Dear All,
About eleven years ago, I was in a drug study for Remeron. At that point they didn't know that the drug must be taken at night, so I took it whenever I remembered. Taking that drug marked the beginning of the end of my old life in Boston.
On Remeron, I remember not caring about anything because I felt good, oh so good. I remember that one day I was working in the box office at a theater in Cambridge. I had been the fastest and most accurate cashier that they had, so they put me on one really busy night with another very fast cashier. They actually had to open another box, an unusual event, because I was moving so slowly. One of the managers came in to tell us to move a little faster (she did it in a nice way) but I was incapable of moving any faster. This also happened another night at the concession stand. I had always been the number one concessionist because my sales were consistently better than anyone else's. I lost my number one spot. As a result, I started making less money, and was in some real trouble. I was never number one after that. It never occurred to me to tell anyone what the problem had been, and that it was just temporary.
I left the survey after those incidents. I wrote "I know that this drug is not right for me. It is very effective as an anti-anxiety, but I am moving like m0lasses, and I can't both do that and survive. I know that it is your job to get this drug tested, and that you would try to convince me to stay in the survey, but I just can't. One valuable thing that it has taught me, however is that there is more than one reaction to my life." And it was true; it was the same life, I just didn't feel the same way about it. I realized what it meant to "let it roll off". I had, theretofore, been unable to brush off nastiness by others. To me, their action equalled my reaction.
I find myself on Remeron again, but I am having a different experience now. Every drug that is added to my cocktail brings out new facets of my personality. Still- if I were under the same pressure that I had been under while living in Boston, the constant provocations and slurs, I don't know if I could actually deal with it. People there are so hard on one another. Yet, instead of having the rough edges knocked off, becoming smooth, they became rougher, nastier, harder. Meanwhile, I was becoming bruised, mashed between others into a pulpy acquiescence, and thus the small daily snobberies, and unkindnesses took their toll.
People there told me that I was too sensitive to others, too nice, too accommodating. I thought that being upset by a customer who had just called me a "sloth" was not a matter of being too sensitive. I felt I needed to say something back; my friends told me not to, despite the fact that it was just wrong for the customer to say something like that. They told me to "suck it up" because this was the hard reality of my situation: I had to be nice and the customers didn't. So- I learned not to be quite so sensitive and accommodating. I tried to be even tougher than that, but I felt I was losing my empathy, my humanity- that just to survive, I was suppressing my real self and becoming somehow indecent. In short, I expected the worst from myself and others and was never disappointed.
Now that I am back in the city in which I reached adulthood- I am a changed person. While I don't automatically expect the worst of people, the fear of being emotionally needled, poked, prodded and jostled once again is always there. The will to help is still there, but it is tempered by not wanting to do too much for others, lest they take advantage of me, or take me for granted.
Whereas the last time I took Remeron I was in a haze, I am now able to think rationally. Whereas the last time I was on Remeron, I moved too slowly, now I move at an acceptable pace because I take better care of myself. I take my meds at the appropriate times, and have taken steps not to be in chaos all of the time. Where as I was unsettled, single and my mother was still alive the last time that I took Remeron, I have now lived in the same place since 2001, and am married. What appropriately or inappropriately my mother one did, she can no longer do because she is no longer alive. Whereas I was once an angry, over-medicated little girl playing house, I am now of the alpha generation, and the important decisions, for better and worse, are mine.
I think that I am now in a place where Remeron can do more than teach me about my life, it can help me live it.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Breastfeeding Manners Vs. Realities
Dear All,
Sometimes your friends make you think. Well- at least mine often do. I think that is why they are my friends. So, getting into a rip-roaring disagreement with a friend yesterday has provoked me to reconsider my point of view about public breastfeeding.
Classically, I have been extremely offended by public breastfeeding. While I agree that there is no spoken rule about it, I believe that there is very much an unspoken rule against it. Feminists I know think that it is basic misogyny in our culture that makes us uncomfortable with public breastfeeding; this may be true. Many feminists think that there should be laws protecting public breastfeeding. Let me say that while I am definitely in favor of breastfeeding, I still wouldn't go that far. I am a woman; I am a feminist in the classic sense, and I am offended by public breastfeeding. There is nothing bad, or unnatural about it; as it is immodest, it is private.
My friend pointed out that there are certain practicalities involved in lactating, over which mothers have little or no control, requiring periodic evacuation of the mammary glands one way or another. Whether by the mothers' choice or by responding to inner pressure this process occurs, and can be conspicuously messy if not properly cared for. Thus, she said it actually is less conspicuous to breastfeed with a blanket over the shoulder and the baby under the blanket than not to breastfeed under such circumstances.
I found this timing-related argument persuasive because this was something that I hadn't known, but mentioned that there were other options. I pointed out that going to the restroom is a good one. She said that it wasn't practical because of the necessary frequency of feedings. "Hell- I go to the bathroom every couple of hours; what's the problem?" I thought, but I didn't say this. In fact, I didn't know what to say because I have never lactated. I was very frustrated because I was brought up to believe that this sort of thing was just not done, but I couldn't give her any reasons that were more persuasive to her than the argument she had already given to me.
After a night's sleep, I have come to several conclusions. While it is true that I myself have never run into this problem, women have been dealing with it since the dawn of time. Before the 1960s, it was thoroughly unacceptable to breastfeed in public, and yet breastfeeding doubtless occurred. Mothers somehow found a way to deliver the proper nutrition to their infants without breastfeeding in public. So, why the sudden inability to deal with the practicalities of breastfeeding without being able to do so precisely whenever and wherever the infant wants it?
My friend says because her infant will be fed every two hours (or as needed) for the first couple of months, and because she doesn't want to say home for that whole time, that I either better get used to it, or not hang out with her then. I tried the following argument, but was disorganized in my thought, and couldn't get it out before she'd already jumped to a conclusion and started arguing about it. The following is not a perfect analogy because children don't have biological imperatives to have temper-tantrums, but I liken this to situations where children need to be removed from public places so as not to disturb other people. Parents who refuse on the grounds that they won't be kept from their favorite activities just because their kids are being naughty are subjecting innocent bystanders to unwanted stress. It is very stressful to be witness to anything embarrassing or offensive over which we have no control.
I would further point out that it is a biological imperative to excrete waste and clean our bodies. We do these things in private because the processes may be found embarrassing or offensive to others thereby making them uncomfortable. It is a question of intimacy and of not setting personal comfortable personal boundaries.
While an infant's imperative for nourishment is not faulty, the need is a reasonably predictable one. If an hour and three quarters has passed since the last feeding, it's time to look for a private place to do it again. The argument "the kid's gotta eat" is, for the above reasons unpersuasive. Also, regardless of why it makes people uncomfortable, my observation is that it often does. I can't personally justify making others uncomfortable when alternative solutions can be found.
I further pointed out that no one, unless he is a complete jerk, would actually say to a publicly-breastfeeding stranger that what she is doing is making him uncomfortable. This is because not only is she is already coping with a difficult situation, but the infant has a very real need. So, a mother breastfeeding in public potentially puts others around her in an uncomfortable situation about which they are unable to do anything socially acceptable but leave. Others may find this uncomfortable because it makes them feel controlled. I said I thought that public breastfeeding, because of how uncomfortable it might make others, was extremely offensive.
It seems clear to me that there is a wide-spread rebellion against classic etiquette and manners (version 1.0) because they are outdated. That's as may be, but the fact remains: the purpose of manners is not to be snobby or to inhibit others' freedom, but to put others around us at ease. Manners exist to make as many people as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. Manners are other-centered, rather than self-centered. In our customs, we find guidelines about what good manners entail, and we follow our customs to enable as many people to be as comfortable as possible, not push our will onto others.
Customs differ, though. Before we brought "culture" to North America, Native Americans felt no shame performing any biological function in front of others. Today, we bathe, brush our teeth, defecate, urinate and blow our noses- in private. Why do we do these things in private? We do them in private because we have been taught that they are private, i.e., necessary facts of life that don't need to be shared with others. It makes us uncomfortable to walk in on someone defecating; the person himself might be uncomfortable as well. Just because some women have become comfortable showing their breasts in public while breast feeding does not mean that everyone else can, or wants to be comfortable with this. Nor does it mean that we should. As long as we do our daily ablutions in private, why is it a misogynistic act to be uncomfortable with public breast feeding? Why does this make our society misogynistic?
Further, the argument, "don't like it don't look" deflects others' opposition by ignoring it, thus not putting others at ease, and in doing so showing passive hostility toward others. To reframe this: we consider it a crime to urinate or defecate, even in a contained manner, in public. It is called indecent exposure. I wonder, just out of curiosity, how many people would continue to stare if a person were to void his bowels in public. I wonder how many of the starers might be offended. Of those people who were offended, I wonder how many of those people might be mothers who regard defecation as equally natural as public breastfeeding, but who might regard defecation as something to be done in private?
For the above reasons, arguments in favor of public breastfeeding such as "my mother did it", or "people should loosen up" are rendered moot.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Sometimes your friends make you think. Well- at least mine often do. I think that is why they are my friends. So, getting into a rip-roaring disagreement with a friend yesterday has provoked me to reconsider my point of view about public breastfeeding.
Classically, I have been extremely offended by public breastfeeding. While I agree that there is no spoken rule about it, I believe that there is very much an unspoken rule against it. Feminists I know think that it is basic misogyny in our culture that makes us uncomfortable with public breastfeeding; this may be true. Many feminists think that there should be laws protecting public breastfeeding. Let me say that while I am definitely in favor of breastfeeding, I still wouldn't go that far. I am a woman; I am a feminist in the classic sense, and I am offended by public breastfeeding. There is nothing bad, or unnatural about it; as it is immodest, it is private.
My friend pointed out that there are certain practicalities involved in lactating, over which mothers have little or no control, requiring periodic evacuation of the mammary glands one way or another. Whether by the mothers' choice or by responding to inner pressure this process occurs, and can be conspicuously messy if not properly cared for. Thus, she said it actually is less conspicuous to breastfeed with a blanket over the shoulder and the baby under the blanket than not to breastfeed under such circumstances.
I found this timing-related argument persuasive because this was something that I hadn't known, but mentioned that there were other options. I pointed out that going to the restroom is a good one. She said that it wasn't practical because of the necessary frequency of feedings. "Hell- I go to the bathroom every couple of hours; what's the problem?" I thought, but I didn't say this. In fact, I didn't know what to say because I have never lactated. I was very frustrated because I was brought up to believe that this sort of thing was just not done, but I couldn't give her any reasons that were more persuasive to her than the argument she had already given to me.
After a night's sleep, I have come to several conclusions. While it is true that I myself have never run into this problem, women have been dealing with it since the dawn of time. Before the 1960s, it was thoroughly unacceptable to breastfeed in public, and yet breastfeeding doubtless occurred. Mothers somehow found a way to deliver the proper nutrition to their infants without breastfeeding in public. So, why the sudden inability to deal with the practicalities of breastfeeding without being able to do so precisely whenever and wherever the infant wants it?
My friend says because her infant will be fed every two hours (or as needed) for the first couple of months, and because she doesn't want to say home for that whole time, that I either better get used to it, or not hang out with her then. I tried the following argument, but was disorganized in my thought, and couldn't get it out before she'd already jumped to a conclusion and started arguing about it. The following is not a perfect analogy because children don't have biological imperatives to have temper-tantrums, but I liken this to situations where children need to be removed from public places so as not to disturb other people. Parents who refuse on the grounds that they won't be kept from their favorite activities just because their kids are being naughty are subjecting innocent bystanders to unwanted stress. It is very stressful to be witness to anything embarrassing or offensive over which we have no control.
I would further point out that it is a biological imperative to excrete waste and clean our bodies. We do these things in private because the processes may be found embarrassing or offensive to others thereby making them uncomfortable. It is a question of intimacy and of not setting personal comfortable personal boundaries.
