Didn't work for Black Beauty ... and it doesn't work for me, either.

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You know you missed your meds when …

1. You burst into tears at the commercial for Alzheimer's medication.
   
2. You burst into tears at the teaser (the story, too, but you start with the teaser) for the story about the Biden's new puppy
   
3. You burst into tears at the photos of Caroline Kennedy and her parents
   
4. It's Monday.
   

I've got a nasty habit of missing a dose over the weekend – all it takes is a change in my routine to throw my whole little world into a cocked hat – so it's not a complete surprise to be a little "off" on a Monday. But yesterday was special, and it turned into a classic object lesson in not doing what Jennifer Loudon writes in Comfort Queen: "I can name what I am feeling and notice it, without trying to change it and without getting caught up in the story that goes along with it."

The child celebrated her 10^th birthday yesterday. I'd already had the meltdown this summer in group when I realized that she's halfway through her life at home and basically, her life is irrevocably messed up and there's no recovering from it now (and people think depressed folk don't have a grasp on reality!) So this particular meltdown included a little of that and a dollop of The Way Things Should Have Been, especially when her father came over with a cake and we all sat down in a very civilized, modern, progressive fashion and had coffee and cake and conversation. Add a soupçon of How Could You Leave Us the Way You Did and It Was NOT Supposed To Be This Way and you've got a pretty good recipe for poking one's depression with a stick. Not to mention getting caught up in the story that goes along with the feelings.

As long as I was wandering up and down these aisles anyway, I stopped to inspect a display of All The Things I Had Growing Up That My Daughter Will Never Have Because I Am A Single Parent, poked through an array of The Wonderful Birthdays My Mother Always Made For Me Which Were All Nicer Birthdays Than I Make for My Daughter, and picked up some I Grew Up In A Clean Lovely House and She's Growing Up In A Pigsty, since I was running low.

I can see where "the story that goes along with it" is really what's getting me into trouble – or at the very least, making things worse. The Alzheimers commercial reminds me that I don't have any idea yet what to get my father for Christmas, and does my inability to think of anything he might want or need or enjoy mean I'm giving up on him?

The Biden's new puppy reminds me that my 15 ½ year old poodle is has just started having some bad days, physically and mentally.

Pictures of Caroline Kennedy and Camelot make me think of families with two parents, dreams of the way things could be, and the way those dreams end, a woman alone with all her family gone, the dreams dead … oh you name it, I've got a story to go with it!

But Jennifer Loudon's comment resonated with me. It's nothing my poor beleaguered therapist hasn't been trying to communicate to me for months, but somehow … I got a little glimmer of understanding this time. Here is the rest of it: "…when fear and overwhelm come to visit, I can choose to put my attention on the feelings rather than the self-talk that accompanies the feelings. I can name what I am feeling and notice it, without trying to change it and without getting caught up in the story that goes along with it.

The combination of the weekend's snow and the looming holidays are absolutely engendering "fear and overwhelm." Yesterday there was no school and no day care, but of course, I had to be at work. I'm worried about shoveling out and the leaky windows and the fuel oil tank without a gauge and the bills to pay and the gifts to buy and the ideas for perfect, thoughtful gifts that I don't have. I'm worried about the two - no, three; no, is it four? doctor's appointments I haven't made because it's just too much for me right now. I'm worried about the handwork piece I need to block, mat and frame for a going-away party tomorrow and treats I should have gotten for my daughter's class and food for this party tomorrow. And how will I juggle everything I have to do at work to be ready to leave for a week and a half with everything I have to do AT HOME to be ready to leave, not to mention I have to pick up my prescription and get gifts somehow and sit down and figure out which bills I can pay and ….

OK – stop. Breathe. STOP. I am feeling afraid and overwhelmed. Period. No story needed. Right now I will proof this posting, make a little supper, contemplate a small floral embellishment to the embroidery if I feel like it, watch NCIS in ten minutes, get to sleep at a reasonable time and prepare to follow my therapist's Prime Directive: breathe … show up … do what's in front of you.

The journey continues …

Today would have been ...

... my 23rd anniversary.  Marriage #1, that is.

Not sure how I feel about that.

Other than sad.

Survived.

It's intermission.

Our show was third of four, so I am DONE for the evening.

There will be time for post-mortems later; for the time being, all I know is that I survived my ten minutes on stage without screaming, crying, or throwing up, and since those are my default fall-back positions ... that's pretty good.

Anxiety Dreams: Greatest Hits

I was exhausted last night; didn't think I would have any problem getting to sleep.  And I didn't, so not only did the anxiety dreams surprise me, their breadth and scope did, too.

What a retrospective of almost everything: dogs (one of Melvie's eyes was shut and when I went to clean it it was matted with blood and pus), Felix, a lake house (kind of like his cabin) my daughter and I were ostensibly buying to replace the camper (a hand-written note by the absent owner said the price was $600,000 firm), the new Development Director at the station (who is from Finland; there were lots of references to Finland for some reason), sex, alcohol, cell phones (yes, I have a new one), rural highways (2?) and my inability to signal my phone number by holding up the correct number of fingers for each digit.

I made a special point of remembering to take my medication today.

