Dear All,
It has been 157 days since my last confession. It's been a long time because frankly I haven't had anything to say that I wasn't required to say elsewhere. Today, I have something I can't say elsewhere; there is nowhere safe or private enough. And that is the problem.
For starters, I have taken apart everything in my life and put it all back together differently, possibly better. I feel an overwhelming sense of loss, loss of the familiar, loss of friendships, loss of family, loss of love.
There is also wonderment at how things have changed. I went from being hopelessly unable to balance my books to being increasingly able to do so. I have health insurance in my own name for the first time as an adult. I have a car, one which works perfectly, for the first time in twenty years. In short, I have a plan about how to get myself out of the mess I got myself into. I'm not out of it yet, but it's only a matter of time.
It all happened because I was absolutely unable to say no to anyone when I really really needed to say no. I was a doormat. Whatever my husband wanted, I couldn't stand for him not to have it. I never asked myself what I wanted. I didn't want to have to pay for both of us all of the time, and so I was angry all of the time. My friends treated me as if I existed for their convenience. I had no control over my time; this was annoying but I never thought that it was dangerous.
Then, I landed in the hospital, and I told everyone who was asking too much to leave me alone. And my life got better. The power of saying no is extraordinary, and liberating, especially to someone not allowed to say the word.
It's funny that the very people who are and were so adept at using that word were the ones who were the angriest when I said it to them. This was something that I had no anticipated, but it made me think.
One of my housemates has turned into a right, royal pain in the ass. And I could see myself falling back into the old patterns. There is something that he does that strikes me as extremely wasteful, and since I am the one who pays that bill, I called him on it. He tried not leaving me alone until I had agreed that he could do whatever he wanted. This was after complaining repeatedly about other people not doing a variety of things the way that he wanted them done.
So, I used that all as ammunition; I said to him that I had done everything that he had asked me to do- and that this was something about which I was serious (it is one of a few possible issues that I could pick, however it was the highest priority). He explained to me over and over his reasons for doing things the way he liked (no new reasons after the first time). I told him that I rejected his reasoning as faulty, that I thought he was being unreasonable, that it was my house and as long as I paid the bill, this was not optional, told him we were not going to convince each other, and that we had to agree to disagree, and for that reason I was going to go and do something else. AND THEN I CLOSED THE DOOR.
I was high as a kite after that meeting. I was excited to be me for the first time in a long time. I felt a little unsettled, but mostly relieved; I had weathered the storm and had expressed myself clearly without apology, had defended myself well, and hadn't back down.
It remains to be seen how he will react, although it is interesting to note that he has not paid his rent. It was due yesterday. Although the other housemates agree that the wasteful thing he is doing is silly as well as wasteful, I was the only one in the position to say anything about it because it was skin off of my nose. I don't think that it will have the intended effect, but it might yet. Anyway, I no longer feel like a basketcase, and all due to being able to say, "No!"
Signed,
B
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Dishes Are Calling
Dear All,
When I look at a sink full of dirty dishes, I see a series of steps that I have not undertaken, but which I must, invariably, undertake.
I don't mind sweeping or mopping, there's just something about dirty dishes that seem very formidable. Perhaps I fear that I cannot get them clean enough. Perhaps I feel that there's something wrong with me that I let them accumulate. Perhaps I feel outraged at the sheer number of utensils, cooking vessels, storage containers, and serving implements it takes just to make one meal for two people. Worst of all, perhaps it reminds me of the fridge, which as far as I am concerned could be in another time zone.
Organization is not something that you can buy in a store. Trust me, I've tried. It is an act, a process. I hate the action of this process.
Hate isn't the entire story, though. Some days, cleaning is simply out of the question. My body is like lead and I can't think at all. I call these my dead-end-one-way-street days.
Some days I look at something that I need to organize, and I can't see how to do it. Other days I can see how to do it, but I don't have the energy. These two situations coincide about 40% of the time, thus I am not generally considered a neat person. I call these my red light days.
