This is not a delightful post. It's not a snarky little romp. It's not cute or sweet or witty. You have been warned.
The following events occurred a little more than two years ago. Some of the elements are fuzzy, shaded by a less-than-precise memory and muted by all the life that has unfolded since. Other details, mostly the scariest ones, are crisp as starched linen, clear as a dewdrop and heavy enough to hold, my arms aching with their weight.
On a Saturday morning, a few weeks after Easter, I woke earlier than I wanted as had become my habit. I had been back on Zoloft for only a few days and had seen my new therapist exactly once. Nothing in my tortured existence had changed substantially. I lay in bed awhile, trying to marshal my countless scattered thoughts and talk myself down from panicked feelings. It's one thing to have anxiety and/or panic attacks and another to have them starting the moment you're awake. It's hard to feel sunny or be optimistic about the day when feelings of dread and angst take hold before you even open your eyes.
There are, of course, commonalities between people who have anxiety but ultimately, everyone experiences it in their own unique way. In my case, I had both amorphous, shapeless generalized anxiety and concrete, distinctive panic attacks. The anxiety hung around all day, a pervasive and unwelcome visitor that started in my brain and permeated my being from toenails to hair follicles. It told me that I could not, should not do anything outside of my comfort zone. Said comfort zone continued to shrink and became nothing more than going to work and holding things together at home. Barely. Every decision in my life became an exercise in "what if?" played out to the worst case scenario every time. Did I not understand all the things I couldn't control and the disastrous consequences of going about the business of living? The classic fight or flight instinct told me I must do one or the other virtually every moment of the day. Yet I could do neither because instead I was paralyzed with fear and prisoner to my thoughts.
My panic attacks were a different animal. They were completely irrational and so intense it was everything I could do not to scream and claw at my own skin. Some people's panic attacks have specific triggers, most of mine did not. As I've noted before, I was incredibly tuned in to my body's every tiny sensation. Sometimes I could feel whatever it was that initiated the meltdown sequence. More often, however, panic attacks came at me sideways, without warning and without pity. Panic would start in the pit of my stomach and radiate from there. I would get hot, sweaty, tingly, dizzy and feel I couldn't breathe. The physical feelings were accompanied simply by the petrified thought: "Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh no!" as though the world were coming to an end. Having a potent and prolonged feeling of impending doom several times a day for no perceivable reason is a recipe for a mental health crisis. I guarantee it.
As I've mentioned, I usually felt better in the late afternoons and evenings and that's when I would take a walk. It seemed natural to pair my better mood with the boost I got from exercise. The first part of the day would be utterly miserable but if I could double up on positive ingredients I could sometimes come close to feeling marginally normal. (By the way, you should know you're in trouble when "sometimes close to feeling marginally normal" is the best you can hope for.) On this particular Saturday I was so edgy and disturbed I felt if I had to wait until afternoon to exercise I would spontaneously combust. I set out feeling like a tornado, purplish-greenish-black and twisted and dangerous. My hope was that a wave of endorphins, however small, would wash over me and release enough optimism to contain the impending disaster. Halfway through my circuit it was evident that it was not going to work. With every step I felt like I was walking closer to the gallows. The fear, panic and dread was so strong, so all-consuming that I did not perceive myself. I only felt like a walking, breathing manifestation of misery. As I stood waiting to cross a street I heard a voice. It was my voice and it was someone else entirely and it had only one thing to say: "END IT ALL." Insistent and commanding. Over and over and over and over and over. There was no room for another single thought. My soul instantly knew this is what it had been both fearing and hoping for. A solution.
I arrived home, head full of toxins, and was on the front step when Troy came from the garage and asked how my walk was. It took no more than that for the dike to be breached and the raw sewage of my thoughts and emotions to come roaring out. I shook my head vehemently apropos of nothing and cried. Sobbed, actually. This is what it felt like to know I had no future. This is what it was to see him for the last time and know there was nothing he could do to help me. In that moment, all I wanted was my friend Kim, who lives next door. She is one in a very small circle of soulmates who know pretty much everything there is to know about me and love me in spite of it. She's a social worker by trade and a natural-born caregiver who has given me immeasurable joy, comfort and understanding in the many years we've known each other. I said simply "I want Kim" and Troy ran next door to fetch her. I don't know what I would have done if Kim hadn't been home that morning. I imagine I wouldn't be here to write this crappy blog.
Kim came right over and I stood on that doorstep, having an epic hysterical breakdown. I was screaming and weeping, keening and choking. I remember my face, drenched with tears and mucus. I remember trying to clear it all away, wiping it on the siding in front of our house and then being even more disgusted with myself, which I hadn't thought possible. I remember being unable to stop ranting and wailing. I felt like I was having an out of body experience; I must have already committed the unspeakable act because this could not be me. There was no coming back from this madness. I would not sit down, would not be held or comforted. Kim would later tell me I looked as if I wanted nothing more than to get out of my own skin. I paced in a four square-foot space and babbled. When it became clear to Kim that I was talking about killing myself she quietly had Troy call 911. She continued to try to calm me until the paramedics and police showed up. They then took over the thankless task of trying to get me to make sense. Most of this is a blur. I know I was thinking about my boys and that I kept saying "My babies, my babies!" although they were sixteen at the time. I could not think about them specifically or what my committing suicide would do to them. I only knew that I was failing them, had failed them, utterly.
After an hour or eight minutes or an eternity or thirty seconds, the EMTs convinced me to go to the ambulance so they could give me a sedative. Everything was up to me. We could go as slowly as I needed. I didn't need to decide anything more in that moment. They assured me again and again that if I chose to go to the hospital there were people there who could help. Help. Yes, help would be good. People who could help? Really? Yes, ok. For some reason I did not think there was such a thing. Not really. I was helped into the ambulance and put on my back on the stretcher so they could administer something to calm me down. Gradually my heart rate and breathing slowed so I was no longer gulping for air though my brain wasn't so easily quieted. They were peaceful and professional, asking their 63,000 questions and taking my vitals. I felt mostly dead inside with a crackly, unhinged exterior. I agreed to go to the hospital where the helpers were said to be. I believed they would take one look at me, know I was a fraud and send me home where I would once again spiral into a storm and do exactly what I had just narrowly avoided.
Well...here I am, two years later. Obviously. My hospitalization and the ups and downs of my subsequent treatment is the next part of the story. In the meantime, I urge you to talk to someone - anyone - if you're having mental health issues. There is help. There is healing. There is no shame in saying you can't do it alone. I promise.
Sunday, June 18, 2017
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Now...Where Was I?
I want to write about all kinds of things but in order to go forward, I feel I must go back and finish the story I was telling two years ago. New stuff is coming, I promise! Bear with me while I shake out these dusty old cobwebs.
