Tag Archives: bipolar

My therapy homework this week is– every day– to write down something that I did right, at work or at home.

Just like when I was sitting in my therapist’s office and he said that to me, all kind intention and just brimming with empathy– this man is good in the essential sense of that word– I’m leaking and choked because I can’t hear it, can’t think it.

Medication changes and more severe than usual spring mood swing aside, I don’t get enough thanks or praise, and when I do get it, it’s often laden, conditioned.  “You’re the best,” because I did something so ridiculously, outrageously pampering of a grown-ass adult, just to get the work off both of our desks, even though it means it pushes the boundary back toward me though it’s not my job.  “It’s nice that you work late & weekends,” (because the other guy didn’t.)  These aren’t words that mean they see me– it only means that I exist as a contrast, an outline against some other condition/behavior/thing they want to avoid and make their life easier as a response.   And I feel like it’s insincere when I hear it most of the time, because people just want things from me that make their lives easier.  They don’t care about me except as a delivery vehicle.

I feel pretty invisible, most of the time– partly my role, partly my introversion, who knows what else– and when I’m visibly upset, most people don’t ask if I am okay or even let the pause be awkward before leaping in to the thing that they want– either because they’re oblivious, or selfish, or because there’s some perceived power dynamic and it’s better not to acknowledge that someone “above” you is having a shitty day in case they’ll get… what?  I don’t know.  I don’t understand the dynamic of it.  I guess it’s mostly that it’s my job to be the one to deal with people’s feelings and people can’t deal with the idea that I might have some of my own.

At work, too, there’s a power dynamic between “just” the admin and the sales teams.  It’s shitty. The sales leadership aren’t as well trained as they could be, and they’re allowed to get away with inconsistent & lacking behavior as long as the sales are on point, while the administrators run around mopping up after them.  It’s the same any place, but the rhetoric here is that it’s supposed to be different and the divide from reality is stark, isolating, and disenheartening in the extreme.  When you feel overworked, under-appreciated, overwhelmed with entitled stupid questions & never given a pause to train anyone in order to stop the stupid questions or any subset of of them, it’s– misery, pretty much, pure & simple, especially when you’re more or less suicidally depressed and no one seems to notice except your second assistant in a year and oh, yeah, guess what, she’s going to grad school so you’re going to have to start training somebody else by mid-summer.

There are smaller things that I did right this week.  I admitted that I made a mistake about something that won’t be the end of the world.  I helped someone qualify for housing benefits.  I helped someone with a leave of absence and explained how short term disability worked.  There is more.  I can’t recall any of it in the constant onslaught of shit I deal with, day in & day out.  Some of it’s firing people for stupid mistakes (the worst reason to fire someone, imho, at least be blatant about it), some of it’s wading through unqualified applications, some of it’s saying no for the 40th time and handing the person the explanatory form they’re too lazy too fill out themselves.

I can’t help feel, though, that the main thing I did right this week was admit that right now, I really do hate my job and I need to take some time off before I do something stupid like mess up something for someone or quit.  (Like, you know, last time.)  I don’t feel better about it, for managing to pull myself up short of my 2009 mistake and having admitted weakness, reached out for help, and asked for a leave of absence, without disclosing all the particulars of my diagnosis.  I still feel stupid and paranoid and crazy and like there will be a negative impact on my job when and if I return, and who knows.  Maybe there will be, but I suppose this all still buys me time.

I’m still really scared and anxious and depressed the moment I start thinking about it, in terms of– what will happen if I come back?  Do I want to?  What do I do while I’m off?  What if the med change doesn’t help?  I can’t fucking look for a new job in this state of mind.  (You know, the usual crazy morass of anxious over-thinking.)  I actually left early for the first time since I started work, after overreacting to something my two-weeks-brand-new boss said in– what I think were objectively understandable circumstances for context he didn’t have and didn’t bother to have before he set me off– and people are probably all gossiping about me at work by this point because I was clearly upset & in tears when I left and was shutting things down in my office.  I idly looked at things I might theoretically otherwise want to do as job search queries (after isolating the parts of my job I like the most) and started to panic because it’s not that I hate the company or the job, really, it’s that I can’t draw a breath without 5 people shoving into my office– so I went right back to time-wasting internet shit– but it’s one thing at a time, I guess.

Things I did right this week.  I didn’t stop showing up for work, because: crazy, and I went home early for a long weekend after a somewhat weepy but otherwise reasoned discussion.

