I read a fascinating article this morning on the Amish and forgiveness.

Really, it’s interesting. Go read it.

Back? Good.

First of all, I find it astounding that they are able to forgive so quickly and seemingly easily. That has to be very, very hard. But it also gives me great hope, to know that human beings are actually capable of forgiveness, even under such terrible circumstances. Maybe the human race isn’t completely doomed after all.

I also note that they separate forgiveness from grief. Because you have forgive someone, it doesn’t seem to mean that you don’t still feel grief for the loss. That’s kinda important. You can still feel pain about a situation, but it doesn’t necessarily help to feel anger as well as pain.

But forgiveness is a very hard thing. It’s something that comes up sometimes when you’re dealing with depression. Even if your depression isn’t caused by something that someone did to you, it may be caused by an inability to forgive yourself.

My depression falls into the later category. For the most part, I can get beyond things that people do to me (I do tech support. If I took everything personally my head would have exploded years ago.) but I find it far harder to forgive similar lapses in myself. After all, I did some pretty stupid stuff when I was younger, so it’s easy for me to see where other people are coming from. It’s far harder to accept stupidity from myself, after all, I should have known better, right?

Not really. But that doesn’t always stop me.

So maybe I need to take a lesson from the Amish and forgive. Forgive those who have hurt me, but also forgive myself, because I am just as deserving of my own forgiveness as anyone else.

For the past three or four years, I’ve been trying to go to the gym five days a week to walk and do weight training. Since my depression kicked in this summer, it’s been far more off than on, and for the past three weeks, I haven’t gone to the gym at all. Now I’m still trying to walk at least 20 minutes at lunch, and I do walk around a lot during the day, but this is a pretty serious decrease in exercise.

Yesterday, the nurse came by to give us physicals so we can get life insurance.

I’ve lost 3 1/2 pounds since the last time I was at the gym (which puts me 1.2 pounds away from my goal weight), my blood pressure was 98 over 60, and my pulse rate was relatively (for me) low.

This is ridiculous. I don’t need reinforcement for NOT going to the gym.

However, I’m still going to get my butt in gear and start going back, because exercise twice a day helps a good deal in fighting my depression.

But still. Although I’m glad that I’m so healthy, that wasn’t the kind of reinforcement I needed.

I have to say that reading about Elyn Saks made me feel as if my own mental struggles are nothing.

She’s a lawyer and educator who just published The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness that talks about her struggle with schizophrenia.

You can read an article on her as well.

I feel all embarrassed, reading the comments in response to my last depression post. I really wasn’t expecting any comments, I just wanted to get stuff out of my head. But thank you for the comments, I do appreciate them.

Which brings me to something else I’ve been thinking about recently–the difference between how one perceives oneself and how others perceive you.

I am pretty sure that those who knew me in high school and college would in no way recognize the person that I have become. Not only in looks (!) but in how I behave, what I believe, and who I have become.
When I was younger I was incredibly judgmental (hell, I still am, sometimes). I saw things in black and white, good and evil, and could not for the life of me understand how people could hold opinions that were so obviously wrong (i.e. different from mine.) But as I screwed up my own life, I came to understand that there wasn’t necessarily a thing such as evil, and that evil was sometimes the result of a cascade of bad decisions and poor judgment.

I also was doing my best to screw up my life. Much of it stemmed from attempting to self-medicate, but some also came from immaturity, and my inability to deal with my mental state (which circles back around to my attempts to self-medicate).

But slowly–slowly!–I started to grow up. It took me a lot longer than everyone else, but I eventually got there. I also learned better ways to deal with my depression and OCD. (First Rule: Never drink when depressed. Ever. Second Rule: Don’t drink when depressed.)

And I talked to people. And while talking people I learned to listen. And I learned that people usually have sound reasons for the opinions they hold, and that those opinions are not usually bad judgment as much as differing priorities. (Though I draw the line at GWB. Anyone who thinks he is a good president doesn’t just have different priorities–they have something seriously wrong with them.)

And I learned to think before I acted. This sounds like such a small thing, something you hear repeated all the time, but it’s something that took me years to learn. And I still have not mastered it, but I’m getting better.

