...or should set in. Would have set in if I hadn't broken down and amitted (while being gently poked by the head shrinker and the doctor) that I had to do something to stop the several-times-a-day near hysteria. It is amazing how, well, NORMAL 1/2 of a little blue pill can make one feel, now that the insomnia and headaches have passed.
It is also, apparently, prohibiting me from feeling any sort of panic about the fact that I am no longer technically employed or drawing an income - me, the one who earns 80% of the household income. I just can't summon up the gumption to be panicked - or care much at all.
In truth, I suspect only part of it has to do with the little blue pill. I suspect most of it has to do with the fact that for the first time in a long time I am feeling empowered. I feel IN CONTROL. In TOTAL control of my life.
For a control freak, that's a pretty big deal.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Bill Gates and Sara: Two Peas in a Pod
Okay, so only because we're both cleaning out our desks today as we move on to other things.
Today is my last day of work at The Factory, and I have nothing to do but clean my computer, re-organize files and remove my self from the premise.
I want to cry.
I've alternately dreamed of, and loathed, this day for the last four months. Last week, I was relegated to sitting in the kitchen (prior to that, I sat at the front desk ... see the trend?). It's isolated, quiet and I cannot be seen from the main hallway. It also means, I feel as if I've been kicked to the curb already. No one even seems to remember that I'm here today.
I've thought about my last days at other places at which I've worked, and that is what makes me want to cry. When I left the last two companies, there was a week of celebrating, tears and promises to keep in touch - it felt a little like the last week of senior year of high school - without all the appropriate high school drama and the "U R a QT" written in my yearbook. I've spent a minimum of three years at my last companies, so leaving after only a year means the ties aren't as strong.
Leaving because I can no longer tolerate the environment means there are no farewells. I am alternately sad to leave the team and business and clients I've built and worked with and for and joyously happy that 60-hour workweeks are done.
But even under the circumstances, leaving is tough. I hate change as a general rule. I eat the same thing for breakfast 80% of the time. I have the same morning routine. I struggle to make friends, so leaving any tenuous friendships behind is tough.
There are job options. Several. Nothing that strikes me as the greatest job ever, but jobs that are stable and will compensate me reasonably well.
I wonder what Bill Gates is thinking as he clears out his desk today ....?
.
Today is my last day of work at The Factory, and I have nothing to do but clean my computer, re-organize files and remove my self from the premise.
I want to cry.
I've alternately dreamed of, and loathed, this day for the last four months. Last week, I was relegated to sitting in the kitchen (prior to that, I sat at the front desk ... see the trend?). It's isolated, quiet and I cannot be seen from the main hallway. It also means, I feel as if I've been kicked to the curb already. No one even seems to remember that I'm here today.
I've thought about my last days at other places at which I've worked, and that is what makes me want to cry. When I left the last two companies, there was a week of celebrating, tears and promises to keep in touch - it felt a little like the last week of senior year of high school - without all the appropriate high school drama and the "U R a QT" written in my yearbook. I've spent a minimum of three years at my last companies, so leaving after only a year means the ties aren't as strong.
Leaving because I can no longer tolerate the environment means there are no farewells. I am alternately sad to leave the team and business and clients I've built and worked with and for and joyously happy that 60-hour workweeks are done.
But even under the circumstances, leaving is tough. I hate change as a general rule. I eat the same thing for breakfast 80% of the time. I have the same morning routine. I struggle to make friends, so leaving any tenuous friendships behind is tough.
There are job options. Several. Nothing that strikes me as the greatest job ever, but jobs that are stable and will compensate me reasonably well.
I wonder what Bill Gates is thinking as he clears out his desk today ....?
.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Tagged!
I was tagged by Stefanie This version asks you to list 3 joys, 3 fears, 3 goals, 3 current obsessions or collections, and 3 surprising facts about myself. So here you go:
3 Joys
1. Baby Girl
2. Being outside
3. Early Saturday mornings
3 Fears
1. Falling down the stairs
2. Not being able to breathe
3. Parenting
3 Goals
1. Learn to play the guitar
2. An organized house (ha! stop laughing right now)
3. Develop a hobby (yes, I've realized I have none)
3 Current Obsessions
1. Reading (don't read The Outlander, by the way, unless you want to read an entire book with almost zero dialogue - ack!)