I guess we’ll see how the rest plays out from here.

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Decisions, decisions (it’s only dinner)

I didn’t make supper tonight.

Is that a failing or a freedom?  I don’t really know.  It is a decision, though whether it’s a capital D Decision or a small decision just for the right thing I needed today, I’m not really sure.  I do know I started to assemble things out of the fridge, all knackered out, and then looked at the ingredients out on the board in the pantry and said to myself– no.  I don’t want to.

When I came in, my dad had been sitting there for at least a half hour, snacking on all the various food he didn’t have to cook or reheat that was there in the house– and I was just wrung out when I came in on automatic and started to housewife, you know, in the ways that we do.

I didn’t want to, though.  I’m not hungry, because I’m upping the dose of the particular meds that kill my appetite dead (anorexic anti-convulsants, woohoo!), and also because I had a late snack/drink at the store in accordance with the preset alarms I’ve got in my phone and which I obey whether or not I am hungry, on the hard lesson learned that your body needs fuel whether your stomach feels like it or not.  But– having had protein and some carbs and some veggies on three occasions today, not to mention too much caffeine and other fluids, the idea of doing it all again just because I have let my dad get into the habit of me doing the cooking made me kind of sick to my stomach, physically and mentally, too.

Instead, I said– sorry, I was really just tired, I didn’t know what to cook & didn’t feel like eating in any event, and that there were X & Y leftovers to heat in the fridge & I was going to bed.  Dad did not understand the not hungry thing, so I explained, for the fourth time in two weeks, about not being hungry with the increased dose of the meds and feeling grossed out by food– and then retired upstairs.

I supposes it’s a measure that the increase dosage is working that I didn’t have a temper tantrum of rage or start crying because he just can’t pay any attention to what’s going on outside his own head.  And I suppose it’s good, too, that I still feel pretty calm and chill about the fact that I said no, sorry, I’m not your wife or your nurse, feed yourself, and am not feeling horribly guilty or like a terrible mooch.  The fact is, I do buy a lot of the food, cook & clean, do the yard work & heavy lifting.  If it’s not money, it’s still work, and it’s value– and valuable.  I’m starting to know that.

There will be a time when my dad can’t “do” for himself at all anymore, including the cooking, and then I will have to take care of him whether I feel like it or not– but right now he can, whether or not I’ve fairly/unfairly stepped into the cook/caretaker role in an attempt to pick up some of the slack my not paying rent leaves.  He taught me how to cook, after all– if he’s too tired to do it, well, then we’re both in that boat.  Any stupid decisions he makes about salt intake or junk food or excess fat or calories are just that– stupid, small-d decisions, rather than life-impacting Decisions that are the product of someone who’s senile, demented, or some other process of aging or illness.

Maybe, for example, an Illness Decision could be: someone who’s manic-depressed and making bad life choices instead of self-caring ones because they’re not really lucid?  Then again, Bad Life Choices can be really good learning experiences,  even if it takes a while in the rearview to bring them into perspective.  I think skipping dinner, though, isn’t so big as that.

Ask me next week.

Gentle reminders

I joined the 21st century late last year and got a smartphone.  I mostly use it for reading tumblr, instagramming things I photograph with my cameraphone, reading email and things on AO3 and for the Poetry Magazine app, because nothing freaks people’s shit out on the bus like you reading POETRY on your phone, instead of oh, say, silly or steamy AO3 fic, in which case we exchange the tumblr handshake and admire one anothers’ shoelaces.  (It’s a thing.)  Needless to say, I’m having trouble managing to keep within my data plan, urgh.

One thing it’s been unexpectedly good for besides timewasting, however, is this– I use it for gentle reminders, notes to self, if you like.  Aside from being an alarm clock to wake up, I can set the calendar with daily reminders as it sits to charge on my desk.

10AM– eat breakfast.
1130AM– go walk around the sales floor & say hi to folks or get out of the building– 10 mins.
1 PM– eat lunch.
2 PM– use the bathroom.
4PM– have tea & visit someone.
7PM– go home, it’ll be here tomorrow.

(these are the actual calendar messages)

I forget to eat, or get caught up, or get interrupted.  Then it’s three hours later and I can’t figure out why I’m in such a foul mood, why my head hurts, etc., etc.  The employee bathroom is always crowded, and again, I am always getting interrupted, so yes– it seems silly, but a reminder to stop & use the bathroom is a good thing if I haven’t had time or have been stymied before then.  Time in the bathroom, alone, to take care of your body, wash your hands, wash your face, smile at whatever coworker is in there?  How is that silly?