While an infant's imperative for nourishment is not faulty, the need is a reasonably predictable one. If an hour and three quarters has passed since the last feeding, it's time to look for a private place to do it again. The argument "the kid's gotta eat" is, for the above reasons unpersuasive. Also, regardless of why it makes people uncomfortable, my observation is that it often does. I can't personally justify making others uncomfortable when alternative solutions can be found.
I further pointed out that no one, unless he is a complete jerk, would actually say to a publicly-breastfeeding stranger that what she is doing is making him uncomfortable. This is because not only is she is already coping with a difficult situation, but the infant has a very real need. So, a mother breastfeeding in public potentially puts others around her in an uncomfortable situation about which they are unable to do anything socially acceptable but leave. Others may find this uncomfortable because it makes them feel controlled. I said I thought that public breastfeeding, because of how uncomfortable it might make others, was extremely offensive.
It seems clear to me that there is a wide-spread rebellion against classic etiquette and manners (version 1.0) because they are outdated. That's as may be, but the fact remains: the purpose of manners is not to be snobby or to inhibit others' freedom, but to put others around us at ease. Manners exist to make as many people as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. Manners are other-centered, rather than self-centered. In our customs, we find guidelines about what good manners entail, and we follow our customs to enable as many people to be as comfortable as possible, not push our will onto others.
Customs differ, though. Before we brought "culture" to North America, Native Americans felt no shame performing any biological function in front of others. Today, we bathe, brush our teeth, defecate, urinate and blow our noses- in private. Why do we do these things in private? We do them in private because we have been taught that they are private, i.e., necessary facts of life that don't need to be shared with others. It makes us uncomfortable to walk in on someone defecating; the person himself might be uncomfortable as well. Just because some women have become comfortable showing their breasts in public while breast feeding does not mean that everyone else can, or wants to be comfortable with this. Nor does it mean that we should. As long as we do our daily ablutions in private, why is it a misogynistic act to be uncomfortable with public breast feeding? Why does this make our society misogynistic?
Further, the argument, "don't like it don't look" deflects others' opposition by ignoring it, thus not putting others at ease, and in doing so showing passive hostility toward others. To reframe this: we consider it a crime to urinate or defecate, even in a contained manner, in public. It is called indecent exposure. I wonder, just out of curiosity, how many people would continue to stare if a person were to void his bowels in public. I wonder how many of the starers might be offended. Of those people who were offended, I wonder how many of those people might be mothers who regard defecation as equally natural as public breastfeeding, but who might regard defecation as something to be done in private?
For the above reasons, arguments in favor of public breastfeeding such as "my mother did it", or "people should loosen up" are rendered moot.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me
Dear All,
Well- it has finally happened. I have turned another year older. Today I am thirty-nine. How did I celebrate today? I went to my psyche's office.
First, I was a half hour late. Apparently on the machine, there had been left a message that said I should be there at 10 a.m., but the correct time was 9:30. So, already, right off the bat I have inconvenienced someone.
We are playing with my cocktail of drugs right now because I am too anxious and don't seem to be able to get out of bed unless it is absolutely necessary (i.e., it would be more trouble not to get out of bed than to get out of bed). Now I have four psychiatric prescriptions: Citalopram (for Depression), Bupropion (for Depression), Adderall (for ADD), and now a new one: Remeron (for Anxiety).
Let it be said that I am extremely grateful for these visits. They get me out of bed, and I always feel better with the adjustments to my meds. Still- my next appointment is scheduled for two weeks. Usually I can go six weeks between appointments.
As I told them in the nice lady behind the desk at my psych office, "Today is my birthday, and I have a psych appointment. December 24th is my wedding anniversary, and I have a psych appointment. Every special occasion needs to be marked by a trip to the psych!" I was not being sarcastic; I genuinely enjoy my trips to the psych, so we all had a good laugh. It was good to laugh, even on my thirty-ninth birthday.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Well- it has finally happened. I have turned another year older. Today I am thirty-nine. How did I celebrate today? I went to my psyche's office.
First, I was a half hour late. Apparently on the machine, there had been left a message that said I should be there at 10 a.m., but the correct time was 9:30. So, already, right off the bat I have inconvenienced someone.
We are playing with my cocktail of drugs right now because I am too anxious and don't seem to be able to get out of bed unless it is absolutely necessary (i.e., it would be more trouble not to get out of bed than to get out of bed). Now I have four psychiatric prescriptions: Citalopram (for Depression), Bupropion (for Depression), Adderall (for ADD), and now a new one: Remeron (for Anxiety).
Let it be said that I am extremely grateful for these visits. They get me out of bed, and I always feel better with the adjustments to my meds. Still- my next appointment is scheduled for two weeks. Usually I can go six weeks between appointments.
As I told them in the nice lady behind the desk at my psych office, "Today is my birthday, and I have a psych appointment. December 24th is my wedding anniversary, and I have a psych appointment. Every special occasion needs to be marked by a trip to the psych!" I was not being sarcastic; I genuinely enjoy my trips to the psych, so we all had a good laugh. It was good to laugh, even on my thirty-ninth birthday.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Having to Lower My Rates
Dear All,
The exchange rate in the country of origin of most of my students is very bad against the dollar. That country had many interests in Ice Land and in the U.S. My goose is severely singed at this point. In the past ten days, I have lost two clients.
The ostensible reason for one was that the mother had to go back to the country of origin for medical treatment. She pointed to her belly; I don't think that she'd having a baby. Many people from her country eat a lot of fish which can cause stomach cancer. Stomach cancer is as common there as heart disease is here. From the gravity of their expressions, whatever it is is very serious. I am sad for her because she was trying to put on a brave face.
The other I lost "...because the uncertainty of the economy". I am worried that there might be more. So today, I texted the father and lowered my rates. I can only charge what the market will bear, and obviously the market will not bear what I was charging. I have not yet heard back from him. If he refuses, at least I will know that it was not actually because of the economy, but rather from some other reason, which is actually what I suspect.
The other possibility is that I am not doing as well tutoring teenage boys as I used to. We could have arranged sessions for the student with the sick mother if the family had really wanted them. This young person is very nice. I thought that we had a good working arrangement. The boy of the family where I lowered the rates for the father is a silent, unresponsive, often surly young man who smiles rarely. The two young men are friends. I have had a lot of trouble finding the surly one's level because I can't get him to talk to me.
I had suggested that perhaps they have sessions together. This met with no response what-so-ever from the father, who is dismissive and disrespectful toward me, and lectures me about English of which he is not a native speaker. Further, I am concerned for the children in the surly boy's family. I suspect that there may be some other things happening; apparently the father has quite a temper. From their journals, I know that this scares and bewilders the children. The family has now retained my services for the little girl only. I was hoping to provide them both with some support in this time of transition and of financial uncertainty, but I can't do this if I am not working with both of them.
I just wish that my clients weren't so ashamed of their circumstances. If they could tell me more about what's going on, I could help them better. Instead, as a result of these mysterious circumstances, they cut me off. Thus, for me times are tough and promise to get tougher before they get easier.
Sincerely,
Betsy
The exchange rate in the country of origin of most of my students is very bad against the dollar. That country had many interests in Ice Land and in the U.S. My goose is severely singed at this point. In the past ten days, I have lost two clients.
The ostensible reason for one was that the mother had to go back to the country of origin for medical treatment. She pointed to her belly; I don't think that she'd having a baby. Many people from her country eat a lot of fish which can cause stomach cancer. Stomach cancer is as common there as heart disease is here. From the gravity of their expressions, whatever it is is very serious. I am sad for her because she was trying to put on a brave face.
The other I lost "...because the uncertainty of the economy". I am worried that there might be more. So today, I texted the father and lowered my rates. I can only charge what the market will bear, and obviously the market will not bear what I was charging. I have not yet heard back from him. If he refuses, at least I will know that it was not actually because of the economy, but rather from some other reason, which is actually what I suspect.
The other possibility is that I am not doing as well tutoring teenage boys as I used to. We could have arranged sessions for the student with the sick mother if the family had really wanted them. This young person is very nice. I thought that we had a good working arrangement. The boy of the family where I lowered the rates for the father is a silent, unresponsive, often surly young man who smiles rarely. The two young men are friends. I have had a lot of trouble finding the surly one's level because I can't get him to talk to me.
I had suggested that perhaps they have sessions together. This met with no response what-so-ever from the father, who is dismissive and disrespectful toward me, and lectures me about English of which he is not a native speaker. Further, I am concerned for the children in the surly boy's family. I suspect that there may be some other things happening; apparently the father has quite a temper. From their journals, I know that this scares and bewilders the children. The family has now retained my services for the little girl only. I was hoping to provide them both with some support in this time of transition and of financial uncertainty, but I can't do this if I am not working with both of them.
I just wish that my clients weren't so ashamed of their circumstances. If they could tell me more about what's going on, I could help them better. Instead, as a result of these mysterious circumstances, they cut me off. Thus, for me times are tough and promise to get tougher before they get easier.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Wrapper's Dream
Dear All,
I love to wrap things. I don't know why. I have always liked to wrap things. So, I am the family wrapper. I prefer to wrap things with right angles, but, if I do say so myself, I am an elegant and accomplished wrapper. Here are some of my more interesting wrapping problems and solutions.
Last year I wanted to give my husband something that was very large (3x2x2 ft.). While it was a neat shape, it would have taken quite a lot of paper and a lot of time, which I didn't have. My solution: a huge plastic bag (reusable, I might add) with penguins all over it. My husband like penguins and so he enjoyed the wrapping job and the gift as well. Oddly enough, I don't remember what the gift was, but I remember being proud of the wrapping job.
One of my least favorite things to wrap are things shaped like cylinders. So, I have several solutions. For small things, painting an oatmeal container and putting wrapping paper inside the lid works pretty well, as long as you like oatmeal. Another one is folding the paper in at 60 degree angles instead of 90 degree angles on the ends. The paper lies flat and looks cool. The last is a larger version of some gift card holders; they store flat, but become fairly round. The ends fold in so the from the front, the top and bottom are straight, but the sides curve inward. It makes a neat package, requires no tape, is reusable, and is easy to ribbon.
Last, my personal hell is filled with small items that come on cards, the ones that hang from the walls of stores. Blank newspaper inside wrapped around the item like a submarine sandwich makes the package smooth. The tissue paper wrapped in the same manner around the outside makes it look nice.
It is always nicer getting a gift wrapped by the giver instead of some professional wrapper. Using these techniques, I have enjoyed many fruitful hours of wrapping over the years.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I love to wrap things. I don't know why. I have always liked to wrap things. So, I am the family wrapper. I prefer to wrap things with right angles, but, if I do say so myself, I am an elegant and accomplished wrapper. Here are some of my more interesting wrapping problems and solutions.
Last year I wanted to give my husband something that was very large (3x2x2 ft.). While it was a neat shape, it would have taken quite a lot of paper and a lot of time, which I didn't have. My solution: a huge plastic bag (reusable, I might add) with penguins all over it. My husband like penguins and so he enjoyed the wrapping job and the gift as well. Oddly enough, I don't remember what the gift was, but I remember being proud of the wrapping job.
One of my least favorite things to wrap are things shaped like cylinders. So, I have several solutions. For small things, painting an oatmeal container and putting wrapping paper inside the lid works pretty well, as long as you like oatmeal. Another one is folding the paper in at 60 degree angles instead of 90 degree angles on the ends. The paper lies flat and looks cool. The last is a larger version of some gift card holders; they store flat, but become fairly round. The ends fold in so the from the front, the top and bottom are straight, but the sides curve inward. It makes a neat package, requires no tape, is reusable, and is easy to ribbon.
Last, my personal hell is filled with small items that come on cards, the ones that hang from the walls of stores. Blank newspaper inside wrapped around the item like a submarine sandwich makes the package smooth. The tissue paper wrapped in the same manner around the outside makes it look nice.
It is always nicer getting a gift wrapped by the giver instead of some professional wrapper. Using these techniques, I have enjoyed many fruitful hours of wrapping over the years.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Friday, December 5, 2008
Welcome to the Three A.M. Club, Population: Me
Dear All,
Once again it has come to my attention that I am wide awake. Honestly, I wish I were this awake in the morning. I have energy despite being tired- not enough to bake a cake, water my plants or clean the toilets, but certainly enough to put hands to keyboard.