2. The Farmer's Market
3. Packing for our move next door
(notice looking for a job isn't on this list - I'm REALLY having a hard time being motivated about this)
3 Surprising Things
1. My politics ... especially considering where I live
2. I never went to the third grade
3. I don't like romance novels, gossip magazines or having my nails done
Tag: Heidi, Bruce/Julie and Pete/Mika
3 Joys
1. Baby Girl
2. Being outside
3. Early Saturday mornings
3 Fears
1. Falling down the stairs
2. Not being able to breathe
3. Parenting
3 Goals
1. Learn to play the guitar
2. An organized house (ha! stop laughing right now)
3. Develop a hobby (yes, I've realized I have none)
3 Current Obsessions
1. Reading (don't read The Outlander, by the way, unless you want to read an entire book with almost zero dialogue - ack!)
2. The Farmer's Market
3. Packing for our move next door
(notice looking for a job isn't on this list - I'm REALLY having a hard time being motivated about this)
3 Surprising Things
1. My politics ... especially considering where I live
2. I never went to the third grade
3. I don't like romance novels, gossip magazines or having my nails done
Tag: Heidi, Bruce/Julie and Pete/Mika
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I think this is where I'm supposed to feel something...
After spending from November to April essentially numb, I've enjoyed a rebirth of feeling - mad, happy, excited, angry - doesn't really matter, the prick of feeling is something to be celebrated after a 4-month absence where everything was gray and muted.
But while my numbness had worn off and the thick coat of depressive plodding through life began to dissipate, my anxiety continued to roller coaster. In my armchair psychoanalysis, I would say that the break in weather contributed to the lifting of the mind-funk fog, but did little for my anxiety.
It has cost me so much - this constant furor in my brain - the continual crackle of static electricity in the background of every thought, every conversation, every moment that might be quiet. Head shrinking worked, but not when I couldn't go every week, due to the fact I have the most popular head shrinker on the planet (or so it seems), who is (unfortunately for me) a stay-at-home-mom all but one day and one evening a week.
So ... out came the little blue pills. I railed against them for six months - certain I'd be a slave to them forever. But the job disaster was just too much. I couldn't sacrifice one more thing to this horrible feeling of chronic "fight or flight."
Now? I haven't had any kind of panicky meltdown in a week - I quit my job without freaking out. I go through the day without freaking out about suddenly having 80% of our income vaporize (I keep thinking I should ... but I just can't).
This has been my best week of work in the last 9 months.
And it's not just the "take that" euphoria of quitting. It's that I'm back to being numb. The little blue pills shave off the edges of the anxiety, but also everything else.
I think this is the part where I am supposed to feel something about that, but I can't seem to conjure up the emotional energy to go that far.
But while my numbness had worn off and the thick coat of depressive plodding through life began to dissipate, my anxiety continued to roller coaster. In my armchair psychoanalysis, I would say that the break in weather contributed to the lifting of the mind-funk fog, but did little for my anxiety.
It has cost me so much - this constant furor in my brain - the continual crackle of static electricity in the background of every thought, every conversation, every moment that might be quiet. Head shrinking worked, but not when I couldn't go every week, due to the fact I have the most popular head shrinker on the planet (or so it seems), who is (unfortunately for me) a stay-at-home-mom all but one day and one evening a week.
So ... out came the little blue pills. I railed against them for six months - certain I'd be a slave to them forever. But the job disaster was just too much. I couldn't sacrifice one more thing to this horrible feeling of chronic "fight or flight."
Now? I haven't had any kind of panicky meltdown in a week - I quit my job without freaking out. I go through the day without freaking out about suddenly having 80% of our income vaporize (I keep thinking I should ... but I just can't).
This has been my best week of work in the last 9 months.
And it's not just the "take that" euphoria of quitting. It's that I'm back to being numb. The little blue pills shave off the edges of the anxiety, but also everything else.
I think this is the part where I am supposed to feel something about that, but I can't seem to conjure up the emotional energy to go that far.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Um, yeah ...
I have done some big things this week - things that make me want to run screaming in the other direction.
Things like ...
* Quitting my job - without another one to go to and without a single clue how things are going to get paid for after the first week of July.
