I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair. Then I thought, ‘wouldn’t it be much worse if life were fair, and all the terrible things that happen to us come because we actually deserve them?’ So now I take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe.
— J. Michael Straczynski (Babylon 5 “A Late Delivery from Avalon”)

I was thinking about this quote today as I was walking. My walking partner was out, so I was listening to my mp3 player and trying not to think too much, which is when I mentally stumbled upon the remains of the above quote floating around my brain.

Then I come back to my desk to discover that Janiece has been paralleling some of my thoughts.

It’s strange, but I DO take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe. The idea that ‘things happen for a reason’ fills me with horror. The very thought of it is repugnant to me: that God would be dealing out bad things and causing people–especially innocents–to suffer. I cannot accept the existence of such a being.

But if God set things into motion and then stood back to allow us to sort things out, much the way a parent must allow a child to make their own mistakes and live their own lives? That makes sense to me. That a God exists who allows us to make our own choices, even if those choices are bad, that makes sense to me. That God allows us to OWN our choices, be they good or evil, positive or negative or even neutral.

God did not create me broken. It is simply random chance. But within that I have the choice to overcome my brokenness or not. Some days I have the strength to do so, other days I don’t. But that’s okay. I think that God accepts me on the days I am broken as much as she accepts me during the times I am able to overcome. That kind of love gives me hope.

We all make our own choices, and we must live with the results of those decisions. But we are not immutable–we can change. We have the capacity to make decisions for good instead of evil, and that act of will fills me with hope.

Every time someone chooses to do good over evil, every time we witness a small kindness given without thought of reward, every time we overcome adversity… all these things fill me with hope.

It’s okay that the universe acts with general hostility and unfairness, because this hostile universe gives us the ability to act in a positive way. And when we choose to act to make the world a better place, all acts, be they large or small, fill me with hope.

It is this hope that gives me comfort.

So, as we all know, anti-depressants have many unique and interesting side-effects. Those side effects vary from person to person and even with dosage.

One of the side-effects I have with SSRIs is vivid dreams. Extremely vivid dreams. Typically, the dreams will ramp up when I have a dosage change, and then taper off. No big deal.

Well, back in February, we dropped the dosage of Zoloft I was taking. Just by 50mg–no big deal, I thought. Except, the vivid dreams started, and still haven’t stopped. And for me, vivid dreams can be… tiring. So sometimes I’ll wake up tired.

There is actually a bigger problem with this, in that, for me, being tired is a depression trigger. I know that I need 7 to 8 hours of sleep a night, and if I get less than that–especially for several days in a row–I get depressed.

Knowing this, however, is a good thing. I don’t screw around with my sleep schedule, and have a regular routine I follow to help me sleep well. And when I started a bout of depression in the spring, I recognized I was over-tired, and a couple nights of taking Tylenol PM and sound sleep put things to rights. But that’s not a long-term solution, so the happy doctor and I have been trying to figure out what’s going on.

Yesterday, I got a blood test to check my thyroid. Results came back: perfectly normal. (Which I already suspected, since I have absolutely no other symptoms of thyroid dysfunction.)

So I’m in a bit of a catch-22: I’m tired, so that puts me on the edge of a bout of depression, but it’s possible that the anti-depressants are contributing to the exhaustion. I don’t want to go back up, because up is the max dosage, but there is no guarantee that that going back down will change anything.

Scott Lynch posted a wonderful essay on depression. Go read it.

Really, did you read it? No? Go! It’ll even open in a new tab, so you don’t have to be bothered with that meddlesome “Back” button.

First, I’m always glad when someone else writes about depression. The more people who are open about their mental health problems, the less we have to feel like freaks and failures.

Second, you’ve possibly noted that I’ve been rather quiet recently. A lot has happened in the past year or so, and it’s been gnawing at my mind and taking my energy and using it for things like, Bejeweled and Solitaire rather than anything useful.

Which leads me to the question I’ve been dealing with, which is, is this grief or depression?

The answer is, I honestly don’t know, but I think I’m going to give it some time before I decide one way or another. But in the meantime, I probably will continue to be scarce around here. I’ll try to keep up with the Wednesday Word Association and the Thursday Photo Scavenger Hunt, because I like people to stop by and say hi.

But as for anything else? I’m thinking maybe I’ll take a bit of a break for the summer. So if I’m not around much–sorry. But please stick around for Wednesday Word Association!

Great. Just great.

Painkillers make anti-depressants less effective.

Because skipping the ibuprofen during my period is totally going to make me happier…

Not sure if you read The Bloggess–she’s erratic, but generally hilarious–but she made a lovely post this morning I wanted to point out.

It’s called Coming Out and it’s about mental health and suicide and talking about your problems.

In addition to being an excellent post that should reach a lot of people, it also reminded me I haven’t made any updates about my depression in quite awhile.