As March marched on and April approached, I became a walking ghost, barely showing up in my own life. Patrick Swayze had nothing on me. In the morning I would try to force myself to stay in bed even though sleep remained as elusive as an honest politician or a decent Nickelback song. I lay there, tossing and turning, obsessively thinking about how awful the day could be and picking apart every minute sensation in my body that might indicate "DANGER!" At work I became more withdrawn and relied heavily on the kindness and steadiness of my "anchor people" (most of whom didn't and still don't even know they were such) to bolster me. On the occasion when one or more of them were not at work my silent screams would have rivaled anything Edvard Munch could have envisioned. I could not work out how to get through the day without my touchstones. Outside of work I started to exercise obsessively, trying to capitalize on that fleeting bit of positive energy I got from rushing endorphins. I became very sensitive to what I ate and when, and so mostly stopped eating at all. I still attended to all my motherly duties, though without much joy and even less patience. I had started stirring a cocktail for a meltdown without even knowing it.
Late afternoons and evenings were almost always better for me, mentally speaking. Maybe just because I was that much closer to sleep, which though not perfect, provided a respite from the constant grinding fear and worry of the day. Yet, what a bitter punishment it was to lie down at night and realize I had wasted the entire day worrying about things that never came to pass. I should have been able to sleep, so tired was I of beating myself up for things beyond my control. Ah, control...my longtime frenemy. I can't really remember a time when I wasn't controlling. I want things done my way, on my timetable, in a fashion that I approve of. That's not the least bit taxing, is it? Growing up, I would organize my friends and relatives into plays and musicals starring me, written by me and directed by...wait for it...me. Woe betide the 6-year old cousin who missed a cue or forgot a line! As I grew into adulthood I controlled relationships however I could. Romantic, friendly, familial, it didn't matter. I always wanted the upper hand, always wanted to be the one to decide the shape and texture of our interactions. It's a wonder any other member of the human race was willing to put up with me for more than thirty seconds. I thought control made for peace; that I could be closer to perfection if I could just have Every. Single. Thing. nailed down. In reality, it's just so very exhausting, this need to have everything on point and following form and I did not have an ounce of energy to spare.
Now, as you may know, time will go on and the earth will turn regardless of what is going on in your life or your head. Stupid time. Stupid Earth. Easter arrived and I shellacked on a happy face and went through the motions of our annual traditions. My little family of four slept in. We had the requisite egg and basket hunt. We had our usual exotic brunch of pastries, juice and hard boiled eggs. I wanted to go for a hike so we headed to the nearby regional park, expansive and brimming with all things spring including massive piles of dog shit exposed after the melting of winter's snow. We walked and talked, and I laughed on the outside while a storm brewed in my brain. Along that walk I began to see all the dark, secret places a person could disappear. Places one could go in the deep of night, take a bottle full of sleeping pills washed down with, ironically, life's perfect elixir (a Coke from McDonald's), lie down and escape forever. Maybe being discovered eventually, maybe not at all. It was thrilling and terrifying, both. In my previous bout of depression, I often had the thought that I wouldn't mind just not waking up some morning. I wanted the constant loneliness and anxiety to stop but never devised a plan. Never felt so low that I would actually begin to determine the how, when and where of killing myself. This time was different.
A few weeks passed, ugly and brutal. It was a Herculean effort to push away the black thoughts that grew more prominent every day. I tried to get help, I did. I went to my doctor who put me back on the anti-depressant I had been weaned off of a mere year earlier. I started contacting therapists, trying desperately to be seen sometime before the turn of the century. Almost everywhere I called was booked solid. Would I like to make an appointment for September? No, thank you. What I'd like is to jump through the phone line and strangle the living crap out of you. All this while I was working and tending to my family and all this while I felt like every nerve in my body was exposed and raw. I was hanging on by the very thinnest of threads, having panic attack after panic attack all day, every day and feeling barely able to breathe. Finally, I found someone who could see me on short notice and left my first appointment ever so slightly buoyed. However, I was also unnerved by her statement that she would have me "feeling better. Not good, but better." Oh, no. No, no, no. I needed to feel good. Better than good. Perfect. I mean, hello! Control freak, here! One of the most frustrating things for someone who is deeply depressed is that both medication and therapy take time to make inroads into the toxic sludge that takes hold of your mind. Time is the last thing you feel you have.
I'll leave you with a little cliffhanger. The shit is about to hit the fan. The world's biggest fan. Or maybe one of those wind turbine thingies. Just trust me, it gets bad. Fast.
Until next time...
As March marched on and April approached, I became a walking ghost, barely showing up in my own life. Patrick Swayze had nothing on me. In the morning I would try to force myself to stay in bed even though sleep remained as elusive as an honest politician or a decent Nickelback song. I lay there, tossing and turning, obsessively thinking about how awful the day could be and picking apart every minute sensation in my body that might indicate "DANGER!" At work I became more withdrawn and relied heavily on the kindness and steadiness of my "anchor people" (most of whom didn't and still don't even know they were such) to bolster me. On the occasion when one or more of them were not at work my silent screams would have rivaled anything Edvard Munch could have envisioned. I could not work out how to get through the day without my touchstones. Outside of work I started to exercise obsessively, trying to capitalize on that fleeting bit of positive energy I got from rushing endorphins. I became very sensitive to what I ate and when, and so mostly stopped eating at all. I still attended to all my motherly duties, though without much joy and even less patience. I had started stirring a cocktail for a meltdown without even knowing it.
Late afternoons and evenings were almost always better for me, mentally speaking. Maybe just because I was that much closer to sleep, which though not perfect, provided a respite from the constant grinding fear and worry of the day. Yet, what a bitter punishment it was to lie down at night and realize I had wasted the entire day worrying about things that never came to pass. I should have been able to sleep, so tired was I of beating myself up for things beyond my control. Ah, control...my longtime frenemy. I can't really remember a time when I wasn't controlling. I want things done my way, on my timetable, in a fashion that I approve of. That's not the least bit taxing, is it? Growing up, I would organize my friends and relatives into plays and musicals starring me, written by me and directed by...wait for it...me. Woe betide the 6-year old cousin who missed a cue or forgot a line! As I grew into adulthood I controlled relationships however I could. Romantic, friendly, familial, it didn't matter. I always wanted the upper hand, always wanted to be the one to decide the shape and texture of our interactions. It's a wonder any other member of the human race was willing to put up with me for more than thirty seconds. I thought control made for peace; that I could be closer to perfection if I could just have Every. Single. Thing. nailed down. In reality, it's just so very exhausting, this need to have everything on point and following form and I did not have an ounce of energy to spare.
Now, as you may know, time will go on and the earth will turn regardless of what is going on in your life or your head. Stupid time. Stupid Earth. Easter arrived and I shellacked on a happy face and went through the motions of our annual traditions. My little family of four slept in. We had the requisite egg and basket hunt. We had our usual exotic brunch of pastries, juice and hard boiled eggs. I wanted to go for a hike so we headed to the nearby regional park, expansive and brimming with all things spring including massive piles of dog shit exposed after the melting of winter's snow. We walked and talked, and I laughed on the outside while a storm brewed in my brain. Along that walk I began to see all the dark, secret places a person could disappear. Places one could go in the deep of night, take a bottle full of sleeping pills washed down with, ironically, life's perfect elixir (a Coke from McDonald's), lie down and escape forever. Maybe being discovered eventually, maybe not at all. It was thrilling and terrifying, both. In my previous bout of depression, I often had the thought that I wouldn't mind just not waking up some morning. I wanted the constant loneliness and anxiety to stop but never devised a plan. Never felt so low that I would actually begin to determine the how, when and where of killing myself. This time was different.