* Looking for an attorney. I used to think people were so sophisticated growing up when they would say, "well, I had my attorney review it" or "I have to call my attorney." What it really means is people either are in, or anticipate being in, a whole lot of trouble.
* Trying to figure out how to best pack for our move across the fence. Yes, you read it right - it will be "Adieu, Hobbit Hole!" in 3 weeks. We are moving - to the duplex next door. It is a special kind of move - one that involves a special kind of packing - something I am not sure how to define yet.
* Contemplating killing a rodent. I swear I saw something scramble from one corner of the kitchen to underneath the refrigerator this morning. Himself thinks I am suffering the delusional after effects of seeing a giant (3") bug come waddling out from underneath the fridge Wednesday, upon which I promptly attacked it with the mop before scooping it up in a paper towel to dispose of it. It stung me. I about keeled over in panic (motherhood has done strange things to my sense of vulnerability). Anyway, back to the rodent (?). Himself thinks I am insane. I scrubbed the entire kitchen wearing my bathrobe and flip flops just to make sure I was hallucinating. Nothing shows signs of rodent(s). Said rodent cannot remain under the fridge indefinitely - and there just aren't that many places to hang out in the Hobbit Hole kitchen. But I swear I saw something scurry from the top of the electric radiator on the wall (that we don't use) under the fridge. I. Don't. Do. Rodents. Even pet ones. Snakes, bugs (within reason, preferably small and sans any body hair), bees, flies - even ants. But not rodents.
Oy. Pray for me.
Things like ...
* Quitting my job - without another one to go to and without a single clue how things are going to get paid for after the first week of July.
* Looking for an attorney. I used to think people were so sophisticated growing up when they would say, "well, I had my attorney review it" or "I have to call my attorney." What it really means is people either are in, or anticipate being in, a whole lot of trouble.
* Trying to figure out how to best pack for our move across the fence. Yes, you read it right - it will be "Adieu, Hobbit Hole!" in 3 weeks. We are moving - to the duplex next door. It is a special kind of move - one that involves a special kind of packing - something I am not sure how to define yet.
* Contemplating killing a rodent. I swear I saw something scramble from one corner of the kitchen to underneath the refrigerator this morning. Himself thinks I am suffering the delusional after effects of seeing a giant (3") bug come waddling out from underneath the fridge Wednesday, upon which I promptly attacked it with the mop before scooping it up in a paper towel to dispose of it. It stung me. I about keeled over in panic (motherhood has done strange things to my sense of vulnerability). Anyway, back to the rodent (?). Himself thinks I am insane. I scrubbed the entire kitchen wearing my bathrobe and flip flops just to make sure I was hallucinating. Nothing shows signs of rodent(s). Said rodent cannot remain under the fridge indefinitely - and there just aren't that many places to hang out in the Hobbit Hole kitchen. But I swear I saw something scurry from the top of the electric radiator on the wall (that we don't use) under the fridge. I. Don't. Do. Rodents. Even pet ones. Snakes, bugs (within reason, preferably small and sans any body hair), bees, flies - even ants. But not rodents.
Oy. Pray for me.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Yo Yo
The weekend was awful. I didn't sleep, I couldn't function and I snapped at everyone and everything.
I started to cry when Himself thought letting Baby Girl eat "krispies" (rice krispies) off a plate on the floor was a good idea - resulting in rice krispies all over the living room.
I forgot Father's Day and made DH get up with Baby Girl so I could bury my head in the pillow and forget about getting up and having to teach an incredibly spiritually draining lesson on Sunday.
Yesterday brought some calm, some of that giddy "I get to play with my kid" feeling I knew existed somewhere. I gleefully fled the office after my requisite 4 hours, not looking back.
Today, I'm back in a funk, realizing how much I hate being at The Factory. I hate the patronizing assurances of "that's so great you're working part-time this summer!" and the fact that I now sit at the front desk, completely isolated from the rest of the team. The fall from grace has been quick and furious, and I just want out - to the point I just sent my college-aged brother on an errand to his CEO (with whom he has a personal, non-work relationship) with my resume for a job they have - in a town 250 miles away from The Frontier.
For those of you who have heard me swear never to move any closer to my hometown, hold me back now. Remind me I'm insane.
