the day I deserve

I am off kilter. Last night my husband and I watched Sherlock over the internet. If you have any sense you will find it and watch it yourself. I thought about it all last night and woke up this morning with him in my brain. I feel frightened. I’m attributing it to the scary British tv show, not to anything real…

But I’m anxious, no matter what caused it, I still am anxious and I need to do whatever it takes to get out of it so it doesn’t become depression, and depression doesn’t lead to death. The last time I was depressed my seven year old asked me, “Do you feel like you don’t deserve anything?”

I thought about it for a minute. “Yes, yes I do.” That really is a part of all the moods I travel through. You can call it self-pity. I don’t care what you call it, actually. For me, those feelings come and bad things happen. No chemically balanced person can say that.

“You deserve ME!” She told me with out stretched arms. A perfectly acceptable time for a hug. I deserve her.

I asked her if she ever felt that way. Her answer was a simple “no”. This child has so much self esteem it is, as her North Dakotan aunt would say, “disgusting.” She is confident. She is happy about 80% of the time. She will pretend to be sad, some of the time, but I have never seen her pretend to be happy. Maybe it comes naturally to her and maybe we’ve built it in to her. Either way, the feeling I don’t deserve anything is mostly gone for me today. It’s just the fear without discernible cause that is getting to me today.

Working is hard work

I’ve been working sporadically, but determinedly. Today I did an all day in a kindergarten class room with a sweet, intelligent teacher. The school is an inner city school and I’d put Small in her room in a snap. Remember Small’s kindergarten teacher? If you don’t, I won’t refresh you. It was that bad.

It’s dress rehearsal tonight. Seven year old Small is the lead. She sang a teaser to the congregation last Sunday and we got comments like “She should sing in the ensemble” (the church’s worship band). Everyone said she did a good job and in the second service she didn’t miss a note. The director of the play said, “Without Small, there would be no play”. So we’re proud and it may be that Small will have the acting career I dreamed of. I have never pushed her towards this. I think there is too much heartache, but she hasn’t had any of that so far. And she doesn’t know Carolyn Robertson.

But still, when I see her up there, the only actor who speaks with any sort of expression, the only one signing solos, the sweetest singer, the glowingish skin, my face beams. She’s all those things, and more than that, she is the one who is mine.

Kittens seem to play into it a lot (PG)

My friend “youknowwhoiam” once described her head as being full of kittens. I didn’t know she was bipolar before that, but I recognized it right away. A quick chat confirmed it and I found comfort in my brethren. 4% of adults have bipolar, I wonder how many of them can be open about it. I can’t, yet. But if I spot one, I will reveal myself.

Now I feel like a kitten myself. I’ve got my mama kitty picking me up from the scruff of my neck with her teeth and noodling me. Problem is, while the kitten is being nestled in to mommy’s lair and given a sweet nipple, I’m just tossed aside. My expectations are useless. I’m just cold. I want to find a place of comfort, There aren’t any here. I took an ativan. I often drink some caffeine, too. The Ativan or Xanax relax me and the caffeine peps me up, in a good way. There is no caffeine here. I texted a friend asking what she was doing today, but she hasn’t gotten back to me, and I know she’s busy. The greenegem.wordpress.com has been helpful and I am happy to have her. I just need to get out. I might feel better if I eat something, but I am not about to cook. I might feel better if I did yoga, but it’s best on an empty stomach. I might feel better if I made myself get up and do something, but all of those things make me feel so overwhelmed. Remember, overwhelmed is a kind of fear. What am I afraid of? What do I have to lose by confronting bipolar? I know It’s best for now to write, to try to sing. To dream a little. These episodes are a part of my life and always will be. It’s that where the overwhelmed comes from? It is me? Or is it the illness? Or I am the illness? Is it like pusy pimple? They aren’t me, but they sure look like it. I’m all broken out now, too. They sure look like my neck is covered in them. (Thanks, Vyvanse).

I forgot to get Small from school yesterday. It was minimum day and I forgot. This is the third time I have forgotten. She called me and I was across town. I called Li and she rushed out to get her like she was her own. This woman has a newborn baby and a six (almost seven) year old. Also – a seventeen year old. All that, but she still cares for my baby.

More joy than you can handle? No.

