|To be the amazing friend you brag about to your other friends to make them step up their game.|
|If I had friends to act as references, I wouldn’t need this resume, dingus.|
I’m not even going to apologize for being absent from blogging, at this point, you and I both know it’s a hollow apology.
It’s been just under two weeks since we received our puppy to foster for a service dog organization, and I am starting to really understand the meaning of “give your life to the cause”. Because it’s a puppy, which is essentially a furry, mobile infant with razor sharp teeth. I don’t want kids! It should have been a reasonable extrapolation that I wouldn’t really like a puppy either, but hindsight, as they say, passes all its optometry tests.
That’s not to say I haven’t been excited and jazzed to be doing this, both because puppies are cute and because I strongly support service animals for mental and cognitive disorders. But I’m also not going to lie – I’ve cried from sheer frustration a few times. Puppies are very naughty – and very smart. I was outwitted by a dog several times. A dog that is essentially a toddler, no less. He’d bite me, so I’d move away calmly. GREAT because what he really wanted to do was bite the couch, which I was sitting in front of! What a totally clever and infuriating trick.
I’ve never had a dog before, and while cats can be destructive little shits, they don’t usually seem so determined about it. Getting Minnow to refocus on a scratching post rather than the wallpaper took a few days, for example.
It’s hard in the heat of the moment to remember a few things, such as a) depression really skews your mental perception of self, and being a total control freak seals the deal, and b) there has been a pretty good list of small victories that I need to continue remembering. Not to mention, Chris has been very accommodating in sharing pee/poop excursion duties while I snatch a nap or a shower, and more than ever now I’m back in the office. (Sad trombone at my hopes of getting some writing done on my holidays, though!)
I don’t intend to turn this blog into a running tally of “Ways I’m NOT Fucking up This Dog’s Life” but not losing perspective is still worthwhile.
For example, since two weeks ago:
I don’t think I’ve ever done something that’s required me to be so relentlessly positive which has been harder than anything else combined. Having a glass face is bad enough when you’re dealing with people; with a dog, it’s damn near impossible. I’ve seen other puppy raisers at the training classes who are training two dogs simultaneously (usually one young, one ~ a year old), and after spending some time with our friend’s dog, I can better believe they find it simpler. The young dog will more easily follow the first dog’s lead than your own. While that seems counter intuitive, your older dog will sit, leave it, etc, when you say the cues, and your younger dog will sit, leave it, etc when your older dog does and learn the cues that way.
… okay no, I’m not getting a second dog. one is plenty.
I have a very pragmatic view of death. I’m not afraid of death, or being dead. Dying is maybe another story, but I suppose you can file the process of dying under the folder of grievous injury until it becomes fatal injury.
I’ll admit that I cheat. Christianity is pretty straightforward about death. When asked once during a counselling intake exam if I had suicidal thoughts, I told the on-duty nurse, “Does hoping for the return of Jesus and the end of the world count?” (I never did get an answer!) So when people ask or worry about what happens when you die, I’ve got a ready made answer in my pocket. More obnoxiously, I truly believe it.
My paternal grandmother died while I was on my honeymoon after getting married. The hardest part about that was being unable to make it to her funeral. My paternal grandfather died some years later, and the hardest part was I had never been to a funeral before, and seeing everyone suffering. My maternal grandmother died – same deal as the last one. I felt like a huge callous asshole because the process was sad but I was enjoying being able to see my cousins all together for the first time in a long time and meet their kids. I would hope I’m never the kind of asshole who would say things like “She’s in a better place now.” But I did feel that way, and there’s very little grief in the passing of someone who’s old and had a long, interesting life full of love and family and friends.
So, why on earth, after all that, do I lose my proverbial (and sometimes, thanks to stomach-churning stress, literal) ever-loving shit every time Gary gets sick?
Animals are cool creatures in the theological sense. They don’t need to be saved, or baptised or receive communion because a) they’re animals, they can’t talk and can’t freely consent and b) they don’t have to because in God’s eyes, they’re just dandy already. In the Garden of Eden, supposedly everything, even the lions and sharks?? i guess, ate grass and were besties with the prey animals they would eat after the fall.
“Will Gary eat grass in heaven?” I fret out loud one day.
“I dunno, I’m not sure you have to eat there.” said the systematic theologian in the house.
Animals typically have shorter lives than humans, unless you’ve invested in a parrot (then God help your dumb soul). I’d walk home from work, kicking snow and frowning angrily that I’d have to wait dozens of years before being reunited with my beloved cat after he died. I’d run through checklists of things to do to keep myself from going totally insane: cremation & an urn so we don’t have to leave his body behind if we move, see if I can get an ink stamp of his paw prints for a possible tattoo, etc.