And through all of this I changed from who I was to who I am now. Except that I’m still the person I was then. The person I am now still carries all the guilt of what I did then; My past colors my current perception of myself. How do you escape this? Can you ever escape this?

But here’s the funny thing. If I hadn’t screwed up so much, made so many mistakes, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I might still be the judgmental little snot I was when I was a teenager, still seeing the world in black and white. I wouldn’t have the patience I’ve gained, or the understanding that people screw up. It happens. And that they need to be forgiven.

But sometimes, what helps the most is the realization that without my past–and the many things I regret about my past–I would not be the person I am today. I would not have the life I have today. Because despite the depression an OCD, I know I am damned lucky. I have a marvelous, wonderful husband. I have a family who supports me. And I have good friends.

And really, what more could anyone need?

Okay. You’re right. I also have disposable income to buy books. See how lucky I am!

You know, that phrase never made any sense to me. As a pejorative, it works only under the assumption that “mental” is a negative. Which it isn’t. It’s positive or negative or neutral, depending upon the context, as in “mental agility” “mental illness” and “mental state”. So why would you make a word having to do with your brain function a pejorative? Is it specifically a slam against mental illness, or is it more vague and instead referring to those who use their brains?

Of course I can see both as possibly valid, considering how American society seems to value intelligence.

But that wasn’t my point when I sat down to write.
I’ve been thinking for several days about mental health and mental illness, and why it’s so difficult to admit to mental illness.

I recently talked to two professors, to let them know why I was not going to be taking classes again this fall, and I wasn’t sure when I’d be taking classes again, because I’m incapable of continuing until my mental health is more stable.

It was very difficult to have those two conversations, despite the fact that I was talking to my public health professors. Even though I was sure these professors would understand the implications of what I was saying, it was still very hard to say it.

One of the things that depression does is leave you with a huge sense of vulnerability. You assume that everything is your fault–if someone is in a bad mood, I have to figure out what I did wrong. If someone says something to me that I take the wrong way, I can sit and obsess over what I did to deserve that comment, even if the remark meant nothing to the person who said it.

So admitting to depression and mental illness is opening yourself up at a time when you’re already vulnerable. You already feel inadequate, and then you’re expected to admit that inadequacy to other people. Even if this society were accepting of mental illness, this would be a hard thing to do. It’s even harder knowing that some people will see your confession as a confession of weakness.

In essence, you are creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. You feel incapable to properly dealing with a situation, and in confessing your weakness, others then assume your lack of capability. I know that eventually I’ll be over my depression and move on with my life, but I wonder whether in confessing this weakness, I have reduced myself in the eyes of those with whom I have shared this. I will no longer be “Michelle the geek” or “Michelle the software support person” or “Michelle with the quirky sense of humor” or “Michelle who bakes awesome chocolate desserts” but will instead be classified forever in the minds of others as “Michelle, who suffers from depression, so maybe you should be careful around her.”

Perhaps they would have good reason to feel that way. Maybe depression is like breaking a vase. You can patch it back together, but it’s never quite as strong or as good as it was before it broke.

But if I’m lucky, it’s like a patchwork quilt. When the quilt wears thin in one place, you just patch it up with a new square of material, making it stronger and giving it even more character.

One of the side effects I have with anti depressants is extremely vivid dreams.

I have weird dreams anyway, but antidepressants exacerbate them.

Excerpt from last night:

Someone decided to breed miniature poodles and white rats.

They were actually kinda cute.

Scientists have identified genetic variations that affect specific neurotransmitter functions, which could explain why some patients respond to some drugs but not to others. For example, some depressed patients who have abnormally low levels of serotonin respond to S.S.R.I.’s, which relieve depression, in part, by flooding the brain with serotonin. Other depressed patients may have an abnormality in other neurotransmitters that regulate mood, like norepinephrine or dopamine, and may not respond to S.S.R.I.’s.

Considering that less than stellar luck I’ve had with antidepressants recently, that sounds like an excellent idea.

Maybe one day they’ll be able to do the same with other medications as well–I’d think it would be far easier to get a drug plan to pay for a medication if a doctor days that’s the medication that will work best for you.

Just so you don’t think I fell of the earth, I’m still here, and I’m still attempting to deal–although I’m not necessarily dealing well.

