Because I have had so much trouble getting this blogger platform to do what I want it to do, and so many of you have been unable to post your comments, I decided to move. My new blog is now cedartreemarathon.wordpress.com
I hope you can take yourself off the followers list at this website and follow me there.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Gone But Not Forgotten
Got a call from my sister today. I'll call her Betsy. Why Betsy? Well, it's a rather old-fashioned name in my mind. And my sister is stuck in some old fashioned world that is far away from mine. She is schizophrenic. The gene is strong in our family. My mom, my sister, my cousin, probably an uncle.
Betsy was at a pay phone. She told me she was waiting for a bus to the university a few towns over. She said she was going to look up cartoons and copy them so she could give them to people and make them feel better. She then told me how to find cartoons in the library and insisted that I copy and give out cartoons too. I laughed a little, hemmed and hawed.
"Come on! Why don't you do it? You should do it. It will make people feel good. Promise me you will do it."
"Well, I kind of doubt I will."
"I know! Why not? Tell me why not?!"
"Well . . . it's really not my thing."
"Ok. I can accept that."
Talking with someone who is mentally ill elicits the same reaction in my body every time it happens. I tense my neck. I hold my breath. I feel like I am walking on a tightrope, balancing, balancing, and hoping the next gust of wind doesn't knock me over. I think walking on a tightrope is probably even easier in some ways, because if you know what you are doing, you can make it from one end to the other using all the skills you have practiced repeatedly.
Repeated interaction with someone who is mentally ill does not build a skillset that can be applied each time. In other words, mental illness is all about unpredictability. When you never know what is going to happen, when you know there is a good chance of something going wrong, but you can't predict the trigger, timing, or the outcome, all you can do is try to tiptoe through the conversation, alert, hyper-vigilent, hoping to avoid whatever hidden landmines are waiting to explode.
That was pretty much my childhood from 9 on, and it has continued as an adult, with less frequency of course, because I have my own life now.
My conversation with Betsy was not long. Once we got past the cartoons, there was the weather, and "how's church?" questions. She sounded strong which surprised me, because the last report I heard coming from her landlord and the people in her parish was rather alarming. It's extremely, unseasonably hot back where she lives, and Betsy has been walking out in the sun wearing sweaters. I asked her if she uses her air conditioner. No, she said. She hasn't really needed it. She doesn't like it.
People have reported her as being red faced and hunched over as she walks through town. She has been yelling at people. She is thin, and I know she does not eat well. "She needs to see a doctor", her very kind and loving landlord tells my other sister, Ellie. (I have given her this alias because she is a female version of a cross between TS Elioit and CS Lewis. If you combine their names you get Eloise--sort of. Ellie is short and easy.)
Well, of course. Yes, yes, yes. a doctor. How many times have I asked, explained, suggested, demanded that she see a doctor? I don't know. I know that the helplessness of family in these situations is unfathomable to those who haven't lived it. I have tried. I have had her hospitalized against her will. I have tried reasoning, helping, not helping, playing hardball, tiptoeing, being blunt, being mad, being sad, being loving and kind. I have been through every emotion, every strategy. I have called agencies, therapists, crisis workers, lawyers.
I cannot save my sister.
One person who knows the laws about guardianship told me that we will have no power to help, or force medication, or do anything on behalf of Betsy unless she is completely incapacitated, or in other words, no power to do anything unless something terrible happens.
The sister I knew is long gone. She was my best friend. She was my advocate, my personal cheerleader, the audience for my tales of teenage angst, the friend that stayed up nights late with me to giggle over nothing. She is gone.
The person occupying her body is not someone I know. Betsy does not wander about babbling and hallucinating in the way schizophrenic people are typically portrayed in film and tv, although I have seen her reacting to things that aren't there. She does however, engage people in a childlike way, making them uncomfortable.
Betsy can go on for a long time about herself, her view of life. Could she convince a policeman sent to determine if she is a danger to herself or others that she is perfectly fine? Yes, she could. Is she fine? No. Not in the least. Because, after what may appear to be a lucid conversation, Betsy might forget that the conversation even happened, or she might get on a bus and travel a 1000 miles with no money and no plan. She might knock on your door at 2 am, or send you strange postcards with writing that barely makes sense.
