I found out today that one of Mark's great-nephews was killed in a car accident in Jacksonville, Florida and I actually had to think about my response. Why? Because they're part of the family who decided that I no longer existed after Mark died. In the end, decency won out and I did my usual, "My thoughts are with you" but I had to think about it. Not used to having to think about doing what's appropriate.
Gotta talk to the doctor about something for my anxiety because I found myself in a very stressful, loud, chaotic situation last night and really could have used some Ativan. I only wanted 0.5mg because I knew that would take the edge off but I had nothing. I still despise loud noises and they make me very upset.
Also speaking, or singing (which I refused to do), about last night... it's about me. I am the center of my world and my attention and if you don't like it, you're more than welcome to leave my world. Trust me when I tell you that I will not miss you.
If you want to touch me and I say no, you don't get to be all offended because it isn't about you. Remember that I'm no longer the kinder, gentler Carol who came out of Crisis Care and I'm starting to think that she was a mask I wore in order to cope and convince everyone that I was okay. My brick walls are back up and you'd best wait for an invitation before you do anything more than wave at me from across the room. There are a couple exceptions to that rule, Ms. and Mr. CV, and you both know it. (There are a few other exceptions and you'll figure out who you are as time goes on.) Most people are not exceptions to this rule. Deal with it; it isn't about you.
No bright spots today. At least not yet.
Just one thought: This coming up with something to write on a daily basis sucks. I may actually have to take a day or three off. I've also noticed I had a lot more page views when I was funny. Funny will still appear, just not all the time.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Thinking about friends
I have some of the most awesome friends a person could ever have (CV, DK, SG, and RC, to name a few), which is why I have something of a dilemma at the moment. I met someone when I was depressed and tiptoeing along that lovely cliff, who I really like. I enjoy this person's company and he/she/it makes me laugh (keeping the clues to a minimum here, folks).
So, the dilemma is this: I don't know that I want to keep this person around. I'm not entirely sure it's a good idea, which kind of confuses me because I like to keep people around who I like because they're a pretty special bunch.
So do I want this person as a friend? As an FWB? As something more? Well, not the something more because the next six months (at least) have "me" written all over them. The FWB? Well, back on the Zoloft, so there's no point in that either. <sigh> So, friends... or maybe just FB friends. Except I'm feeling an urge to unfriend this person.
I understand unfriending people when I'm isolating myself and getting ready to go right on over that cliff. I understand unfriending people who are bad for me when I'm in recovery from that ole cliff header. Wanting to unfriend someone who has been nothing but kind and who I like, is very confusing.
So, the word of the day is passive. I will not initiate any contact and will let this person to come to me. And isn't that exactly what a friend would do anyway?
Bright spot of the day: I met a new person, S, who's 18 and has decided I'm his second "mom." (Apparently he hasn't spoken to my stepson any time lately.) So, he has given himself five days to wear me down into agreeing to be his second "mom" and I have those same five days to resist. Last night's attempt ended in my saying, "Yeah, good luck with that." I imagine I'll be saying that a lot over the next five days because S has no idea the size of the task he has just undertaken.
Thought of the day: The mentally ill look like everyone else. At least until they start talking to the walls. Or start rambling on with paranoid fantasies.
So, the dilemma is this: I don't know that I want to keep this person around. I'm not entirely sure it's a good idea, which kind of confuses me because I like to keep people around who I like because they're a pretty special bunch.
So do I want this person as a friend? As an FWB? As something more? Well, not the something more because the next six months (at least) have "me" written all over them. The FWB? Well, back on the Zoloft, so there's no point in that either. <sigh> So, friends... or maybe just FB friends. Except I'm feeling an urge to unfriend this person.
I understand unfriending people when I'm isolating myself and getting ready to go right on over that cliff. I understand unfriending people who are bad for me when I'm in recovery from that ole cliff header. Wanting to unfriend someone who has been nothing but kind and who I like, is very confusing.
