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Friday, March 02, 2007
Saturday, May 06, 2006
May 5, 2006 - Naming This Book
(These blogs were a starting point, and they remain here as is, even as we work on completing a project which incorporates much of what can be found here. We're nearing the end of this particular journey, and not a moment too soon, for we have more journeys to embark upon.)
This was not easy, and several iterations were attempted. We had a great
name, based on a diagnosis of schizophrenia, but when that diagnosis was
tossed aside in favor of schizo-affective disorder, we moved on.
Schizo-affective disorder just isn't compelling enough. The multitude of
diagnoses and the pace at which they changed was a challenge in more ways
than naming this book (this is, after all, what the book is about), but we
settled on Borderland: A Life On The Edge originally because of the
borderline personality disorder, but then because, even should that
diagnosis change and metamorphose into something else (usually something
elses, these things coming in clusters), it still describes our lives during
the most troubled days.
At its worst, Stew's illness was a constantly changing sea of emotions, and
it was a situation that precluded him from having much interaction with
other people, other than me. Not only was Stew isolated from the niceties of
social interaction that would have helped him feel not so alone as he
battled his demons, but so was I, as his caretaker, as the person with the
skill (more an instinct than anything else) that could deal with him best. I
saw how other people took minor things for granted, such as how their day
would go (no psychotic incidents expected, no surprises, the utilities would
always stay on, demons would be expectedly absent, there would be no need to
try to put the shattered pieces of a person back together after a day at the
office), and I envied them while scoffing at their concern over what I
considered minor details. If only, I thought to myself, I had THAT to worry
about instead. I pictured it as a space separate from everyone we came into
contact with, on the edge of a cliff. We lived in a shady borderland, with a
precipice behind us that we could have easily fallen over at any time.
We may have even fallen over the precipice now and again, as we lost our
footing, but we never fell so far to the bottom that we couldn't climb back
up.
Stew is now farther from that precipice than he has been in years, and so
close to the line that separates us from them, that I have no doubt he will
traverse it. Sometimes he does, quick forays into the land of the supposedly
mentally well (though I find that to be a rather ambiguous term, as
indicated by the "supposedly"), with longer and longer stays there. Less
emotional upheaval, and even though, now and then, he may experience some of
the old feelings that remind him how close he was to the precipice, he is
easily reminded that uncertainty, doubt, loneliness, are all part of the
human condition, and he is able to let the disturbing moments pass with far
less discomfort than in the past.
As for me, I'm mostly on the other side of that indefinable border, though
still in recovery. It is a different world out here than the one I lived in
for several years. It's like learning to walk all over again.
This was not easy, and several iterations were attempted. We had a great
name, based on a diagnosis of schizophrenia, but when that diagnosis was
tossed aside in favor of schizo-affective disorder, we moved on.
Schizo-affective disorder just isn't compelling enough. The multitude of
diagnoses and the pace at which they changed was a challenge in more ways
than naming this book (this is, after all, what the book is about), but we
settled on Borderland: A Life On The Edge originally because of the
borderline personality disorder, but then because, even should that
diagnosis change and metamorphose into something else (usually something
elses, these things coming in clusters), it still describes our lives during
the most troubled days.
At its worst, Stew's illness was a constantly changing sea of emotions, and
it was a situation that precluded him from having much interaction with
other people, other than me. Not only was Stew isolated from the niceties of
social interaction that would have helped him feel not so alone as he
battled his demons, but so was I, as his caretaker, as the person with the
skill (more an instinct than anything else) that could deal with him best. I
saw how other people took minor things for granted, such as how their day
would go (no psychotic incidents expected, no surprises, the utilities would
always stay on, demons would be expectedly absent, there would be no need to
try to put the shattered pieces of a person back together after a day at the
office), and I envied them while scoffing at their concern over what I
considered minor details. If only, I thought to myself, I had THAT to worry
about instead. I pictured it as a space separate from everyone we came into
contact with, on the edge of a cliff. We lived in a shady borderland, with a
precipice behind us that we could have easily fallen over at any time.
We may have even fallen over the precipice now and again, as we lost our
footing, but we never fell so far to the bottom that we couldn't climb back
up.
Stew is now farther from that precipice than he has been in years, and so
close to the line that separates us from them, that I have no doubt he will
traverse it. Sometimes he does, quick forays into the land of the supposedly
mentally well (though I find that to be a rather ambiguous term, as
indicated by the "supposedly"), with longer and longer stays there. Less
emotional upheaval, and even though, now and then, he may experience some of
the old feelings that remind him how close he was to the precipice, he is
easily reminded that uncertainty, doubt, loneliness, are all part of the
human condition, and he is able to let the disturbing moments pass with far
less discomfort than in the past.
As for me, I'm mostly on the other side of that indefinable border, though
still in recovery. It is a different world out here than the one I lived in
for several years. It's like learning to walk all over again.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
April 2, 2005
We've slacked off on our reporting. In Borderland, things are quiet. Everyone is striving for normalcy, though that is more a state of mind than anything else.