Sometimes I have a lot of energy, and through sheer determination, even though I can't see how to organize something, by doing one thing, and another and another, I can get things pretty clean. I would say this is happening more and more often, currently at a rate of about 25% of the time. These are very satisfying, but the results are unpredictable. I call these my yellow light days.
Sometimes though, everything seems very clear to me and I am able to whip through all of my tasks. I enjoy cleaning then. These are my green light days. They really aren't happening that often these days, but usually they happen once a week or so.
So saying that I hate cleaning (dish washing) is only an approximate truth. I hate failing at solving the puzzle of what to do first when there's a big job; to me dishes always seem like a big job.
When I look at a sink full of dirty dishes, I see a series of steps that I have not undertaken, but which I must, invariably, undertake.
I don't mind sweeping or mopping, there's just something about dirty dishes that seem very formidable. Perhaps I fear that I cannot get them clean enough. Perhaps I feel that there's something wrong with me that I let them accumulate. Perhaps I feel outraged at the sheer number of utensils, cooking vessels, storage containers, and serving implements it takes just to make one meal for two people. Worst of all, perhaps it reminds me of the fridge, which as far as I am concerned could be in another time zone.
Organization is not something that you can buy in a store. Trust me, I've tried. It is an act, a process. I hate the action of this process.
Hate isn't the entire story, though. Some days, cleaning is simply out of the question. My body is like lead and I can't think at all. I call these my dead-end-one-way-street days.
Some days I look at something that I need to organize, and I can't see how to do it. Other days I can see how to do it, but I don't have the energy. These two situations coincide about 40% of the time, thus I am not generally considered a neat person. I call these my red light days.
Sometimes I have a lot of energy, and through sheer determination, even though I can't see how to organize something, by doing one thing, and another and another, I can get things pretty clean. I would say this is happening more and more often, currently at a rate of about 25% of the time. These are very satisfying, but the results are unpredictable. I call these my yellow light days.
Sometimes though, everything seems very clear to me and I am able to whip through all of my tasks. I enjoy cleaning then. These are my green light days. They really aren't happening that often these days, but usually they happen once a week or so.
So saying that I hate cleaning (dish washing) is only an approximate truth. I hate failing at solving the puzzle of what to do first when there's a big job; to me dishes always seem like a big job.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Diabetes and Moderation: Too Little, Too Late
Dear All,
Well, it has finally come to pass. I now have full-blown Diabetes to add to my list of illnesses. Getting rid of the T.V. was good, taking care of the Depression was better, trying to lose some weight, was all very well.
All of this was too little, too late. My body had already taken years of abuse, and its reaction was to become diabetic, and inceasingly depressed. There is a huge co-morbidity between Depression and Diabetes. Diabetes makes Depression worse, and Depression makes Diabetes worse. The brain chemistry is the link between the two. Just like alcoholics can "pickle" their brains with alcohol, a brain steeping in sugar is not an effective brain.
When I began to lose weight, I was thrilled. I thought that it was the ADD medication. Many symptoms of Diabetes are masked by Psychiatric meds. Plus- I didn't want to know. So, I had thought that I was doing better until I landed in the hospital with unbearable stomach pain and my blood sugar was found to be 490, dangerously high. Normal blood sugar is about 100 (80-120). While the stomach pain was probably unrelated, it, let us just say, was a clarion call. I associate the pain with eating badly, and this has been a great motivator to eat well, take my meds and exercise.
So- I have made some changes. Despite the fact that I like carbohydrates, they are my drug of choice, I have cut out 90% of the carbs and 98% of the sugar that I had been eating. I take my meds. These have helped me to get my blood sugar under control. I go to the gym three to five times per week where I can I walk and monitor my heart rate. I love Planet Fitness. It's cheap and people are very friendly and accepting. I have lost many inches, and probably many pounds, but because of the eating disorder (compulsive overeating) I don't weigh myself. Everyday is a new day, a clean slate. If screw up today, I start tomorrow with a fresh mind. If I screwed up yesterday, that was yesterday. Today's a different day. And so, slowly I learn and make progress. These have been the effects.