A few weeks passed, ugly and brutal. It was a Herculean effort to push away the black thoughts that grew more prominent every day. I tried to get help, I did. I went to my doctor who put me back on the anti-depressant I had been weaned off of a mere year earlier. I started contacting therapists, trying desperately to be seen sometime before the turn of the century. Almost everywhere I called was booked solid. Would I like to make an appointment for September? No, thank you. What I'd like is to jump through the phone line and strangle the living crap out of you. All this while I was working and tending to my family and all this while I felt like every nerve in my body was exposed and raw. I was hanging on by the very thinnest of threads, having panic attack after panic attack all day, every day and feeling barely able to breathe. Finally, I found someone who could see me on short notice and left my first appointment ever so slightly buoyed. However, I was also unnerved by her statement that she would have me "feeling better. Not good, but better." Oh, no. No, no, no. I needed to feel good. Better than good. Perfect. I mean, hello! Control freak, here! One of the most frustrating things for someone who is deeply depressed is that both medication and therapy take time to make inroads into the toxic sludge that takes hold of your mind. Time is the last thing you feel you have.
I'll leave you with a little cliffhanger. The shit is about to hit the fan. The world's biggest fan. Or maybe one of those wind turbine thingies. Just trust me, it gets bad. Fast.
Until next time...
Saturday, June 13, 2015
The Elephant in the Room
In my last blog I wrote about sleep. Or the lack of it, to be more precise. As little as four months ago I had no idea that sleep was such an integral part of mental health. It's one of those neato arrangements where Circumstance A affects Circumstance B and Circumstance B affects Circumstance A, and round and round we go. I wasn't really familiar with this pattern because my first bout of depression and anxiety was accompanied by an ability to sleep at the drop of a hat. No, truly...my boys would walk in the door after school, throw their hats on the floor and I would be out faster than a narcoleptic on a date with a glass of tepid water.
We pick up with me plugging along through the dwindling winter and waiting for the warm breezes and extra sunlight of spring. For years now I've contemplated getting one of those lights used by people with Seasonal Affective Disorder. Then I convince myself that I feel just fine - just fine, thank you! - and don't want to shell out any money for something I don't really need. Then spring shows up in all her colorful glory and I realize how totally down I was all winter and that Damn It!, I really need one of those lights. But now that spring is here I don't need it anymore, so I'll just remember to buy one at the end of fall for next winter. And God laughs.
So here I was, sleep-deprived and feeling low. Winter in Minnesota is about as cheerful as the 183rd bowl of oatmeal I had during the season in the hope that if something warm was going into me maybe the cold outside would be easier to bear. Not so, my friends. Not so.
Along came March and with it, an elephant costume. The elementary school where I work had just finished "I Love to Read" month. To celebrate the end of a successful campaign, we decided to have an assembly on March 2nd. As part of the program we library chicks dressed up as Elephant & Piggie, two characters from the imagination of author Mo Willems. Mr. Willems has several different childrens' book franchises and as I remark to my co-worker on a regular basis, dude must be absolutely rolling in dough. Seriously, the kids cannot get enough of his books. I have seen tears, heard threats and broken up 2nd grade fisticuffs over the last book on the shelf. Although it's a harder sell because it's not part of a series, I must say, 'Naked Mole Rat Gets Dressed' is my personal favorite. Truth.
I digress.
For the Elephant costume I fashioned ears, a tail and trunk out of old gray fleece pants and wore newer gray fleece pants and pullover. There seems to be an abundance of gray fleece in my home that I don't completely understand except to tell you that Troy's favorite color is gray and that for comfort, fleece rules all. On that momentous day, anytime a class or even a lone student would come into the library, I put the trunk on. Otherwise it was stifling and ridiculously uncomfortable with its elastic face manacles and toilet paper roll frame which dug into my nose without mercy. Somewhere in the late morning, I started feeling panicky. I had not had one of these episodes in years and it was about as welcome as several little black curly hairs on your pristine white pillowcase when you check into a 4-star hotel.
I had several episodes of panic that day. I'm not what you could call an natural optimist but after every episode that day I assured myself that this would be the last and my life could go on, replete with hours on Facebook, too many fast food meals and ignoring the dirty dishes piled precariously on the kitchen counter. The next day and the next and the next - you get the idea - brought mornings brimming with hope and not-much-later mornings with the hard smack of reality in the shape of panic attacks that increased both in frequency and intensity. I blame the elephant trunk. You see, for many people shallow breathing is a hallmark of anxiety. That stupid trunk had me breathing CO2 and for all I know it triggered a memory from 8 years ago when shallow breathing was a result of my anxiousness.
Looking back I see things that contributed to my state of mind as much and probably more than the trunk. These include: the aforementioned lack of sleep, a falling out with my best friend that fell right back in but was sad and upsetting nonetheless, and fears about my health. The anxiety & depression I experienced in 2007 it was triggered by medical issues. I had gone to Urgent Care with chest pains and in the course of doing diagnostic tests the doctor informed me that it looked like I had an enlarged heart. I lost my shit big time, right there in the examination room. For some reason I'm not nearly as scared of cancer, diabetes, ALS or a host of other shitty diagnoses as I am of having heart problems. Over the next several weeks, many more tests, calls to come in to the clinic Right. Fricking. Now. and consultations with multiple specialists, it was determined that I had a pericardial effusion (copious amounts of fluid in the sac around my heart) brought on by a virus. Despite one of the doctor's assertions that if that much fluid suddenly (key word: suddenly) accumulated around his heart, he would drop dead, I was not in any immediate danger. I was monitored over the next few months to see if they would need to get in there with a needle and draw off some of the fluid. It never came to that and life resumed right where it left off. Or it should have. By then I was so freaked out and focused on what was going on in my body I was experiencing panic every waking moment. Hence my desire to sleep like I was trying to set a world record.
Apart from sleep issues and shallow breathing, another physical manifestation of anxiety is a supremely fucked up gastrointestinal system. In my case, food would go in and everything would immediately shut down. I felt like I had a cork in my throat and a stomach the size of a thimble. Eating would produce a panic attack faster than you can say "yes, I WOULD like fries with that!" It was not long before I was drinking a nutrition shake or eating a cup of yogurt and maybe some fresh fruit. Not for a meal, for the day. Exercising made my endorphins flow so I walked, lifted and/or did aerobics twice a day. I lost 40 pounds in the amount of time it took you to read this sentence. People who were envious of my spectacular new physique were met with a withering glare coupled with the pronouncement that they would not like to lose weight in the manner that I was. I may also have flounced away once or twice.
