cripsy13

Musings, mutterings from the misguided.


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ATYPICAL DEPRESSION

After 30 years of never really being diagnosed with anything concrete – well, finally – FINALLY something tangible.

ATYPICAL DEPRESSION

Reader’s Digest version of events:  After my ‘episode’ of a couple of months ago, where I wound up in hospital after a rather feeble overdose attempt (weaning myself off of Cymbalta was a most horrendous experience), my doctor put me on a new medication, which turns out I was terribly allergic to (I thought it was spring allergies, but it was much, MUCH worse).  She took me off of that and put me back on a medication that I used to take, and it was then that I knew I had to take some time to just get back on track and heal.

While the hospital experience was something I’d rather forget, it opened me up to a much higher level of psychiatric care that I’d never had in the past.  My GP fast tracked an appointment with the clinic’s resident psychiatrist and I was able to get in to see him in a matter of weeks.  The main reason being, was that my GP explained to me that she had run the gamut of antidepressants she was willing to prescribe; anything else needed to be prescribed by a psychiatrist.

So, I toddled off to see the nice doctor and in 45 minutes, he had come up with a diagnosis that made sense of all the different symptoms I’d ever had.  He was ever so kind, explaining to me the different symptoms and how he came up with the diagnosis.  Part of me was mortified that it had a name; the other part of me didn’t care – finally I could relate to something and understand why I am the way I am and that I’m NOT batshit crazy (okay, maybe a little bit, but aren’t we all?)

Since then, I’ve felt stronger, more empowered and certainly less frantic/weepy/messed up.  It is so wonderful (yes, wonderful) to know that it’s not just me acting like a weirdo – there is an actual name for my weirdness (ha).

And, so, for those of you wondering – here is what Atypical Depression looks like:

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erm…wrong picture, let’s try that again:

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So many things just fell into place – especially the ‘sensitive to rejection’ thing.  I can usually control it, but if I’m feeling particularly crappy, and let’s say I send out an email and don’t get a response, I automatically think it’s me, I’ve done something wrong, etc..  WHICH is extremely annoying to those closest to me – especially my boss and colleagues.  Trying to explain that is extremely difficult and frankly, embarrassing.  I’m often very tired and my body feels like I’m wearing concrete weights on my forearms and my legs.  While I don’t sleep in, given the chance, I do like to take an afternoon nap (which can sometimes be upwards of 4 hours).  I crave carbohydrates like an alcoholic craves booze; I always have. When I’m ‘depressed’, for the most part I don’t feel like I’m melancholic, rather, I’m more likely to feel angry and frantic.  Don’t get me wrong; I have fabulous crying jags worthy of an Oscar, but they don’t last very long.  Thankfully (I hate crying).

I had a conversation with a friend this morning about a woman she knows who has schizophrenia and while she has the disease, she is NOT the disease.  While I’m very thankful to have a diagnosis that I can work with and learn about, I too have a disease; I am NOT the disease itself.  My mother lived her whole life with depression as her identity; I don’t ever want to be that person.

If you’d like further information on atypical depression, please visit  http://www.webmd.com/depression/guide/atypical-depression.

 


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Picking myself up off the floor, one inch at a time…

Since my ‘incident’ of 3 weeks ago, things have been…well…frankly, fucking awful.

I’m now on medical leave with yet another bout of severe depression.  Almost one year ago to the date.  Time flies when you’re having fun.  Right.  (That was sarcasm).

I’m now no longer taking Cymbalta (thank GOD), but have had a few set backs since my final dose.  My doctor (bless her) put me on a new medication, which caused me to have serious allergic reactions (swollen eyes, swollen eyelids, unable to breathe properly) and they did NOTHING to improve my quickly dwindling mental well being.  I saw her this past week and she took me off of those and has put me back on a medication that I used to take, but went off of it because of the ‘flat lining’ effect that I get with all anti depressants when I’ve been on them for a long time.

I’m beginning to think that having no emotion whatsoever would be preferable to what I’m experiencing right now.

Usually when I go through a bout of depression, I’m basically just sad and very lethargic.  I work with my counsellor(s) and talk things out and the meds start to kick in and I’m back to the land of the living again.  However, this time, things are much, MUCH different.