I have other reminders relevant to work that are in my work calendar, set up in Outlook as recurring appointments (and now I’ve got to add them to my backup’s Outlook even if she’s a little alarmed at the number of them, I think she’ll see the wisdom)– to review my (myriad paper & computer ) to do lists at the start, middle & end of the week, to send out updates & request them, blocks of time in the week set aside when no, really, don’t interrupt me, unless you’re bleeding and there really is no one else in the building to help you, other productivity-oriented things I built in because I need the reminders against the constant onslaught of people, but these gentle reminders have been helping me feel a little more sane, as silly as they might seem.

I also have a sign taped to the inside of my bedroom door that asks:

Wallet?  Phone? Planner?  Keys?  Nook/Something to read?  Mail?  Food & water?  Silly, perhaps, but less frustrating then getting to work and not having the things that I need.

I used to think when I was younger that it was a sign of weakness to forget, to be absentminded, to be so distracted by other things that you couldn’t keep it all straight in your head.  Now, I don’t know if I’d say I know better, because better implies that there isn’t some optimal plane of work/life balance where it would, in fact, be possible to keep all those things straight.  Between my meds & side effects, my crazy, my family, and all the stuff at work, though, I’m not going to try– I’m just going to shoot for alternate mechanisms that allow me to be care-full of myself– and therefore for others.

If I remember to eat, I’ll be more attentive and in better blood sugar/mood, and therefore more patient.  If I’m not distracted by the fact that I haven’t been able to get into the damned employee bathroom for 5 goddamned hours, I’ll be more likely to give the problem its needed time.  And if I’ve been out of my office & around the store for a walk, taking the air & incidentally just saying hi, I’m not only socializing and not getting trapped in my office by one damned walk-in problem after another, but I’m meeting the problems somewhere where at least I’m not cornered and then I can walk on to the next one.

I’m considering adding more to this list for when I get home & for my before bedtime routine, but that’s a different post.

What are the reminders you could stand telling yourself?

 

Barking mad

There’s a large (large) standard black poodle who lives across the street– I never see him being taken out for a walk, though I’ll admit my own hours are irregular enough.  When I see him, it’s because I’m walking home from the bus stop and he’s got the run of the side & back yard, but is otherwise locked out of the house.

Every single time, this absolute monster of a dog hurls himself bodily down the stairs and at the wooden fence around the yard until it shudders, barking his head off in a furor.  It’s scary, how violently he hurls himself against the fence, and today as I was walking back to the house I noted that a part of the fence was actually broken and down– and that he wasn’t out, snarling and barking and otherwise creating a ruckus of– well, it’s hard to tell.  Was he trying to get back in the house?  Out of the yard?  Trying to tear off the head of any intruder?  Or taken someplace where he didn’t have a cruddy little side yard as his only outdoors, when he stands probably four feet tall at his head?  (This dog is big, and so is his bark.)

Since today’s bus ride was punctuated by what I’d thought was a crazy lady who was also the offspring of a racist dyspeptic parrot with nonstop complaints about the way the current MBTA was run– only to find, later, once the bus was less crammed, that it was the driver herself who was making all us poor entrapped riders absolutely crazy having to listen to all of her yammer about the goddamned demographic changes to my fair city, traffic, and the general state of the world (and I do mean nonstop), the broken fence on the way home had me noting Scary Poodle’s absence and wondering– how does he get his walks in– and his barking fury all out– when the fence is broken, poor thing?  And why did none of us shout at the crazy bus driver to just CAN IT ALREADY?

I’ve been feeling particularly invisible and unheard lately– it’s something that gets triggered whenever there’s a flare up with my mom, and then my dad will push those buttons as well.  Partly it’s seasonal depresssion & med changes, partly it’s some work situational stuff, but some of it is stuff that I’ve never been good at dealing with and when I get angry or sad, I get really silent until I don’t, at which point I explode, and either rant and rave or get razor sharp.  In the former case, I get told I’m crazy, and in the latter case, I get told I’m mean, but in either event they’re emotions that aren’t allowed because I’m the in control one, and if I’m angry and inarticulate and pissed off and just want time to myself, then that is a massive inconvenience to the people (former husband, father, people at work) whom I usually help.  I’m in a sort of build-up stage right now and have been tweaking my meds, but my dad has also been really crazy lately and my husband particularly stupid about a tax matter even though he fucked me over a few years ago so I don’t know why he expected he could hone in on joint filing status forever, and so I am really primed to be pushed into a reaction that’s horrid, explosive, and mean if either of them (or some particular situations at work) push me the wrong way.  Mostly, I’ve been trying to keep my mouth shut until I can calm down enough to say something to the point and not too awful.