For some reason I am often unable to sleep at this hour, where as sometime between ten a.m. and two p.m. I must take a nap. People tell me this has something to do with eating too many carbohydrates at lunch. Even when I was a kid I had a dip in my energy level after lunch. Then, however, didn't have the luxury of indulging it. I probably slept better at night as a result.
My cats Molley and Cici are nice company at night. They are warm, soft and unassuming. Right now, Cici is perched on the back of my chair. This is an arrangement we have come to after many hours of her rubbing her face on my hand and stepping all over the keyboard when I am trying to type. The cats have made an uneasy peace. Cici's territory is more downstairs, and Molley's is upstairs. She can be found at the foot of the bed on most occasions, ready to wake me up and walk on me at a moment's notice. Busy kitty. And yet the companionship is very nice.
Through many three a.m.s I have learned about non-verbal communication. The house is silent. Usually I have my ear plugs in anyway. Communication is achieved through touch. There are rules: syntax, grammar, a lexicon. For example, a sequence might occur this way: [call] scratch the top of the head, the back of the neck, ([response] from the cat: rub, rub with the cheek), [call] scratch under the chin, ([response] an elongated neck is produced for better scratching, then about face), [call] touch a paw, ([response] about face rub, rub with the cheek, mouth open). Sometimes this will repeat several times, the order unchanged, then, the cat, sated will lie down at my feet.
My early morning interactions with my cats are very pleasant, and blissfully silent, except of course if my husband is asleep. Then our silent cat, Molley, will make the loudest sound she makes throughout the course of the day.
It's three a.m. Inexplicably, I know exactly where the cats are.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Once again it has come to my attention that I am wide awake. Honestly, I wish I were this awake in the morning. I have energy despite being tired- not enough to bake a cake, water my plants or clean the toilets, but certainly enough to put hands to keyboard.
For some reason I am often unable to sleep at this hour, where as sometime between ten a.m. and two p.m. I must take a nap. People tell me this has something to do with eating too many carbohydrates at lunch. Even when I was a kid I had a dip in my energy level after lunch. Then, however, didn't have the luxury of indulging it. I probably slept better at night as a result.
My cats Molley and Cici are nice company at night. They are warm, soft and unassuming. Right now, Cici is perched on the back of my chair. This is an arrangement we have come to after many hours of her rubbing her face on my hand and stepping all over the keyboard when I am trying to type. The cats have made an uneasy peace. Cici's territory is more downstairs, and Molley's is upstairs. She can be found at the foot of the bed on most occasions, ready to wake me up and walk on me at a moment's notice. Busy kitty. And yet the companionship is very nice.
Through many three a.m.s I have learned about non-verbal communication. The house is silent. Usually I have my ear plugs in anyway. Communication is achieved through touch. There are rules: syntax, grammar, a lexicon. For example, a sequence might occur this way: [call] scratch the top of the head, the back of the neck, ([response] from the cat: rub, rub with the cheek), [call] scratch under the chin, ([response] an elongated neck is produced for better scratching, then about face), [call] touch a paw, ([response] about face rub, rub with the cheek, mouth open). Sometimes this will repeat several times, the order unchanged, then, the cat, sated will lie down at my feet.
My early morning interactions with my cats are very pleasant, and blissfully silent, except of course if my husband is asleep. Then our silent cat, Molley, will make the loudest sound she makes throughout the course of the day.
It's three a.m. Inexplicably, I know exactly where the cats are.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Why I Hate the Phone
Dear All,
I am not good with my finances. I can't keep my bills straight and I don't have the right amount of money in my account when I need it. The latest fiasco was the cancellation of my homeowners' insurance due to the non-payment of the bill. Understandably, they want to be paid, and I can't do it. It makes me feel like a failure that I never know how much I owe, when I owe, and to whom I owe money.
I have negotiated this obstacle, and we will continue to have this insurance, but I have just been reinstated for the third time this year. I don't know if I can finish my Christmas shopping. I can't even afford to buy groceries tonight. I feel frantic and hungry. My rational mind knows that I am in fact not going to starve. We have ample food in the house. Everything is going to be O.K., however this makes no difference. It is frustrating and frightening.
Did I mention that the phone is ringing? Did I mention that my heart pounds at the sound of the phone? It rings and I want to hide because my family doesn't really call me; we keep in touch through the mail and via e-mail. So, it's never good news when the phone rings. It always means that something is wrong, something I have failed to do is catching up with me, and now I have to fix it; usually, I can't, so why should this case be any different?
I feel alone. I feel unprotected. Worry turns to fright at the sound of the phone.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I am not good with my finances. I can't keep my bills straight and I don't have the right amount of money in my account when I need it. The latest fiasco was the cancellation of my homeowners' insurance due to the non-payment of the bill. Understandably, they want to be paid, and I can't do it. It makes me feel like a failure that I never know how much I owe, when I owe, and to whom I owe money.
I have negotiated this obstacle, and we will continue to have this insurance, but I have just been reinstated for the third time this year. I don't know if I can finish my Christmas shopping. I can't even afford to buy groceries tonight. I feel frantic and hungry. My rational mind knows that I am in fact not going to starve. We have ample food in the house. Everything is going to be O.K., however this makes no difference. It is frustrating and frightening.
Did I mention that the phone is ringing? Did I mention that my heart pounds at the sound of the phone? It rings and I want to hide because my family doesn't really call me; we keep in touch through the mail and via e-mail. So, it's never good news when the phone rings. It always means that something is wrong, something I have failed to do is catching up with me, and now I have to fix it; usually, I can't, so why should this case be any different?
I feel alone. I feel unprotected. Worry turns to fright at the sound of the phone.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Toxic Teachers
Dear All,
There was a teacher that I had in high school; she taught French. Even now if and when I see her she still feels the need to place us in a hierarchy, with her on the top. She was a highly acclaimed teacher, no doubt that she was good. What I remember about her though is her arrogance even twenty years later; it galls me. Sometimes I think about her in the middle of the night when I should be asleep. After I am done writing about this, I will forget her arrogance, petty cruelty, and the fact that she put me down in front of other students because I "...wasn't doing as well as I should have been".
I transferred to her class from another. I actually fell back half a year to get away from this other teacher who was a really bad teacher. He sounded as though he was speaking French with an American accent. Some might say that he sounded Canadian and that the Canadian accent is a perfect legitimate accent. If he had learned French in Canada, he would have sounded Canadian when speaking English as well. He, in fact, did not. Thus, to me he sounded like an American who couldn't speak French very well, yet was teaching it. I was told my new French teacher would be much better because she was award-winning.
From the moment I arrived in her class she hounded me. She made me sit in the front of the classroom. If I didn't have my homework, she would go through my bag in front of the class. If it was only partially done, she would hold it up in front of the class to show them how much better I could have done. I remember one particular time when she did this. I was so humiliated. I noticed however that the class was paralysed with shock. They were all looking at each other, shrugging their shoulders. Some were laughing and shaking their heads. She was oblivious to this because she was a woman on a mission. I saw it and drew strength from it. They were on my side because what she was doing was so outrageous.
Another time, I had to memorize some of the French libretto to Carmen for a competition at a local college. Here is some of it:
L'amore est un oiseau rebel
Love is like a rebellious bird
Que nous ne peus apprivoisee
One which no one can catch
Et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'apelle
One may call the bird in vain
Si lui convient de refusee
If it suits him to refuse
L'un ni fait, manace ou priere
Nothing works, threats or prayers
L'un parle bien, l'autre se tait
One speaks well, the other holds silent
Et c'est l'autre que je prefere
And it is the other that I prefer
Il n'a rien dit, mais il me plait
He says nothing, but he pleases me
I can't, at this point memorize anything, but I still remember that poem. In class, I gave her a word for word translation, and an idiomatic translation as well. She found fault with everything I did. Why? What could it possibly accomplish? No one else in that class could have done nearly as well as I did with that passage, and they said as much to me and to her later. It has taken me many years to try to understand her behavior. The fact that it continues into the present causing fresh wounds leads me to believe that it is a power play, and way of holding control over another so she doesn't have to feel out of control herself. She looks at me and says, "At least I'm not her".
I look back on her with loathing. People who have tried to get me to conform by using humiliation have always had their work cut out for them. She has actually been very helpful to me in my formation of my teaching style. I have never, and will never, ever, ever resort to cruelty or humiliation. She inhibited me from learning better by making an example of me. My students learn better than I did because they are not afraid to make mistakes.
One last thought- I don't have to be like her. This, in so many ways, is its own reward. I can say with some fervor, I don't have to go through my life with other people reacting to me as if I were her. She will neither know honest disagreement, from which she might improve herself, nor will she ever bring out the best in anyone as long as she relies on the whip and not the carrot.
Sincerely,
Betsy
There was a teacher that I had in high school; she taught French. Even now if and when I see her she still feels the need to place us in a hierarchy, with her on the top. She was a highly acclaimed teacher, no doubt that she was good. What I remember about her though is her arrogance even twenty years later; it galls me. Sometimes I think about her in the middle of the night when I should be asleep. After I am done writing about this, I will forget her arrogance, petty cruelty, and the fact that she put me down in front of other students because I "...wasn't doing as well as I should have been".
I transferred to her class from another. I actually fell back half a year to get away from this other teacher who was a really bad teacher. He sounded as though he was speaking French with an American accent. Some might say that he sounded Canadian and that the Canadian accent is a perfect legitimate accent. If he had learned French in Canada, he would have sounded Canadian when speaking English as well. He, in fact, did not. Thus, to me he sounded like an American who couldn't speak French very well, yet was teaching it. I was told my new French teacher would be much better because she was award-winning.
From the moment I arrived in her class she hounded me. She made me sit in the front of the classroom. If I didn't have my homework, she would go through my bag in front of the class. If it was only partially done, she would hold it up in front of the class to show them how much better I could have done. I remember one particular time when she did this. I was so humiliated. I noticed however that the class was paralysed with shock. They were all looking at each other, shrugging their shoulders. Some were laughing and shaking their heads. She was oblivious to this because she was a woman on a mission. I saw it and drew strength from it. They were on my side because what she was doing was so outrageous.
Another time, I had to memorize some of the French libretto to Carmen for a competition at a local college. Here is some of it:
L'amore est un oiseau rebel
Love is like a rebellious bird
Que nous ne peus apprivoisee
One which no one can catch
Et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'apelle
One may call the bird in vain
Si lui convient de refusee
If it suits him to refuse
L'un ni fait, manace ou priere
Nothing works, threats or prayers
L'un parle bien, l'autre se tait
One speaks well, the other holds silent
Et c'est l'autre que je prefere
And it is the other that I prefer
Il n'a rien dit, mais il me plait
He says nothing, but he pleases me
I can't, at this point memorize anything, but I still remember that poem. In class, I gave her a word for word translation, and an idiomatic translation as well. She found fault with everything I did. Why? What could it possibly accomplish? No one else in that class could have done nearly as well as I did with that passage, and they said as much to me and to her later. It has taken me many years to try to understand her behavior. The fact that it continues into the present causing fresh wounds leads me to believe that it is a power play, and way of holding control over another so she doesn't have to feel out of control herself. She looks at me and says, "At least I'm not her".
I look back on her with loathing. People who have tried to get me to conform by using humiliation have always had their work cut out for them. She has actually been very helpful to me in my formation of my teaching style. I have never, and will never, ever, ever resort to cruelty or humiliation. She inhibited me from learning better by making an example of me. My students learn better than I did because they are not afraid to make mistakes.
One last thought- I don't have to be like her. This, in so many ways, is its own reward. I can say with some fervor, I don't have to go through my life with other people reacting to me as if I were her. She will neither know honest disagreement, from which she might improve herself, nor will she ever bring out the best in anyone as long as she relies on the whip and not the carrot.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Turkey Soup
Dear All,
I feel so un-American. I must confess that in my mild desperation to use up our turkey, I have discovered that what I don't like about turkey leftovers is, in fact, the turkey.
