Category: Uncategorized

I Am Highly Functional

I have suffered from depression for most of my adult life.  With the recent loss of my beloved brother, coupled with the changing seasons of autumn and impending weather, I am aware by several factors that I am in the throes of depression.

I first became aware of my depression at the age of 19.  It was autumn, I was in college, and from my desk I could see outside to a wooded area in the distance.  The leaves were about 50% changed into their fall display of color, and one otherwise normal college day, I looked at those trees and felt a kind of melancholy seep into my brain.  Back then, there was no attached name and known diagnosis, but this later became known as Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD – a perfect acronym, huh?).  Once winter arrived, I didn’t consciously feel an overwhelming sadness, so I never questioned it beyond thinking that it was something emotional about how beautiful the scenery was in autumn and how bare the trees looked once winter had planted me in its midst.

I lived on in that intellectual understanding of why the melancholy set in at that time of the year without question or concern.  I merely accepted that it existed.

I was in my early 50s when, during a visit with my then PCP, I talked about that melancholy feeling and it was at that time my status was given the name SAD as I fit the symptoms of it.  I was started on a mild depressant, which I had to take daily, regardless of the season, but it did seem to lessen the severity of my symptoms.  And life went on.

Looking back on my life, I can easily see that I met the criteria of suffering from depression, but I never really thought about it – much less talked about it – because I thought that this was just the way life felt.  Plus, I was ensconced in the hotel industry, for which I required myself to wear a mask behind which I kept my emotions and emotional weaknesses hidden.  I got quite adept at sharing happy emotions but no one, unless I allowed them to, saw anything less than happy.  I made that who I was.  Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me at that time, I was draining my emotional energies to keep that part of me hidden.  To be honest, as I look back over those years, I can’t recall if I was ever truly happy (beyond occasional moments when some event brought happiness) or whether I had just acted happy when I was supposed to be happy.

I remember telling Joanne and the Wentling crew that, now retired, I was taking off the mask.  It was easier said than done.  I had become afraid that sharing my genuine self – the good, the bad and the ugly – that people had become close to me based on the person they believed me to be and wouldn’t feel the same about me if they found out I was someone quite different.  After a while, with people I thought I could trust, I started to ignore the filter and gave myself permission to express things that were real for me in the moment I thought them.  Because I was only just discovering myself, I spoke and behaved in some ways that ended up hurting others because they didn’t know, much less understand, where I was coming from and why. I lost a “best friend” because of that, and that is someone I miss very much.  I tried to fix it, but apparently the pain had cut too deep for forgiveness.  It’s been a couple of years without her in my life, and I regret losing her to this day.

Anyhow, about 8 years ago, I had a doctor’s appointment with a new practice after I’d moved 1-1/2 hours from where I had been living; I had a January appointment in which I complained that I was mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted.  It turns out that, although both my iron and vitamin D levels were extremely low, I was having what qualified as a major depressive episode.  A full antidepressant, while still taking the medication for SAD, was added to my regime.

Did it help? To be honest, I don’t know. I started on both iron and vitamin D supplements at the same time, so I couldn’t say with any certainty if getting over that exhaustion was caused by the antidepressant or not.  To this day, I continue taking both antidepressants and both supplements (and a handful of other medications and supplements as well).

I had an appointment recently for my annual physical exam, and as my PCP knew about my brother’s passing from a previous follow-up appointment in mid-August, I shared with her that I was struggling with motivation.  That’s when I started reading about “highly functional depression” and believe that is where I live.  I’m far from over grieving the loss of my beloved brother, and I said to my PCP that the thing about feeling depressed is that “while it’s not comfortable, it’s familiar”.  Saying that aloud is what made me realize that I have suffered from depression for all of my adult life.

It’s become important to me to admit to suffering depression.  The old stigma is that if you are depressed, you are suicidal.  Not the case!  NOT THE CASE! I have no motive or plan to end my life.  I’ll admit that, when life feels like a living hell, I’d be okay if my time on earth was up.  But that is not ever going to be in my hands.

