Depression

I've struggled all my life with depression. Thinking back, the first time I realized I was depressed (and I mean clinically depressed, not just "it's a rainy day and I'm bored" depressed) was when I was about nine years old. Puberty - and the insane events in my life that coincided with puberty - increased the depression and introduced anxiety.

When I was in my young twenties, I was put on anti-depressants and they made such a wonderful impact in my life. I was a single parent working part-time and attending college full-time, plus a regular attender at church. I felt in control of my life and was genuinely chipper. In my mid-twenties I got pregnant twice - back-to-back pregnancies - and for the sake of the babies, went off my meds. And was so rushed and stressed that it took me three years after my youngest was born to realize I hadn't bothered to go back on the anti-depressants.

"Well," I thought to myself. "If I've been able to handle all these years without them, even with young children, I must not need them anymore." And so I didn't bother asking my doctor for them. And even in later years, when my doctor stressed the idea, I resisted out of a false sense of pride and - yes, I admit it - superiority.

Which, looking back on it, made me a stuck-up b*tch. And during those years, I didn't realize that I was self-medicating with things like junk food, caffeine, and escapism into books.

(now, don't think I'm saying reading is bad. It's a wonderful activity that I still indulge in regularly...but just like anything, it can become an unhealthy addiction if you are using it as a crutch.)

When I realized I was slipping into a dangerous area of OCD, I resisted by intentionally keeping small parts of my home cluttered - which of course added to my anxiety and thus added to depression. And then I would get too down to even clean the intentional clutter and grow even more depressed and anxious...a vicious cycle that swung up and down with my moods.

Injuring my back earlier this year - and the resultant loss of mobility - triggered a tsunami of out-of-control mood swings that sent me down lower than I've been before. And of course, every time I swung low I'd binge eat to feel better. Then I saw the scale and realized I'd developed a new all-time weight high.

This past week, I came to my senses and cried "Enough!!!!" And went to the doctor to talk about anti-depressants and other medical treatments. I'm starting on the new medications today, and such things rarely go smoothly. Dosages will need to be adjusted and some meds will need to be changed, so it's going to be rough going for a while here - but at least it's in the right direction.

Another thing that came to light during my visit is that my iron levels are frighteningly low at ten (if I recall correctly, normal is somewhere around 40-55). Low iron leads to exhaustion and breathing problems, and can contribute to depression as well, so I'm on a prescription-strength iron pill that I am supposed to take three times a day. Iron pills can...um...how do I say this delicately? Gum up the works? Because of that, I have been prescribed a fruit heavy diet with lots and lots of water. So breakfast this morning is going to be almost all fruit, and lunch will include fruit. Snack will be nothing but fruit, and dessert after dinner? Yup, you guessed it - fruit.

Good thing I live close enough to a wonderful store with a huge produce section at low prices, because none of the things I've planted that are fruit-bearing are actually bearing large amounts of fruit. And Sean was wonderful and bought all sorts of frozen fruits to make smoothies with on days when I run out of the fresh stuff.

No one likes to discuss their imperfections, and my struggle with depression, diet, anxiety, and OCD are difficult to admit to. It's hard. It's painful. And it's freeing to be able to say "I need help"...even when that help comes from a prescription bottle.

Thrift store find...

Like most women, I enjoy having nice things. Lately, I've noticed that a lot of my style over the last decade has been quiet, sedate, and DULL. I wanted to spice things up a bit, but finances still are a major factor.

Which is why I'm so very thrilled at what I found tonight. Walking through the thrift store, a bright red leather bag caught my eye. It was beautiful, gorgeous - and behind the counter, which in thrift store language means "major label" and "out-of-your-league-Tricia". I sighed, thinking to myself that it just wasn't going to happen.

I tend to not even ask the price on things stored behind the counter. It's just not worth having the dream crushed. I could see the price tags on some other purses back there - all uglier than the red one - and the lowest price I saw was $70. "Oh well," I thought. "Some woman is going to get very lucky."

When we made it up to the register, Sean asked the lady how much it was. She wandered over and I saw her hand caress the leather, and I just KNEW it was one of those buttery leather products that make you want to sigh in sheer bliss. And then she told us the price. And I thought my ears were deceiving me.