I hate to admit my fantasies. In my up and down mind I think everyone dreams of tropical beaches, drinking mai tais and being rubbed down with coconut oil. That sounds great, but it’s not the way I roll.

I fantasize taking this out and out abusive father, holding him back and letting someone much bigger than him get beaten up. Then, once he falls to the ground I would hit his head over and over again with a 2×4.

I think of how I could run away with Small, or how I could leave permanently without making things horrid for my family or whoever else is involved in our lives.

Aren’t I emotionally healthy? Don’t I forgive people easily? Aren’t I the kind of person who deals with her feelings productively?

I drove the forty-five minutes to the psychiatrist’s office to be reminded she rescheduled and I wouldn’t get to see her today. I burst out in tears. Here I tried to tell myself my beating a fellow brother to death was 1/2 chemical and 1/2 vengeful, really trying to get that under control and I had no one to help me.

And no appointments until October. (It’s 9/19).

Of course, at that point my nose started to gush blood. It’s not uncommon, but that doesn’t make it less of a pain in the arse.

I drove home, decided to let Small eat in the cafeteria, sometime I refused to do my whole life. She loves it because she loves people and wants to spend time with them.

That makes one of us.

Where am I finding joy in this?

Yesterday I went to pick up Small from school. Her little friend, (the only “brown” girl in her class) ran up to see and hugged me first. Small was visibly upset and we talked about why when we got home. She is not really a crier, but she cried when she told me that I hurt her because I didn’t hug her first. “Of course,” I thought, “how else could it be?” On the way to school this morning we tried to figure out the best way to make sure she got the first hug. We decided arms folded across the chest was it. So, later today, I will be hugged by her friend, but not hug her back until I hugged Small first.

I told you before, she is the only second grader that still runs to her mommy after school. From the sadness that she didn’t get the first hug, to the running towards me, all of this gives me joy. I wouldn’t choose sadness, but it is an indicator of how much things are important to her. I am glad that what’s important to her is me.

An Old Fashioned Home Birth

Home births were not a big deal back in the day.  My grandfather was born at home.  Legend was that his (44! year old) mother wasn’t feeling well, went and lay down and had the baby.  It’s the type of birth us Natural Mothering folks dream about.  Unmedicated, unrushed, independent.  No doctor was going to tie down her arms during labor (that happened to a friend) and force pitocin on her.  No way, things went 100% naturally and the baby was perfect.  We still have that bed.

My dad’s mom had at least one unassisted home birth that I knew of, and probably had three out of four at home.  My dad’s cousin walked through during her labor and asked if he could name the baby. She said yes, and “Tex Alan” it was.  Her labor was not as easy as my great grandma’s, but my dad slipped out – no Hep B shot, no vitamin K.

Home births are not for everyone.  My dear friend, C, had two transverse babies and would not have been able to even have the babies without medical intervention.Two friends had emergency c-sections.  If these had been necessary eighty years ago, it’s possibly no one would have  lived.    I didn’t have one, although I would probably go for it, assisted by a midwife if I ever had the chance again.  I wonder if I could have relaxed enough to even delivered a child at home.  (I’ve been told with a home birth I would have been able to stay comfortable and deliver unmedicated – this is something I will never know and will carry no guilt upon.)

It’s kind of funny that there was a prestige in going to the hospital, just like there is often awe and respect given to the home birthing mothers.  What was “normal” then is a spectacle now.  If I had my choice I would do it all differently, and that makes me a little bit sad.  Ultimately, though, I had a safe birth and have a lovely little daughter.  If I had another baby, I’d ask for some other kind of experience, but the truth is I could not ask for more.

They don’t grow up too fast (PG)

Small’s birthday party is tomorrow.  My dad arrives today.  I spent yesterday cleaning, mostly because I wanted a good, clean house two days in a row.  The clutter has already taken over, so I have very little to show for the two days of hard, unpleasant work.  At least the banister is clean.  The bathrooms need cleaning again.  I will work on putting things together, for the sake of my dad.

