I started taking naps my last year of college. I was studying meditation and self-hypnosis and would put myself in a deep trance following whatever instructions the new-agey book I was reading at the time suggested. Now, many years later, I realize that what I was really doing was falling asleep. I’d wake up fifteen minutes later feeling mildly refreshed. Meanwhile I thought I had meditated and achieved nirvana.

These short naps have continued to present day. Except now they are long naps. An hour at least. On the weekends, sometimes two to three hours. Oh, and no matter what I’m always tired after I wake up.

It only occurred to me recently that I might have a sleep disorder.

I always thought I was one of those people that needed a lot of sleep. I log around seven per night and I probably should do nine. But even at seven, when I get home from work, I often nap for an hour. I go right into dreams, too. Also, I fall asleep within about twenty seconds.

It’s been reported that I snore so loud that sawmills are jealous of my pitch.  (sorry, that joke was a real stinker)

Anyway, I jumped  online and started looking up information on sleep disorders. Said on some page somewhere that I might be a victim of sleep deprivation! Which made little sense because of the heroic amounts of sleep I log, but hey, I ain’t no doctor.

I’m one of those guys that loves going to doctors. I’m pretty much never sick and have no recurring illnesses, but it’s fun to learn from specialists. One time I went to see an endocrinologist to have  him check my testosterone level. (I thought I had too much). He laughed me right out of his office. As I was leaving he shouted, “Also, never take vitamins. They do nothing!”

When I arrived at the sleep clinic I told the doctor about my sleep patterns. She thought I might have sleep apnea and/or narcolepsy. A sleep study was scheduled and a few days later I was back in their office, only this time in a room made up to look like I was staying at the Hampton Inn. It was a faux-hotel room outfitted with a bed, nightstand, bathroom, tv – oh, and cameras and microphones. I changed into pajamas and then sleep tech Tiara hooked me up with electrodes from head to toe. I couldn’t have been more excited.

I had a little more trouble falling asleep (according to the data it took me seven minutes), but I made it through the night. Because my bladder is small and my prostrate is large (also things I’ve had checked out by doctors), I get up twice a night to go to the bathroom. I had to say out loud to Tiara who’s watching and listening to me sleep, “Uh, I need to use the restroom.” This is an odd thing to speak into the darkness of a bedroom. Even weirder is to hear a voice back telling you she’ll be right there. Then they have to unhook your wires and wait outside while you flush out that evening’s Fresca. It’s embarrassing.

The next week I met with my doctor to go over the sleep study results. AND WHAT CAME NEXT SHOOK ME TO MY CORE.

No, just kidding. Dramaticism!

It turns out I wake up on average 10.9x per hour. That’s amazing considering I only remembered waking up when I needed to go potty. She explained these were what is known as “micro arousals” (and yes, I already thought of a joke about small-dick boners). My brain was waking up all the time, probably from the snoring. Also, I stopped breathing 4x per hour. Thanks for building me in your image, God!

I asked if they could do surgery to fix whatever was wrong. In a weird way I was kind of hoping they could just snip something. God knows I didn’t want to do any work to correct this thing. Surgery wasn’t an option, sadly.

It was pretty clear to them that I had sleep apnea. The doctor went through some physiological explanation that I zoned out for and I came to as she was explaining treatment recommendations.

She said the gold standard for sleep apnea treatment is to implement a CPAP device.

“Cool! Let’s do it!”

“Uh, by the way, how long will I need to wear the CPAP?”

“Oh, forever, you say?”

Rats.

Part II Coming Soon!

My girlfriend is allergic. She’s a good sport when she visits and takes a Benadryl which clears up her symptoms. But how long am I going to make her pop meds to be comfortable?

We’re only six months into our relationship. Neither of us has gone ring shopping or started practicing the Viennese waltz for our first dance. This partnership is healthy and progressing at a normal clip. We both have our own homes and see each other a few times a week. That’s plenty.

This is the healthiest relationship I’ve experienced. Part of it is choosing the most compatible woman for my craziness. The other part is all the work I’ve done to minimize my craziness. While we just crossed the half-year mark in the relationship, I just passed the five-year relationship mark with my therapist. I work on stuff.

My cat is important to my well-being. She’s coming up on six years and has been a loving companion. When I arrive home from work she runs over and brushes up against my leg. Pantaloons is affectionate without being needy.

She’s also in love with the dog.

You already know that I bring my dog to work in a backpack that I take on the subway. After greeting me she rushes over to the backpack and waits for it to be unzipped. The dog springs free and the cat follows her and starts to rub her head against the dog’s body. They sleep together, too. Pantaloons is actually much bigger than Meepers the chihuahua. The often curl up together next to my body while we all pass out. I’ve noticed that their sleep cycles are synced – within seven minutes of falling asleep (I’ve timed this) they start dreaming simultaneously and have paw, nose, and eye twitches. It’s wild to see them shaking together.