I’m madangrysadpissedoffweepyfullofragecryinglikeababyfuckyou!ihatemyselfihateyouihateeveryone – it’s everything; all at once.  And, it’s tiring and scary.

I woke up this morning feeling pretty good.  I had planned to run a few errands (I’ve been away from work since last Thursday and haven’t been out).  I had a coffee, watched the news…the usual.  Then I weighed myself.  And somehow, even after kicking my wine habit (25 days!), eating healthy (for the most part) and even exercising (I’m trying to swim every couple of days) I’ve gained 10 lbs.  The highest weight I’ve ever been and it puts me in that ‘OMG, YOU ARE TOO FAT TO LIVE, SO JUST GIVE UP NOW‘ category (apologies to those of you who find this offensive; it’s about me, not you).  Then an all consuming anger took over me.  I screamed and picked that fucking scale up over my head and SMASHED it onto my floor (which now bears a bunch of scratches).  I saw red.  I started to cry uncontrollable, heaving sobs that were filled with deep, soul destroying feelings and I could barely catch my breath.  In order not to throw the scale (and myself) over the balcony, I paced around my apartment until I could breathe properly.  Then the condemnation came from inside of myself.  “You are disgusting.”  “You are a waste of space.”  “You are so fat and disgusting, you shouldn’t be allowed to live.”  “You will never be loved.”

I sat for a few moments and tried to compose myself and in about 15 minutes, it was gone and I was completely exhausted.  I felt nothing.  I didn’t feel sad, mad, manic, angry – nada.  Something inside of me switched off.  I showered, went out and did some errands, all the while, completely numb.  Some guy cut me off in traffic and I barely flinched.  One of the clerks in the store said hello and asked me how I was and I mumbled ‘fine’ and walked away, when normally I would engage in conversation with her because she is such a lovely person.

I got home and put my things away and sat down and had lunch.  Then my sister called and by the time we were finished talking, I was once again feeling madangrysadpissedoffweepyfullofragecryinglikeababyfuckyou!ihatemyselfihateyouihateeveryone and had to hang up before our conversation was finished because I couldn’t speak.  She was only trying to help; I didn’t want it.

I sit here, right this minute, on the verge of tears for reasons I can’t explain to you – let alone myself.  I sort of feel like that guy in Alien who had that nasty creature explode from his chest:

Alien Stomach

 

I’m just waiting for it to explode from MY chest because then maybe I’ll start to feel better.

I’m very grateful for the love and support from my friends and family and I’m not writing this as an ‘OH, WOE IS ME! – YOU MUST PITY ME!’ because I’m not.  Many people have asked ‘what’s wrong?’ and ‘what can I do to help?’  So, I hope this explains a bit of what’s been going on.

Depression is a bitch.  It steals your personality, your soul and leaves you feeling worthless and unlovable.  It is debilitating, exhausting and will beat you into submission until you can’t fight any more.  It wants to lay you flat out until you believe that you are useless and there is no sense going on.  However, I know – that deep down inside, my soul is fighting to see the good things again.  It wants to enjoy life.  It wants to live, love and laugh again!  It’s in there, but it’s buried deep…it’s like a storage closet – all the precious and breakable things are at the back, safely wrapped and protected, but you can’t get at them unless you pull out all of the shit that’s been piling up for years in front of them.

So, patiently, I will take out each box and put it aside until I find the hidden treasures of my soul again.

 


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FALLING OFF THE FLOOR…

My dad was wrong; you can fall off the floor.  I proved that on Friday night.

For the past month, I have been weaning myself off of Cymbalta with the assistance of my doctor.  I’d done some research online and there are websites dedicated to what it’s like to rid yourself of this horrible drug.

Having successfully weaned myself off from many different antidepressants over the years, I didn’t think much of it; I didn’t have any physical ailments to speak of.  I was a bit snarlier than usual and a bit quieter, but I expected that.

What I didn’t expect was what happened to me on Friday night.  The day at work had been very busy and it was good and although I was a bit on the quiet side (which for me is very unusual); there wasn’t anything spectacular about it.  After work, I picked up some groceries and some wine and headed home for an evening of Netflix, pizza and wine.  My typical Friday night.  I should point out that it’s not uncommon for me to drink two bottles of wine in one sitting and only feel mildly tipsy.

