We're moving soon. Yay! I started my career as an adult in Germany. Now we're moving back there. I like to think fate is giving me another chance to get my shit together and do it right. But really? Is it? Is it really? Yeah, I'm not so sure either. But isn't it nice to think so?
When we moved to Turkey almost two years ago, I immediately lost my crap in an epic way. We didn't even have all of our stuff in our hotel room before I collapsed on the floor in a heap of desperation and blubbering. What had I done? This was a terrible mistake. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. I'll never be cheerful again. You said it, Ron Weasley. So I went to therapy. I've mentioned my therapist once or twice, right? She's been a really important part of my life here... and possibly the reason I'm alive here??? Maybe. Not sure, but glad I don't have to know where I'd be without her. So a year and a half to get back to "normal", okay. Gruelling, self examination. Wanting to give up and not being able to. Almost being hospitalized because I was sleeping most of the day. Over half I'd say. (She turned me into a newt.) I got better.
Now there is this whole mess. I could deal with depression. You take a pill. Cymbalta can help. You know. It's manageable. This whole bpd thing though... whoa.
Anyway, I'm terrified to move to Germany. I think I've narrowed down some of the things I'm scared of. Seasons. Freaking seasons. I grew up in the middle of a corn field in southern Illinois. I know seasons, but I've been away from them for so long now that I'm afraid of them. I have a habit of going dark when the seasons do. I love all the seasons. Except snowless winter. Winter is fine. It's great! I love that shit. But with snow. Otherwise it's depressing. Everything is dead. It's dull and drab and crap. So I'm afraid of cloudy not sunny weather. Dear god, I'm not sure I'm being very successful at this whole being a people thing.
I'm also just afraid I'll crumple into a heap again. What if that happens? What then? Well, what then? I'm going to be in therapy anyway, so I'll just add being a heap to our to do list. I mean I know all this crap, but it doesn't help. I can't seem to control how I feel. I wish I could just make a decision to feel a certain way and then stick with it, but alas, earwax. I'm just going to feel how I'm going to feel dammit!!! Sigh.
Monday, July 28, 2014
I don't need no stinking structure.
My therapist is making me get a job. A real job. Eff that noise. The conversation went something like this:
T(herapist): When you move, you need to get a job.
M(e): A job?
T: Yes. An actual, non creative job that gets you out of the house.
M: Can't I just take up marathoning instead???
T: No. You won't do it.
M: I will if I don't have to get a job.
T: You need to get paid.
M: But...
T: And you need to be around other people.
M: But I don't like other people...
Something to keep in mind, I was whining. Straight up whining. Whiny voice, pouty face, slumpy posture, and shuffling feet. Another thing is that I hate running. I do it because Ernest Hemingway said it was a good idea. Granted, he may not be the best role model for my life... But still, bro was legit. And it keeps me from killing people and generally going on some kind of rampage. Also, I run when I feel fat. Well, the days I don't eat ice cream because I feel fat. Don't judge me.
Right, so I was talking about getting a job. I hate jobs. I hate working at jobs. I would rather sit around all day and write, but to quote a wise woman, "No. You won't do it." She says I need structure. But structure is dumb... I don't want structure. I want to roam free!!!! I want to be frolicking in some damn flowers, not abiding by some set of ... rules. I may be revolting against the military lifestyle, but that's not the damn point.
But I was thinking about it, and surprise, surprise, she's right. I need structure. Maybe loose structure, not that crazy every minute of the day psycho micromanaging crap. When I don't have structure, I tend to forget the last time I showered, to feed the children, what day it is, or what it's like not to wear pjs with no bra. (Be FREE!!!)
For instance, tonight. Hubs says, "I really want pizza." I say, "So order one. As far as I'm concerned, we're having pudding for supper." Because I was eating pudding because I ate "lunch" at like 1530. WTF?!?
So I guess what I'm getting at here is that without a set structure, I don't really care enough to do anything. Some days it's glorious like today when I chose to spend the day reading. But some days it's not so great. Those days it's hard to get out of bed let alone do anything constructive. This book that I was reading about borderline personality disorder said that people with bpd have a harder time getting out of bed than those who don't. Since that book was written by a non-afflicted person, they didn't give a great reason as to why that may be. I can't speak for everyone, but I can speak for myself. I have to steel myself to face my day. It takes me a while because I know what I'm facing if I accept consciousness for today. I know the struggle I'm facing every day. You know how it's really hard to get out of bed the day after you do a super strenuous workout? Like way harder than you've ever done? It's like that. We may not be doing anything physically strenuous, but mentally, we're shot before we even get out of bed.