There’s a ritual that happens every night before we drift off. The dog, since she’s the alpha, walks over to Pantaloons and extends her neck in front of the cat’s face. The dog is then groomed, first with the neck, then moving down to her shoulders and back, by the cat’s tongue. She licks the dog for five minutes. Since cats have that sandpaper tongue thing, I imagine the dog likes the sensation. Pantaloons is purring wildly during the entire cleaning.

Now, many cats are stinkers. We’ve all met some. Your grandmother’s, for example. Standoffish and stoic, these unholy terrors bite and scratch anyone who dares come near. For these felines, drowning them in a river would not be unjust. So, it’s not like I’m a de facto cat lover.

But mine is solid. Sure she spees on anything I leave on the floor, and I don’t trust her not to soil the bedspread in my second bedroom, but other than the urination thing, she’s great.

The cat also loves my girlfriend, Beth. Even though Beth cannot touch her due to allergies, Pantaloons is crazy for her. She constantly brushes up against her while sitting on the couch and tries to sit in Beth’s lap. The cat never even sits in my lap, for chrissakes. Also, when we sleep Beth will wake up with Pantaloons perched atop her belly, purring loudly.

The reality is, though, that you can’t marry a broad who is allergic to cats and have a cat. It’s unfair.

Last week I started to come out of the denial that we would all live together. I’m sure if Beth and I were to take the next step it would be at least a year away. That means I have some good time left with Pantaloons. It’s sad to look at her and realize that she won’t be with me forever. I know this horrible inevitability that she doesn’t.

Once it happens I’ll be sad and then get over it with time. Loss has a predictable grief cycle. However, I’m wondering if now isn’t the hardest part. To stay with the discomfort of a future loss is not easy for me. There’s no solution for this pain except to celebrate the cat as often as I can.

Now, if you excuse me I have to go beat the shit out of her for missing the litter box. AGAIN.

The site had been lagging and it was time for an upgrade. Not that anybody formally complained but I noticed the speed issue and it bothered me. The transition was almost hiccup-free. Somehow a few comments slipped through the cracks. I apologize to those readers.

We’re back to business as usual at ThoughtsFromParis. Now, let’s start this post out proper.

Today was one of those days where I didn’t move around much.

Let’s assess today’s productivity. Hmm… searching for something that I engaged in that furthered my evolution as a human being.

• Ate Four Entenmann’s Donuts – No, no pride here. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts even closer to where I live but since I was in the grocery, those ended up in my cart. By the way, that chocolate one is nearly inedible. Candy wax lips taste better.

• Passed Out For Three Hours After Eating Entenmann’s Donuts – I must not be getting enough sleep during the week. I think I need around nine hours a night and I’ve averaging under seven. Researchers say there’s no such thing as “make up” sleep, but a three hour nap suggests that otherwise. Either that or I’m suffering from crippling depression. That can’t be the case though, as I think way too highly of myself.

• Ate Two Batches of Popcorn – This also occurred in the morning before passing out but after the donuts. In reflecting, I’m seeing that may have been overindulgent in carbohydrates. Why popcorn at 10am sounded like the right call, I don’t know. It’s as if I’m a pregnant woman with these cravings. And I wear protection so I’m pretty sure that’s not it.

• Responded to Blog Comments – Ah, my first win of the day! I made this commitment on Jan 1 and I don’t think I’ve missed yet. I’m usually a few days behind, but I get to everything. Engaging with readers is satisfying and I dig reading comments. Especially the ones that say how great I am. Those, in particular, are appreciated.

• Made Lunch for Tomorrow – Another victory. I cooked up chicken with teriyaki and vegetables. This means that I will not be running over to Walgreen’s at noon looking for a special on beef jerky. I ate so much beef jerky last week that the woman behind the counter made a comment on the fourth consecutive day. I’m now the “beef jerky” guy to her. That’s not how I want to leave my mark.

The strangest thing is that I don’t have shame about my overall activity/inactivity. I’m not exactly proud, but it’s not making me feel like poop. Leaving behind shame has been an interesting process. I still didn’t have a great day, per se, but I’m not beating myself up like before.

This reality of not being productive and also not-ashamed is new. Well, it comes after four years of weekly therapy and a shit-ton of personal work I do on the side. But, the heavy lifting is paying off. I can just have a “didn’t do dick day.” Nice alliteration.

Just remembered – I didn’t get around to cleaning the cat box or taking down my Christmas tree. Oh, and forgot to shower.

Hmm – maybe bringing back a little shame wouldn’t be so bad.

photo credit: erlyrizrjr via photopin cc

Nice – I managed to work in a Jessie Owens reference. Need to update my references. Not very timely.

Since I spend more time on my back than the ladies of a Thai cathouse, I thought I’ve give you some ways to spice up things in the bedroom. No this list isn’t dirty. You can figure out your own grossness. I’m talking about the purity of awesome that is sleeping.

If you’re bored like me with a standard bedtime routine, here’s a few ways I change things from time to time.