Stew is in California, and we've both had to relearn how to do things. I, for example, can now, on the days I'm not scheduled to meet with clients, stay in my office (aka, home) all day and work, and not see any other people. In the morning my domestic partner is here, and at night, and in between, I'm responsible for no one besides myself. And the dog. And various clients in various stages of panic, but there are entire days when even they are all quiet. They all think I'm working on their problems is why, and they know that to leave me alone means I can, perhaps, work faster. I try to bunch my client visits together, so I can spend big blocks of time on one project or another, and other big blocks of time going here and there. Yesterday, Friday, April 1st, I saw four clients, one of them a new one, and didn't get home until 9.
Anyway, this isn't about me.
This is about our friend Stew. He's doing pretty well. Considering. Considering, that is, that he's in an area where the options for receiving help are severely limited. One therapist doesn't believe in the borderline diagnosis. One doesn't treat people who self-harm. (But who then told Stew when to come back, and about the self-harm issue said, "Just don't do it anymore." Aw gee, why didn't anyone else think of that?) Another therapist he had an appointment with was found to have lost his license "back east," for unspecified reasons - he decided not to go to that one. The community mental health office isn't quite sure what to do with him. He's an oddity, as one evaluator there told him. He doesn't use drugs, he doesn't drink, he's highly intelligent, and . . . he has all his teeth. She's more used to dealing with what is typically known as "dregs of society."
So they put him in day camp. Three days a week. To learn basic social skills apparently. Sigh. He said it felt like kindergarten. He missed quite a few of the days for various reasons. I don't blame him. They envision for him some sort of perhaps low-level job where he can be a drone.
He wants to go back to school and study statistics some more. He wants to be an actuary. He wants to do more writing. He's checking into taking classes. He's signed up for an online writing class with the local college. He's selling things on ebay. He's DOING THINGS.
He feels isolated at times. He feels . . . alone. He has his parents, he has me, but it's so easy to lose touch with friends. He hasn't heard from his best friend in several weeks. I told him today to give him a call, that it's okay. I told him to talk to another old friend he sees around town, that it's okay. He forgets that. He thinks no one wants to hang around with him, that people avoid him. It's not true of course. People like him, they just get wrapped up in their own lives. We all do. It is true that some people don't know how to respond, and can't deal with it, but that's not his fault. I tell him that. He's a likable guy. He just needs more contact with more people.
He's cut a few times since he moved to California. The first time his mother dealt with it well - I'd told her it wasn't a big deal, he cleans up after himself, usually it helps him feel a bit better (personally, I think this method of self-medication is better than drinking or drugs, both very common for people like him), and not to panic about it. I talk or chat online with him daily, and with his mother. I reassure her, when she doesn't know what to do, or how he is. One day I chatted with her while I chatted with him at the same time, relaying information back and forth on what the situation was, how he was, and what he was feeling. He was in the same house she was, but didn't know how to communicate with her what he was feeling without upsetting her. I am the universal translator. Sometimes I can't tell how he is without hearing his voice, so I call him. I do phone counseling. I make him laugh. I tell him amusing stories about the Killing Machine. Sometimes, when I'm down because I doubt myself, he helps me. He talks to me sternly, he tells me how ridiculous I am, and he's right.
I'm very proud of him. Like all of us, he's a work in progress, and the important thing is that he is working on it. That's what matters; he hasn't given up, he doesn't let his illness consume him.
Stew is in California, and we've both had to relearn how to do things. I, for example, can now, on the days I'm not scheduled to meet with clients, stay in my office (aka, home) all day and work, and not see any other people. In the morning my domestic partner is here, and at night, and in between, I'm responsible for no one besides myself. And the dog. And various clients in various stages of panic, but there are entire days when even they are all quiet. They all think I'm working on their problems is why, and they know that to leave me alone means I can, perhaps, work faster. I try to bunch my client visits together, so I can spend big blocks of time on one project or another, and other big blocks of time going here and there. Yesterday, Friday, April 1st, I saw four clients, one of them a new one, and didn't get home until 9.
Anyway, this isn't about me.
This is about our friend Stew. He's doing pretty well. Considering. Considering, that is, that he's in an area where the options for receiving help are severely limited. One therapist doesn't believe in the borderline diagnosis. One doesn't treat people who self-harm. (But who then told Stew when to come back, and about the self-harm issue said, "Just don't do it anymore." Aw gee, why didn't anyone else think of that?) Another therapist he had an appointment with was found to have lost his license "back east," for unspecified reasons - he decided not to go to that one. The community mental health office isn't quite sure what to do with him. He's an oddity, as one evaluator there told him. He doesn't use drugs, he doesn't drink, he's highly intelligent, and . . . he has all his teeth. She's more used to dealing with what is typically known as "dregs of society."
So they put him in day camp. Three days a week. To learn basic social skills apparently. Sigh. He said it felt like kindergarten. He missed quite a few of the days for various reasons. I don't blame him. They envision for him some sort of perhaps low-level job where he can be a drone.
He wants to go back to school and study statistics some more. He wants to be an actuary. He wants to do more writing. He's checking into taking classes. He's signed up for an online writing class with the local college. He's selling things on ebay. He's DOING THINGS.
He feels isolated at times. He feels . . . alone. He has his parents, he has me, but it's so easy to lose touch with friends. He hasn't heard from his best friend in several weeks. I told him today to give him a call, that it's okay. I told him to talk to another old friend he sees around town, that it's okay. He forgets that. He thinks no one wants to hang around with him, that people avoid him. It's not true of course. People like him, they just get wrapped up in their own lives. We all do. It is true that some people don't know how to respond, and can't deal with it, but that's not his fault. I tell him that. He's a likable guy. He just needs more contact with more people.