At around 10:00, I started feeling awful.  I mean mentally awful.  I started to cry and couldn’t stop.  Nothing triggered it; it just came out of the blue.  I was inconsolable.  I was beside myself with sadness and nothing was going to change that.  I started thinking that if this is what my life was going to be like; I wanted no part of it.  Evil thoughts started swirling around in my brain – would anyone really care if I wasn’t around anymore?  Would it be a tremendous loss?  I just couldn’t shake the thought that I would be better off dead.

I had a letter on my computer that I wrote a long time ago when I was depressed and wanting to get a will done.  I opened up that letter and below everything I’d written before, I put down into words, a final note for my friends and family.  A suicide note.  I’d written a fucking suicide note.

Then I went online and found out how much of a certain medication I’d have to take to effectively kill myself.  I found it, went to my cupboard and got the bottle.  I still hadn’t stopped crying, it’s like everything had caved in on me and I couldn’t see anything beyond what was right in front of me.  I methodically counted them out and put them on the table.  I looked at them through tear soaked eyes and before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed a handful and swallowed them.

In that minute, I knew.  I knew it was wrong and that I didn’t want to die.  I wanted to live.  I called my sister and freaked her out and told her what I’d done and that I loved her and hung up.  She kept calling and calling and then when I answered, I was informed that an ambulance was on the way.  I was pretty sleepy at this point and when they got to my house, my sister had pulled up just behind them.  They came in and led me out to the ambulance and off to emergency I went.

I was sleepy, drunk, and dozy and I felt like I was having an out of body experience.  We got to emergency and when they led me to a bed (I was still able to walk and everything), it was directly across from the bed they had my father in 3 weeks before he died.  That sent me into a fit of hysterics and I started to cry uncontrollably again.  I got settled and they did a whole slew of blood work and hooked me up to an IV to get some saline into my system.  My sister was there and I was angry that she called an ambulance and one minute I was crying to her and the next I was telling her off.

This is the part that scared me the most.  After an hour of being there, I just desperately wanted to go home.  I felt remorse, embarrassment and terrible that I’d wasted the valuable resources of our health system.  I promised I was fine and that I would be okay.  It wasn’t that easy.  They invoked the ‘mental health act’ which meant that I was bound by law to stay and if I put up any resistance, they had the legal obligation to actually restrict me by tying me down.

I had put myself in a situation where they needed to make sure I wouldn’t try harming myself again.  Jesus H. Christ.

So, I lay there and seethed throughout the night – not being able to sleep a wink. I was exhausted, I had a shitload of sleeping pills in my system and yet, my brain would not shut off long enough to allow me to sleep.  The longer the night wore on, the worse I felt.  Not physically, but I felt just awful for putting my sister through it (she has enough of her own problems).  The guilt was overwhelming.

I was told the night before that I had to wait to see the psychiatrist on call once the alcohol had left my system, so at 6:00 am, I asked if I could finally be considered to see someone and they told me someone would be around to see me ‘sometime that morning’.  I started to panic – what if they forgot about me?  What if my birds were scared and I’d accidentally left the door to their cage open?  I just wanted to GO HOME.

Around 9:00, a lovely young girl came in to see me and I gave her the whole story.  We talked for about an hour and from there she had to report back to the psychiatrist on call and she would decide if I could go home or if I needed to be admitted.

What?  I couldn’t be admitted!  I had too much to do!  I hate hospitals!  I want to go home!  I have pets to think about!  I can’t be admitted…I just can’t.  What would people think?  Would I lose my job?

The hours ticked by slower than anything I’d ever experienced.  I’d messaged my two very close friends to let them know what had happened and the messages started coming in fast and furious from them expressing concern and wondering what they could do to help.

I was overwhelmed by the messages – the sheer volume of them, and the love that was contained in each and every one of them.  They wanted to help.  They were sad that I had gotten to the point I had.  They wanted me to know that they thought I was worthy of love and friendship.  They thought I was special.

Around 12:00, after meetings with my young lady and the psychiatrist on call, I was discharged – with the promise from me that I would stop pushing people away and that I would let people support me.  I promised with every fibre of my being that I would.  I will be honest when I say that I would have agreed to anything just to get the hell out of there.

I got home and the first thing I did was open the door to the cage of my birds.  They glared at me, none too impressed that they hadn’t been let out or anything for over a day.  I started to cry, because I was so thankful to be home, to have my beautiful sister with me and to know that I had an entire team of friends that would check on me throughout the weekend to ensure I was okay.