General sharpness: I am very troubled by some of the changes in myself. I feel a lot sharper. I actually finish my sentences now. I can remember things, and am much more aware of when I have gotten things wrong, or when I am truely confused, or when I myself am being confusing. My clients have been taking advantage of this, and getting me to do things for them because I never objected. I have put a stop to these stressful intrusions on my time.
Stress levels: On-going stress makes bloodsugar go up. Think about it: it's the fight or flight response. Releasing sugar into the blood stream provides quick energy. I try to moderate my stress with exercise and dealing with problems head on if I can bear it. There are drugs to control anxiety, however, they are a last resort for me because they are addictive.
Detailed clarity: I can multi-task, and things seem simpler to me now. Finances, work, editing, going to the gym, driving- these things are all simple and routine. I can work out complex daily tasks and schedules- and can keep things in mind, for example remembering to write down when I have appointments in one place. My sessions are faster, and probably more effective. I can be the rock for my students that they need, especially the struggling ones.
Visual acuity: I can see better, too. It is really frightening to me that I was driving in my condition. I see now why they take peoples' driver licenses away who have uncontrolled high blood sugar. It is very hard to think, react and make good decisions because there is this complete lack of input and processing power. When I drive now, I can drive a bit faster, and I believe more safely because I can see and process information. I always drove about five to ten miles per hour lower than the speed limit because I couldn't see, unless I was late someplace, and then I was a lead-foot. That was really dangerous.
Level of energy: I have some now. Period. I can get out of bed and go places and do things. I take care of myself. As a direct result of increased energy:
Courage: I have the courage to take an honest look at my situation because I have the energy to solve the problems that have been coming up repeatedly for me.
Constant motion: One way that Depression worsens Diabetes is the sedentary nature of those who are depressed. It doesn't have to be running a marathon. Just getting up and walking around is really useful in controlling blood sugar. Since I move more often, it has become easier to lower my blood sugar.
If you or anyone you know has these symptoms: fatigue, extreme thirst, extreme hunger yet weight loss of muscle mass (looks like: very thin limbs but a heavy torso), problems with memory and concentration, heart disease, shortness of breath (due to Asthma, or poor circulation), carbohydrate cravings or Depression you might be saving his or her live by suggesting a trip to the doctor for a blood sugar stick. If you or the person of whom you are thinking do any of these things, these behaviors may be indications that there is a problem: driving really slowly, forgetting appointments, squinting, breaking off speaking in the middle of sentences, losing things or trouble with organization or overindulging in sweets, again, a trip to the doctor for a blood sugar stick might be a really good idea.
Thanks for listening.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Well, it has finally come to pass. I now have full-blown Diabetes to add to my list of illnesses. Getting rid of the T.V. was good, taking care of the Depression was better, trying to lose some weight, was all very well.
All of this was too little, too late. My body had already taken years of abuse, and its reaction was to become diabetic, and inceasingly depressed. There is a huge co-morbidity between Depression and Diabetes. Diabetes makes Depression worse, and Depression makes Diabetes worse. The brain chemistry is the link between the two. Just like alcoholics can "pickle" their brains with alcohol, a brain steeping in sugar is not an effective brain.
When I began to lose weight, I was thrilled. I thought that it was the ADD medication. Many symptoms of Diabetes are masked by Psychiatric meds. Plus- I didn't want to know. So, I had thought that I was doing better until I landed in the hospital with unbearable stomach pain and my blood sugar was found to be 490, dangerously high. Normal blood sugar is about 100 (80-120). While the stomach pain was probably unrelated, it, let us just say, was a clarion call. I associate the pain with eating badly, and this has been a great motivator to eat well, take my meds and exercise.
So- I have made some changes. Despite the fact that I like carbohydrates, they are my drug of choice, I have cut out 90% of the carbs and 98% of the sugar that I had been eating. I take my meds. These have helped me to get my blood sugar under control. I go to the gym three to five times per week where I can I walk and monitor my heart rate. I love Planet Fitness. It's cheap and people are very friendly and accepting. I have lost many inches, and probably many pounds, but because of the eating disorder (compulsive overeating) I don't weigh myself. Everyday is a new day, a clean slate. If screw up today, I start tomorrow with a fresh mind. If I screwed up yesterday, that was yesterday. Today's a different day. And so, slowly I learn and make progress. These have been the effects.