He's cut a few times since he moved to California. The first time his mother dealt with it well - I'd told her it wasn't a big deal, he cleans up after himself, usually it helps him feel a bit better (personally, I think this method of self-medication is better than drinking or drugs, both very common for people like him), and not to panic about it. I talk or chat online with him daily, and with his mother. I reassure her, when she doesn't know what to do, or how he is. One day I chatted with her while I chatted with him at the same time, relaying information back and forth on what the situation was, how he was, and what he was feeling. He was in the same house she was, but didn't know how to communicate with her what he was feeling without upsetting her. I am the universal translator. Sometimes I can't tell how he is without hearing his voice, so I call him. I do phone counseling. I make him laugh. I tell him amusing stories about the Killing Machine. Sometimes, when I'm down because I doubt myself, he helps me. He talks to me sternly, he tells me how ridiculous I am, and he's right.
I'm very proud of him. Like all of us, he's a work in progress, and the important thing is that he is working on it. That's what matters; he hasn't given up, he doesn't let his illness consume him.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
January 22, 2005
I feel like I’ve failed, though I haven’t. I have to remember that, that I haven’t. He has to move away, back to California, to stay with his parents for awhile. He’s packing right now, packing up his apartment, getting ready to put things in storage, to take what he needs on his “extended vacation” and leave the rest here.
And I will have the relief of knowing, late at night when he’s having hallucinations, or when the demons visit, or when he’s just overcome with the futility of survival in a world where his mind plays such tricks on him, that he’s safe under his parent’s roof, that he’s not living alone. That he is not alone.
He feels he’s too old to be living with his parents. I tell him that doesn’t enter into it. Age and need are not related, age and where we should be at any particular place in our lives aren’t necessarily connected, and for now this is the best solution.
I need time to get back on my feet. I’m just one person, and though I’ve kept him safe for several years, it’s time for someone else to take a turn. A team of people, this time, people who don’t have to work for a living anymore. I must work, I don’t have the time, I don’t have the emotional resources to carry on like this indefinitely. Does anyone? Perhaps, I tell myself, if I were a better person, I would have managed it. But I’m not, I’m just who I am.
There’s no reason why I can’t do everything, is there? Other than the fact that I’m just one person, that is. Other than the fact that I’m stretched in all directions as far as I can go, and there is very little stretching left that I can do without breaking something. Something that I might need later. Like my mind. Or my health.
So he’s preparing for his move, and he’s managing it well. He’s dealing with it well, especially considering how difficult change is for him. He’s going to miss me, and he’s going to miss Dog, and so Dog is staying with him as much as possible before he goes. February 2nd. That’s when he’s supposed to go. I told him he must come back and visit now and then.
He’ll be close to his best friend too, after he moves, to the best man who stood up at our wedding. His friend is glad to have him back. I’m glad too – that’s three whole people he has down there for support, instead of just one.
Instead of just me.
I tell him he’ll do fine, and he will. I will do fine also. Will I still have an identity when he’s gone? I’ve invested so much of myself into his care but I know that it’s not me, that there is much more to me than that, and I will be fine. I have my life here, I have my love, I have me. We’ll communicate frequently I’m sure. I’ve told him to keep his cell phone, so he can call me anytime. We still have the computer to talk through. I want to make it clear that he’s not being abandoned, or sent away because I’ve suddenly decided to concentrate on my new relationship, but that this is what is best for everyone. It will alleviate my stress knowing that he is not living alone. Living alone is not working for him right now. He may have thought it was, but he doesn’t pay his bills, he doesn’t clean up after himself usually, he forgets to do the things that must be done on a regular basis when one is a functioning member of society, and he lives in his own little world. He has improved so much though. His self-awareness is quite good. Sometimes too good. Sometimes knowing your mind has betrayed you is worse than not knowing. I want him to find his place, and I think he needs his independence from me to learn what he’s capable of.
Am I rationalizing? Am I saying he needs this or that to make myself feel better about having failed? I don’t think so. I think I am right. Some might say he’ll then be dependent on others, but it’s a different dynamic, and he’ll have more incentive to find his own way.
It’s time. I have a life I need to concentrate on right now, a very significant relationship, and work to get back on my feet. To get upright again.
So here we go.
And I will have the relief of knowing, late at night when he’s having hallucinations, or when the demons visit, or when he’s just overcome with the futility of survival in a world where his mind plays such tricks on him, that he’s safe under his parent’s roof, that he’s not living alone. That he is not alone.
He feels he’s too old to be living with his parents. I tell him that doesn’t enter into it. Age and need are not related, age and where we should be at any particular place in our lives aren’t necessarily connected, and for now this is the best solution.
I need time to get back on my feet. I’m just one person, and though I’ve kept him safe for several years, it’s time for someone else to take a turn. A team of people, this time, people who don’t have to work for a living anymore. I must work, I don’t have the time, I don’t have the emotional resources to carry on like this indefinitely. Does anyone? Perhaps, I tell myself, if I were a better person, I would have managed it. But I’m not, I’m just who I am.