Fried chicken can be so tempting and delicious. I thought, "Frying makes everything better, doesn't it?" Just the smell as I was stripping off the meat should have been a red flag. I tried a fried piece; to the extent turkey was like chicken, it was just fine. The ways in which turkey was not like chicken proved that turkey was not meant to be fried; at all; ever; under any circumstances; not even a little.
"Turkey soup", I thought, "What a tempting treat. Add celery, onions, carrots, potatoes, salt and pepper and you'll have a feast fit for a king." I boiled the bones and strained out the pieces that were not broth. I added the beloved vegetables, and tried the soup. The vegetables were wonderful; what I disliked about the concoction was the turkey part; it was really gamy. The thought of it turns my stomach even now.
I consider myself to be a resourceful person, one who is not unduly wasteful. I must, however, admit defeat. I feel as though I have failed this turkey, my family, and this entire nation! No, not really; I do, however, feel the teensiest bit un-American.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I feel so un-American. I must confess that in my mild desperation to use up our turkey, I have discovered that what I don't like about turkey leftovers is, in fact, the turkey.
Fried chicken can be so tempting and delicious. I thought, "Frying makes everything better, doesn't it?" Just the smell as I was stripping off the meat should have been a red flag. I tried a fried piece; to the extent turkey was like chicken, it was just fine. The ways in which turkey was not like chicken proved that turkey was not meant to be fried; at all; ever; under any circumstances; not even a little.
"Turkey soup", I thought, "What a tempting treat. Add celery, onions, carrots, potatoes, salt and pepper and you'll have a feast fit for a king." I boiled the bones and strained out the pieces that were not broth. I added the beloved vegetables, and tried the soup. The vegetables were wonderful; what I disliked about the concoction was the turkey part; it was really gamy. The thought of it turns my stomach even now.
I consider myself to be a resourceful person, one who is not unduly wasteful. I must, however, admit defeat. I feel as though I have failed this turkey, my family, and this entire nation! No, not really; I do, however, feel the teensiest bit un-American.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Bunny Love
Dear All,
In my travels this week, I ran into a fellow who thinks that it's pretty funny to tell me that he's going to eat my rabbits. As might be expected, this is not funny to me, especially when he pushes the point. The fellow, like many others, is under the misapprehension that because rabbits are docile and cute that they are lower than us and thus ours to do with as we wish. I adamantly and seriously take issue with this point of view. Differences in preferences about temperature, diet, amusement and the amount of attention paid them are what make them discrete individuals, each one interesting and valuable.
I had one bunny who was a very tough little rabbit. My mother was fond of saying he was a "...very tiny dominant animal". His best friend was a little black rabbit. That rabbit was somehow tougher and a whole lot brighter than he was. The first would rear up on his tiny, mighty hind legs and make aggressive moves with his paws, grunting as he did so. This would happen at a variety of provocations, for example being picked up for a pat, being given a toy or his dinner. It was understandable because he was mistreated before he moved in with me. The other rabbit understood how to calm down the first rabbit, and often did so. It was really interesting to watch the two interact.
My students met only the little black bunny, but they said that he understood them; I was not surprised. I felt as though he understood his companion and me as well. I think that if we have souls, so do rabbits. Further, I believe that the little black rabbit was sapient- self aware, and aware of his place in his surroundings. He was incredibly relaxed and quick-witted. I often remarked that I thought he was smarter than me.
While rabbits are definitely individuals, they do have some things in common. For example, I have never met a rabbit that likes to leave home. They have all seemed to love their specific little areas of the house and are most comfortable in quiet places that don't change much. They are not interested in constant attention; they are surprisingly independent, liking a lot of attention for a little while several times per day. They like to explore new areas of the house, but have a healthy sense of self-preservation and so don't like to explore outside. All in all, they don't hurt anyone and don't deserve to be harmed just because they are physically vulnerable.
Rabbits are very communicative. They don't vocalize or have facial muscles, so they don't make much noise or change their expressions; their language is more "spoken" with the whole body. If you know what you are seeing, they are extremely expressive. They know human body language as well, and respond to certain categories of body language in patterns characteristic to each individual.
Rabbits are very smart, as well; they are intuitive and social, being extremely sensitive to tone of voice. I have had several rabbits who solved puzzles, played games and understood more words than thirty words. One rabbit even had a sense of humor. He did several tricks at which my mother always laughed. The more she laughed the more he would do them. I believe that there was a causal connection between his behavior, her laughter and his subsequent repetition of that behavior; he liked her very much.
Sometimes I think that if that guy could just meet my rabbits he might understand why he is so wrong about them. Other times I am reminded that he is really serious about his views on rabbits. As a result, I have come to believe that he and my rabbits should never meet, as he truly believes that rabbits exist to be used by humans for meat and fur, and that they have no other value.
This is one that I am probably going to have to drop. As my father used to say, "People of good will can disagree". I will never change this guy's perspective; he is set in his ways. But, by introducing my rabbits to my students, what the older generation can't accept, the younger ones will accept without question: the best place for a rabbit fur is on a rabbit.
Sincerely,
Betsy
In my travels this week, I ran into a fellow who thinks that it's pretty funny to tell me that he's going to eat my rabbits. As might be expected, this is not funny to me, especially when he pushes the point. The fellow, like many others, is under the misapprehension that because rabbits are docile and cute that they are lower than us and thus ours to do with as we wish. I adamantly and seriously take issue with this point of view. Differences in preferences about temperature, diet, amusement and the amount of attention paid them are what make them discrete individuals, each one interesting and valuable.
I had one bunny who was a very tough little rabbit. My mother was fond of saying he was a "...very tiny dominant animal". His best friend was a little black rabbit. That rabbit was somehow tougher and a whole lot brighter than he was. The first would rear up on his tiny, mighty hind legs and make aggressive moves with his paws, grunting as he did so. This would happen at a variety of provocations, for example being picked up for a pat, being given a toy or his dinner. It was understandable because he was mistreated before he moved in with me. The other rabbit understood how to calm down the first rabbit, and often did so. It was really interesting to watch the two interact.
My students met only the little black bunny, but they said that he understood them; I was not surprised. I felt as though he understood his companion and me as well. I think that if we have souls, so do rabbits. Further, I believe that the little black rabbit was sapient- self aware, and aware of his place in his surroundings. He was incredibly relaxed and quick-witted. I often remarked that I thought he was smarter than me.
While rabbits are definitely individuals, they do have some things in common. For example, I have never met a rabbit that likes to leave home. They have all seemed to love their specific little areas of the house and are most comfortable in quiet places that don't change much. They are not interested in constant attention; they are surprisingly independent, liking a lot of attention for a little while several times per day. They like to explore new areas of the house, but have a healthy sense of self-preservation and so don't like to explore outside. All in all, they don't hurt anyone and don't deserve to be harmed just because they are physically vulnerable.
Rabbits are very communicative. They don't vocalize or have facial muscles, so they don't make much noise or change their expressions; their language is more "spoken" with the whole body. If you know what you are seeing, they are extremely expressive. They know human body language as well, and respond to certain categories of body language in patterns characteristic to each individual.
Rabbits are very smart, as well; they are intuitive and social, being extremely sensitive to tone of voice. I have had several rabbits who solved puzzles, played games and understood more words than thirty words. One rabbit even had a sense of humor. He did several tricks at which my mother always laughed. The more she laughed the more he would do them. I believe that there was a causal connection between his behavior, her laughter and his subsequent repetition of that behavior; he liked her very much.
Sometimes I think that if that guy could just meet my rabbits he might understand why he is so wrong about them. Other times I am reminded that he is really serious about his views on rabbits. As a result, I have come to believe that he and my rabbits should never meet, as he truly believes that rabbits exist to be used by humans for meat and fur, and that they have no other value.
This is one that I am probably going to have to drop. As my father used to say, "People of good will can disagree". I will never change this guy's perspective; he is set in his ways. But, by introducing my rabbits to my students, what the older generation can't accept, the younger ones will accept without question: the best place for a rabbit fur is on a rabbit.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Saturday, November 29, 2008
The Big Clean-up
Dear All,
Those with ADD, yours truly being no exception, are hardly known for our follow-through. However, it is possible to overcome a natural affinity for chaos, even when it is not so much as choice as a given.
Today, I had a very nice dinner party. It was a Thanks-giving "echo" party. I have been working pretty much for three days straight not only for my party, but for my friend's party as well. This is why it is so strange that I have chosen to do most of my clean-up tonight rather than leaving it until the morning.
My husband used to say that I was a force of chaos, and that he was a force for order. I chafed under his constant need for order and he felt nervous and unhappy because of my chaotic nature. Yet I feel that because we could each learn something from the other, that we have been able to take the best of his traits, and mine to find a common ground some place in the middle. Four years ago, if I had tried to do most of the cleaning, let alone most of the cleaning the night of a party, he would have said something such as, "Who are you and what have you done with my wife?" Now, however, I believe that he just takes this as further evidence that I am trying to change not only for his benefit, but also for my own.
I know what I must do in order to improve myself: I must become more self-disciplined. If I ever want to try anything new or do anything else, the only way out is by making plans, laying foundations and then building on these plans. Patience is the key.
For whatever it is worth, I now know what my mother meant when she said she could finally relax once her house was clean. There is a restfulness about order. An equilateral triangle upside down looks dynamic and is not restful; a triangle with a horizontal line on the bottom is stable and calming. Although I am not completely done with my cleaning, I have done everything that I can do for now. It eats at me not to be done, but the sensation would be much worse if I had not done any cleaning at all, like the triangle upside down. I have to have faith that I will follow through when I can. It helps that my husband has learned to have faith in me, as well.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Those with ADD, yours truly being no exception, are hardly known for our follow-through. However, it is possible to overcome a natural affinity for chaos, even when it is not so much as choice as a given.
Today, I had a very nice dinner party. It was a Thanks-giving "echo" party. I have been working pretty much for three days straight not only for my party, but for my friend's party as well. This is why it is so strange that I have chosen to do most of my clean-up tonight rather than leaving it until the morning.
My husband used to say that I was a force of chaos, and that he was a force for order. I chafed under his constant need for order and he felt nervous and unhappy because of my chaotic nature. Yet I feel that because we could each learn something from the other, that we have been able to take the best of his traits, and mine to find a common ground some place in the middle. Four years ago, if I had tried to do most of the cleaning, let alone most of the cleaning the night of a party, he would have said something such as, "Who are you and what have you done with my wife?" Now, however, I believe that he just takes this as further evidence that I am trying to change not only for his benefit, but also for my own.
I know what I must do in order to improve myself: I must become more self-disciplined. If I ever want to try anything new or do anything else, the only way out is by making plans, laying foundations and then building on these plans. Patience is the key.
For whatever it is worth, I now know what my mother meant when she said she could finally relax once her house was clean. There is a restfulness about order. An equilateral triangle upside down looks dynamic and is not restful; a triangle with a horizontal line on the bottom is stable and calming. Although I am not completely done with my cleaning, I have done everything that I can do for now. It eats at me not to be done, but the sensation would be much worse if I had not done any cleaning at all, like the triangle upside down. I have to have faith that I will follow through when I can. It helps that my husband has learned to have faith in me, as well.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Friday, November 28, 2008
Holiday Demotivation
Dear All,
I am engaging in a time-honored tradition: holiday procrastination.
In sixteen hours I will have a house full of people. I have not started cooking yet. There are some things that you can do ahead of time, for example the side dishes. I can't even bear to look in my refrigerator.
I have done a certain amount of cleaning. For some reason I can look at a dirty room and fix it while I can't look at bag of carrots and fix them. The problem with doing too much cleaning too far in advance is that things get dirty again. Still, better recently clean than not clean at all.