General sharpness: I am very troubled by some of the changes in myself. I feel a lot sharper. I actually finish my sentences now. I can remember things, and am much more aware of when I have gotten things wrong, or when I am truely confused, or when I myself am being confusing. My clients have been taking advantage of this, and getting me to do things for them because I never objected. I have put a stop to these stressful intrusions on my time.
Stress levels: On-going stress makes bloodsugar go up. Think about it: it's the fight or flight response. Releasing sugar into the blood stream provides quick energy. I try to moderate my stress with exercise and dealing with problems head on if I can bear it. There are drugs to control anxiety, however, they are a last resort for me because they are addictive.
Detailed clarity: I can multi-task, and things seem simpler to me now. Finances, work, editing, going to the gym, driving- these things are all simple and routine. I can work out complex daily tasks and schedules- and can keep things in mind, for example remembering to write down when I have appointments in one place. My sessions are faster, and probably more effective. I can be the rock for my students that they need, especially the struggling ones.
Visual acuity: I can see better, too. It is really frightening to me that I was driving in my condition. I see now why they take peoples' driver licenses away who have uncontrolled high blood sugar. It is very hard to think, react and make good decisions because there is this complete lack of input and processing power. When I drive now, I can drive a bit faster, and I believe more safely because I can see and process information. I always drove about five to ten miles per hour lower than the speed limit because I couldn't see, unless I was late someplace, and then I was a lead-foot. That was really dangerous.
Level of energy: I have some now. Period. I can get out of bed and go places and do things. I take care of myself. As a direct result of increased energy:
Courage: I have the courage to take an honest look at my situation because I have the energy to solve the problems that have been coming up repeatedly for me.
Constant motion: One way that Depression worsens Diabetes is the sedentary nature of those who are depressed. It doesn't have to be running a marathon. Just getting up and walking around is really useful in controlling blood sugar. Since I move more often, it has become easier to lower my blood sugar.
If you or anyone you know has these symptoms: fatigue, extreme thirst, extreme hunger yet weight loss of muscle mass (looks like: very thin limbs but a heavy torso), problems with memory and concentration, heart disease, shortness of breath (due to Asthma, or poor circulation), carbohydrate cravings or Depression you might be saving his or her live by suggesting a trip to the doctor for a blood sugar stick. If you or the person of whom you are thinking do any of these things, these behaviors may be indications that there is a problem: driving really slowly, forgetting appointments, squinting, breaking off speaking in the middle of sentences, losing things or trouble with organization or overindulging in sweets, again, a trip to the doctor for a blood sugar stick might be a really good idea.
Thanks for listening.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Monday, August 10, 2009
When Things Seem Hopeless
There are times when I get very down because plans that I think are solid turn out to be less ironclad than I had hoped.
When I decided to get married I needed something to be reliable, to have an honest connection with another person. To a large extent I have that. However, when my husband is feeling depressed, although I have known that he got depressed from the very start, his sadness sets me off, and I begin to have trouble coping with even my minimal lot of responsibilities.
Today's trigger is that someone stole one of my husband's personalized license plates which is a very expensive problem in the state where we live. First, you have to get the plates. Then, if one or both are stolen you have to turn in the remaining plate, and register the car again. Whether or not you want another personalized plate, you have to pay about $50.00; there is an additional fee to keep the old license plate number.
I don't think that it's fair; it's not like he begged someone to steal his plate. He's the victim, and has to pay and pay and pay. Most likely it was stolen off of his car at work. As a result of the intricate web of fees, he is unable to have his previous license plate number. He is not even allowed to keep his remaining plate (a word of great personal significance to him) as a souvenir. Last- he had to take off time from work to take care of this. It's just a last little kick in the ass.
