Tag: #not quilting

Trying something different…

My normal resolution for the new year is usually something like “lose a lot of weight” or “exercise more” or “eat nothing but raw vegetables” and I mean. Sure. Yeah. Noble goals – that tend to go nowhere. Whether due to sucky life circumstances, depression, stress, being overwhelmed with the typical mental load most women my age have to deal with, that stuff never works, and I’m just left feeling like a big stupid failure.

This year, for the first time in my life, I’m going to try the exact opposite of that: I’m going to work towards feeling happy and healthy,  instead of trying to meet any concrete weight, exercise, or food goals.

I’ve already been eating more cleanly (less processed foods, more water, more produce, but no reduction in dairy, because that is a food group that majorly sparks joy) but going forward into this new year, I’m actively not going to think about my weight. I’m going to do things that make me feel good physically and mentally:

  • No more going to bed before 8pm
  • Eat lots of fruit (vegetables are great, but fruit. Omg. Apples. Mandarins. Bananas. Strawberries. Pineapple. fssssss….)
  • Walk with Ruby (hard right now, because we are entering the season of snow, ice, and (sometimes) frozen mud, but there is an effort on my part to at least chase her around the house for twenty minutes a day like a lunatic)
  • Eat a few salads a week
  • Read more books (my anti-depressants give me sanity, and I can once again sit down and focus on a book for a good hour)
  • Make time to quilt more (oh, the plans I have)
  • Continue going to therapy (I still have things to work through, and I’m probably in a good enough mental headspace to handle it on my own at this point, but I’m going to keep going because it’s nice to have a neutral third party validate my feelings and/or cheer me on when times are tough)
  • Cook two or three meals in my cast iron skillet every week (I have no words to describe how satisfying this is)

This should be doable, right?

Depression and other road blocks

It’s been over a year since I posted.

I haven’t accomplished much. I finished my poppy rail fence quilt, and a small quilt for Ruby; I made an easy Trip Around the World quilt for my mom for Christmas; I finished the top of a green quilt I was making for myself; My bff commissioned me to make her a quilt (and I’m ashamed to say, nearly a year later, it’s still a WIP).

Depression hit me like a fucking train. Until recently, when I revisited my last post, I didn’t even realize just how long the feelings of hopelessness had been with me. (By my estimates, it’s been two and a half years, and it breaks my heart to realize Ruby hasn’t really ever had a sane mother.)

I thought I could fight this alone. I’d been to therapists before. I knew what to do.

Nope.

I tried going to therapy again. The therapist I ended up with was a Trump supporter, and in my eyes, while not a bad person, definitely someone who views the world and other people differently than me. In the end, he was pretty useless.

I told myself there was something wrong with me. That therapy wouldn’t work, and I’d just have to force myself out of the depression on my own.

And then it all got so much worse.

I started to lose the ability to connect with the things that brought me joy. Like quilting. Quilting definitely went first. But then so did cooking. And reading books, watching movies, playing games. I was down to “dinner with BFF” and “playing with Ruby” as the last two things that I could actually consistently squeeze some enjoyment/joy out of, and I got scared. What if I lost those things too? I couldn’t deal with that. (Yeah. What you’re thinking? That’s exactly how I mean it.)

I tried going back to therapy. Except the therapists in this area were either completely booked, never called me back, or stood me up. A friend recommended doing 100% teletherapy with an office two hours away. I was desperate enough that I tried it.

Let me tell you – this therapist is magical.

She listened to me for 20 minutes, and then was like, “You need to go to a doctor and get X, Y, Z tests run. I’m convinced this is not 100% mental for you. If it ends up being 100% mental, we will battle it together. But we should eliminate these other things first.”

I hadn’t been to a doctor in a really long time because whenever I do go for something, they just blame my problem on my weight. So why bother going?

Therapist said I could respectfully tell any stupid doctor off and try going to different ones until I found one I liked.

Which. Okay. I could try this. For Ruby.

I lucked out on the first try. I made an appointment at a small office that was staffed only by women (because I could just not take another stupid man blaming all my problems on my weight and not taking me seriously). Woman doctor listened to me explain my symptoms and what my therapist recommended. I bawled the whole time I was explaining it because I was convinced I was going to have to prove there was something wrong with me. That it wasn’t my weight. That I really just felt like life was nothing but hopeless bullshit.

But when I stopped explaining, she just smiled and said, “You have PMDD. We can prescribe an anti-depressant to manage your symptoms. It’s going to work differently for you, since this is technically different than depression, but this is a good thing, because you’re going to have almost immediate results.”

I was doubtful. Because how could some stupid little pill make all the hopeless bullshit go away?

(It might be worth noting at this point that tests were also run to confirm nothing else was going on – I’m actually really healthy except for a vitamin D deficiency, which is an easy fix with a vitamin.)

So a week and a half after talking to Magical Therapist Woman for the first time and a few days after talking to Super Doctor Woman I started on the antidepressants (and vitamin D). Within two days, I felt like a completely different person. It was like someone flipped a switch inside my brain and was like, “HERE YOU GO! GO BE HAPPY!” and I actually could be happy?

I didn’t realize how horrible I had felt until I was slapped in the face with how wonderful it felt to not feel like hopeless garbage.

I feel like doing things again – and I can actually enjoy doing the things? It’s not like I’m forcing myself to sit down and do something to try and not be depressed. I’m excited to sit down and freaking make something. I have more patience. I feel like my empathy is returning. I don’t constantly feel like a burden to everyone.  I can sit down and concentrate on things again. (It’s kind of amazing?)

I have my sanity back. And I can’t wait to catch up with all the things I’ve missed. <3

Bad things happen on holidays

My grandfather died on Valentine’s Day in 2016. (He’d been diagnosed with cancer a year before, so we knew it was coming. But still.)

My uncle died on Easter in 2017. (This changed the entire dynamic of our family, and we have not celebrated a holiday as a family since. Four years later and this still breaks my heart.)

My father’s eyeball almost exploded about a week before Christmas in 2018. (Blood vessels behind his eye fused together, and his eye was getting too much blood at too much pressure, and it probably wouldn’t have really exploded, but when I asked a doctor they refused to say that was an impossible outcome. He’s fine now. But if he would have waited and gone to a hospital on Christmas Eve, he’d be dead. Because at this point I’m convinced that’s how it works.)

And not that my birthday is a holiday (no worries, I know I’m not that special), but my grandma died on my birthday in 2005. (I felt guilty for celebrating my birthday for years. My mom said I was crazy, but that doesn’t change the fact that my birthday is still remembered as “the day grandma died” for that side of the family. I have no hard feelings about it and the guilt is gone, but I still hate celebrating my birthday. It feels weird when anyone–with the exception of like, five people–acknowledges it at all.)

All this to say:

Today, my aunt experienced some complications from a procedure she had ten days ago. These complications included heavy bleeding, and she was pale and shaky and clammy, but she still had a five hour wait in the ER where the nurses were rude and dismissive. She’s actually still there, and part of me is getting more and more nervous.

Because nothing good happens on holidays. EVER.

Edit:

Aunt is going to be okay, but my original statement stands.