Growing Up Jenny

More than we think we are

2014-01-31T16:56:00.001-05:00

As in most stories, the truth is stranger than fiction.

I write because it's what I do, but more than that, because I need to make some meaning of what seems to me a wasted life.

And I share my story because it's only just beginning--and facing the past and moving forward are things we should never have to do alone.

I can rhyme off the words--trauma, enmeshment, abuse, depression, anxiety, chronic pain, PTSD, dissociation, abandonment, loneliness, loss--but without context, they are still just words.

For 35 years I've been a victim. I'm fighting now to see myself as something more--as the hero of my own story.

This blog is about transformation--about a lifetime of merely surviving; about finding hope, and about losing everything; the struggle to spin straw into gold. To move forward now, it's time to do everything I missed while growing up; to experiment; try new things; discover what I like and don't like; to find out who I am. And to see myself, not as a victim of my past, but as someone with a future worth waiting for and the strength to achieve it.

It's time for me to truly believe that each one of us--myself included--is so much more than we think we are.

When tears are your language

2012-06-14T20:33:00.002-04:00

"Tears are words the heart can't say."

I didn't cry until I was 22.

Before that, I'd numbed myself to cope with the trauma. I didn't cry, but I didn't smile much either. In just the last few years, I've started crying pretty much every day for a million different reasons--sometimes a single tear; sometimes a total breakdown; at home, and in public. When you're just learning to feel any emotion at all in your 30s, your heart uses tears to speak a language your mind doesn't know yet. People criticize my tears; they're embarrassed; they think and say awful things about me because I'm crying. They don't see that until I'm safe to feel the complete rainbow of emotions, crying is the only language my body knows.

It's amazing what tears can express: happiness, pride, grief, sorrow, surprise, anger, relief, terror, pain. Someday I'll learn the language everyone else learned as infants. But for now, tears are all I have. 34 years of trauma requires serious therapy. It's been just 3 weeks, but I am so f**king proud of what I've accomplished. Everyone knows that I am sweet, loving and sincere--that I would DIE for the people I love.

It hurts to lose people I thought were friends, but really, they're the ones who are missing out. If you're not willing to put up with the rain, you'll miss out on the brilliant beauty of the rainbow I now know that I am. For those who have and will choose to stand by me through this storm, when the sun comes out, they'll receive all the blessings that come with the rainbow that's been hiding inside me all these years.

Something for me

2012-05-21T20:51:00.000-04:00

It's been nearly a month since I moved from below ground to far above it.

The balconies here are odd--almost completely enclosed--and I soon learned why. As the wind sweeps, frigid, off the river, it whips along the sides of this boat-shaped building, as if my new home were meant for gliding smoothly through the water, not staying embedded in the ground.

It's Victoria Day weekend here in Canada, and fireworks crackle outside. The cool air draws me after the hottest day yet--all fans running full-tilt. I wrestle with the screen door; then step outside, leaning over the railing to see beyond the walls around me, and let the breeze touch my bare skin.

And then I see them, stretched all across the skyline--lights bursting upward from at least four different fireworks shows. Only the highest bursts are visible above the trees and buildings, and I feel as if I've stumbled on a secret. Miles apart, my eyes scanning for just where the next configurations will appear, I've found a celebration for my eyes alone.

I've never liked fireworks; perhaps it's more my dislike for convention, the expected: blankets and lawn chairs crowding an open, grassy space; the booming noise; the obligatory "ooo's and ah's"; and the disappointment of always being on the outside, tagging along and always alone.

But from my vantage point on this balcony, I hear little noise, see no crowds. I'm simply me, inside and out--no clothes, no makeup, no pretending to be someone I'm not to attract someone who doesn't want me; no disappointment that no one does. Just lights shooting upward like mysterious creatures bursting from the depths of the sea.

I may be alone, but in this moment, beauty explodes in a display of wonder just for me.

An aunt for always

2012-05-14T08:30:00.000-04:00

My mind is filled with babies this Mother's Day week.

My former sister-in-law, Kate, is pregnant with her third little one, due to be born on June 29th--my mom's sister's birthday and my parent's anniversary. I planned to visit her this month for what would be the first time in one-and-a-half years--the non-mother foolishly thinking that a woman 8 months pregnant with her third child under age 3 would be in any shape for visitors.

And I daydreamed...her going into labor a month early (I knew 36 weeks would still be healthy--I'm practical and thoughtful even in my daydreams!) I imagined that her sister would stay with the kids; that I'd have the honor of driving her to the hospital. The baby was coming right away, and with no time to wait for husband or mother, I dreamed she asked me to stay. Obviously my only concept of labour, beyond the very few stories I've heard, is from TV and movies, but I pictured myself letting her squeeze my hand until it bruised while she pushed; stroking her hair and telling her how brave she was in between. Then sobbing and laughing with her as she held her little one for the first time; being the only other person in the world who shared the secret of whether this precious child was a boy or a girl.

A daydream born, I imagine, of knowing that this being part of story, a miracle, is an experience I will never have: not as the woman giving birth; nor as the aunt, sister, friend or mother honored to be asked to stay in the room. Most of my friends had their children when I lived far away, many fight to have children at all.

I learned more about the reality of labor from Kate after her first baby was born than I've learned anywhere else. And I love her endlessly for it. She ushered me in to that sacred "mother world" that others share only with their other mother friends.

Katy, you are the only woman I know whose given birth to two babies that I've held within days of their being born. Thank you for always making me feel like I belonged there--in your mom and dad's living room--even after your brother and I had sold our house and I was living in Kitchener alone.