If one more person tells me I should be happy to have more time to sleep, I think my sleep-deprived brain will trigger a crying episode. I wish I could figure out how to feel. I wish I could feel better about working part-time, but the expenses all stay the same - my commute, the cost of the sitter (to whom I now owe a $50 late fee because I forgot to pay her after last Friday's debacle) - all the same. I wish I could sleep at night. That part is no worse or no better, but it a decade of chronic sleep issues combined with anxiety and a new baby have meant it is a minor miracle if I sleep more than 2 or 3 hours at a time.
Forget yo-yo dieting, this yo-yo emotional stuff is for the birds.
I started to cry when Himself thought letting Baby Girl eat "krispies" (rice krispies) off a plate on the floor was a good idea - resulting in rice krispies all over the living room.
I forgot Father's Day and made DH get up with Baby Girl so I could bury my head in the pillow and forget about getting up and having to teach an incredibly spiritually draining lesson on Sunday.
Yesterday brought some calm, some of that giddy "I get to play with my kid" feeling I knew existed somewhere. I gleefully fled the office after my requisite 4 hours, not looking back.
Today, I'm back in a funk, realizing how much I hate being at The Factory. I hate the patronizing assurances of "that's so great you're working part-time this summer!" and the fact that I now sit at the front desk, completely isolated from the rest of the team. The fall from grace has been quick and furious, and I just want out - to the point I just sent my college-aged brother on an errand to his CEO (with whom he has a personal, non-work relationship) with my resume for a job they have - in a town 250 miles away from The Frontier.
For those of you who have heard me swear never to move any closer to my hometown, hold me back now. Remind me I'm insane.
If one more person tells me I should be happy to have more time to sleep, I think my sleep-deprived brain will trigger a crying episode. I wish I could figure out how to feel. I wish I could feel better about working part-time, but the expenses all stay the same - my commute, the cost of the sitter (to whom I now owe a $50 late fee because I forgot to pay her after last Friday's debacle) - all the same. I wish I could sleep at night. That part is no worse or no better, but it a decade of chronic sleep issues combined with anxiety and a new baby have meant it is a minor miracle if I sleep more than 2 or 3 hours at a time.
Forget yo-yo dieting, this yo-yo emotional stuff is for the birds.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Beware of Friday the 13th
I'm not superstitious, but after this Friday the 13th, I just might be.
Intern 2 got stuck at work today for half hour in the lobby because none of the early risers at The Factory were, in fact, early risers. When I got in at my regularly scheduled time, she was sitting there waiting for someone to come and unlock the office suite.
Tim Russert died. Sudden, shocking death always makes me pause and mourn. I've never met Tim Russert, but he was on my list of "fascinating people I'd love to meet someday" along with Tom Brokaw, Madeline Albright and other people Himself deems as "only people Sara would want to meet." In fact, he was one of my favorite journalists and my favorite political journalist, period.
I had barely recovered from that shock when I went to my normal Friday afternoon meeting at The Factory. It was there I learned that a formal memo was being put in my file about my "failure to meet expectations" and suddenly my job was 20 hours a week and my income was being slashed by 65% and I was demoted. They said it was to keep me from going crazy, to help me find myself. That's what they told clients and the rest of the staff. But the memo is scathing. The Others have said "if you want to read it that way, it's up to you," but the two people with whom I've shared the memo outside of work agree with me.
I was told to leave my laptop at the office and take a complete break for the weekend, so I could catch up on sleep and enjoy myself.
Except, when a household loses 2/3 of its household income, it's rather hard to sleep or enjoy one's self. I walked around like a zombie tonight. I long to go hiking tomorrow - to physically work out my anger, desperation, self-loathing and disappointment, but no amount of cajoling can get Himself to agree to go hiking with me, and I'm sure it was safe to go hiking alone in a canyon entirely unfamiliar to me.
It makes me wonder, just a little, why moving to The Frontier felt like such a good idea a year ago - in that time, we've both lost our jobs once (even though my layoff last summer only lasted for 90 minutes), I've struggled with my health and we never see the family we thought we'd see on a fairly regular basis. With gas at the $4/gallon mark, it's just too far and too expensive for anyone to travel.
I can't even feel the giddy relief I know is in there somewhere about getting to spend extra time with Baby Girl, because I'm too sick to my stomach over feeling like the world's greatest failure.
