Trying not to be a Grinchette

I'm here. If I said the last few months, if not this last year has been horrible, I don't know if too many people would believe me. 

It has been impossible to write. I stay in bed most of the day because that is all I can do. I've wanted to write and I try, but I didn't. My brain seemed broken, and even worse, when I was able to write a few words, for my blog, they seemed hollow, empty and meaningless. I didn't want to upset anyone. 

This blog, which has always been my baby, the thing that got me out of bed and gave me a reason to live, was withering, I just couldn't function. I'm sorry. 

I have a new psychiatrist. I saw him earlier this month, and he did an evaluation. My axis V is a number between 10-15. I'm barely functioning right now. 

Thank you for the emails and comments. I can't tell you how much they mean to me, all the times where I was falling and drowning, they saved me. 

I'm still here and the blog is still active, even if I am not. Best wishes for a very happy holiday, and let's hope the new year is better. 

A video with love from me, and from Holly. Kittens make everything better. 

High Dives and un fluffy pillows

I'm deathly afraid of heights. One nightmare that keeps playing over and over in my head is a true account, yet I am dreaming about it almost nightly. Growing up my sister and I were very close to a neighbor, one of the nicest widows you would ever want to meet. She was considered family.

In the summertime she joined the local swim club and my sister and I would go with her for the afternoon. It was a treat. My sister was fearless. She was also athletic. She climbed up to the high dive and jumped. I preferred the low dive or even better, just reading a book under the shade of a tree. (And you want to know why the kids thought you were strange? Could that be it?)

One day I was double dog dared to jump off the high dive by my sister. So I did. Or tried to. I went up it, no problem. It wasn't until I was looking down, I suffered my first attack of vertigo. I turned around as if to climb back down, but there was a whole line of kids waiting to jump in that cool water. I had to. It was the scariest thing I have ever did with my life.

In a lot of ways it still is.

The last six years of my life, I have been paralyzed with fear as I look down on the pool. I can't jump, I can't go down. I'm just on the high dive scared as if death was near. Frozen. I'm not making any progress, but I am not failing. I just am stagnant. I just am breathing, but I am not living.

I am paralyzed.

Let's put it in another way. I'm stuck in my life. I'm not happy where I am right now. I know what to do to fix it but I can't take the first steps. Once again, I am cursed with a depression so severe I can barely get out of bed to do anything but use the toilet or feed the cat. I just don't see a point to get out of the bed.

Through my blinds I can see some of the children that live in the apartment complex playing a make-shift game of soccer in the parking lot. They are laughing and smiling as they chase the black and white ball, happy that school hasn't started, happy to be alive.

I lie in bed, surrounded by un-fluffed pillows and wish I was that eager. Wish I was that happy. I haven't been. Not in almost a decade. Let's face it. The last six years, I am not even living. I am existing. It's my heart that's beating because the primal brain is telling it to beat, my lungs are breathing because my brain is telling them to do that. Every day when I go to sleep I wish I could die in my sleep. Of course I don't. I don't have the energy to do anything other than stay in bed and sleep.

Was this the reason I developed agoraphobia? Did the depression transmogrify to something more serious?

I should know better. I'm too old for all this nonsense. Still I cannot move. I can't leave the apartment. I don't want to leave the bed.

I want nothing more to have the good fairy wave her wand and i will be cured. i can get out of bed, and go back to the land of the living.

Good fairies don't exist. I can't get better like that. I got to do the work. I have the tools, I know the steps.

I just can't get out of bed.

Today is my birthday. It's the birthday I've been dreading for the last month or so. All I know is I can't have another six years of existing not living. I need to start living, or if I can't get off the proverbial pot, I will start dying.

I just hope this birthday year things will get better. I'm sick and tired of waiting on the high dive to find the courage to jump. I have to find the courage or someone has to push me.

Rerun and update: Susan an Introduction

I apologize if I haven't been writing. The mind is willing, the flesh is weak. I found a piece I wanted to share again, and just add a few updates. It was originally written in  2002. I re wrote it again for the blog in 2009. In 2003 I went back on meds after being off them for most of 2002,due to a hospitalization and family pressure. I stayed on them until November 2010.  Since then, I have become med free, because of the kidney failure. Still and all it's one of my most favorite pieces and it gives insight to who I am.

I could feel my blue eyes opening, and the light was harsh. I shielded them with my palm, trying to wake. I gradually accustomed myself, and noticed, this was a twin size bed I was in, not my normal full size. My beloved cat was not nestling besides me, nor did I have the teddy that served as a sentinel since I was four. I thought for a moment, I was back in time, back in Graduate School, where life was good, and I shared a house in my state’s capital with four other young women. But as I tried to move, I noticed I couldn’t move. There was an IV attached to my arm, and one of those heart monitors like you would see on ER. And I was strapped down to the bed. It was the present, 1994, and I had been out of school for seven years. I could hear the doctors and nurses running by me, ignoring me. I had no idea where I was, I figured it was in the emergency room of Princeton Hospital. I asked the nurse what day it was as she ran by me. It was a Sunday morning, at four or five in the morning, and I wondered what the heck had I done again, since I took all those pills on Friday night? and why in Heaven’s name, couldn’t I succeed in killing myself?

I am a manic-depressive. I was one of those people, first misdiagnosed in my early twenties as depressive, then a month later diagnosed as bipolar. But this hospitalization in my early thirties, would evaluate me as bipolar, with a difference, I was an ultra rapid cycler with schizoaffective features. 

This was not my first suicide attempt. This was one of many, starting with all the sturm und drang of adolescence. This would be my second to last serious attempt. I cannot begin to count all the times I have wanted to "shuffle off this mortal coil", as Hamlet said. I have tried pills, more times waking up to be Exorcist sick. I tried to use a hose to my car’s exhaust, not realizing I had a catalytic converter, which went on before I could fall asleep. I have thought of throwing myself off the Empire State Building, but I am deathly afraid of heights and have vertigo. And I have tried to slit my wrists, but could not get the razor blade out of that pink plastic Gillette razor. (Curse you Gillette!)

And I have been blessed with the mania, suffering for three years straight without crashing to anything other than mild depression. I was gifted then, doing two masters degrees and holding down three part time jobs. I had poems professionally published. Looking back they were nothing but masterful Sylvia Plath imitations. I was the belle of the English department, their golden girl about to go on for a PhD. And I was correct for the longest time. And then, just like the all time perfect day, it ended. It had to. A person cannot be manic for three years without illegal drugs, one has to crash eventually.

Continues here 

We're not the only ones who get depressed

This should come as no surprise, especially to those of us who have animals in our lives. According to a just published news article, monkeys are being treated for depression in Argentina.