Part of the reason is because I’ve been making slow, steady progress towards normalcy. I’m continuing to taper the amount of anti-depressant I’m on, and hope to eventually drop down to a low maintenance dose. And I have the anxiety drug to rely upon to keep me from going off the deep end.

But for the most part I’ve been doing OK. It’s work, but that’s fine with me, because it’s a goal I’m happy to work towards. Do I backslip? Of course I do. But I don’t let me get it down, and I try to be proactive in deal with problems. I also try to be aware of my mood and how I’m reacting. Nothing excuses snapping at Michael, but recognizing what I’ve just done and apologizing is better than nothing.

Are things perfect? No. I still can’t bring myself to write, and I still find myself falling into some of my OCD traps, but that’s OK. It is what it is.

I’ll probably continue to be spare in writing about my depression, mostly because it sometimes feels like I’m just repeating, “woe is me, wah wah wah” but that doesn’t mean it isn’t important to every once in awhile remind the world that mental health problems are common, and nothing which we should be made to be ashamed of. They are just a part of everyday life, and nothing that cannot be overcome.

Illegitimi non carborundum

Sorry. Left work early. Came home and napped. Ate dinner. Read. Back to bed.

I realized that I haven’t given you all an update on my depression recently–or much of anything else, really.

I’m no longer maxed out on Zoloft, and I’m hoping that when I go back to the doctor we’ll step it back even more. I know I need the meds, but I’d like to be on a much lower maintenance dose. Much lower.

I’m still sorting out my feelings about Grandmom moving to live with my aunt, but I think in most ways the situation is better for her there. But I miss her. And miss hearing her lecture the cats.

We’ve partially, but not completely, reclaimed her room. There are still a couple boxes of her things in her closet, and a box of Christmas stuff downstairs, but for the major transformation from Grandmom’s room to spare bedroom/sewing room has taken place. There’s still quite a bit I want to do, but it no longer feels like I’m invading her space when I go in there now, which it did for a long time.

I’m also sleeping better, which helps. I’m a morning person, and love the light earlier in the morning. I know that makes me a mutant, but I’d much rather get up early, get to work early, and then be done with work early and have more time in the evening for myself than stay up late and feel rushed and behind all day.

On the exercise front–I could be doing a whole lot better. I’m getting my 30 minutes at work, and I’m walking from work, but I’m getting very little weight training, which is not so good. But I’m trying. I really am. Especially since I haven’t gotten on a scale since before I broke my ankle, since I know I will NOT be pleased with the results.

I’m not back to writing yet–not even close–but I feel like the bits of me involved in such endeavors are slowly coming back to life. I’m taking lots of pictures, which I am hoping is another way to come sideways at the writing issue, but being “creative” in a different manner. Plus, I discovered I really love taking pictures.

The OCD portion is so-so, but it’s manifesting right now in a need to organize and reorganize, which is actually reasonable since we’re in the midst of reclaiming Grandmom’s bedroom and rearranging parts of the house. So I’m putting that to good use, and trying to channel the less helpful impulses into useful activities.

Anxiety goes up and down; weekends we care for Grandmom are a lot more stressful, but that’s because she needs a LOT more care than she did when she was here, and it makes me feel inadequate. Plus, it’s hard to see the woman who has been such a strong and guiding force in my life needing so much help. Don’t get me wrong, I am privileged to be able to give her that help, but it just doesn’t seem right, somehow.

And that’s where we are. Slowly–slowly–getting better, but it’s been a steady climb with no back tracking, so really, I call that a win.

As much as I wished that the depression was completely gone from my life, it is a slow climb back up that hill to normalcy–or at least for me an even keel. The ankle is in some ways exacerbating it, since for years I’ve used aerobic exercise to ameliorate some of the symptoms of my depression, however, I’m not yet back to the point where I was a year ago. And, to be starkly honest, these things take time.

But sometimes, I don’t do myself any favors.

One of the things I requested was an anti-anxiety medicine for when I have an anxiety attack. It’s a medicine I take only as needed, and when I have taken it, it has worked well. (Huzzah for that!) Yesterday I had an anxiety attack. But instead of taking the medicine I have, I kept thinking, “it’s not that bad right now now, maybe it will lift on it’s own. Maybe I’ll just wait it out.” And thus last night I went into a nasty tailspin.

For me, the adrenaline causes me not just to want to get up and do something, but also mentally determine WHY I am anxious.

This may sound innocent enough, except that for my brain, the answer is always the same: a detailed listing of my faults and mistakes and errors culminating in the “realization” that I’m a horrible person and if everyone doesn’t hate me, they should.

Yeah. That’s just as fun as it sounds.

So today I’m dragging myself out of that pit and resolving to TAKE THE DAMNED MEDS next time an anxiety attack hits.

It Gets Better

Because whether you’re gay or straight, it does get better.

This weekend we spent visiting my grandmother. We also had a family meeting regarding her care, and since it didn’t come up during, after the meeting I sat down and talked with my grandmother.