Intern 2 got stuck at work today for half hour in the lobby because none of the early risers at The Factory were, in fact, early risers. When I got in at my regularly scheduled time, she was sitting there waiting for someone to come and unlock the office suite.
Tim Russert died. Sudden, shocking death always makes me pause and mourn. I've never met Tim Russert, but he was on my list of "fascinating people I'd love to meet someday" along with Tom Brokaw, Madeline Albright and other people Himself deems as "only people Sara would want to meet." In fact, he was one of my favorite journalists and my favorite political journalist, period.
I had barely recovered from that shock when I went to my normal Friday afternoon meeting at The Factory. It was there I learned that a formal memo was being put in my file about my "failure to meet expectations" and suddenly my job was 20 hours a week and my income was being slashed by 65% and I was demoted. They said it was to keep me from going crazy, to help me find myself. That's what they told clients and the rest of the staff. But the memo is scathing. The Others have said "if you want to read it that way, it's up to you," but the two people with whom I've shared the memo outside of work agree with me.
I was told to leave my laptop at the office and take a complete break for the weekend, so I could catch up on sleep and enjoy myself.
Except, when a household loses 2/3 of its household income, it's rather hard to sleep or enjoy one's self. I walked around like a zombie tonight. I long to go hiking tomorrow - to physically work out my anger, desperation, self-loathing and disappointment, but no amount of cajoling can get Himself to agree to go hiking with me, and I'm sure it was safe to go hiking alone in a canyon entirely unfamiliar to me.
It makes me wonder, just a little, why moving to The Frontier felt like such a good idea a year ago - in that time, we've both lost our jobs once (even though my layoff last summer only lasted for 90 minutes), I've struggled with my health and we never see the family we thought we'd see on a fairly regular basis. With gas at the $4/gallon mark, it's just too far and too expensive for anyone to travel.
I can't even feel the giddy relief I know is in there somewhere about getting to spend extra time with Baby Girl, because I'm too sick to my stomach over feeling like the world's greatest failure.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
All Good Things Happen at Once
Between being a new mom, having a demanding job at The Factory, being a wife and being a human being who cannot seem to survive on 2.5 hours of sleep a night, I have virtually no social life to speak of.
Which is why days like tomorrow really frost my cookies. I actually have MORE THAN ONE option and the free time to do it (more or less, if I close my eyes and pretend the house is spotless and my work is done).
*The bridal shower for the neighbor's daughter - another chance to get to know my neighbors, which I always try to take advantage of.
*The Young at Heart concert downtown, for which The Factory is offering a rare chance to do something on the company's dime (ie the tickets are free for employees and a guest). A group of octogenarians singing rock-n-roll - definitely promises to be amusing.
*Heidi's neighborhood (my adopted neighborhood - I did, after all, reside there for 6 weeks as the semi-permanent basement dweller last summer) is having a girl's night movie and dinner party. Food is good.
*A former colleague from VA is in town on business and wants to meet for dinner. Again, food is good. And Baby Girl hasn't met any of my friends from VA yet that haven't already relocated to The Frontier (Oliver, would you just hurry up already?!)
Himself is working late last night, which eliminates the concert (as Baby Girl is all mine for the evening), but couldn't these things happen once a week for a month instead of all on the same night?!
Which is why days like tomorrow really frost my cookies. I actually have MORE THAN ONE option and the free time to do it (more or less, if I close my eyes and pretend the house is spotless and my work is done).
*The bridal shower for the neighbor's daughter - another chance to get to know my neighbors, which I always try to take advantage of.
*The Young at Heart concert downtown, for which The Factory is offering a rare chance to do something on the company's dime (ie the tickets are free for employees and a guest). A group of octogenarians singing rock-n-roll - definitely promises to be amusing.
*Heidi's neighborhood (my adopted neighborhood - I did, after all, reside there for 6 weeks as the semi-permanent basement dweller last summer) is having a girl's night movie and dinner party. Food is good.
*A former colleague from VA is in town on business and wants to meet for dinner. Again, food is good. And Baby Girl hasn't met any of my friends from VA yet that haven't already relocated to The Frontier (Oliver, would you just hurry up already?!)
