So much to do, so little time!

Anxiety on the receding level means action on the mommy level. Grief is still there, depression is lurking behind (in a shadow, obviously) and anxiety still has me grinding teeth and thinking stupid thoughts while missing other thoughts of greater value, but the energy to do the things of family living is returning to our family life. Luckily, I still don't have a job, though it seems possible in the future. I keep telling friends I cannot fathom how I ever had a full-time, high-intensity job AND cared for kids and home and did all that therapy for Hannah, lived with a depressed and slow moving husband (in secret he may have been speedy, I am still not sure) and...!!!...then started on therapy for me, then spousal suicide and then more therapy for Claire, then me...then arrgghhh...then I remember that I was propped up with oxycodone from November 2010 to March 2013. And then propelled by PTSD, grief, sobriety and the need to eventually get better, then ... .... .... PRESTO! I now operate at roughly 65% and climbing of who I used to be before I married a depressed! lying! manipulative! wrongly made! sort of beautiful in a flawed but beautiful manly and deeply fucked up manly way kind of man and had children with him and eventually had all my own previous flaws and insecurities meet up with special needs! Depression of self plus spouse! Life threatened babies! Death of a parent (and beloved dog)! Life in a CAPITAL L Sense, plus regular life and fell the fuck apart. Boom. Did I mention BOOM!? So now, I figure 65% operational skills is not bad, considering. People say you need a year for grief, you need a year to get equilibrium in recovery, and obviously you need a year plus for PTSD due to its earth shattering and ass kicking nature. So sixteen months since spousal death, this is not bad, not bad at all. Except ALL. Kinda bad still, honestly, but not AS bad as before. A win!

We live to fight the good fight, and smile a little today. Knowing there are more smiles tomorrow and beyond.

In the last two weeks I have spent 40 hours or so pulling weeds, been social repeatedly on as many as four days in a row, volunteered at church, co-parented other peoples' kids as well as my own, gone to continued therapy, sorted the detritus of about the last two plus years in my homey mess and recycled or tossed quite a lot of it, and been validated for how I have cared for my daughter with a metabolic disorder and CP by people in the know who say I have done well by reducing PT and just living. I have read books to my kids and encouraged them. I have loved myself, if not fully, at least I have tried, and told myself it is OK to gain weight while I am in triple recovery, and I bought clothes for me in this size, to reconfirm my affirmation. Firm is a word that partly fits, except for when I jiggle a lot. I have prayed and meditated, though not always with feelings of peace. I have felt optimism, pessimism but less so, hope, despair (natch) but then, hope some more, belief I can truly make my journals of turmoil into a book that might help others recover from trauma and despair, doubt, and, ultimately, belief, again. We have been to the zoo, swimming lessons, the lawn mower repair shop, book club, the store (too many times to count reliably) and I almost set up the computer again to receive pix so I can catch up on holiday and event posts.

Crap, I am pooped. But also, I am having some extra coffee so I can keep going.

Are those furry black spiders with white dots dangerous? If so, I am a hero!

Because I just killed one with a handy dirty sandal (not one I was wearing) out on the hot red patio my kids play on in my back yard.  See self, you are strong! Mighty! Full of pizzazz!

This act of bravery followed me getting on a ladder to tighten a loose light bulb in the garage door opener feature, and replace the burned out bulb.

Check me out!! I am getting better!  Or at least able to face a ladder to do a simple household chore.  This may sound silly but I have had a huge fear of going more than two steps up a ladder since I got such raging PTSD, because I often felt like the world's solid nature might be yanked away at any minute and that I would fall down, likely into an abyss, but certainly off the ladder.

I am so much better that I suddenly feel bad about the state of my home and life generally and therefore make myself busy starting to do things. I only finish doing fun things with my kids and the most basic things like appointments, food, clothes for the little ones, but it is better than before. I would like to not feel bad about not suddenly being 100% myself again but instead being somewhere in the 50% range, but with such a huge step up, I'll take it and run.

Don't fear I am off somewhere relapsing, I am really off somewhere with a Swiffer cloth making ineffectual stabs at cleaning things. And pre-treating poopstains in tiny underwear. I really didn't know skidmarks went on this long.

I will be back soon with photos to prove kids with stroke and suicidal parents go hiking . . . and camping . . . and perform in the chorus of the kindergarten play, and have huge birthday celebrations and so on, and so on, and so on.