This time I had another heart-related episode. Last October I was in the middle of a "get healthy" competition with a friend, my sister and various others vying for a cash prize. It was a common sense 12-week program of eating fruits & veggies, exercising, tracking all food eaten every day, etc. Of course, drinking water was a big part of the deal as evidenced by me setting up camp in the bathroom and coming out only long enough to drink more water. On this particular night I was getting ready to go to bed and realized that I was 16 ounces of water short for the day. So I poured me a nice tall glass of icy agua and chugged. Before I even got to the bottom of the glass I could feel the rhythm of my heart change. I've had this sensation scattered through the past several years for a couple of moments at a time. Not so this night. Normally your heart has its boring little ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum rhythm. This was more like jazz phrasing: ba-bum, ba-skiddly-whappo-do-dat-dowwwwwww. And repeat. Friends, it scared the shit out of me.
After a solid 45 minutes of Ella Fitzgerald scatting in my chest I woke Troy up. We decided we should go to the ER so, leaving the boys sleeping and unaware, off we went. Luckily there were very few other patients there that night, though I now understand that when you walk in saying anything about your heart you will likely find yourself stripped down and lying on a gurney with every manner of wire attached to you in short order. The nurses determined that I was in Atrial Fibrillation and after consulting with the doctor it was decided that they would put me to sleep and shock my heart back into rhythm. I was also dehydrated and low on potassium but getting those in an IV drip is decidedly less glamorous and barely worth mentioning. Right before they put me out, one of the nurses said "This is an anesthesia. You're going to sleep like Michael Jackson." To which I said, "What? Permanently?" Her fellow nurses glared at her and I would like to place a bet that she hasn't used that particular analogy since that night.
I have had no further A-Fib episodes, not that I'm 100% certain of, anyway. They can be fleeting and hard to pinpoint. But my crazy, overloaded brain wants to attribute every feeling, every sensation from my neck to my undercarriage, to my heart. This is unreasonable, particularly with the way anxiety messes with my GI tract but try convincing my gray matter of that. It's funny, because we came home from the hospital at about 3 a.m. and took the next day off to get some sleep, but after that I really didn't give the episode much thought. I attributed it to a one-time phenomenon of guzzling so much ice water. My brand-new, hot-as-a-ghost-pepper cardiologist said it could definitely be. I think it was hugely half-glass-full of me to think that my subconscious hadn't glommed on to the fear of having something wrong with my heart and leaving it right at the doorstep to my brain, just waiting for lack of sleep, SAD, a row with my bestie, a costume and a boatload of stress to come together and make an utterly disgusting stew of mental illness.
Depression & anxiety, people...the elephant in the room.
We pick up with me plugging along through the dwindling winter and waiting for the warm breezes and extra sunlight of spring. For years now I've contemplated getting one of those lights used by people with Seasonal Affective Disorder. Then I convince myself that I feel just fine - just fine, thank you! - and don't want to shell out any money for something I don't really need. Then spring shows up in all her colorful glory and I realize how totally down I was all winter and that Damn It!, I really need one of those lights. But now that spring is here I don't need it anymore, so I'll just remember to buy one at the end of fall for next winter. And God laughs.
So here I was, sleep-deprived and feeling low. Winter in Minnesota is about as cheerful as the 183rd bowl of oatmeal I had during the season in the hope that if something warm was going into me maybe the cold outside would be easier to bear. Not so, my friends. Not so.
Along came March and with it, an elephant costume. The elementary school where I work had just finished "I Love to Read" month. To celebrate the end of a successful campaign, we decided to have an assembly on March 2nd. As part of the program we library chicks dressed up as Elephant & Piggie, two characters from the imagination of author Mo Willems. Mr. Willems has several different childrens' book franchises and as I remark to my co-worker on a regular basis, dude must be absolutely rolling in dough. Seriously, the kids cannot get enough of his books. I have seen tears, heard threats and broken up 2nd grade fisticuffs over the last book on the shelf. Although it's a harder sell because it's not part of a series, I must say, 'Naked Mole Rat Gets Dressed' is my personal favorite. Truth.
I digress.
For the Elephant costume I fashioned ears, a tail and trunk out of old gray fleece pants and wore newer gray fleece pants and pullover. There seems to be an abundance of gray fleece in my home that I don't completely understand except to tell you that Troy's favorite color is gray and that for comfort, fleece rules all. On that momentous day, anytime a class or even a lone student would come into the library, I put the trunk on. Otherwise it was stifling and ridiculously uncomfortable with its elastic face manacles and toilet paper roll frame which dug into my nose without mercy. Somewhere in the late morning, I started feeling panicky. I had not had one of these episodes in years and it was about as welcome as several little black curly hairs on your pristine white pillowcase when you check into a 4-star hotel.
I had several episodes of panic that day. I'm not what you could call an natural optimist but after every episode that day I assured myself that this would be the last and my life could go on, replete with hours on Facebook, too many fast food meals and ignoring the dirty dishes piled precariously on the kitchen counter. The next day and the next and the next - you get the idea - brought mornings brimming with hope and not-much-later mornings with the hard smack of reality in the shape of panic attacks that increased both in frequency and intensity. I blame the elephant trunk. You see, for many people shallow breathing is a hallmark of anxiety. That stupid trunk had me breathing CO2 and for all I know it triggered a memory from 8 years ago when shallow breathing was a result of my anxiousness.
Looking back I see things that contributed to my state of mind as much and probably more than the trunk. These include: the aforementioned lack of sleep, a falling out with my best friend that fell right back in but was sad and upsetting nonetheless, and fears about my health. The anxiety & depression I experienced in 2007 it was triggered by medical issues. I had gone to Urgent Care with chest pains and in the course of doing diagnostic tests the doctor informed me that it looked like I had an enlarged heart. I lost my shit big time, right there in the examination room. For some reason I'm not nearly as scared of cancer, diabetes, ALS or a host of other shitty diagnoses as I am of having heart problems. Over the next several weeks, many more tests, calls to come in to the clinic Right. Fricking. Now. and consultations with multiple specialists, it was determined that I had a pericardial effusion (copious amounts of fluid in the sac around my heart) brought on by a virus. Despite one of the doctor's assertions that if that much fluid suddenly (key word: suddenly) accumulated around his heart, he would drop dead, I was not in any immediate danger. I was monitored over the next few months to see if they would need to get in there with a needle and draw off some of the fluid. It never came to that and life resumed right where it left off. Or it should have. By then I was so freaked out and focused on what was going on in my body I was experiencing panic every waking moment. Hence my desire to sleep like I was trying to set a world record.
Apart from sleep issues and shallow breathing, another physical manifestation of anxiety is a supremely fucked up gastrointestinal system. In my case, food would go in and everything would immediately shut down. I felt like I had a cork in my throat and a stomach the size of a thimble. Eating would produce a panic attack faster than you can say "yes, I WOULD like fries with that!" It was not long before I was drinking a nutrition shake or eating a cup of yogurt and maybe some fresh fruit. Not for a meal, for the day. Exercising made my endorphins flow so I walked, lifted and/or did aerobics twice a day. I lost 40 pounds in the amount of time it took you to read this sentence. People who were envious of my spectacular new physique were met with a withering glare coupled with the pronouncement that they would not like to lose weight in the manner that I was. I may also have flounced away once or twice.