Himself is working late last night, which eliminates the concert (as Baby Girl is all mine for the evening), but couldn't these things happen once a week for a month instead of all on the same night?!
Monday, June 09, 2008
Stopping Time
The phone rang this morning.
"Um, you might want to know Baby Girl pulled herself up to standing this morning."
I did want to know. I'm delighted she chose to do it on a day Himself was watching her. But really? STOP GROWING UP FOR A FEW DAYS! She's only been crawling for a mere month. She has only been pulling herself up to her knees for 10 days. She still only has two half-showing bottom teeth (that are sharp - certain parts of my anatomy may never recover feeling after last night's test run of the new teeth).
My prayers will now begin, "Please don't let her walk yet. Please."
Hard to believe that 9 weeks ago, Baby Girl couldn't even sit up on her own.
"Um, you might want to know Baby Girl pulled herself up to standing this morning."
I did want to know. I'm delighted she chose to do it on a day Himself was watching her. But really? STOP GROWING UP FOR A FEW DAYS! She's only been crawling for a mere month. She has only been pulling herself up to her knees for 10 days. She still only has two half-showing bottom teeth (that are sharp - certain parts of my anatomy may never recover feeling after last night's test run of the new teeth).
My prayers will now begin, "Please don't let her walk yet. Please."
Hard to believe that 9 weeks ago, Baby Girl couldn't even sit up on her own.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Falling
In January, I began to realize that the fact that I didn't feel like myself wasn't just because I was crazy. After mentioning it to my pediatrician (Baby Girl sees a doctor more than I do and my pediatrician had been telling me she wondered if something was "off"), then seeing my doctor, who prescribed yoga and a pill that gave me the worst migraine of my life the first (and only) night I took it, I ended up in head-shrinking.
My head shrinker never quite embraced the post-partum depression label that everyone else (including myself) had chalked my neurosis up to. It puzzled her that it could be that, because the hallmark characteristic is a failure to bond with the baby ... I had the opposite problem. I was clinging to Baby Girl for all I was worth - clinging to her to save me. She was the one who required nothing more than what I could give. Food, love and an occasional bath were all she needed.
Meanwhile, other things were spiraling rapidly out of control. Things at The Factory were bad. If I got up and did something more than pull on something clean and put my hair up wet, it was a good day. Sundays, previously a day of restful bliss, were angst-ridden and full of a sick panicky feeling. The Hobbit Hole stood neglected. Himself stood neglected. Stacks of mail went neglected. I didn't sleep more than an hour or two at once.
Sometime after the first grateful rays of sunshine began to unthaw The Frontier, my head shrinker and I discovered something - with the lifting of the heavy clouds and wet, salt-crusted days of winter, I was able to engage in a little more self-review. What I discovered led to a complete change in my 'label' and 'treatment' - Severe Anxiety Disorder, though it's debatable whether I fall further into the "panic" or "general anxiety" category - rather a mix of both.
The last two months I've spent trying to understand triggers, reduce stressors and free myself of something that has been present my entire adult life, but crippled me for 6 months. It has helped, some. I am realizing that if I am backed into the corner, I can't function. I can't think. I can't be coherent. All I hear is the rush of my heart pounding and the primal need to flee or get defensive or disappear.
But that doesn't mean I know how to FIX it. It is nearly impossible to explain to someone who hasn't had the feelings of anxiety so deep, so encompassing that the entire world spins as if you were on the Teacups at Disneyland and everything sounds like a sonic boom. Volume is magnified. Little things become huge stressors. It is a feeling of One. More. Thing. Everything is the straw that breaks the camels back, no matter how minor.
It is over the minor things I end up agonizing, over the very things that will help me get healthy from which I run. My head shrinker insists that meditation is the key, but I cannot be alone in silence for more than 30 seconds or the anxiety overwhelms me, attacks me, to the point of panicky breathlessness.
So I fill every spare second with action, with noise ... NPR or a book on CD while I'm in the kitchen, reading until I fall asleep, talking to Baby Girl when I'm at the grocery store, flipping stations back and forth and back again in the car. There is no silence, because I spend every second trying to drown out the rushing panic, the rising tide of anxiety that consumes me if I leave a spare inch through which it may be able to creep.