• The Bed and Breakfast

For this you need two bedrooms. Sorry studio and one-bedders. You’ll have to aspire to this one. Here’s what you do – visit your guest bedroom like you’d be checking into a Connecticut getaway. Put on new sheets (change them from the last time you had overnight visitors – you know you never changed them last time) and get ready for some fun. If you have a partner make sure to let them know they are not invited. Remember, this is your vacation. You’ll wake up refreshed and slightly confused that you’re in a strange room that you normally never visit. Sure the mattress is second-hand and hides some cat pee stains, but who cares? You’re on holiday!

• Go to Bed High

No drugs involved here. I don’t do them and you shouldn’t either. Unless, of course you’re more fun on them. Actually I don’t care what you do. Anyway, here’s a way to get legally stoned and ensure that you have wild dreams. You must go out and purchase the extra-strength Breathe Right strips. These will f you up whether you have a deviated septum or not. You’ll be delivering twice the normal amount of O2 to your bloodstream and nervous system. I’m telling you, you’ll start flying around the room as soon as you close your eyes. You’ll wake up refreshed like you wouldn’t believe. Also, no hangover.

• Clothes On

This is a new one that I’ve been working on. For the past two weeks I’ve slept with my clothes. I decided to see what it would be like if I went to bed fully dressed. I actually put on jeans and a short sleeved t-shirt. Oh, and socks. I had a theory that I wouldn’t wake up all sweaty. Hypothesis tested! I passed and awoke feeling like it was time to start the day. Give it a shot. But don’t sleep in your work clothes – that’s nasty. Do the decent thing. Take them off and then get redressed in going-out attire. Take your shoes off, though. You’re not a savage, for chrissakes.

• Reverse SleepGirl

Sorry for the bad joke there. This one is simple. Just put your head where your feet should be. You’ll wake up all screwed up and feel like you’re in a strange place since the surroundings will be seen from a different perspective. The downside is that you have to redo your sheets and move the pillows six feet. But it’s worth it. Also, make sure your partner is going to participate. You don’t want a face-full of feet.

• Floor

I only do this one a few times year. It’s like camping. You go to sleep on the carpet. I only have wood floors which makes it an extra challenge. I think it’s supposed to be good for your back, but what I am, some sort of doctor that specializes in backs and shit? All I know is that it’s fun and a total surprise to see if you’ll wake up crippled in the morning.

• The Nirvana

Want to take a nap but don’t want to get your balls busted by the other half? Tell them that you need to meditate and head to the bedroom. Now the most common meditation position is the lotus with the finger tip circle thing, right? Well, if you want to go to sleep that shit is hard. I recommend lying down on your back. You’ll take some deep breaths, head to your private oasis, and then pass out within minutes. You’ll be in snoozeville for thirty minutes and have one good dream. Your stress will be reduced and nobody can accuse you of being lazy. Sure you might snore like a bastard but you can tell the wife it’s a new yogic breathing technique.

—

I do at least a few of these a week. It’s fun and a way to change up your old routine. Try one or two and see if you sleeping enjoyment increases. I mean, you’ll still dream of that college exam with the class you blew off all semester. Your therapist will have to help you with that one.

Except I don’t eat mayonnaise, horseradish, cream cheese, sour cream or tuna fish that comes in a can. All that stuff skeeves me out. I guess I’m mostly condiment picky. ‘Tis okay. I can live with myself. I’ve had lengua. That takes courage.

I’m, however, the least picky sleeper you will ever meet. I’d be a fantastic bum because park benches look like a California Kings to my eyes. I could easily pass out within forty-five seconds and without the help of fortified wine.

This is what a great sleeper I am. When I first moved to Chicago I went and rented a studio apartment. I had just signed the lease and the landlord told me I could move in the next day. I go so tired walking around the 450 square feet that I looked for a place to crash. Since the place was empty the only option was the hardwood floor. I then eyed the countertop in the kitchen. Could I?

I did.

I jumped up on the counter and laid on my back, my nose mere inches from the bottom of the cupboard. I found a yellow pages to put under my head as makeshift pillow. Never even occurred to me that I could have rolled off the counter and broke a rib. Also didn’t occur to me to lock the door.

I can’t imagine what the property manager would have thought if she came back and saw her new tenant passed out on the kitchen linoleum countertop.

Oh, I have a great sleep inducer for you if you’re having trouble taking a two-hour power nap in the middle of the day. Since I’m on vacation right now I’m not doing a whole lot this week. Every day so far I’ve managed to sneak in a few hours of dream-time in the early p.m. But, today I just couldn’t find the energy to sleep. I was too awake, sadly. This would not do!

My parents have one of those big jacuzzi tubs in their bedroom. I starting filling it up with hot water (by the way, during this time I actually did fall asleep – my mother had to come wake me up to tell me the bath was ready). I went to the tub with my snacks and NA beer and soaked for a good twenty minutes. I barely made it out of the tub without fainting. Three hours later I woke up refreshed and ready for dinner.