This time I had another heart-related episode. Last October I was in the middle of a "get healthy" competition with a friend, my sister and various others vying for a cash prize. It was a common sense 12-week program of eating fruits & veggies, exercising, tracking all food eaten every day, etc. Of course, drinking water was a big part of the deal as evidenced by me setting up camp in the bathroom and coming out only long enough to drink more water. On this particular night I was getting ready to go to bed and realized that I was 16 ounces of water short for the day. So I poured me a nice tall glass of icy agua and chugged. Before I even got to the bottom of the glass I could feel the rhythm of my heart change. I've had this sensation scattered through the past several years for a couple of moments at a time. Not so this night. Normally your heart has its boring little ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum rhythm. This was more like jazz phrasing: ba-bum, ba-skiddly-whappo-do-dat-dowwwwwww. And repeat. Friends, it scared the shit out of me.
After a solid 45 minutes of Ella Fitzgerald scatting in my chest I woke Troy up. We decided we should go to the ER so, leaving the boys sleeping and unaware, off we went. Luckily there were very few other patients there that night, though I now understand that when you walk in saying anything about your heart you will likely find yourself stripped down and lying on a gurney with every manner of wire attached to you in short order. The nurses determined that I was in Atrial Fibrillation and after consulting with the doctor it was decided that they would put me to sleep and shock my heart back into rhythm. I was also dehydrated and low on potassium but getting those in an IV drip is decidedly less glamorous and barely worth mentioning. Right before they put me out, one of the nurses said "This is an anesthesia. You're going to sleep like Michael Jackson." To which I said, "What? Permanently?" Her fellow nurses glared at her and I would like to place a bet that she hasn't used that particular analogy since that night.
I have had no further A-Fib episodes, not that I'm 100% certain of, anyway. They can be fleeting and hard to pinpoint. But my crazy, overloaded brain wants to attribute every feeling, every sensation from my neck to my undercarriage, to my heart. This is unreasonable, particularly with the way anxiety messes with my GI tract but try convincing my gray matter of that. It's funny, because we came home from the hospital at about 3 a.m. and took the next day off to get some sleep, but after that I really didn't give the episode much thought. I attributed it to a one-time phenomenon of guzzling so much ice water. My brand-new, hot-as-a-ghost-pepper cardiologist said it could definitely be. I think it was hugely half-glass-full of me to think that my subconscious hadn't glommed on to the fear of having something wrong with my heart and leaving it right at the doorstep to my brain, just waiting for lack of sleep, SAD, a row with my bestie, a costume and a boatload of stress to come together and make an utterly disgusting stew of mental illness.
Depression & anxiety, people...the elephant in the room.
Friday, May 8, 2015
Warning Bells
It began in January. Or perhaps February. I wasn't paying close attention and the exact date doesn't much matter anyway. Somewhere deep in the endless Minnesota winter I stopped sleeping well. I began waking throughout the night and earlier in the morning than I cared to. You must understand, as sleepers go I reigned supreme, if I do say so myself. I could go to bed at pretty much any time, summon the slumber of the dead and arise anywhere from 5 to 14 uninterrupted hours later. It depended on what the day required in terms of me being up and functioning. Monday through Friday saw me getting 6-7 hours while weekends were Sleepapalooza. Now, this is not to say I ever felt rested. Feeling refreshed and re-energized when my feet hit the floor is a concept as foreign to me as shaving my legs in the winter. Truly, never in my life do I recall getting up and thinking "What a great night's sleep! I am so ready to tackle the day, even if it means herding wildebeests or counting every single grain of rice in the western hemisphere." Most of the time I arise counting the number of hours until I can put myself back to bed, even if just for a brief nap.
I LOVE to sleep. I attribute some of this devotion to what goes on while I'm "under." Oh, you guys...I wish you could borrow my brain to experience the funky, psychedelic and highly entertaining playground that is my dream life. True, I do have a recurring nightmare about our housing situation. Most of the time we've purchased a new home that is way above our budget and we still have to unload our current house. The new house is nearly always defective in some way: it was built at the edge of the ocean and is frequently flooded; half of it is without walls and thus exposed to every manner of weather; or it is constructed of cream cheese and melts a bit more each day. All I want in these dreams is to get back to our current house where it's safe and familiar. I've had this dream for years and I still have no idea what it means. Dream interpreters, have at it. Other than those dreams and the occasional ones featuring car crashes which no one could ever survive, my dreams are technicolor fantasies replete with singing, dancing and original music that I can't recall when I wake up, no matter how hard I try.
As if that weren't enough, I also am adept at lucid dreaming. When a dream is getting bizarre I sometimes question whether I might really be asleep. For example, I once dreamed I was in the lobby of a hotel and had a feeling that all was not as it seemed. I told myself that if a vase of red flowers rose from the middle of a bare, round table that meant I was dreaming. Sure enough, seconds later a vase of lovely red roses came up out of the table. Time to play! When I'm lucid dreaming I can manipulate the objects, people, sights, sounds, and smells around me. A lot of times I just make myself thin and try on pretty dresses but it depends on the night. Even if I'm not dreaming lucidly I can usually remember my dreams in stunning detail and there are LOTS of them. Not going to lie, it gets weird in there. With this new sleep disturbance I lost the ability to remember my dreams and it's a loss I'm taking pretty hard.
After a few of weeks of my new and unwelcome sleep pattern I began to wonder what in the hairy hell was going on. For some time now I have been an avid and dedicated snorer, so of course I considered sleep apnea. It would certainly explain why I never wake feeling rested. I also thought about the possibility of menopause being an issue. I'm one of the lucky ones who went through menopause at a very early age (43) and had no symptoms other than no longer having to trot to Walgreens at midnight to buy tampons. I consider this karma for all of my fertility issues and the years I went through getting my period every 18 days. Last summer my OBGYN did a blood test to confirm menopause and we determined that not only was I done with menopause, I was really, really, REALLY done with menopause. Like the level that came back in the result showed I was on par with 60-65 year old women. Yay! The state of my ovaries matching my gray hair is all I ever wanted in life, much like my shoes matching my bag.
In retrospect I realize that this disturbance in my sleep force was probably a harbinger of depression. Last spring I was feeling pretty good and asked my doctor to wean me off of Zoloft so I could see if I could do without it. Spoiler alert: I can't. I had gone through a period of depression and anxiety in 2007 that responded well to therapy and medication. But mental illness, being what it is, sometimes tricks you into thinking it's no longer there. Maybe in some people it goes away. Me, not so much. I am here to tell you that there is still a lot of stigma attached to mental illness. Some of the pressure to look at it as a weakness or inability to cope comes from me and my shame but it's external as well. The malady that you cannot see often gets short shrift in the believability department. Over the coming days, weeks and months I hope to blog more about my experiences, the meltdown that led to a week of inpatient hospitalization and where I go from here. I don't know how often I'll write or how much detail I'll include but as long as it's therapeutic for me, I'll try to soldier on.
Wishing everyone who reads this peace in their heart and good mental health!