My one little bird, came out of the cage tentatively and looked at me, flew over to my shoulder and buzzed me on the cheek.  What an absolutely glorious kiss that was.

At this risk of this sounding cliché, I was happy to be alive.

That was last weekend.  I had a rough start to the week – I was very weepy and emotional.  I explained to coworkers who asked how my weekend was that I had been in the hospital from ‘extreme reaction to a medication’.

Today is Wednesday and I’m feeling better, although I am weepy and get very emotional over the tiniest of things.  However, for the first time in a long time, I feel somewhat optimistic.  I think that sometimes we do have to fall off the floor so that we can learn how to stand up again.  Maybe we need to completely break in order to rebuild, instead of just putting band aids over the gaping wounds of our lives.  Perhaps – perhaps we need to lose all of the things that were holding our lives together – our egos, our anger, our sadness and depression – so that we can start fresh to build the lives we are supposed to have.

To anyone who is suicidal or thinks that life isn’t worth living – I beg you; please call your local distress centre.  Have that phone number on your speed dial.  Call a friend.  Call a neighbour.  Have a plan.  Know that you are worthy of love and happiness.  Know that what they say about it being darkest before the dawn is true – but that the dawn is coming and it wants to welcome you to a new day of being you.


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Greener pastures…

I have a wonderful friend who suffers from debilitating depression.  So much so, there are days she winds up in hospital because she’s scared she’s going to do something to herself.  She is a lovely woman, a beautiful soul and every time this happens, I just wanna pick her up and squeeze her until she feels better.

I wrote her an email yesterday and I tried to differentiate our journeys through depression and it went something like this:

“We have both battled through this our entire lives (sometimes at the same time, sometimes not)…yours seems to be so much more awful than mine and I know that’s your journey – your path, if you will.  It seems to take on the flow of a river, that breaks into streams and occasionally you will take the right stream.  However, that stream sometimes leads you further into the forest of darkness and so you backtrack – but the light is gone and you’re mired in sadness.”

“I get that.  Mine is more like an ocean – it overwhelms me quickly and then it leaves little tide pools behind.  I pick and choose which tide pools I want to explore.”

Interesting.  I guess it’s like having a broken leg – no two breaks are the same, one might be worse than another, but they’re equally as painful to each person.

The one common denominator, I believe, for most folks with depression, is to try and figure out WHY.  WHY they are depressed.  WHY they are so sad.  WHY they feel the way they do.  Some people talk, some people write, some people sit and think.  It can be all consuming, in that it is all that person thinks about.  Yikes.  My friend journals; it’s how she expresses herself – to herself.

Half way through the email I sent, I had an epiphany of sorts…if we spend so much time with all the wondering WHY we are depressed – would that not lead to even more depression?  Sitting there and picking apart our lives, our personalities, our traits that make us who we are – and analyzing them to death – has to be counterproductive.

I’m not saying that we should just all suck it up and carry on like nothing is wrong – but what if we were to subliminal message ourselves?  For every sad thought we have, we try to insert a positive one?

OH LOOK, I’VE CURED DEPRESSION.  Yeah – NO.  If it were that simple, all the psychiatrists of the world would be out of business, as would the pharmaceutical companies AND all of those ‘cheer up’ Facebook posts would disappear.

So does ‘wallowing’ in depression make us better people?  No, not really; it just makes us sadder people.  By spending 24/7 trying to figure it out, we are only feeding the monster of darkness, allowing it to manipulate us and fester within us.  It loves nothing more than to tell us how awful things are, how they are never going to get better and how (in some cases, sadly) we’d be better off dead.

My mother was one of those people who lived her life through her depression; and God forbid should that have been taken away from her.  It was her weapon of choice; we were all taught at a very young age that mom was depressed; therefore, she should be forgiven for every transgression she made.  She never made any attempt to fix it; she thrived on the fact that she could blame everything on her depression and if she didn’t get her way, she’d threaten us with ‘DEPRESSION’ and so we shut up and carried on with life the best we could.  Most of us don’t WANT to be like that; I know I sure as hell don’t.