I have ten RSVPs for the birthday party, not including the parents that are coming to supervise.  (Good thing it’s only ten, I only have 14 gift bags.)  Parents that stay have a point.   It’s a pool party, and even though we have a lifeguard I’ve never bought they were a part of a safety plan.  Maybe if  I ever saw one do anything more than kick teenagers out of the kiddie pool I would feel differently.  We’re also driving to the pizzeria after our allotted swim time.  Some people don’t want their kids driving in other people’s cars.

She is going to be seven.  It seems so old.  She’s already not a baby anymore, she’s a kid.  It hasn’t gone so fast as people warned me.  I think it’s for two reasons.  #1, I practiced a lot of attachment parenting.  She slept with me most of the time and I carried her in a moby wrap while she was a baby and an ergo carrier when she got to be a toddler.  (I used that until she was too heavy for me.  It works up to 90 pounds, though.  The ergo helped a lot on cranky days.  I’d pop her in the back and she was mostly quiet and content after that.)  #2 I was right there with her most of the time.  I have the luxury and privilege of being a mostly stay  at home mom.  What ever jobs I had were only an hour/few hours a stretch.  I did take much needed breaks, she was an active, spirited child, and I ‘m not a perfect mom.  Often I was an inattentive mom.  There were days she woke up looking stretched out – as if she was two inches taller.  However, time didn’t slip by.  Some days were long, a few were short, but I mostly got to be right there, watching her grow up.

Knowing she is probably my first and last has made me parent and observe more intently.  I am sure that my friends with four, five + kids are still attentive to them, but it must be different.  I don’t choose who gets to pick the story.  I make whatever she wants for breakfast.  You can’t carry twins in an ergo.  Of course these memories are nostalgia.

Is Small spoiled?  I always saw a spoiled kid as one that didn’t accept the final word of their parents.  We were in a yogurt shop with a lot of gumball machines.  This little girl came in begging her mom for a toy from the machine.  She was yelling, asking over and over again and mom said, “no” several times.  Mom ordered the yogurt and got her change.  Then she gave the money to her daughter to let her get whatever she liked from the machine.  ”No” did not mean “no”, it meant keep whining and I’ll let you do whatever you want.  I don’t want to judge her, but I am a judgmental person, and I saw that as spoiling the child.  We make every effort not to do things like this and we don’t listen to whining.

I’m not done raising Small, and I guess in some ways I never will be.  This blog is not intended to be a parenting manual, even though it may seem like it, lately.  I have a friend, T, who requested parenting information, so here you go!  If there is anything else any of you want me to write about, drop me a note or leave a comment and I will do so.

More about babies (PG-13)

I’m cycling, as in bipolar cycling.  I spent, I shopped, I cried and I refused to do anything difficult.  I tried to sleep like crazy.  I took an Ativan but all that did was make me exceedingly mellow for about twenty hours.  I did sleep a reasonable amount, but who cares?  The point is, I wore that checkbook out.  I returned some of the things, but I felt entitled to the ones I kept.  The next day, nay, the next afternoon I felt really guilty.  It was a sign that I am headed back to some sort of normalcy.  Normal is one of my least favorite words, but I need it for my family.

I was crying today because Small asked me to read to her.  We read a Lola and Soren Lorenson book.  I love Lola and her brother and her invisible friend, Soren.  Then the other book  she chose is book about a pregnant woman and her baby.  They were going to go “catch the sun.”  I couldn’t hang with it.  Seeing them together was too much – the last few days of it just being the two of them.  I thought I was over this, but it is a sadness and joy I will carry with me my whole life.  I will never be callous towards myself or anyone else who lost a child.  They are earned scars.  What is it Rumi says about the bruised  hand?  There are people who are compassionate but have never had trouble with fertility, or miscarriage, or still birth, or….  An empathetic hand is what is gentle, helpful and hopeful.

I know just what brought this up.  The other day, while I was in the bath, Small tried to explain to me why it would be great for her to have the big sister we lost.  ”She’s be eight years old, not too old to play with me,” she said.  I agreed with her, although that possibility would not be great – we found out I was pregnant with Small on our first child’s due date.  Then I realized that Small didn’t understand what happened.  I don’t remember why I told her about the miscarriage, and I’m not sure it was a wise thing to do.  If we had another I would wait until she was older, for sure.  Something in me clicked and I think I could understand where she was coming from:  ”Small, we can’t just go pick her up.”