The article states that , black howler monkeys at an Argentine ecological park have been suffering depression following the death of two of the oldest females in the group and had to be given medication because they refused to eat.

The article continues,

Two alpha females died 1 1/2 years ago from natural causes at the Rio Cuarto Urban Ecological Park some 650 kilometers (400 miles) west of Buenos Aires, and from that moment "their male companions began suffering depression and four let themselves die of sadness," park director Miriam Rodriguez told Clarin newspaper.
The black howler monkeys in this 12-hectare (30-acre) park "live in a group and are very close to one another," Rodriguez said. "When the females died, we noticed the others behaving oddly, but we thought it might have been something they ate."
Concerned about their lethargy and refusal to eat, park officials consulted specialists at the nearby Cordoba Zoo, who told them "the animals could be going through a phase of acute depression," Rodriguez said.
After several analyses, psychiatrist Sergio Castillo confirmed the diagnosis of depression and two months ago prescribed a treatment based on sertraline, "a mineral derived from the serotonin used in humans to reverse different symptoms originating from compulsive disorders or depression," veterinarian Ezequiel Carrizo told the newspaper.
There was initially some resistance to the treatment since it seemed "ridiculous to give them anti-depression medication even if it was only a minimum dose," Rodriguez told Radio 2, adding that "it has begun to raise the monkeys' spirits." 

Read more: http://latino.foxnews.com/latino/lifestyle/2012/07/30/monkeys-treated-for-depression-in-argentina/#ixzz22DOf6goX

Unfortunately, the article does not state if the monkeys had any side effects and for how long they were given this serotonin based drug. I hope the monkeys are doing better and are now able live their lives without chemicals.

Depression-taking hostages

Holly on the fridge

They say depression can leak out to family members, much like the way it's noticed that female college roomates often synchronize periods.

It makes total sense, if you are around someone who is sad and depressed you try to cheer them up. You do everything you can in your bag of tricks. When nothing works, and your loved one/friend/family member is the same or worse, it wears you down.

Next thing you know you are falling into sadness/depression as well.

It's like a cold. Sneeze on me, and I get the sniffles too.

During the last bought I went through, I noticed something strange. My beloved cat, Holly, stopped eating. I would make myself get out of bed every morning, feed her, change her water bowl, clean her litter box. We would spend days together lying in bed, she being cuddled up against my tummy or my leg and I can hear her purr.

She never stopped purring. But on day two of not eating, I knew something was wrong. Holly is like the infamous Garfield- I have never known her not to pass up a meal. Especially if I can coax her to eat a can of Fancy Feast tuna or other fish flavor.

She wouldn't eat. She continued to drink, but wouldn't eat. And I in my malaise, didn't notice it as much as I should have til about day five. I went to pick her up and she felt lighter. I continued to coax her to eat, a bite here, a bit there. In my sadness, I thought she was OK.

Then came the meows and howls at 3 am. It was the worst case of caterwauling I've ever heard, short of a female cat in heat. I would pick her up, cuddle her, hold her, sing to her. The noise stopped but I noticed she was spending more and more time in bed with me, asleep, and less time doing the cat things that made up her daily routine.

To make a long story short, I finally took her to the vet. After some lengthy tests, it was determined that Holly has a hyperthyroid, and will have to be pilled for the rest of her life.

I felt like I had just been kicked in my stomach, and had the air knocked out of me. Did I cause her to get sick?

I know I didn't but I feel like I am responsible. If only I hadn't suffered from melancholy, I wouldn't have a sick kitty.

For those who have had the fortune to have an animal in their lives, these miracles on paws really creep into your heart. They become a member of your family. You love them more than some of your family members. They are your best friend. When they are feeling under the weather, you ache because you can't talk to them and ask them what is going on.

I've seen countless studies how owning a dog or a cat removes stress, creates happiness. Watching a tail thump is pure happiness. Having someone to come home to, especially if you live by yourself, is a wonderful thing. You don't feel lonely. And so on.

I know that pets sometimes take on their owners personalities. By this last depression, I created a depressed cat. I didn't mean to. I had to work extra hard to get out of that dark place, if not for myself, for the cat. I owed her that much when I adopted her and promised her a good life.

Wouldn't you do that for your best friend?

Fear and loathing

 

I've been remiss in blogging for a bit. This bothers me, concerns me. It's not like me.

I can say things have gotten hectic in the Casa de Susan, but that's not entirely true. The truth - the whole truth and nothing but the truth- I'm not only too depressed to write-I am afraid to write.

I've been writing in my private journal, a nice leather bound book I've had for several years. But to write here- on line where the entire world can see- this scares me.

Here's the back story. Back in January I was assigned another social worker from the state. The old one, the one I really liked isn't working there anymore.  At about the same time I received a knock on my door, and two of my town's finest came by to make sure I was ok. and did I need to be escorted to the hospital?

I asked them what they were doing here and they replied words to the effect someone saw something I posted on line and contacted them.  Ok. I have a FB account, a Twitter feed. On FB i have it set so no one can see what I write. Twitter- I don't hardly use that account. So that leaves this blog, or Facebook. (Susan's note- I found in March who it was that called the police- it was neither from this blog or FB/Twitter).

I'm scared to write. I know about involuntary hospitalizations, I've never experienced one. Every time I've been hospitalized it's voluntary.

I met my new social worker a few days later, at the local Starbucks. I scrounged around the car and the sofa and found enough change to buy a plain cup of coffee, (1.85 with tax) and tip for the Barrista ( 50 cents). I've been a Barrista at my last bookstore job. Everyone is cross trained to run and make coffee when they get in the weeds if you aren't on the register. The tips are really nice but you pool them so it's not a lot of money.

She's a young woman, straight out of Graduate school with a MSW. She's thin, dark and exotic looking too me. Gorgeous thick black hair, and black eyes. An accent that does not sound like a NJ/NY accent. I smile. She sits down with me and starts to talk.

From here it goes downhill. I understand where she's coming from. She's brand spanking new, having been at the job for a fortnight. She's totally playing by the book. I've been there, with every job I had. It's only after you've been there long enough to get tenure, or pass your 3 month eval, can you relax and smile. I got that.

But she's twisting my words, trying to psychoanalyze everything. I'm not playing, not baiting her. I try to correct her, to tell her my education is as good if not better than hers. I've had the psych classes she has. I KNOW what she is trying to do. What she wants me to say. And she's not listening. She's already prejudiced towards me and refuses to listen.

I'm in trouble. Deep deep trouble. She asks me how old I was when I was first diagnosed. "23" I tell her without hesitation. I tell her the first doctor used the DSM III, the second doctor a week later had the DSM III R. How my diagnosis changed a few years later with the DSM IV, and why I think labels are ridiculous. How I've seen over 30 docs in my lifetime, I have all the Axis diagnoses in my head.