I LOVE to sleep. I attribute some of this devotion to what goes on while I'm "under." Oh, you guys...I wish you could borrow my brain to experience the funky, psychedelic and highly entertaining playground that is my dream life. True, I do have a recurring nightmare about our housing situation. Most of the time we've purchased a new home that is way above our budget and we still have to unload our current house. The new house is nearly always defective in some way: it was built at the edge of the ocean and is frequently flooded; half of it is without walls and thus exposed to every manner of weather; or it is constructed of cream cheese and melts a bit more each day. All I want in these dreams is to get back to our current house where it's safe and familiar. I've had this dream for years and I still have no idea what it means. Dream interpreters, have at it. Other than those dreams and the occasional ones featuring car crashes which no one could ever survive, my dreams are technicolor fantasies replete with singing, dancing and original music that I can't recall when I wake up, no matter how hard I try.
As if that weren't enough, I also am adept at lucid dreaming. When a dream is getting bizarre I sometimes question whether I might really be asleep. For example, I once dreamed I was in the lobby of a hotel and had a feeling that all was not as it seemed. I told myself that if a vase of red flowers rose from the middle of a bare, round table that meant I was dreaming. Sure enough, seconds later a vase of lovely red roses came up out of the table. Time to play! When I'm lucid dreaming I can manipulate the objects, people, sights, sounds, and smells around me. A lot of times I just make myself thin and try on pretty dresses but it depends on the night. Even if I'm not dreaming lucidly I can usually remember my dreams in stunning detail and there are LOTS of them. Not going to lie, it gets weird in there. With this new sleep disturbance I lost the ability to remember my dreams and it's a loss I'm taking pretty hard.
After a few of weeks of my new and unwelcome sleep pattern I began to wonder what in the hairy hell was going on. For some time now I have been an avid and dedicated snorer, so of course I considered sleep apnea. It would certainly explain why I never wake feeling rested. I also thought about the possibility of menopause being an issue. I'm one of the lucky ones who went through menopause at a very early age (43) and had no symptoms other than no longer having to trot to Walgreens at midnight to buy tampons. I consider this karma for all of my fertility issues and the years I went through getting my period every 18 days. Last summer my OBGYN did a blood test to confirm menopause and we determined that not only was I done with menopause, I was really, really, REALLY done with menopause. Like the level that came back in the result showed I was on par with 60-65 year old women. Yay! The state of my ovaries matching my gray hair is all I ever wanted in life, much like my shoes matching my bag.
In retrospect I realize that this disturbance in my sleep force was probably a harbinger of depression. Last spring I was feeling pretty good and asked my doctor to wean me off of Zoloft so I could see if I could do without it. Spoiler alert: I can't. I had gone through a period of depression and anxiety in 2007 that responded well to therapy and medication. But mental illness, being what it is, sometimes tricks you into thinking it's no longer there. Maybe in some people it goes away. Me, not so much. I am here to tell you that there is still a lot of stigma attached to mental illness. Some of the pressure to look at it as a weakness or inability to cope comes from me and my shame but it's external as well. The malady that you cannot see often gets short shrift in the believability department. Over the coming days, weeks and months I hope to blog more about my experiences, the meltdown that led to a week of inpatient hospitalization and where I go from here. I don't know how often I'll write or how much detail I'll include but as long as it's therapeutic for me, I'll try to soldier on.
Wishing everyone who reads this peace in their heart and good mental health!
Saturday, July 6, 2013
An Experiment, Days 2-5
Things here in screen-free land are good. Not perfect, but good. And very different. It wasn't until we traveled to this strange new land that I realized just how dependent we are on these passive plastic and glass objects for our entertainment. By "we" I mean all four of us, each guilty in our own way. It became much easier to see how much of our time was devoted to firing up the electronics and zoning out when we got away from doing exactly that. I'm not going to sugarcoat it, people...it's been hard. Yet it's learning-to-drive-on-the-other-side-of-the-road hard, not I-can't-afford-food-for-my-children hard. I'm well aware that this is a
shining example of what people refer to as a first-world problem.
The house is quiet without the usual variety of electronic noise. I miss the sound of the TV in the background, probably for no other reason than I'm so used to it. I grew up with the TV pretty much always on and that has been the case for most of my married life as well. It's not even as if someone is always watching it, or that there's anything worthwhile on the screen. Troy is an only child and says the TV was his constant companion growing up. I can only imagine how much he'd like to give me a swirly right now. When the boys were babies, we realized we had to leave the TV off if they were around, simply because at a certain point they were so mesmerized by it they wouldn't pay any attention to us. The more things change the more they stay the same.
Not only have I seen changes in the patterns of my waking hours, but my whole sleep addiction has changed as well. Now stay with me here, I'm going to take a roundabout way to my point. Since the boys were little and Reid wanted to be awake for absolutely everything, I have used the phrase "sleep begets sleep." It's the one thing I remember from all of the pre-natal, post-natal and non-natal reading I did. He would get into this downward spiral of being awake more than he should have been. The less he slept, the more he didn't want to. He'd just get more and more ornery until the circles under his eyes turned pitch black and he fell into a dead sleep. That one sleep would get him back on track (sleep begets sleep) and he'd do great at bedtime until the next special event, like the annual parade of one million ants through our laundry room, heralding the arrival of spring. I can't blame him; who would want to miss that? Anyway, my point (at long last) is that I can normally sleep for at least 10 hours on any given night. Even if I haven't been up long, I've been known to go back to bed and sleep another 12 or 14 hours. No worries, I know this is not normal and yes, my thyroid disease is being followed and managed. But since Monday, I have actually had a hard time falling asleep at night and have the energy during the day that I never thought I could have. I used to need a nap in the middle of the day (see...sleep begets sleep. I'm telling you, it's a thing). I still need to figure out a way to adjust my body clock so I can get to bed earlier and wake up before noon, but at least I haven't been spending 50% of my day in bed.
Over the past several days, I've been bowling three times, gone for four walks and rode all the dust right off my stationary bike. The four of us crept across the border to purchase tantalizingly forbidden illegal fireworks in Wisconsin. Truth be told, they were not as spectacular as we'd hoped for, but at least now we can say we've done it. We've taken the boys to the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden (their first time - I know, BAD Minnesota parents!), spent a lovely evening with our next-door neighbors, whom we adore, and supported a local restaurant by lunching there. I've played more hands of gin than I care to admit and two games of Sorry where, as it turns out, I wasn't all that sorry. I've had a long heart-to-heart with one of my children that had us both in tears. I've harvested rhubarb and baked it into some righteous desserts, ironed no fewer than 31 articles of clothing, and completed numerous small projects I've been meaning tackle since the boys were potty trained. Taken together, it might not seem like much and it definitely isn't in comparison with my more industrious friends and family. But for me, contrasted with my pre-experiment routine, it's nothing short of astounding.
I've had to remind the boys and my husband that this grand experiment is not simply an exercise in finding other ways to entertain ourselves, though I can think of worse unintended consequences. To their credit, all three of them have been good sports about my temporary descent into madness. In this short time, we have renewed some of our lost family connectedness, which makes me a little sad because it forces me to admit that it was lacking in the first place. We have been productive, but the small amount of progress has shined a light on what a mammoth effort is needed to get us where we should be. We've been non-productive for a long time. This time spent being more awake and aware has revealed to me chinks in the armor of our family and it is a gift to see the areas that need to be repaired before it's too late. One week is not going to fix anything, but I hope the lessons we learn will encourage us to embrace some sort of long-term change.
