Yup, we should be sideswiped by tropical storm isaac, thankfully not hit dead on.  I am praying for Haiti today, I don’t think they can endure another tradgedy. 
Additionally, I’m a coward today.  I have a whole bunch of crap to say to someone who thinks they are into me, but really, I don’t think they are.  I’m a pretty damn unique person who occasionally wishes she were more normal.  I passed quirky a long time ago and weird just ain’t as cute as quirky; alas, I am what I am. 🙂
So, wish me luck.  I have to put on my big girl panties and embrace my inner badass and tell this person the following: 1. Being alone and being lonely are 2 very different things. I am alone; he is lonely. 2. I am way more amazing that to just be someone to fill an empty hole in someone’s life. 3. I’m just a godsdamned nice person. If someone has a need and I have a way to fix that need I will do so. I’m learning as I age that most people are not this way and I am trying to learn to do this only when it doesn’t detract from my life in any way. I used to give away anything anyone else needed/wanted to my own deficit and that has bitten me in the butt more times than I care to admit. So, while I was out of town it seemed perfectly normal for me to lend him my truck; it was not a clue that I was trying to date him. 
And now my truck has an issue–specfically the power steering line burst. And I am sorry, but I can’t *use* anyone to fix this for me. It would make me feel beholden in a shitty shitty way that I don’t want to have to deal with.  So, since I just realized that I was all squirmy and feeling wishy washy about it and feel much better after coming to the conclusion that I will get it fixed without feeling beholden to anyone if it kills me. I feel that straight physical pleasure for money is perfectly okay; but using emotions of someone to get money is evil. 
Okily dokily. 🙂

Welp. I’m alone (again) and I am having EMOTIONS.

EMOTIONS are exhausting.

NiteNite y’all.
🙂

As I lay here itching and oozing (thank you so fucking much, fucking fire ants) while my sister snoozes quietly next to me I cannot say much except that I love and adore my sister more than words can explain; but holy hell are we different.
She is the thin to my chunky, short to my tall, shy to my outgoing, no dog communication skills at all (although Herbert LOVES her) as compared to my almost eerie understanding of canine behavior, and she can irritate the hell out of me in 3 seconds flat; don’t worry, I do the same to her.
We are sisters, and I’m damned lucky to have her.
If the universe doesn’t stop kicking her in the face, it and I are going to have words.
It’s almost as if there is something in our shared DNA that clearly states, “we are fucking trying to do good things here” yet we so rarely succeed.
Ah well, time for a nap before I get up for class.
Nitenite

Very few statements my boyfriend has ever said have filled me with as much dread, but last night he told me “I’m so glad you are back; I have my girlfriend back again”. All I could think was, “wait, where’d I go?” Then I realized he was talking about my depression and that I’m slowly crawling my way back from the hole of doom. I am not out yet and some days I slide back a few crawls rather than make it forward. Because I am lucky enough to have a very supportive and communicative boyfriend I spoke to him about this and he said that he meant that I had been making progress and it made him so happy to see me functioning again. He went on to tell me that I had dealt with an inhuman amount of stress (he is not wrong) and is just thrilled that I am moving onward.

So why am I fearful? Because admitting to myself that I am moving forward makes me scared I will lose ground. I know that is silly, but it is a real feeling and I am trying like hell to deal with it. Some days I feel like a wounded banged-up pile of ground beef, and then some days I feel human and myself – sometimes those feelings change by the hour.  I used to think depression was something I was going to just get over; I know now that it is an evil bastard lying shitface living in my brain telling me that “the end is motherfucking nigh, bitch” and that the more I shrink the shitface the happier I can be.  And chances are I will have to live with the shitface forever; and I will continue to manage the symptoms.  One minute, one hour, one day, one week, and one year at a time.

Again, why am I fearful? Why did his words fill me with dread? Because I know that every single day I am going to have to fight the evil lying bastard shitface known as depression living in my brain and some days shitface might win.  What if this person, this love of mine, can’t survive another round of my depression? What if I can’t?