What was my problem? I’d seen three grandparents into the grave with hardly a wobble. I have tokens to remember them all by that I cherish but I’ve mostly let go and trust we’ll see each other again someday. By the same argument, Gary’s had a long life too (at 11-12 years old, he’s nearly 65! Of course, with 40 being the new 30, that’s still young, I suppose.) Poor Colonel Meow died at age 3 – barely middle aged.
My brain stuttered on the good life part. Was it a good life? He got regular meals, and cuddles, and a warm house to live in, but he also had to share space with a bossy cat and a neurotic one. He was sick a lot. Over the years with us, he has slowly lost weight and is currently the cat equivalent of your grandmother shrinking to 4 feet tall. We’ve had to stuff a lot of nasty things in his mouth to cure UTIs, IBD and more. There are probably some brain problems he’s always had that we could never fix.
The problem, I started realizing the day I was in the grocery store, browsing for human foods that were safe for kitties to try and fatten him up, was one of stewardship. I wasn’t responsible for my grandparents. I didn’t have to think about their care and feeding, their health. I was responsible for this greasy little beast and I think I’ve failed him. I mean, look at me: loaded down with plain chicken baby food, high-calorie cat goop, raised bowls in case his stomach acid is bothering him when he eats. This is the guilty panic of a parent who keeps missing their’s kids hockey game.
Having identified the problem calmed me down some in the days since I figured this all out, with Chris’ help. In the meantime, Gary’s also had a fairly successful checkup at the vet since his tests indicated his guts are, as I tried to explain to my boss, “all fucked up inside”. He’s on an exciting regimen of vitamins, anti-biotics, and steroids, and regular check-ins with our most excellent vet. I’m not all the way okay, but I’m on my way there, and I’m pleased to say that Gary’s energy and appetite has gotten much better in the past week. He was so full of pep he gave me a ferocious bite yesterday trying to pill him. Thanks for the blood blister, little man.
So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.
It feels weird to cash in on the “Sorry Not Sorry” title for something super heavy rather than pop culture analysis and feelings, but a) it’s clever and I like it, and b) it’s pretty apt for how depression remission feels.
Most of the reason I chose to write about having depression is because it’s still something that is deeply stigmatized, and my usual coping mechanism is gallows humour, which, when you’re also being open about your depression is makes things hella awkward hella quickly.
“How’s it going?” “Things are great, I’ve only wanted to die about three times today!” or during casual lunch chit-chat with coworkers, “You ever wish the rapture was real so the world would end?”
I’ve always struggled with moodiness, and an overabundance of feeling (hello, person who cries when they’re angry, that’s me!) but it wasn’t until the past eight years or so where it got really obvious I was struggling. I was graduating university, having to job hunt, getting married, moving into a new house, deal with personal relationship fall-outs from a few different sources. It was not a great time to be me, and I was lucky to have a GP who was open to getting me both some pharmaceutical and psychological help. The drugs stayed, the therapy didn’t, primarily because you don’t have to interview drugs and make sure you click with them on a personal level. When the one therapist I really liked moved on, I looked for a new one kind of half-heartedly and gave up.
When you’re depressed, giving up is like your favourite thing to do. You get really good at it, because you’re practicing all the time. Grad school looks really hard and expensive, better not apply. Writing makes me feel gutted and uncomfortable, guess I’ll stop writing. Showering is exhausting, get rid of that too. The thought of getting out of bed and facing human people with human words coming out of their human mouths makes you dizzy and ill. Eventually, all you’re good at is staying in bed and staring at the wall. And you get really, really good at it.
As an added bonus, I wasn’t even a weepy, sad sack. I had the angry depression. If you think people don’t want to be around you because you’re sad or apathetic all the time, they get especially itchy when you’re the emotional equivalent of a hissing goose.
I was angry about sexism. I was angry about being tired all the time. I was angry when my husband paid too much attention to me. I was angry when he paid too little attention to me. I was angry when the cats stepped on my hair. I was angry when I was too weak to go to work, but I was angry while I was at work too. Mostly I was angry at my softening, exhausted traitor body.
It was painfully obvious the meds, which worked for a time, weren’t working any more. But I still pushed through for another two years, telling myself, “Oh, we just moved to a new town. Oh, I just started a new job. It’s stress. Oh, I’m just getting used to not having as many friends around.” I might as well have kept writing during this time because I was spinning wild fictions that were so plausible to my fucked-up brain that I believed all of this, even while loading groceries into the car would make me cry.
The one good thing about anything potentially setting you off is that eventually, the catalyst for making a change can be anything as well. For me, someone I knew online posted about their experience with seeing the doctor and getting medication that was making a huge difference in their life. “Whoa,” I thought. “That happens? You don’t just go on meds and they turn into a meat zombie with a brain full of cotton fluff?” The smart-ass part of me put down the book it picked up years ago when I was ignoring it, and said “Wow, finally, welcome to reality.”