Dealing with all of this for a well person, with a well wife would be difficult. My husband, however, is now upstairs in bed, for lack of a better word napping. We don't have the money to register the car. He wants to take Obama's buyout plan because his car is ten years old. I don't think that it is a good plan because in taking the deal, the old cars are wrecked- perfectly good cars are destroyed. It never occurred to me that this would be the outcome of the buyout plan. I figured that many of the cars wouldn't run, or that they might be sold for their parts enabling more buyouts. So- I said I wouldn't get involved in such a wasteful endeavor.
Note: since I wrote this last part, I have discovered that the reason for destroying the engines is to prevent unscrupulous car dealers from reselling the cars. First of all, the cars wouldn't actually be off of the road and would still be guzzling gas. Second, by taking the $4500, dealers agreed to sell the clunkers for scrap and salvage. It has come to light that some of the dealers are actually reselling the cars as vehicles anyway. Sigh. I hate being right but for the wrong reason. It makes me sound both ignorant and cynical. Bring it on.
Anyway- so my husband and I disagree about this and about many other financial matters. These are large issues, not small ones, and they don't go away. He keeps his job because it pays for our benefits although they pay him a quarter of what an employer in San Francisco, New York or Boston would pay him. So, he can't afford a new registration, let alone a new car. He's angry, and I am upset. And so the fight is ongoing. I am so sick of fighting.
I married him because there was something so lovable and comfortable, so familiar about him. Neither of us likes fighting, neither of us likes being poor- but we are both too sick to do anything about it. We are trapped in a weave of each others' depression and bad habits.
Thus, the downward spiral to deep, dark, doomed, damned if we do, damned if we don't depression. I don't know how other people deal with this type of thing. Perhaps it just doesn't happen to them. Some people are just able to get paid what they are worth and like dealing with this sort of thing. I hate money- it causes nothing but trouble.
Whatever.
When I decided to get married I needed something to be reliable, to have an honest connection with another person. To a large extent I have that. However, when my husband is feeling depressed, although I have known that he got depressed from the very start, his sadness sets me off, and I begin to have trouble coping with even my minimal lot of responsibilities.
Today's trigger is that someone stole one of my husband's personalized license plates which is a very expensive problem in the state where we live. First, you have to get the plates. Then, if one or both are stolen you have to turn in the remaining plate, and register the car again. Whether or not you want another personalized plate, you have to pay about $50.00; there is an additional fee to keep the old license plate number.
I don't think that it's fair; it's not like he begged someone to steal his plate. He's the victim, and has to pay and pay and pay. Most likely it was stolen off of his car at work. As a result of the intricate web of fees, he is unable to have his previous license plate number. He is not even allowed to keep his remaining plate (a word of great personal significance to him) as a souvenir. Last- he had to take off time from work to take care of this. It's just a last little kick in the ass.
Dealing with all of this for a well person, with a well wife would be difficult. My husband, however, is now upstairs in bed, for lack of a better word napping. We don't have the money to register the car. He wants to take Obama's buyout plan because his car is ten years old. I don't think that it is a good plan because in taking the deal, the old cars are wrecked- perfectly good cars are destroyed. It never occurred to me that this would be the outcome of the buyout plan. I figured that many of the cars wouldn't run, or that they might be sold for their parts enabling more buyouts. So- I said I wouldn't get involved in such a wasteful endeavor.
Note: since I wrote this last part, I have discovered that the reason for destroying the engines is to prevent unscrupulous car dealers from reselling the cars. First of all, the cars wouldn't actually be off of the road and would still be guzzling gas. Second, by taking the $4500, dealers agreed to sell the clunkers for scrap and salvage. It has come to light that some of the dealers are actually reselling the cars as vehicles anyway. Sigh. I hate being right but for the wrong reason. It makes me sound both ignorant and cynical. Bring it on.
Anyway- so my husband and I disagree about this and about many other financial matters. These are large issues, not small ones, and they don't go away. He keeps his job because it pays for our benefits although they pay him a quarter of what an employer in San Francisco, New York or Boston would pay him. So, he can't afford a new registration, let alone a new car. He's angry, and I am upset. And so the fight is ongoing. I am so sick of fighting.
I married him because there was something so lovable and comfortable, so familiar about him. Neither of us likes fighting, neither of us likes being poor- but we are both too sick to do anything about it. We are trapped in a weave of each others' depression and bad habits.