So. I lie. Usually by omission, but to be perfectly honest with myself I lie like a cheap rug (why is the rug always cheap in that analogy? does that make a difference in how it flops on the floor?) I have a service animal in training named Herbert. You may remember Herbert from various posts. Herbert pretty much ended up keeping me alive during the worst of my depression and when I went off the rails he kept me up and moving by performing various tasks such as nibbling my fingers to bring me out of my head and into the physical.  But then he did something else pretty darn cool, he began alerting to my blood sugars. If they are too high he sits on me.  Too low (or heading that way) he gets antsy as heck and basically annoying.  One of the lies I tell is that he “scratches my leg” when I am going low; I tell that lie because how to do you describe to someone that “he acts weird and I know what that means?”

The largest lie that I tell is that his primary purpose is that of a diabetic alert dog. Why? because it is so much easier than trying to explain to someone that you are a wee bit batshit insane and you need him to keep you from giving up on life completely athankyouverymuch. He works darn hard at being a diabetic alert dog and is at about 90% accuracy based on my training records; but I need him as a psychiatric service dog first and foremost (yes, it is a real thing that helps thousands of people. here is a site I joined that gives great information: http://www.psychdog.org/).   The reason I need him as a psychiatric service animal first and foremost is that I have a meter that tells me what my blood glucose level is…but there is no batshit insan’o’meter of which I am aware.

The other lie that keeps happening is the lie of omission; people see his “in training” patches and assume I am training him for other people’s needs.  I have helped train a few dogs in my time; it’s a decent gift I have (by gift I mean shit I studied and learned and practiced) and I often just let them assume they know what they think they know.
Sometimes, I even feel guilty because this little (50lb) brindled monster would be the perfect dog for a juvenile diabetic. He loves children like I love cake and is incredibly gentle with them and at the whopping age of 6 months old he has better manners than 90% of the trained adult dogs I have ever seen or worked with. He spends the day in the office with me without complaint or misbehavior, he has been on 4 airplanes and an extended hotel stay with no problems, and has made it through entire days of training where half of the class was trying to distract him and he ignored them.  He is, quite frankly, amazing. So I feel like a guilty lying whiny jackass when someone assumes he will be going to a juvenile diabetic.  The tiny juvenile inside me screams, “NO, MINE!!!” when I think of giving him up to someone who probably needs him more.  I am going to be selfish on this; I am not giving him away.  I really do need him.  He improves my life so much in the following ways:

• When I am traveling for work my anxiety is vastly reduced by having him with me in the hotel room. I feel safer, less alone, and calmer.
  
• You know when you are out of town you end up eating crap, then sleeping more in your hotel room?  With a dog you just cannot do that.  Well, you can eat crap but you need to give the dog some exercise because you just made him sit in a training room for 9 hours with you.  So, instead of laying there watching crappy tv you get up, you go for a long walk, you interact with the world. These things are critical to make me physically AND mentally healthier.
  

So, here’s what I am struggling with in regards to these lies:

• Dogs are people attractors. People who like dogs always want to know anything and everything about a service dog because dogs are amazing. It doesn’t help that Herbert is a puppy, freakin’ adorable, friendly, and has an expressive face. The “in training” patches usually get me out of a lot of questions regarding what he is doing but sometimes people ask cringe-worthy questions like:
  
  • Is he for you? You don’t look sick?
    
  • What is wrong with you?
    