So, while I risk the loss of people for whom I am grateful to have in my life, in order for me to accept that this is who I am fully and freely, I have to share this part of me with others.  Perhaps someone reading this is suffering and feeling alone in the struggle.  Perhaps someone will be thankful for a greater insight into what living with depression is like.  Perhaps I will give someone the courage to be vulnerable enough to share their own story because I have.

Hey, world, I’m not going to commit suicide and I still manage to function (though right now, more from need than want).  And like the snow birds who travel to the south to avoid winter, this is where I am and will likely at least partly reside throughout the coming months.

But I will always be okay because it’s familiar and I know what to expect and how to get through it.

Thank you for letting me share my story.

 

The Gift That Keeps on Giving

For as far back as I can remember, I have often quoted the words, “Guilt. The gift that keeps on giving.” I don’t know if I heard/read that somewhere or whether it’s something I made up on my own, but it is something I’ve experienced for longer back than when I remember quoting those words.

When I use that phrase, I am most likely connecting it to something that happened between my mother and me. I can remember feeling guilty that I’d upset her in some way all the way back to my early tween years. Lately, I have been thinking about interactions with my parents (my dad was sometimes included, but my mom was “in charge” of the decisions made as a result of those interactions). I think this might have been more prominently in my thoughts now because of the upcoming anniversary of her death, the anniversary of her birth and my parents’ wedding anniversary, all happening from mid-February and the beginning of April. I’ve read countless social media posts and blog posts about mothers, and all but one were flowery and loving, filled with adoration for the wonderful mother that they had. If I had written anything like that, it would not have been authentic.

I’m not saying that I didn’t love my mother, or that my mother didn’t love me. We were not a family by word or act of affection, and much like what I talked about in my post questioning if negativity was genetic, criticism was both verbal and physical, but I can’t recall ever hearing either parent say to any of the three of us the simple words “I love you” unless it was in response to us saying it first. Maybe when we were very young and, upon being tucked in bed at night, we’d get a response of “I love you, too” if we first said, “I love you, mommy.” It honestly felt like the only time we got our parents’ attention was for something negative we’d said or done. Because that negative attention almost always included fierce physical punishment, I most often tried to be invisible. Actually, my brothers, especially my older one, wasn’t ‘bad’ often, but when he was, he took being bad to the max. I think the younger one got away with a little more because most of his ‘crimes’ were small by comparison…. and my parents were tired by that time as well.

It took me until just a few years ago to come to understand that, while I wasn’t a perfect child and deserved consequences for my behaviors – we all did – that the punishments didn’t always fit the crimes. My mother was fond of her carved wooden paddle and putting us over a kitchen chair as her choice of punishment. More often than not, we were left with bruises and welts by the time she had expunged her anger in this manner. And when I say that “the punishments didn’t always fit the crimes”, I mean that the amount of strikes by the paddle were most often not in conjunction with said crime but simply continued until she was done. Taking a dollar bill to spend at the snack bar at the community pool could be worth 10 smacks while saying some random swear word (the ones that got heard, anyhow) might get 4 or 5. By the time I was in high school, I was too big for the chair, so the new form of discipline became taking away anything that could be considered a privilege. And since I didn’t have many privileges to begin with, what was taken away was usually a privilege that was near and dear. The one I will never forget is not being allowed to audition for my senior year’s musical. I had been in everything musical – marching and concert band, choir, a group for choir known as the Choraliers, and the chorus for my junior year’s musical. I don’t even remember what I’d done wrong, but that loss of privilege broke my heart and still hurts my heart today when I think about it.