This week has been one of the worst in recent memory. I am falling - falling through a dark tunnel filled with chaos and noise and insanity and breathlessness. And I am trying to understand it.
My head shrinker never quite embraced the post-partum depression label that everyone else (including myself) had chalked my neurosis up to. It puzzled her that it could be that, because the hallmark characteristic is a failure to bond with the baby ... I had the opposite problem. I was clinging to Baby Girl for all I was worth - clinging to her to save me. She was the one who required nothing more than what I could give. Food, love and an occasional bath were all she needed.
Meanwhile, other things were spiraling rapidly out of control. Things at The Factory were bad. If I got up and did something more than pull on something clean and put my hair up wet, it was a good day. Sundays, previously a day of restful bliss, were angst-ridden and full of a sick panicky feeling. The Hobbit Hole stood neglected. Himself stood neglected. Stacks of mail went neglected. I didn't sleep more than an hour or two at once.
Sometime after the first grateful rays of sunshine began to unthaw The Frontier, my head shrinker and I discovered something - with the lifting of the heavy clouds and wet, salt-crusted days of winter, I was able to engage in a little more self-review. What I discovered led to a complete change in my 'label' and 'treatment' - Severe Anxiety Disorder, though it's debatable whether I fall further into the "panic" or "general anxiety" category - rather a mix of both.
The last two months I've spent trying to understand triggers, reduce stressors and free myself of something that has been present my entire adult life, but crippled me for 6 months. It has helped, some. I am realizing that if I am backed into the corner, I can't function. I can't think. I can't be coherent. All I hear is the rush of my heart pounding and the primal need to flee or get defensive or disappear.
But that doesn't mean I know how to FIX it. It is nearly impossible to explain to someone who hasn't had the feelings of anxiety so deep, so encompassing that the entire world spins as if you were on the Teacups at Disneyland and everything sounds like a sonic boom. Volume is magnified. Little things become huge stressors. It is a feeling of One. More. Thing. Everything is the straw that breaks the camels back, no matter how minor.
It is over the minor things I end up agonizing, over the very things that will help me get healthy from which I run. My head shrinker insists that meditation is the key, but I cannot be alone in silence for more than 30 seconds or the anxiety overwhelms me, attacks me, to the point of panicky breathlessness.
So I fill every spare second with action, with noise ... NPR or a book on CD while I'm in the kitchen, reading until I fall asleep, talking to Baby Girl when I'm at the grocery store, flipping stations back and forth and back again in the car. There is no silence, because I spend every second trying to drown out the rushing panic, the rising tide of anxiety that consumes me if I leave a spare inch through which it may be able to creep.
This week has been one of the worst in recent memory. I am falling - falling through a dark tunnel filled with chaos and noise and insanity and breathlessness. And I am trying to understand it.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
On Why Oatmeal and Babies Are Not a Good Combo
Baby Girl is now in the "I must feed myself" stage (which will last for the next 18 years, according to my mother).
It started out with rice krispies. Noticing that Baby Girl can find (and pick up) every microscopic piece of lint on the carpet, I thought "ah ha! I will engage her fine motor skills in picking up finger food to help pacify her while I cook dinner." Out came the rice krispies - small, easily eaten with no teeth (she now has two that are half-way in, but still hasn't figured out what use they serve other than to run her finger over repeatedly) and portable.
Baby Girl LOVES rice krispies and picks them up one by one to eat them.
It also keeps her occupied, when her dinner is not quite ready at the same time she is.
So I started to experiment with foods that would keep her occupied - and expand outside of the cold cereal genre. Tofu rolled in cereal dust, steamed pieces of mango, peach or pear, pancakes made with baby oatmeal, cinnamon and nutmeg ... and, oatmeal. OATMEAL?!
It was all fine until she decided that oatmeal was definitely not food fit for a spoon and was definitely in the "finger food" category.
Tonight, in the course of 45 minutes, I had to feed Baby Girl, make and bake a dozen chocolate/cream cheese/chocolate chip cupcakes, load and start the dishwasher and dash to a quilting event at church (yes, I know, what was I thinking? But I love quilts).
So I gave up on feeding her with a spoon, mixed a few pureed peaches in, globbed finger-sized blobs on her tray and let her feed herself.
