 |
| L-R: Winston, Weilan, Rosie |
Dogs. They drive you nuts, they keep you sane.
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
Howling into the ether
Bluntly, it has been a tiring, difficult time. The ME/CFS has decided to go co-morbid with fibromyalgia. Strains in marriage from poor coping mechanisms learned in childhood (on both sides. Couples counselling and concerted efforts and we're back on track - but still...). Stresses from work. Dementia crumbling down my mother-in-law and the huge stress that has put on all her children. An unexpected trigger that pushed me into panic attacks, minor self-harm, obsessive thinking and a period of severe depression - probably as bad as I've ever had.
Depression has been sitting heavily on me and there has been medication, time off work and EMDR sessions with the psychologist. Nothing quite like sitting with your very worst emotional memories.
Exhausting and emotionally draining. Bibiliotherapy in the form of different texts (some extremely confronting, possible only in small doses with my head in the right place - else I spiral downwards yet again), and also much fiction. Because I keep coming back to the fact that all writing is about the human condition, and I'm driven by the need to understand, so I'm going through stories that deal with abandonment, with not feeling good enough despite all evidence to the contrary, with learning how to interact with others, with redemption, with change, with growth. So I am (painfully and) slowly teasing out past and present behaviours and patterns in the hope that next time depression bites (and it will), it will not be as savage, nor take as long to dislodge.
Depression has been sitting heavily on me and there has been medication, time off work and EMDR sessions with the psychologist. Nothing quite like sitting with your very worst emotional memories.
Fuseli's The Nightmare, via Wikipedia
Exhausting and emotionally draining. Bibiliotherapy in the form of different texts (some extremely confronting, possible only in small doses with my head in the right place - else I spiral downwards yet again), and also much fiction. Because I keep coming back to the fact that all writing is about the human condition, and I'm driven by the need to understand, so I'm going through stories that deal with abandonment, with not feeling good enough despite all evidence to the contrary, with learning how to interact with others, with redemption, with change, with growth. So I am (painfully and) slowly teasing out past and present behaviours and patterns in the hope that next time depression bites (and it will), it will not be as savage, nor take as long to dislodge.
Shifting (EMDR)
The transformation
takes time.
It’s not smooth,
or simple, or logical,
rather,
turbulence as
memories (forms) are consciously revisited
examined
felt.
Then awareness of
a slow settling
(changing sinews
and muscles)
as basic
structures re-form.
No shape shifts
without structural change.
Friday, June 1, 2018
Depression
Self evident statement - depression is bleak and horrible and painful.
Possibly not so self-evident - the worst of this particular bout has passed, as I'm able to start writing again. And the voice that tells me that being dead is preferable is once again quiet in the background rather than yelling constantly in the forefront of my mind.
The last couple of years have been hard. There's been a lot of self-examination, under the guidance of my psychologist. There has been EMDR therapy, which was devastating at the time, but ultimately helpful (do you really want to sit with your worst emotional memories? Yeah, thought not). Untold amounts of self-loathing and pain (actualising it provides temporary relief). Rather a lot of crying. Far too much pulling back from everyone because it was too much effort, unable to articulate the pain, unable to think I was worth caring about. Which means, yes, there was relationship counselling as well. It was oddly easier to talk about problems with a mediator to keep us on track.
Side comment - good therapists (of all sorts) are worth their weight in musgravites. Huge thank you to my people. As are friends who check in on you. You've help keep me going. As is someone who is willing to work on a relationship, and help their partner manage severe depression, fibromyalgia and ME/CFS, whilst also doing a stressful job and being responsible for a mother with dementia. Love you, babe.
A bit more family history found. It was surprisingly helpful to be able to consider my family tree and find some of the depressives, those who attempted suicide and those who were successful at it. It's not just me. There is generational trauma, and C-PTSD, and an increasingly crazy and intolerant world (lots of advances, but still a lot of pressure to meet societal norms).
Getting the dosage of my meds right (and getting the right meds). Much better options than there were 35 years ago when I should have first been prescribed them.
Drawing a line on this, most recent, bout of depression has meant an emergency plan for next time it descends (saved to our home NAS, shared data drive, my folder). It's also meant the first tattoo in over 20 years - simple line work depicting moon phases - an elemental image to remind me "this too shall pass", grounding me.
Possibly not so self-evident - the worst of this particular bout has passed, as I'm able to start writing again. And the voice that tells me that being dead is preferable is once again quiet in the background rather than yelling constantly in the forefront of my mind.