There’s no reason why I can’t do everything, is there? Other than the fact that I’m just one person, that is. Other than the fact that I’m stretched in all directions as far as I can go, and there is very little stretching left that I can do without breaking something. Something that I might need later. Like my mind. Or my health.
So he’s preparing for his move, and he’s managing it well. He’s dealing with it well, especially considering how difficult change is for him. He’s going to miss me, and he’s going to miss Dog, and so Dog is staying with him as much as possible before he goes. February 2nd. That’s when he’s supposed to go. I told him he must come back and visit now and then.
He’ll be close to his best friend too, after he moves, to the best man who stood up at our wedding. His friend is glad to have him back. I’m glad too – that’s three whole people he has down there for support, instead of just one.
Instead of just me.
I tell him he’ll do fine, and he will. I will do fine also. Will I still have an identity when he’s gone? I’ve invested so much of myself into his care but I know that it’s not me, that there is much more to me than that, and I will be fine. I have my life here, I have my love, I have me. We’ll communicate frequently I’m sure. I’ve told him to keep his cell phone, so he can call me anytime. We still have the computer to talk through. I want to make it clear that he’s not being abandoned, or sent away because I’ve suddenly decided to concentrate on my new relationship, but that this is what is best for everyone. It will alleviate my stress knowing that he is not living alone. Living alone is not working for him right now. He may have thought it was, but he doesn’t pay his bills, he doesn’t clean up after himself usually, he forgets to do the things that must be done on a regular basis when one is a functioning member of society, and he lives in his own little world. He has improved so much though. His self-awareness is quite good. Sometimes too good. Sometimes knowing your mind has betrayed you is worse than not knowing. I want him to find his place, and I think he needs his independence from me to learn what he’s capable of.
Am I rationalizing? Am I saying he needs this or that to make myself feel better about having failed? I don’t think so. I think I am right. Some might say he’ll then be dependent on others, but it’s a different dynamic, and he’ll have more incentive to find his own way.
It’s time. I have a life I need to concentrate on right now, a very significant relationship, and work to get back on my feet. To get upright again.
So here we go.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
October 24, 2004
I caught him the other day. Caught him in a moment of happiness. Caught him red-handed. We’re similar in some ways. Sometimes I forget things and doubt myself, and sometimes, when he’s in one of the dark pits of his illness, he forgets that there is more to his life than that. All he remembers, when he’s down there, is that life sucks, that it hurts, that there are things that no one can help him with when he needs help, that there are demons out to get him, that he is alone and sad and knows no joy.
That’s what he knows when he’s bad, and he forgets anything that gives lie to this illusion, or he buries it, or he dismisses it as a fluke.
And so I remind him. I remind him when he’s in a bad place, and when he’s happy and laughing and things are going well I point it out to him, I tell him he’s been caught, that life is not all bad and that there is joy in it. “Damn!” he says, or something similar, or he laughs, and I can tell that he feels almost embarrassed, that he feels as if he’s not even entitled to be “not miserable,” that perhaps he’s acting inappropriately.
We’re only driving to Barnes and Noble to go book shopping – we’ve had something to eat, we’re going shopping, then back to my place to watch TV. And he’s laughing, we’re talking and making jokes, and when I point out to him that he’s been caught being happy he’s almost ashamed, as if his illness should preclude such an event, as if he’s supposed to be miserable all the time.
He has just now been declared disabled and unable to work by the State of Washington. He has been unable to work for several years, but that was with private disability, and now that’s gone, so now he needs public assistance. And he thinks, I know he thinks, deep down, that as a recipient of aid, he should not be happy, or enjoy life.
This is, of course, absolutely ridiculous, but we are not always logical about these things. While receiving aid makes him feel worse, it can also help him. He is now eligible for other programs, for other aid, perhaps now he’ll be able to get help with medical and drug expenses. So far, that’s all been out of pocket, at retail, and the pockets are not particularly deep and some of the drugs are particularly expensive. (But they keep the demons at bay and are necessary for survival.) And perhaps now he can get some of his medical issues looked at. His bad eyes. He can’t be out much at night at all by himself, not just because he sees and hears things, but also because he can’t see very well. He is sick often, retching and nauseated and in pain. Perhaps his ulcer is back. All of this has been neglected because it is expensive and there has been no health coverage. Maybe, I desperately hope, some of this can be looked at now. I must see a doctor soon myself, but that can wait. It has to. I don’t have medical insurance. I need a couple of things looked at and I need a crown. But let’s not even go there.
The demons visited him the other evening again. They were behind him, hovering, and we chatted online about it, and I told him they probably just wanted to use his computer, that he should go to bed, get some sleep, and by morning they’d be gone. I think it worked. Of course, the concept of demons being computer literate does not do much for my peace of mind, but it would explain the increased spam I’ve been receiving. Who else would be involved in such things?
But I caught him being happy, and I pointed it out to him, and we laughed about it, and he was glad to be caught. One of his greatest fears is that he’ll be considered not disabled. It’s an awkward position. He IS disabled, but he can still be productive and happy and NORMAL, but if he is, it’s as if being those things negates being disabled. And if he’s not disabled, there is no help for him, he’d be declared “lazy” and “unwilling” instead of unable. I take the position that he can be all those things. Not lazy and unwilling, that’s not what I meant. Disabled. Unable to work in a conventional environment with conventional hours. He can still be productive (and IS), he can be happy, though of course his “issues” will mean he’ll have more than his share of unhappiness, he can be as normal as any of the rest of us wandering around doing our own peculiar thing. Normality is, in my opinion, not only highly variable but also highly overrated.