I try to be positive.  I get up and go to work every day.  I sometimes even make it out for visits with friends, but it depends on my energy level.  I see a counsellor.  But when things overwhelm me, I shut down and don’t talk to anyone.  It’s not that I’m sitting there thinking about how awful things are, I just don’t think about anything.  Which isn’t a good thing.  My friend does the exact opposite and analyzes and talks until she’s found herself sitting in emergency.  Which isn’t a good thing either.  There simply has to be a happy medium. We are in the same county, reaching the same destination, yet our journeys are entirely different from each other.  Here is something else I wrote to her:

“I think you and I are common in that we were raised in dysfunctional families (that’s just a given!) – however, they were complete opposite ends of the spectrum.  Your mom and dad doted on you and your sister and smothered you with love and affection.  I just got smothered (heehee!)…what I learned was that I knew how to take care of myself, a very strong work ethic that my father instilled into me and that if I wanted something, I had to be the one to get it for myself.”

So, I made a challenge to her that I too shall endeavour to work on:  When that black monster starts getting hold of me, I’m going to do my very best to tell it that I’m not interested, and I need to focus on something more positive.  I will always want to learn about myself and who I am and why the way I am, but from now on, I’m going to spend more time on the greener side of the pasture.

lilacs and poppies


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It’s been an interesting week on my new ‘less self indulgence’ lifestyle plan.

I’ve been keeping a written journal of what I eat, what I drink – and what I spend.  At the very least, an eye opener.  Yikes.

I met with one of the leading experts in obesity in the country last week – he was amazing.  If you’ve been following my blog, I’ve been involved with a local “Weight Wise” program, which is geared towards those who are considered obese or morbidly obese.  I’ve met with a psychiatrist, a nutritionist, a nurse and now the doctor.  The whole premise behind this program is to find out if I am a candidate for lap band surgery.  I have to go through a whole series of hoops and jumps before they will even consider it.  The best part of this whole experience is finally having someone understand that it’s not all ‘eat less, exercise more’.  This program is more than that.

He asked some questions that I really never considered a part of being overweight, but afterwards I realized – wow, those questions made complete sense.  He asked me if I had been promiscuous at any point in time in my life, and I will admit – I did go through a phase (of which I’m not particularly proud of) in my early 20’s.  I realize now that I wanted love – and I had confused sex with love (wouldn’t it be nice if we could figure that shit out WHEN we’re doing it?)  He asked me about my relationships with my parents and my sister, friendships…etc.  He asked me if I had a tendency to binge eat (which thankfully, I do not) and if I used alcohol as a ‘crutch’ (oh yes), did I overspend beyond my means (sigh, uh – YEAH) and a few other questions.  The questions he was asking had very little to do with my size or my weight, they were more geared towards my thought patterns and my personality, which can be defined in one word:  ADDICTIVE.  I was addicted with trying to find love, I was addicted to instant gratification and I was addicted to alcohol.  2 out of these 3 things were easily obtained by overspending (yet, another addiction).

Now, this is interesting.  There was an article in the paper this morning – “Weight loss plan can curb spending” (Postmedia news).  There was a line in there that jumped out at me:  “While the authors say not everyone who struggles with weight also has money problems, [Demetre] estimates over 50% of the population has issues with both.”   Wow.  I’d never thought to put the two together per se, but it makes sense.

We live in a society of instant gratification.  We want what we want, and we want it NOW.  We don’t budget for things like our parents did, we put it on credit.  We don’t scrimp and save our pennies, we just buy it and worry about it later.  We don’t do without – we all ‘need’ the new TV, the new iPhone, the new tablet, the new…(insert vice in here).  When I want to eat something, I want it NOW.  I don’t mean binge eating – I just mean regular, day-to-day living.  If I want sushi for lunch, I’ll got and get it ($15.00).  Then, if I want steak for dinner, I’ll go and get it ($15.00) and maybe a few more groceries that I really don’t need, but want ($25.00).  I’ve just spend $55.00 on things I don’t necessarily NEED.  Repeat that every day for about 5 days.  That’s $275.00 just on FOOD related items that I probably only need about $30.00 of.  Let’s add some wine on top of that ($60.00/week) and maybe a shirt or pair of shoes ($100.00) and I’m up to $435.00  For one week.

