Deepest Thoughts

My sister recently shared a link to me describing the different Hells for all the Meyers-Briggs types. It may or may not be obvious, but I'm an INFP. To the max.

My Hell was described as: "Your deepest thoughts and feelings are exposed to a large audience and everyone thinks that you’re pathetic and unoriginal."

At first, I thought: "I am original, so...this isn't applicable." But then I thought: "I actually am pretty pathetic though."

Part of why I don't like being around people is because society is in disharmony with how I naturally want to behave. This isn't a whine about society. I mean that, for instance, I always want to hug people. I want to have physical contact more often than I'd like to admit. Also, much less talking. When most people talk, they're not saying what's really on their mind anyway. It's at least a modified version of what they really think. There are unwritten "rules" about what to say when and how to react. You have to be polite and, especially as a female, meek. Or, especially as a female, gossip. Which I hate.

That's weird, right? Right. Pathetic, right? I think so. How needy is that? Am I needy? Must be. Or am I even pathetic?

There are no secrets with me. Not that I can't keep someone else's, but I don't have them for myself. I don't like them. My life is an open book. My deepest thoughts are here for you to read. They're afraid of the future, regretful of the past, sad, hurt, suicidal (but getting better), and oftentimes vengeful. Not that I'm proud of any of that.

And those aren't inherently pathetic feelings. Especially having gone through what I have. But again, society deems those as weakness. And weakness is pathetic. I didn't write those rules, mind you.

I submit that, if you go around pretending not to care what anyone thinks (people who say that are the ones who care the most), being a jerk, and being proud of yourself for not crying or getting angry, then you're weak. Weak people are afraid to be vulnerable. Weak people can't apologize when they've done something wrong. Weak people are so scared to be judged that they just don't put anything out there. They try to be a slate.

But a lot of people think that is strength. Again, I didn't write the rules.

So...I'd say, no, I'm not pathetic. However, by the standards of general society, I am very pathetic. And I'm okay with that.

I'll be honest...

I can hardly get myself to take a shower. I get scared just thinking about maybe getting a job. My apartment is a bit unkempt, there are constantly dishes in the sink, and the only way you'd know I was LDS is if I told you I was. Most people in my ward would probably think I was new.

But it's better than hardly getting out of bed. It's better than not even considering a job. Thinking I'd never be able to ever have a job. My apartment is less cluttered than usual. I get some dishes done sometimes. I'm considering attending church and facing all the inexplicably cheery people there.

So...I guess I'm doing better.

I still consider ending it all. Not as heavily, but I think of how much it would take to overdose on X pill, or getting into a car accident, or purchasing a gun and getting it done. No one would sell a gun to me and, knowing me, I'd mess it up somehow and just make things worse.

It's still so hard. I don't have the will  - or the energy -  to do anything. I feel like a complete loser. I feel like I'm stuck and just...wasting my life. I'm literally just a parasite. I don't do anything for anyone. I'm just...like a useless zombie.

A lot of people have been telling me I seem better. My therapist confided that he was worried about me before (to the point he felt he might have to call the paramedics), and now he isn't worried at all. That seems like a big change to me! But yeah, I give the credit to therapy and bupropion. As powerful as it seems to be, it clearly doesn't help everything. Some of the worst symptoms remain and side effects abound. The worst is my short term memory and recall. Noticeably, it's getting much worse.

Anyway, I'm rambling. Things are apparently better, but I still feel like total detritus.

Calling It

I'm calling something right now. Actually, I called it a few days ago.

But I can't say what it is yet.

I just want a record of me calling it before it happens.

You'll know soon.

EDIT:

Well, I'm completely surprised, but I was wrong. I told my husband to call his mom last week to set up a time to have dinner with her for Mother's Day. I thought it would be a nice idea. He said: "Sure. I don't feel like calling right now though." So I asked when he planned on calling her. He said he didn't know.

That's when I said, knowing my husband, that if he didn't call her now, he'd certainly forget and it will just be a lame Mother's Day. He said he'd call her another time.

He didn't, but he got the perfect opportunity the day before to ask her as he used her credit card for a tooth extraction. She'd offered to pay for it and given that we have to pay $20,000+ for his teeth, we couldn't quite afford to turn her down.

So...he probably wouldn't have done it had this opportunity not arrived, and he did it the day before, but whatever. I'm becoming more apathetic about his family and the way he deals with them. It's annoying. Their whole dynamic is annoying, but it works for them, so it's none of my business.

I was wrong! I didn't call it.

Swings/Bupropion Day ??

These are new.

Lately I've realized that I go through swings. Maybe a couple of days out of the week, I feel...better? Before, I was just monstrously depressed every second of every day. It was even getting worse. Now, sometimes I feel like I could maybe even try looking for a job. I'm still too scared at that point, but I feel like I could do it with more therapy someday. I love the good in the world, I have the potential to live a meaningful life, and I can even get some dishes done!