She mentions meds. I tell her I am not on meds, I have not been on any psych medication since November 2010 when my kidneys failed. She thinks I should be on them. I tell her I love my kidneys and don't want any drugs that can cause them to fail. I tell her my brain is starting to work again. I don't want to be on any psychiatric drugs.

Then why are you depressed?

I want to laugh. If I was to put myself on the couch, my depression is situational. It's hormonal. You deal with perimenopause and hot flashes and see how you feel! You see how you feel as your reproductive life is starting to end, how you are grieving for it. Making final closure how you will never feel life inside you for nine months. Getting your period twice in one month with such bad cramps you can't stand up, and then waiting ten weeks before it comes again, and the only good thing about it is you aren't sexually active anymore. All your weight goes to your tummy and your breasts are sagging and you look like the Venus of Willendorf. Like that will get you a boyfriend.

How would you like if you are getting mail and invites to your college/university reunion and you are afraid to go because everyone who knew you admired you? When I was an undergraduate I was on the school newspaper staff, editor of the literary magazine for two years, on the board of the SGA and SFB, worked in the writing lab, and was honored in my Junior and Senior years as an outstanding student, getting my photo in the local paper with the Governor. My weight was never more than 105 pounds, I was really really cute.

Look at me now. We all get old. We all are going to age, but some people do it better than other people, and I am not talking about those rich enough to get extra help from a plastic surgeon. I'm not aging well, I don't think. I'm scared of aging. My parents are aging and it's like they are no longer my mom and dad; they have evolved to my grandparents. They don't take care of me, I have to take care of them. I know it's the circle of life, but it feels strange knowing your mom isn't going to make things better, you have to help her be better.

I don't have anyone to make me better. Yes, I have the cat, but it's not the same. I have to depend solely on me. It gets lonely. In the last few years I have been collecting stuffed animals, I place them in bed with me like I did when I was four. I hold them as I go to sleep, it helps. But it's not another human being to hold. It's empty. It sucks.

I want to be able to work. I want to be well enough so I can l be around people for more than an hour or two at a time without being physically ill. I want to go back to the girl I was in my early twenties where I would grab life with both hands, never let it go. I miss that girl. I don't like the woman she became.

Oh hell. I'm stuck in a prison of my mind, or a prison with my body. I don't know what is worse. After writing this and letting it sit for a few weeks, I am pressing the "publish" button. I think a physical prison of my body can't be worse than a prison of my mind. I just want to get out of prison one way or another.

Off The Pity Pot

This morning when I woke up, I read what I wrote yesterday. It really upset me. I wanted to kick that person so much and say "wake up! snap out of it". 

I thought about something I learned in AA. I was on the "Pity Pot".  This is not a good place to be. 

I wiped off the cobwebs, made myself a cup of coffee. Took care of feeding and watering the cat and cleaning her litter box. 

I sat down with the coffee, and a note pad. The apartment needed a clean. A good spring clean. I need to do laundry. I need take out the trash. I need to get to the gym. 

It was overwhelming. I didn't want to clean, I wanted to go back to bed, but I haven't done it in a bit. I needed to vacuum first of all. I tied my hair up in a pony tail and just did it. Put the cat in the bathroom and did it. Living area, and bedroom. Done. That wasn't so bad. 

Dusting. Let the cat  out of the bathroom, and just did it. Put the laundry in a laundry bag and left by the front door. Made the bed. Took the laundry to the laundrymat.  An hour or so later, home again. Put it all away. 

Went to the gym. Stayed for an hour, listening to music on my iPod. Came home and showered, washed hair. 

Then I made a huge decision. I went to Weight Watchers for the first time. 

Sometimes you need a swift kick in the tush to get moving. I think I've said it before, but what made me stop drinking all those years ago was I woke up in a pool of my own vomit, I had glass embedded in my knee from where a glass shattered. I was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. I went to AA. I stopped drinking. 

Yesterday's blog entry had the same effect on me. I was totally shocked. I know things are bad. I really do. I had no idea until I saw it in writing, how bad they are. I was shocked. I didn't like the person who  was writing this piece. It hurt me to read it, I can only imagine how a strange must feel. 

I don't want to be that person anymore. I'm not going to stop being depressed. It will come and go like the tides for me. I just saw that I was almost at bottom- and bottom if this continued would be death. I don't want that. 

So I made a list for tomorrow. I feel good about it, and I feel happy I joined Weight Watchers. I'm sore from the gym. I'll close this out now and take a long soaking bath. 

I still feel blue. I just don't feel helpless anymore. I don't feel like I did yesterday. That's saying a lot.

Winter in my soul

I've noticed one thing that's been happening over the last two years. My agoraphobia is getting  worse and worse. I can get out of my apartment one day a week, the rest- the other six days I am too afraid? fearful? anxious? to leave. It was never like this.

I haven't seen my psychiatrist in a month. I haven't seen the state worker since Thanksgiving. I'm overwhelmed. No energy. It's like a Zombie- I'm walking dead.

A well meaning family member begs me to go back on meds. I have scripts for Prozac and Abilify, drugs the doctor wants me to take. The doctor and my family want me to consider out patient therapy. Anything.

I know something's not right. Two days ago I made myself get dressed, and go to the supermarket because I needed kitty litter. I bought some food for me and lots of cat food for her, little cans of Fancy Feast. Milk, eggs, half and half, cheese, bread, coffee. Some pasta and sauce, a box of clementines. I treated myself to a hot dog at the Sonic across the street. As I was driving into my apartment complex, a well meaning neighbor stopped me for a chat.

"You never leave your apartment anymore", he said, solemnly to me.

"I'm too depressed to", I say, matter of factly.

"I get depressed too. I go out to the gym two hours a day and I feel better".

"I can't do that right now", I say with tears in my eyes. "It's not an option"

"Because you're overweight? Most of the people at the gym are overweight".

He doesn't understand. He wouldn't. I need help, dammit. I can't get out of bed. I will to do the most basic functions now. Use the toilet. Walk into the kitchen, feed the cat. Change the litter box. Crawl back to bed.

I can't cry anymore. I'm cried out. I've cried enough tears in the last month I could start the second Noah's flood. Now my eyes are so dry they are bothering me, I had to purchase eye drops for the first time in my life.

I've had depressions before. I've been noting the older I get, the more severe they have been getting. How I am not manic like I use to be. One day of hypomania, and a week of depression that's so bad it's like I am a walking corpse. A zombie, only instead of eating brains, I eat at the dreams I had, now broken.