"I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake" - Ernest Hemingway
T(herapist): When you move, you need to get a job.
M(e): A job?
T: Yes. An actual, non creative job that gets you out of the house.
M: Can't I just take up marathoning instead???
T: No. You won't do it.
M: I will if I don't have to get a job.
T: You need to get paid.
M: But...
T: And you need to be around other people.
M: But I don't like other people...
Something to keep in mind, I was whining. Straight up whining. Whiny voice, pouty face, slumpy posture, and shuffling feet. Another thing is that I hate running. I do it because Ernest Hemingway said it was a good idea. Granted, he may not be the best role model for my life... But still, bro was legit. And it keeps me from killing people and generally going on some kind of rampage. Also, I run when I feel fat. Well, the days I don't eat ice cream because I feel fat. Don't judge me.
Right, so I was talking about getting a job. I hate jobs. I hate working at jobs. I would rather sit around all day and write, but to quote a wise woman, "No. You won't do it." She says I need structure. But structure is dumb... I don't want structure. I want to roam free!!!! I want to be frolicking in some damn flowers, not abiding by some set of ... rules. I may be revolting against the military lifestyle, but that's not the damn point.
But I was thinking about it, and surprise, surprise, she's right. I need structure. Maybe loose structure, not that crazy every minute of the day psycho micromanaging crap. When I don't have structure, I tend to forget the last time I showered, to feed the children, what day it is, or what it's like not to wear pjs with no bra. (Be FREE!!!)
For instance, tonight. Hubs says, "I really want pizza." I say, "So order one. As far as I'm concerned, we're having pudding for supper." Because I was eating pudding because I ate "lunch" at like 1530. WTF?!?
So I guess what I'm getting at here is that without a set structure, I don't really care enough to do anything. Some days it's glorious like today when I chose to spend the day reading. But some days it's not so great. Those days it's hard to get out of bed let alone do anything constructive. This book that I was reading about borderline personality disorder said that people with bpd have a harder time getting out of bed than those who don't. Since that book was written by a non-afflicted person, they didn't give a great reason as to why that may be. I can't speak for everyone, but I can speak for myself. I have to steel myself to face my day. It takes me a while because I know what I'm facing if I accept consciousness for today. I know the struggle I'm facing every day. You know how it's really hard to get out of bed the day after you do a super strenuous workout? Like way harder than you've ever done? It's like that. We may not be doing anything physically strenuous, but mentally, we're shot before we even get out of bed.
"I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake" - Ernest Hemingway
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Go, go, Gadget freak out!
One of the things about borderline personality disorder is the ability to freak out at what seems like nothing. Seriously, I once cried because Taco Bell was going to put refried beans on my taco salad. I was pregnant, but still.
Tonight's harrowing adventure involves me alone in the middle of the night browsing the internet. And then all of a sudden, WHAM! Like a frickin' Mack truck right in the feels. I was just sad and then really sad and then it made me think of all the things that sucked and all of the things about me that make me feel bad about myself. It was rough. I went from la dee da, I'm reading a good book to if I have to live like this anymore, then, thanks but no thanks, I'll opt out. And in only a few minutes. It's a gift.
It's 0200 over here, and I know I need to go to bed, but I just can't make myself. There's something about the stillness and quiet, you know? I used to think it was because it forced me to think of things I'd rather not think about, but that's dumb. All I do all day is think. To professionals and bovine it's called ruminating. I call it obsessing over crap and being a gigantic narcissist. How else can you describe someone who is turned so inward, so concerned with themselves and how they feel that they can barely function? I mean, I guess you can call them someone who is sick. Whatever. Stop trying to make me feel better. Now, though, I think it's because if I'm up, I can actively distract myself. But when I go to bed and it's dark and quiet, the world sort of closes for business and it gets really quite lonely. Especially on those days the hubs has to work nights. Like tonight. I've been putting a movie on while I fall asleep just for some background noise because I'm not okay with being alone. I need to say that again, I think.