Sometimes when I go about my day, I stop and remember that she is living her life in a small apartment without much furniture, and few belongings, because she has taken a vow of poverty. She is lonely, feels useless and isolated, and, like a child, is unaware of the way the world works. If I allow myself to consider her world for very long, I can't feel mine. Anxiety, numbness, the shallow breathing that happens when I am in her presence, they take over when I let Betsy into my day.
But I can't let the grief consume me. I cannot let my empathy swallow my capacity to feel joy. If I do, I will drown. And so as my mind considers her day, and what it's like, I step away and focus on the flower in the neighbor's yard, or the dog barking for a walk. I say a little prayer. I allow myself to forget, until I remember. And perhaps on Sunday I will cut out a cartoon or two from the newspaper and send them to my sister.
Betsy was at a pay phone. She told me she was waiting for a bus to the university a few towns over. She said she was going to look up cartoons and copy them so she could give them to people and make them feel better. She then told me how to find cartoons in the library and insisted that I copy and give out cartoons too. I laughed a little, hemmed and hawed.
"Come on! Why don't you do it? You should do it. It will make people feel good. Promise me you will do it."
"Well, I kind of doubt I will."
"I know! Why not? Tell me why not?!"
"Well . . . it's really not my thing."
"Ok. I can accept that."
Talking with someone who is mentally ill elicits the same reaction in my body every time it happens. I tense my neck. I hold my breath. I feel like I am walking on a tightrope, balancing, balancing, and hoping the next gust of wind doesn't knock me over. I think walking on a tightrope is probably even easier in some ways, because if you know what you are doing, you can make it from one end to the other using all the skills you have practiced repeatedly.
Repeated interaction with someone who is mentally ill does not build a skillset that can be applied each time. In other words, mental illness is all about unpredictability. When you never know what is going to happen, when you know there is a good chance of something going wrong, but you can't predict the trigger, timing, or the outcome, all you can do is try to tiptoe through the conversation, alert, hyper-vigilent, hoping to avoid whatever hidden landmines are waiting to explode.
That was pretty much my childhood from 9 on, and it has continued as an adult, with less frequency of course, because I have my own life now.
My conversation with Betsy was not long. Once we got past the cartoons, there was the weather, and "how's church?" questions. She sounded strong which surprised me, because the last report I heard coming from her landlord and the people in her parish was rather alarming. It's extremely, unseasonably hot back where she lives, and Betsy has been walking out in the sun wearing sweaters. I asked her if she uses her air conditioner. No, she said. She hasn't really needed it. She doesn't like it.
People have reported her as being red faced and hunched over as she walks through town. She has been yelling at people. She is thin, and I know she does not eat well. "She needs to see a doctor", her very kind and loving landlord tells my other sister, Ellie. (I have given her this alias because she is a female version of a cross between TS Elioit and CS Lewis. If you combine their names you get Eloise--sort of. Ellie is short and easy.)
Well, of course. Yes, yes, yes. a doctor. How many times have I asked, explained, suggested, demanded that she see a doctor? I don't know. I know that the helplessness of family in these situations is unfathomable to those who haven't lived it. I have tried. I have had her hospitalized against her will. I have tried reasoning, helping, not helping, playing hardball, tiptoeing, being blunt, being mad, being sad, being loving and kind. I have been through every emotion, every strategy. I have called agencies, therapists, crisis workers, lawyers.
I cannot save my sister.
One person who knows the laws about guardianship told me that we will have no power to help, or force medication, or do anything on behalf of Betsy unless she is completely incapacitated, or in other words, no power to do anything unless something terrible happens.
The sister I knew is long gone. She was my best friend. She was my advocate, my personal cheerleader, the audience for my tales of teenage angst, the friend that stayed up nights late with me to giggle over nothing. She is gone.
The person occupying her body is not someone I know. Betsy does not wander about babbling and hallucinating in the way schizophrenic people are typically portrayed in film and tv, although I have seen her reacting to things that aren't there. She does however, engage people in a childlike way, making them uncomfortable.
Betsy can go on for a long time about herself, her view of life. Could she convince a policeman sent to determine if she is a danger to herself or others that she is perfectly fine? Yes, she could. Is she fine? No. Not in the least. Because, after what may appear to be a lucid conversation, Betsy might forget that the conversation even happened, or she might get on a bus and travel a 1000 miles with no money and no plan. She might knock on your door at 2 am, or send you strange postcards with writing that barely makes sense.