I just wish that I weren't so damn nauseated and tired. These are side-effects of my weight, age and some of the drugs that I take. I wouldn't mind twice as much nausea some other day, to pay for my lack of nausea today, just so that I could look at the food I need to prepare without wanting to puke.
If I can just get this stuff done, my get-together promises to be really fun.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I am engaging in a time-honored tradition: holiday procrastination.
In sixteen hours I will have a house full of people. I have not started cooking yet. There are some things that you can do ahead of time, for example the side dishes. I can't even bear to look in my refrigerator.
I have done a certain amount of cleaning. For some reason I can look at a dirty room and fix it while I can't look at bag of carrots and fix them. The problem with doing too much cleaning too far in advance is that things get dirty again. Still, better recently clean than not clean at all.
I just wish that I weren't so damn nauseated and tired. These are side-effects of my weight, age and some of the drugs that I take. I wouldn't mind twice as much nausea some other day, to pay for my lack of nausea today, just so that I could look at the food I need to prepare without wanting to puke.
If I can just get this stuff done, my get-together promises to be really fun.
Sincerely,
Betsy
After-the-Fact Wedding Annoucements
Dear All,
I have now received my third after-the-fact wedding announcement, and I have decided to take action!
An old boyfriend who was a neighbor sent me an after-the-fact announcement. I think that he might have been gloating as we parted on bad terms. I left him in the middle of a deserted neighborhood near downtown Syracuse. I was tired of being bossed around, and he was tired of not being able to boss me around. On the announcement were many little pigs with wings; it said, "The pigs have flown". I guess they have.
The second was from a cousin of mine in California. The mother chided me for inviting them to my wedding in New York. "Of course we can't come!" she had said. I was fully expecting that she would decline the invitation, however I thought that it was more polite to invite them than not to invite them. When I received her son's wedding announcement, I thought to myself, "And this is polite?" I knew that he was engaged already. It didn't tell me anything I didn't hadn't already known, while managing to rub it in that I wasn't invited.
Last, my step-brother did the same thing to me. The first time he almost got married, he wasn't going to tell me at all unless he happened to see me in person. He lives in Omaha. I wrote him an e-mail that said I would be very hurt if he got married and didn't tell me ahead of time. They ended up not getting married that time, but he promised he wouldn't do it again. I believed him and forgave him because he's got some problems with organization similar to the ones that I have.
I must say however that I did make sure to invite him and his kids to my wedding. In fact, his daughter was the flower girl. If I could get it together so could he; anyway- a few days ago, I received a note from his new wife saying that they got married. I wrote him a note saying I was happy for him but very hurt at what he did, especially because he promised not to it, and knew it would hurt my feelings. I forwarded his e-mail to me in which he promised he wouldn't do it. I haven't heard from him.
The conclusion that seems most logical to me is that people who send after-the-fact announcements are just trying to get presents. If they really cared, then they would have invited the person in question. So, my action is: no presents. I will not reward this type of careless, tacky, hurtful behavior.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I have now received my third after-the-fact wedding announcement, and I have decided to take action!
An old boyfriend who was a neighbor sent me an after-the-fact announcement. I think that he might have been gloating as we parted on bad terms. I left him in the middle of a deserted neighborhood near downtown Syracuse. I was tired of being bossed around, and he was tired of not being able to boss me around. On the announcement were many little pigs with wings; it said, "The pigs have flown". I guess they have.
The second was from a cousin of mine in California. The mother chided me for inviting them to my wedding in New York. "Of course we can't come!" she had said. I was fully expecting that she would decline the invitation, however I thought that it was more polite to invite them than not to invite them. When I received her son's wedding announcement, I thought to myself, "And this is polite?" I knew that he was engaged already. It didn't tell me anything I didn't hadn't already known, while managing to rub it in that I wasn't invited.
Last, my step-brother did the same thing to me. The first time he almost got married, he wasn't going to tell me at all unless he happened to see me in person. He lives in Omaha. I wrote him an e-mail that said I would be very hurt if he got married and didn't tell me ahead of time. They ended up not getting married that time, but he promised he wouldn't do it again. I believed him and forgave him because he's got some problems with organization similar to the ones that I have.
I must say however that I did make sure to invite him and his kids to my wedding. In fact, his daughter was the flower girl. If I could get it together so could he; anyway- a few days ago, I received a note from his new wife saying that they got married. I wrote him a note saying I was happy for him but very hurt at what he did, especially because he promised not to it, and knew it would hurt my feelings. I forwarded his e-mail to me in which he promised he wouldn't do it. I haven't heard from him.
The conclusion that seems most logical to me is that people who send after-the-fact announcements are just trying to get presents. If they really cared, then they would have invited the person in question. So, my action is: no presents. I will not reward this type of careless, tacky, hurtful behavior.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Surviving Striving to Thrive
Dear All,
I hated my twenties. If I had the opportunity to go back and do it all over again but right this time, I wouldn't even bother. That's how bad they were. Even so, turning thirty was no picnic. Thirty is when life starts getting serious, when you have to start thinking ahead because the time you need to be thinking ahead for is, like, now. Not being a big planner, I didn't alter my behavior significantly.
Despite this, my thirties, are going pretty well. I have a reasonable place to live, a nice marriage, good human and animal friends and an interesting, if not lucrative, job. I have a good life regardless of the shortcomings of my health. Now that I am on the verge of saying good-bye to my thirties, I already miss them. It's like morning the death of a dying relative. The relative is still there, but you can't ignore the imminent loss. Sometimes this may even get in the way of enjoying what time you do have.
When the deep dark depressions hit, it's very hard to remember to be grateful that at least things aren't any worse. After all, they could be. Still, it's the mundane everyday depressions that dehumanize us because we fail to strive, to thrive, to have goals, to throw ourselves at our goals tooth and nail, hell and high leather.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I hated my twenties. If I had the opportunity to go back and do it all over again but right this time, I wouldn't even bother. That's how bad they were. Even so, turning thirty was no picnic. Thirty is when life starts getting serious, when you have to start thinking ahead because the time you need to be thinking ahead for is, like, now. Not being a big planner, I didn't alter my behavior significantly.
Despite this, my thirties, are going pretty well. I have a reasonable place to live, a nice marriage, good human and animal friends and an interesting, if not lucrative, job. I have a good life regardless of the shortcomings of my health. Now that I am on the verge of saying good-bye to my thirties, I already miss them. It's like morning the death of a dying relative. The relative is still there, but you can't ignore the imminent loss. Sometimes this may even get in the way of enjoying what time you do have.
When the deep dark depressions hit, it's very hard to remember to be grateful that at least things aren't any worse. After all, they could be. Still, it's the mundane everyday depressions that dehumanize us because we fail to strive, to thrive, to have goals, to throw ourselves at our goals tooth and nail, hell and high leather.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Monday, November 24, 2008
Uh, Oh Here Come... The Holidays (Scary Music)
Dear All,
I have a love hate-thing with the holiday season. There is a seasonal-affective component to my Depression, meaning when the days get short I am SAD, sad, sad. My family is not a great, big happy one, either, so that adds to it. Still- up until Christmas and Hanukkah, things are buzzing. People are out and about, doing things, y'know getting things done. Out. It's great. So there's at least something on the happy end of the teeter totter.
The best holiday I remember was Thanksgiving 1977. There was an incredible snow storm that year. The snow banks were higher than I was. We had sixteen people here from all over the U.S.: my God-fearing relatives from Michigan, my grandmother, aunt and uncle from downstate, my relatives from Georgia and Connecticut. I was the only kid, but that was O.K., I was used to that. It was just nice having company. There were several card games going on, a ton of food, and about five cooks in the kitchen. Everything was delicious and looked really nice.
And then it was over and everyone went home. For me that is when the Depression hits hard. It hits every year just after the last holiday we celebrate. The days are still short, I am exhausted and the fun is over. So, last year I decided I would try something new. Instead of doing a lot of work all at once, I would do a little bit each day. I discovered that I could enjoy the day without being exhausted, and the next day didn't seem so bad because that sense of "it's all over" was gone.
This year I am helping my friend do a traditional American Thanksgiving. Then I'll do an "echo" celebration for my students after the holiday. This way we can use up the tons of extra food that are likely to be around. I am very much looking forward to this arrangement. I don't know that I started quite early enough this year, but I think that it will be O.K.
My mother told me once that she would eat the food that she prepared and it would have no flavor. She would look at the decorations and they would seem flat. I thoroughly intend to enjoy these days and their preparation: my friends, their house, their company, and later my guests. Life is hard enough this time of year without something to anticipate.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I have a love hate-thing with the holiday season. There is a seasonal-affective component to my Depression, meaning when the days get short I am SAD, sad, sad. My family is not a great, big happy one, either, so that adds to it. Still- up until Christmas and Hanukkah, things are buzzing. People are out and about, doing things, y'know getting things done. Out. It's great. So there's at least something on the happy end of the teeter totter.
The best holiday I remember was Thanksgiving 1977. There was an incredible snow storm that year. The snow banks were higher than I was. We had sixteen people here from all over the U.S.: my God-fearing relatives from Michigan, my grandmother, aunt and uncle from downstate, my relatives from Georgia and Connecticut. I was the only kid, but that was O.K., I was used to that. It was just nice having company. There were several card games going on, a ton of food, and about five cooks in the kitchen. Everything was delicious and looked really nice.
And then it was over and everyone went home. For me that is when the Depression hits hard. It hits every year just after the last holiday we celebrate. The days are still short, I am exhausted and the fun is over. So, last year I decided I would try something new. Instead of doing a lot of work all at once, I would do a little bit each day. I discovered that I could enjoy the day without being exhausted, and the next day didn't seem so bad because that sense of "it's all over" was gone.
This year I am helping my friend do a traditional American Thanksgiving. Then I'll do an "echo" celebration for my students after the holiday. This way we can use up the tons of extra food that are likely to be around. I am very much looking forward to this arrangement. I don't know that I started quite early enough this year, but I think that it will be O.K.
My mother told me once that she would eat the food that she prepared and it would have no flavor. She would look at the decorations and they would seem flat. I thoroughly intend to enjoy these days and their preparation: my friends, their house, their company, and later my guests. Life is hard enough this time of year without something to anticipate.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Then and Now
Dear All,
There was a Then and Now support group I went to about five years ago that I liked a lot. The topics would be ones that tied our lives in the present and past together. I loved the way that this group was set up because we were telling our stories. We had three topics; we had to touch on all of them. So, usually the speaker would give a little introduction, touch on each topic and sum up, just like a Baker Essay.
I remember being very nervous before saying anything. I loved the people in my group, but while I knew quite a lot about one aspect of their lives, I knew next to nothing about anything else. They were extremely responsive when I was talking but would never interrupt. It was a perfect balance of respect and empathy. They didn't feel sorry for me. It was comforting to be with people who could tolerate the level of sadness in my life.
Then there was this guy, W., who started coming. He was very religious and evangelical. He started using the group as a way to fill the pews in his church. When he ran the group, he would keep us overtime. These group sessions were already very intense, so seventeen extra minutes, especially of listening to W. talk, were unwelcome. After one particularly long evangelical rant, I vowed that next time I would say something, since we were already overtime that day.
So, I did say something, and he kept us longer that time. The following week, I said something again. In these groups we are taught to speak from the "I" perspective. "I" don't like it when you do X because I feel Y. I did this. I spent my whole time on it. Damned if W. didn't keep us overtime again. It happened over and over again after that; I missed five groups. I just got too upset while W. was talking that it was no longer helping me to recover.
If I hadn't missed the other people, I wouldn't have gone back, but I did go back to give it one last try. This time, everyone who said anything at all came down on W.'s side. I said back that I thought that he was mixing religion with the real stuff we were there to be discussing: why we did to ourselves what we did, our recoveries. People told me, things such as "Without God I would not be in recovery...", and that I should "...let go and let God". The problem was that I knew God didn't do this to me and wasn't responsible for getting me to stop; I was. Still- it worked for them. I was the odd person out because it really didn't work for me.