Back to bracing basics

Hannah must have just stretched or something and her wrist is kinking up a bit. We braced for so very long, and when, over the last year, and after the last brace had such fatigued fabric that it couldn't hold the stay in the palm of her hand anymore, we stopped bracing. Her OT said when her wrist didn't flex and drop her hand, as was not happening much last summer, she would do just as well without it so it wouldn't impair her volitional movements.  Happily, we stopped bracing. Suddenly Hannah recently noticed she couldn't hold a paper down with her affected hand while writing with lefty and she wanted to spend more time at OT.  We went in this week to get new ideas and I had thoughts of a new brace, and came home with two, one to help hold her hand down during school work and the other to provide a better grip on swings and playground equipment and the like. Now of course she doesn't want to wear either one, so we are back to that nasty place of trying to create a commitment to therapy after taking a break. This is not my favorite place, as it brings up all my issues of wanting to encourage her to build skills and strength and confidence and lay down neural pathways for the future, all conflicting with my desire not to ever communicate to her that she is anything other than wonderful, perfect, not broken, and not in need of fixing. This is something I will never feel I really have down.

However, in other Hannah news, communication skills are really on an upswing.  Han has fully embraced and adopted the family practice of making old songs new again, changing the lyrics to songs of interest and renown to fit the topic in one's mind.  Now "I just wanna see you ... I just wanna see you-oo, see you be brave" becomes "I just wanna see you, I just wanna see you-oo, see you be ... FART!"

Bracing.

You snarky little turd, Depression

You have a mouth like a sailor. Why do you curse like that? I see you coming but I will not fall prey to your wiles. You will not convince me of any more drama.  I see you, sneaking about, peering around the corners of my mind.  Piss off and take your demon brother Anxiety with you. I will let you in if I must but we are not going to bed. We will be business acquaintances at best.  I will not even friend you.  You may be reliable, familiar, even seductive, but this is a dance I prefer to sit out.  Ropes course?  No.  Not more than a promise of hypothetical coffee. I would rather keep it down to a polite nod to acknowledge we know one another but no longer really connect.  Take care.  Call me.  (I will consider it a butt dial).

Pop, pop, pop music!

So, what is getting me through, these days? Pop music! Everybody talk about, as in . . . and so I continue to miss Adam Ant, derailed by mental illness, but at least we now have Bruno Mars. M, anybody? I am all about inspiration these days, as I still battle the depression, the anxiety, the PTSD, recovery from addiction, death of my spouse, blah-de-blah endless blah and yuck and yet I am hanging on by embracing the beautiful, the divine, the brave, the innocence, the happy.

Right now my happy music is Brave and Happy.  Thank you pop music, just for being you.  And courtesy of Hope over at Grace in Small Things, I am adding on Mariachi music today and I will let you know how that goes (probably with horns).

If the people who live in my house will stop being ill or getting head lice or both (thank you grade school in all your hat sharing, scarf swapping, up close and personal glory) then I will return to blogging my way through the blues.  Right now I am charged with keeping up our spirits without spreading illness or despair. Those of you who know young children will correctly guess that this involves a lot of craft supplies and clean up, so you know I am otherwise occupied.

Whoever you are who Googles MCADD and lands here, please contact me if you need to talk about it.  We still have it and still find it to be the least of our worries, actually.

Goodness, that was a lot of extra

I keep hoping my energy is on an upswing, and my mood right behind that, but then it swings back down.  I don't need to tell you this, but do try to never get hit by a personal life Tsunami, because it really is an ass kicker to come back from in so so so many ways.  I am tired of not being who I used to be, tired of being tired, tired of having to lie down and read something soothing after paying a bill or taking a phone call or having a thought.

Today, I am tired by the normal!  Progress!!  Still tired by other stuff too, abnormal as it may be and always will be, but I did more this week for parenting purposes and did not 1) lose my sobriety, 2) lose my faith, or 3) actually let the house get any dirtier.  Success!  The things I did this week that were extra were making a yarn wig for Raggedy Ann (tips to follow), making a poster for my daughter to be Star of the Week at Kindergarten (turns out in my mid 40s I still can't cut out a star free hand, but now I have Google and I can find a template to use, lickety split), attend and assist at 2! class parties, decorate the front porch (I did not however, carve pumpkins, and I tell myself that PTSD means I shouldn't use a knife that sharp while I still have this shaky hands thing going on. Spilled cofffee is one thing, knicked knuckles is entirely another). And like mt depressed people who weigh too much, I ate as many Reeses PB cups as I could, and a smattering of other stuff, so of course I am tired.  Perfect for that extra hour of sleep.