So, the word of the day is passive. I will not initiate any contact and will let this person to come to me. And isn't that exactly what a friend would do anyway?
Bright spot of the day: I met a new person, S, who's 18 and has decided I'm his second "mom." (Apparently he hasn't spoken to my stepson any time lately.) So, he has given himself five days to wear me down into agreeing to be his second "mom" and I have those same five days to resist. Last night's attempt ended in my saying, "Yeah, good luck with that." I imagine I'll be saying that a lot over the next five days because S has no idea the size of the task he has just undertaken.
Thought of the day: The mentally ill look like everyone else. At least until they start talking to the walls. Or start rambling on with paranoid fantasies.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
That was fast.......
I know I said I was going to be blogging more, but this is fast even for me and we all know how much I talk (even if Shawn talks more than me).
Observation: I'm at the library, surrounded by people, yet utterly alone and I'm perfectly comfortable. Yesterday morning, the anxiety was absolutely destroying me at the knitting group.
Conclusion: I'm comfortable with myself but other people seem to scare the hell out of me.
Somehow, I'm not surprised.
Observation: I'm at the library, surrounded by people, yet utterly alone and I'm perfectly comfortable. Yesterday morning, the anxiety was absolutely destroying me at the knitting group.
Conclusion: I'm comfortable with myself but other people seem to scare the hell out of me.
Somehow, I'm not surprised.
At Long Last... I have re-arrived
So I prepared a blog post last night that just turned into a DH bashing, which made me very unhappy, so I decided to re-write it. Then, because I didn't think my usual four-five pass edit would make it any less vitriolic, I canned it. Well, it's still in my notebook, but I highly doubt it will ever see the light of day.
Instead I have something else in mind... the various reactions I've been receiving to people realizing that I have major depressive disorder and, let me tell you, I have a couple of doozies.
Here goes...
We ask for help. Really, we do. And we do it in any number of ways. We isolate ourselves and wish someone would notice that we aren't around. We become barely functional and wish the people we live with would ask what's going on. We really wish someone would notice and get us to a hospital.
But sometimes nobody sees because we're just that good at covering and the people who think they know us don't have a clue (and sometimes those people seem to enjoy putting us on an emotional yo-yo). Sometimes, when we atually admit that we're off our meds, the person who sees us isolating and spiralling just doesn't care or says that it isn't his problem.
So I forgive you for that thought because I know you had it and I know you said it. I'll even pretend you're ignorant and didn't understand what it meant when I said I had gone off my Zoloft even though you knew I'd only been back on it for two months. I'm so good at pretending that I'll even ignore the fact that you've had daily dealings with someone who's mentally ill before.
The reason I can do all of that is because you actually stopped a suicide attempt by being an asshole and that sent me to the hospital to get the help I needed.
Now I just have to get off that darned Zoloft because I hate it. I despise it. Zoloft totally sucks. The psychiatrist promised me Celexa and I had to go get really sick and need my exotic antibiotics and boom! there's the Zoloft again because Celexa and antibiotics don't mix well. (Of course, this is the same doctor who heard me say I used Mirapex for my restless legs and still gave me Requip, which wasn't the right dosage and you should have heard me at the nurses' desk that night telling them that if the doctor didn't fix this, I was going to keep him awake all night too since I was going to be awake. Apparently I yelled enough to get a sleeping pill and some neurontin for the pain.) But since I was promised Celexa, I'm going to get it if I have to jump up and down and yell and scream until I'm blue in the face. Well, except I usually only do the jump up and down and yell and scream when I'm depressed and off my meds because you catch more flies with honey than you do vinegar and I've discovered I can work miracles by being sweet. (Yes, it is against my nature to be sweet but I'm good at faking it. The sweetness, that is.)
But I've gone off-topic.
When you mention that you're depressed, you get asked what you have to feel sad about or what you feel sad about. Yeah, trust me when I tell you that sad doesn't begin to cover it. Sad would be an improvement over my utter inability to move (turns out Sasha was the only reason I didn't stay in bed all day).