And it’s the little things we have to look for in order to enjoy life. Some days I feel overwhelmed and hopeless and incapable. And then the smallest thing, seemingly insignificant, will make me laugh, or be a positive indicator of things to come, or make me feel safe, and I will feel as if I’m the luckiest person on the planet. I tell him to try to see the little things, because that’s what makes up our whole. Happiness does not come in large chunks, but in little pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle, and we have to put it together ourselves.
But I’ve strayed. I caught him being happy and feeling joy, just doing routine things, and I pointed it out to him. That’s my job.
That’s what he knows when he’s bad, and he forgets anything that gives lie to this illusion, or he buries it, or he dismisses it as a fluke.
And so I remind him. I remind him when he’s in a bad place, and when he’s happy and laughing and things are going well I point it out to him, I tell him he’s been caught, that life is not all bad and that there is joy in it. “Damn!” he says, or something similar, or he laughs, and I can tell that he feels almost embarrassed, that he feels as if he’s not even entitled to be “not miserable,” that perhaps he’s acting inappropriately.
We’re only driving to Barnes and Noble to go book shopping – we’ve had something to eat, we’re going shopping, then back to my place to watch TV. And he’s laughing, we’re talking and making jokes, and when I point out to him that he’s been caught being happy he’s almost ashamed, as if his illness should preclude such an event, as if he’s supposed to be miserable all the time.
He has just now been declared disabled and unable to work by the State of Washington. He has been unable to work for several years, but that was with private disability, and now that’s gone, so now he needs public assistance. And he thinks, I know he thinks, deep down, that as a recipient of aid, he should not be happy, or enjoy life.
This is, of course, absolutely ridiculous, but we are not always logical about these things. While receiving aid makes him feel worse, it can also help him. He is now eligible for other programs, for other aid, perhaps now he’ll be able to get help with medical and drug expenses. So far, that’s all been out of pocket, at retail, and the pockets are not particularly deep and some of the drugs are particularly expensive. (But they keep the demons at bay and are necessary for survival.) And perhaps now he can get some of his medical issues looked at. His bad eyes. He can’t be out much at night at all by himself, not just because he sees and hears things, but also because he can’t see very well. He is sick often, retching and nauseated and in pain. Perhaps his ulcer is back. All of this has been neglected because it is expensive and there has been no health coverage. Maybe, I desperately hope, some of this can be looked at now. I must see a doctor soon myself, but that can wait. It has to. I don’t have medical insurance. I need a couple of things looked at and I need a crown. But let’s not even go there.
The demons visited him the other evening again. They were behind him, hovering, and we chatted online about it, and I told him they probably just wanted to use his computer, that he should go to bed, get some sleep, and by morning they’d be gone. I think it worked. Of course, the concept of demons being computer literate does not do much for my peace of mind, but it would explain the increased spam I’ve been receiving. Who else would be involved in such things?
But I caught him being happy, and I pointed it out to him, and we laughed about it, and he was glad to be caught. One of his greatest fears is that he’ll be considered not disabled. It’s an awkward position. He IS disabled, but he can still be productive and happy and NORMAL, but if he is, it’s as if being those things negates being disabled. And if he’s not disabled, there is no help for him, he’d be declared “lazy” and “unwilling” instead of unable. I take the position that he can be all those things. Not lazy and unwilling, that’s not what I meant. Disabled. Unable to work in a conventional environment with conventional hours. He can still be productive (and IS), he can be happy, though of course his “issues” will mean he’ll have more than his share of unhappiness, he can be as normal as any of the rest of us wandering around doing our own peculiar thing. Normality is, in my opinion, not only highly variable but also highly overrated.
And it’s the little things we have to look for in order to enjoy life. Some days I feel overwhelmed and hopeless and incapable. And then the smallest thing, seemingly insignificant, will make me laugh, or be a positive indicator of things to come, or make me feel safe, and I will feel as if I’m the luckiest person on the planet. I tell him to try to see the little things, because that’s what makes up our whole. Happiness does not come in large chunks, but in little pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle, and we have to put it together ourselves.
But I’ve strayed. I caught him being happy and feeling joy, just doing routine things, and I pointed it out to him. That’s my job.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
September 8, 2004
I haven't been saying much lately, have I? It's not that there's nothing to say, it's not as if the entire mental illness situation has gone away, it's not as if I don't want to say anything . . . I think we've just been so busy living our lives that we've neglected to keep up with bemoaning the sad state of affairs around here. Maybe that's because we're refusing to wallow in the sad state of affairs.
Yesterday morning Stew called me. Said he didn't want to worry me. Of course he doesn't want to worry me. He never wants to worry me. But I make him talk to me anyway. Said he was suicidal. He's so tired of being so tired and he doesn't feel like he can do anything. I told him I'd be right over and we could go to the ER. It seemed like that might be necessary, though admittedly there's nothing much they can do there except make sure he's safe, which I can usually handle myself, but there comes a time when I'm not sure what to do, and at those times I resort to the ER. It's been a long time since he's visited the ER.