Stay tuned.
The house is quiet without the usual variety of electronic noise. I miss the sound of the TV in the background, probably for no other reason than I'm so used to it. I grew up with the TV pretty much always on and that has been the case for most of my married life as well. It's not even as if someone is always watching it, or that there's anything worthwhile on the screen. Troy is an only child and says the TV was his constant companion growing up. I can only imagine how much he'd like to give me a swirly right now. When the boys were babies, we realized we had to leave the TV off if they were around, simply because at a certain point they were so mesmerized by it they wouldn't pay any attention to us. The more things change the more they stay the same.
Not only have I seen changes in the patterns of my waking hours, but my whole sleep addiction has changed as well. Now stay with me here, I'm going to take a roundabout way to my point. Since the boys were little and Reid wanted to be awake for absolutely everything, I have used the phrase "sleep begets sleep." It's the one thing I remember from all of the pre-natal, post-natal and non-natal reading I did. He would get into this downward spiral of being awake more than he should have been. The less he slept, the more he didn't want to. He'd just get more and more ornery until the circles under his eyes turned pitch black and he fell into a dead sleep. That one sleep would get him back on track (sleep begets sleep) and he'd do great at bedtime until the next special event, like the annual parade of one million ants through our laundry room, heralding the arrival of spring. I can't blame him; who would want to miss that? Anyway, my point (at long last) is that I can normally sleep for at least 10 hours on any given night. Even if I haven't been up long, I've been known to go back to bed and sleep another 12 or 14 hours. No worries, I know this is not normal and yes, my thyroid disease is being followed and managed. But since Monday, I have actually had a hard time falling asleep at night and have the energy during the day that I never thought I could have. I used to need a nap in the middle of the day (see...sleep begets sleep. I'm telling you, it's a thing). I still need to figure out a way to adjust my body clock so I can get to bed earlier and wake up before noon, but at least I haven't been spending 50% of my day in bed.
Over the past several days, I've been bowling three times, gone for four walks and rode all the dust right off my stationary bike. The four of us crept across the border to purchase tantalizingly forbidden illegal fireworks in Wisconsin. Truth be told, they were not as spectacular as we'd hoped for, but at least now we can say we've done it. We've taken the boys to the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden (their first time - I know, BAD Minnesota parents!), spent a lovely evening with our next-door neighbors, whom we adore, and supported a local restaurant by lunching there. I've played more hands of gin than I care to admit and two games of Sorry where, as it turns out, I wasn't all that sorry. I've had a long heart-to-heart with one of my children that had us both in tears. I've harvested rhubarb and baked it into some righteous desserts, ironed no fewer than 31 articles of clothing, and completed numerous small projects I've been meaning tackle since the boys were potty trained. Taken together, it might not seem like much and it definitely isn't in comparison with my more industrious friends and family. But for me, contrasted with my pre-experiment routine, it's nothing short of astounding.
I've had to remind the boys and my husband that this grand experiment is not simply an exercise in finding other ways to entertain ourselves, though I can think of worse unintended consequences. To their credit, all three of them have been good sports about my temporary descent into madness. In this short time, we have renewed some of our lost family connectedness, which makes me a little sad because it forces me to admit that it was lacking in the first place. We have been productive, but the small amount of progress has shined a light on what a mammoth effort is needed to get us where we should be. We've been non-productive for a long time. This time spent being more awake and aware has revealed to me chinks in the armor of our family and it is a gift to see the areas that need to be repaired before it's too late. One week is not going to fix anything, but I hope the lessons we learn will encourage us to embrace some sort of long-term change.
Stay tuned.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
An Experiment, Day One
My mom posed a great question: "how can you blog without using any screen time?" Of course, any writer would devise her own unique way around this problem. Me, I've chosen to write my pieces by hand and then submit them to Stink Dog for typing, posting and sharing. Any spelling or grammatical errors are his alone.
Saw right through that one, didn't you? Kudos. In truth, we have decided that we may use the computer or TV as a tool when necessary. I like to think of myself as a fairly low-tech chick. I don't have a smart phone or an iPad. Our family calendar is kept with paper and pen. My iPod is circa 1854. But a good part of our communication with the outside world is done via email. As any soccer mom knows, those emails alone take up a full 90% of your inbox. We've also become so dependent on the internet for finding information about local events and the monthly specials at Dairy Queen, I don't know if we'd be able to do it any other way. The only thing I can really see needing the television for is breaking weather news. Given the changeable Minnesota weather and in particular these past "someone up there hates us" six months, I feel confident that we will have at least 3 dates with Sven Sundgaard this week. The boys haven't yet come up with a way to use the XBox or PS3 as a tool, but these are smart young men, folks. They will find a way.
The first day of the experiment didn't go too badly, as evidenced by the fact that I am blogging about it and not tied up in my crawl space. I woke excited about the challenge of the day and week ahead. I began mentally planning my day as I lay in bed but was quickly brought to my senses. In the world's worst stage whisper, one child said to the other "I. Am. Incredibly. Bored." We were approximately one hour into day one of seven.
After showering and getting ready for the day, I asked the boys what they'd like to do. Honestly, I was hoping they'd say they had already made fascinating plans with their friends and they'd be home in time to enjoy a superb home-cooked meal and some family togetherness. Instead I got "uhuhuh" which is shorthand for "I don't know," a phrase far too cumbersome to utter in its entirety. Ian's eyes brightened and he said "Let's go to the Children's Museum!" Something died inside of me. Barely more than a month ago I went to the museum on a field trip with the kindergartners I worked with. I don't mean to say they were the only kindergartners there that day. In fact, every kindergartner from North America was there. And a few from Liechtenstein. I was not anxious to return. Add to this that when the boys were young, we had a membership for many years and went to the museum frequently. It was very easy to get to and with the membership, we never felt like we had to spend all day there. Ian asked about all the exhibits he remembered. Were they all still there? Yes, yes, they were ALL still there. Apart from the traveling exhibits, everything was remarkably unchanged. I tried to imagine my teenagers among all the little kids, playing in the pretend grocery store, making merry at the water tables, climbing through tunnels in ant costumes Oy. I decided that if that's what they wanted to do, if they wanted to feel like little kids again, that's what we would do, pride be damned. I would wear a big floppy hat and sunglasses, keep my distance and not answer to the cries of "Mom! Help!" when they realized they were too big to fit through the ant tunnels. As I was planning all this, Ian broke into laughter, saying "no, no, no, no, no, no, no." I had been punked. And never so happy to have been. It really shouldn't have come as a surprise. We've been messing with the boys' heads since they were very small. Apparently, payback is afoot.
Our day was actually spent quite pleasantly. The boys and I went bowling, Troy and I watched Reid's soccer game, and in the evening the boys and I took Stink Dog for a walk and talked about all kinds of things. Troy fell asleep on the couch at about 9:15. The only unusual thing about this is that the TV wasn't on at the time. He went to bed at about 10 and the rest of us were up for several hours after that. I read the Sunday paper, which usually lays on the floor until the following Saturday, and went through several magazines I've been saving for clippings for my vision board. The boys played a lengthy game of something I don't understand downstairs and then came up to read. I don't think any of us went through the withdrawal we thought we would feel, but it's early in game.