Spousal suicide / PTSD/ scorecard

Number of times my arms went numb yesterday - 3
Number of times I flinched at sounds and light flashes at a kids movie Sunday - countless
Number of times my head went zingy yesterday - 3
Number of people in my family of 3 who graduated from counseling - 1 (not me)
Number of IBS events - more than I care to say
Belief that my daughter will be OK - almost 1

Today I believe I will get better, someday

Some of the craziest sounding PTSD symptoms I have involve the sensation of skittering on my feet while my mind is racing as I try to get things done.  All of the body stuff is just plain weird but certain things are so nonsensical I don't like to even describe them, so saying I feel I am skittering out of control when I just need to do an errand is the best I can do. I know and am conscious of the fact that I am not required to go one hundred miles an hour but I feel as if I should and as I think of the steps involved, to say, get groceries, I feel mounting tension and so I just stop and do less or nothing.  This explains why my house looks so bad, the do less feature, and also is part of why I seem to do nothing compared to pre-PTSD /sobriety life. I am going to check with my therapist on Thursday but I think the unease I feel that sort of paralyzes me is really about doing too much, the perfectionism trait common to addicts/alcoholics/women who work and deal with special needs kids and a million other things. All this therapy I have been getting and I just figured out I need to give myself permission to fail. Bugger.

World Mental Health Day came and went

I didn't celebrate it.  I am hanging on to my mental health as best as I can, and sometimes I think there has been a bit of healing in little fits and starts, but neither grief nor wellness follows the notorious stages as described by folks in the helping professions.

Take denial, for instance, as it applies to dealing with death. I had a boatload of denial in the weeks following my husband's suicide, but then less. However, denial comes back but not in good ways-now I feel denial that he ever lived.  My kids burst out with things like "I'm starting to forget what he looked like!" followed by tears. I feel reluctance to get rid of the last bits of paper with his handwriting in case that means he gets totally erased himself. And this from someone who is not wholly grieving his passing because I am actually quite angry with him, still. I sometimes wonder if he was really real, at all.

This is where my existential angst gets me stuck - my kids didn't exist, and then they did, and even if it kicked my butt the experience of being a parent has been amazing...yet now the other parent exists no more. Wha??? I don't get it. No wonder my head hurts and my heart aches and my hands shake. All this bursting into existence and snuffing it out leaves the pile of consciousness that us "me" dizzy with the breathtaking power of it all.

So as usual, a folk song plays in my mind, from the inestimable Cheryl Wheeler.


Life is short, but the days and nights are long
Time will heal all these wounds
Some day soon
I'll be rising I'll be strong

But now I'm loosing all my battles
Now I'm down and dropping still
And this snow's blowing through
Like some ghost
With this blue I know too well

Broken hearts keep on beating just the same
So I guess I can too
Go through these moves
Facing forward, walking straight

But now my glance keeps drifting downward
Now my feet can't find their way
And this cold's creeping in
Through my bones
Whisperin it's here to stay

I'll bide my time, like there's any other way
It moves too slow, moves too fast
It's gone and past
And stopped entirely today

I know there's light on some horizon
But I can't see so far ahead
Patience and grace, blessed is love
I'm loosin my faith
In most of that stuff those wise men said

Spousal suicide / PTSD / parenting scorecard

Compliments on how I am doing at staying sober and alive - a few

My ability to teach my kids that we can dislike what Daddy did but still love him - better than expected

My keeping an atmosphere in which they express love for Daddy - amazing

Feeling a boatload of PTSD symptoms as I deal with estate, taxes, and what to do with the cremains - better than you might think but still packing a whallop

Ability to get rid of Daddy's car and clothes - still behind the curve

Number of counseling appointments this week for the three girls who live here - 3

Number of people for whom the counselor says we are almost done - 1 (not me)

Number of times I burst into tears at memories and intrusive thoughts today - just 2

If my arms weren't numb and my hands not so shaky I would be kicking butt and taking names.

Psychology Today

A roller coaster is in my psyche! I started out tired and somewhat gloomy, got a small lift at Jazzercise, back down when I had to do a marginally official task of picking up license plates from the car dealer, back to house where I almost tacked the beginning of a nearly insurmountable paper/bills/mail sort and almost cheered up, only to go to therapy where I ended up dropping back into a psychological pit.

I imagine the good news is that the yawning gulf of despair is not a permanent condition for me, and I only flirt with wholly jumping in, or getting chased in by intrusive memories and flashbacks. I suspect it is good to not have depression that never relents, but it sure would be nice to have no depression at all.  I have known a few folks with major depression, and frankly, they are not doing all that well, if they are still alive.  What would it have looked like for me if I had gotten treatment sooner, I wonder. But with my husband's activities and suicide I don't think I had a hope to avoid PTSD this year.