Three hours later, while putting her to bed, I was still discovering bits of dried (read: cement-like) oatmeal - in her hair, her diaper, between her fingers, on her socks, down her pants ... along with bits of dried peach in her eyelashes and a smear of chocolate on the side of her face where I apparently inadvertently transferred cupcake batter at one point.
Then I saw her high chair.
I don't think I'll be feeding her oatmeal until she's figured out how to use a spoon. The sight of that high chair makes me want to run away screaming.
It started out with rice krispies. Noticing that Baby Girl can find (and pick up) every microscopic piece of lint on the carpet, I thought "ah ha! I will engage her fine motor skills in picking up finger food to help pacify her while I cook dinner." Out came the rice krispies - small, easily eaten with no teeth (she now has two that are half-way in, but still hasn't figured out what use they serve other than to run her finger over repeatedly) and portable.
Baby Girl LOVES rice krispies and picks them up one by one to eat them.
It also keeps her occupied, when her dinner is not quite ready at the same time she is.
So I started to experiment with foods that would keep her occupied - and expand outside of the cold cereal genre. Tofu rolled in cereal dust, steamed pieces of mango, peach or pear, pancakes made with baby oatmeal, cinnamon and nutmeg ... and, oatmeal. OATMEAL?!
It was all fine until she decided that oatmeal was definitely not food fit for a spoon and was definitely in the "finger food" category.
Tonight, in the course of 45 minutes, I had to feed Baby Girl, make and bake a dozen chocolate/cream cheese/chocolate chip cupcakes, load and start the dishwasher and dash to a quilting event at church (yes, I know, what was I thinking? But I love quilts).
So I gave up on feeding her with a spoon, mixed a few pureed peaches in, globbed finger-sized blobs on her tray and let her feed herself.
Three hours later, while putting her to bed, I was still discovering bits of dried (read: cement-like) oatmeal - in her hair, her diaper, between her fingers, on her socks, down her pants ... along with bits of dried peach in her eyelashes and a smear of chocolate on the side of her face where I apparently inadvertently transferred cupcake batter at one point.
Then I saw her high chair.
I don't think I'll be feeding her oatmeal until she's figured out how to use a spoon. The sight of that high chair makes me want to run away screaming.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Daddies and Turtles
If anyone had told me 9 months ago that Baby Girl's second legible, correctly applied word would be "turtle," I would have rolled my eyes and made some sort of snarky comment.
Her first word - legible, non-legible, correctly applied and otherwise, was "Daddy" (and all its formations). Of course, this week, she started calling everything that delights her "Daddy" - including me, photos of herself, her favorite toys, Himself and anything else that catches her fancy.
Today, she was splashing in the tub, sucking on a plastic turtle bath toy - one of a half dozen turtle bath toys she's ended up with. At some point, she got annoyed because the turtle had escaped. I captured the offending turtle and propelled him back within her grasp, saying something highly intelligent like, "Look! Turtle."
"TURTLE!" she hollered. (Which came out sounding more like "dur-dle" with a very pronounced pause in the middle).
I nearly dropped the soap. I hollered to Himself, who said Baby Girl could not have possibly said turtle - her only experience with the word was in the bathtub, after all.
Except later, during second breakfast, she randomly shouted out "TURTLE" all over again. It wasn't in my head.
Daddies and turtles - what an interesting life we lead.
Her first word - legible, non-legible, correctly applied and otherwise, was "Daddy" (and all its formations). Of course, this week, she started calling everything that delights her "Daddy" - including me, photos of herself, her favorite toys, Himself and anything else that catches her fancy.
Today, she was splashing in the tub, sucking on a plastic turtle bath toy - one of a half dozen turtle bath toys she's ended up with. At some point, she got annoyed because the turtle had escaped. I captured the offending turtle and propelled him back within her grasp, saying something highly intelligent like, "Look! Turtle."
"TURTLE!" she hollered. (Which came out sounding more like "dur-dle" with a very pronounced pause in the middle).
I nearly dropped the soap. I hollered to Himself, who said Baby Girl could not have possibly said turtle - her only experience with the word was in the bathtub, after all.
Except later, during second breakfast, she randomly shouted out "TURTLE" all over again. It wasn't in my head.
Daddies and turtles - what an interesting life we lead.
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