  • I understand that having a service animal is akin to being an advocate and trainer for people to learn about service animals, but holy crap, during a bad day when I am trying like hell to remember to breathe and that the world is not actually crumbling in around me; it just feels that way, the last thing you want to do is spend 25 minutes explaining a service animal to someone or defending my need to “look sick”.  (this was just a mild rant of mine; it is a real problem that I have to deal with–but for the most part I do okay)
    
• My largest dilemma in regards to my lies is this: the stigma of major depressive disorder or any psychiatric disorder is an almost palpable thing. If you tell a stranger, co-worker, employer, or acquaintance (friends understand) that you are struggling with major depressive disorder and this dog is training to make sure you get up and out of bed in the morning as well as making sure you take your medications on time but he also has a convenient blood sugar alert going on. Well, I wouldn’t be “shunned” but I would be treated differently. My personal fears about how *I* will be treated just perpetuates the stigma and that causes me to be disappointed in myself.  That said, do I need to inform strangers of my mental/physical issues? The answer is no one should have to disclose to strangers, et al their medical or psychological problems.  But then it comes back around to dogs being an attractor for other dog lovers, and stewardship of a training program, and. and. and.
  

It’s a nasty circle, isn’t it?  I know, I have been stuck in it for a while.  Do I think lying is a good thing?  No, and you cannot convince me that it is a good thing. Do I think it is MY personal best option at the moment?  Yes, yes I do.

Obviously I could default to a “I’m sorry, I don’t discuss my medical issues with strangers” policy. And sometimes I do. But in most cases I have had that be taken as a defensive slap to the wrist and then the other party is hurt or offended. I know that their hurt is not my responsibility; but if they are coming to me from a positive place of really wanting information; I share. And during that time I try to gently remind them of the golden rules of service dog etiquette (and general good human behavior):

• it is not nice to ask a stranger about their health issues
  
  • I’m happy you don’t think I look sick; it is still not a nice statement.
    
• ALWAYS ask if you can approach/interact with a service dog BEFORE  approaching/interacting with them.
  
  • Herbert has a release command to make friends; it does not hinder his service to me in any way. Some service dogs are trained to body block to keep people away from their handler (specific example: this is common training for PTSD sufferers service animals). To interact with that dog would detract from its duties to his handler.
    

There are a bajillion more things I could share on this topic; but I’m wiped the crap out.

Love y’all,

-H.

(aka–liar)

Okay, I know I have been through a really rough time of late.  My whole world has been flipped on its butt, kicked in the kidneys, and roughed up but I survived it (thus far).  So why do I sit here crippled with anxiety?  So many many reasons and absolutely none of them good (although owing the IRS with no way to pay them is a pretty good reason).  Why am I avoiding taking the medicine I need to function? no good reasons…just avoidance.  Why am I so poor that I want to cry every single day? because I am really bad at money and no matter how hard I try to make it better it seemingly just gets worse. 

This is not a post that is going to have a happy ending.  This is just a post that contains a stream of consciousness about what I am feeling right now.  I just want to get over all the anxiety, the grief, the depression, the poverty, and most of all…the godsdamned fear.

**Deep Breath**

Keep fighting folks; I keep trying….my soul is exhausted, I feel haunted, alone, scared and broke and I keep trying. Most days I just keep fucking trying.  I just want to stop crying now please.  

Actually, shit really ain’t that wacky. This is me posting an update; a comprehensive update—not a quick one. I say that because I am fairly certain that every “update” I have ever done included me saying “quick”. Which, to be fair, is completely lame.

So. How am I? Still breathing…what the hell else y’all want? Actually, for the first time in a long time I feel mild – moderately sane. *deep exhalation* ’bout time, right?

*shrugs* I don’t know how to explain the emotional turmoil and doom-filled existence I just survived which began in January. I always wondered if losing my mind would feel like when you pop a zit…you know, hard pressure with ow. ow. ow. and then POP and a relieved sigh. Turns out that particular joy is only related to acne (holy crap, I really love popping zits…that is probably not so normal. *sigh*)

Anyway, I have learned a lot about myself of late, ready? Okay:

1. I write better in lists. *grin*
   
2. When stressed/depressed/scared/lonely/upset I withdrawal and find checking email, answering the phone, or just pretending to function to be exhausting and all I want to do is hide in my bedroom and avoid the world. This goes against everything I have always thought of myself. In public I am extroverted, exciting, animated, and feed off the energy of other people. When home I just sort of shrink into a quiet place and recharge. I am currently struggling to figure out whether recharging is healthy for me or just escaping. I really don’t know.
   