I told her that it was just not possible for her to come back to Morgantown to live, because I simply cannot provide her with the level of care she deserves.

For the past several months we’ve all been in a sort of limbo: she has been with my aunt while she recovers but it wasn’t clear if she would–or even could–come back to live with us in Morgantown. Physically, she has been incapable of returning here, not just because of the long car drive, but because she is currently using a wheelchair part of the time, which will never fit through the doorways in my house. And as much as she loves my house and how cozy it is, the bathroom is not handicapped accessible and has always been a problem for her.

The talk was very hard for me–I was afraid she would think that I didn’t want her to live with me anymore, but she did understand that she needs a greater level of care than she did before I broke my ankle and she broke her leg, and unfortunately, Michael and I are incapable of giving her the support and care she is receiving at my aunt’s house.

I didn’t want to have that discussion, but it was necessary and important for both her well-being and mine, and it was unfair to everyone to leave the situation unsettled and unclear.

Although I feel a sense of grief that she will not longer be living with us, and I will no longer get to see her every day, and to laugh at her when she lectured Kit, I will be seeing her on a regular basis (once or twice a month) and who knows, we might even take Kit with us during our next visit.

Unfortunate events, though potentially a source of anger and despair, have equal potential to be a source of spiritual growth.
— Dalai Lama

Jeri posted a question about Geek Women & Clothing, and my first thought was, “are you kidding me?”

Jeri’s questions were raised by this essay on Clothes & Geek Feminism, which addresses the question in a slightly different manner, but still, it bothers me.

I am who I am. I dress in a manner that makes me comfortable, and I feel makes me look approachable–after all, my job is to help people. I rarely wear make-up, because that’s who I am and it’s the way I’ve always been.

This question puts my hackles up, because I’ve spent a great deal of time getting comfortable with myself in my own skin, and I don’t see why I should have to dress in an manner as dictated by anyone just to properly classify myself as a true geek.

In my opinion, what people see when they look at me is shown as much by my projected attitude as by what I wear. My goal is to look competent, approachable, and helpful, and in my opinion, I show that through my attitude. I do not dress to conform to anyone’s ideas and attitudes of who I am, I dress to be comfortable and to do my job.

For me, the point of being a geek is taking delight in who I am and the things that make me happy. If a geeky t-shirt makes me happy, then that’s great. If a silk suit makes someone else happy, good for them.

If people think I lack “geek cred” because I dress–or fail to dress–in a specific manner, that is their problem, not mine.

That’s right, this was the big one. I’m now 40!

Does it feel any different? Oddly enough, yes. However, that is not due to my age as much as to the life changing experience of breaking my ankle and being off my feet for six very long weeks.

Several years ago I decided that my goal for my 40th birthday was to feel comfortable in my own skin–to like myself for who I am. I’d started on this goal before that (years of therapy will do that to you) but I still had to work myself up to it.

The first big hurdle was accepting my hair. Do I still sometimes wish I had more manageable hair? Of course. But it is what it is, it’s not going to change, so I learned to deal with it, and be happy with what I have.

Once I got past that, everything else seemed pretty easy in comparison.

I already had a regular exercise routine, and I continued with that routine–right up to breaking my ankle–but by taking care of myself physically, I take care of not just my physical health, but my mental health as well.

I also came to the conclusion that enjoying life was far more important that worrying about stupid stuff, such as my weight. If I want to eat a ridiculously high fat calorie laden dessert because it looks really really really delicious, then it doesn’t make sense to deny myself the occasional treat.

Of course that circles around to accepting myself for who I am. I am never going to have the skinny body I had at 18, but that’s a good thing. Because I’m not a teenager anymore and I feel far more comfortable in my curves than I did when I felt as if I was all bony elbows and knees.

Interestingly, my injury made me realize that I am in really good shape. I’ve always felt that because I don’t run or partake in more assertive forms of exercise that I’ve been cheating myself somehow. After discovering how quickly I am bouncing back from my injury I realized that what I have been doing is just fine for my–I don’t have to be able to run marathons I simply need to keep myself in shape and healthy. I’ve done that, so no more guilt about running or anything like that.

The hardest part has been accepting my screw-ups–and believing that not everything is my fault. Everyone messes up. When I do, it’s my job to own up to it and move on. It does me no good to beat myself up over what is past. I can hope that I won’t make the same mistakes, but I also know that my mouth often works faster than my brain, and so stupidity WILL occur. It just isn’t the end of the world.

The last thing I learned is that it’s okay to do things for myself. It is important to me to care for others, but I cannot do that if I’m a wreck myself.

Mind you, this doesn’t mean I think I’m perfect and done growing. Because I’m not (on both counts). But I am who I am. I accept that. I other people don’t like me–that’s their problem, not mine.

So happy birthday to me! I can’t believe I’ve made it 40 years!