My mom, who passed in 1999, still comes into my thoughts on a regular basis. Lately, when the negative thoughts and memories arise, I make myself think about all of the things my mother did by action which can prove that she did love me. I remember when The Sound of Music came to the theatres and she and I, without my brothers and dad, went to see it on Sunday afternoons – yes, afternoonS, plural – I don’t remember how many times but I know that it was more than I can count on one hand. Later on, she took me along – and paid for -on bus trips to NYC her school district was having for senior class members to see shows on Broadway and play tourist in the downtown area. Chaperones led the students around but we were on our own to do as we pleased. Mom always chose the two-show option, a matinee and an evening performance. She didn’t have to take me. In fact, she could have gone on her own with her friends also going and I would never have known, but I cherish those opportunities still today. And always, these things remind me why I can say with authority that my mother gave me the legacy of the love of music in all forms, watching, singing and playing.

I’m sure she knew how much I adored those times, but lately I’ve come to realize that I never told her “thank you” in those words or shared my appreciation in any way. I never spent any money except for an inexpensive trinket if I stumbled upon one. There were also times when I got to spend one-on-one time with her, such as helping her out each evening after I got off work to go to the Farm Show Complex where she had a table of her ceramics at a craft show and sale. I was happy that I was the caring daughter who came to give her a break, manning the table as she took a much-needed break to walk around and head outside for a cigarette break. It was definitely a time when I felt like an adult in her presence, which didn’t happen often. And I felt trusted, which was a huge feeling for me to experience. That came from a place where I often felt that my parents were unconsciously awaiting the next mistake I’d make.

The gift that keeps on giving – guilt. I can’t say I felt guilty during those growing years for the reasons I made her angry and punishment seemingly necessary. But over the past few years, I feel a hefty weight of guilt at times for a lot of things.

My guilt isn’t limited to my relationship with my mom, though it is a prominent source due to the nature and length of that relationship. I’m having a current bout of guilt that I have to continue to consciously talk myself away from. My beloved brother has mentioned about making a trip to visit me. Now, over the course of time that I’ve lived here (almost 9 years), I have made far more drives to visit him, easier because I was retired and the 4-hour round trip wasn’t as big a bite into my time as it is for his on one of his two days off each week. Most trips (all but one that I remember) also included the transfer of frozen meals from my freezer to his to heat and eat at his convenience. The last time I made a trip there, I realized that my health issues made me less than 100% comfortable, though I’ve managed just fine. I’d prefer not to test myself, though I’d make that drive without question if I was needed to make it. Anyhow, he’s talking about a visit to me. I’m grateful, not only not to have to make the drive but because there are a couple of things around my place that I need assistance with – for example, changing smoke detector batteries since I’m not willing to climb high enough on the step stool without serious worry of falling. The same goes for anything for which I need to get down on my knees to do since getting back up is difficult and painful. And I know he’ll help me out without a second thought. The most difficult part – for me – is dealing with my stubbornness about needing help in the first place. But the biggest part that sticks in my head is what it will cost him in gas to make the trip. He doesn’t have a whole lot of wiggle room in his budget. But I keep reminding myself that I gave him my gas discount card to use a couple of years ago since I can get by on a tank of gas for 2 to 3 months. I contribute to the discount earned – more than he does – by the shopping I do that earns the discount. It may only be $3. 00 or $4.00 or so on a tank of gas, but over the course of the years he’s had that card to use, I’ve contributed more than enough to pay for a tank of gas. And yet… the money that he’ll have to spend to visit me makes me feel guilty.

Guilt – it is a gift that keeps on giving in my life. I’m getting better at looking at guilt rationally, like the deal with my brother spending money for gas, but I’ve never been able to stop receiving the gift of it. And the gift is like a perfume – it lingers in the air long after it has been sprayed.

My mother gave me this gift first, and it is apparently a gift that lasts a lifetime…

On Having a Roommate…

I had a roommate in college. I had a roommate in the last apartment I lived in before my move from Lancaster county. I took in two different co-workers for temporary housing before I moved to Lancaster county. Other than short stints at trying marriage – twice – I’ve lived most of my life alone.

I live alone now. There is no one here that is going to make noise that might distract me. I am not hard of hearing. I do choose to fall asleep with silence around me, or the sound of a fan for white noise. I am more of an early bird than a night owl.