Then there's the people who tell you to put on your big girl panties and get on with it or they tell you to get your head out of your ass. Yeah, wish I could. I wish I didn't have a chemical imbalance in my brain, but, unfortunately, I do. And if that was all it took to get moving, I'd be halfway to Chicago by now.
Then there's the guy who actually heard me say I was suicidal and I guess he decided that thinking about someone else would fix everything and said, "How could you do that to me?" Yeah, because it's all about you. I want to hurt myself, but it's all about you. I know you wish it was all about you, but this time it gets to be all about me, unfortunately. Of course, this is also the guy who asked if I meant anything I said in my depressed state. And the answer to that would be a resounding no. (And if you didn't ask, the answer doesn't apply because I know that someone out there is going to wonder if I'm talking about him. If you have to ask, the answer is that I'm not, yeesh.)
Finally, there's the person who thinks you just do it for the attention. Seriously. Yes, I put myself through the agony of cutting my flesh open because I want a little bit of attention. That is, of course, if I even survive the attempt. It doesn't matter if I slice my wrists vertically or horizontally. Either one of them will actually get the job done. (No, this is not and never will be my method of choice, so don't worry about it. Just way too painful for me.)
I've run into all of these people over the past couple of months and the only person who has ever been able to help me in my depressed state is me. I've driven myself to the doctor, to the hospital, to where I needed to go. And that's because it turns out that I'm always conflicted about suicide. On the one hand, I don't want to live but I'm also stubborn enough to not want to die. Go away, but don't leave me alone. Hey, whatever works.
Now, on a much brighter note, I made a new hooker last night. I took someone with no self-confidence, informed her that I knew she could do it, she looked back and told me that she believed me, and she can now crochet. It was such a joy to see her calm down by handling the yarn and the hook and to watch her self-confidence build with every stitch. But the best part was when she sat down, looked at the yarn, and called it string. She had the lingo down before she even started.
Instead I have something else in mind... the various reactions I've been receiving to people realizing that I have major depressive disorder and, let me tell you, I have a couple of doozies.
Here goes...
We ask for help. Really, we do. And we do it in any number of ways. We isolate ourselves and wish someone would notice that we aren't around. We become barely functional and wish the people we live with would ask what's going on. We really wish someone would notice and get us to a hospital.
But sometimes nobody sees because we're just that good at covering and the people who think they know us don't have a clue (and sometimes those people seem to enjoy putting us on an emotional yo-yo). Sometimes, when we atually admit that we're off our meds, the person who sees us isolating and spiralling just doesn't care or says that it isn't his problem.
So I forgive you for that thought because I know you had it and I know you said it. I'll even pretend you're ignorant and didn't understand what it meant when I said I had gone off my Zoloft even though you knew I'd only been back on it for two months. I'm so good at pretending that I'll even ignore the fact that you've had daily dealings with someone who's mentally ill before.
The reason I can do all of that is because you actually stopped a suicide attempt by being an asshole and that sent me to the hospital to get the help I needed.
Now I just have to get off that darned Zoloft because I hate it. I despise it. Zoloft totally sucks. The psychiatrist promised me Celexa and I had to go get really sick and need my exotic antibiotics and boom! there's the Zoloft again because Celexa and antibiotics don't mix well. (Of course, this is the same doctor who heard me say I used Mirapex for my restless legs and still gave me Requip, which wasn't the right dosage and you should have heard me at the nurses' desk that night telling them that if the doctor didn't fix this, I was going to keep him awake all night too since I was going to be awake. Apparently I yelled enough to get a sleeping pill and some neurontin for the pain.) But since I was promised Celexa, I'm going to get it if I have to jump up and down and yell and scream until I'm blue in the face. Well, except I usually only do the jump up and down and yell and scream when I'm depressed and off my meds because you catch more flies with honey than you do vinegar and I've discovered I can work miracles by being sweet. (Yes, it is against my nature to be sweet but I'm good at faking it. The sweetness, that is.)