Since I didn't want to hurt them or their recoveries, I didn't tell them that I wouldn't go back. I just never went back. I miss a lot of the people still though. I loved them. Just like me they were taking one day at a time.
Sincerely,
Betsy
There was a Then and Now support group I went to about five years ago that I liked a lot. The topics would be ones that tied our lives in the present and past together. I loved the way that this group was set up because we were telling our stories. We had three topics; we had to touch on all of them. So, usually the speaker would give a little introduction, touch on each topic and sum up, just like a Baker Essay.
I remember being very nervous before saying anything. I loved the people in my group, but while I knew quite a lot about one aspect of their lives, I knew next to nothing about anything else. They were extremely responsive when I was talking but would never interrupt. It was a perfect balance of respect and empathy. They didn't feel sorry for me. It was comforting to be with people who could tolerate the level of sadness in my life.
Then there was this guy, W., who started coming. He was very religious and evangelical. He started using the group as a way to fill the pews in his church. When he ran the group, he would keep us overtime. These group sessions were already very intense, so seventeen extra minutes, especially of listening to W. talk, were unwelcome. After one particularly long evangelical rant, I vowed that next time I would say something, since we were already overtime that day.
So, I did say something, and he kept us longer that time. The following week, I said something again. In these groups we are taught to speak from the "I" perspective. "I" don't like it when you do X because I feel Y. I did this. I spent my whole time on it. Damned if W. didn't keep us overtime again. It happened over and over again after that; I missed five groups. I just got too upset while W. was talking that it was no longer helping me to recover.
If I hadn't missed the other people, I wouldn't have gone back, but I did go back to give it one last try. This time, everyone who said anything at all came down on W.'s side. I said back that I thought that he was mixing religion with the real stuff we were there to be discussing: why we did to ourselves what we did, our recoveries. People told me, things such as "Without God I would not be in recovery...", and that I should "...let go and let God". The problem was that I knew God didn't do this to me and wasn't responsible for getting me to stop; I was. Still- it worked for them. I was the odd person out because it really didn't work for me.
Since I didn't want to hurt them or their recoveries, I didn't tell them that I wouldn't go back. I just never went back. I miss a lot of the people still though. I loved them. Just like me they were taking one day at a time.
Sincerely,
Betsy
My Bee Dance
Dear All,
It is so embarrassing to be saying something and just trailing off... it injures my pride.
I have been calling these incidents senior moments, and my friends laugh (better to laugh than to worry) but I have always been articulate; in fact I have always been a little vain about my ability to express myself succinctly and accurately.
Now, however, being able to follow through with a thought is an iffy proposition under the best circumstances. I liken it to a bee dance. Bees can indicate complex information such as the presence of danger, the location of some promising flowers or the weather, using a language of gestural routines. Unfortunately for the bees, if the routines are interrupted, the dances must be restarted; this may need to happen repeatedly. I know how the bees feel; I really do.
Yet, the confusing thing is that being easily-distractable does have some advantages. Some people don't respond well to EMDR or Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, a way of processing distressing memories by interrupting the automatic link between a distressing thought and the emotional response to that thought. One treatment for Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is EMDR. Distractable people, me included, respond well to this form of treatment, one which brings great relief when it works.
So, if it were up to me I have no idea whether I would choose to remain distractable. I have no reference for comparison. I will say, however, that it would be nice to be successful in the way that the society to which I belong prescribes. Until my diagnosis I thought that I was lazy and not very bright because ADD limits my ability to plan ahead; thus, lucrative jobs that require years of preparation have always alluded me. The bee routine and perfectionism have always insured that. Despite the benefits of EMDR, I'm thinking being less distractable might be worth it just for the increase in earning potential.
The fight for complete access to my stream of consciousness is an interesting, much-needed mental exercise, even if it does call attention to an area in which I am very limited.
Sincerely,
Betsy
It is so embarrassing to be saying something and just trailing off... it injures my pride.
I have been calling these incidents senior moments, and my friends laugh (better to laugh than to worry) but I have always been articulate; in fact I have always been a little vain about my ability to express myself succinctly and accurately.
Now, however, being able to follow through with a thought is an iffy proposition under the best circumstances. I liken it to a bee dance. Bees can indicate complex information such as the presence of danger, the location of some promising flowers or the weather, using a language of gestural routines. Unfortunately for the bees, if the routines are interrupted, the dances must be restarted; this may need to happen repeatedly. I know how the bees feel; I really do.
Yet, the confusing thing is that being easily-distractable does have some advantages. Some people don't respond well to EMDR or Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, a way of processing distressing memories by interrupting the automatic link between a distressing thought and the emotional response to that thought. One treatment for Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is EMDR. Distractable people, me included, respond well to this form of treatment, one which brings great relief when it works.
So, if it were up to me I have no idea whether I would choose to remain distractable. I have no reference for comparison. I will say, however, that it would be nice to be successful in the way that the society to which I belong prescribes. Until my diagnosis I thought that I was lazy and not very bright because ADD limits my ability to plan ahead; thus, lucrative jobs that require years of preparation have always alluded me. The bee routine and perfectionism have always insured that. Despite the benefits of EMDR, I'm thinking being less distractable might be worth it just for the increase in earning potential.
The fight for complete access to my stream of consciousness is an interesting, much-needed mental exercise, even if it does call attention to an area in which I am very limited.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Friday, November 21, 2008
Passionately Un
Dear All,
I prefer being neither one nor the other, undecided, unextreme, unjudgemental, passionately un.
There is so much about our world that we don't know. One of my favorite aspects of skeptics is the unwillingness to make final decisions about things. Skeptics like to hold theories which stand if and until more plausible theories come along. This open-mindedness is beautiful in its utter simplicity. We shout down our doubting Thomases, yet without them, without their ability to project possible negative outcomes, we would go gallivanting off reinventing the wheel, stealing and restealing fire from the gods, and in the process running over our children and burning down our houses. By requiring certainty without proof, we become intellectually stagnant and fail to evolve.
I look at the world today and ask why we, as sapient beings, fight over God. It seems clear to me that any God that wanted the best for us would be disappointed if we were to kill other people to spread our beliefs, even in our God. On what authority do I say this? The basic tenets of most religions forbid people to kill other people.
Science backs this up: members of a species killing one another is illogical. Species rely on biodiversity in order to evolve, so humans killing other humans is self-defeating because it constricts our gene pool. If biodiversity weren't important, in times of scarcity we would be cannibals; most of us find cannibalism abhorrent, even in places where food is scarce. So, my guess is that, after a millennium of millennia, this is programmed into our genes, and is why we have thrived as a species.
There are a few people that have tried evangelism of one sort or another with me. K., a girl I knew in college, made me cry about the void a lack of God made in my heart. Even still, I was unable to agree with her. She did made me acknowledge the painful hole in my heart, but the hole remained.
C., a friend of my husband's, tried to get us to become Jehovah's Witnesses. Again this pointed out the hole in my heart, but his beliefs struck me as improbable at best, and contradictory at worst.
My friend, M., a very intelligent Muslim person I knew took a different approach. I was very curious about the Middle East and she was interested in explaining various Middle Eastern cultures, so I was a good audience. She never tried to convince me to convert, which is why I still think of this as a successful friendship even though it is now over.
She was generally respectful and curious about my beliefs and I was of hers as well. One day, though she said that I had no idea what I was missing by not having a religion in my life. That actually had nothing to do with the demise of our friendship, but it hurt because I had trusted her not to judge me. I never judged her although I felt undefended and alone. I still think that I am a better person for having known her. I don't judge her for being happy in her beliefs- on the contrary- I wish I were as happy as her.
When my mother died my spiritual beliefs underwent a shift. It was the foxhole of the war that was and is my life. As they say, there are no atheists in foxholes. It was inconceivable to me that this person who I have known longer than anyone else was no more. Yet, that appeared to be the case. It was shocking to me, and despite a series of dreams of her that continue even ten years later, I am still undecided, but at peace with not knowing. In fact, I have come to the belief that it is none of my business to know what happens to us after death until I'm, as it were, on a need-to-know basis.
From my experiences, I have learned that sometimes to be true to myself, I must deny certainty, the most comfortable option. It is hard not deciding, being a nuanced shade of gray, and not judging those who would judge me. Yet, I remain passionately un... at least for now.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I prefer being neither one nor the other, undecided, unextreme, unjudgemental, passionately un.
There is so much about our world that we don't know. One of my favorite aspects of skeptics is the unwillingness to make final decisions about things. Skeptics like to hold theories which stand if and until more plausible theories come along. This open-mindedness is beautiful in its utter simplicity. We shout down our doubting Thomases, yet without them, without their ability to project possible negative outcomes, we would go gallivanting off reinventing the wheel, stealing and restealing fire from the gods, and in the process running over our children and burning down our houses. By requiring certainty without proof, we become intellectually stagnant and fail to evolve.
I look at the world today and ask why we, as sapient beings, fight over God. It seems clear to me that any God that wanted the best for us would be disappointed if we were to kill other people to spread our beliefs, even in our God. On what authority do I say this? The basic tenets of most religions forbid people to kill other people.
Science backs this up: members of a species killing one another is illogical. Species rely on biodiversity in order to evolve, so humans killing other humans is self-defeating because it constricts our gene pool. If biodiversity weren't important, in times of scarcity we would be cannibals; most of us find cannibalism abhorrent, even in places where food is scarce. So, my guess is that, after a millennium of millennia, this is programmed into our genes, and is why we have thrived as a species.
There are a few people that have tried evangelism of one sort or another with me. K., a girl I knew in college, made me cry about the void a lack of God made in my heart. Even still, I was unable to agree with her. She did made me acknowledge the painful hole in my heart, but the hole remained.
C., a friend of my husband's, tried to get us to become Jehovah's Witnesses. Again this pointed out the hole in my heart, but his beliefs struck me as improbable at best, and contradictory at worst.
My friend, M., a very intelligent Muslim person I knew took a different approach. I was very curious about the Middle East and she was interested in explaining various Middle Eastern cultures, so I was a good audience. She never tried to convince me to convert, which is why I still think of this as a successful friendship even though it is now over.
She was generally respectful and curious about my beliefs and I was of hers as well. One day, though she said that I had no idea what I was missing by not having a religion in my life. That actually had nothing to do with the demise of our friendship, but it hurt because I had trusted her not to judge me. I never judged her although I felt undefended and alone. I still think that I am a better person for having known her. I don't judge her for being happy in her beliefs- on the contrary- I wish I were as happy as her.
When my mother died my spiritual beliefs underwent a shift. It was the foxhole of the war that was and is my life. As they say, there are no atheists in foxholes. It was inconceivable to me that this person who I have known longer than anyone else was no more. Yet, that appeared to be the case. It was shocking to me, and despite a series of dreams of her that continue even ten years later, I am still undecided, but at peace with not knowing. In fact, I have come to the belief that it is none of my business to know what happens to us after death until I'm, as it were, on a need-to-know basis.
From my experiences, I have learned that sometimes to be true to myself, I must deny certainty, the most comfortable option. It is hard not deciding, being a nuanced shade of gray, and not judging those who would judge me. Yet, I remain passionately un... at least for now.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Self-discipline, Organization and Paranoia
Dear All,
Some of the side-effects of the medicine I take worsen my short and medium term memory. This is how it feels. Imagine finding it very hard to learn new vocabulary or not being able to remember how to get places because nothing looks familiar. Think about losing things that are right in front of you because you can't remember putting them down. Worst, though, would be being unable to finish your own sentences.
Most of my E.S.L. students come from one country. I am learning their language of origin because I believe that it will make me a better tutor. It requires being able to write with a different letter-system a new lexicon of sounds and a whole new vocabulary. While I have been listening to this language for eight years, I have not picked up many individual words. I can read the letters of this language but I can't put them in order, so looking things up in the dictionary is a challenge. Many of the letters are the same shape, just turned in different directions. To a Dyslexic, these are all effectively the same letter, so the vocabulary goes in one ear and out the other. If I do anything as fancy as turn a page to write something down, I may forget the spelling, repeatedly.