Because I prefer quiet, I tend to be very aware of making noise around anyone else that might disrupt them. When sharing a hotel room, I tend to wear “pajamas” that are a t-shirt and shorts so that I can leave the room in those clothes without making a disturbance of getting dressed. My feet take me immediately to the breakfast bar where I will make 2 cups of coffee, with lids, and, weather permissible, amble outside to enjoy fresh morning air while the caffeine kicks in. About once an hour, I will sneak back and peer into the room to see if my roommate is awake yet. If not, I’ll quickly and quietly grab my book and go back downstairs from more (and more) coffee and find a comfortable enough chair in the lobby area to sit and read.

I’ve always been very aware of other people’s sense of space and sense of noise.

Knowing all of that, I chose to have an official roommate situation for 6 years before my move to this place I now call home. My roommate was someone who needed to get away from the roommates he was sharing space with and sharing rent and other expenses would give me a fair amount of wiggle room in my budget. My roommate and I sat down twice, over dinner out, to go over who would pay what and who was supposed to take care of what chores.

It didn’t work out quite the way that we’d planned it. Bills got paid accordingly, but the sharing of chores didn’t. In addition, because his big TV was in the living room on my entertainment center AND because he was one of those people who had to have the TV on for background noise (he also took up more than half of the sofa because he always brought work home), I only used the living room as a pass-thru from my bedroom to the kitchen. I bought the groceries and cooked the meals, but he was seldom there for a meal unless it was pre-planned and a feast-type of a meal. He was content with a can of Chef-Boy-R-Dee stuff and microwaved hot dogs when I didn’t cook. Hey, at least he was easy to shop for!

He was responsible for the trash. He took it out if I closed up the bag and set it at the steps to go outside. On the rare times he took the bag out of the can himself, he apparently found it impossible to put a new bag in the can. I had to label the can which held recyclables, and he did manage to use the correct can about 80% of the time. Since I didn’t live in the living room, he was responsible for dusting and vacuuming that space. He vacuumed about every 3 months, as often as he cleaned his bedroom and washed his bed sheets. Apparently dusting was also beyond his capabilities. I lived this way because having shared bills really helped me financially. But if I had a do-over, I’m not sure I would put myself through it again. Oh, and a big benefit is that he could lift me in a way that cracked my back when it was bothering me (I think that may be the one thing I miss).

Recently, there was the option to at least think about going back into the roommate situation. But every time I thought about it, I knew that I would once again be relegated into living in my bedroom, with my desk and a small TV as I had been before because this person is also someone who needs the TV on for background noise. Both of us have lived on our own for a while, long enough that having to start making compromises about the way that we lived might not be easy. I’ve become less orderly as I’ve aged – not sloppy (except once when I’d dislocated my shoulder and couldn’t do a lot of things) but less needing to always have everything in its place if I wasn’t using it. I recognize that part of that stems from the depression I live with – a sense of “why bother, who will know, much less care?”. Much of it comes from simply not having the energy to do a lot, doing things in bits and pieces. My natural guilt about not living up to expectations reminds me that I don’t want to fail another person.

I’d like to have a roommate, but only in a way that I know is impossible. I want to share a home that is two-story (even though stairs are now a problem for me) where the first floor is shared living space but the second floor is divided into two halves. Some remodeling would need to be done, obviously, but as long as I had two or three bedrooms upstairs so I could have a bedroom separate from the TV and office space, and my own bathroom, plus a Keirug and mini-fridge, I could spend time comfortably in that space without feeling pushed out of living space. We’d divvy up the chores where the first floor is concerned – hopefully sticking to the plan this time – but each be responsible for our own upstairs spaces. Ideal would be a way to configure a laundry room on the second floor that we’d share.

This is all a pipe dream, of course, costing money that neither of us have, though sharing major expenses would certainly be beneficial to both of us. Once in a while I think about the fact that something could happen to me and, if I can’t get to my phone, it could be some time before anyone noticed. But is all of that – knowing that I can’t have the living space I deserve – really the answer? The answer always comes up “no”. Too much work, too much expense to even implement, and no 100% guarantee it would work out like my dreams.