Thus, the downward spiral to deep, dark, doomed, damned if we do, damned if we don't depression. I don't know how other people deal with this type of thing. Perhaps it just doesn't happen to them. Some people are just able to get paid what they are worth and like dealing with this sort of thing. I hate money- it causes nothing but trouble.
Whatever.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
How We Think About Language
One of my greatest joys is when I have been trying to explain something to a student and all of a sudden, the student understands. Right now I have two students who just don't understand a word that comes out of my mouth. I have been reprimanded by both of their guardians due to the lack of progress that their charges are making. These two cases are very different from one another, but they are equally as frustrating to me, and perhaps to my students as well.
In the first case, I think that there is something wrong in this family. There is a child who is a very dreamy kind of child. The mother yells at him to get his attention because the attention wanders so readily. I find him infuriating to work with because I'll be in the middle of trying to get his attention- and he'll be gone again. I am so angry at him. I told him, using gestures, where he needs to be looking in order to undestand me. He looks, but it's as if he looks but he doesn't see. I don't know what to do for him. I am not going to yell at him. To me, yelling is for emergencies, for example "Oh my God, your pants are on fire!" Also- yelling has progressively less power the more that you do it, and then when there is a real emergency, there is nothing to resort to doing. Plus- I just hate yelling. Further, this child retains nothing that I say- and proceeds to correct me. This has largely stopped, and has been replaced with the above mentioned complete lack of attention. This was after I told him that I am a native English speaker, and through no fault of his- I know more than he does about English. He has been very impatient with me when he is paying attention, using phrases like, "Okay- okay go on". I think that he is very rude, and that he has learned this from his parents.
The other case is totally different. In this case I might be at fault. There is a child that is in the U.S. for six weeks. Normally in these cases I come up with a plan ahead of time. In this case, I employed two workbooks. My hope was to get half way though the two of them. We are four weeks through his stay in the U.S. and his mother (through his aunt) has told me that my tactics are in appropriate. She didn't want him to be learning grammar. The aunt told me that kids his age aren't supposed to be learning grammar. I said that in the U.S. kids are required to start learning grammar at his age. It occured to me that he will not actually be going to school in the U.S. Maybe what I was teaching his was a) unnecessary, and b) frustrating to him (and to me). He's the nicest kid that I have worked with in a long time. I don't want to make his life harder, yet, I have no idea what to do for him. He didn't know when to capitalize, basic punctuation or basic sentence structure when we started. He knows those things now. These things were learned through learning grammar.
If I had to tie these two situations together, they would have two main similarities. One is that they are both frustrating, but the guardians are unwilling to allow their charges to deal with their frustration. I think that this is a mistake because feeling frustration helps kids to be motivated to learn. Second, both guardians have dictated what the curriculum will be, and have micromanaged me to the point where I have no disgression about how to teach the kids at all. The only disgression that I have had is which workbooks to use. I couldn't find the ones I wanted, so I had to make due with the ones that I could find. The parents own meddling has cost us time, money, and added to our frustration.
I can't escape the fact that it is too late for one kid. I will continue to try my best, but it may have been too late from the start. I have to fight the tides of my own depression in the other situation, if I have any hope of helping him. I can't allow myself to slip under the surface because then he will be left to his own self-defeating devices.
In the first case, I think that there is something wrong in this family. There is a child who is a very dreamy kind of child. The mother yells at him to get his attention because the attention wanders so readily. I find him infuriating to work with because I'll be in the middle of trying to get his attention- and he'll be gone again. I am so angry at him. I told him, using gestures, where he needs to be looking in order to undestand me. He looks, but it's as if he looks but he doesn't see. I don't know what to do for him. I am not going to yell at him. To me, yelling is for emergencies, for example "Oh my God, your pants are on fire!" Also- yelling has progressively less power the more that you do it, and then when there is a real emergency, there is nothing to resort to doing. Plus- I just hate yelling. Further, this child retains nothing that I say- and proceeds to correct me. This has largely stopped, and has been replaced with the above mentioned complete lack of attention. This was after I told him that I am a native English speaker, and through no fault of his- I know more than he does about English. He has been very impatient with me when he is paying attention, using phrases like, "Okay- okay go on". I think that he is very rude, and that he has learned this from his parents.