Today is "The Chicken Hat Plays," a strange and fascinating way, devised by my ffriend Brian, to incite anxiety dreams in writers, directors and actors.  Writers got their "who," "what" and "where" prompts last night and spent all night writing; this morning at 8:00, directors drews scripts and actors out of hats and it's off to the races.  Shows will all be performed tonight beginning at 7pm.

I haven't done a show since 1993; which probably explains why doing my index cards kept bringing back memories of Karen's kitchen table.

I think I'm memorized; am trying to walk the line now between being under-rehearsed and making it tired.  We have our blockingg rehearsal in the actual SPACE in an hour ... but I think I will go and look through my cards some more and drink some more coffee and hope for the best. 

I didn't have any "forget your lines," "on the air without copy" or "showing up somewhere naked" dreams last night; hope that's not in store for me live in front of an audience tonight.

Mindfulness and Bullheadedness …

It's pretty simple, really. All I've had to remember in the last five, almost six years since my gastric bypass surgery is go easy on the ranch dressing, no more than a taste of ice cream, and don't schnobble when you bake.

Do. Not. Schnobble. When. You. Bake.

Or you will regret it.

Eating the wrong thing is like depression on speed: you want to die RIGHT NOW instead of sometime, eventually … you lie on the couch praying for death until the dry heaves commence. 'Nuf said.

I made peanut butter bars for Nora last night.

I had to follow up Saturday night's debacle with a phone call on Sunday, and when that conversation was cut short by the vagaries of Wisconsin's cell phone service, followed up the follow up with a message … and then another yesterday.

I suspect Steve is learning something I learned a long time ago: it's easier to be angry than hurt.

At any rate … in the wake of yesterday's bullheadedness … every muscle between my lower back and my ribcage is screaming with outrage … and that other muscle in my chest is letting me know I abused it again, too.

I'll make sure to hum a few bars of "My Way" while I'm hobbling around today …

Digging in my heels …

It should come as a surprise to no one (particularly my therapist and my father) that I can be a stubborn cuss when I choose to be. I don't think of myself as stubborn, of course; I think of myself as an eminently reasonable person with an unassailable grasp of reality. Which is neither here nor there; the point is, after eight years of stonewalling … it seems a few things might be sinking in.

For the last eight years, almost everyone I know has been telling me to get involved in some volunteer activities that I am passionate about (either the cause or the activity itself). For eight years, I have been resisting. After all, I am a single parent, can't do anything because I have no money and a strange schedule and sole responsibility 24/7/365 for my daughter and nobody likes me and everybody hates me and I guess I'll go eat worms. I plan to go to work and come home and sit in my chair and wonder why the universe doesn't send me friends and lovers and acclaim, and mope when they don't show up. Which, I still maintain, is not an altogether bad plan.

However, the universe has conspired against me. It started with some ideas for a blog I could write for the local humane society. Then our new station manager announced that each staff person would need to select an area non-profit that they were passionate about (her words) and help marshal the resources of the station to assist that non-profit. Before I knew it, I was coordinating an on-air and web campaign for the new shelter they're hoping to open in February, and stalking the group's executive director, leaping out at him from unexpected places trying to get him to look at my "media plans."

About that time, one of my best friends from high school showed up as our church's interim minister. As if a good friend who's going to be in town for two years isn't enough, as if a standing coffee/lunch/ginger-lime- arugula-tea date every Monday at 1:15pm isn't something to look forward too, she's asked me to help her set up her new blog. And since just about anything that lets me fool with computers and pick on other people's spelling makes me happy, this has been a lovely addition to my life. Now my Monday coffee with Gail and my Friday coffee with Jeff make the perfect Oreo -- with the creamy filling of Wednesday group.

The final Bronx cheer arrived in a bizarre confluence of events involving The Child's Father, weekend arrangements, Thanksgiving and my indefatigable friend Brian. Brian has been extending invitations for years to participate in a unique form of theatrical torture called "The Chicken Hat Plays." Saturday, eight directors and a bunch of actors show up, draw scripts and their actors' names out of hats, rehearse all day and perform all eight shows at 7pm that night. So after a 15 year absence from the stage … I'm gonna go back – for twelve hours.

So despite my best efforts, I find myself authoring three blogs (including one of the Ten Best Mental Health Blogs on the Web, not that I'm excited about THAT or anything), assisting with another and plotting my next, just as soon as I can catch Jim in an unguarded moment at Cub Foods. Or his doctor's office. I'm thinking about all the cool things we could do at the station to help the humane society, and I'm feeling an energy and excitement about work I haven't in a while. I still don't have a lot of people to talk to, but I have standing dates with two good friends every week and a chance to hang with the funniest group of depressed people I've ever met in between. And although I won't be doing the full-fledged production of "Hedda Gabler" I used to fantasize about, I'm gonna hang with theater people again and put on a show. Volunteering with causes and activities I'm passionate about and which used to give me joy back in my old life … contributions I can make working from home … the regular delight of time with old and new friends….

Brings to mind the old story of the little boy who dived gleefully into the pile of manure shouting "I know there's a pony in here somewhere!"

As a matter of fact, my saddle is downstairs, resting on a makeshift saddle rack of wedding-dress boxes (that's right, plural). That's right; I did used to ride, didn't I ….