"It's $19.99."

No. That couldn't be right. I must have misheard her. And before I could ask for clarification, my husband said "Let's see it."

It was as buttery as I had imagined, and such a bright red...my heart started to beat hard at the thought of owning something that was so boldly and outrageously feminine. And then I saw the brand on the front and my heart skipped a beat.

PRADA. As in "the devil wears it". As in "a brand Tricia will never ever own in her entire life". I sighed and opened my mouth to tell the woman to put it back, but my husband spoke first.

"Add it to our pile, we're ready to check out."

I'm still in shock. Complete, utter shock. And that shock is starting to be tempered by purely female desire to gloat. I own a prada purse. Me. I wonder if I can convince Sean to let me sleep with it tonight?

The season picks up pace...

I'm still pretty much incapable of doing any major gardening (stupid back injury, ugh). But I am managing to get some things done. The entire front patch has been weeded, a second set of seedlings are starting to sprout, and foot by painful square foot, my garden is being extended.

(why foot by painful foot? Digging the new garden with a typical long-handled shovel makes my back light on fire before going numb - every time, without fail. So the only way to clear out my garden is to sit down with the hand shovel and till the earth that way. It's a long process - I could get the same amount cleared in two minutes with a big shovel, but with the small shovel it takes twenty minutes...and it still hurts. But not as badly.)

Photos to come as soon as things are looking more neat.

Ethical reporting - where do we draw the line?

The news hit the world like a slap in the face over Memorial Day weekend - a man in Miami stripped naked and attacked another man, chewing his face off. The attack lasted for eighteen minutes and the attacker was only subdued by a hailstorm of bullets.

All this is fact. All of this is good, factual, non-speculative reporting.

Then came the follow-up reports. The attacker, Rudy Eugene, was on drugs. He was taking bath salts. He was taking PCP. He was cursed by a voodoo priest. Theories abounded, each one a little crazier than the last. His family and friends have protested, saying he was a good-natured young man who carried his bible around, attended church, and never took anything stronger than the occasional joint. This contrast only added fuel to the fire.

Then, today, I found out the worst aspect of all (other than, of course, a man LOSING HIS FACE) - graphic crime scene photos were released to news organizations, including close-ups of the victim's face. ~sarcasm~ How sensational! How electrifying!

Screw that. It's unethical. It's criminal. And it's completely irreversible. Once a photo is out on the 'net, it's there to stay. And this pisses me off.

Perhaps I'm just oversensitive to this situation because I myself have been homeless. I've known others who are very much like the victim, Ronald Poppo - those who are chronically homeless. I feel like many of the big media outlets are treating Poppo like a second-class citizen at best, a non-entity at worse. No one asked Poppo for permission to release such graphic photos of his own injuries. I doubt such permission was even considered, for most feel that the homeless don't have any rights to anything, including their own image.

I don't know if this blog post is making a lot of sense, as I am so angry I can barely type straight. But I do know that I am sorely missing the days of straight-shooting reporting, just the facts, where the victim's rights were considered sacred and the news was delivered without the opinions, fear-mongering, and speculation that fills today's news shows.

I miss Walter Cronkite.

I miss Edward R. Murrow.

I miss reporters who will make the delineation between actual fact, opinion, and speculation clear-cut and concise. I miss journalist ethics and integrity.

I miss the little girl I used to be who wanted to grow up to be the next Barbara Walters or Connie Chung.

And as long as the public spends their time and money on news programs that are as sensationalized as soap operas, I know the modern news will not change.

Suddenly with no income

(fair warning - this started out as a post relating our experiences of the week, and turned into an overwhelmed, outraged rant rather quickly. Feel free to skip it if you aren't in the mood.)

This week started out the way it normally does - I got the kids off to school while Sean prepared for work. You know, the usual Monday morning chaos. Things were just starting to settle down when my husband called twenty minutes after his shift was due to start.

"I've been suspended. For sleeping on the job."