I’m still having a rough time with my medication–in fact I left a message for the doctor to call me, because I think I’m doing worse than I was when is started the meds. (Which I find amusing when I’m not being annoyed by the side effects. [Because, really, who doesn’t need a little something to make them more anxious and jittery?])

How do I know things are getting worse? Because I can hardly drag myself out of bed in the morning, and if given the choice would spend all my time hiding in the basement reading all my favorite books. But I am getting out of bed and going to work. And I am not hiding in the basement–at least not all the time. And I’m reading new books instead of my old favorites (but that’s mostly because I have so many books I haven’t read, I feel guilty picking up a book I’ve read previously. No matter how much The Phoenix Guards or Swordspoint or Pawn of Prophecy calls out to me. [Especially Phoenix Guards, because reading that means I have to read Five Hundred Years After, and then I’d have to read The Khaavren Romances, and then I’d have to read all the Vlad books, and since I have Dzur on pre-order for when it comes out in paperback, I’ll have to re-read all the Vlad books again then…(I’m sure you can understand how difficult it is.)])

So I’m dealing. I just could be dealing better.

To be honest, it’s terribly frustrating to know that in what seems to be another life, I could deal with the problems and issues that cropped up from day to day. I know I was once a person who could handle stressors–maybe not exceptionally well, but I could handle them. But that seems like something that I read about rather than something I did myself. Depression makes me feel like I’ve always been completely incompetent, so why do I bother trying. But after years of dealing with this, I’ve learned that if I take action and do something about my depression, it will eventually pass.

I just have to be patient.

I hate being patient.

In other news, now that it seems to be general knowledge (i.e they finally told my grandmother), my father starts radiation therapy next week. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a huge deal. But when he had the surgery for his prostate cancer in 1999, I was hoping not to have to deal with this again. But things are the way they are, and I simply have to accept that (since it’s not like I can actually do anything about it.)

So nothing has really changed–I’m still plodding along. But I have hope that things will get better soon.

Like maybe after I completely get over this stupid cold I seem to have picked up.

Or perhaps not.

I’m not sure how much I’m going to be posting for awhile.

I’m still having problems with my depression, and so don’t really have much to say other than things along the line of, “woe is me,” which may be amusing the first time, because it’s not like you hear the word “woe” very often, but is much less amusing on the umpteenth repetition.

So, you’ll see me when you see me. I’ve only been on the meds for two weeks, so perhaps just giving it a bit more time will help.

Went to pick up my prescription yesterday.

Cash price was $133. My cost? $110.

I am really hoping that was just me needing to meet my deductible. Though things like this are why Michael and I live under our income level. As much as one doesn’t like spending $110 out of nowhere, at least we have the money.

I tend to mull over touchy subjects for awhile, before I write about them. I didn’t used to do this, but when I started writing here five years ago, I think Erin was the only person reading, so it didn’t much matter what I said.

But now I must consider that what I write may well be read by current and future employers, which makes certain subjects even more difficult to write about than they are already.

At the top of that list is the subject of mental illness.

The Virginia Tech shootings have brought the subject of mental illness back into the spotlight, and in the most negative light possible.

Now I admit that I am lucky in that my depression and obsessive compulsive disorder are relatively mild, but despite that I have at multiple times in my life seen psychologists and psychiatrists and been on a variety of medications. And through those times I have typically feared discussing these health issues with others.

At the root of that silence is a sense of shame and embarrassment.

Consider the phrase “it’s all in your head.” Well, yes. It is all in my head. But that doesn’t mean that I can control it, no matter how hard I try. During our pre-marital counseling, we were asked whether we had a history of mental illness, when I responded yes, I suffered from depression (I was still in denial about my OCD at that point) the response was basically, “no, I meant a real mental illness.” As if depression were something I could control. As if my depression were something that did not affect my relationships and my life.

Consider the attitude most people have about mental illness. I had a direct supervisor who repeatedly referred to one of the local mental health facilities as “the nuthouse” and constantly used other disparaging terms to refer to those who suffer from mental illness.

Now, as I again consider therapy and medication to help me deal with problems that are slowly spiraling out of my control, I am afraid let people know what is happening in my life. Afraid that they will think less of me for an inability to control something that’s “all in my head.” Afraid that they’ll see me as a threat and a danger.