Ah, but it doesn’t cost any more to dream big than to dream little…

Brand Loyalty

I have never been brand loyal. I’ve never cared what logo or brand name appears on anything I buy, only that it fills a need at the lowest price possible. This is true for big purchases as well as small ones. I have owned Ford, Chevrolet, Chrysler, Mercury, Toyota, Volkswagen and possibly other brands (that I don’t remember off the top of my head) and they all filled the same basic need of getting me from point A to point B.

The same is true for clothing. I don’t need a brand name on the back pocket of my jeans or some logo on the yolk of my shirt. My t-shirt collection does have some “branded” items, but the t-shirts were bought as souvenirs and not from any desire to show support of a brand. In truth, many of these shirts advertise an event I attended, thus my decision to purchase.

I am totally on board with generic/store brand groceries when possible. What so many people either don’t know or don’t think about is where, on a product label, appear the words “Packed for ______________________” and the name of the store from where you are purchasing. All that really means is that the same item the factory was just packing for a name brand – for example, Hunts or Delmonte – continues to package, only the labels have been switched out. Think about this… a factory is packaging, say, green beans, in cans. Once they’ve fulfilled a brand company’s order amount, they don’t stop production to clean out all of the equipment and hook up a different source for the green beans being processed (a green bean is a green bean is a green bean) to use in canning. A simple change of the labels at the end of the line after the cans have been filled and sealed and voila, a new brand, including that if a store name, goes on the same cans that were just minutes ago being packaged for a different brand name.

The same is true for me of any kind of item. I don’t collect purses, least of all ones with designer names on them. I just had to look up the spelling, in fact, for Louis Vuitton as an example. I don’t collect shoes either – same point. If I do shop for clothing, it’s Walmart for the bottom half and thrift stores for the top half. I can only remember the last time I walked into a clothing store and purchased off the rack while I lived in Lancaster County, and it was a special shop to find a birthday present to gift to myself. I’ve been in Montgomery County for almost 9 years, so I know it’s been a long, long while since I’ve been clothing shopping. And since I’m retired, there isn’t a need for ‘fancy’ clothing beyond the four different dresses and one skirt tucked into the back of my closet. Oh, and a pair of black palazzo pants that I last wore 18 months ago to a memorial service for a friend. (I have a friend who has a long walk-in closet, and yet, has to change out clothing by seasons. I can’t imagine having that much clothing.)

So, now that I’ve affirmed my lack of brand loyalty, I now get to tell the world that I own my very first ever fashion statement made by a designer. When I went for my annual eye exam in December, my vision didn’t change enough to need new driving and reading glasses. I only use the driving glasses for when I’m going further than 10 to 15 miles around me. But when I do wear them, I’m often putting a pair of sunglasses over them, and since I had an allowance through my Medicare plan, I decided that I wanted to get driving prescription sunglasses, since it’s inconvenient to add a pair of sunglasses over my driving glasses. So, I went to the wall of sunglasses and found a funky abstract frame that is so not me but I liked it. I went through the process of them, including exchanging the actual lens for one of a darker shade. Once all was done, my cost was nothing out-of-pocket. And at the very end, the attendant told me that my Michael Kors sunglasses would be ready in about 2 weeks.

Michael Kors! That’s the name of a designer that I’m familiar with. And it’s a brand I’ve heard of! I had my first item of what I would consider a luxury brand! I didn’t know who designed the frames when I chose them. I just really liked that they were nothing anyone would expect me to choose because of their loud mix of colors. And I’m trying not to gloat, but I can’t stop telling anyone who will listen that I own designer sunglasses.

No, I will not become obsessed with having to start collecting Michael Kors – or any other designer, for that matter – but every time I reach for them, the name of the designer, which is printed on their case, makes me smile.

How weird is it that a single pair of sunglasses can make me feel special????