With my laptop broken for nearly 6 months, my only access to the myriads of photos I've taken is through what I've posted on Facebook. (Yes, those photos are backed up in several places--just none of them in this apartment!)

I scroll through the past few years of profile pictures: Kate's daughter, M., takes up most of the first year of her birth; her son J. pops up the next year, giving one special photo of me holding both my niece and nephew. And always, me smiling--a real, true, from the bottom of a heart filled with love smile, whether my eyes are focused on the camera or the baby.

The comments friends leave echo the happiness in my heart--the ubiquitious remark that I look so happy; that I'll be a great aunt. And I was. I will be.

Happy Mother's Day, Katy. Thank you always for sharing your children with me. Not being there makes the memories bittersweet, but they're some of the brightest I have from the past 9 years--memories precious and untainted by what happened next; a sweet breath of happiness that even a lost husband can't take away.

Mother's Day--sorrow and surprises

2012-05-13T08:30:00.000-04:00

This photo of my mother with her own mum, my Gram, was taken in August 2011, 4 months before Gram died unexpectedly. Although she was unconscious for around a week before she died, we didn't get the chance to say a true goodbye.

I'd forgotten this photo completely--the very last of the two of them together--then discovered this wonderful surprise on my camera. I zeroed in on their smiling faces, squinty eyes and all!; then printed and framed a copy for my mother and one for myself.

I have no doubt, with Mother's Day here, and Gram's birthday approaching, that this photo is a gift sent from heaven.

I've been too poor to buy gifts for several years now, and my sister's always been the one who's amazing at finding just the perfect present. But for this one day in my life, I feel I've done something right; a true surprise that my mom cried over and loved; something I hope she'll always cherish.

Gram lived her life fully, completely--right up until her last days in the hospital at age 86.

Today I honor both her and my own mom, but I reach far beyond that to all the woman I know--those with children, and those without.

I ask you to please be sensitive to those "wish-I-could-be-Mothers" in your life this weekend. Whether we're dealing with infertility, or impossible choices due to medical problems, age, poverty, or being alone, motherhood is a miracle that many of us long to, but may never get to experience. Many have also lost mothers or babies, some not-yet-born that you may never knew existed. Please be careful of ALL the women in your life. Our hearts are an ocean of secrets, so tread lightly; assume nothing, and show love and respect to all of us--mothers or not.

As women, we are joined by our strength; the sacrifices we make, and the fierce depth of our love.

You don't need a child to have something to fight for--and fight we do. Today I extend my congratulations just for being you. Keep fighting, my girls. The battle is not yet won.

This one goes out...

2012-05-09T09:47:00.001-04:00

For the one I loved...

They finally know what's wrong with me, baby. Depression was just the tip of the iceberg.

It's called Complex post-traumatic stress disorder (Complex PTSD), and it encompasses everything--every single thing--that annoyed you so much about me. It was never really me, my love. Just another sign of my disease.

And they can fix me! It'll take tons of money no one has; months, more probably years of work. But I don't always have to be broken.

They recommend patients be in a safe, trusting relationship for optimal results. It's going to be a lot harder without you.

We could have been great. And we were. Imagine how wonderful we could be with these demons off my back; how happy we could have been together.

I blamed myself all along, yet it was never really my fault. Now that I'm aware of it--that I've never had my own identity--I can slowly develop one.

We made a promise, love: "For better or worse." But you won't be here for the better.

It's going to be a long road to healing, without us to look forward to; without you to help keep me from falling apart.

I wish you were here.

Wherever I go...

2012-05-01T21:42:00.000-04:00

During the four months I spent in bed, my parents--for the first time in a lifetime of pain--finally realized that I really was sick, and stepped up to help me. They showed up ever few days to wash dishes, clean the cat litter and bring me food. And writhing in pain, I was thankful.

Suddenly, they were looking for an apartment above ground--somewhere better for my mental and physical health. A complete whirlwind--my mother and I looking at apartments in a building I could never afford; one with a seperate bedroom, large windows, and amazingly, a view of the river and bridge to the U.S. She was agreeing to pay the additional expense that my disability wouldn't pay; I worried about the strings attached, but was already caught up with the absolute beauty of these new surroundings. I pictured room for friends to visit; waking up to the light; doing stretches and Pilates; painting on huge canvasses; cooking healthy meals in my tiny kitchen. I saw myself healing, growing stronger, escaping my depression and anxiety; becoming someone I wasn't; discovering who I really was.

And in the frenzy of signing a lease, packing and planning, I forgot.

Weeks later, I remember--see photos on my Facebook of when I first moved to Sarnia nearly 2 years ago; remember the brilliant plans I made--exactly like the ones I made such a short time ago.

As my mom and a thoughtful friend packed up my kitchen, I ran errands. Walking, I had a complete meltdown. I wasn't supposed to stay here! I was supposed to be leaving Sarnia--escaping the total enmeshment between my parents and I. But it was too late, too late, already far too late. I begged my mother: Would they have helped me financially if I moved back to Kitchener, even Guelph? She didn't know.

I called my psychiatrist, Dr. Goodheart, begging for an extra-long session. Yes, I'm suicidal. But though that may be the only act that cries loud enough for those around me to see my pain, they know I'll never do it.

A friend stepped in to save me in the midst of a panic attack, listening to me blubber on the phone as I sat outside on a tree trunk, listening, caring, and discovering the practical things: that it was too late to get out of my lease. I was trapped again simply for being me--for following along; for forgetting that each time was always the same.