I've had years of therapy. Most of my adult life- well- my entire adult life minus  two years. I know the tools I need. I just can't move. If the building was on fire- I wouldn't move. Only if the cat moved me to action would I try to save myself.

Cat. Silly girl, the only lifeline holding me up. Just a little 9 pound ball of fur and purr. And even then, I can't move. I will adjust my arm, so I can pet her blindly. I'll rub her and put my finger up to her purr box and listen. She deserves a better human than I.

A well meaning friend is telling me to start a blog about the cat. I don't have the energy. Another one is telling me to start writing a book- but my mind is blank. I've written 3 novels in my lifetime. I burnt two after spending years on them, simply because I thought they were no good. Kafka told his friend to burn his manuscripts. I made sure mine were burnt. I once told a therapist, it was like I had committed an abortion, burning those manuscripts.

It was more than just burning. It was the act of destroying something I loved. My dreams were all destroyed, I might as well finish them. As I write this, my body is taking care that my last dream is dying, as it happens to women in their 40s and 50s.

When I use to read tarot cards, I would see the reaction in people's eyes when the death card came out. No- I would say- it's not your death- it's a death of something, that will be reborn. It's a good thing. From Winter comes spring- flowers bloom and life starts up again.

I normally like Winter. This year it feels like it's in my viscera, my bones, my soul. I just don't think Spring will come. I'm hoping it will I don't like the alternative.

Depression is a four letter word.

 from Bitter Animator

Sometimes I think I must have come from another planet. I don't get people. Or rather- people don't get me.

For example. On the phone with my best friend last night. I am telling him I had two real good days last week. Bought a new winter coat, since I don't have one in my size, some underwear and a killer pair of shoes. All from Santa! (He came early this year). I was very happy.

Energy came back and I did a thorough clean of the apartment. Had the car washed and waxed. Just felt alive. Even managed to get to the gym and had a nice workout.

The next day, I crashed. Big time crash. I couldn't get out of bed. The cat had to bite me hard, drawing blood so I would get out of bed and feed her. I did and crawled back to bed. I could hear my upstairs neighbor moving around. It sounded like an elephant walking, but I know it wasn't. I just put the pillow over my head, wishing for a split second I could wind up like Desdemona, but instead, just tried to sleep.

I slept round the clock for two straight days, getting up only to feed the cat, change her box, and use the toilet. I had a talk radio station on for white noise. All they are talking about is the election which is a year away. Sigh.

When I tried to tell my friend, he couldn't understand. "You should have gone for a walk, instead of laying in bed", he said. When I got in touch with my mother, she replied "Are you sick?"

"No", I replied, "Not physically sick. Sick in my heart, in my soul".

"You are being stupid. Go for a walk. Go shopping. Go to the gym. Quit crying, or I will give you something to cry about", (she didn't say the last thing, but you know mothers, she was probably thinking it).

"Mom", I said both to my mother and to my friend. "Try to live in my shoes for once".

It's strange, normally I don't get depressed this time of year. Spring and summer are my worst times. I love this time of year, holidays. I love Santa, I love driving around to look at the trees. I love the parties. The only thing I don't like is the fruitcake.

Then there's New Years. A holiday that should be wiped off the calendar if you are single and cannot get a date. Nothing to celebrate, go out to a diner or Denny's for a meal, go home, rent a movie from Redbox, and snuggle on the couch under an afghan made by Grandma. Then right before midnight, turn on Dick Clark, see the countdown in Times Square. Laugh at the poor folks freezing who are there, while you are snug as a bug and warm on your couch.

Then midnight. No one to kiss, even the cat has fallen asleep. You take the afghan off, lay it on top of the sleeping cat, go to bed and cry yourself to sleep.

In my 20's I would have gone partying and clubbing. By the time I was 30 I was tired of warn out pick up lines and guys spilling beer on my clothes because the club was too crowded. Then I stopped drinking, I don't go to places like that anymore. Living in Suburbia, there aren't any other  places to go.

The next day, New Years Eve, you go to a friend's or a relative's house and watch football. And count the days til Valentine's, while your local store has left over chocolate from Christmas, and new chocolate for Valentine's and Easter up.

The older you get, the faster the holidays go by. It's one of those weird laws of Physics you know exists, but you really can't prove.

That isn't a bad thing. The older you get, the more you appreciate the smaller things, like remembering the simple pleasure of waking up one morning and finding it's snowed and there is no school. Running outside, sledding on a wooden Flexible Flyer, coming in and mom having real hot chocolate and home made chocolate chip cookies, with the chocolate melting.

The trick of being an adult is to remember that exact moment, how great it was not to go to school, the sheer joy of being alive when you felt snow and rolled around in it, and how happy warm gooey chocolate can make you feel.

A bit of happiness. A small burst. A giggle, a smile. That's what it's all about. Remembering this little moment, can do a lot for depression.

If only cookies weren't fattening.

Holly the cat on holidays and writing for the TWIM blog

Meow. Yes, it's me. My human, Susan is reading on the couch, so I thought I would get on line and say "Meowry Christmas" to all my friends on the computer.

Personally, it was a frustrating year for me. I did not become a LOL cat. I did not meet Maru. I did get cans of Fancy Feast though, and much love from my human and her friends on line. So maybe next year I can become a LOL cat. And meet Maru. He's a boy cat you know!

I am what you might call a "therapy cat". Yes, there are therapy dogs, but I keep my human alive and moving. So I am a therapy cat. And she loves me- except when she has to clean my litter box.

My human is doing a bit better than the last entry, but, well, she's sad. She loves this time of year, but she is lonely. I don't understand, but then, I had six kittens, all who went to good homes. And then I got spayed. Mom hasn't gotten that yet. Maybe she would feel better if she had it done. I think they do it for humans. I don't know.

This is my favorite time of the year. For those who don't know my back story, I was adopted from a shelter that was planning on putting me to sleep on December 23 many years ago. It was a long time in kitty years, but Mom says it was only 2000. I was heavy with kitten. A very nice lady rescued me, and I went to live with her until I could find a furever home. The problem was- I didn't get along with the other kitties in the foster home, and I didn't place well when they had open houses to adopt the kitties. My kittens were adopted as soon as they were weaned. The other cats in the foster house came and went like wraiths. But no one wanted me. Until my mom adopted me. She needed me, I needed her. She is my best friend and I am hers. We have been together for almost ten years.

I keep my human sane. She is a really nice person for someone who is not a cat. That means I feel sad for her, she doesn't have a tail, she can't rotate her ears, she cannot purr. She doesn't know the sheer joy of having the sunshine on your tummy fur.