On my way out Colver told me to take over some pancakes -- he'd made us some for breakfast, and there were some left. So I took a plate of pancakes and drove over to Stew's. I wasn't overly alarmed -- his moods can change so quickly, and overreacting too quickly doesn't help anyone.
As I was looking for a parking spot, he called. Said not to bother, he was okay. See what I mean? I hadn't even gotten there yet, and already he was telling me not to bother. "But I'm looking for a parking space right now and I have PANCAKES," I told him, "So I'll be right in." As if I'm going to just turn around and go home after that. Right.
I took the pancakes in and dog became overwhelmed at the thought of all those delicious pancakes just for HER. Of course. I tell her she can have just a piece of one and the rest are for Stew. She looks at me in disgust, as she usually does when she doesn't get everything she insists she's entitled to. Stew told me he'd talked to his therapist and since he didn't have an actual plan in mind, there was really no point in going to the ER -- they'd just talk to him, after all, and his therapist could do that himself.
Or me, for that matter . . . I'm cheaper and I make house calls.
I heated the pancakes, put butter and syrup on them, and gave them to Stew.
And we talked. More precisely, I talked first. Not about him and his suicidal ideation, but about me. I'm quite self-centered. My entire life revolves around me, and I want everyone to know about it. It's one of my character flaws. (Hah! And you thought I didn't have any!)
Then I let him talk for a bit. It's good to share, I think. It doesn't have to always be about me after all.
And you know what? Despite the way he feels and the way his emotions run rampant and the way he sometimes feels so out of control, he's been doing well. He's sick of being sick, both physically and mentally. He's physically sick from being mentally sick, and he's tired from taking the meds, and from the almost constant stomach disturbances he's been experiencing, and he's tired of being sleepy all the time, and he's tired of his eyesight getting worse. Who wouldn't be? I'd be pretty tired of all of it too. We talked about how, even though he feels like he's doing nothing, he really is. He did much spreadsheet work for me in the past week, he has sales on ebay, he takes care of dog, he IS doing things. And sometimes I get so tired I just have to sleep, and that's just from me being me, and I always feel like I don't do enough, so I understand how frustrating it can be.
But it's not enough to kill oneself over. I'm sorry, Stew, but it's just NOT ENOUGH. Especially with the progress you've made. It's not enough. And I think he knows that. He better. I tell him enough.
We talked. He felt better. And then I left so I could go see a client. He's doing okay, with demons or without. Sometimes I see the demons as impotent little red monsters, trying to make some sort of progress with this guy, trying to make inroads into his psyche where they can cause more damage, but he just fights them off, and he goes on his way, and the demons are mad because they can't get far enough in.
This week he also felt rejected by an agency that deals with people with schizophrenia -- as we look for resources to help with this, we come across roadblocks. He's not on Medicaid yet, he's still on private disability, no social security, and that was one of the requirements for this particular program. I've emailed the agency myself -- we're just looking for RESOURCES, for crying out loud, for any information, we're not asking for the full treatment or any treatment at all. Two days later, no one has responded to my email.
No doubt they're understaffed, but could someone please just let me know if you can help us find resources or not? I feel rejected by them too.
This evening he went to an ebay group. Drove himself to Seattle safely, though when I talked to him as he was driving down there he was sick again, retching violently, an all too common problem lately. But he went. And he stuck it out. And when it was over, he left and got himself home. Though it was getting dark and there was a slight problem finding the freeway and he started to lose it, he managed to keep himself together enough to get through it and get home. He did well. He learned more things. He did it on his own. He's capable of so much, even with this thing, he's still able to do so much. Perhaps he has to take things a bit slower sometimes, and perhaps he needs to stop expecting so much of himself.
Perhaps we all do. At least everyone else does -- I should be expecting more of myself. That's what I think.
At the end of the day, everyone is doing okay.
Monique
Yesterday morning Stew called me. Said he didn't want to worry me. Of course he doesn't want to worry me. He never wants to worry me. But I make him talk to me anyway. Said he was suicidal. He's so tired of being so tired and he doesn't feel like he can do anything. I told him I'd be right over and we could go to the ER. It seemed like that might be necessary, though admittedly there's nothing much they can do there except make sure he's safe, which I can usually handle myself, but there comes a time when I'm not sure what to do, and at those times I resort to the ER. It's been a long time since he's visited the ER.
On my way out Colver told me to take over some pancakes -- he'd made us some for breakfast, and there were some left. So I took a plate of pancakes and drove over to Stew's. I wasn't overly alarmed -- his moods can change so quickly, and overreacting too quickly doesn't help anyone.
As I was looking for a parking spot, he called. Said not to bother, he was okay. See what I mean? I hadn't even gotten there yet, and already he was telling me not to bother. "But I'm looking for a parking space right now and I have PANCAKES," I told him, "So I'll be right in." As if I'm going to just turn around and go home after that. Right.
I took the pancakes in and dog became overwhelmed at the thought of all those delicious pancakes just for HER. Of course. I tell her she can have just a piece of one and the rest are for Stew. She looks at me in disgust, as she usually does when she doesn't get everything she insists she's entitled to. Stew told me he'd talked to his therapist and since he didn't have an actual plan in mind, there was really no point in going to the ER -- they'd just talk to him, after all, and his therapist could do that himself.