The rest of the time I realize just how hopeless my case is. I don't want to be alive, I resent being alive, I'm disappointed and scared with the world and future, and I'm hoping for the opportunity to die sooner. It dawns on me that I'll probably never hold a job. I'll never do something meaningful, because I can't be around people. I can't even be a good mother because I have no energy, no stamina, and hardly any patience. I really can't do anything. Not even things I want to do.

I think...maybe the medication is working? I hope. Maybe. I'm worried because my short term memory, recall, and ability to find correct words are all getting worse. Much worse. I really hate it. I'm eating much less food, yet my weight still fluctuates. I still don't have any energy and I get headaches more frequently. I'm nauseated and my stomach gets upset more often.

Stephen says it has helped in the bedroom, so that's awesome. Maybe it's been helping me feel better? Maybe that's just the therapy... I'm not sure. I don't crave food as much. I have some semblance of control when it comes to food. My digestion is getting back to horrible rather than near-useless, so that's good. There are some good things.

I'm still not sure how I feel about this medication, and I have a psychiatrist appointment soon.

Worst Day

If this isn't the worst day of my life, it's among the top three for sure.

It started out with Clover waking me up and walking all over me. It didn't take long before I realized she had feces all over her legs and behind. So, nauseated, I bathed the kitten. Stephen was awake and on his phone. I asked him if he'd called the dentist yet.

Last night we'd spent a little while in the emergency room. The right side of his face had developed an infection after a toothache. We got medication, lortab and amoxicillin, and went home.

So I was nervous that he get the real problem fixed soon - his teeth. They're really bad. I'm not sure what's wrong with them, but they are falling apart. I like them, they're just another asset to Stephen's charm, but I know it's not healthy. And, since he wasn't getting it done himself, I decided to nag him. It's apparently effective.

"No," he replied, "but I'll do it right now." And he did. He even got an appointment for today! I asked him if he'd taken his antibiotic. Again, he hadn't, but he did so right away. Happy wife.

So, still nauseated, I took him to his dental appointment. Stephen seemed as happy and carefree as always. We signed in and were taken back. I took a seat in the office, holding Stephen's things, as he left to an adjacent room to get X-rays of his mouth.

The (I assume) dental hygienist was very nice as she worked with him. I could see into the room, but my view was partially blocked by a wall. She kept asking him what was okay and if things hurt (he still had a swollen cheek from the infection). I noticed a specific question being asked more and more frequently as she took the X-rays. This is when I started to get concerned.

She asked: "Do you need to take a break?". It was maybe the 4th time before he responded with anything other than a refusal.

"Yeah, I think that would be best. I'm feeling kind of queasy. I think it's the radiation..." He paused. "How many more do you have to take?"

"8." She replied. "Yeah, you're looking kind of pale."

That's when Stephen started making this sound... I'm still not sure how to describe it. Like he was moaning, but in short intervals. That's when I got alarmed. I shot up and rushed into the room where I saw Stephen sprawled back into the chair with his arms out by his side, open-palmed to the ceiling. He was so pale, he was almost green. There was pink around his eyes, which were rolling back and fixed on nothing.

"He's had a seizure." The hygienist managed to say before I burst into tears, panicking.

I was in the hallway in zero seconds flat, shouting: "Please help him! Somebody help him please!" The dentist came in with an electronic blood pressure machine. Another hygienist came back...to see? I'm not sure. I stayed behind the wall. I couldn't see Stephen like that. I knew I should have been keeping it together for him. It wasn't about me, and I didn't want him to panic, but I just couldn't. I tried to stifle my crying behind the wall.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what happened." I heard Stephen say. He'd regained consciousness. He threw up a couple of times. "I'm so sorry."

The staff kept reassuring him that it was fine. The dentist conveyed to Stephen that his blood pressure was really low and that he was going to call an ambulance. He left the room.

"Baby?" Stephen said.

"Yeah, sweetie?" I came in, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry I worried you." He said. He was sweating now, and still very pale, a trashcan of vomit in his lap.

"No, baby! It's okay." I replied. I could hear the dentist telling another hygienist that his blood pressure was 80/44.

"I think it was the radiation."

"Baby, this doesn't happen to most people who get X-rays. You're blood pressure is really low. 80 over 44. Normal is 120 over 80."

"Oh.." He replied. "I don't need this anymore." he said, referring to the vomit-filled trashcan. "I feel fine."

I heard a hygienist say that "they" were almost here. She could hear them. I then heard the ambulance. I moved out of the room to make way. I stood there, stifling my crying again, when the original hygienist offered me a seat. I took it and watched as a parade of EMTs, firefighters, and even a cop glanced in at Stephen. The original EMTs stayed to check on Stephen. They asked how he felt, what his history was with epilepsy and if he'd passed out before. I remember them asking about a brain tumor. He replied to their questions.

One of them pointed to me and said something like "Wife?" And Stephen confirmed. The other one said I could come in. Stephen looked a lot better. Much less pale, but still noticeable. His sweating was no longer an issue. The EMT began explaining to me that what Stephen had gone through was called hypovolemic shock. I asked if they'd checked his blood sugar. The pointing EMT said he could and began getting things set up, and the other said "I don't think so. If his blood sugar was too high...(listing off symptoms) and if it was too low...(different list of symptoms)."