It's been a rough year for her. She lost the function of her kidneys last year, according to the doctor they are working ok, but every now and then they "hiccup" and things shut down for a bit .But she is ok. She's having some other health issues, and I know she is in a lot of pain but I think she is doing better. She just passed the one year point being off all psychiatric meds. The only thing we have in the house that alters brain chemistry is catnip.
That's mine!

Mom is doing well with her psychiatrist, but she still hasn't found a therapist. I've been serving as one, but frankly, I fall asleep after a minute or two. I am a cat. I have the attention span of a butterfly. Speaking of butterflies.....

Oh yes. Therapy. Cat's don't need therapy. We would nap on the couch. If the doctor showed us Rorshacks everything would look like birdies, squirrels or tuna. Maybe a ball of yarn. A catnip mousie.

This picture is copyrighted and I don't know how to remove it, but thank you to the photographer

Silly isn't it? Like I said, cats don't get depressed. Unless we think of all the other cats in the world who need homes that are in shelters.

I am grateful my mom did not die last year, that she still is with me. That she lets me snuggle every night with her in the large bed with my stuffed panda bear.

Now for the first time in a while mom is sad. She isn't depressed, she says she just feels out of sorts. Not physically sick. Just sad. Lonely. She has me, she shouldn't be lonely. But I think it's more than that. I think mom is starting to feel her age, and worry about the future. I know she is upset when she thinks of money. Money is nice, it buys me kibble, tuna, and other nice things. A scratching post.

She goes out to run errands and one day gets a lot of things done. Then she sleeps for two days, afraid to leave the apartment. If I didn't wake her by doing the "I am hungry" dance, she might not feed me or water me. She stays in bed, listening to talk radio as white noise. She likes this one station called Coast to Coast that she's been listening for years, but found a station on the internet that broadcasts it 24/7 so she listens to that. I like it too. I wonder if the announcer knows that he has a cat who likes listening to him.

All and all we are doing fine. Mom is  cleaning once a week. She still forgets to shower everyday but she does it every other .She is getting out, which is good for her agoraphobia. It's hard for her, I know. She's always been a homebody and to her nothing is better than reading a book or watching TV with me by her side on the big couch. 

I know writing is hard for her, so I recently wrote a piece that showed up for the Twim blog. It was fun, so many blogs to read. So many bloggers who have cats, dogs or both. If you aren't familiar with Twim, it's done by a group of people in the UK. Most of the blogs are from the UK, and both Susan and I are honored to be the first Americans/Americats to write for them.Right now they are having a vote for best blogs. I wish they had a "cutest cat" blogger category. There are some really good ones there to vote for.

 This is something that mom would like- for the bloggers in all the countries to unite and help each other more. We are all going through the same experiences and maybe we can all help each other by sharing what we've learned on this road we are all traveling together. 

I will tell you what I have learned. I am blessed to have a human, and I wish that all the shelter dogs and cats can find furever homes too. 

Happy Holidays from Susan and me-ow. I hope next year is a better year for everyone, and that Santa Paws brings you happiness. 

Rain-outside and in my heart

I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open, despite the three cups of coffee I had prior to getting in the car and being taken to my psychiatrist. All I can think about now, as I wait in her waiting room is how my bladder is filling.

A very tall, handsome man comes in with a briefcase and a laptop. He sits down next to my mother and I, says hello, and opens the briefcase. I can see samples of Abilify. Ah! A Bristol Myers salesman! Not unexpected, I am just a few miles or so from BM US headquarters, as the crow flies.

Eventually, the doc comes out of her office, and ushers me inside. Everything is turned around, the couch is on another wall, and the chairs are facing a different direction. It turns me around, I do not like it. It's like the Feng Shui in the room is totally messed up by moving the chairs and couch around to different sides. I tell her I don't like it, and she says it was done by the person she shares an office with. Every time she moves them back, the next day they are in this pattern. I sense she is frustrated.

We talk a little small talk. I have 10 minutes total. One and a half minutes to small talk. One minute at the end  to pay, get a receipt and make the next appointment. Seven and a half to  Eight minutes for everything else.

The small talk comes easy. As a whole, I like my psychiatrist. She's about my age, the mother of a teenager and a pre teenager. She's a little smaller than me- I'm 5 feet tall, and she is 4 feet 10 inches. We both complain about our short stature and problems it entails. It's like we share one common bond.

It's really the only other thing we have in common.  She asks me the standard questions, I answer. She tells me flat out she thinks I should be in the hospital- I'm non compos mentis. My foggy brain kick starts- something lights up the gray cells and I hear myself saying "No. I've been in the hospital twice during the month of December. They are very short staffed. I don't want to go in now. Let's wait."

She's not sure. She asks me to consider going to this address (Robert Wood Johnson) and going inpatient. I've never heard of this hospital, I've always gone to Princeton House. i tell her there is no way I would ever go back as an impatient to Princeton House. She suggests Carrier. I don't know about this one, but I do know they let you keep stuffed animals with you.

I tell her I cannot go in, I need someone to take care of the cat. I can't afford to send her to the cattery, and I have no one to take care of her. I need someone to collect my mail. It won't work. No. I have a friend who can house sit for me, and cat sit, but he is over 200 miles away. I have to give him notice to get him to visit. Meanwhile...

She raises up out of the chair, and goes to get my mother. She tells my mother flat out I should be in the hospital, and gives her a piece of paper with a number written on it. I tell my mother, in FRONT of my doctor, do not ever call that number, the police will come and it will be involuntary. I won't go in involuntary- my insurance will automatically throw me out after two weeks and I am off to Trenton Psych. Please Don't. Call.

A compromise is worked out. I should get into the Princeton House IOP program- ASAP. And I shall see her once a week until I can get in.

When we are finished, mom takes me to the Omega Diner for lunch. Bless NJ for being the land of the diners. No Waffle Houses, but we have diners. I can't eat. I have a huge whole in my heart, my stomach is in agony. I drink some coffee, and a few spoonfuls of soup. I try not to cry.

"Mom, I don't want to be in any more hospitals , ever. Please promise you won't call that number."

She promises, but I wonder. I tell her how I am trying. I try to get dressed every day in clean clothes, shower. Some days that is pretty much all I can do. Some days I can do a bit more- the agoraphobia abates and I can leave my apartment. Go shopping. Go do things. Be around people. Other days I am so ... if I leave my bed, it's to use the toilet and feed the kitty.

I try to tell her my problems with out patient therapy- I've had as much if not more education than the therapists, and I know what they are doing. I've had the same courses. People might get better from these things, but I know too much about them. It's futile. This is why doctors make the worst patients. I even tell both psychiatrist and my mom I am seriously thinking of auditing a  psych class at the university to see if I could get a MSW or a PhD. Let's see if my brain can do it. I tell both of them I want to help other people who have been in my shoes, if I can get my stuff together, I can help others; be a better advocate.