My first reaction was that this must be a joke. After all, he's a paramedic, and they are supposed to sleep on the job - that's why most ambulance companies and fire houses have bunk rooms. Ever since Sean started working for this company nearly four years ago, he's taken a pillow and bedding with him to work. Heck, sleeping on the job is practically in the job description, so that you are as fresh as possible when an emergency arrives.


But it turned out it wasn't a joke. He'd really been suspended for sleeping on the job. The suspension is for an indefinite period of time, until he can prove that he doesn't have a sleep condition that impairs his ability to work in his field. Since I have a sleep-related disorder myself (sleep apnea), I know from experience that getting in to a sleep study and then waiting for the results can take about 3-6 weeks - IF you are lucky.


And even if he can prove he doesn't have a sleep-related disorder, he's only going to be allowed back on a six month suspension. I'm guessing that if he falls asleep once on the job - just once - they'll fire him.


(We both feel that this isn't sleep related at all. Lately the company has made several policy changes that not only take away from the employee, but seem detrimental to the company itself, and Sean has been the rather vocal leader of those employees who didn't like the changes. We both figure this is the company preparing a legal defense for firing him because he's been causing dissent.)


This has left us in a huge pickle. How are we going to pay our bills? The rent, electricity, gas service? How are we going to buy food? How are we going to even afford for him to apply at other jobs? (the emergency medical industry is different - in order to apply for a job, you first have to successfully pass testing to prove you are knowledgeable - and the "privilege" of taking the tests costs $50. Per company. And passing the test is no guarantee you get the job - it just promises that you will be put on a list of "potential hires" that expires a year after the testing date. If no positions open up during that time, you have to pay another $50 to test in again.) With my recent injury, medical visits are increased - how will we afford the gas to get around to things like that?


We've spent the last week running around like crazy, applying for aid in any way we could. We put in an application for food stamps, as well as requests for financial aid from groups that help people in our situation to pay the bills while out of work. And before you comment "Apply for unemployment!" - he's not able to. The suspension notice clearly implies that HE'S the one at fault for the suspension, so he's not eligible for unemployment.


And a lot of well-meaning people have given me all sorts of advice one what to do during this situation. But since most of my friends and family are in Wisconsin, a lot of the things they are advising are state-specific, and since we live in Illinois, it's useless. The best I can do is write down the suggestions and see if our state has similar programs, which has meant a lot of research and work on my part. A lot of calls to people like our landlord or the utility companies, trying to make sure we won't lose our home or things like our electricity (and since I have to sleep with a machine to help me breathe, having no electricity is NOT an option). I know those who are giving me advice are just trying to help, and I DO appreciate it. But I feel so overwhelmed with suggestions and ideas and forms to fill out and calls to make and the need to lower myself to the point of begging for help - over and over and over again - that I've been unable to sleep without medicinal aid since this happened. 


I'm overwhelmed. But at least I have some idea of what to do, since I was in a similar situation back in late 2004 when my business was sabotaged. For my husband, who has always been so independent and in control, this has been a far more crushing blow, and he's at a loss as to how to handle it. He's done his part - put in as many applications as he could without having to pay out-of-pocket (there are a few jobs for medics that don't require an application fee, but not many). He's done the running around and the standing in line at public aid and food pantries. He's experienced the humiliation of having to call one of his best friends to borrow money so the electric bill could be paid on time - the second time he's had to borrow money from this friend in the past six months (last time was when the car broke down and needed to be recalibrated).


It hurts to apply for aid. There have been derogatory comments, both directed at me and just posted generally on my facebook page about how horrible it is that people who apply for food stamps can afford nice cars and cell phones and the like. It hurts. It hurts real bad. 


This is hard. It's hard on both of us. And the whole social stigma of having to apply for aid is painful. You get treated like a second-class citizen by many of those people who work in the public aid buildings or for charities. For every genuine person who is happy to help you get through it all, there are ten others who treat you like scum for even asking. When we applied for food stamps on Thursday, the security guard sneered at us when we politely turned our phones off - his expression clearly saying that we had no right to apply for aid if we could afford cell phones (the ironic part? While we did pay for our phones, we don't pay for the cell phone service - it's a gift from my mother-in-law). When I went to the bathroom during our wait to be seen, I heard two of the employees making scathing comments about how half the cars in the parking lot were nicer than the ones they could afford, and they don't even qualify for public aid, so how could "these people" afford such nice cars?