But I've gone off-topic.
When you mention that you're depressed, you get asked what you have to feel sad about or what you feel sad about. Yeah, trust me when I tell you that sad doesn't begin to cover it. Sad would be an improvement over my utter inability to move (turns out Sasha was the only reason I didn't stay in bed all day).
Then there's the people who tell you to put on your big girl panties and get on with it or they tell you to get your head out of your ass. Yeah, wish I could. I wish I didn't have a chemical imbalance in my brain, but, unfortunately, I do. And if that was all it took to get moving, I'd be halfway to Chicago by now.
Then there's the guy who actually heard me say I was suicidal and I guess he decided that thinking about someone else would fix everything and said, "How could you do that to me?" Yeah, because it's all about you. I want to hurt myself, but it's all about you. I know you wish it was all about you, but this time it gets to be all about me, unfortunately. Of course, this is also the guy who asked if I meant anything I said in my depressed state. And the answer to that would be a resounding no. (And if you didn't ask, the answer doesn't apply because I know that someone out there is going to wonder if I'm talking about him. If you have to ask, the answer is that I'm not, yeesh.)
Finally, there's the person who thinks you just do it for the attention. Seriously. Yes, I put myself through the agony of cutting my flesh open because I want a little bit of attention. That is, of course, if I even survive the attempt. It doesn't matter if I slice my wrists vertically or horizontally. Either one of them will actually get the job done. (No, this is not and never will be my method of choice, so don't worry about it. Just way too painful for me.)
I've run into all of these people over the past couple of months and the only person who has ever been able to help me in my depressed state is me. I've driven myself to the doctor, to the hospital, to where I needed to go. And that's because it turns out that I'm always conflicted about suicide. On the one hand, I don't want to live but I'm also stubborn enough to not want to die. Go away, but don't leave me alone. Hey, whatever works.
Now, on a much brighter note, I made a new hooker last night. I took someone with no self-confidence, informed her that I knew she could do it, she looked back and told me that she believed me, and she can now crochet. It was such a joy to see her calm down by handling the yarn and the hook and to watch her self-confidence build with every stitch. But the best part was when she sat down, looked at the yarn, and called it string. She had the lingo down before she even started.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
I'm filled with arcane knowledge
And now I have a whole new group of people to share it with... except they seem to think I'm a raw newbie who just learned how to knit. Ummmm..... no.
First, love that the new LYS is only 4.5 blocks away. As is a grocery store, coffee shop, sushi restaurant, ice cream place, italian dessert place, etc. That means I'm doing lots and lots of walking and I'm feeling it in my left knee, which isn't hurting nearly as much.
The LYS has three open knit times: Fridays at 10:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m. and Sundays at 3 p.m.
I've tried Fridays at 10:30 twice, haven't tried 6:30 at all, and I'm turning into a regular on Sundays.
My one complaint about the new LYS is that that they don't carry roving. <sigh> Oh, well, just means I have to hit Etsy, right? (When I work through all the fiber I already have.) But what it does mean is that I really do have a lot of that arcane knowledge. We all know how I am the keeper of the most obscure, strange things that anyone could possibly know, right? Name the wheel and I probably know who makes it because I'm strange like that. Ask me about a Russian join... ask me anything arcane about knitting... really, just ask.
Last Friday morning, one of the people who doesn't talk to me... oh, wait, that's pretty much everyone... (Just think of all the snark they're missing out on but at least they provide good blog fodder.) One of the women starts talking about wanting to learn how to spin. Well, right up my alley, right? I suggest she start with a drop spindle because it's really easy to learn how to park and draft and that she really needs to do it every day for about a month to get the muscle memory. And I receive a patronizing smile and comment and she turns back to the person with whom she was speaking, who, btw, took a spinning class but can't spin because she didn't do the spin every single day thing... She talks wheels, I mention I have a Matchless... she asks about a Ladybug, I tell her it's made by Schacht... see? arcane knowledge... I make it very clear that I can spin (notice I haven't mentioned a proficiency level)... and each time, I get the patronizing smile and comment and they turn back to each other.