Or me, for that matter . . . I'm cheaper and I make house calls.
I heated the pancakes, put butter and syrup on them, and gave them to Stew.
And we talked. More precisely, I talked first. Not about him and his suicidal ideation, but about me. I'm quite self-centered. My entire life revolves around me, and I want everyone to know about it. It's one of my character flaws. (Hah! And you thought I didn't have any!)
Then I let him talk for a bit. It's good to share, I think. It doesn't have to always be about me after all.
And you know what? Despite the way he feels and the way his emotions run rampant and the way he sometimes feels so out of control, he's been doing well. He's sick of being sick, both physically and mentally. He's physically sick from being mentally sick, and he's tired from taking the meds, and from the almost constant stomach disturbances he's been experiencing, and he's tired of being sleepy all the time, and he's tired of his eyesight getting worse. Who wouldn't be? I'd be pretty tired of all of it too. We talked about how, even though he feels like he's doing nothing, he really is. He did much spreadsheet work for me in the past week, he has sales on ebay, he takes care of dog, he IS doing things. And sometimes I get so tired I just have to sleep, and that's just from me being me, and I always feel like I don't do enough, so I understand how frustrating it can be.
But it's not enough to kill oneself over. I'm sorry, Stew, but it's just NOT ENOUGH. Especially with the progress you've made. It's not enough. And I think he knows that. He better. I tell him enough.
We talked. He felt better. And then I left so I could go see a client. He's doing okay, with demons or without. Sometimes I see the demons as impotent little red monsters, trying to make some sort of progress with this guy, trying to make inroads into his psyche where they can cause more damage, but he just fights them off, and he goes on his way, and the demons are mad because they can't get far enough in.
This week he also felt rejected by an agency that deals with people with schizophrenia -- as we look for resources to help with this, we come across roadblocks. He's not on Medicaid yet, he's still on private disability, no social security, and that was one of the requirements for this particular program. I've emailed the agency myself -- we're just looking for RESOURCES, for crying out loud, for any information, we're not asking for the full treatment or any treatment at all. Two days later, no one has responded to my email.
No doubt they're understaffed, but could someone please just let me know if you can help us find resources or not? I feel rejected by them too.
This evening he went to an ebay group. Drove himself to Seattle safely, though when I talked to him as he was driving down there he was sick again, retching violently, an all too common problem lately. But he went. And he stuck it out. And when it was over, he left and got himself home. Though it was getting dark and there was a slight problem finding the freeway and he started to lose it, he managed to keep himself together enough to get through it and get home. He did well. He learned more things. He did it on his own. He's capable of so much, even with this thing, he's still able to do so much. Perhaps he has to take things a bit slower sometimes, and perhaps he needs to stop expecting so much of himself.
Perhaps we all do. At least everyone else does -- I should be expecting more of myself. That's what I think.
At the end of the day, everyone is doing okay.
Monique
Saturday, August 28, 2004
August 28, 2004
Excerpts from an email to Stew's parents today:
Hello.
We have achieved stabilization today . . . everything's okay, but I thought I should let you know about yesterday. Stew's rather talked out about it, he'd like to not have to deal with it anymore at the moment. He's been to his therapist, and both the therapist and I have told him that if he seems to be posing a threat to anyone (including himself), we'll have to have him confined.
I know, it's a very bad thing to think about.
Yesterday . . . and here I describe yesterday's activities that I'd rather not put here at this time. Let's just say that it caused some uneasineness and concern. As I'm sure you know, Stew's been taking politics very seriously and personalizing it. And overall he's been getting better in some regards. However, because he is better in some regards (I can't remember the last time his affect was flat, for instance), other issues arise . . . (the therapist says this, I'm obviously not an expert but I see how it's working with him). He's not sure what to do with himself next, and so somehow he becomes, uhm, a tad bit perhaps maybe homicidal. Oh, I hate using that word.
It's like all the anger that's inside him has to come out somewhere, so that's where he focuses it.
Anyway. There was a . . . and here I talk about mitigating factors that helped with the favorable outcome . . ., luckily, so he turned around and headed back. I don't think anyone was in any danger, and neither does his therapist, but predictability is not something we're familiar with -- since my main goal is to keep him safe I have to take it all seriously. He called me on his way back, first I knew he was even out. Told me where he was and what he was doing, and that he was headed back because there was no parking.
He didn't seem to know why exactly, other than of course the political thing, but why he's so upset about it, no one knows -- he doesn't know, so asking him doesn't get any answers.
He got home about 8 pm or so, I think, and seemed to be doing okay once I'd talked to him for awhile. In fact, he was very easy to talk to and not at all delusional except in that his perceptions are a bit skewed. He was psychotic though -- I can usually tell (not that his actions weren't a big enough clue). We laughed about how he was foiled by a lack of parking . . . (there comes a time when all we can do is laugh or . . . )
I called him at 11 pm to see how he was. He said he was fine and sounded like it, but said he'd been suicidal half an hour before. We talked for a bit, and he actually sounded good -- his moods can change so quickly that it can be a challenge to keep up, but it does mean that his suicidal ideations tend to pass pretty quickly, which is a good thing.
