truth. She didn't run away, she still loves me...maybe loves me more since she can understand a bit more now. God gives us gifts of light even in the darkest of shadows, we just have to be willing to open our eyes and see beyond the black that seems to hover before our eyes.
I know she left at somepoint to go get Nob from the airport, and I went to bed. I took a mildly dodgy combonantion of meds, but after reading on the Net I'm certain it was well within the safe zone.
I woke this morning to my wonderful husband and the dogs, well, dogpiling me. His kisses tasted of coffee, which definately helped me shake off the last of the cobwebs. I went downstairs and said goodmorning to Nob while the husband brought me a cup of coffee.
*sigh* Unfortunately, I'm suddenly tired and I'm meant to be recouping before even more people show up. Everyone went to dinner without me, and no one made a fuss about it...which was wonderful! Some of these people are really good friends.
Hooray for the Information Age
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Shake, Rattle, & Klonopin
Back in the world of the living, I seem to spend a good bit of my time watching the world roll by like a bored kid in the backseat on a long road trip. Days click by like so many telephone posts along the roadside, a quick dark moment breaking up the monotony of the long dried fields behind them.
It's remarkable how well that analogy actually works. I remember being that kid in the backseat, my chin resting on the top of the door while my nose left a distinct smudge on the window. Sometimes beyond the telephone posts there would be a house. I'd train my eyes on every detail I could, trying to put together an idea of what kind of people lived there...what their story was. The brain works quickly, which is good if you're trying to take in every car, the color of the curtains, and the condition of the roof as you're going 70+ mph down the highway.
I say the analogy works because my days are like that monotonous drive, and when a day is different it's much like one of those rare houses. I drink in the detail like a dry sponge. Which is painful, really. I remember smearing my nose across the glass trying to keep those houses in sight as long as I could, and then I'd sigh and go back to center...watching the telephone posts.
When I know something different is coming it's terrifying, while it goes on I usually have a great time (or at least handle myself like a normal human without much...if any...effort), and when it's gone...as I start to dry out again I sink in on myself.
Have you ever purchased a sponge that's pre-moistened? They do that so it won't look pathetic and unattractive, btw. So you take it home and use it. It works great. In the first couple of uses the odd mildly bubbly stuff they use to keep it puffy in the package washes out. Let's say this is a kitchen sponge, so it gets a good bit of use. The first week or so it doesn't ever really dry out. Then something happens and it sits for a couple of days on the edge of the sink. When you come back to it the center, where it's been squeezed out so many times, is nearly flat and the ends curl up slightly...and the whole thing is sort of crusty and brittle. Then you chuck it into the dish-water and after a few minutes it's reformed, but it's puffier than before. It's left to dry out a couple more times over the next month, and each time it's rehydrated the spaces designed to hold water are weaker. It starts to fray a bit, right along the edges and eventually it begins to tear. I'm betting you see my point. Sucks being a sponge. ;)
This weekend we'll have people to the house. I love people, I love entertaining...I'm damn good at it. Problem is, I've already started to tear a bit, and the anticipation of being rehydrated keeps sending me into blind panic. Litterally blind, I see big patches of white, my mouth tastes like I've been chewing aluminum foil, and I shake. Granted I shake nearly all the time now. Xanex doesn't stop the shaking, it helps the terror, but not the shaking. So, not exactly against Dr.'s orders, I've gone back to my old friend Klonopin when I start looking like a frigging parkenson's patient. As it is I can't eat in public anymore, I can't trust my hands not to start shaking badly enough to land whatever was meant for my mouth in my lap.
It's remarkable how well that analogy actually works. I remember being that kid in the backseat, my chin resting on the top of the door while my nose left a distinct smudge on the window. Sometimes beyond the telephone posts there would be a house. I'd train my eyes on every detail I could, trying to put together an idea of what kind of people lived there...what their story was. The brain works quickly, which is good if you're trying to take in every car, the color of the curtains, and the condition of the roof as you're going 70+ mph down the highway.
I say the analogy works because my days are like that monotonous drive, and when a day is different it's much like one of those rare houses. I drink in the detail like a dry sponge. Which is painful, really. I remember smearing my nose across the glass trying to keep those houses in sight as long as I could, and then I'd sigh and go back to center...watching the telephone posts.
When I know something different is coming it's terrifying, while it goes on I usually have a great time (or at least handle myself like a normal human without much...if any...effort), and when it's gone...as I start to dry out again I sink in on myself.