PTSD is kicking my butt, literally, but some days I think I am improving.  I had no idea what PTSD was like until I had it.  I didn't know what it would be like to sometimes feel that the only part of me that has substance is my eyes looking out and that my body is insubstantial below my chin, or the opposite sensations I can get that my feet are magnetized to the ground and can't be relied on to move up or forward. The most similar feeling I've had that might make sense to someone else is when my foot twists inside a slide style sandal and I find the shoe is sideways but still on my foot and not surprisingly, I am on the verge of falling.  Another mom I know who lost her son unexpectedly and also was diagnosed with PTSD asked me if I ever felt that the world around me was made of tissue paper.  It sounds so silly to envy someone else's wacky body sensations but not being able to trust the world around me sounds somehow better than not being able to trust my body.

Today I feel better than other days, my body has only betrayed me with arm numbness and anxiety. Hooray! And today I feel my sobriety is not in question, because I went to my rehab facility and facilitated a relapse prevention group. If you want to keep it, you have to give it away, and so I did, and I feel stronger.  I almost remember actual joy, and then I remember the rest.  But 10 steps forward and 2 steps back is still 8 forward.  Basic math always wins, right? The hardest to learn was the least complicated.  Thank you, Indigo Girls. Thank you sobriety.  Thank you, God.  Thank you, interwebs, for being my therapist.

Let's talk about PTSD, let's talk about you and me

That title has a tune in my head, just so you know. You can imagine your own to fit it you don't like mine. When I was more myself, and sometimes now, I sing in my head and sometimes aloud, though you wouldn't really be happy to hear it.

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition, and no one expects a train wreck in their personal lives. That dissappointingly inadequate what to expect when you're expecting book doesn't cover special needs in the way lives are ultimately experienced, no one expects a spouse's suicide or chronic and destructive lying, and when those things happen it is rather distressing, to say the least.  Did unexpected life events come when you were unprepared, and did you feel powerless to deal? Then you have trauma.  Do you relive it, get your ass kicked by it over and over in your head and heart and body, and find yourself lost in a loop of crap? Then you may have PTSD.  I didn't feel OK about accepting that diagnosis last year before my life took a turn for the worse in February.  I thought PTSD was for Veterans, police, etc., and people would think it was bullshit if I said I couldn't function because I feared losing my child if she didn't eat, but once I had even more trauma on a whole new level of awful, and stopped medicating myself with oxycodone, now I do really know it was real PTSD before and it got bigger and badder than ever this year. Among the many things I avoid that remind me of the worst things, talking about the worst things rates pretty high up there, but dumping some out seems to be part of getting well, and if it helps any of you, then let's get better together, 'cause staying lost in a mental health mire of nightmarishness is a lousy option for any of us. Self medicating was always a poor choice and is no longer an option for me.

What I didn't know about PTSD before would fill a large academic volume, and getting to know it on a personal level, it is full of assholery and deserves a poke in the eye, just in case you wondered.  I imagine the shrinks know that it is the result of self preservation mechanisms gone awry.  Much like an allergic reaction though, when you feel anaphylaxis you really have to wonder what good histamines are in doses that can kill. I am tired of intrusive thoughts, tired of a racing heart and pounding ears, tired of my arms going numb and tingly when I feel anxious, or even when I talk on the phone about anything of any importance.  I am tired of hostage dreams, I am tired of the fear I feel when I see a car that looks like my husband's (and I know where his is as it is disabled and in my back yard but it still scares me) and I am tired of wondering when I won't be so tired of these and oh so many other things that upset my apple cart hourly.  So now you know why I stay home and watch Downton Abbey on Amazon and don't take calls and texts and emails even from the people who love me and want to help. I don't really like having to explain how sick I am almost as much as I don't like how sick I am.

Sobriety is my most joyful thing, next to my lovely girls.  Sobriety gives me hope over PTSD, oddly, even though the power triumvirate of PTSD, anxiety and depression led to my addiction.  I feel my best doing outreach at my treatment community, and the most like who I used to be, but I know ifI don't kick some PTSD butt then I won't win the war.  So, let's get crackin'.  Let's talk about PTSD and women and mothers and parents and survivors of the unimaginable.

I will be staying home for a while, not working, as I find that my energy level tanks much earlier than before, and no one will think I am sober if they see how much my hands shake.  Frankly, if people knew how busy my mind is recalling memories, avoiding memories, and keeping myself from screaming then they wouldn't think I could pay attention to much else anyhow.  So I will be back and talk about this more, here, where it is safe.  Thank you.