I carried my sobs into the midst of a basement filled with boxes, carefully packed, and begged to be sent to rehab. But where do you send a 34-year-old who's done nothing but try to please people; who thought too much to cut herself; starve away into oblivion--whose greatest sin was numbing herself so that she'd never truly felt the pain of all those years; who spoke of them as if they'd happened to someone else. Therapy and reading might be good for her in the long run, but the feelings had been hovering too close. With no one to turn to, she was terrified of what might happen if those thoughts broke through late one night alone. If instead of her wailing turning to numbness, it morphed into something much too strong for her to handle. If she were ever to feel, it would need to be amongst professionals--a safe place.

Dr. Goodheart and I identified my basic problem: "I'd been totally enmeshed with my parents all my life such that I'd lost my individual identity and was suicidal." He recommended moving away, as he always had. And then a source of hope, a center in BC, Canada that had been praised in the book When The Body Says No. I had ordered a catalog and was enthralled with nearly every course. Unfortunately The Haven wasn't a place you could stay at for a month--instead, it offered a variety of courses lasting anywhere from a week to several days.

I discovered two week-long courses taught back to back at a reduced fee. The teacher had actually studied for 20 years with the woman who invented the theory the courses would focus on--a name I'd heard over and over again in the latest book I'd been reading. Dr. Goodheart was thrilled--this same woman had been his professor during university and she was wonderful.

The perfect start to beginning again.

An impossibility for a 34-year-old child/woman living in poverty.

My new apartment is beautiful. The cats curl up on the bed together, staring out the window at the city. I want to love it here. I want to hug my parents close in gratitude for this gift of light and space. But wherever I go; there I am.

I gaze out at the water I love so much and feel nothing. Numbness has saved me; crying gets me nowhere because I don't know what my heart is trying to tell me; and until I sever this unhealthy bond in which I've lost all individual identity, I can never be my own person.

And so I wait--terrified that underneath the false self I've developed to please the parents I love so much, there's nothing left but tears and dust.

I wouldn't like me

2012-04-15T16:05:00.000-04:00

Before you start reading...

I imagine you've noticed the execessive time lapse between post. Rather than trying to go back and write in order, I'll try to fill you in as inspiration strikes. As you read this post, keep in mind that it was written several weeks ago--the basic part being an email to a friend who'd asked about my new diagnosis (plural??!) Two things have changed since that have given me a bit of hope, so don't be confused if you already know what they are. We'll get to that later!

Oh, and if you'd prefer not to know intimate details about my health issues (yes, they're in intimate areas), please feel free to skip the relevant paragraphs. I don't know how to be anything but honest!

***

In December, right around the time that my Gram died, I decided that I was going to stop blaming my parents for everything; that I would stay for one more year in Sarnia, and that I would focus on healing (find a Pilates teacher, try acupuncture, eat healthily, deal with my emotional/childhood issues [okay, make a start on dealing with those issues], etc.)

Then I was hit with a bladder infection that wouldn't go away. The doctor tried 4 different antibiotics before telling me that nothing had pointed to an actual bacterial infection all along. I've been referred to a specialist, but essentially this means that I have Interstitial Cystitis (aka Painful Bladder Syndrome)--so I have the symptoms of an infection (the wall of my bladder is inflamed, bleeding and tearing), but there's no known cause and no cure. People with fibro and IBS (which I also have) often get it -- it all involves inflammation and is worsened by stress. Western Medical cures often make it worse or don't help, but because my only income is Ontario Disability (ODSP), the only thing that's covered are drugs. Blow #1.

Then I started realizing that I had additional symptoms that didn't fit with Interstitial Cystitis (IC). I couldn't wear any clothes that touched the area outside my body (meaning underwear) or even sit up straight on a chair or the couch. I knew that clothes with a tight waist causing pain made sense with IC because they put pressure on my bladder, but these symptoms didn't fit. Well, that's because I have another yet another chronic no cause/no cure diagnosis that started at the same time: Vulvodynia--excruciating pain in the entire area around my vulva (an ice pack between my legs is the only thing that helps). The closest explanation is that it feels like sandpaper scraping or knives stabbing.

So, I've spent the last 4 months either naked in bed, wrapped in a sheet on the couch, or in the bath. I can't even wear underwear--how painful would jeans be?

These latest difficulties in a life of one hell after another are baffling. I wasted most of my life with depression and anxiety, but when I finally made that all-important decision to let the past go--to learn from it, heal from it, and move on, I got slapped in the face with 2 more disorders that make me seriously consider suicide every day.

Suicide makes sense because I am now even more of a burden to the only 2 people who are a constant in this life in a town where I know I don't belong--my parents. With these 2 diseases, plus what I already have, it's impossible for me to work. I can't sit straight on a chair for more than a few minutes, and with the IC, I have to be able to run to the bathroom at any moment and stay there until my bladder decides it's empty. (Not to mention the constant pain.) Yet my disability income doesn't provide enough money to do anything else with the time I can't spend working.

The only way I can leave the house is by wearing a loose-fitting skirt or dress with no underwear that goes at least to my knees in case of a gust of wind. This is very impractical when one lives in Ontario. Driving anywhere is excruciatingly painful as it involves sitting. I can no longer do typical social things like swimming in a pool (chlorine), horseback riding (which I loved the 2 times I tried it), biking, or anything that involves being more than 5 minutes away from a bathroom, such as walking or going to the park with a friend and her kids.

I am essentially housebound. If I could find an appropriate wardrobe of nightgowns, dresses and skirts, I could build a life of entertaining at home. Unfortunately people's lives are busy and don't fit in with mine--nearly always, I've been the one to visit them. In the past 1.5 years, my parents have been a regular presence in my basement lair. Otherwise, I can count on one hand the number of other visitors I've had.