Ummm... why are you asking and making comments if you don't want answers? I'm making it clear I have knowledge and instead of taking the opportunity to maybe include me in the conversation, it's being made very clear that I'm on the outside, looking in. Harumph. Your loss, bitch.
Oh, wait, I'm sorry... I just insulted all the babies in total control of themselves. So sorry.
On the other hand, the Sunday group reminds me of the Monday Panera group. Friendly, welcoming, very much the "Hi, I'm Carol, who are you?" that I'm used to.
Never thought I'd think people in Northern Virginia were friendlier than people in the Midwest.
First, love that the new LYS is only 4.5 blocks away. As is a grocery store, coffee shop, sushi restaurant, ice cream place, italian dessert place, etc. That means I'm doing lots and lots of walking and I'm feeling it in my left knee, which isn't hurting nearly as much.
The LYS has three open knit times: Fridays at 10:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m. and Sundays at 3 p.m.
I've tried Fridays at 10:30 twice, haven't tried 6:30 at all, and I'm turning into a regular on Sundays.
My one complaint about the new LYS is that that they don't carry roving. <sigh> Oh, well, just means I have to hit Etsy, right? (When I work through all the fiber I already have.) But what it does mean is that I really do have a lot of that arcane knowledge. We all know how I am the keeper of the most obscure, strange things that anyone could possibly know, right? Name the wheel and I probably know who makes it because I'm strange like that. Ask me about a Russian join... ask me anything arcane about knitting... really, just ask.
Last Friday morning, one of the people who doesn't talk to me... oh, wait, that's pretty much everyone... (Just think of all the snark they're missing out on but at least they provide good blog fodder.) One of the women starts talking about wanting to learn how to spin. Well, right up my alley, right? I suggest she start with a drop spindle because it's really easy to learn how to park and draft and that she really needs to do it every day for about a month to get the muscle memory. And I receive a patronizing smile and comment and she turns back to the person with whom she was speaking, who, btw, took a spinning class but can't spin because she didn't do the spin every single day thing... She talks wheels, I mention I have a Matchless... she asks about a Ladybug, I tell her it's made by Schacht... see? arcane knowledge... I make it very clear that I can spin (notice I haven't mentioned a proficiency level)... and each time, I get the patronizing smile and comment and they turn back to each other.
Ummm... why are you asking and making comments if you don't want answers? I'm making it clear I have knowledge and instead of taking the opportunity to maybe include me in the conversation, it's being made very clear that I'm on the outside, looking in. Harumph. Your loss, bitch.
Oh, wait, I'm sorry... I just insulted all the babies in total control of themselves. So sorry.
On the other hand, the Sunday group reminds me of the Monday Panera group. Friendly, welcoming, very much the "Hi, I'm Carol, who are you?" that I'm used to.
Never thought I'd think people in Northern Virginia were friendlier than people in the Midwest.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Question of the day
So J is still walking around with multiple dpns in her hat, and one of the needles she's using is a circular one. I just don't understand.
Did you know that if you google "invisible cast on," the majority of the links refer to a provisional cast on?
And, finally... I took CV's Clapotis to knitting last night where we had a couple of newbies. And as one of them, CO, was just oohing and aaahing over the Clapotis, I heard a question that I'd never heard before. "Is there a video that shows me how to drop a stitch?" Now, that was the actual question, although it was phrased as CO was fondling the dropped stitches and the phrasing was asking if there was a video showing how to make those huge ladders that make the Clapotis the beautiful thing that she is. Me being me and not in the mood to suffer anyone gladly, I stated that there were 15,000-20,000 of them out there and if it was that hard, there wouldn't be nearly as many of them. So now CO will be all paranoid if she can't figure out how to drop a stitch.
Eh, such is life.
Did you know that if you google "invisible cast on," the majority of the links refer to a provisional cast on?