The fact remains, though– in any situation where my BULLSHIT meter gets jammed, my reaction might be amplified, but the fact that I have a mental health diagnosis doesn’t mean that I am not allowed to just be normally tired, exhausted, annoyed, pissed off, and in need of blowing off steam in ways I would never express in public, but ought to be allowed to do safely, at home, without judgement, in safety, at home.  Isn’t that what home is supposed to be?  A safe, supportive environment where your needs are respected?  (Excuse me for a moment of hysterical laughter at the lack of ever having had that, and yet asking that rhetorical question.)

Criticizing me, telling me that I’m wrong to feel the way that I do or that I chose my situation and so I just need to suck it up, refusing to actually listen to the words coming out of my mouth because your own paranoia/denial is so in the way, or cross-examining me about a situation you know nothing about and that you can’t be bothered to stop interrupting me long enough to pay attention to and actually be curious enough to actually learn– all that does is make me fucking furious and invisible and ashamed all at once, because what it says to me is you think I’m doing it wrong even though you have no idea how to do it yourself, and that I have no right to have a shitty day, though you have every right to complain about your shitty life without having to hear criticism about the way your shitty life choices have fed into your current circumstances.  Pardon me for affording you the safe space and the respect of believing you’re an adult who’s aware of your own shortcomings and that except in more dire moments I don’t need to constantly remind you that on occasion, you can be kind of an ass (or whatever descriptor is relevant to the moment at hand)– and that I let you have the audience your ego needs, but you can’t let me just vent in peace, and can’t stand your own company, either, to the extent that when I need solitude you have to pester me to the point that you do trigger a manic raging reaction, because you can’t fix it, and it’s not my obligation to make you feel better about the fact that I’m not paying attention to you or being the competent one in the face of your asking if I want a cup of tea, or what am I making for supper?

I DON’T WANT TEA, and you can make your own fucking food.  I want you to stop interrupting me.  I want you to listen.  I want you to care.  I want you to not criticize my choices, because God knows you’ve made your fair share.  And if you can’t keep your mouth shut on what you think is “useful advice,” then goddamned bite your tongue and repeat the Golden Rule inside your head until you memorize it, because I am capable of making my own bad decisions, including whether I am sleeping too much or not eating enough or spending too much time in my room, and I care too much about your opinion, so consequently, I am no longer going to let myself give one flying fuck what you think, because you can’t be bothered to pay attention, to listen, to really care to anything except your own emotional comfort.

That crazy poodle who broke that fence might have been scary, but I know how he feels– sometimes you just have to throw yourself at the wall, over and over, yelling at the top of your lungs, until something cracks.  And while today’s crazy bus driver had a captive audience to her solo performance and no one responded, I kind of get what she was doing.  Sometimes you just have to keep repeating yourself, no matter how crazy you sound, over and over, until someone responds.  Even if it’s just a “have a nice day” when you get off the bus.

I do hope the poodle made his escape.

Crush

(Re-post from my fannish tumblr)

Up-front disclaimer— I don’t recommend just discontinuing your meds to anyone who’s bipolar and having escalating mood regulation problems.

That being said, I went off my wellbutrin (100 mg) last night, because I’ve been feeling more and more like crawling under a rock, quitting my job, and/or running out into traffic, plus everything, everything hurts. (Anyone who tells you depression is all in your head is a steaming sack of dog shit.)

I’ve been diagnosed bipolar since 2005.  I’ve blogged off and on about it as a way to get the thoughts out of my head and maybe because it’ll be helpful to someone else to know they’re not the only one feeling nuts and still getting on with their life.  It hasn’t been easy; I’ve had some real setbacks, including starting over in a new career path after I self-sabotaged my old one during a bad depressed phase, plus realizing I needed to end my marriage because my husband (who had his own problems) couldn’t deal with being supportive when I was being crazy.