I understand why people can't visit. My few friends here in Sarnia have kids, and all my other friends now live at least a 2 hour drive away. Some don't have their licence; all are married, several with kids, and it's always made more since for me to fit my freelance life around their schedules. Normal people are busy--they have lives, friends, families, and committments. Dysfunctional people like me are so busy worrying about everyone else that they don't take care of themselves--the most they can manage is taking care of the cats, avoiding any place that requires spending money, and attending medical appointments.

Sure, I can offer a weekend near the beach to friends stuck in the city, but where's the fun in visiting a friend who can't take them out for ice cream or fries under the bridge because they can't afford the few dollars to buy their own? Who can't even comprehend how to feed and take care of a guest? Who, instead of a beautifully appointed guest room like all their friends, can offer only a couch in their living room or their own bed (which yes, is located in the kitchen--no doors in this apartment besides the one to the bathroom).

I am only too aware of what I've become: bitter. A person with nothing to talk about because she's lost all hope that at her age, life will get better. And with every book she reads, every conversation she has, realizes more and more how truly screwed up she has been for the 35 years she's existed. Make no mistake: if I met myself now, I sure as hell wouldn't want me for a friend.

Yet I love with all my being, leaving no room for myself. I hear about someone else's suffering and I cry and obsess and wish to God that there was something I could do to make it go away. But no one sees this part of me. They see anxiety, depression; someone who could fix her life quite easily if she'd just get out of bed and try; stay positive; go to church; stop complaining. They don't see the truth: that despite my seemingly happy childhood, emotionally I am the equivalent of a burn victim--stripped of all skin; screaming in pain at the slightest touch.

All those years spent trying to please others, smiling on the outside. And I succeeded--no one knew the truth. At this one thing, I have not been a failure, but I have failed myself. 35 years wasted being what others wanted me to be. I should have spent them screaming on the outside. Instead, I cried silently, so as not to bother others. And still I'm surprised that no one heard me.

I've been desperate enough many times in my life to consider offering sex for basic needs like food and rent. Now even my very womanhood has betrayed me.

Someone is laughing very hard at me right now.

Requiem for a marriage (written August 10, 2010)

2011-12-01T22:35:00.000-05:00

I remember how our fingers danced towards each other as your friend insisted we couldn't be "just friends"

My shy smile mirroring yours, the electricity leaping between finger tips as they accidently brushed across the table

I remember the rush of filming whales in Boston, bracing myself against the boat, camera held tight inside my coat against the rain; losing, yet always finding you again

I remember the mini-donuts you'd buy--3 for you and 3 for me, fed from your fingers as our eyes held tight

Your eagerness not to lose me, running back into your house to scribble down your number as I waited in my friend's car

I remember your writing--all in caps--green marker on the inside of a gum package; the mix of courage, shyness and excitement as I picked up the receiver to call for the first time

I remember the first time you kissed me--hidden from our friends in the pool hall; your intensity and passion--the aura of joy and exuberance rising up all around you

I wanted in for the ride, to give you every piece of myself, yet pushed back and forth, afraid

I remember the Blackout--going to bed early and alone, the loneliness I felt as groups and couples danced excitedly outside the house; the beating of my heart as you knocked on my door to pull me out into the starlight; the joy that out of everyone it was me you wanted to spend that night with

I remember your gentleness; your patience with my tears; how afraid I was to lose you--and how my fear was what pushed you away

I remember 7 years spent together, flirting with you and you alone--yours the only validation I needed

I remember slumping on the floor against the couch, the grief of knowing that even begging wasn't enough to make you stay

I remember hope--you wanting to try again--how I held you close when you came in through the door, resting all my fears on your strong shoulders--how the world felt right again

And how those six weeks of you truly trying were the best we'd ever been

I remember finding your ring--tossed among a basketful of odds and ends, knowing that no words, no tears could keep you with me; knowing that I'd failed at loving you; that I loved you, but was never good enough

I remember driving in your car; how you'd turn down the radio when I spoke so you could hear

How no one can pack a box or trunk like you can; how no one can fix a computer like you

And how although you couldn't fix my every problem--and I didn't expect you to--I don't know how I'll solve the smallest puzzle without you.

Where's my money tree?

2011-07-15T19:12:00.000-04:00

I have 3 credit cards. When you work freelance, you learn that they're much safer than cash because you never know when your next paycheque is coming.

Unfortunately the recession stopped the flow of money, and when I tried to use a card last week, I discovered that I've reached my limit. With all 3 cards.

It's not that I've been spending much. Most of my debt is from the year post-recession when I tried courses and coaching in hopes of reviving my career. And from the year post-separation when I refused to ask for money.

The disability support the government gives me is saving me from spending thousands each month on medication, but once my rent is paid, I can barely pay the minimum on each card.

I'm afraid.

Poverty does wonders for depression, of course. I'm supposed to be getting out, planning things with other people. But the cost of a movie, or even an ice cream cone is too high.

My family takes pity on me--taking me out for a meal and picking up the tab. And I love them for it. But once again, I've become the charity case.

I make lists in my head of what I might possibly have left to sell; wondering who'd give me a fair price for what I have; regretting all I had to leave behind last year as I down-sized for each move.

The surest way not to spend money is to not leave the house.

And so I sit here, paralyzed with fear. Because when I'm afraid, I don't jump into action--I freeze.

Sleep makes the time go by.