Great – so now I’m fat AND in debt.  But I can see how it goes hand in hand.  I eat and overspend to compensate for the things that I don’t have, which in turn creates more problems and gets me farther away from where I DO want to be.  It’s a vicious circle and I’m doing everything I can to get off the giant hamster wheel and back on solid ground.  Because the things that I want most – to be happy, healthy, a normal body weight – and to buy my own home – are things that only I CAN do myself.  It won’t happen right this very minute, but with some time and patience, I think I have a pretty good chance.

figure_running_hamster_wheel

Like they say, good things come to those who ‘weight’.  🙂


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SELF INDULGENCE

Happy New Year!

So…how many of you made New Year’s Resolutions – hands up!  Right…now, how many of you are still following them?  Oh…yes, well, that’s to be expected.

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Every year, I vow to lose weight, drink less, do more, get out with friends, be more organized…the list goes on.  Most years I make it until about mid-January and then slowly everything starts to weaken…and I’m back to where I started, angry at myself for failing and then I wind up making things twice as hard for myself because if I’ve failed, I’m going to do it with a vengeance.

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Which ultimately means I eat too much, drink too much, slob out on the couch, ignore everyone and find myself looking for my bankcard at the bottom of my purse (because there is no way in HELL I’ll have put it back where it should go).

Bah.

Just prior to Christmas, I had a (as my father would have put it) a ‘come to Jesus’ meeting with my landlord.  I’ve been wanting to purchase my condo for a long time, but kept putting off attacking the mountain of personal debt I’ve accumulated in about the past 9 years.  She’s given me until the middle of the year to prove that I AM working on it and if she’s happy with the results, she will bend over backwards to assist me with the purchase – WAY above and beyond what a normal landlord would ever do.  Our meeting was extremely intense; not since my father died have I had such a conversation about my debt and my addiction to self indulgence.

Which started after my dad died.  I just put that together.  Interesting.

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but my dad was everything – dad, best friend, mentor – I admit, I was definitely daddy’s girl.  He did everything for me – got the oil changed in my car, bailed me out of stupid monetary decisions – the stuff most dads do.  I never panicked – or paid much attention to things, because I knew dad always had my back.  I’m embarrassed to admit that he helped me out financially WAY too many times.

My dad died suddenly in February 2005.  It hit me like a fucking sledgehammer.  If you were to ask me what the rest of the year looked like, I can’t tell you because I was in a complete fog.  My sister and I had to start caring for our extremely needy mother, who made our lives a living hell.  I had lost my dad, my best friend and my support.  My safety net, as it were.

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That’s when things started getting ugly.  I started drinking too much, spending too much – EVERYTHING was too much.  I didn’t care, nor did I think of the ramifications of my actions.  It made me feel better.  It stopped the hurt.  I started spending like I had an unlimited trunk full of cash.  I didn’t buy big things; it was the little things – $40 here for a new shirt, $25 here for groceries and I’m not even going to get into how much I’ve spent on wine over the years (that in itself is embarrassing).  Maxed out more credit cards than I can count.  Managed to get myself back on track by paying them off, only to get myself back into trouble – time and time again.

I just didn’t care…I didn’t stop to think that all those little purchases added up to one big, hefty bill.  Oh, I made payments regularly and was always very conscious about doing that, but it was all peripheral; it never entered into my mind that I was paying 13%, 15% or 17% and throwing a few hundred at it each month wasn’t getting me anywhere.  I was managing it and I didn’t have debt collectors after me and it was all good.  Carry on!

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After my mother died in 2010, there was a small inheritance left to me and I used most of it to pay off debt.  Yay!  A credit card with a zero balance!  Whoo!  I can start spending again!

Just before Christmas I got extremely sick and have only just started feeling marginally human again.  I had a lot of time to just sit and ponder things…when one day, I had what I like to call – a jelly donut moment.  A jelly donut moment is when you stick your finger in the middle of the donut and watch everything ooze out the sides and top.  Basically – my psyche started oozing, but with that came clarity – a sense of calmness that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

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I realized that for the past 9 years, I’ve been obsessively self indulgent.  I bought things because I wanted them RIGHT NOW and I drank too much because it made me forget all of my problems – but, I deserved it – didn’t I?

No.  Well, maybe.  My point is that all of the money I’ve spent, all of the wine I’ve drunk didn’t replace my dad – it only created a different dependency.  A dependency on being self indulgent.  ‘Poor me, I’ve had a bad day, I should go look at shoes.’