The last couple of years have been hard. There's been a lot of self-examination, under the guidance of my psychologist. There has been EMDR therapy, which was devastating at the time, but ultimately helpful (do you really want to sit with your worst emotional memories? Yeah, thought not). Untold amounts of self-loathing and pain (actualising it provides temporary relief). Rather a lot of crying. Far too much pulling back from everyone because it was too much effort, unable to articulate the pain, unable to think I was worth caring about. Which means, yes, there was relationship counselling as well. It was oddly easier to talk about problems with a mediator to keep us on track.
Side comment - good therapists (of all sorts) are worth their weight in musgravites. Huge thank you to my people. As are friends who check in on you. You've help keep me going. As is someone who is willing to work on a relationship, and help their partner manage severe depression, fibromyalgia and ME/CFS, whilst also doing a stressful job and being responsible for a mother with dementia. Love you, babe.
A bit more family history found. It was surprisingly helpful to be able to consider my family tree and find some of the depressives, those who attempted suicide and those who were successful at it. It's not just me. There is generational trauma, and C-PTSD, and an increasingly crazy and intolerant world (lots of advances, but still a lot of pressure to meet societal norms).
Getting the dosage of my meds right (and getting the right meds). Much better options than there were 35 years ago when I should have first been prescribed them.
Drawing a line on this, most recent, bout of depression has meant an emergency plan for next time it descends (saved to our home NAS, shared data drive, my folder). It's also meant the first tattoo in over 20 years - simple line work depicting moon phases - an elemental image to remind me "this too shall pass", grounding me.
Thursday, January 4, 2018
e.e cummings
silently if, out of not knowable
night’s utmost nothing, wanders a little guess
(only which is this world) more of my life does
not leap than with the mystery your smile
sings or if (spiraling as luminous
they climb oblivion) voices who are dreams,
less into heaven certainly earth swims
than each my deeper death becomes your kiss
losing through you what seemed myself;i find
selves unimaginably mine;beyond
sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears
yours is the light by which my spirit’s born:
yours is the darkness of my soul’s return
–you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars
night’s utmost nothing, wanders a little guess
(only which is this world) more of my life does
not leap than with the mystery your smile
sings or if (spiraling as luminous
they climb oblivion) voices who are dreams,
less into heaven certainly earth swims
than each my deeper death becomes your kiss
losing through you what seemed myself;i find
selves unimaginably mine;beyond
sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears
yours is the light by which my spirit’s born:
yours is the darkness of my soul’s return
–you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars
Sunday, December 24, 2017
The joys of ME/CFS and fibromyalgia
I'm scared. Scared of how my body is restricting me - of how little I can do before there is fatigue and pain. Scared of how easy it is to withdraw and further isolate myself. Scared that I'm not going to get better and of the slow deterioration (feel my heart racing after something like hanging out the laundry). Scared of how I want to be able to go out and socialise, but also how much I know it would not be worth it (drive across town and manage maybe 20 minutes and then crash because the noise is too much, there are too many people? Yeah, not really worth it, and such a downer for everyone involved).
Scared that I can't see the good in me which others do. Scared of the depression which is pulling me down. Scared that words are coming out wrong. Scared that a lot of the time, talking or writing is too hard. Scared that this will become too much. Scared that I'm too needy.
Frustrated that I can't do what I used to, either physically or mentally, not by a very long stretch. Frustrated that I'm constantly cycling through stages of grief. Frustrated that my world has shrunk so much. Frustrated that I feel I'm letting friends and family down.
Tired of being tired. Tired of medical articles which maybe have new clues on what's happening in these illnesses, but no treatment. Tired of having to plan and pace everything. Tired of inexplicable aches and pains, and the feeling of having deep bruises all over. Tired of the near constant headaches. Tired of suddenly having foods become inimical to my digestive system. Tired of rarely being able to hold a conversation, a sentence, a thought, of having to struggle to be able to focus.
Scared that I can't see the good in me which others do. Scared of the depression which is pulling me down. Scared that words are coming out wrong. Scared that a lot of the time, talking or writing is too hard. Scared that this will become too much. Scared that I'm too needy.
Frustrated that I can't do what I used to, either physically or mentally, not by a very long stretch. Frustrated that I'm constantly cycling through stages of grief. Frustrated that my world has shrunk so much. Frustrated that I feel I'm letting friends and family down.