"Okay." I said. "I'm sorry." They made it a point to say that I was fine.

"Besides..." The EMT said "we don't want to give him a bad reaction to a needle and have his blood pressure drop again."

That had happened before, when Stephen went to donate plasma. He was turned away because he began to get faint. He doesn't have good reactions, I suppose.

The dentist had come in and began talking with the EMTs. It was kind of a blur. I was just happy Stephen was okay. His blood pressure had gone up to 109 over 70...something.

We set another appointment for tomorrow at 12pm. I hope this doesn't happen again.

ESA

I finally got an ESA.

Both my psychiatrist and therapist thought it would be a good idea.

I thought it would be a good idea.

Stephen is my everything and, when he's gone so much, I get very lonely. Not that people can help with that - they can't. I'm too afraid of them. And I love cats. So having a cat around could help fix the loneliness. Maybe the responsibility would force me out of bed and get me in the habit of doing things (like taking showers and washing dishes and maybe cooking and cleaning). Who knows? Maybe I'd even get some socialization practice in.

Leading up to the day I got my letter, I was going to Petsmart nearly every day to look at the shelter cats. I'd try to gain connections to them and pet them, but there was a problem. I couldn't really connect to them like I used to. Hardly at all. I felt much less excited and much more apathetic. This had happened before when I visited a friend of mine's foster kittens. I was so excited to see them but, when I got there, I was just...not excited anymore.

Maybe this is what they mean by "losing interest in things you enjoy".

It's not like I had many interests ever. Maybe up to 10, with only three being serious and apparent. Loving and connecting with cats was one of those. I loved cats. I still love them, I feel bad for what they go through, but I can't connect with them anymore.

Anyway, as I was checking out the cats, more and more I'd notice that I just didn't empathically "click" with any of them. It really concerned me, but I just figured I'd find "the one" and we'd click. It didn't happen. In fact, I resolved to get a kitten because I'd concluded that the reason I wasn't finding the right cat was because I needed to start with one as a baby. Maybe I rushed things. When we went to get a cat, Petsmart was in the middle of switching shelters, so they had no cats available. The next closest thing was Animal Ark. I said we'd just check them out. Sure enough, they had three ginger kittens.

They were so cute, obviously, but I was hesitant about the fact that they were orange. For some reason, it really bothered me. I didn't typically gravitate toward orange cats. But our kitten woke up and came right up to the glass and began meowing at us. Stephen liked her, so I thought we'd try out our first orange cat.

After she came home is when I really started breaking down. At first I was bawling because I missed Milo. I felt so incredibly guilty that I had a kitten now. I remembered when Milo was a kitten. I was worried I'd have to give her up too someday. She's an ESA, so I can't be parted with her because of housing, but what if something else happened and I'd have to give her away?

Then I started feeling guilty for all the shelter cats I'd just denied. Here, I got this fresh kitten when I could have easily waited a day to get a cat who has no home, is scared and lonely. Someone else could have gotten this kitten. Why couldn't I just wait a day? Someone (I hope beyond hope) chose Milo over a kitten. How could I not return the favor?

I pushed it to the back of my mind. Someone will give those cats homes, and it's kitten season. Clover could just as easily be homeless.

But then I began to realize that I have to commit to this kitten for the next...maybe 20 years. And I don't have a connection to her. I didn't even know if I liked her. For some reason, her being orange was bothering me, she wasn't Milo, and she wasn't a shelter cat. What am I doing with her? How can I do this when Milo is out there with new owners wondering what he did wrong? A wave of panic overcame me for several hours.

I don't know if I just don't love cats as much as I used to, if I'm shallow enough to dislike orange cats, or if I'm too afraid to connect again because I don't want to have it ripped away from me. I'm trying to get over it. She's a cute kitten. I just worry I've forced myself to make the wrong choice.

Mindfulness

Tim is helping me learn mindfulness this week. Too often, we might find ourselves willingly or unwillingly reliving the hurt of the past. Maybe we even guilt ourselves for things we should've done or regretful things we did. Maybe (especially if you're like me) you burden yourself with worry about the future. Honestly, I believe there is plenty to worry about. A LOT to worry about. But why ruin today with what hasn't even happened yet? Why let today be ruined by something that happened years ago? Or even months ago? Weeks ago?

I do that too much. When I'm alone for even 5 seconds, I'm worrying about something. I'm mulling over memories, future plans, things that scare me, things that have scarred me... If I could truly master mindfulness, I think I'd be a much better person. A much healthier, happier person.

Mindfulness is living in the present. Taking things day by day. Not living in the future or the past, but living each day in it's singular glory.

It sounds easy, but I wonder what I could think about if I'm not thinking of the future or mulling over the past. I wonder what feelings I could feel if I wasn't sad/fatigued/utterly hopeless or worried literally sick.

I hope this would work, anyway.