Sometimes when I go about my day, I stop and remember that she is living her life in a small apartment without much furniture, and few belongings, because she has taken a vow of poverty. She is lonely, feels useless and isolated, and, like a child, is unaware of the way the world works. If I allow myself to consider her world for very long, I can't feel mine. Anxiety, numbness, the shallow breathing that happens when I am in her presence, they take over when I let Betsy into my day.
But I can't let the grief consume me. I cannot let my empathy swallow my capacity to feel joy. If I do, I will drown. And so as my mind considers her day, and what it's like, I step away and focus on the flower in the neighbor's yard, or the dog barking for a walk. I say a little prayer. I allow myself to forget, until I remember. And perhaps on Sunday I will cut out a cartoon or two from the newspaper and send them to my sister.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Summer Time And The Livin' Is Easy
This is the day my daughter, Mosey, gets to switch back from the Incredible Hulk to a sweet, likable teenage girl. School is out today. Yearbook signing, paying lost book fees, shouting "woohoo!," all those things are being repeated in school hallways around the city. I'm doing my own little woohoo too. Mosey dreads school. She will not say that. If you ask her she will tell you school is fine, but for the last three months she has been late almost every single day. There is a reason for that.
Mosey has theater classes that she adores and excels in, but her other subjects create a low grade dread and a high amount of stress. I don't know what her grades will be this term, but the topic is not up for discussion with Mosey. At her age, and with her particular personality, forcing school issues does nothing but create an immediate escalation of fear. Consequences for undone homework only lead to more undone homework. Discipline is not the issue here. As smart as Mosey is, academics triggers a deep fight, flight or freeze response in my girl.
As someone who did ok in school and was reasonably responsible about homework, it has been a huge learning curve having children who struggle to stay engaged in an academic setting. They are both quick and sassy, able to take a look what's in front of them with insight and logic. Neither likes to sit and write or study however. It's like a buzzer goes off in their brains after an hour and it keeps beeping until they get up and do something else.
If academics is not Mosey's thing, I'm ok with it. The thing that makes this whole situation hard is that Mosey is not ok with it. I can't explain the dynamic except to say that she is happy out of school, stressed and miserable while in school, and yet Mosey thinks she should be pursuing an academic path after graduation.
I guess we all take our sweet time in discovering who we are and what we truly want to do. For those who don't have children at this age, let me tell you, standing back and letting your kids find their way is pretty damn hard. It's especially so for me because I grew up watching watching my mom function in the thrash/spiral-downward mode. Because she was mentally ill it never stopped. No lessons were ever learned, no progress ever made. So when anyone in my life does any thrashing at all I tend to freak out internally. My fear kicks in. My mind goes straight to all the possible outcomes with the word "misery" in them. This is not a good thing for a parent to do. What can I say? I'm working on it.
One more year and Mosey is out of the public school system. Yes, I look forward to that day more than she does I think. In the meantime sweet summer is here. Mosey has a job she loves and NO pressure. Under these circumstances, a delightful young woman emerges. She has a sense of humor and energy to do things. She is good company, talkative, cooperative, patient. Last spring, a mom - daughter weekend trip away from all the pressure of school gave me a glimpse of this exceptional young lady. I'm glad she'll be back. I'm hoping the peaceful, laid back mom will be hanging out too. Good times.
Mosey has theater classes that she adores and excels in, but her other subjects create a low grade dread and a high amount of stress. I don't know what her grades will be this term, but the topic is not up for discussion with Mosey. At her age, and with her particular personality, forcing school issues does nothing but create an immediate escalation of fear. Consequences for undone homework only lead to more undone homework. Discipline is not the issue here. As smart as Mosey is, academics triggers a deep fight, flight or freeze response in my girl.
As someone who did ok in school and was reasonably responsible about homework, it has been a huge learning curve having children who struggle to stay engaged in an academic setting. They are both quick and sassy, able to take a look what's in front of them with insight and logic. Neither likes to sit and write or study however. It's like a buzzer goes off in their brains after an hour and it keeps beeping until they get up and do something else.
If academics is not Mosey's thing, I'm ok with it. The thing that makes this whole situation hard is that Mosey is not ok with it. I can't explain the dynamic except to say that she is happy out of school, stressed and miserable while in school, and yet Mosey thinks she should be pursuing an academic path after graduation.