It's just- well, I don't know. Futile. I'm doing the best I can.

For the last three days it's been raining. The mail carrier drops off my mail and forgets to shut the lid. Magazines and letters are destroyed from water. My cat is bored because the squirrels are not playing outside. She sleeps a bit more than normal. I can relate. I feel like sleeping more too. It's a Herculean effort to stay awake with the med cocktail I am on. No psych meds, just other meds to deal with the side effects brought on from the psych drugs.

In analyzing Literature, rain is the sign of renewal, rebirth. In analyzing art, it's the total opposite. Depression. It makes no sense to me. It's almost bipolar in it's reasoning, or is it like Ying and Yang? I can't decide. I don't know.

I don't know what I am anymore. It's very complicated. All I know is it's like the line from Robert Frost- I have miles to go before I sleep. I have miles of things to ponder and try to overcome before I go to sleep.

Rerun:How I am staying alive while my brain is trying to kill me-part two

(This is part two to a piece I wrote back in January 2010. I'm not in this place now, but I have a real bad cold and some problems with my kidney meds, so I thought I would re-run another oldie but a goodie. I repeat-I'm not suicidal. I'm ok.) 

So I am still in the same place as I was when I wrote the earlier piece, but I decided, let me sit down and write a "Bucket List", something to keep me going, things I still want see or do, when my brain clears. I didn't think I could think of anything, but surprisingly, there are a few things I still want to do, and I would like to share them with you...

In no particular order.

1. I would like to believe life can be beautiful again.

2. I would like to know that love exists- and real great sex can exist too. And that I can find a guy who really, really knows how to kiss......

3. I would like to spend New Year's Eve in Times Square.

4. I would like to spend Bloomsday in Dublin.

5. I would like to see London again. I would also like to see York again.

6. I would like to really get my writing groove back so I can get my novel polished and published. By a real publisher, not by a vanity press.

7. I would like to have a house so I can have a dog.

8. I would like to have friends again, and to be a good friend.... that is the important thing.

9. I would like to find Serenity again, and just peace with knowing my brain is different, whether I was born different, or made different with a lifetime of medication- my brain is shattered and damaged, and I just have to be gentle with it an accept it. My problem is I don't accept it, I want to be the girl I was eight years ago before the damage started and I miss that girl and I long to be that girl, the girl who had a job, the girl who had friends....I have to stop mourning, cause if I don't I will be like Queen Victoria who wore black and mourned and spent her whole life in mourning after Albert died. And that isn't living, and I am not in a position where I can have PM's no matter how capable, live my life for me.

10. I am sure there are other things, other places to see, I just cannot think of them right now.

Lost

I'm sitting in my psychiatrist's office. It's on the clock, in her waiting room are another four clients and one irate rep from Big Pharma, with lots of samples of Cymbalta. I have about 5 min plus another min or two to pay and re-schedule. It's going to go very fast.

She looks at me. I'm trying to care about my appearance- I noticed she's referred to me as "disheveled" in the past. I've taken care to wash and blow dry my hair, and put on make up. Put on new clothes. The friend who is staying with me this week says I look "Beautiful". The doctor clearly disagrees, she's writing furiously on her writing pad.

She wants me on medication. It will be a year, since last November when I went cold turkey off all my meds. She feels with diagnosis, I should be on something. She wants Prozac. I don't want Prozac. I was on Prozac when it first came out, after a couple of months, I developed something strange- I felt like there were bugs under my skin. I went off it cold turkey, and on to Zoloft and Paxil.

I remember when Prozac first came out. Dr. L- was all over this, thinking this drug would cure me, cure everyone. His copy of Newsweek was worn, he treated it like his bible. Prozac was all over the place, everyone was taking it, even people that didn't have depression. I even knew a man from work who named his cat "Prozac".

So when I told the doctor one night, I couldn't stop scratching and felt there were bugs crawling over me, he couldn't find that in the side effects. Eventually this side effect did make it into the list, but not then. All I knew is that this drug wasn't like a magic wand, it was making me worse. This was the first drug that failed me. Over the next two decades there would be many, many more.

My doc wants me on Prozac and Abilify. She has called my GP and my kidney doctor to make sure I can take it. She thinks Abilify will help, and the Prozac- why don't you take it, maybe it will work this time. If it doesn't, stop it immediately.

I don't want to be on psych drugs. The swelling in my feet is going down. I'm moving around better. A friend who is staying with me has me walking every night this week except the night it was raining. The last time we saw each other I could only walk with a walker. Now, I am walking, leaning gently against him for balance, with a semi like drunken gait. It's not where I want to be, but it is better than it was even a month ago. Baby steps. Recovery goes in baby steps.

I made dinner one night, broiled chicken, broccoli, and noodles. It was nice cooking for someone, I enjoy cooking simple, plain meals. My friend tells me I look healthier- my skin has a glow in it that it didn't have earlier this year, and I'm not in pain every moment. No, my pain has been ebbing over the last fortnight, it's not as bad as it was. I'm sleeping again, only it's hyper sleep- 16-18 hours each day.

Despite the company, I feel lost. I'm being pulled from two different directions- all over the medications. Over my life. What I am doing with my life. Do I go back to school for a PhD or another Masters? I think I am too old and don't want to go into Student Loans. Can I find a writing job when all over newspapers and magazines are laying off writers. Can I even work if I am sleeping too much and feeling terrible from the kidney, bladder and high blood pressure meds?

I don't know. I just know I want to contribute something back to society. That would be the best therapeutic answer to everything and make me feel whole again.

The 8th and 9th Step for both AA and Beepers

When I quit drinking, doing the 8th and 9th steps was easy. All the people i upset with my drinking saw me sober up abd after a year or so when I finally started this step, all of them said "No biggie". Most of them said the only amends I needed to make was to stay on the path. No one took anything from me, only to give me adivce to "Pay it forward."

They understood. My behavior was because of the grape.

With depression it's different. When I am depressed, I isolate. I take the phone off the hook and don't want the world to see me. I don't want to go to friends houses, I don't want to let anyone see me. While I isolate, it feeds on itself. It gets worse as it goes on, snowballing to something sinister. I'm not seeing anyone, why should I change my clothes? Why should I shower? Wash my hair? Brush my teeth, wash my face, moisturize? Even do my nails. Why bother? Hours turn to days, which turn to weeks.  It gets worse as I get more and more depressed, until I am hyper-sleeping and no longer eating. The last cycle lasted a month. By the time it's at it's worst, it becomes a Herculean task to shower, change clothes. Change the sheets on the bed. Move.