Home is where

2011-06-14T20:35:00.000-04:00

I've never understood those who struggle staring at an empty page as they wonder what to write.

When I wrote for magazines, I started with the research, preceded by the point behind the article, summed up in a witty line or two that seldom made it into print.

With personal writing, like my blog, I came to the page with a line or two already written in my head.

But these days, my head is filled with inconsequential noise: concerns about money; where to move; where in the world I might belong if such a place exists. Perhaps not so inconsequential, but more than I can handle now.

As the weather warms around me, I think of my house--the porch I'd sit on to read at night; the back yard where I'd sunbathe, hidden from the neighbors; the garden I dreamed of building; the office I'd only begun to decorate; the breeze of the fan above my bed as I napped.

I didn't know how much I loved that house until I had to leave it.

I'm a woman alone; living off the goodness of the government disability program--below the poverty line. In the vicious cycle where I can't afford the rehab my body needs to work, and thus can't work, so can't afford what I need.

I can dream big all I want, but woman alone + poverty seldom equals the ability to own a home. I'm not naive. I know our little starter home was the best I'll ever get. And it was he who got the mortgage--all alone--not me.

I regret nagging; regret my lack of appreciation; regret turning into the worst parts of my mother. All because I tripped on the steps the first time we saw the house; all because I was much too insecure to see his vision; and because those godforsaken kitchen cupboards reminded me of the battle scars of the PTSD of my childhood.

It was beautiful when we left--his dreams achieved, but far too late for me.

Home is...not here...in another basement...alone.

Home is laughter, conversation, music, the sight of something outside larger than a slice of sky; a voice other than my own, that of a crazy cat lady speaking to her fur-children. Home is other people; other hands; other thoughts and opinions. Home is an invitation, a journey together--not a life sentence: forever and ever alone, amen.

The T-shirt I wear reads "Love Where You Live," but this is not living. As much as it hurts to know it, here is not my home.

This is the story of me

2011-06-07T21:48:00.000-04:00

It's over now. 15 months and I've been replaced.

I tell myself how stupid I was to keep on hoping. And my broken heart grinds away into finest powder beneath his feet.

But...

...if I'm the heroine of my own story--not the victim--I'd tell it a different way.

I'd be the brave one; who kept my vows, and kept on trying even when it hurt.

I'd be the strong one; who trusted the man I loved too much to just move on; to let someone else jump in and take his place.

I'd be the one who loved despite everything; who hoped against hope; not the girl who loved too much, but the woman who choose to love more than she had to.

I'd stand against the wind alone...and let it take me.

I refuse to let them steal my story from me.

The fascinator

2011-05-03T22:22:00.001-04:00

It seems I missed a lot by not watching the recent wedding between William and Kate. Even my father watched it the next day with my mother and grandma.

With no TV or radio, I receive news in bits and pieces, after the fact. I don't see movement, but I see words and photos of whatever matters to the writer of what I read on the internet. Everything comes second hand, filtered through the person who speaks to me, whether out loud or in writing.

To many women, the hats or "fascinators" the women wore to celebrate the royal nuptials were the true...fascination. (What other word is fit to use?) My grandma reminisced about hat-wearing; bloggers asked if I'd follow suit if fascinators became the style here in North America. My mother wondered, too.

Considering more than half the weddings I've attending have been as bridesmaid, bride or piano player, and that daily life gives me little other occasion even to dress up, I said it would have to depend--would I also be attending high tea, horse races and polo matches?

Life constrains us, doesn't it? Yes, you can wear a fascinator; yes, you can learn not to care if others whisper when you do. But where would you buy one? And would you wear it to the movies, dinner, or for a night at home with your husband?

Buy me a fascinator and I'm quite prepared to wear one. But please, along with it bring a place and time that I can sport my new decoration.

P.S. Costume parties don't count.

Learning to bond

2011-04-18T22:37:00.000-04:00

It feels strange to be posting giveaway after giveaway, yet nothing about myself; especially as my life has been changing so much.

Trying to migrate my blog to Wordpress created so much stress, and on top of these giveaways I'd put so much work into planning, threatened to overwhelm me. The weather stayed miserable throughout February and March, and at times, I again thought of how much easier other people's lives would be without me.

When I first started working with Dr. Goodheart, I felt hopeful. He diagnosed me with post-traumatic-stress-disorder (PTSD) as if there was nothing to it, nodded and sympathized with my tales of horror, and shared things I'd never known before. As I read the first of several books he'd suggested, I learned lesson after lesson, my epiphanies tumbling over one another just as my words did.

And then I was stuck.

The first step in my re-parenting was the very first step I'd missed out on--learning that my caregiver would love and be there for me without needing constant reassurance of that fact.

I am often clingy and needy, hating myself for doing so even as I ask, "Do you love me?" And when someone goes away, I truly believe that their love goes with them. I panic at leave-takings; cry when I learn a friend can't see me that weekend after all.

And so we devise a plan. I have one friend that truly understands me; one that I lived with once as a roommate; one that I can live with as a roommate again (despite her husband and 4-year-old-son). Because I demand nothing; because she'd cook a meal only for her son and herself; because I love her little boy like my own; because my companionship makes her life better, and especially because a car and driver is one of the best things that can happen in her life.

The first week was difficult. We both had trouble emerging from our own coping methods. I slept; she kept busy cooking, baking, cleaning. And just as each one of us was feeling that this couldn't work; that something was horribly wrong, we talked. And things were okay again.

And now it's my second week here; a week in which I feel like I'm a different person. I'm not better of course; not foolish enough to believe that something so simple could make me that way.