Tired of being tired. Tired of medical articles which maybe have new clues on what's happening in these illnesses, but no treatment. Tired of having to plan and pace everything. Tired of inexplicable aches and pains, and the feeling of having deep bruises all over. Tired of the near constant headaches. Tired of suddenly having foods become inimical to my digestive system. Tired of rarely being able to hold a conversation, a sentence, a thought, of having to struggle to be able to focus.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Why yes, I'm still alive and kicking!
Digital silence to the contrary. Just... feeling overwhelmed, so pulled back. Sad stuff, like the death of our beloved bullmastiff, Molly. Tiring stuff, like Rosie the Great Dane (oh my gods, why do I take on puppies?). And just not enough spoons for creative activity after taking into account daily chores and paid work. Right now, I can't wait for retirement (4 years, 1 month and counting). Mind you, I've also fallen down the rabbit-hole of Harry Potter fan fiction, to a somewhat obsessive degree.
It was ME/CFS awareness day recently (in case you were curious about why structures were lit up with blue, there's your answer). I managed to put up a MillionsMissing infographic to my Facebook page, but that was it. A more nuanced, personal post of what is missing from my life is just too depressing to do. Clothes that have gone because I no longer need office-appropriate attire, and fibromyalgia means that comfort is paramount. Frequent bouts of dizzyness (orthostatic intolerance) and swelling feet/legs (because my heart, like all my other muscles, is affected by CFS and operates sub-optimally) mean no more high heels. Activities with the dogs - gone. Gardening for pleasure - gone. Reading anything of substance - yeah, mostly gone. Embroidery - mostly gone. Socialising - very small doses, very carefully planned. Spontaneity - gone. Working in an office - gone (technology allows me to work from home, for which I am grateful). Sleeping well - gone. Being able to visit art galleries - gone. Being able to play with cars - gone. And so it goes....
On the plus side, I have gained food intolerances and weight. Never let it be said that ME/CFS takes without giving😀
It was ME/CFS awareness day recently (in case you were curious about why structures were lit up with blue, there's your answer). I managed to put up a MillionsMissing infographic to my Facebook page, but that was it. A more nuanced, personal post of what is missing from my life is just too depressing to do. Clothes that have gone because I no longer need office-appropriate attire, and fibromyalgia means that comfort is paramount. Frequent bouts of dizzyness (orthostatic intolerance) and swelling feet/legs (because my heart, like all my other muscles, is affected by CFS and operates sub-optimally) mean no more high heels. Activities with the dogs - gone. Gardening for pleasure - gone. Reading anything of substance - yeah, mostly gone. Embroidery - mostly gone. Socialising - very small doses, very carefully planned. Spontaneity - gone. Working in an office - gone (technology allows me to work from home, for which I am grateful). Sleeping well - gone. Being able to visit art galleries - gone. Being able to play with cars - gone. And so it goes....
On the plus side, I have gained food intolerances and weight. Never let it be said that ME/CFS takes without giving😀
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Why write?
Well, that's a million dollar question.
I have an odd habit of using "you" when writing, when I mean "me". I think it's about distancing myself. Correcting it means I become conscious of what I'm writing and lose the thread, so please bear with this quirk of changing first/second person! If I was proofreading, I'd fix it, so think of it as a challenge in flexibility...
Why write? Because you want to. It matters less what you write, than that you write. And you write for your own pleasure. This is very distinctly different to writing for work. I work in IT, and there are remarkably few techs who will, without compulsion, write documents (even basic troubleshooting for an application) which is infuriating. I can and do write those documents, but that's not the sort of writing I'm talking about. No, the sort of writing that's the reason I have this blog, and hopefully that someone is reading it - although that is really an added bonus.
The teasing out of ideas, a full-on brain dump, topics of interest, be they of narrow or wide ranges. Writing for entertainment, for intellectual enjoyment.
Now this, as Virginia Woolf wrote, does indeed necessitate a room of one's own and financial independence. It means having the space to think, to write and not be interrupted by others needs and desires, or by the necessities of life, such as the making of your livelihood.
It does require energy. I've had a sod of a winter, one bad cold followed by a nasty bout of influenza, so my poor brain has basically given up on anything outside of the necessaries. I did have about two weeks of feeling okay, and blessedly, that's when Queen and Adam Lambert did their Sydney concert (life is all downhill from there). This definitely stuffed up my plans on reviewing old perfumes, because my nose was otherwise engaged. Soon my pretties, soon....