My mother always called me a homing pigeon because I almost never got lost, even going places to which I'd only been once. Recently, for five minutes while I was in the car I couldn't remember what day it was, thus I couldn't remember where I had to go. I took a wrong turn and went way out of my way, and before I knew it couldn't remember how to get to the right family's house despite the fact that I was in a familiar place. It used to be that I got lost only if I had never been someplace before, not going from lesson to lesson.
I have always loved to drive and go new places. I memorize new places using the local traffic signs, parked cars, color and shape of buildings, topography, which all mesh into a changing composition of the images which move along like a video. This has been very useful. When I was seventeen I went to Paris with a group of kids from my school. We were at Notre Dame de Paris. It is a fascinating place, and being the distractable person that I was, I went to buy some film. I took four rolls of film before I realized my group, which had a busy day planned, had left. I don't regret it, however. Although I didn't expect any help, I wasn't worried. It was ten in the morning, I knew the name of my hotel and that it was along the Seine River. Using my French, my legs and my sense of direction, I got back to my hotel before my group did. It was four miles; I had been in Paris for a day. It was a cinch. I would be in some real trouble if that happened to me today.
Due to my Dyslexia, I used to memorize everything that I could. By nature I am someone who learns best though listening and through images (pictures, maps, diagrams, tables and charts). Before my computer, writing things gave me a false sense of security: I would write down my thoughts and feel free to forget them. Then usually I would lose the paper. However, because of my computer and the ease with which I can organize my files, I have become someone who prefers to communicate in text. First, I have a record of everything that I have done. Second, my students and their families understand me better. Now, if I don't write things down, I get the things wrong, they don't get done, I lose things- and then I blame others for misinforming or constraining me, or moving my things.
Paranoia has always been more comfortable than not trusting my memory or my mind, but, at age 35, when I realized the effect that this blaming behavior was having on my marriage, I started carrying a purse in order to have one place to put my essential items. I always (usually)hang my purse on the back of a specific door in my home, and hang my keys next to the front door. When I go out, I carry two sets of keys, one on a long bungee clipped to my belt loop, and an extra set on a belt clip. When the key goes in the ignition, it is still on the bungee. In theory I never take the bungee off, so when I get out of my car, automatically I won't get locked out of my car or home. I don't get locked out nearly as often as I used to do.
The purse is harder though. The other day I was in a complete panic because I couldn't find my purse. I was doing laundry at a local laundromat, one where a couple of my things have been stolen out of the machines. I thought I had left my purse inside, but I had just put it on top of my laundry and put my laundry in the car. I was staring right at it. I had no recollection of having just put the purse in the laundry basket, and I didn't recognise it. All I remembered was putting the laundry basket in the car, and realizing that my bag was not on my shoulder. I looked all around before I noticed it on my laundry.
Quite a few of my spoken sentences go unfinished because I forget what I was talking about. My mind moves a lot faster than my mouth does. I have adopted a "before I forget" conversational style. I think that it can be hard to follow but now at least all of the important things are said. I assume that if I trail off that it probably wasn't important.
The only remedy is self-discipline; paying attention to what I am saying, writing things down in one place, putting things back in the same places and cleaning up everyday really help. They don't take much time and it make me feel more on top of things. While the memory problems are scary, on good days I do my routine and I feel confident that I can and will overcome my problem.
Thank you sincerely for reading,
Betsy
Some of the side-effects of the medicine I take worsen my short and medium term memory. This is how it feels. Imagine finding it very hard to learn new vocabulary or not being able to remember how to get places because nothing looks familiar. Think about losing things that are right in front of you because you can't remember putting them down. Worst, though, would be being unable to finish your own sentences.
Most of my E.S.L. students come from one country. I am learning their language of origin because I believe that it will make me a better tutor. It requires being able to write with a different letter-system a new lexicon of sounds and a whole new vocabulary. While I have been listening to this language for eight years, I have not picked up many individual words. I can read the letters of this language but I can't put them in order, so looking things up in the dictionary is a challenge. Many of the letters are the same shape, just turned in different directions. To a Dyslexic, these are all effectively the same letter, so the vocabulary goes in one ear and out the other. If I do anything as fancy as turn a page to write something down, I may forget the spelling, repeatedly.
My mother always called me a homing pigeon because I almost never got lost, even going places to which I'd only been once. Recently, for five minutes while I was in the car I couldn't remember what day it was, thus I couldn't remember where I had to go. I took a wrong turn and went way out of my way, and before I knew it couldn't remember how to get to the right family's house despite the fact that I was in a familiar place. It used to be that I got lost only if I had never been someplace before, not going from lesson to lesson.
I have always loved to drive and go new places. I memorize new places using the local traffic signs, parked cars, color and shape of buildings, topography, which all mesh into a changing composition of the images which move along like a video. This has been very useful. When I was seventeen I went to Paris with a group of kids from my school. We were at Notre Dame de Paris. It is a fascinating place, and being the distractable person that I was, I went to buy some film. I took four rolls of film before I realized my group, which had a busy day planned, had left. I don't regret it, however. Although I didn't expect any help, I wasn't worried. It was ten in the morning, I knew the name of my hotel and that it was along the Seine River. Using my French, my legs and my sense of direction, I got back to my hotel before my group did. It was four miles; I had been in Paris for a day. It was a cinch. I would be in some real trouble if that happened to me today.
Due to my Dyslexia, I used to memorize everything that I could. By nature I am someone who learns best though listening and through images (pictures, maps, diagrams, tables and charts). Before my computer, writing things gave me a false sense of security: I would write down my thoughts and feel free to forget them. Then usually I would lose the paper. However, because of my computer and the ease with which I can organize my files, I have become someone who prefers to communicate in text. First, I have a record of everything that I have done. Second, my students and their families understand me better. Now, if I don't write things down, I get the things wrong, they don't get done, I lose things- and then I blame others for misinforming or constraining me, or moving my things.
Paranoia has always been more comfortable than not trusting my memory or my mind, but, at age 35, when I realized the effect that this blaming behavior was having on my marriage, I started carrying a purse in order to have one place to put my essential items. I always (usually)hang my purse on the back of a specific door in my home, and hang my keys next to the front door. When I go out, I carry two sets of keys, one on a long bungee clipped to my belt loop, and an extra set on a belt clip. When the key goes in the ignition, it is still on the bungee. In theory I never take the bungee off, so when I get out of my car, automatically I won't get locked out of my car or home. I don't get locked out nearly as often as I used to do.
The purse is harder though. The other day I was in a complete panic because I couldn't find my purse. I was doing laundry at a local laundromat, one where a couple of my things have been stolen out of the machines. I thought I had left my purse inside, but I had just put it on top of my laundry and put my laundry in the car. I was staring right at it. I had no recollection of having just put the purse in the laundry basket, and I didn't recognise it. All I remembered was putting the laundry basket in the car, and realizing that my bag was not on my shoulder. I looked all around before I noticed it on my laundry.
Quite a few of my spoken sentences go unfinished because I forget what I was talking about. My mind moves a lot faster than my mouth does. I have adopted a "before I forget" conversational style. I think that it can be hard to follow but now at least all of the important things are said. I assume that if I trail off that it probably wasn't important.
The only remedy is self-discipline; paying attention to what I am saying, writing things down in one place, putting things back in the same places and cleaning up everyday really help. They don't take much time and it make me feel more on top of things. While the memory problems are scary, on good days I do my routine and I feel confident that I can and will overcome my problem.
Thank you sincerely for reading,
Betsy
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The Blind Leading the Blind
Dear All,
If you were looking for an English tutor, someone Dyslexic, with ADD and Depression would not be at the top of your list. Yet this is what I do for a living, and oddly enough I am actually a rather good tutor.
There was a progam yesterday on NPR about girls suffering from ADHD. Apparently women are far less likely to be diagnosed with ADHD than ADD because age and conditioning seem to have calming effects. One caller was talking about her experiences with being diagnosed in her late twenties and how she felt her life would have been very different if she had been diagnosed and treated earlier. I am not given to crying spells now that I am better-stocked than the local pharmacy, but I felt so sad for her, and I identified so much with her.
I started seeing a med's nurse last year to manage my Depression better. It was from this office that I received both my ADD and chronic depression diagnoses. It was life-changing and a confirmation of what I had already suspected: that my complete and utter inability to organize myself was organic. While there were times when I was able to cope fairly well, the chaos would always resume. Square one and I are well-acquainted.
Being self-employed was really incompatible with this set of problems. Still- using my trusty notebook, my e-mail and a special planner that I made up myself, I was able to keep it together pretty well, that is until my last profound Depression hit. It was a cocktail of depressive symptoms I have never experienced before simultaneously, and it ravaged the fragile truce I had called with my ADD. Control of my mind and the contents thereof was usurped by my angry, self-defeating tendencies, and overwhelmed my sense of pride in any accomplishments or progress I might have made.
With my configuration of problems, it is amazing that I have made it to age 38. The reality is that am lucky to get out of bed in the morning, pay my bills on time, do my shopping and laundry and keep myself and my living-space clean. These are very basic needs, but unfortunately, there isn't much energy left over for writing books, traveling or going back to school. I don't dare to dream because my dreams are huge. I have certain abilities, but they go unfulfilled because I just can't get it together.
Yet- I tutor English, which is very detailed. How can I, why do I do this? It is because I know what it's like to be unable to speak or write clearly. I am willing to spend the time to get things right. I don't take for granted that I got things right the first time. As a result of my disadvantages, I can empathize and listen better; it helps that I am naturally good at grammar. I am currently learning (slowly) my fourth language. So, the answer is that my thinking problems are both a hindrance and a help. Overcompensation and a spell-checker can be wonderful things.
Sincerely,
Betsy
If you were looking for an English tutor, someone Dyslexic, with ADD and Depression would not be at the top of your list. Yet this is what I do for a living, and oddly enough I am actually a rather good tutor.
There was a progam yesterday on NPR about girls suffering from ADHD. Apparently women are far less likely to be diagnosed with ADHD than ADD because age and conditioning seem to have calming effects. One caller was talking about her experiences with being diagnosed in her late twenties and how she felt her life would have been very different if she had been diagnosed and treated earlier. I am not given to crying spells now that I am better-stocked than the local pharmacy, but I felt so sad for her, and I identified so much with her.
I started seeing a med's nurse last year to manage my Depression better. It was from this office that I received both my ADD and chronic depression diagnoses. It was life-changing and a confirmation of what I had already suspected: that my complete and utter inability to organize myself was organic. While there were times when I was able to cope fairly well, the chaos would always resume. Square one and I are well-acquainted.
Being self-employed was really incompatible with this set of problems. Still- using my trusty notebook, my e-mail and a special planner that I made up myself, I was able to keep it together pretty well, that is until my last profound Depression hit. It was a cocktail of depressive symptoms I have never experienced before simultaneously, and it ravaged the fragile truce I had called with my ADD. Control of my mind and the contents thereof was usurped by my angry, self-defeating tendencies, and overwhelmed my sense of pride in any accomplishments or progress I might have made.
With my configuration of problems, it is amazing that I have made it to age 38. The reality is that am lucky to get out of bed in the morning, pay my bills on time, do my shopping and laundry and keep myself and my living-space clean. These are very basic needs, but unfortunately, there isn't much energy left over for writing books, traveling or going back to school. I don't dare to dream because my dreams are huge. I have certain abilities, but they go unfulfilled because I just can't get it together.
Yet- I tutor English, which is very detailed. How can I, why do I do this? It is because I know what it's like to be unable to speak or write clearly. I am willing to spend the time to get things right. I don't take for granted that I got things right the first time. As a result of my disadvantages, I can empathize and listen better; it helps that I am naturally good at grammar. I am currently learning (slowly) my fourth language. So, the answer is that my thinking problems are both a hindrance and a help. Overcompensation and a spell-checker can be wonderful things.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Daily Tarnish
Dear All,
Perhaps I am naive, idealistic or behind the times, but a woman's purse is private- period.