But when I leave Mary's for my appointment with Dr. Goodheart tomorrow; then drive the hour from his place back to Sarnia, I'll know that I have just 7 days to survive before I move back here again.

I'm wanted here, even needed. And after reading about bonding in one of the books I loaned her. Mary knows what I need and how to help me. Knowledge is power. True friends are hard to find, and I'm incredibly grateful for mine.

Strong women

2011-03-08T02:59:00.003-05:00

I’ve had the flu for over a week now; sometimes hungry, yet sick at the thought of food; sleeping for hours, waking for a drink and bathroom break and perhaps to check email; then back to bed again.

As I write this, it’s very early in the morning on March 7th, my sister’s birthday. I’ve been thinking about her; then thinking about a commitment I made to write a post for International Women’s Day on March 8th.

The women in my family are strong. In her 20s, my sister was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, a terribly painful disease that flares up; then calms for no apparent reason, like my fibromyalgia. There are very few foods she can eat that won’t cause symptoms, and it’s taken trial and error to learn what they are. And although medication is controlling her disease, she knows it may not always work. Like me, she wonders how having children could affect her body, and struggles with the future: will she be able to do all she dreams of doing? When will the next shoe drop? Still, she teaches and volunteers and loves.

Our mother too is strong woman, giving up her career and devoting her life fully to her daughters and husband, all the while feeling that she was never good enough. My parents met and married so quickly that their marriage until very recently was one of fighting and staying together for the kids. My mom must have felt horribly disappointed with what her life had become. Yet she stayed with my dad throughout his years of anxiety and depression that began when I was 16. She knew I thought of her as weak, yet she’s been there for me through it all. Both my dad and I now know: she’s put up with so much less than she deserves.

Her own mom, my Gram, waited for years to marry the man she loved, just because her mother wanted her to stay at home and help on the farm. She must have resented those years she lost when my grandpa died unexpectedly when he was 71. She was devastated, alone in the home they’d built together, yet kept on. Her own mother, the woman she never felt good enough for, lived to be 98, and Gram continued to visit and love her. I can’t imagine how she’s lived for so long without my grandpa. All I know is that she’s part of my family–that she’s a stronger woman than me.

My dad’s mother lived a largely unhappy life, and although she doesn’t say much, we hear bits and pieces: brothers locking her in the closet; a brother gone missing in the war; marriage to a man who later became an alcoholic. She lost her husband when I was just a baby, and now lives in a nursing home, suffering from dementia. She may have become bitter, but perhaps it was the only way she knew how to survive. After years wasted in squabbles with her six sons and daughters, she sits alone, watching TV. Somehow she’s survived; somehow she’s been strong.

My great-grandmother got pregnant at 16, in a time when this was horribly frowned upon. Her third child drowned in a water reservoir on the farm; there was nothing they could do to save her. In her late 70s, she fell, broke her hip and pelvis, and had a series of strokes, leaving her paralyzed in a wheelchair; in a nursing home alone. All she wanted was to die, let she lived to be 98–the overwhelming strength of the genes in my family’s women.

I never knew my grandfather’s mom, but she, too, was an example of strength. She spent a lifetime reading and collecting books, filling them with underlining and her own scrawled insights. Trained to be a teacher, she was married with two boys under 10 when she found her husband in the barn, mauled to death by a bull. She survived, raising her children and keeping the farm afloat. I never knew her, but before she died, she met her newest great-grandchild, leaving an intricately embroidered version of “Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep” that hung for years above my bed.

I compare myself to this heritage of strong women, tearing myself down, believing that I could never be strong enough to survive what they survived. Yet here I am, their genes, their stories, all a part of me. And I have to think that maybe–just maybe–I’m stronger than I think I am.

101 in 1001 - The List

2011-03-04T06:04:00.002-05:00

I'm embarassed to even post this list. Yes, I've already completed some things on it. Others, I've given up on already.

So I'm giving myself the right to edit--"Life is a journey; not a destination"--or something like that.

Here, as it stands now, is my 101 in 1001 list.

The Mission: Complete 101 predetermined tasks in a period of 1001 days.

The Criteria: Tasks must be specific and measurable.

Timeline: I will begin working on these tasks January 1, 2011 and finish at midnight September 27, 2013

The List:

1. Learn how to use the self-timer on my camera - DONE
2. Work through all my Photoshop tutorials
3. Buy a DSLR camera and learn to use it
4. Write a will
5. Start a memoir
6. Buy a car
7. Pay off my credit cards
8. Pay off my loans to Mom and Dad
9. Start a business
10. See Mary at least once every month
11. Go snorkeling
12. Go to Hawaii
13. Visit Peter and Anne Marie in Colorado
14. Visit Sarah in Massachusetts--go whale watching!
15. Visit Claire in BC
16. Take a road trip with my sister
17. Take a trip with Mary
18. Visit Michele in NC
19. Visit Southampton in the summer
20. Visit Chelsea in Vermont
21. Go on a cruise
22. Go to Las Vegas; spend a day at the spa in the Venetian
23. Find a counselor who really helps me; attend regular sessions (2x/month if possible)
24. Go dancing
25. Go horseback riding
26. Re-purpose at least one item of clothing
27. Learn to make hair accessories (flower clips, etc.)
28. Complete one knitting project
29. Finish one Project Life album
30. Blog 3x/week
31. Experiment with different ways to relax and STAY relaxed (a massage from Cassy where I DON'T TALK!)
32. Write a list of 50 things I like about myself
33. Scan and organize all my printed photos
34. Finish key-wording photos
35. Complete at least one art journal
36. Write a list of 100 things that make me happy
37. Put together at least 10 outfits I feel good in, accessories included
38. Read one book every two weeks
39. Write a list of things that each person in my life has taught me
40. Print out, frame and hang the pictures that make me smile
41. Make a list of my 50 most favorite quotes
42. Participate in NaBloPoMo every November at the very least
43. Try out all the makeup, hair products and jewelry I own, including samples
44. Watch movies I've always wanted to see--and those I could never imagine myself seeing
45. Print my blog from beginning to now and add to my scrapbooks
46. Participate in Reverb in December
47. Say yes to everything for a week
48. Follow the Happiness Project for a year
49. Reduce my medication
50. Laugh out loud every single day
51. Take the Mondo Beyondo course
52. Attend Loral's business conference
54. Try one new recipe every month
55. Have someone redesign my blog - DONE
56. Spend at least 3 hours/week reading other people's blogs and newsletters
57. Masterful Scrapbook Design - complete 1 layout each month
58. Big Picture Classes
59. Complete the January 2011 Ultimate Blog Challenge - DONE (kind of! did 13 or so days out of 31)
60. Organize paper and computer files
61. Pay attention when I hear new music I like and get it for myself!
62. Make, print out and use checklists for my goals
63. Back up my computer at least once a month
64. Get rid of unnecessary expenses
65. Do 1 thing every week that scares me
66. Hang up bulletin boards, white board, affirmations--store things in binders
67. Do 1 thing every week to help or support someone else
68. Fill up my med/vitamin containers at the beginning of each week
69. Refill medication BEFORE I need it!
70. Save $5 for every task I complete
71. Get a new CPAP machine and mask
72. Connect with the local CMHA
73. Fill out a food journal for 6 weeks; then visit a nutritionist with my results
74. Lose 60 pounds
75. Find some way to add exercise to my everyday life, especially during the winter - if I get a car, get a YMCA membership; see if I have room for my recumbent bike at the apt, etc.
76. Create a simple exercise routine I can do at home that will help rehab my body with the help of Lisa, Zach and Adam (have Pete film, if possible)
77. Get a health/fitness assessment from a personal trainer (are these free? - research)
78. Eat more protein and vegetables and less junk food and carbs
79. Do 31 self-portraits in 31 days with Mary Jane (January) - DONE
80. Work with Laura again (in some capacity!)
81. Write a list of 20 skills and resources I have that I can barter with
82. Write a list of what I need help with and set up bartering exchanges
83. Create and nurture my support system
84. Put up cat shelves
85. Get a tattoo
86. Keep my apt. clean enough that I could have a friend drop by at any time
87. Keep fresh flowers or live plants in my apt. whenever I'm here
88. Make it to X blog followers (page views?) - research
89. Have my relaxation cassette tape from Joy converted into an mp3 file
90. Follow up with every single person who contacts me - make charts and files to keep up
91. Visit Gram at least 1x/month (increase if I get a car)
92. Practice singing
93. Do "one word" every year -- 2011: healing
94. Get more treatments for my rosacea
95. Kiss someone from each continent
96. Take a self-defense course
97. Take a first-aid course
98. Enter a photo contest
99. Private
100. Private
101. Private

To be continued!

Healing hurts

2011-02-22T08:07:00.001-05:00

There's a downside to healing. It hurts so much more than being numb.

As I learn to name my emotions; as I became aware of all the growing up lessons I missed, and as I discover my need for closeness and bonding, I become more aware of my feelings of loneliness and a need for connection.

Last week I spent an afternoon and evening with my friend and her children. The next day, I found myself picking up the phone to call a friend, hoping to spend time together. The fact that I even thought to call someone was a positive change. The fact that I actually did, an even better one. The phone was busy all day.

But the next day was drive to Dr. Goodheart day with Mom, followed by dinner (at an actual restaurant!) with my Mom and Dad. The next, my upstairs neighbors surprised me with an invitation to join them for a delicious waffle dinner. Carrying on a conversation with two adults, while three children fought to take turns for my attention, filled some of the emptiness I'd found in my heart.

Several days later, the desire for connection was still there. I began to feel restless, but after reaching out several times and being disappointed, my heart had been hurt enough. Loneliness and disappointment were much too familiar to the child with no friends. I spent a day sleeping on and off. I noticed my arms hurting. I lost interest in wanting to talk or go out, even if I could. The familiar: depression.

I no longer care to read; hope the mail doesn't come; choose to go back to bed instead of reading; feel nothing but overwhelmed.

In a last-ditch effort, I call a far away friend, just to talk, but get her answering machine.

This is me--always has been me. But it's not me anymore. I'm transitioning, but I'm stuck without support; when depressed is the only way I know.

My parents call the next day. The familiar feeling of not wanting to talk: "I'm fine; forget what I said about needing groceries. No...really."

Is it better or worse, now that I see where it comes from; that I can watch myself going down?

Happy to be TOLD to read!

2011-02-18T08:29:00.016-05:00

Have you read The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin?

I took the first step--buying the book--but have yet to even look at it. I find that reading in my apartment tires me, and I've decided that it's because I have so little light. The glare of the computer screen and the constant stimulation of the internet seem to be the only thing powerful enough to keep my completely conscious.

I subscribe to many blogs by email, and last week an interview with Rubin caught my eye. It was a Q&A on author Theo Nestor's blog.

My favorite tips:

* Don't save projects for days when you have hours to work on them. Even just 10 minutes of writing, or whatever it is you do, keeps it on your mind. I like to picture ideas and projects simmering away--my subconscious, for once, working for me instead of against me!