It doesn't have to be Good Writing, or Serious Writing. I do think though, that the more you read and the more widely you read, the more easily you write. The words just fall together with little to no effort because your mental ear has grown attuned to their easy cadence.
There is definitely some writing that doesn't make it out into the world, and not necessarily because it's bad. Some of it may be very, very good - but it is too close and too painful to let go. Confessional writings, the vivid nightmares that happened in your dreams and in your life. The grey depths of depression that you struggle to map and understand so that maybe, just maybe, you can deal with it and come through the other side.
Conversely, there is the writing that may one day be worth properly publishing, so why the heck would you let it out when it could be taken from you? Although I am of at least two minds about that. After all, they are just words, and if they sing to someone else, why not share them? And poetry is certainly not a way to make money, so why not? But they matter too much, those darlings of your mind, could you bear it if someone abducted them or worse, if they told you they were crap?
Alec Hope told me some of my work reminded him of the Norse sagas, of Goethe, and to keep writing. No one can take that away from me. AD Hope was one of the last classic poets of Australia, and one of the greats. After he died, his collection of poetry was sold off by a very good second hand book dealer in Canberra (no longer extant, but a lovely place to browse and, inevitably, spend money). Of course I bought an armful of books, including Christopher Smart and Anna Akhmatova. But how terribly sad. One of the great poets of twentieth century Australia, and the collection that he shaped/shaped him, dispersed.
Why write? Because you want to.
I have an odd habit of using "you" when writing, when I mean "me". I think it's about distancing myself. Correcting it means I become conscious of what I'm writing and lose the thread, so please bear with this quirk of changing first/second person! If I was proofreading, I'd fix it, so think of it as a challenge in flexibility...
Why write? Because you want to. It matters less what you write, than that you write. And you write for your own pleasure. This is very distinctly different to writing for work. I work in IT, and there are remarkably few techs who will, without compulsion, write documents (even basic troubleshooting for an application) which is infuriating. I can and do write those documents, but that's not the sort of writing I'm talking about. No, the sort of writing that's the reason I have this blog, and hopefully that someone is reading it - although that is really an added bonus.
The teasing out of ideas, a full-on brain dump, topics of interest, be they of narrow or wide ranges. Writing for entertainment, for intellectual enjoyment.
Now this, as Virginia Woolf wrote, does indeed necessitate a room of one's own and financial independence. It means having the space to think, to write and not be interrupted by others needs and desires, or by the necessities of life, such as the making of your livelihood.
It does require energy. I've had a sod of a winter, one bad cold followed by a nasty bout of influenza, so my poor brain has basically given up on anything outside of the necessaries. I did have about two weeks of feeling okay, and blessedly, that's when Queen and Adam Lambert did their Sydney concert (life is all downhill from there). This definitely stuffed up my plans on reviewing old perfumes, because my nose was otherwise engaged. Soon my pretties, soon....
It doesn't have to be Good Writing, or Serious Writing. I do think though, that the more you read and the more widely you read, the more easily you write. The words just fall together with little to no effort because your mental ear has grown attuned to their easy cadence.
There is definitely some writing that doesn't make it out into the world, and not necessarily because it's bad. Some of it may be very, very good - but it is too close and too painful to let go. Confessional writings, the vivid nightmares that happened in your dreams and in your life. The grey depths of depression that you struggle to map and understand so that maybe, just maybe, you can deal with it and come through the other side.
Conversely, there is the writing that may one day be worth properly publishing, so why the heck would you let it out when it could be taken from you? Although I am of at least two minds about that. After all, they are just words, and if they sing to someone else, why not share them? And poetry is certainly not a way to make money, so why not? But they matter too much, those darlings of your mind, could you bear it if someone abducted them or worse, if they told you they were crap?
Alec Hope told me some of my work reminded him of the Norse sagas, of Goethe, and to keep writing. No one can take that away from me. AD Hope was one of the last classic poets of Australia, and one of the greats. After he died, his collection of poetry was sold off by a very good second hand book dealer in Canberra (no longer extant, but a lovely place to browse and, inevitably, spend money). Of course I bought an armful of books, including Christopher Smart and Anna Akhmatova. But how terribly sad. One of the great poets of twentieth century Australia, and the collection that he shaped/shaped him, dispersed.
Why write? Because you want to.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)