And, finally... I took CV's Clapotis to knitting last night where we had a couple of newbies. And as one of them, CO, was just oohing and aaahing over the Clapotis, I heard a question that I'd never heard before. "Is there a video that shows me how to drop a stitch?" Now, that was the actual question, although it was phrased as CO was fondling the dropped stitches and the phrasing was asking if there was a video showing how to make those huge ladders that make the Clapotis the beautiful thing that she is. Me being me and not in the mood to suffer anyone gladly, I stated that there were 15,000-20,000 of them out there and if it was that hard, there wouldn't be nearly as many of them. So now CO will be all paranoid if she can't figure out how to drop a stitch.
Eh, such is life.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Monday night knitting
I really should behave myself here, but it's me so I won't.
There were two new people at knitting this past Monday, J & D. J is not a new knitter, but she's a tad... ummm... off. Instead of putting her project onto a circular needle when there were enough stitches, she just added in another DPN. Now, that's all well and good... but... when one of the needles you're using IS a circular and you've got five or so DPNs hanging in the project, I'd think it would be obvious, especially since those DPNs were pretty loaded up with stitches.
Then there's D, who took up knitting after breaking up with her boyfriend. She needed a substitute for him, which probably means she'll dump knitting as soon as she finds a new boyfriend. So there the poor child is, wielding 14-inch metal straights for a 20-stitch scarf. And completely did not get the idea of circulars. If she drops a needle, she could lose the whole scarf... so I handed her my luscious knitting (Lisa Souza Cashmere Silk) on circs and told her to drop one of the needles. You could see the fear on her face that she was going to lose some of my stitches. In fact, I even pulled out my usual line of "You cannot possibly screw it up so badly that I cannot fix it." She didn't believe me. When I finally got her to drop one end of my circulars, the look of wonder on her face was a sight to see.
It was a tad strange to see newbies questioning my abilities, but then again, they also didn't want to fondle my yarn. Poor, broken newbies.
And then there was an orphan!!! She was running around the Panera, screeching at the top of her lungs and I hauled out Mark's old line of "It must be an orphan because children with parents don't act like that." I don't know if they heard me or not, but, suddenly, there was a parent (both of them were actually present) chasing after the child, who was only a couple years old and really needed some very close supervision. Then again, why wasn't the child home in bed at 8:30?
Now I know why I never had children. Oh, wait, my children wouldn't have behaved like that.
There were two new people at knitting this past Monday, J & D. J is not a new knitter, but she's a tad... ummm... off. Instead of putting her project onto a circular needle when there were enough stitches, she just added in another DPN. Now, that's all well and good... but... when one of the needles you're using IS a circular and you've got five or so DPNs hanging in the project, I'd think it would be obvious, especially since those DPNs were pretty loaded up with stitches.
Then there's D, who took up knitting after breaking up with her boyfriend. She needed a substitute for him, which probably means she'll dump knitting as soon as she finds a new boyfriend. So there the poor child is, wielding 14-inch metal straights for a 20-stitch scarf. And completely did not get the idea of circulars. If she drops a needle, she could lose the whole scarf... so I handed her my luscious knitting (Lisa Souza Cashmere Silk) on circs and told her to drop one of the needles. You could see the fear on her face that she was going to lose some of my stitches. In fact, I even pulled out my usual line of "You cannot possibly screw it up so badly that I cannot fix it." She didn't believe me. When I finally got her to drop one end of my circulars, the look of wonder on her face was a sight to see.
It was a tad strange to see newbies questioning my abilities, but then again, they also didn't want to fondle my yarn. Poor, broken newbies.
And then there was an orphan!!! She was running around the Panera, screeching at the top of her lungs and I hauled out Mark's old line of "It must be an orphan because children with parents don't act like that." I don't know if they heard me or not, but, suddenly, there was a parent (both of them were actually present) chasing after the child, who was only a couple years old and really needed some very close supervision. Then again, why wasn't the child home in bed at 8:30?
Now I know why I never had children. Oh, wait, my children wouldn't have behaved like that.
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