I guess we all take our sweet time in discovering who we are and what we truly want to do. For those who don't have children at this age, let me tell you, standing back and letting your kids find their way is pretty damn hard. It's especially so for me because I grew up watching watching my mom function in the thrash/spiral-downward mode. Because she was mentally ill it never stopped. No lessons were ever learned, no progress ever made. So when anyone in my life does any thrashing at all I tend to freak out internally. My fear kicks in. My mind goes straight to all the possible outcomes with the word "misery" in them. This is not a good thing for a parent to do. What can I say? I'm working on it.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Advantages of Being Disorderly
I had a lot to do today.
I was going to buy a new computer -- Yay! It's only been probabaly 15 years since we bought a new one.
I was going to go to the Emergency Essentials store and buy a big barrel for water storage -- With all the disasters going on over the last few months, I think having 55 gallons of water in our basement would be a good thing.
I was going to pay the bills -- A big one is hanging over my head and I want it taken care of.
I was going to go to the gym -- I've gained weight because I've been depressed and I eat to make myself feel better.
I was going to go the temple -- Always a good idea.
None of those things happened.
I did get to the bank. I did help a friend who needed to talk on the phone for quite awhile. I did help a lady in our ward who needed me to do something for her on the computer. I did read the paper, walk the dog, and later go to the dogpark. I did go to Office Max to buy printer paper, pick up Mosey's med's, (Mosey is my daughter--I'm calling her that in my blog because she loves to mosey everywhere she goes) and buy some milk. I also took a shower, listened to a book on CD while in the car, read my email, and now I'm writing this blog.
So some things got done--- but I feel guilty. Why? It's because I can't compete with JJ. He is superman, super-organizer, super- task doer. Those qualities are his gifts. He is the energizer bunny with an intense need to put all things in order. Give him a list and watch him go. But I am . . . well, I am pretty much a human version of Winnie The Pooh. I had someone tell me once that I have small motor. It's true. In my day to day life at home, I get overwhelmed easily and I struggle to stay moving at a brisk pace. I need a little smackeral after I've done a chore, or have run an errand. I need to sit down and just veg after interaction with other people.
I know I would probably get more done if I left behind this guilt I carry around about not getting things done! I do much better when I stop beating myself up and let go of the anxiety. The other day I was quite down, and when I decided it was perfectly fine to feel down, I started feeling better. Weird, huh?
So what's my point? I guess my point is that although I am now in an anxious state about all the things I didn't do, the friend that I spoke with on the phone is doing better, my dog is happy, the woman in my ward who asked for my help will get her internet list of cars for sale, and because I blogged I will be more content, having exercised my writing muscles today.So it's all right to give myself a little Pooh Bear pat and say ta-ta to the guilt. The unexpected and fulfilling things took priority, and for me, that's usually how it goes.(tiddley-pom)
"One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries."
--- A A Milne
I was going to buy a new computer -- Yay! It's only been probabaly 15 years since we bought a new one.
I was going to go to the Emergency Essentials store and buy a big barrel for water storage -- With all the disasters going on over the last few months, I think having 55 gallons of water in our basement would be a good thing.
I was going to pay the bills -- A big one is hanging over my head and I want it taken care of.
I was going to go to the gym -- I've gained weight because I've been depressed and I eat to make myself feel better.
I was going to go the temple -- Always a good idea.
None of those things happened.
I did get to the bank. I did help a friend who needed to talk on the phone for quite awhile. I did help a lady in our ward who needed me to do something for her on the computer. I did read the paper, walk the dog, and later go to the dogpark. I did go to Office Max to buy printer paper, pick up Mosey's med's, (Mosey is my daughter--I'm calling her that in my blog because she loves to mosey everywhere she goes) and buy some milk. I also took a shower, listened to a book on CD while in the car, read my email, and now I'm writing this blog.
So some things got done--- but I feel guilty. Why? It's because I can't compete with JJ. He is superman, super-organizer, super- task doer. Those qualities are his gifts. He is the energizer bunny with an intense need to put all things in order. Give him a list and watch him go. But I am . . . well, I am pretty much a human version of Winnie The Pooh. I had someone tell me once that I have small motor. It's true. In my day to day life at home, I get overwhelmed easily and I struggle to stay moving at a brisk pace. I need a little smackeral after I've done a chore, or have run an errand. I need to sit down and just veg after interaction with other people.
I know I would probably get more done if I left behind this guilt I carry around about not getting things done! I do much better when I stop beating myself up and let go of the anxiety. The other day I was quite down, and when I decided it was perfectly fine to feel down, I started feeling better. Weird, huh?
"One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries."
--- A A Milne
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