She was surprised.  She must have thought, “Why not?”

It seemed like she thought she was waiting for us welcome her back into our family.  I tried to explain to her we could never do that, but I am still not sure she really gets it.  I remember reading about twins, aged seven, whose father died of a heart attack.  Their mom had heard them in the hall in the middle of the night.  They had packed and were ready to go find dad.  So, seven is probably too young, too.  But what do I know?  I’m a first time mom.

I’m also a last time mom.

I don’t need another child.  Not to be happy and not to be fulfilled.  I am open to more children, but will not seek to adopt or surrogate.  I figure the only way we will have more children is if someone leaves their children to us after death or some sort of incapacity.  We are godparents to my 16 year old cousin, though if something happened to her mom I’m probably sure she would emancipate, she’s just that together.  (Her dad is a meth-user, among other stupid things).  So anyway, that’s out.  I thought once that I have things to do that I could probably not accomplish with a large family.  I love my daughter and try not to let the sorrow get in the way.  It must.  I have a feeling my longing some how lodged itself in her and that is why she keeps asking.  My therapist’s stance about my sadness about the birthday parties (now up to 3) is that I am projecting my loneliness and feelings of exclusion on her.  It doesn’t seem to really effect her.  Does she even know about them?   Would she care or is she secure enough to not let it bother her?   I have a sneaking suspicion she really doesn’t care.  It’s a shock to me.   How can she not feel the sting of rejection and exclusion?

She has a new best friend every week.  Normal.  (There’s that word.)  I had one friend a year, if that.  Kindergarten – Jennifer.  First grade – Kristie (but I had not her best friend.  Davina was.   Second grade- Megan and Regina (that’s two!)  Third grade, also Megan and Regina.  Fourth grade- Persephone, Fifth grade – Pam.  Sixth grade and Middle school changed things a little.  There was a little clan of us, Erica, Cindy, Valeri(e), nd me.   (Cindy was my roommate at sixth grade camp.  Valeri(e) and I locked her in to the closet. Cindy was still my friend after that.  That same week I met Monique (mauditmo.wordpress.com).  I have always gotten better things than I deserve.

Small is not ready for a clan, and I am not ready to get a call from the school telling me about the horrible things she did.  (I believe she is a kinder, less frustrated person than I was  Also I was never caught.  Not for locking a girl in the closet, not for the very mean slam book I carried around, not for nothing.)

I have to get ready for church.

The devil bit me

I skipped my Lithium a few days ago, purely by accident, so after things being great, they are not so great.

The devil has bit me. I am so anxious and angry. The things I say jolt or annoy people. My thought lean towards homicide and suicide. I took 1/2 a Xanax to get through and it slowed me down a little bit, but the problem with Xanax is it wears off and leaves you even more tense than you were before. Yoga is the best remedy for this, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ promise myself I’ll never take one of those pills again, but I can’t do it. They do work best with a can of Pepsi, but I don’t always want to do that either.

My new don’t let anyone see how messed up you’re feeling is going okay. Almost going well. I don’t want to be so vulnerable. I don’t want to be picked on and I certainly don’t want to be pitied. I am through with that.

I am also through with birthday parties. I am through with other people’s birthday parties, and although it hurts to say so, I think I am through with ours.

I should add we went to a lovely birthday party for B, my daughter’s friend from church. It was low key, they handed out swim noodles and everyone had fun.

After that, I have high expectations for people for whom I should have none. We live in this court where eight of the kids play together almost everyday. One of the families has a kindergarten kid and a preschoolers. My daughter was not invited to their birthday party. She never heard about it, so who cares? It gives us an excuse to not invite them to ours. (Already getting stupid.) Another family has a son the same age as my daughter and another preschooler. My daughter adores these boys and the sentiment is mutual. They always want her to come over, the baby invited her to come on his dentist’s appointment.

She is not invited (so far) to his birthday party.

There is another family I know that was have a birthday party a year ago. They laughingly said on facebook, “bring your own chairs.” I posted that we could lend our nice, green (plastic, but still nice) chairs. We did. Then I tried to get them back. She kept saying she would bring them. Finally, for the last month, she hasn’t returned my emails. Today on facebook she posts about how she’s not ready for her youngest’s birthday party. A few hours later she comments on the great party.