   1. During a visit to my family before starting this new job my father used the term fragile to describe me while we were talking over breakfast. Fragile. I have never used fragile to describe myself and I don’t think I like it. However, a woman in my recent training class declared that I was a rascal. Rascally is a term I really like to use as a descriptor of myself.
      
3. I had never dealt with the death of my marriage. I did not go into marriage lightly and I truly thought it would last forever. As I watched myself becoming someone I didn’t want to be and devolving into a hated cycle of behavior I knew it was time to get out. So, the paperwork was sent (for a second time) in early January and on my birthday (July 1) it was finalized. I spent this year’s birthday in bed grieving over the death of my marriage; the worst part about this grief is I didn’t know where it was coming from and I truly thought I had lost my mind. Thankfully I have a wonderful friend who spent some time with me via skype and helped me realize what the hell was wrong with me. I hope I never deceive myself like that again—the pain and horror of not knowing what was wrong with me and why I wanted to kill myself to get rid of the rubbery slimy feelings of despair and the thought that all of my hope died. This was one of the worst times in my life.
   
4. I was unemployed for the very first time in my life after the refinery closed. I hated it, but needed the break that came after the closure more than I ever needed anything in my life. The whole thing was so bad and stressful and I spent the 4 months from announcement to closure attempting to make things better for people around me and I have no idea if I succeeded. The company I worked for at the end was a very challenging one and to be perfectly honest the idea of continuing to work for them seemed horrible to me. So I avoided them and turned down their offers.
   
5. Because I found a job here. A very good job making a lot less money than I used to and I am scared crapless that I am going to be bored out of my mind. But the benefits are mindblowing. They want me here. They want my knowledge. They are willing to invest in training. I couldn’t ask for more than that but I think I will do much better when I have other people to work around. Being by myself is not so great for me.
   
6. Physically I am healthier than I have been in years; doing yoga and am carefully medicated. I take a lot of medications every day—why? Because I am diabetic, suffer from anxiety, depression, constant neuropathic pain, and just for funsies I have adult ADD. Yes, yes, we all have ADD. But I was finding myself so overwhelmed by daily tasks that I could no longer function; so that lead to (more) medication. Bright side of being medicated for ADD? I can accomplish things on a daily basis. Down side of being medicated for ADD? I can no longer hyperfocus on things (like my blog) to the exclusion of the rest of the world. The best way I can describe a hyperfocus episode is imagine an incredibly messy living room? Okay, now instead of being able to pick up the living room and make it visibly appealing I will spend 6 hours cleaning a table in the corner. That table will have been gone over with Qtips, any loose screws replaced, the paint will be touched up and the table will be perfect and beautiful. But the damn living room would still be a mess. So, you see? By being able to clean the living room I’m better able to function.
   
   1. As an addendum to this health update I have officially begun training Herbert as my service animal. He is serving a dual function as a psychiatric service animal and a diabetic alert service animal. Why? Because I do better having him with me and the little jackass sits on me when my sugars get high and scratches the fuck out of me when I start getting low. We are up to working on him getting me the phone and getting medications. But he is pretty good at it so I feel blessed to have the little butthead in my life. But the next person who says I look too healthy to have a service animal needs to be smacked—however I will continue giving the same answer of, “thank you” before moving on with my life which is enhanced by the stupid little dog that doesn’t let me stay in my room in a depressed and panicked funk nor allow my blood sugars to get too out of control. For a 35 year old woman living alone—these are not bad things.
      

So, there is my update. I could list out the horrors of the past 7 months; but I am trying very hard to move forward and not dwell on the bad. These times of non-communication have lost me some friends, and I can only understand that they were hurt by my lack of availability and move forward. I’m trying. I’m breathing. I’m not always going to be happy…but one step at a time, one breath at a time.

Love y’all.

-H.