Which brings me to the disclosure of the mental illness of the shooter. There is now a discussion about the treatment of mental illness.

It is possible this could be a good thing–that treatment for mental illness will be easier to receive, and will be better covered by health insurance companies.

But it could also lead to a greater ostracization of those who suffer from mental illness. That mental illness will become grounds for losing your job or being kicked out of school, for the “safety” of other students or co-workers. That it will become easier to commit someone with mental illness against their will.

And that most people won’t see a problem with either of those things.

deus ex machina \DAY-us-eks-MAH-kih-nuh\ noun
: a person or thing (as in fiction or drama) that appears or is introduced suddenly and unexpectedly and provides a contrived solution to an apparently insoluble difficulty

The New Latin term “deus ex machina” is a translation of a Greek phrase and means literally “a god from a machine.” “Machine,” in this case, refers to the crane that held a god over the stage in ancient Greek and Roman drama. The practice of introducing a god at the end of a play to unravel and resolve the plot dates from at least the 5th century B.C.; Euripides (circa 484-406 B.C.) was one playwright who made frequent use of the device. Since the late 1600s, “deus ex machina” has been applied in English to unlikely saviors and improbable events that bring order out of chaos in sudden and surprising ways.

The reason today’s word is appropriate is that it’s the working title for the story I was writing. Was, because a bout of depression threw me out of it, and I haven’t been able to get back in. So here’s a reminder for me to try and get my ass in gear.

As I mentioned earlier, Michael’s Grandmother’s health is failing. In fact, that’s an optimistic way of putting it I think. She’s lost kidney function and has refused dialysis. When we traveled to see her, she was barely coherent, and spent most of our visit asleep.

As a small update, she’s been moved into a skilled nursing facility, which is a facility that’s between a hospital and a nursing home. They’re giving her 30 days to show signs of improvement, and then they’re most likely going to place her into hospice.

It’s hard, putting those words down like that. They sound cold and hard–and I suppose in a way they are. They don’t really share the details of the situation, such as how unhappy his grandmother has been since the death of her husband (Michael’s grandfather, just to be clear.)

What do you do with someone who has lost all interest in living?

Theoretically, her depression should have been treated. However, depression in the elderly often goes untreated, so this came less as a surprise and more as a disappointment. For some reason people seem to assume that the elderly should be depressed.

This is, of course, patently false. They elderly should be no more depressed than any average person. However a variety of circumstances, from failing health, to the deaths of friends and spouses, to the loss of independence, to over-medication and drug interactions, conspire to place elders in a fragile state.

And now as my grandmother has moved in with us, I wonder and fear whether I’ll miss the signs if and when they appear. I have knowledge, but that doesn’t mean I’ll know enough to take action.

It’s a hard line to walk, allowing someone to live their own life, and knowing when to take action to improve their quality of life. When someone reaches the state Michael’s grandmother has, where she no longer enjoys life, it seems cruel to take any steps to increase her life span. Yet, wasn’t it our responsibility to keep her from reaching that state in the first place?

Despite all I have read and studied and pondered, I don’t know the answers to these questions. I know what I believe, which is that life is to be valued. But I still don’t know what that means, what actions I should take in response to that belief.

Life is a funny thing. You have to laugh at it. I just don’t know what to do when someone has stopped laughing.

It’s always tempting to say something like, “the worst thing about getting sick is…”

Except that if I stop and really think about it, everything about getting sick is the worst.

So perhaps it would be better to say that the most disconcerting thing about being sick is how it brings on a minor bout of depression.

By late yesterday afternoon, I was convinced that I has screwed up everything in my life: that I had no friends, and that I should just close down my website, never attempt to write another word, etc.

Then my back started to ache and I felt the need to curl up under a quilt to get warm, and I realized that I had a fever.

It was a relief to know that taking a pain killer and curling up with a good book to ignore the voices in my head would alleviate the worst of it.

And today, beside the lingering aches, I’m feeling worlds better; ready to get out and do all the things I thought I was incapable of yesterday.

However, part of me is still considering the things my brain came up with yesterday, and wondering whether there is a grain of truth in them. Whether the feelings we get at times like that are a reality check of sorts.