A party our chairs attended but our daughter was not invited to.

Tacky, tacky, tacky. I’m not sure what to do next. We need those chars, so I’m considering asking the possessor to leave them on the front porch. When my baby hears about the little boy’s party, she is going to by crushed. And his mom knows that.

That is what is getting to me. If we didn’t have birthday parties, we wouldn’t have all this drama. Who are we hurting for not inviting? Is this really necessary to do so? Do I need to get all tied up in it? Probably not, but I’m immature at this point and I do get involved.

PMs I wish I would send but haven’t/won’t:

“Guess I see why you needed the chairs:-) Glad we were able to be *some* part of the celebration. When can we pick the up?”

“Looks like we missed our invitation. What time is it so we can make sure to be there?”

I believe my brother calls this a “pissing contest.”

The Parents

The other day my good friend, CH, asked me how my parents reacted to my manic-depression diagnosis. Excellent question, and I know some of you have already heard a part of this story. Nevertheless, here is the answer:

After the psychiatrist confirmed my psychologist’s diagnosis, I wanted to use his phone to call my dad. The doctor wouldn’t let me to privacy reasons, so I drove around until I found a pay phone. (I didn’t believe in cell phones.) I called my dad at work. “Daddy, I have bipolar.” He responded, “This is J. W.” I told him again. I started to cry. I asked him to call my mom. The whole time I was on the phone there was this guy in a dark red truck ogling me. When I got off the phone he asked if he could give me a ride. I almost spit on him, but all I did was give him a dirty look. I knew even then I wouldn’t ever forget him.

My parents rushed home from work, threw some clothing in the car and drove to my house three hours away. By that time I was in the hospital. My eighteen month old was with B. I had secured breastfeeding rights for her, so my parents brought her every morning and every night to nurse. My dad would cry the whole time we were together. I kissed him and tried to soothe him but I couldn’t really do it. I was the cause for his grief. So long as I stayed in the hospital, I could not assuage it.

I think a lot of my dad’s sorrow came from guilt about his family of origin. My uncle had schizophrenia. He died in a mental health facility for disabled veterans. Their mother probably had some sort of mental illness as well. My dad had escaped it, but I hadn’t. I learned later my father was also afraid because of the other patients. Many of them were fresh after a suicide attempt, so they were drugged even further out of their minds. Perhaps I was not as sparkly as I was when I came in, but I wasn’t suicidal any more. At least not that suicidal.

He talked to my therapist once and asked her how did it get so far without him knowing? That question is one I have asked myself many times. Why didn’t they figure it out? I knew I was different than everyone else at a very young age. (We’re talking early elementary school). I started asking for counseling in the seventh grade but my mom told me I didn’t need it. My parents must have thought that I was just quirky and slightly crazy. My severe mood swings were dismissed as part of my personality. I was great fun high, and was mean, spiteful and unthankful when I was low.

My mom is usually more emotionally reserved than my dad, and this instance was no different. She likes to take care of things, and she did. Not only was she caring for my toddler daughter, but she did things like scrub the carpet to get the sizeable stains out of it. She brought me my new clothes to wear in the hospital. (I had gone on a shopping spree the Friday before. I bought a vacuum and about about $1,000 of clothes. In retrospect she had the option of returning them, they still had their tags and I had a receipt. She didn’t, so I got to look cute while most everyone else looked like hell.)

I will always be thankful for them for coming to see me every morning and every night and bringing Small. My thankfulness extendes to their attitude: They were excited to see me and wanted to be there. There was no resentment that the visits were inconvenient or too long. They wanted to stay as long as they could to spend time with me and to let me spend time with their granddaughter.

I got out of the hospital and resumed living, only with doctors or therapist appointments three times a week and a handful of drugs morning and night. Life was difficult. Only B saw the grueling pace I was working at. No one else could fathom it. I wanted my parents to know, and to understand, though. For a while there, if they were around when it was time, I’d sort my pills in to pill boxes in front of them. I wanted to show them how serious this illness can be. I have a lot of bottles of pills. Most recently I’ve added an anti-nausea drug because my B-100 pill makes me throw up several times a month. That brings my prescription bottles up to a grand total of seven. This is not counting the vitamins. I asked the pharmacy tech if I had more prescriptions than any other customer and she said, “for a young person, yes.” They even know me by name.