I'm not okay with being alone.
Whoa Doc, this is heavy. I'm not sure I've really realized/admitted that before. Being terrified of real or perceived abandonment. So, like, hubs going to work after a long weekend. Sometimes it's nice, don't get me wrong. Under the right circumstances and when I'm in the right mood, alone is brilliant. It's the only thing that keeps me sane. But not tonight. Tonight's one of those nights where I mentally check the box for "little pleasure or interest in doing things". I don't know what my mood is, so I can't pick an appropriate movie to go to sleep to. I'm going to go with The Breakfast Club. I feel that as someone nearing thirty, I should be able to say I've seen The Breakfast Club. So, at least I'll endeavor to rectify this most egregious of wrongs.
I had an aha moment when I was reading the literature about "real or perceived abandonment". When I was a kid, my parents were divorced and I spent every other weekend with my dad. Usually friday after school until sunday evening. It would either come friday or saturday night, but I would cry. I cried because I knew I'd have to leave sunday night. I had just gotten there. I had days left and was already dreading leaving. I always thought it was just me being a weirdo. Nope. Just me being me.
Anyway. I'm going to attempt to go to bed. I'll be rollin' three deep with dread and John Hughes at my side.
Tonight's harrowing adventure involves me alone in the middle of the night browsing the internet. And then all of a sudden, WHAM! Like a frickin' Mack truck right in the feels. I was just sad and then really sad and then it made me think of all the things that sucked and all of the things about me that make me feel bad about myself. It was rough. I went from la dee da, I'm reading a good book to if I have to live like this anymore, then, thanks but no thanks, I'll opt out. And in only a few minutes. It's a gift.
It's 0200 over here, and I know I need to go to bed, but I just can't make myself. There's something about the stillness and quiet, you know? I used to think it was because it forced me to think of things I'd rather not think about, but that's dumb. All I do all day is think. To professionals and bovine it's called ruminating. I call it obsessing over crap and being a gigantic narcissist. How else can you describe someone who is turned so inward, so concerned with themselves and how they feel that they can barely function? I mean, I guess you can call them someone who is sick. Whatever. Stop trying to make me feel better. Now, though, I think it's because if I'm up, I can actively distract myself. But when I go to bed and it's dark and quiet, the world sort of closes for business and it gets really quite lonely. Especially on those days the hubs has to work nights. Like tonight. I've been putting a movie on while I fall asleep just for some background noise because I'm not okay with being alone. I need to say that again, I think.
I'm not okay with being alone.
Whoa Doc, this is heavy. I'm not sure I've really realized/admitted that before. Being terrified of real or perceived abandonment. So, like, hubs going to work after a long weekend. Sometimes it's nice, don't get me wrong. Under the right circumstances and when I'm in the right mood, alone is brilliant. It's the only thing that keeps me sane. But not tonight. Tonight's one of those nights where I mentally check the box for "little pleasure or interest in doing things". I don't know what my mood is, so I can't pick an appropriate movie to go to sleep to. I'm going to go with The Breakfast Club. I feel that as someone nearing thirty, I should be able to say I've seen The Breakfast Club. So, at least I'll endeavor to rectify this most egregious of wrongs.
I had an aha moment when I was reading the literature about "real or perceived abandonment". When I was a kid, my parents were divorced and I spent every other weekend with my dad. Usually friday after school until sunday evening. It would either come friday or saturday night, but I would cry. I cried because I knew I'd have to leave sunday night. I had just gotten there. I had days left and was already dreading leaving. I always thought it was just me being a weirdo. Nope. Just me being me.
Anyway. I'm going to attempt to go to bed. I'll be rollin' three deep with dread and John Hughes at my side.
I have what?
Hi. I've had depression for years. Years. Yeeeaaaarrrrssss... I've been on antidepressants for like twelve years and still hate everything. I've gone to see my therapist more than anyone else on this base.
I should mention, I have a husband in the Air Force, two kids (5 & 7), and live in Turkey. Wow, you're thinking, what an exotic locale. Bollocks. For all general purposes, it's been a hole. Just, ugh... But that may be due in part to my specific... thing. Some people have rose colored glasses, and everything's shiny. I'm gonna just go ahead and generalize peeps like me as having goth colored glasses. Think Daria as an Osborne. As a guest on Sesame Street. Right? My brain is a scary place to live.