I have to move, keep moving. I lay in a hospital bed for 25 days last November and December when my kidneys failed and I lost the ability to walk because my muscles atrophied. I have to keep moving, I am starting to feel them atrophy. This is not good. My feet are swollen with edema from the kidney and bladder medications, and I have to wear T.E.D socks when I go to bed, so it's really important that I keep moving.

One of the things that makes it hard is because of my isolating, I've lost most of my friends in real life. "Friends" on line can only do so much for you. I know it's hard to maintain friends in real life, I've lost contact with most of my friends when the children came. I just didn't have anything in common with them anymore. And as much as I love children, being around them makes me uncomfortable, it reminds me of my own barrenness, and the dream I had  of being a mother, now lies in ashes at my feet. When my ex left me, I crumpled, part of me knew it was the best thing, and part of me knew that as much as I love being alone I needed someone in my life to keep me social. I could easily wind up being the only person on an island and love it. The sad fact of life is humans are social animals. We need other humans to survive. The ex was a social creature, he needed to be around people. I didn't, and I was often upset that he would invite people over when I just wanted to be alone.  

Like I said, the isolation adds to the depression. It feeds it. And like ice cream, you keep feeding it until you cannot stop. The depression then eventually transmogrifies into despair, then suicidal thoughts come in. If you aren't careful, you can give into their Siren voices. 

Here's where the 8th and 9th steps come in. The steps are:

1. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
2. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

I've harmed everyone I know in real life by isolating. Not answering the phone. Not wanting to do anything but lie in bed, on the pity pot. I can apologize. 

Only this time it's not so easy. My family and friends know I do this behavior. A lot. They know there is something wrong with my wiring that I prefer to be alone than with others. They know, but don't understand, that when I am with a group of people, I am absolutely miserable, I want to be home, alone with the cat. Why should I ask forgiveness for something I know I will do again? 

So basically I'm left with this. There should be some type of 12 Step program for people with depression. I want to complete the 8th and 9th steps, but it would be in vain. Until I can beat this monster, the monster has me. Pills aren't going to cure it, but sheer will. Each episode gets worse and worse, longer and longer, and I fear the day will come, where, like Virginia Woolf's last words*, I will just exit stage right. That's not acceptable. To me or anyone else. 

*According to her suicide note,Virginia Woolf's last words were- "I feel certain that I'm going mad again. I can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time." 

Tales From A Therapy Cat- On Helping My Human On Depression

Meow! For those who are not regular readers of this blog- my name is Holly. I am a 12 year old tan tabby cat who lives with Susan. I am not trained as a therapy cat, but I take care of her and keep her alive. She adopted me when I was four, and considered unadoptable. I love her more than anything except when my head is in a bowl of tuna.


My human is just starting to get out of her depression. At least that is the word she uses. I don't know what it is, cats don't get depressed. We might get sad if it is a rainy day and there is no sunshine to nap in and warm our fur. We might get upset right before barfing a hair ball, or the mean doggie across the street barks at us.

All I know is my human wants to stay in bed all day. That would be fine if she was a kitty like me, but humans can't sleep all day. They have to get up and feed us, change our litter box and adore us, lest we let them forget we were once worshipped as Gods in Egypt. So I bite her arm or her leg, to get her up, and go to the kitchen. Those cans of tuna don't open themselves.

She stumbles around and feeds me, changes my water and my litter box. She makes a cup of coffee for herself. When it's ready, and she adds the sugar and cream, she sits at the table. I jump on the tabletop and look at her, staring until she pets me. She strokes my fur and I purr for her getting louder and louder. Eventually she smiles, and tells me I am the best cat in the world. She's feeling a bit better. I am happy.

When she adopted me, I did not purr. I lived in a house with a foster mother and 14 other cats. The other cats didn't like me, I spent a good deal of my time under the bed, cowering in fear. I would only eat when my foster human would walk me to the kitchen and make sure the other kitties wouldn't interrupt me. For years after mom adopted me, I would only eat when she walked into the kitchen. I still am partially like this, I need her to walk to the kitchen so I can eat, but I can eat now if she isn't with me. But I would rather eat with her in the room. It's comforting.

I bite her, not hard, on her arm or feet. Her feet are all swollen with edema, from her kidney medication. She is sad because her feet don't fit into her shoes, and she wants to wear something more than flip flops.

Usually her depressive episodes don't last more than  few days at a time. This last one lasted over a month. She just lies in bed, unable to do anything but stare at the ceiling and cry. I try to make her happy, I lie in the bed next to her, trying to snuggle, trying to get her to pet me to make me purr. I bite her softly to get her to feed me when my tummy rumbles. She doesn't get it. She won't pet me. Cats may be aloof, but we want to be petted and told we are wonderful. She doesn't want to eat, or play or do anything with me. It makes me sad. Even my cutest faces don't make her smile.

I feel bad for her. Then I purr a little louder, nudge her and meow. I bring my catnip mousie to her and plop it on her face. She moves closer to me, holds me and tells me what a good kitty I am. I follow her to the bathroom, and do my  cute dance in the bathtub. She finally gets it, and takes a bath. She feels better. I watch her clean herself off, put on clean clothes, and make her go to the kitchen. She feeds me, and changes my box. I eat some,wash the bits of food off my face and whiskers, and then run to the couch, meowing at her to sit down with me. She turns on the TV and we watch something, not really watching, but she starts grooming me, and tells me I am keeping her alive and she loves me.

She loves me. I love her. She starts to feel a bit better each day- just for a little bit, but each day the little bit lasts longer and longer, until finally this week, she's moving around on her own for most of the day, and taking care of herself without my help. That makes me happy, to see her happy. When she's happy she gives me hugs and when she goes to the store she comes back with more Fancy Feast and a brand new catnip mousie for me to shred.

I love her. She says that I keep her alive, I am her therapy cat. I don't know about that, but she also keeps me alive. She needs me as much as I need her, I love her as much as she loves me. She saved my life, I help her reclaim hers. That is all I can do as a cat.

This time the depression is - laissez faire

(Warning, may contain triggers)

 I can see the sun rise from my bed. I can see the sun set. Other than to walk to the toilet, or feed the cat, I don't want to leave my bed. I don't want to listen to the radio. I don't want to watch TV. I don't want to talk to anyone on the phone, I don't want the sun to rise again.

I don't want anything. I've just stopped caring. There's no joy, no despair, no nothing. Just pain from my new bladder infection. I don't feel anything. I feel like one of Eliot's Hollow men- stuffed with straw, but not alive.

I don't exist. I don't care.