It's because half of "those people" bought those cars and cell phones while still working and able to pay for them. It doesn't mean they are abusing the system. It just means they were, at one point, a success - and now thanks to the economy, they need help. 


I saw one woman who was obviously a professional in the waiting room. Out of respect, she had dressed nicely for her appointment, but a few employees commented in her hearing "How can SHE afford a Gucci bag and designer clothes when I can barely pay my mortgage?" I saw the poor woman blush and hang her head, trying to hide tears as she slid her hand to cover the Gucci label on her purse.


She shouldn't have to feel ashamed for having once been able to afford nice things. She shouldn't have been made to feel ashamed about asking for help. I wanted to pat her on the shoulder, but I was afraid a show of sympathy would push her over the edge from silently crying to audibly sobbing. And what was she supposed to do - sell all that stuff? What would she wear on job interviews? And if she sold all but one outfit, then what would she wear for the first couple weeks once she got a job again?


People say this country was founded based on Christian principles. It's funny - you would think the place you would see those principles most played out are in places like public aid or Catholic Charities or other such places. You would think people would exemplify the kindness of Christ. But instead you get what he preached AGAINST - prejudice, selfishness, and a sense of "I am better than thou art". You get treated like something the dog dragged in. You are told, without words, that you are a burden on society. And this leaves me feeling like crap.


I try my best not to be a burden. I maintain the house, I train up the children, I cook as healthy as I can with the limited kitchen and tools I have. I attempt to grow food in our yard so as to save money and eat healthier. In the last year, I have published multiple articles and made a few strides towards going back to college. And yet the way I have been treated this past week? I've been made to feel like the stereotypical "welfare queen". 


I've had panic attacks EVERY NIGHT this week. It's gotten to the point where I am going to have to heavily medicate myself tonight just to have a chance at a few hours of shut-eye. I'm overwhelmed, I'm drowning, I'm buried under the pressure of a system I thought I would never have to experience again.


I can't even go out and get a job thanks to my back injury last month. I feel useless.


I hate it. And it's only going to get worse next week.

Speaking of zombies and homeschooling...

My friend T couldn't get blogger to let her leave a comment on my blog (weird. I'm looking into it, T, no worries). But she sent me a more direct message suggesting I take a look at someone's work on youtube, a guy calling himself CaptainValor, who evidently posts videos with both sound and signs, which is perfect for our summer school plans for learning sign language.

In particular, T recommended this video. ~happy sigh~ my friend knows me so well!

Zombies in the waiting room

pic found online - if you know who to credit it to, let me know, 'cause it's awesome!

Just as my back was starting to feel better, I picked up some kind of bug. Felt like strep throat or something similar (within an hour or so, I had halfway lost my voice), so I went to the walk-in clinic to get some antibiotics. 

I walk into the waiting room with my barely-there wheezy voice and my stilted, gimpy gait. Barely managed to stumble into a chair. This cute little girl came up to me and asked if I was turning into a zombie. I just looked at her, moaned "braaaaaains" and started to reach in her direction. She shrieked and took off. It was all I could do to keep a straight face.

Her father had no such compulsion. He was bent double laughing. 

Spent the rest of my few minutes in the waiting room surrounded by toddlers and preschoolers poking me with plastic baseball bats, golf clubs, and other long toys from the toy bin while I moaned and reached for them. The preschoolers loved poking me with the bats. I'd start to reach for them, saying "Braaaaaains" and they'd whack me, so it was more like "Braaaa - ouuch" "Braaaai...ouuch".

By the time the nurse called me back, the whole waiting room was laughing, even the 80 year old woman on oxygen. I did have some fun with the nurse who came to get me. She said "What's the problem today?" and I answered "Either strep throat, or I'm the index case for the coming zombie apocalypse." She barely managed to hide her smile.

Seriously, though, where is the video camera when you need one? This totally would have gone viral.