I just got back from dinner and I’m writing this before going to bed. I could pass out any second, and I suspect my editing skill will not be in top notch shape. Forgive me if I neglect to resolve a participle.

So, at dinner tonight I started listing out all the funny ways I sleep. Creativity is a interesting phenomenon. I have to carry around a note-taking device so that when it strikes I record it. If I don’t, two minutes later the idea is gone. During dinner I grabbed my phone suddenly and started scribbling onto it with the stylus. Yes, it was rude to do in the middle of oysters Rockefeller, but this was important!

Funny Ways I Sleep – this is the header in the note, written on my phone in cursive.

I’m thirty-seven and a half years old. I shouldn’t get this fired up about this degree of “creative brilliance.” It ain’t exactly going to turn into  Finnegan’s Wake.

Tomorrow I will write a new post on all the ways that I sleep weird that I will encourage you to try. If you read it you’ll get a mild chuckle – there’s definitely a few good ones in there. Me? I’ll be dreaming the whole time. Have a great night.

photo credit: tokyoform via photopin cc

You know how it starts…

You’re doing something like the dishes or the laundry. Everything is calm and normal. Nothing really floating in your head until…

A thought.

One thought.

It zooms right past the back of your eyes and it goes something like this, “What if…..?”

Maybe it’s about your daughter’s rash, an unpaid bill, a conversation that went awry.

Just one thought.

A seedling of doubt.

A drop of worry.

In…and out…

It doesn’t take long, but at the bottom of your toes you feel  energy  rushing up towards your head.

Your heart starts to beat a little faster.

You know this feeling and another thought comes into your head, “Oh no – I feel racy and…”

You don’t want to say the word  panic.  The word itself comes with sweaty hands and rapid breathing.

But you feel it.

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Adrenaline tickles your fingers.

You know there are only five more minutes before your body has a full flight or fight response.

You tell the thought to go away.

You take a few deep breaths.

You try to silence the rush of hormones running under your skin.

Just one thought.

A seedling of doubt.

A drop of worry.

Your body fails to respond to your commands and panic starts to rise. Your throat, your heart, your body rebels against all forms of reason and logic.

You are having a panic attack.

“Oh don’t worry!” friends say.

“What will be will be!” other’s reason.

“Take a chill pill!” still more people advise.

But the thought has already taken hold of you.

Panic about the panic only intensifies the concoction. “Why can’t I just let it go?”

“Why do I worry when all of these people don’t?”

The fear of being different only intensifies the panic.

You are alone.

No one understands.

You must endure the agony.

Just one thought.

A seedling of doubt.

A drop of worry.

~~~

If someone you love suffers from panic attacks, the worst thing you can do is to tell them, “Don’t worry about it!” If they could, they would.

Trust me, fear is torturous and painful.

If only logic and reason would work, the panic would have never happened in the first place!

Think of the scariest thing you can imagine, then apply it to the person who is panicking in front of you. Though their worries might seem trivial to you, that person feels as strongly as you might in a truly dangerous position.

Panic attacks are real.

They are not made up.

They are not some indication of a hyper-emotional human being.

Panic attacks happen when the fight or flight response is deployed. The situation may be catastrophic or not, but to the person in response, it doesn’t matter.

Panic itself feels dangerous and catastrophic.

Be with the person in it.

Help them get help.

Take it seriously.

~~~

Hi my name is Julie and I have panic attacks. Most of you know this, some may not. I’ve struggled with acute anxiety my entire life. Depression is a not-so-distant cousin to people who are anxious. My depression is triggered by anxiety. When I’m not anxious, I am not depressed.

Fear is the Achilles heel of my life. It squelches my passion, my joy, and my sense of adventure. As a clinical psychology major in college, I understood the mechanisms of panic and anxiety, but still was at a loss to deal with my own.

Having children only made it worse. Now I had myself plus three more to worry about. I had pregnancy hormones, Post Partum Depression, and no sleep. My anxiety went to a new level.

Then I had a child who nearly died. The panic bumped up a notch…again. For months I woke up in the middle of the night in a full panic – even when there were no thoughts to accompany it.

Today, I am lucky. I have panic attacks much  less frequently  than I ever did.

But I still care deeply for those who suffer from such a debilitating illness. The writing above is my attempt to help those who DO NOT suffer with panic attacks, to understand better how it feels to be someone with acute anxiety.

I hope it gives you a glimpse of the terror, the feelings, and the emotions that come over those of us who struggle.

If you or someone you love struggles with panic attacks, I hope it helps. Please share it with them.

I love reading other people’s planners, lists, and schedules.  One of the highlights of my month is reading the “My List” column in  Harper’s Bazaar.  It is simply a list of things a certain designer does in his /her day.  I gobble it up.  Not just because I feel I’ve gotten to know the likes of Tom Ford and Diane von Furstenberg, but also because I get ideas on how I’d like to spend my time.