Anyway. So, my therapist is totally rockin'. I seriously love this woman. I shudder to think of where I'd be without her constantly pulling me back from the ledge and making me "slow my roll", and just listening to me yell and scream and cry and babble incoherently for an hour every week to two weeks. Then 33 sessions later, she suggests this new kind of therapy calleddiabetic diastolic dialectical behavior therapy. She tells me my homework is to research it. She thinks it will be a good idea because we've done cognitive behavior therapy to death. We've kicked that dead horse so many times, it's turned to glue.
So, I turn to the Google. Don't worry, I passed up the Wikipedia entry. The National Institute of Health... Hmm... DISCO! This is what they had to say:
"Dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) is a comprehensive, evidence-based treatment for borderline personality disorder (BPD). The patient populations for which DBT has the most empirical support include parasuicidal women with borderline personality disorder (BPD), but there have been promising findings for patients with BPD and substance use disorders (SUDs), persons who meet criteria for binge-eating disorder, and depressed elderly patients." http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2963469/
That's weird. I'm not a substance abuser. I'm not elderly. What is this borderline personality disorder thing? To the Google!
"
According to the DSM, Fourth Edition, Text Revision (DSM-IV-TR), to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, a person must show an enduring pattern of behavior that includes at least five of the following symptoms:
I'm reading through this mess and I'm just like, huh. Oh? Really? Yeah. OMG. YEEEESSSS!!!! I've never really heard a more apt description of me in my life. So I go back to my therapist. She's all how was your homework. I'm all like I researched DBT. She's all so what did you learn? I went for it. I said that I learned that I probably have BPD. So we went through the nine criteria. Out of nine, I consistently display seven. DISCO! It's safe to say this is my new diagnosis. I've had depression, disthymia, anxiety, and been on meds for all, yet there's always been something. Just this nagging dread and gloom like deep in my soul. Even when I'm happy I'm not sure I really feel happy. That's not right. I mean, I know drugs can't cure everything, but come on. I should not be blubbering while on an antidepressant cocktail. I've gotten blood tests and my systems are all normal. What the actual F is wrong with me? This! This is it! This has been it all along. The WHOLE time!!! I have literally had this most of my life!!! It explains everything.
It's such a relief. For years, I've just been under the impression that I had depression and was just not doing it right. Like I was not wanting to be happy badly enough or somehow it was my fault that my meds weren't doing the trick. Screw that! It's a thing. Now I'm not really sure what to do with it. I'm not going to lie, I'm super bummed that there's not a magic pill or some electrodes for my brain or something to make it better. It's all done through therapy and reprogramming your neurons. Fuuuuudddddggggeeee. Only I didn't think fudge. I thought the word. The queen mother of dirty words. The f dash dash dash word. I've been busting my hump for a year and a half to get out of the pit I fell in when we moved here. Now I get to do it all again! OH BOY! (sarcasm is strong with this one.) I've got a climb that's something akin to climbing Mt. Everest in flip flops and a tank top with a guide named Booger who thinks Pauly Shore is god. I'm doomed. Or not. Depends on when you ask me.
Anyway, I decided to take John Watson's therapists advice (from Sherlock on the BBC) and blog about things that happen to me. Nothing happens to me. There's not a lot of info out there on borderline personality disorder. And there's apparently a hella stigma. Well F your stigma. I wasn't embarrassed to have depression, and I'm not (that) embarrassed to have BPD. It's something wrong. It's a thing. I didn't make it up. I'm not crazy. I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your research. JK. I'm relieved, and sad, and happy, and scared. So I'll share. It makes me feel better.
I should mention, I have a husband in the Air Force, two kids (5 & 7), and live in Turkey. Wow, you're thinking, what an exotic locale. Bollocks. For all general purposes, it's been a hole. Just, ugh... But that may be due in part to my specific... thing. Some people have rose colored glasses, and everything's shiny. I'm gonna just go ahead and generalize peeps like me as having goth colored glasses. Think Daria as an Osborne. As a guest on Sesame Street. Right? My brain is a scary place to live.