But since 2009 I’ve been on a drug cocktail that has more or less worked well enough to give me good insight into escalating mood problems— not in a *ooh, lightbulb* kind of way, but at least in a *oh, I’ve been working myself into a lather and I’ve been crying a lot and I hate everyone and I’m really angry and I don’t want to go in to the job that I love and I just want to sleep* kind of way that takes me only a few weeks to see, rather than months.  Having a therapist who asks if it’s time to adjust my meds rather than tell me it’s all Freudian shit (fuck you, last therapist, for undermining the fact that I do have a neurotransmitter disorder as well as a fucked up family life, you can’t just turn off the biological disorder like that) helps, too.  Plus, there’s that whole blinding headache all the time thing, kind of a clue.

Accordingly, I’ve discontinued the wellbutrin, because the mixed states I’ve had before have always resolved when I’ve gone off the SSRI* for a few weeks & then either reintroduced it or switched out that med, while increasing by 25 mg. the anticonvulsant (topamax) I take and bringing more of the benzo-class drug that I take (klonopin, 1 mg nightly) with me for day time anxiety swings, .5 mg prn,2 mg. max. daily.

I feel better this morning already, with the crushing headache absent and the body aches mostly gone.  SSRIs* are controversial for bipolars and bipolar IIs (my particular diagnosis) because a little can maybe help but it builds up and then you get depressed— and me, I get depressed and angry and despairing and— hate everything, including myself.  But up until they don’t work, they do.*  It’s a catch 22.

We’ll see how the mood is affected tomorrow when I go into work and all those situational stressors reassert themselves.  I did leave a voice mail for my shrink (it’s the weekend) of what I was planning to do.  I did tell my dad, who I live with, how I was feeling and what I was doing, but that I was basically ok if he just gave me some real quiet time this weekend.

It’s a rollercoaster and a ferris wheel— because it’s both up and down, but also it’s a slow cycle around.   I’ve been here before, in this crushing, aching, self-hating place, and I have to take a step back and give myself perspective even as I employ all my coping skills.  I have to be my own best cheerleader and say— you’ve deployed your support system, you’ve let people know you might need time off, you’ve been proactive, you’re taking time to yourself, you’re balancing quiet time and coping mechanisms like reading fanfic and listening to music with normal adulting stuff like doing laundry and taxes.  I have to remind myself that yes, it’s up and down, yet again, but the relative volatility isn’t as much, and if I was a jerk to someone at work, I did apologize right away and tell them they weren’t at fault— and they accepted that apology and let me be human, which is also a credit to me because this time, this career change that was a little more voluntary, a little less self-destruct, I chose a workplace where, for all there is too much work, at least I am allowed to be human.

Maybe this time, out of the crush, there’ll be some wine to drink— not just me, feeling like pulp.

*I have been on two other SSRIs from 2009-present before switching to wellbutrin in 2011-ish, and my shrink has always called wellbutrin an SSRI.  The wise ladyofthelog has noted, however, that wellbutrin is actually a DNRI, which I did not know until today, and which may well explain why I’ve been on it more or less steadily with two or three two-week-breaks, maintaining a pretty good mood state at low dosages (100 mg combined with the rest of my cocktail) for the last three years, when most of my other SSRIs usually only work for a year & a half at most.  Thanks, verity!  ❤

Please let’s not talk about the weather

This is an all over the place kind of post.

I suppose, first off, my mom is okay as far as I know– she was discharged from the hospital after an overnight with some treatment, but I haven’t talked to her.  My brother’s in touch with her.  I don’t think I’m going to be, anytime soon.  I have been pushing her to get this problem dealt with for a really long time and she hasn’t, and I’m just furious– despite the fact that I know that she’s crazy, that she’s literally so nuts she can’t hear anything outside the stories she needs to write for herself in her own head– that she can’t trust or listen to me.  (Even if she lies and says that she does because she knows I am angry at her and that makes her uncomfortable because it doesn’t fit into the story she tells herself about us.)  I had a talk with my new awesome therapist about it and clearly, still lots of work to slog through, but right now when he asks me the question– what do I want from her?  The answer is nothing, because I won’t get the things that I want.  I won’t get an apology.  I won’t get someone respectful of boundaries or attentive to my interests and issues, much less aware that I am a distinct intellectual entity.  So, sadly, what I want from her is, precisely, nothing for as long as that can be maintained, because her refusal to trust, to listen, to acknowledge the adult competencies she herself thrust upon me by her infantilizing, victimizing behavior and her need to nevertheless whine to me because she somehow things that we’re friends or I’m her mother?  It’s too much to bear.  The only resolution is no.  I feel bad my brother gets to deal with her, but then again, I do get my dad, and he does infuriate my brother in a way I mostly ignore or poke right back on.  Even trade?