He stopped by this morning on his way to his therapist (and delivered one mangy mutt) and was doing okay. After therapy he called me, really upset, so we talked, he came over. The session went okay, he said, but I think it was what the therapist was telling him . . . that if what happened yesterday happens again the therapist will have to do something about it. I told him that I would also -- the important thing is to keep him safe, and if he's going to grab a knife and go somewhere with intent, whether or not we think there's any chance he'll do anything, we'll do what we have to do to keep him safe. Then we had lunch and talked about them Mariners. They're not doing so well. (That's not true. We actually talked about me a whole lot, but that's boring.) He ate well, he was in pretty good shape. Had on a nice new shirt too.
So there we are -- he's better in some respects, but there are other things going on that we need to be aware of. It's like a balancing act I think. Or juggling. Or something.
He's supposed to be napping right now. I roasted a couple of chickens yesterday, and told him to come over and get one after his nap for his dinner. His productivity is up, he's been feeling better physically it appears, and overall things look good. But we're a bit concerned naturally.
He's been told to avoid the news, and I'll keep after him about that. He sees his doctor again Tuesday -- and I think he has plantar fasciitis -- I had that last year and it hurt, but I fixed it by wearing better shoes. :-)
All questions and comments are welcomed. He's a bit overwhelmed with it at the moment though, so feel free to ask me. (Not that I have answers, mind you . . . but you can ask anyway.)
Love,
The Caretaker
_____________________________________________________________
That's about it for today. Scary to think about confinement, hospitalization, drastic measures, but we do what we have to do.
Hello.
We have achieved stabilization today . . . everything's okay, but I thought I should let you know about yesterday. Stew's rather talked out about it, he'd like to not have to deal with it anymore at the moment. He's been to his therapist, and both the therapist and I have told him that if he seems to be posing a threat to anyone (including himself), we'll have to have him confined.
I know, it's a very bad thing to think about.
Yesterday . . . and here I describe yesterday's activities that I'd rather not put here at this time. Let's just say that it caused some uneasineness and concern. As I'm sure you know, Stew's been taking politics very seriously and personalizing it. And overall he's been getting better in some regards. However, because he is better in some regards (I can't remember the last time his affect was flat, for instance), other issues arise . . . (the therapist says this, I'm obviously not an expert but I see how it's working with him). He's not sure what to do with himself next, and so somehow he becomes, uhm, a tad bit perhaps maybe homicidal. Oh, I hate using that word.
It's like all the anger that's inside him has to come out somewhere, so that's where he focuses it.
Anyway. There was a . . . and here I talk about mitigating factors that helped with the favorable outcome . . ., luckily, so he turned around and headed back. I don't think anyone was in any danger, and neither does his therapist, but predictability is not something we're familiar with -- since my main goal is to keep him safe I have to take it all seriously. He called me on his way back, first I knew he was even out. Told me where he was and what he was doing, and that he was headed back because there was no parking.
He didn't seem to know why exactly, other than of course the political thing, but why he's so upset about it, no one knows -- he doesn't know, so asking him doesn't get any answers.
He got home about 8 pm or so, I think, and seemed to be doing okay once I'd talked to him for awhile. In fact, he was very easy to talk to and not at all delusional except in that his perceptions are a bit skewed. He was psychotic though -- I can usually tell (not that his actions weren't a big enough clue). We laughed about how he was foiled by a lack of parking . . . (there comes a time when all we can do is laugh or . . . )
I called him at 11 pm to see how he was. He said he was fine and sounded like it, but said he'd been suicidal half an hour before. We talked for a bit, and he actually sounded good -- his moods can change so quickly that it can be a challenge to keep up, but it does mean that his suicidal ideations tend to pass pretty quickly, which is a good thing.
He stopped by this morning on his way to his therapist (and delivered one mangy mutt) and was doing okay. After therapy he called me, really upset, so we talked, he came over. The session went okay, he said, but I think it was what the therapist was telling him . . . that if what happened yesterday happens again the therapist will have to do something about it. I told him that I would also -- the important thing is to keep him safe, and if he's going to grab a knife and go somewhere with intent, whether or not we think there's any chance he'll do anything, we'll do what we have to do to keep him safe. Then we had lunch and talked about them Mariners. They're not doing so well. (That's not true. We actually talked about me a whole lot, but that's boring.) He ate well, he was in pretty good shape. Had on a nice new shirt too.
So there we are -- he's better in some respects, but there are other things going on that we need to be aware of. It's like a balancing act I think. Or juggling. Or something.
He's supposed to be napping right now. I roasted a couple of chickens yesterday, and told him to come over and get one after his nap for his dinner. His productivity is up, he's been feeling better physically it appears, and overall things look good. But we're a bit concerned naturally.
He's been told to avoid the news, and I'll keep after him about that. He sees his doctor again Tuesday -- and I think he has plantar fasciitis -- I had that last year and it hurt, but I fixed it by wearing better shoes. :-)
All questions and comments are welcomed. He's a bit overwhelmed with it at the moment though, so feel free to ask me. (Not that I have answers, mind you . . . but you can ask anyway.)
Love,
The Caretaker
_____________________________________________________________
That's about it for today. Scary to think about confinement, hospitalization, drastic measures, but we do what we have to do.