Have you ever purchased a sponge that's pre-moistened? They do that so it won't look pathetic and unattractive, btw. So you take it home and use it. It works great. In the first couple of uses the odd mildly bubbly stuff they use to keep it puffy in the package washes out. Let's say this is a kitchen sponge, so it gets a good bit of use. The first week or so it doesn't ever really dry out. Then something happens and it sits for a couple of days on the edge of the sink. When you come back to it the center, where it's been squeezed out so many times, is nearly flat and the ends curl up slightly...and the whole thing is sort of crusty and brittle. Then you chuck it into the dish-water and after a few minutes it's reformed, but it's puffier than before. It's left to dry out a couple more times over the next month, and each time it's rehydrated the spaces designed to hold water are weaker. It starts to fray a bit, right along the edges and eventually it begins to tear. I'm betting you see my point. Sucks being a sponge. ;)
This weekend we'll have people to the house. I love people, I love entertaining...I'm damn good at it. Problem is, I've already started to tear a bit, and the anticipation of being rehydrated keeps sending me into blind panic. Litterally blind, I see big patches of white, my mouth tastes like I've been chewing aluminum foil, and I shake. Granted I shake nearly all the time now. Xanex doesn't stop the shaking, it helps the terror, but not the shaking. So, not exactly against Dr.'s orders, I've gone back to my old friend Klonopin when I start looking like a frigging parkenson's patient. As it is I can't eat in public anymore, I can't trust my hands not to start shaking badly enough to land whatever was meant for my mouth in my lap.
Monday, September 15, 2008
PTSD - Not just for GIs anymore
As someone with the condition I'm finding it more and more frustrating at the lack of resources for people who have suffered major trauma, have PTSD, but haven't been in the military.
I'm a patriot, I have an unexpressable amount of admeration and gratitude for those who serve. They put their lives on the line, on hold, and into the hands of people who rarely have their best interests at heart all so that we can have the blessed life we get to have here in the good 'ol USofA. So, please, don't read this as a condemnation of the people out there with the balls to put on a uniform and learn how to stand at attention and clean a riffle. It's not that at all, it's just that they aren't the only people who get PTSD.
Maybe it's a media thing. Certianly the recent disgraceful treatment of our military personal who were denied the correct diagnosis for fiscal reasons deserves the media attention it got (probably more so). It's a God send, in it's own backwards way, that those in uniform brought this life altering condition into the light. For that I'm grateful, and sad...how many of you were misdiagnosed or told there was nothing wrong with you...how many of you died due to the neglect of a 'we know better than you about you' phycological establishment?
I'm being treated, so far as taking meds and seeing a wonderful councelor constitutes treatment. But I don't know where else to turn for help. I know I need more help because I'm drowning. How long can you live in a combonation state of cognative disanence and abject terror before it's just too much? And when you hit that point...the too much point...what then? Does your mind finish breaking, does scuicide become the only answer, do you spend the rest of your days wearing velcro pajamas and only being allowed to use crayons with supervision?
Worse, what happens to our families? The husbands, wives, children, and parents robbed of the person they love.
One phonecall later and I just can't type this stuff anymore. Thank God for iWin and the wonderfully distracting stuff they always have to hand.
I'm a patriot, I have an unexpressable amount of admeration and gratitude for those who serve. They put their lives on the line, on hold, and into the hands of people who rarely have their best interests at heart all so that we can have the blessed life we get to have here in the good 'ol USofA. So, please, don't read this as a condemnation of the people out there with the balls to put on a uniform and learn how to stand at attention and clean a riffle. It's not that at all, it's just that they aren't the only people who get PTSD.
Maybe it's a media thing. Certianly the recent disgraceful treatment of our military personal who were denied the correct diagnosis for fiscal reasons deserves the media attention it got (probably more so). It's a God send, in it's own backwards way, that those in uniform brought this life altering condition into the light. For that I'm grateful, and sad...how many of you were misdiagnosed or told there was nothing wrong with you...how many of you died due to the neglect of a 'we know better than you about you' phycological establishment?
I'm being treated, so far as taking meds and seeing a wonderful councelor constitutes treatment. But I don't know where else to turn for help. I know I need more help because I'm drowning. How long can you live in a combonation state of cognative disanence and abject terror before it's just too much? And when you hit that point...the too much point...what then? Does your mind finish breaking, does scuicide become the only answer, do you spend the rest of your days wearing velcro pajamas and only being allowed to use crayons with supervision?
Worse, what happens to our families? The husbands, wives, children, and parents robbed of the person they love.
One phonecall later and I just can't type this stuff anymore. Thank God for iWin and the wonderfully distracting stuff they always have to hand.
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