Because of my illness,  I could never keep the hectic schedules of these successful artists.  But I do have a schedule, which reminds me I HAVE A LIFE…a good life.  So, here it is, my day, a la, Bazaar Magazine…24 hours with tea expert and struggling-to stay-healthy-and positive blogger…Cj….!

I wake up  between 9 and 11 a.m.  I have trouble sleeping, and since I don’t have to be up at a certain time, I let my body unfold naturally and slowly.  On bad days, I lie in bed and check my email and Pinterest on my Android.  On good days, I put on some comfortable workout gear, drag my Pilates mat in to the living room, say hello to the cats and make some tea.
Before I can exercise, I must get a bit of something in my stomach.  Usually, that’s a piece of grilled sourdough bread and  a pot of green tea  brewed Gongfu style, (pronounced Kung Fu, like the TV show!)  I put my tea and toast on a tray and bring it all over to the mat.  I take my breakfast cross legged on the mat, and when finished, I do some reading to increase my knowledge about tea.  Right now it’s the huge “The Story of Tea” by Mary Lou and Robert Heiss.”

After my stomach has settled a bit, I do a 30 minute Pilates mat routine.  I hate to exercise, but I love how these moves wake my body up.  On good days, I’m done with all this by noon.

Then I go change into jeans, usually, and a button down or knit shirt.  My colors are military ones; denim, navy, khaki, grey, olive drab, and camel.  For additional color I’ll use a scarf or my bright purple Doc. Marten loafers. I MUST wear jewelry.  Usually a tiny pearl in a golden cage necklace that belonged to my grandmother and gold hoops.  Rose perfume, lip liner, sunscreen and mascara finishes the everyday look and makes me feel “dressed.”

The work of the typical day involves cooking for my husband and I, tasting and reviewing two or three teas, planning, (I LOVE TO PLAN…it gives me hope for the future…important for someone who is prone to depression,) and housework like laundry and de-cluttering.

At about 2 p.m. every day, my fat, white and grey cat, Ben,  demands to be brushed, so I take 10 or so minutes to spend time  with him.  The thinner, black one-Moses, is out galavanting at that time, so this is my time with Ben!

After 2, I start to get anxious, which is my cue to eat some protein.  I know I should eat BEFORE I get anxious.  I’m working on that.  So I lunch between 2 and 3.  Afterward, I go back to planning, or reading, or writing.  On running days, (an average of 2 times a week) I’ll spend half an hour putting together the perfect play list.  I have to have variety.  Yesterday I bought two Partridge Family songs and “You Better you Bet” by the Who.  Nostalgia and a good beat are good for my brain.

My husband gets home around 6, and he is wonderful about NOT demanding dinner at the same time every night.  Some of our favorite meals are bread and cheese and cured meats and fruit.  I like to have some sort of vegetable or salad prepared.  One can never get too many vegetables, and we often don’t eat enough.

After dinner there’s usually tea, dark chocolate, and more reading or Netflix.  The Last Emperor is top of my playlist.  All this tea has me craving more information about China!  I hope to visit next year.

My bed time is still undefined.  I try to go to bed earlier so my wake-up times will naturally become closer to my husband’s 6 ish alarm.  Yet every time I try, I seem to get anxious and insomniac and I completely defeat the purpose.  For now, I’ll stick with what I have.

I shower at night since showers relax me.  As someone who struggles with sleep, I don’t particularly like bedtime, so I’m working to make it as fun as possible.  I am currently shopping for pretty pajamas that are comfortable enough for me to actually wear.  

Brushed-back satin is the ticket, but harder to find than silky negligees, which are lovely, but feel sticky.

I listen to  audio books about cosmology or philosophy  to fall asleep!  These topic are interesting enough to keep my limbic-brain busy, but removed enough from my life to keep my from being stimulated.  I couldn’t listen to tea books, for instance.  I would stay up all night taking notes or making tea!

No matter what time I got to bed, I usually get to sleep around midnight or one, though I avoid looking at the clock.  Before I know it, the cats are meowing and it’s 10:30 a.m.  Time for tea!    Yay!

I spent about 6 or 7 weeks of my life, just recently, mired so deep in melancholia it was difficult to even get out of bed in the morning.  Such a cliché, but in this case it was the literal truth.   I shied away from consciousness and all it brought with it.   In the deepest parts of the trough, it was not possible to even think of troubling myself to write about it, the necessary cohesion, energy, clarity, coherency was just not available.   I was barely able to manage text messages to assuage the concerns of friends.  

When I am no longer depressed it is hard to remember exactly what went on in my inner landscape during that time, it’s like a really nasty dream, one of those that linger on waking, leaving you feeling a bit sour all day.   Snippets and sounds come back to me, but it is impossible to really reproduce the feelings. This particular session was brought on by years, literally, of stress and anxiety.  But the cause is irrelevant.   When the vase is already broken, it is never strong again, the glue is always in danger of dissolving.   Any series of events that I find stressful might set me off again.   And those are not, necessarily, events that other people would find stressful.