The other case is totally different. In this case I might be at fault. There is a child that is in the U.S. for six weeks. Normally in these cases I come up with a plan ahead of time. In this case, I employed two workbooks. My hope was to get half way though the two of them. We are four weeks through his stay in the U.S. and his mother (through his aunt) has told me that my tactics are in appropriate. She didn't want him to be learning grammar. The aunt told me that kids his age aren't supposed to be learning grammar. I said that in the U.S. kids are required to start learning grammar at his age. It occured to me that he will not actually be going to school in the U.S. Maybe what I was teaching his was a) unnecessary, and b) frustrating to him (and to me). He's the nicest kid that I have worked with in a long time. I don't want to make his life harder, yet, I have no idea what to do for him. He didn't know when to capitalize, basic punctuation or basic sentence structure when we started. He knows those things now. These things were learned through learning grammar.
If I had to tie these two situations together, they would have two main similarities. One is that they are both frustrating, but the guardians are unwilling to allow their charges to deal with their frustration. I think that this is a mistake because feeling frustration helps kids to be motivated to learn. Second, both guardians have dictated what the curriculum will be, and have micromanaged me to the point where I have no disgression about how to teach the kids at all. The only disgression that I have had is which workbooks to use. I couldn't find the ones I wanted, so I had to make due with the ones that I could find. The parents own meddling has cost us time, money, and added to our frustration.
I can't escape the fact that it is too late for one kid. I will continue to try my best, but it may have been too late from the start. I have to fight the tides of my own depression in the other situation, if I have any hope of helping him. I can't allow myself to slip under the surface because then he will be left to his own self-defeating devices.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Theory Vs. Practice
Dear All,
Well- it's been a while. I haven't had anything to say for a while.
My friend had her baby. She did pretty well for a prima gravisa, a first-time mom. She was in serious labor for about ten hours. I sat with her for a while my husband took her husband out for some dinner. She wasn't allowed to eat, so none of us wanted to do it in front of her.
I don't think that I have ever seen anyone other than my husband or me in that much pain. It was a very jarring experience. I wasn't their when her son was born, but I suspect she was in far more pain during delivery.
She also said everyone was yelling directions to her. I can't imagine that that was much help. Also- apparently, she wouldn't take the advice of the doctors and nurses about how to make the birth go faster and be less painful. Normally, she is a measured, cautious person, and follows the advice other people give her when they are in a possition to know what they are talking about. For some reason, however, she seemed oddly unprepaired for the whole experience. She went to classes, and read books about birthing. I think that pain can make people crazy and do self-defeating things.
I was aware of being in the way. I tried to stay out of the way, and only transmit necessary messages to the doctors and nurses, but there were quite a few. The only one that I can remember getting immediate attention was when I said she had to use the toilet, and the door was locked. I felt a little bit useless, but I knew that it would be bad for her to be alone, and so I did what I could to sooth her when the pain was at its height. We have never been touchy feely friends, so this was pretty much limited to talking in a low soothing voice. I am not absolutely sure that she could hear the words, but it seemed to be something steady on which she could concentrate other than the pain, which by that time was nearly non-stop.
I timed her contractions as best as I could without pencil and paper, and told her how close they were. When the fetal heartbeat monitor slipped down her belly so we couldn't hear the heartbeat or see the number of beats per minute on the little screen, I told the nurse who basically ignored it. About forty-five minutes later someone came in to adjust it. I have never felt so useless, so in the way, in my whole life. But I stayed because I knew that I was not useless, that just my presence gave her comfort, support and strength.
She was mad that the husbands had been out for so long and he choice words for men. She told me that I didn't want to have kids because I didn't want to go through what she was going through. Then she cried a little. I talked to her in a quiet, low voice. She became a bit calmer, even laughing a little bit at how silly she must look. Honestly, I though she was beautiful, rosy, glowing. I didn't advance this opinion because I knew that the rosy glow was the direct result of pain. The pain didn't scare me in the least. I had dealt with serious pain before.