So I made a doctor’s appointment and together we came up with a strategy for pinpointing places where we could make changes. She looked into the possible issues behind my meds not working and making me feel ill. I did a sleep study to see if it was anxiety disrupting my sleep, or my insomnia making me anxious. (It was the former.) Progress was slow, as it inevitably is in the Canadian healthcare system but I was doing something! What a strange and invigorating sensation!
Eventually, it did come down to the news I was dreading – we’d have to make some changes in my medication. Obviously what I was on wasn’t working, but I was terrified of the withdrawal process, scared that a new medication would be worse. My current plan wasn’t working but at least I’d come to terms with getting 40 lbs fatter, a little more forgetful, and headachey all the time. Together with my doctor, we made a plan to taper off the one medication and onto the new one, while keeping my second as it was, as a continuity measure.
Day one felt pretty good. Cautiously hopeful. No weird reactions, felt okay about going out for the evening. Day two, Chris and I had plans to see a movie. Midway through, I felt a little weird.
“I don’t feel so hot,” I tell him. “You need to go to the bathroom?” he asks, moments before I barf into the cup I’m holding. WELL DONE NEW MEDICATION. Take a look at the bottle when we get home, and sure enough nausea is a side-effect. I make it through the rest of the movie, nap off the rest of the queasiness and that’s about it.
Aside from that one blip, things have been… good? and yes, everytime someone asks me how I’m doing, and I say “Good?” it’s always with that valley girl uptick at the end because I still can’t quite believe it. It’s only been a few weeks, but who knows what the future holds? Hopefully more “good?” for everyone. And if this doesn’t work out for one reason or another, I know that trying something new isn’t the end of the world.
What’s even the point of telling this story? Well, for one, it’s not unique. I’m sure the person who’s story motivated me has a similar arc. Secondly, because it is a bit of a PSA. I feel better, I feel stronger and willing to talk, which means hopefully, I am willing to answer questions or help people understand some common and harmful myths about being depressed.
Depression is feeling very sad.
This one should be obvious, but no. It can be that way for some people, but it can also be irritability, anger, anxiety, frustration, exhaustion, or any combination of those. It’s not even about feeling it – it permeates your entire being. Your body is Silent Hill and depression is the all the gameplay that takes place in the otherworld.
But you’ll get off your meds someday, right?
Maybe! It’s entirely possible I won’t. But to give you an idea of how insensitive this statement is, think about asking a diabetic, “Have you tried tapering off your insulin?” or someone with kidney disease, “You can’t stay on dialysis forever!” I’m not thrilled to think about the cocktail of brain medication I’ll be taking for potentially the rest of my life. I might even be less thrilled about it than you. But if it’s what I need to do, I’ll do it. Not to mention, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than Scientology.
Everyone gets a little depressed sometimes!
Not wholly inaccurate. Sometimes people can get so stressed out or unhappy because of grief, or a bad school or work situation that they have symptoms of depression or anxiety. Often this can get better once they’re away from or have dealt with that stress. Not always – sometimes that stress is just the breaking point for chronic depression, rather than situational. Everyone’s different. But if you’re somebody saying this like depression is going through a sad break up, or getting a bad grade in school, well. You’re probably an asshole.
Is depression a disability?
Yes – and no. It’s definitely a mental illness, and many mental illnesses can be disabling, but my depression isn’t so clear cut. Has my depression been a disability? Oh yeah. See: getting really good at staying in bed because getting up is impossible. It’s interfered with my life in a way that is disabling. Can depression be a disability? Absolutely – there are many people on disability leave for issues with depression, or another mental illness. (If you’re Canadian, you might remember the woman who was cut off from her benefits for looking “too happy” on Facebook.) People with major depression and anxiety can qualify for therapeutic and service animals, for example. That said, I don’t personally feel comfortable using my experience with depression to talk about disability in general. It can have physiological effects, and mimics a lot of chronic illnesses that are invisible – but most people don’t understand those any better than depression, so I’m not sure how useful that identification would be for me explaining myself to others.
Depression and PTSD is disregarded as a serious issue.
Despite being more talked about now than perhaps ten years ago, it’s obvious that overall, people with depression and PTSD are not getting the proper care. Suicide rates among soldiers/veterans are rising dramatically in the past few years due to poor handling of mental health in our veteran’s affairs system, for example.