So, tucked at home in my jammies on New Year’s Eve, with some cold medicine and Netflix – I made a different resolution.  This is the year that I become less self indulgent.  I’m going to take care of myself by eating better, getting a bit more exercise and by not drinking.  I’m going to think before I spend.  Now, that doesn’t mean I’m going to be absolutely 100% ‘perfect’ – but what it means for me, is that those moments of self indulgence are going to be the exception, rather than the rule.  Because I deserve it – don’t I?


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On a typical day, I get up, feed the birds, brush my teeth, make myself look relatively presentable and head to work.

I work in a job where I am ‘on’ from the minute I get there until the minute I walk out the door.  I work with some very high level people and part of my job is to schmooze and make nice-nice with the people that come in.  We host meetings, special events, medal ceremonies – you name it, we’ve done it.  And, I can say with great confidence that I SHINE in most of these situations.  You would never know in a million years, that underneath the professional, witty and hysterically funny woman, is a little girl who is just wanting to be liked.

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The silly thing is that people DO like me (insert Stuart Smalley reference here).  I think I’m a pretty good person, I have some really wonderful friends and would give you the shirt off my back if you needed it.  I’ve an acerbic wit that has gotten me in trouble more than a few times, I will bend over backwards to help you – I will even let you share my bag of Doritos (that’s the biggest honour I can bestow upon you).

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So, you would think that I would have all the confidence in the world – that I could leap tall buildings in a single bound, take on a bully, stand up against injustice (thank GOD for news websites that I can rant on) – even show others how to be a confident woman in this world.

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Sadly, I do not.  Have self confidence that is.  Okay, in *some* instances I do, and I get a real charge of positive energy when I am up in front of others, talking about something I’m passionate about.

But it can just take one comment, in one wrong moment to make me want to crawl up into a ball and wait for it to go away.  It’s as easy as someone ignoring me or not answering my email or phone message.  I revert back to the little girl, who never really got any positive reinforcement as a child, but the negative comments came fast and furious.

As that kid, I was trained to be my mother’s slave.  If I disappointed her, I was punished with silence and harsh, abrupt words.  To a little kid, it was pretty confusing, after all – I was trying to do what she wanted me to do, but it was just never right.  I didn’t clean the bathroom properly.  I didn’t wash the ashtrays (yeah, okay, I SO wasn’t going to do that anyhow).  I didn’t make her bed properly.  I didn’t remember to take out the garbage.  The list goes on.  So, as a grown adult, when I feel that I’ve disappointed someone in some way, I go out of my way to make amends.  Now, there is a little voice in my head that says ‘SHUTUP, DON’T MAKE IT WORSE, IT WILL BLOW OVER.”  But I’m also not very good listening to myself, so I ignore it and go ahead and indeed, make things worse.

And, this week – it did just that.  I had called in sick to work because I was having a horrible fibromyalgia pain day – I could barely move.  Now, I’m one of those people that will go to work even if I’m bleeding from an eyeball with pneumonia.  I feel guilty and even while I’m lying there wishing for death, I feel the need to connect with my work place so they know I’m not in Mexico drinking tequila out of some pool boys’ bellybutton.  But they don’t think that.  They think ‘hey, she’s sick, carry on.’

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So, basically I made a bad judgment call on Friday and wound up – what was perceived to be as ‘pestering’ my boss.  He was annoyed, I was freaked out because of his slight and fretted about it all weekend.

I should back pedal a bit by explaining that earlier this year, I needed to take a stress leave.  When I came back, he bent over backwards to accommodate me and our working relationship has grown in leaps and bounds (there are really only two of us in our office).  For the most part, we get along very well.

It’s been a couple of days and things aren’t much better and I’ve apologized for my end of things, which is all I can do.  My insecurities reared their ugly head and now I’m suffering the consequences.

A friend of mine told me today that I’m a very sensitive person and I should learn to not take things so personally – this was said with love, because I know this friend will always have my back.

She’s 100% right.  I need to let the guilty feelings that I grew up with go.  Let the insecurities I have about not being good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough, fit enough, funny enough – go.  My mother might have been the best travel agent for guilt trips, but she’s gone now, and I think I’ll make my own travel arrangements from now on.