I have been very fortunate, it has been a very long time since I was  this  bad.   So long, in fact, that friends who have known me for several years were confused and unsure how to deal with me.

Right now, I am on the boundary line.   A couple of nights ago, I actually physically felt a switch flipping on in my head, it felt like the very centre of my brain made some connection (I can point to it for you if you like, next time we are chatting about my lunacy), and some lights, shaky and dull, started to power up in the damaged regions of my mind.  I immediately put shoes and clothes on and went for a walk in a desperate attempt to get whatever the hell passes for chemical uppers in my broken brain, swooshing around in there.

It was pleasant, out walking around the estate, but I was out there for one reason only, to cling on to this possible life preserver because things had been really, really bad.  So bad that I had actually been researching (in the moments where I could convince myself to do more than just stare at a DVD) electro-convulsive therapy, and had been giving it serious thought.

The thought of all that this would entail though was exhausting in itself.   Having to get a psychiatrist to evaluate me first, all the weeks of crap that would bring, not to mention convincing said psychiatrist (before they would even consider shock treatment) that I am NOT going down the road of medication again.   Plus, obviously, you have to be pretty irretrievable to agree to let someone zap your brain with electricity.

With regard to medication, just too many side effects.  Yes forgive me but I do require a sex drive thanks awfully, it’s one of the few pluses in my life!  Or there was the drug that woke me screaming each night, bashing myself off walls while I wandered the house in a confused state.  To a greater, or lesser extent every anti depressant of the MANY I have tried has just not been worth what comes with it.   I have tried at least ten different drugs from three different families, and the doctor’s insistence that I keep getting liver and kidney function tests whenever on anti-depressants frankly creeps me out – what, exactly are these pills doing to my insides?!   In addition, I am ok (usually) for 11 (ok, maybe 10) months out of 12 – not all at once, perhaps, but still it’s a hell of a thing to have to take drugs EVERY SINGLE DAY with horrible side effects that fuck up my internal organs to cover myself for the 1-2 months each year where I may, or may not, actually need them.

I am not anti-medication, I have given them a bloody good try – and that’s all she wrote for anti-depressants.

Already I can find my recall getting a little hazy, and my “normal” self reasserting herself and telling me that there is no way those days could have been  that  bad, surely….

So here, while I am still in the gloaming, in the borderlands, are my recollections of what it feels like to be in that terrible, grey place they call clinical depression.  This is how it felt, not how it feels now.   If this was how it felt, right now, I would not be typing, coherent or rational enough to care about sharing.

My first thought on waking each morning is dread.   My last thought before going to sleep at night is dread too, because although I am greatly relieved at the prospect of bed and sleep and not having to deal with anything for a few more hours, I am already trying hard not to think about wakening up in the morning to have to deal with the all the daily garbage.   Guilt, decisions, responsibilities of another day.   Sleep is my saviour.   I sleep as much as possible.   Sometimes I comfort eat, chocolate and sugary things, this time that was intermittent, I had lost the energy to even care much about comfort foods.   Xanax has been my friend this time around, on the days I just could NOT cope at least I was able to drug myself to sleep again with one or two Xanax.   Though I doubt my doctor would have prescribed it for me had he known my mental processes more intimately.

The worst times were when, conversely, I couldn’t sleep at all.   The constant inner monologue was turned up full volume at those times, so I would listen to loud music on earphones and try to keep my mind as occupied as possible with videos and other miscellaneous nonsense.   Sometimes this would happen because I had just been sleeping too bloody much.  Other times, it would just, simply, happen and I would be awake for two days regardless of futile attempts to drug myself to sleep.   Mental illness – it’s the gift that keeps on giving.

I was asked, at one point in the last futile and wasted month and a half, if I had considered self harming or suicide.   Considered it?   Some days, some hours, it was ALL I really thought about, a constant undercurrent to my surface thoughts.   There was even a beat I could use to go with the words, when my footsteps would sound out a sort of rhythm in my head and I could hear the words “I wish I was dead, I wish I was dead” going around and around like the lyrics to a song, or the metre of a train when you are safely inside the carriage.   Why?   Because it would stop this fucking nightmare train wreck from happening, of course, but also just because.   Because when you are depressed as I was you just don’t want to be alive any more, it is part and parcel of it.

The one constant thorn in my side over the last 6 or so weeks has been having to look after my children.   They are both my saviour and my curse at times like these.   Saviour because I am fairly certain I would have attempted – and perhaps succeeded – in actually killing myself if it weren’t for them, at various points over the last 15 years.   But who comes back from that? Well, obviously, not the dead person, I mean what child could ever recover from such a thing?

I reckon if your mother kills herself you are pretty much doomed to a shite life, whatever way you look at it. No matter how many letters the mater leaves, how much explaining she tries to do.  So, my heart keeps beating on behalf of my hostages to fortune.   Turns out there is one thing I love more than myself and it’s them.   There are days I have resented that, and days I have been glad for it.   Today is a glad day.