But back to my parents. My mom lives with us four days a week. I know part of the reason is that she wants to keep her eye on me. She and my dad are getting a grip on all this means. Bipolar can be fatal and I feel like, even if I have long stretches of stability, The way I see it I am always going be on the brink of a episode. A mood swing can be triggered by just about anything, it’s just a matter of how the symptoms present themselves. Sometimes I’ll be elated and deflated, up and down, in a day’s time. Sometimes I’ll sleep until 10 (we’re normally awake at 6:30). Sometimes I’ll buy everything in the mall that is my size. Sometimes no symptoms will present themselves, and my new goal is to try to at least look like I’ve got it together the way I used to when I worked full time. If I work hard I won’t do most of those things most of the time, but, aside from death, I can guarantee that no episode will be my last.

I do want to be well. I rarely miss a dose of my medicine, no matter how unpleasant it to do so. I am on a diet that helps regulate my mood and I make an effort to exercise. (Not enough of an effort, if you ask B, and he is right.) I try to do little things, like go to bed at the same time every night and follow doctor’s orders. I’ve stopped overeating, for the most part, and started dieting and losing weight. All these little things contribute to a centered life and a healthy brain. I think my parents know that I usually am doing my best and working my hardest, and they do a lot to help us along.

So there is my answer. My parents were grieved, but strong and generous in their response to finding out about my illness. It is hard to ask for more.

The Good Parent

This is in response to my friend who wanted me to write more about ‘good parenting’.  Here goes.

It’s 7:48.  The sitter should be here any minute.  I am dressed and wearing an immodest amount of make-up, seeing that I am 35 and it would be much kinder to the world if I wore more.  My child is upstairs.  She came downstairs to read some educational magazine my mother bought her, decided there wasn’t enough to catch her fancy downstairs and went back up to bed.

There is no bread.  I never told the sitter what to make for breakfast.   She found bread and makes fairy wings (french toast with an exaggerated sense of self) but there is no bread today.  I never told her about lunch.  This meant nutella  in some context.  If I had left something, something at all, I’m sure the babysitter would have served it.  I didn’t.

I work three hours five days a week.  I think technically that is a good mom job.  I do not homeschool, which causes me to lose good mom points  in many circles, but my hours are during school time, so she never knows I am gone.

My little girl dresses herself.  It used to be things like hot pink leggings, a purple shirt covered in glitter and a tutu.  For kindergarten she wore a pair of jeans, a dress, and sparkly shoes every single day.  The dress might be covered in paisley.  Or flowers, or some other wacky print.  She wore a smart little bob.  Some of the moms sneered at me.  I honestly didn’t care.  Yes, their little girls looked cute with their curly pig-tails with ribbons matching their dresses.  I didn’t judge them, but if a parent was lamenting their child’s choice of clothes – for example the superman outfit he wanted to wear, I’d advise them to just let him wear them.  Wash ‘em on the weekend, or more often if you need to, but who is it really hurting?  For what it’s worth, she what she wears is much calmer now.  She often tops her sedate outfits with hot pink patten leather shoes.  Nothing too interesting.  Sometimes she looks fashionable and sometimes she looks ordinary.  The other day she commented how the older you get the less fancy you become, and I hold that to be true.  In most cases.  The woman who asked me to write about good parenting is pretty fancy, though.  She knows who she is.

I have to think about the good parenting I do.  Knowing what I do wrong comes so naturally.  It’s good, in a way, because it gives me to impetus to change.  So much of my parenting is marred by mental illness, but in some ways I genuinely think it makes it better.  I know how to calm someone down, even if they are four, or two, or six, because I have learned to calm myself down.  We never punished her for her fits and they went away the same time the punitive children’s did.  We had a gentler time of it.  We were not embarrassed…

I see that the whole ‘not embarrassed thing’ theme is appearing through out my blog.  I think my husband and I can be embarrassing.  We can embarrass each other and ourselves with ease.  There is little a small child can do that embarrasses us more than we do each other.  Maybe it is that my husband and I are both kinda freaks, so we’ve gotten used to it.

More later.