Recently, when attempting to attend an event at a large local venue, I was asked to open my purse for the man at the gate. To put this in perspective, my bag measures 7x7x3. The person in front of me in line was not searched, and he had a huge backpack.
When I refused on the grounds that it was ridiculous, I was barred from entry and the ticket ripper would not give my ticket back. All I wanted was to get my ticket back so that I could return it and leave. The ticket taker never actually returned my ticket. Instead, my friend gave me her ticket that had not yet been ripped. I returned it and left. Did I mention that the police were summoned?
In my purse are private items; I am not ashamed of them. They are just private. For this reason, my purse could have been empty, and I still would have refused to allow it to be searched.
Have we really come to this? Are we all really this fear-driven? I guess I just don't get it- I really don't. I would rather live in a country where people don't act upon their worst fears everyday. This is a choice made of weakness rather than one of strength, and it tarnishes us all, a little bit everyday, until we are unable to see ourselves anymore in the people that we have become.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Perhaps I am naive, idealistic or behind the times, but a woman's purse is private- period.
Recently, when attempting to attend an event at a large local venue, I was asked to open my purse for the man at the gate. To put this in perspective, my bag measures 7x7x3. The person in front of me in line was not searched, and he had a huge backpack.
When I refused on the grounds that it was ridiculous, I was barred from entry and the ticket ripper would not give my ticket back. All I wanted was to get my ticket back so that I could return it and leave. The ticket taker never actually returned my ticket. Instead, my friend gave me her ticket that had not yet been ripped. I returned it and left. Did I mention that the police were summoned?
In my purse are private items; I am not ashamed of them. They are just private. For this reason, my purse could have been empty, and I still would have refused to allow it to be searched.
Have we really come to this? Are we all really this fear-driven? I guess I just don't get it- I really don't. I would rather live in a country where people don't act upon their worst fears everyday. This is a choice made of weakness rather than one of strength, and it tarnishes us all, a little bit everyday, until we are unable to see ourselves anymore in the people that we have become.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Monday, November 17, 2008
Melodrama
Dear All,
Let me tell you about why I threw away my couch and my television.
My mother died in 1999. She was really young to be dying, but she had worn her body hard and the consequence was death at 57.
My mother had Grave's Disease. It damaged her thyroid gland, and she had to be hospitalized. An intern gave my mother the wrong medication and this sent her pulse up to 300. She was never right after that. She had earned a Ph.D. in Philosophy; there was a point in time when she thought for fun. After her hospitalization and the medication error, she quit philosophy. She had been a great thinker, who found herself unable to reason as philosophers must reason after this incident.
In addition to the Grave's Disease from which she suffered, she also had several incidents of gall stones and later became paralyzed along her right side due to a chipped disk. As a child she had Rheumatic Fever; after a life as a smoker- things just wore out.
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about her and wonder how things could have gotten so terribly out of control. And then I think about my own situation. I don't seem the same body chemistry that effectively castrated her, but I do have seem to have inherited the most pernicious of her illnesses: Depression. I can't remember a time when I was not Depressed. I always considered myself an unhappy person with happy times in my life. Plus, I have ADD and possibly also Dyslexia.
I don't know of anyone else who has the same constellation of difficulties, so I have no basis for comparison. However, I can tell you from my own experience that tasks that seem straightforward to other people seem lost in the traffic of my mind. People have likened it to punching fog after hearing my description of the profound confusion I feel from time to time. It's more and less tangible than that, however. Sometimes it's like living in a dream. Nothing is real, therefore nothing is tangible. Then there are times of awakening- of dealing with the consequences of my practical absence from my responsibilities- locked out of my own life, and it's hardly my life that drifts by during these times, filled with sweetness and nightmares, but mostly mundane everyday boredom. The key is the boredom is not mine so it is somehow safe; it places no demands on me and this is oddly soothing.
I never thought that I would sleepwalk though my life; I used to be such a passionate person. When my mom died I became numb. Even now, I have never taken a positive action toward anything, only away from things which scared or might damage me. I have survived by avoiding the potholes others have hit, but not thrived due to my failure to engage with the world. Most importantly, however, I saw the world as much smaller and less complex place than it really was; breaking it down in manageable pieces made me feel as if I were more in control.
Yet, the fact of the matter was that my life was as unmanageable to me as my mother's was to her. Television let me dream in an unhealthy way. For half an hour I could escape from my life, forget about my mother's death, or the constant undertow of my Depression. I could satisfy the urge to be more than I was by pretending that I was someone else. My unmanageable life could be pushed to the side. Disconnection notices would pile up, but as long as the cable was on everything was going to be O.K.
One day I realized that five years had passed, and were gone. I think that it was another two years before I was able to get rid of my couch and television. The exact trigger is still unclear, possibly I just naturally cycled out of a deep dark Depression into a slightly more shallow and somewhat less heavy Depression.
After the couch and the television were gone, it occurred to me that I could have lived the rest of my life there and never have realized it. Alcoholics say one drink comes in many glasses. For me, one program comes in many hours. This is why I had to get rid of my television. The couch reminded me of watching television, so it had to go, too.
I would advocate stopping watching television to anyone, except, not everyone has a problem with television. This was a slow discovery that gave rise to another: there is no one solution for everyone. So, I try to follow the adage "Live and Let Live". I don't watch television, and I don't bother anyone else about their television consumption. It's none of my business. I didn't like the effect it had on me, so I stopped doing it, period.
One unexpected result is the lengths to which I will go to avoid being "advertised-at". Along with television, I stopped listening to commercial radio. I was and am very susceptible to commercials because I am so distractable. I wanted control over my stream of consciousness, so I prefer NPR which is usually interesting to me, and stays on a single topic for an hour. I am not saying that no more couch and television is for everyone, but it is what was right for me.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Let me tell you about why I threw away my couch and my television.
My mother died in 1999. She was really young to be dying, but she had worn her body hard and the consequence was death at 57.
My mother had Grave's Disease. It damaged her thyroid gland, and she had to be hospitalized. An intern gave my mother the wrong medication and this sent her pulse up to 300. She was never right after that. She had earned a Ph.D. in Philosophy; there was a point in time when she thought for fun. After her hospitalization and the medication error, she quit philosophy. She had been a great thinker, who found herself unable to reason as philosophers must reason after this incident.
In addition to the Grave's Disease from which she suffered, she also had several incidents of gall stones and later became paralyzed along her right side due to a chipped disk. As a child she had Rheumatic Fever; after a life as a smoker- things just wore out.
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about her and wonder how things could have gotten so terribly out of control. And then I think about my own situation. I don't seem the same body chemistry that effectively castrated her, but I do have seem to have inherited the most pernicious of her illnesses: Depression. I can't remember a time when I was not Depressed. I always considered myself an unhappy person with happy times in my life. Plus, I have ADD and possibly also Dyslexia.
I don't know of anyone else who has the same constellation of difficulties, so I have no basis for comparison. However, I can tell you from my own experience that tasks that seem straightforward to other people seem lost in the traffic of my mind. People have likened it to punching fog after hearing my description of the profound confusion I feel from time to time. It's more and less tangible than that, however. Sometimes it's like living in a dream. Nothing is real, therefore nothing is tangible. Then there are times of awakening- of dealing with the consequences of my practical absence from my responsibilities- locked out of my own life, and it's hardly my life that drifts by during these times, filled with sweetness and nightmares, but mostly mundane everyday boredom. The key is the boredom is not mine so it is somehow safe; it places no demands on me and this is oddly soothing.
I never thought that I would sleepwalk though my life; I used to be such a passionate person. When my mom died I became numb. Even now, I have never taken a positive action toward anything, only away from things which scared or might damage me. I have survived by avoiding the potholes others have hit, but not thrived due to my failure to engage with the world. Most importantly, however, I saw the world as much smaller and less complex place than it really was; breaking it down in manageable pieces made me feel as if I were more in control.
Yet, the fact of the matter was that my life was as unmanageable to me as my mother's was to her. Television let me dream in an unhealthy way. For half an hour I could escape from my life, forget about my mother's death, or the constant undertow of my Depression. I could satisfy the urge to be more than I was by pretending that I was someone else. My unmanageable life could be pushed to the side. Disconnection notices would pile up, but as long as the cable was on everything was going to be O.K.
One day I realized that five years had passed, and were gone. I think that it was another two years before I was able to get rid of my couch and television. The exact trigger is still unclear, possibly I just naturally cycled out of a deep dark Depression into a slightly more shallow and somewhat less heavy Depression.
After the couch and the television were gone, it occurred to me that I could have lived the rest of my life there and never have realized it. Alcoholics say one drink comes in many glasses. For me, one program comes in many hours. This is why I had to get rid of my television. The couch reminded me of watching television, so it had to go, too.
I would advocate stopping watching television to anyone, except, not everyone has a problem with television. This was a slow discovery that gave rise to another: there is no one solution for everyone. So, I try to follow the adage "Live and Let Live". I don't watch television, and I don't bother anyone else about their television consumption. It's none of my business. I didn't like the effect it had on me, so I stopped doing it, period.
One unexpected result is the lengths to which I will go to avoid being "advertised-at". Along with television, I stopped listening to commercial radio. I was and am very susceptible to commercials because I am so distractable. I wanted control over my stream of consciousness, so I prefer NPR which is usually interesting to me, and stays on a single topic for an hour. I am not saying that no more couch and television is for everyone, but it is what was right for me.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Go, Keith Olbermann!
Dear All,
There is a link that I found while surfing. I don't watch T.V., so I don't know anything else about this person, but his words are thought-provoking, passionate and well-reasoned. Enclosed please find a link to commentary by a Keith Olbermann of MSNBC dated November 10, 2008, about Proposition 8.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/27650743/
My point for including this in my blog, one which probably no one will read, is that he says what I think. While I am perfectly capable of expressing myself, his words have the virtue of not being mine. This means that I am not alone in my opinion. It's nice not to be alone, isn't it?
Sincerely and with respect,
Betsy
There is a link that I found while surfing. I don't watch T.V., so I don't know anything else about this person, but his words are thought-provoking, passionate and well-reasoned. Enclosed please find a link to commentary by a Keith Olbermann of MSNBC dated November 10, 2008, about Proposition 8.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/27650743/
My point for including this in my blog, one which probably no one will read, is that he says what I think. While I am perfectly capable of expressing myself, his words have the virtue of not being mine. This means that I am not alone in my opinion. It's nice not to be alone, isn't it?
Sincerely and with respect,
Betsy
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Why Blog About Moderation of All Things?
Dear All,
I have decided to create this blog because I feel that there is very much something to be said for the middle, the moderate, for being neither one extreme nor the other.
About me: I am a moderate liberal politically, but fiscally and socially conservative in my own behavior. The reason that I am a Democrat as opposed to being a Republican is that I don't wish to tell others what to do or how to run their lives. It is offensive to my very nature when people try to tell me what to think, especially if there are dire consequences forecasted for failing to do so, e.g. that I will burn in Hell for all eternity if I don't believe what they believe. By the way this is neither meant as a challenge, nor is it open for debate.
If you don't like my point of view, that is fine. You don't have to read my blog. What I am hoping, however, is that even if you think I am dead wrong, you will read my words without judgement, and that you will think about what I have written before disregarding it.
Respectfully,
Betsy
I have decided to create this blog because I feel that there is very much something to be said for the middle, the moderate, for being neither one extreme nor the other.
About me: I am a moderate liberal politically, but fiscally and socially conservative in my own behavior. The reason that I am a Democrat as opposed to being a Republican is that I don't wish to tell others what to do or how to run their lives. It is offensive to my very nature when people try to tell me what to think, especially if there are dire consequences forecasted for failing to do so, e.g. that I will burn in Hell for all eternity if I don't believe what they believe. By the way this is neither meant as a challenge, nor is it open for debate.
If you don't like my point of view, that is fine. You don't have to read my blog. What I am hoping, however, is that even if you think I am dead wrong, you will read my words without judgement, and that you will think about what I have written before disregarding it.
Respectfully,
Betsy
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