I have also lost two friends to suicide.   And you never (Never) get over the guilt, no matter how close, or otherwise, you were to them – even if they were living in another country at the time.   I admit though, that wouldn’t have stopped me, the sorrow of my friends, husband, brothers was not a genuine consideration for me, not in the deepest troughs.   Only Jacob and Ruth were enough to halt me at the brink on several occasions.

And they are a curse because having to worry, or even show the slightest concern about another human being is an exhausting ache in my head.   I don’t want to get out of bed at all, let alone make breakfast, lunch, iron, wash, do all the things normal mothers do.   “Don’t want to” – such easy words but in reality every single part of me rebels against these chores, if I had the energy I would scream.   I can always manage to hug them, smile, give them a word of love – for some reason those feats are not so difficult.   But the day to day drudgery that I don’t much like at the best of times is absolutely gruelling when I feel like this.   If you asked me to strap a weight to my back and climb a mountain, it would be easier than doing the school run when my head is in this place.

I feel such resentment, added to the general swirling guilt, misery, sadness and hate, that I am forced to care for two other human beings.   If I had known how hard motherhood was going to be, I would genuinely never have done it.   On the other hand, I have never, not once, been able to wish them out of existence.   Love is the rope that binds me to them.

When I am still in the dark place I do know, vaguely, that somewhere there are people out there who have real actual feelings and they aren’t like mine, that this grimy bubble around me will pop one day and I will feel things the way they do again, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.   I know this intellectually, even though I cannot remember it emotionally, and I hang on to that thought for grim life.   The fact that I feel almost entirely disconnected from the rest of the human race, that their beliefs and feelings seem irrelevant, irrational, unreal to me will pass, I know this from past experience.

But oh, this was a bad one, a real doozy.   After a few weeks, it started to feel like I was swimming through freezing cold soup, maybe a broth of some kind, filled with spinach.   Just enough light and space to see a few feet ahead maybe.   Or like snorkelling, if the snorkel was half clogged up and you couldn’t really get a breath, and the sea was muddy and full of seaweed.   Or like trudging through a heavy fog, a fog that has real weight, in a wet parka, wearing a faulty gas mask, in front of me a few patches of light that I make my weary way towards.

I could go on all day with analogies, it is impossible to describe how bleak everything looks and how heavy the weight of life is.   There is not one word, not one action that can make anything seem better.   Imagine the love of your life had just died in your arms and then someone trying to cheer you up, telling you to count your blessings and look on the bright side while the blood was still warm on your hands.   Impossible.   Ludicrous.

Another reason to avoid people, they think they can cheer you up.   Shudder.

Isolation is what I crave.   Just having to think about listening to well meaning conversation makes me want to rake the skin off my face with my stumpy little nails.   Isolation is the most dangerous thing for me, and it is the one thing I want.   To. Be. Left. Alone.   Stop ASKING me for things, don’t ask for my opinion, my help, my input in any way, don’t ask me one single question, you are tormenting me with your NEED.   This goes for absolutely everyone, everything – so if you are reading this and thinking oh no, that’s aimed at me, believe me, it’s not, it’s aimed at every living person in the world, and in particular the ones I live with, poor bastards.   Luckily for them I am too listless and fatigued to present as much more than groggy and miserable.

In that soup, that foggy mire, I look at people I know and I wonder what they would do if they could read my thoughts just at that point.  I look at them and the idea of trying to communicate my thoughts is unappealing, completely so.   Too hard, oh far too hard, too far away, you stretch out your arm and it takes forever to reach someone and even if you could reach them, it is probably impossible anyway.   How do you tell a person blind from birth what a colour looks like?   You don’t ask for help because you don’t want help, you have forgotten what wanting help feels like.   You forget how it feels to be happy.   You know that you were, once – but again it is an intellectual exercise.   You hang on to the knowledge that eventually, this too shall pass.

On the days people see me, or in some way interact with me, it is a given that I am not at rock bottom – because when I am at rock bottom I just refuse to see or interact with anybody, however many times the phone rings, or texts come in, unanswered.  So people do not see my rock bottom.  My children are only aware that I am absent.  Sleeping or hidden away, a ghost figure hardly seen.  Again, I am very grateful this is usually only a few weeks out of every year, for their sake as well as my own.

On the days I do manage to go out, people ask me questions and I feel unsure of what answers to give them.   It is hard to make a decision.   Should I tell the truth, part of the truth, a total lie, say nothing, smile awkwardly?   Social skills were a learned behaviour on my part anyway, so they drop away fast when I am living inside the bubble.   I feel like a marionette acting out a play, badly.   I am always amazed that I can fool anybody at all.