I will help with any legal or medical matters, either at hospitalization, institutionalization, or death, but I can’t bring myself at this point to bear more.  I can only turn off my furiousness at her when I have to put on my I WILL FIX EVERYTHING HAT, the one she forced me to wear as a child, and then I will high tail it out of there to get fucking drunk off my ass– one of those rare times.

I have been debating if my creeping anguish and apathy and everything everything everything has been SAD, too much work, too much stress from my dad, some institutional problems at work that need active rooting out and more support than I’ve had but some of which may change soon– not enough therapy, or all of those things.  It’s just been getting worse, though, and while there are lights in the darkness I am starting to dread going into work, getting snarly, putting off yucky projects, and feeling generally hateful of everyone and everything.  I talked to my personal boss (rather than my store boss) about it and that I wasn’t sure what I needed quite yet but that I was feeling messy and I might need a little time off– she was supportive and when I offered with my heart in my mouth that I felt like I generally knew what I was doing, she agreed– but it’s going to be weeks before the institutional stuff at work is fixed and I’m in no place to have the patience to explain myself without starting to cry or just be a horrible beast.  (Which I can’t be, because I am the one who’s supposed to be the source of counsel.)

I have been dealing with being crazy for a while now.  I suppose this is “easier,” in that I haven’t messed anything up yet, I asked a boss for help and she said “whatever you want,” and while my plans to leave early when completely to shit because of said institutional problems, a few more perceptive coworkers saw I was in a really bad mood/didn’t look right and slowed their roll long enough to ask if I was okay.  I even was honest with a few of then and said “No, but thanks for asking.”  But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m so depressed and feeling isolated and lonely that I feel incapable and in need of a goddamned parade and a hug from everyone in the store and I KNOW I am overreacting to stuff– and I am afraid if I take time off, I won’t come back.  I need this job, this one in particular, plus the money is good, because even if I am getting fed up with the store, I like the company and I have plans for regional and eventually global domination.  And I don’t want to start over again, much less be angry and sad all the time.

Almost as a one-off, my new therapist asked me if maybe my meds needed tweaking once we ran through the was I eating & more or less sleeping routine, and OF FUCKING COURSE.  Lots of carb cravings, increased appetite (when they work, my meds make me very unhungry and anorexic in the clinical “lack of appetite” sense), mixed anger and sadness, no sense of humor, no time for any small talk or bullshit (and rage at any waste of my time) apathy, procrastination, anxiety, increased sleeplessness & anxiety dreams– and I’m so used to my old therapist being all MEDS AREN’T THE ANSWER that I haven’t been thinking that way.  (Maybe I should report her to the board of licensing, bullshit billing crap to the side.)  It’s been 5 years on this regimen, wellbutrin plus an antiepilectic and klonopin– it stands to measure that the SSRI has ceased to be effective, in the way that they do for bipolars, and that I need to wean myself off the wellbutrin and try something else.  (Yay, rapid cycling mixed states, kept under moderate control?)

Soooooo… do I work during that time?  In a fit of wisdom, I signed up for short term disability at annual enrollment, and I am sure that my therapist would write me a note, and that I could wrangle my shrink into writing something as well, though I don’t see her as much except for refills.  (And I should call her this weekend to set up a check in appointment for sooner/this week.)  I am worried the place would burn to the ground in my absence, but at the same time one of my institutional problems is people both taking me for granted and not paying attention, so maybe it would serve the damned bastards right.  I am concerned, though, about stigma when I return, and yet– if I can’t take the time off to get my shit together at a place like my current employer, then there’s no hope for anyone, anywhere, ever.

It’ll be spring sooner or later.  I’m just worried it won’t be soon enough, and after 5 years on this regimen, I have lots of worries about starting new meds and seeing how they will work.

Change is good– it has been.  I fucking hate it anyway.

When you were younger

I have a tumblr that’s fannish and full of pop culture nerdery.  It is not connected to this blog, for various reasons.  But one of the things I do blog about there is the idea that we each get to choose ourselves, even if it runs against what convention would tell us is “right.”

Recently, I reblogged someone’s tweet that said “be the person you needed when you were younger,” then added the comment “and tell your friends and family to fuck off if they don’t like it.”

I meant that and mean it still, though defining the contours of what I needed (someone to say yes, to listen, to tell me that I was great, to not criticize, someone who didn’t expect me to mediate their adult woes, those are all just starters) is an ongoing journey.  Continue reading