The cat hasn't left my side in several days. Her new thing is to lick my hair, I haven't washed it in three weeks. I haven't bathed in about 10 days. I guess it smells good to her, or she likes the texture. I don't know. I don't like it, but I can't do anything about it. She only leaves my side to bite me to feed her, water her, change her box. I make myself a cup of coffee, I want to eat but I don't care. I do it strictly out of boredom. I'm craving sugar but I don't have anything sweet.

I've had depressions before. I've had depressions where I couldn't move,  But never, ever one where I feel like I just don't care about anyone or anything. Never one where I just don't feel anything. I've felt numb before, gotten that way through alcohol or just overwhelmed by everything, I could shut myself off and power down. It's  Never like this.

I worked hard to get this blog started, it's always been my baby. When I started it, I promised I would try to explain what it's like to be bipolar- to get inside my head and really try to explain the dirty side of it. I can't write now. I can't do anything, other than sleep. It's like this is an abortion. I don't want it to die, it scares me as less people visit. I don't post every other day. I can't write. I just don't care.

Last month I got an email from someone who found the blog and said I helped them through a bad patch. It made me happy- that I was able to help someone. It gave me a kind of purpose to keep on going. The only way we can get better is to help and be helped.

Today is a good day because I got out of bed and fed the cat. I had a cup of coffee, some toast and a cigarette. The rain we have been getting had stopped and I could see the sun trying to peek out through the clouds.

Then I went back to bed. I feel like crying but my tear ducts are dry. I have nothing to cry about. Clutching my  stuffed panda bear to me, I curl up in a fetal position and feel like praying for the world to end.

Only I'm an atheist. I stopped believing in G-d when I saw things in a mental hospital. Humans don't do this to other humans. During WW II my father, 18 years old at the time was a medic assigned to help civilians at a concentration camp, after VE day. Somehow seeing that inhumanity made my father's faith stronger. Is it wrong to me to say I am jealous of my father? Or is it because not only did I *see* the dark side, I was a victim at the same time, unlike my father? He has nightmares about what he saw in the war- I have nightmares of ECT treatments and psychiatric drugs that destroyed my body, and my soul.

There's the rub. His soul stayed intact, mine was devoured. If you don't have a soul, you cannot believe in G-d. I don't believe in the kindness of strangers. I don't believe in goodness or kindness-or the other side evil. None of it exists. I don't exist. All there is here is the cat, and me, lying in bed, unable to move, watching sunrise and sunset. When my life is over it won't be measured by coffee spoons like Prufrock, it will be measured by scoops of cat shit.

On Depression-it's not sloth

Every morning I make a cup of coffee and look at the window, and see neighbors walking to the bus stop to commute into the city, or getting into their cars to drive to work. I miss work. I miss feeling productive. I miss feeling like a real person. I miss interacting with people, and being able to have a wardrobe to wear to work, and an excuse to put on makeup every morning. Not working has made me live in a wardrobe of jeans and t-shirts, I have stopped wearing makeup, and it's been years since I have had a professional manicure. 

It may be laziness, I live admist several retired women, most widows. They manage every day to wear nice clothes, have their hair done, even if they are going to the supermarket or the local McDonald's. Maybe it's from another generation, when women in the 50s wore dresses to do house keeping. My mother is the same way, will not leave her house without lipstick. She is aghast that I can do that, leave my apartment to do errands without lipgloss and blush. Leave in a faux turtle neck because I don't want anyone to see the stitches in my neck from the dialysis. 

Years ago, when I first started working in an office environment, a fellow co-worker told me, "Always get extra dressed up when you feel depressed". I tried that,wearing a nicer blouse and skirt, maybe some jewelry that day,  and it did work.  And by looking nice, I felt nice, and the depression eased. 

Maybe it's the same thing. Wear nicer clothes, make up to the supermarket, and you will feel better. But why? It's not like I am going to see anyone. The only men I see in the supermarket are in their sixties, or the teens that work as cashiers, and baggers. Then the depression starts talking "It's too much effort. Why bother?"

It's this kind of thinking that makes one go three weeks between washing hair. Sylvia Plath once got called out on this, and she replied brilliantly, "why? It will just get dirty again".

I tried. I went out yesterday to the Apple store to collect my computer, just back from California and fitted with a few new parts. I put on a clean white shirt with embroidery I found at the bottom of a drawer that I didn't know I had. I had on black pants, and flip flops with beadwork. And I put on some blush, eye shadow and lip gloss. 

The store was packed, and I had to ask a sales guy for a stool to sit while I waited for my computer. By the time I got it, checked it to make sure it was OK and paid for it, I was mentally exhausted. Walking the entire mall to get back to my car left me physically tired. I got home and crashed. Slept for about 20 hours, which was strange. Woke up disoriented, not sure what day it was, and just felt sick- sick in my stomach, sick in my heart.

Opening a can of Fancy Feast for the cat, I thought about my life, as I dumped the food into a clean bowl, washed out the tin and put it with the recycling pile. My life isn't working the way I thought it would be. But who's life works out the way we imagine it at sixteen?

I would have never imagined I would be crippled by ill health. And depression. And to top it all off, agoraphobia. It's not what I want.

I want my health back. I'm eating healthy and exercising in the apartment but I need to go to the gym every day. Doing exercises at home is not the same. I want to be around people-but I'm afraid. They scare me. I prefer dogs and cats. I have to get over this.

Today I received a phone call from a State agency- they want to hook me up with a social worker. I panicked and said, rather diplomatically, they should be helping someone who really needs it, especially now with all the budget cuts.

"But you need it", said the woman on the phone.

She's right I need it. I need something. I'm afraid to ask for help. I have to get over this.

I live across the street from an awesome Chinese restaurant. It's all take out, you can't eat in. They make the most wonderful Won-Ton soup, and I've always treated myself to a quart of it a week. At 2.45 it's a bargain. The owners know me and like me, they always through in a fortune cookie or two on the house.

On my way home from the Apple store, I stopped there and bought a quart, which was to be dinner that night. I put it in the fridge when I got home, but had to have the cookie immediately.

The fortune went like this:"Those who help, help".

I put it on the keyboard, and shut the laptop, forgetting all about it, until this morning. There it was in on the computer keyboard, lying where I had put it. "Those who help, help".
I had just gotten off the phone with the woman from the State who wants to arrange help for me getting mobile. Help me I'm not use to getting help. I've always been independent, or tried to be.

"Those who help, help". 

Help. I need help. Asking for help can't be too bad, after all "help" is a title of a great song by the Beatles.

Eureka. She is going to help me. By doing so I will help her!

"Those who help, help".

I'm going to ask for help for the first time in a very long time. I think I can do it now.