There is little sense of humour when you’re lost in the fog.   My sense of humour is normally really keen, I can find something funny about losing a toenail on most days (particularly if it is someone else’s).  If I can hang on to humour then I might be on the jagged edge but I am not in the dark place entirely, not yet, even if one foot is over the finish line.

I am physically often really tired in this place.   My energy drained out of me, and that makes it easier to sleep, which I am glad about in as much as I can be glad of anything at this point.   All I want to do is close my eyes and not be awake any more.   When I cannot sleep I watch videos, read books, almost constantly, it is a way of distracting my grieving mind from the guilt, panic, fear, misery.

One by one, things get whittled away.   Fresh clothes? Oh this T shirt will do it was only worn once.   Shower?   Only if going out, or when I started to feel actually sticky, and I avoided going out as much as I could.   Grocery shopping?   Shift that to the husband whenever possible. Housework?   Bare minimum, with help from the kids, and again only out of concern for them.   I could have slept in a pile of maggots and barely noticed at that point, but couldn’t let them live in grot and filth (memories of my own childhood).  Not because I didn’t prefer, even in that state, to be clean and have a pantry full of food, but because it was just too hard to do the chores that lead to that.   Can’t explain it any better than that.

Not every single day was this bad, obviously, or I would have done nothing at all for the last month and a half.   There were a few crests – well not crests exactly but a bit of a climb out of the trough at least.   In a way this was worse, because the half a dozen times I almost made it up out of the valley only to tumble back down again were very disheartening.   And it didn’t happen all at once, there are hills and contours in the valleys of melancholia, some days you go up a little, other days speeding downwards.   It took weeks to really get to the bottom.  I have been chiselling my way through the strata for years and I suspect I came quite close to the very deepest parts this time.

Disconnection, flattened emotions (all the positive ones anyway), raw misery, grief, sorrow, guilt, fear, panic, shame, and an attempt to shy away from all responsibility for the simple reason that I just cannot deal with it.   Any responsibility feels like a physical weight.   Worse, it feels like an attack, like being slapped, I cringe beneath the thought of it.   Mentally and sometimes even physically.   And by responsibility I mean making a phone call, ironing a shirt, answering a text.   These feel like the tasks of Hercules when I am living in the dark lands.   You know how stressed you are right before an important exam?   Amplify by at least ten and you might start to get the anxiety that even having to talk to someone on the phone can bring.   And a constant drumbeat in my head that if I could just go to sleep and not wake up things would be so much easier.

On one of my better days, a day I had managed to get out and drive, I sat in the car for 10 minutes convincing myself that I could walk into Australia Post and make some photocopies.   I did go in, but it was touch and go for a while.

What can I say, it was a trip, for sure 🙂

There is nothing whatsoever friends can do for me in this place.   I am aware of your attempts to reach me and of your concern, perhaps it helps somehow, perhaps not it is hard to say.   It is appreciated once I am capable once again of appreciation.   Sometimes I can fake normality briefly, or even surface briefly to a nearly normal state and usually when that happens I make an attempt to see at least one of you, or talk to you, to reconnect to reality because when I am sane friendship is something incredibly important to me.   All the worse then that it gets damaged too by the poison leaking from my brain.

There is nothing anybody can do differently if it ever happens again.   Just don’t take it personally is probably the only advice I could give you, if I am lost and far away.   I seem to have managed to have dragged myself out of this one, or at least be on the upward path.   Hopefully it will be many more years, if ever, before another black depression as vast as this last one settles on me.

Well, there you have it.   I thought you all deserved a few words of apology for my being so selfish – because there is no doubt about it, melancholia makes me absolutely selfish and almost impervious to all other concerns but my own grinding sadness (apart from, as I say, that tiny part of me that manages still to care about my children).   And a few words of explanation because I know depression must seem like a foreign country to people who inhabit the world of sane.

You have my permission to leave now and not return.  Coping with this sort of information is not for everyone.  No hard feelings.  Just remember, I am only ever a danger to myself, not to others.

Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, I have nothing up my sleeves.   Pay close attention.  Because this next trick is impossible.

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I didn’t  know May was mental health awareness month. How ironic being that I’m having my first mental breakdown.

My daughter was dating a kid that became addicted to oxyconton. Was involved in robbries to support his habbit, was arrested and went to rehab. He’s out of jail and we know she’s still seeing him….Deep breath

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Some days are a struggle, but I try.  I found myself really struggling Monday morning, wishing I never had to stop my meds and also missing luxury of having therapist to talk to… or friends.

First week of August and there are things that must be done. One week before the start of school for my last school-age child requires my undivided attention.  On Monday morning that meant getting up at 7:30 – because I also have a college-bound child who I first needed to drive around town to take care of business before  she  leaves for school at the end of the month before even thinking about heading over to the high school for 1:00 pm sign-in for 2012-2013 Registration Day sign-up for my 10th grader who starts school next week.

I TWEETED THIS: Wow…just did the math. I’ve been doing New School Year Registrations for 15 years! 3rd from last time ever for kid #3 #MomsRock!