Stay tuned.
Saw right through that one, didn't you? Kudos. In truth, we have decided that we may use the computer or TV as a tool when necessary. I like to think of myself as a fairly low-tech chick. I don't have a smart phone or an iPad. Our family calendar is kept with paper and pen. My iPod is circa 1854. But a good part of our communication with the outside world is done via email. As any soccer mom knows, those emails alone take up a full 90% of your inbox. We've also become so dependent on the internet for finding information about local events and the monthly specials at Dairy Queen, I don't know if we'd be able to do it any other way. The only thing I can really see needing the television for is breaking weather news. Given the changeable Minnesota weather and in particular these past "someone up there hates us" six months, I feel confident that we will have at least 3 dates with Sven Sundgaard this week. The boys haven't yet come up with a way to use the XBox or PS3 as a tool, but these are smart young men, folks. They will find a way.
The first day of the experiment didn't go too badly, as evidenced by the fact that I am blogging about it and not tied up in my crawl space. I woke excited about the challenge of the day and week ahead. I began mentally planning my day as I lay in bed but was quickly brought to my senses. In the world's worst stage whisper, one child said to the other "I. Am. Incredibly. Bored." We were approximately one hour into day one of seven.
After showering and getting ready for the day, I asked the boys what they'd like to do. Honestly, I was hoping they'd say they had already made fascinating plans with their friends and they'd be home in time to enjoy a superb home-cooked meal and some family togetherness. Instead I got "uhuhuh" which is shorthand for "I don't know," a phrase far too cumbersome to utter in its entirety. Ian's eyes brightened and he said "Let's go to the Children's Museum!" Something died inside of me. Barely more than a month ago I went to the museum on a field trip with the kindergartners I worked with. I don't mean to say they were the only kindergartners there that day. In fact, every kindergartner from North America was there. And a few from Liechtenstein. I was not anxious to return. Add to this that when the boys were young, we had a membership for many years and went to the museum frequently. It was very easy to get to and with the membership, we never felt like we had to spend all day there. Ian asked about all the exhibits he remembered. Were they all still there? Yes, yes, they were ALL still there. Apart from the traveling exhibits, everything was remarkably unchanged. I tried to imagine my teenagers among all the little kids, playing in the pretend grocery store, making merry at the water tables, climbing through tunnels in ant costumes Oy. I decided that if that's what they wanted to do, if they wanted to feel like little kids again, that's what we would do, pride be damned. I would wear a big floppy hat and sunglasses, keep my distance and not answer to the cries of "Mom! Help!" when they realized they were too big to fit through the ant tunnels. As I was planning all this, Ian broke into laughter, saying "no, no, no, no, no, no, no." I had been punked. And never so happy to have been. It really shouldn't have come as a surprise. We've been messing with the boys' heads since they were very small. Apparently, payback is afoot.
Our day was actually spent quite pleasantly. The boys and I went bowling, Troy and I watched Reid's soccer game, and in the evening the boys and I took Stink Dog for a walk and talked about all kinds of things. Troy fell asleep on the couch at about 9:15. The only unusual thing about this is that the TV wasn't on at the time. He went to bed at about 10 and the rest of us were up for several hours after that. I read the Sunday paper, which usually lays on the floor until the following Saturday, and went through several magazines I've been saving for clippings for my vision board. The boys played a lengthy game of something I don't understand downstairs and then came up to read. I don't think any of us went through the withdrawal we thought we would feel, but it's early in game.
Stay tuned.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
An Experiment, In Seven Parts
My family spends way too much time sitting opposite screens. For the boys, it's TV or video games. Troy's drug of choice is any D-grade movie on Netflix. And my poison? Games on Facebook. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Candy Crush is pure evil. This behavior is not without far-reaching consequences. Our house is being neglected in a big way. The deck and landscaping project we were going to do this summer is going nowhere. A full 50% of us are obese. Worst of all, for me, is that there is not enough connectedness in our family. I know that some of this is due to the fact that the boys are firmly in their teens and heading into high school. If they still wanted me to get down on the floor and play Candy Land with them, I'd consult a therapist. But when all four of us are home, eyes glued to our various screens as if sleeping with our eyes open, it just feels...wrong.
A tiny seed of an idea came to me at the start of summer break and has quickly grown into a fierce 'Little Shop of Horrors' man-eating monstrosity. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it. I waited to see how our summer would start to play out. Would it be a nirvana of spontaneous picnics, free-wheeling drives to destinations unplanned, lying under the stars talking about our hopes for the future, and cooking all our meals with foods grown in our garden or purchased from the local farmers' market? Or would it be like last year, when I was oh so sedentary due to my freshly diagnosed RA and blood clots in my leg, and by osmosis the four males in our home (Stink Dog included) became less active and less interesting? Because as you may know, as Mama goes, so goes the household.
For most of their lives we've had strict guidelines on how much screen time the boys could have. Last summer, we became much more relaxed about keeping track of their media consumption. It was at the bottom of my list of problems, right after how to get Stink Dog to prepare and bring me refreshing beverages. Additionally, I find that my Zoloft makes me much less concerned about cleaning bathrooms and balancing the bank account as I used to be. As a result we've become far too lazy and accepting of a sub-par life. There are so many things we could be doing - visiting museums, going to free concerts in the park, biking to new ice cream joints, crank-calling Mrs. Peach, the boys' horrific kindergarten teacher...
A few days ago I asked my family "what do you think about doing a screen-free week?" Reactions varied. Reid, who least needs to be pulled away from the hypnotizing rectangles of magic, was immediately enthusiastic. He listed off things we could do with all our new free time and the benefits of taking a 7-day media break. What a brown-noser. Ian's take on the idea was precisely as I expected. "Nope. Not gonna do it.", with arms crossed, eyes closed and a firm shake of the head. Sadly for him, he was born into a family that while democratic on things like how much clothing Mom must wear to go out in public, is a dictatorship on things that really matter. Refusal noted and denied. Stink Dog became very anxious, since he doesn't know what to do with himself when I'm not ensconced in my chair at the computer desk. Troy was cautiously supportive. He liked the idea in theory but I wouldn't describe him as excited. "I could see doing it during the week, but that's how I relax on the weekends" he
Here we are on Sunday evening. The boys will likely watch 'Family Guy' or play some horrible "first-person shooter" video game (which I abhor, but that's another post) until they're tired enough to go to bed. Troy and I watched 'Big Brother' and then he retreated downstairs to watch some shitty movie starring Adam Sandler's younger half-cousin Shirl and Carlos Baldwin, the long-lost fifth Baldwin brother. I've assumed my position in front of the computer and shall creep on Facebook and mentally list and silently berate myself for all the things I should have done today but didn't have the energy for. We will get up tomorrow and it will be a whole new world in the Jarvi household. I can't wait to see if this experiment will be a magnificent success, accomplishing all the things I want it to: more togetherness, more productivity, more exercise, more exploration, more creativity. Or if we'll lose our minds and kill each other in a Hunger Games style frenzy.
Stay tuned.
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