I’m glad I’m able to write about it a little, now. For every one person like me, there’s probably dozens out there who are too scared to speak out, or don’t know what’s wrong with them. Hopefully, in time, respectful dialogue will begin to change that landscape.
jesus, how do you even write a conclusion to this kind of thing? in summary, here’s a dog to illustrate that dogs are awesome, and also depression is hella weird to get out of, if you even can
There have been a lot of reasons to be angry this week. Truly, legitimately angry. Most prominent would be the Stuebenville verdict and the backlash Jane Doe has faced. (And her compassionate response to everything continues to be an incredible inspiration to me.)
Or how about Adria Richards, who tweeted a request for PyCon employees to deal with some con-goers making sexual jokes. She did it via twitter in order to not disrupt the on-going presentation, and tweeted a picture IDing the perpetrators. As you can see, it was handled! Excellent. However…not only is PyCon in the midst of changing their code of conduct after the fact to avoid similar firestorms, but Adria also lost her job (as did one of the men making the jokes) over the incident after internet heroes started ddosing her company’s website, not to mention the ubiquitous threats and slurs.
Or the release of Anita Sarkeesian’s first video in her Tropes versus Women project, which is wholly (almost to the point of blandness) the bare bones of feminism 101, and still received and continues to receive a shitstorm of threats, not to mention just plain absurd accusations of being a Fake Gamer Girl.
Right, so here’s the thing.
I do not, as a matter of course, wake up angry. When I got married, more than one person signed off their cards with, “never go to bed angry” and I try to hold to that. (I guess they meant towards my husband and not existentially, but eh, what’re you gonna do?) I do not even engage in people saying things I disagree with angry.
But I sure do get angry fast when my (to my mind) relatively mild disagreement becomes phrased as “too angry” or “an attack” or, my personal favourites “irrational and/or hysterical”. Nothing in my entire experience prepared me for how easily people will call you angry – and then suddenly, other people see it too! Whatever the topic of conversation was, it falls to the wayside in the wake of a discussion on whether or not I was angry, am I justifiably angry, how much literal venom am I pouring into innocent bystanders ears. “You’re right,” I murmur, “I was angry all along. I retract my position because this anger is unbecoming and causes frown lines.”
Okay, maybe not the last part. But I do, at that point, start get angry. Anger has perhaps even become a default starting point, if only so I can skip the song and dance about exactly how angry I am. It’s like cutting out the embarrassing stumbling around after someone asks you if you’re pregnant. (“No, just fat. welp, you must be embarrassed.”)
So, yeah, I’m angry. I’m angry that in the year of our lord twenty thirteen we are still having discussions about whether or not a woman has a right to bodily autonomy; yes, even if she signed a contract. I’m angry that I see women going before me into the tech and game industries and be pushed aside, pushed out or drop out from the sheer exhaustion of dealing with idiot men. I’m angry that most people can’t point out what rape is on a map. Sometimes I take that anger and channel it into a project I’m working on. And sometimes I use it to fuel a discussion about any of those topics long past the point where I just want to throw up my hands, understand that equality isn’t ever going to really happen except on the most superficial levels, and sleep the day away in a pillow fort filled with cats.
I’m tired of fighting in my own circles. I have just as many, if not MORE, arguments with people who want to be allies and other feminists, than I do with Straight Up Card Carrying Misogynists. Sometimes these arguments can be good, a way to clarify and expand on my own thoughts on feminism and women’s rights. Often, they’re infuriating, borne out of a societal drive to promote a Meritocratic Individual who Has Opinions (And opinions, naturally, can never be wrong.) I don’t like being angry at people who are ostensibly “on my side” but I don’t want the half-assed deals they’re offering, either!
When women were imprisoned during the American federal suffragette movement, due to bullshit charges (Obstructing Traffic, for example), when they were issued pardons, some refused to take them, because they hadn’t committed a crime to begin with. Taking the pardons meant admitting guilt in the original instance. There are hundreds of posts’ worth of problems with first-wave feminism, but I admire that particular spirit. I don’t want fun, sexy feminism. I don’t want to assuage men that I shave my legs, and abhor misandry to get them on board. I want them on board because it’s the right thing to do.
Yeah, I’m angry. What are you going to do about it?
If you’re here, you’ve noticed I’ve moved this blog over to WordPress. This is part of my push to get myself writing more, blogging more, and generally being more present, whether online or off. Welcome if you’re new, welcome back if you’re a reader from before.
Please excuse the mess of some of the posts I ported over from Blogger – the formatting copied in bizarre ways and I’m in the process of tidying them up.
I’ve kept busy, even if I haven’t been writing, doing really important things. World-changing. Life-shattering.
Okay, so maybe I haven’t been doing anything super important. But I’m trying! This week, for example, marks the first time in therapy since my early college years. I have no doubt she will have plenty of suggestions to keep me busy not being a caterpillar wrapped in a fear-cocoon.
Here is a list of other items on my table for the near future:
Once again, welcome and welcome back. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.