About two hours after we had gotten there, my husband came back with my friend's husband, only they wouldn't let my husband up because he wasn't family. So, I left my friend, reluctantly. She had been walking around, and was having a contraction, and which point she sagged against her husband who caught her a patted her back as she started to cry. At this point I left. Clearly, I was no longer needed, and I felt as though I was intruding. Plus, my husband was waiting downstairs, banished to the waiting room.
While I was glad to be there for her, I left ASAP. I was very surprised by my reaction when I held their son the next day. The head was soft. I realized that I had made the right decision by not having kids of my own. It terrified me to be holding this terribly fragile creature. It wasn't the pain that terrified me, it was the ongoing need, and the senstivity of the individual in need. I was very relieved to hand him back to his mom, my friend, who looked as happy as a brand new day.
Well- it's been a while. I haven't had anything to say for a while.
My friend had her baby. She did pretty well for a prima gravisa, a first-time mom. She was in serious labor for about ten hours. I sat with her for a while my husband took her husband out for some dinner. She wasn't allowed to eat, so none of us wanted to do it in front of her.
I don't think that I have ever seen anyone other than my husband or me in that much pain. It was a very jarring experience. I wasn't their when her son was born, but I suspect she was in far more pain during delivery.
She also said everyone was yelling directions to her. I can't imagine that that was much help. Also- apparently, she wouldn't take the advice of the doctors and nurses about how to make the birth go faster and be less painful. Normally, she is a measured, cautious person, and follows the advice other people give her when they are in a possition to know what they are talking about. For some reason, however, she seemed oddly unprepaired for the whole experience. She went to classes, and read books about birthing. I think that pain can make people crazy and do self-defeating things.
I was aware of being in the way. I tried to stay out of the way, and only transmit necessary messages to the doctors and nurses, but there were quite a few. The only one that I can remember getting immediate attention was when I said she had to use the toilet, and the door was locked. I felt a little bit useless, but I knew that it would be bad for her to be alone, and so I did what I could to sooth her when the pain was at its height. We have never been touchy feely friends, so this was pretty much limited to talking in a low soothing voice. I am not absolutely sure that she could hear the words, but it seemed to be something steady on which she could concentrate other than the pain, which by that time was nearly non-stop.
I timed her contractions as best as I could without pencil and paper, and told her how close they were. When the fetal heartbeat monitor slipped down her belly so we couldn't hear the heartbeat or see the number of beats per minute on the little screen, I told the nurse who basically ignored it. About forty-five minutes later someone came in to adjust it. I have never felt so useless, so in the way, in my whole life. But I stayed because I knew that I was not useless, that just my presence gave her comfort, support and strength.
She was mad that the husbands had been out for so long and he choice words for men. She told me that I didn't want to have kids because I didn't want to go through what she was going through. Then she cried a little. I talked to her in a quiet, low voice. She became a bit calmer, even laughing a little bit at how silly she must look. Honestly, I though she was beautiful, rosy, glowing. I didn't advance this opinion because I knew that the rosy glow was the direct result of pain. The pain didn't scare me in the least. I had dealt with serious pain before.
About two hours after we had gotten there, my husband came back with my friend's husband, only they wouldn't let my husband up because he wasn't family. So, I left my friend, reluctantly. She had been walking around, and was having a contraction, and which point she sagged against her husband who caught her a patted her back as she started to cry. At this point I left. Clearly, I was no longer needed, and I felt as though I was intruding. Plus, my husband was waiting downstairs, banished to the waiting room.
While I was glad to be there for her, I left ASAP. I was very surprised by my reaction when I held their son the next day. The head was soft. I realized that I had made the right decision by not having kids of my own. It terrified me to be holding this terribly fragile creature. It wasn't the pain that terrified me, it was the ongoing need, and the senstivity of the individual in need. I was very relieved to hand him back to his mom, my friend, who looked as happy as a brand new day.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Like Molasses
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
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
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