Anyway. So, my therapist is totally rockin'. I seriously love this woman. I shudder to think of where I'd be without her constantly pulling me back from the ledge and making me "slow my roll", and just listening to me yell and scream and cry and babble incoherently for an hour every week to two weeks. Then 33 sessions later, she suggests this new kind of therapy called
So, I turn to the Google. Don't worry, I passed up the Wikipedia entry. The National Institute of Health... Hmm... DISCO! This is what they had to say:
"Dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) is a comprehensive, evidence-based treatment for borderline personality disorder (BPD). The patient populations for which DBT has the most empirical support include parasuicidal women with borderline personality disorder (BPD), but there have been promising findings for patients with BPD and substance use disorders (SUDs), persons who meet criteria for binge-eating disorder, and depressed elderly patients." http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2963469/
That's weird. I'm not a substance abuser. I'm not elderly. What is this borderline personality disorder thing? To the Google!
"
According to the DSM, Fourth Edition, Text Revision (DSM-IV-TR), to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, a person must show an enduring pattern of behavior that includes at least five of the following symptoms:
- Extreme reactions—including panic, depression, rage, or frantic actions—to abandonment, whether real or perceived
- A pattern of intense and stormy relationships with family, friends, and loved ones, often veering from extreme closeness and love (idealization) to extreme dislike or anger (devaluation)
- Distorted and unstable self-image or sense of self, which can result in sudden changes in feelings, opinions, values, or plans and goals for the future (such as school or career choices)
- Impulsive and often dangerous behaviors, such as spending sprees, unsafe sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, and binge eating
- Recurring suicidal behaviors or threats or self-harming behavior, such as cutting
- Intense and highly changeable moods, with each episode lasting from a few hours to a few days
- Chronic feelings of emptiness and/or boredom
- Inappropriate, intense anger or problems controlling anger
- Having stress-related paranoid thoughts or severe dissociative symptoms, such as feeling cut off from oneself, observing oneself from outside the body, or losing touch with reality.
I'm reading through this mess and I'm just like, huh. Oh? Really? Yeah. OMG. YEEEESSSS!!!! I've never really heard a more apt description of me in my life. So I go back to my therapist. She's all how was your homework. I'm all like I researched DBT. She's all so what did you learn? I went for it. I said that I learned that I probably have BPD. So we went through the nine criteria. Out of nine, I consistently display seven. DISCO! It's safe to say this is my new diagnosis. I've had depression, disthymia, anxiety, and been on meds for all, yet there's always been something. Just this nagging dread and gloom like deep in my soul. Even when I'm happy I'm not sure I really feel happy. That's not right. I mean, I know drugs can't cure everything, but come on. I should not be blubbering while on an antidepressant cocktail. I've gotten blood tests and my systems are all normal. What the actual F is wrong with me? This! This is it! This has been it all along. The WHOLE time!!! I have literally had this most of my life!!! It explains everything.
It's such a relief. For years, I've just been under the impression that I had depression and was just not doing it right. Like I was not wanting to be happy badly enough or somehow it was my fault that my meds weren't doing the trick. Screw that! It's a thing. Now I'm not really sure what to do with it. I'm not going to lie, I'm super bummed that there's not a magic pill or some electrodes for my brain or something to make it better. It's all done through therapy and reprogramming your neurons. Fuuuuudddddggggeeee. Only I didn't think fudge. I thought the word. The queen mother of dirty words. The f dash dash dash word. I've been busting my hump for a year and a half to get out of the pit I fell in when we moved here. Now I get to do it all again! OH BOY! (sarcasm is strong with this one.) I've got a climb that's something akin to climbing Mt. Everest in flip flops and a tank top with a guide named Booger who thinks Pauly Shore is god. I'm doomed. Or not. Depends on when you ask me.
Anyway, I decided to take John Watson's therapists advice (from Sherlock on the BBC) and blog about things that happen to me. Nothing happens to me. There's not a lot of info out there on borderline personality disorder. And there's apparently a hella stigma. Well F your stigma. I wasn't embarrassed to have depression, and I'm not (that) embarrassed to have BPD. It's something wrong. It's a thing. I didn't make it up. I'm not crazy. I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your research. JK. I'm relieved, and sad, and happy, and scared. So I'll share. It makes me feel better.
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