* Find time for related activities--whatever you need to keep the ideas flowing. In other words, don't let your mind go blank! It's difficult to write (or carry on many conversations, as I've discovered during long periods of depression and life-avoidance) if you don't keep up with the world around you. Reading other people's blogs, having conversations about life, and reading in general are all part of the writer's job--NOT something to let slide because you don't make time for it.

* Gretchen's favorite writing tip: "Have something to say!" A lot of this probably comes from the parts of a writer's life that I tend to ignore--the tips above, for example. According to Rubin, writing will come much more easily if you have a thought in mind that you want to communicate to your reader.

These ideas may be obvious for others, but I need to put all of them into practice: for my work, my therapy sessions, and the friendships I hope to develop.

So starting tomorrow, I'll actually READ all those blogs I keep collecting. Perhaps I'll set a timer for an hour and then move on to what I'm more likely to consider as "work." I bet I'll find that I accomplish much more by labeling reading as part of my job than I do by wasting time in unsuccessful multi-tasking.

And as lovely as it looks on my book shelf, one of these days--perhaps when it's nice enough to sit outside and read--I'll pick up The Happiness Project and READ it.

Photograph by Massimo Barbieri, Wikimedia Commons, Cc-by-sa-3.0 [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en)], via Wikimedia Commons

Happy Love Day

2011-02-15T08:34:00.002-05:00

It's February 14th as I write this, and I'm ready to take back "Evil Monday."

Fourteen days from today will be the anniversary of the day my husband told me he wanted a divorce. Since then, I've survived my birthday--alone; the anniversary of the day we met--alone; his birthday--alone; Thanksgiving; Christmas; not going to Hawaii with his family; New Year's Eve; New Year's Day; our wedding anniversary, and by now? To put it mildly, I've had enough of surviving.

Who says that holidays are only for couples; only for children; only for everyone but crazy unwanted old cat ladies like me?

Growing up old and depressed, I can't remember a time when I didn't feel cynical about the occasions I was told to celebrate. I didn't need to be an adult to know that Christmas morning would somehow be a let-down; that Dad would be sick for the holidays; that the presents at Grandma's house had never stepped foot near Santa, and that staying up past midnight on New Year's Eve didn't bring life much magic.

Until I was 25, I lived every moment thinking that someday I'd have someone to share this with--whether this was Christmas Eve, a falling star, a sunset or Valentine's Day--and that sharing it was what would make it special.

But being together doesn't make everything special in the same way that being apart doesn't make it meaningless.

A fight can ruin a sunset; a little boy's laughter can make you smile when you want to cry; a "friend" can brighten a blackout, and the commercialization of a day like Christmas, your wedding or Valentine's Day can utterly ruin the moment.

So alone or together, I'll go to bed before midnight on New Year's Eve if I'm tired. I'll love roses and chocolate just as much on March 14th as I do one month earlier. I'll remember my mother on Mother's Day whether she's here or in heaven. I'll celebrate my birthday whether I have children and grandchildren to celebrate with me or not. And I'll be grateful for every moment I'm given--no more past; no more future. Every sunset is precious; every falling star; every kiss; every smile, and every flower--and every one may just be the last one ever.

So Happy Love Day everyone--today; tomorrow; whenever.

Childish things

2011-02-14T00:22:00.000-05:00

Although I played as much as any child before age 7, our move and my subsequent anxiety and depression erased the childish part of my still young childhood.

In some ways, I was born an adult, with much expected of me: to take Daddy's place in Mommy's life; to sense what she needed and respond; to give her the love, understanding and companionship she so desperately needed. But I was still loved for being a kid. Both my parents were teachers, and I thrived on learning. Despite the fighting and my role as substitute husband to my mother, I have 7 wonderful years of childish ways to look back on.

Unfortunately, 7 is still a child, and I lost much when I lost my ability to play.

Part of my re-parenting process is allowing the child-like parts of me to emerge from the closet they've been stuffed away in, and to welcome them with loving acceptance.

Now that I have Dr. Goodheart's permission, I begin to notice my desire for what many would consider childish things. I win pretty hair bows, and rather than packing them up as a gift for my niece, I want to keep them. Another day I win a necklace, really meant for a child, but ask for my own name on it. And when I see something adorable like this cat puzzle, I want to own it.

I convey my excitement to Mary about my new car--about how often I'll be able to see her and Jonathon now that I'll finally have my own transportation. And I watch myself typing about how we'll take Jonathon to the water park and the Children's Museum, and I laugh because I know that I want to go there, too!

Look out world--I no longer need permission to be the kid I missed out on being!

When you can't stop talking

2011-02-12T17:52:00.000-05:00

I talk a lot.

I was quiet during my years of dysthymia, when people confused my chronic, mild depression for my personality. (I'm sure being shy and self-conscious didn't help.) But in my mid-teens, when my dad's spiral into anxiety and depression triggered my own, my anxiety freed what I've come to call "blabbing." Yes, my name is Jenny. And I'm a blabber.

What others don't realize is that it's horrible to be blabbing away to them about something; to sense from their body language that they're tired of hearing you talk, but to feel forced to keep on talking anyway. I think it's one of the things that drove Pete crazy in those last few years.

Fortunately, I thought to ask Dr. Goodheart what was wrong with me.

Being the intelligent psychiatrist that he is, he had an immediate answer.

"You never felt understood or validated by your parents. You keep talking because you're trying so hard to make the other person understand; because it's so important to you that they do."

It explains why I repeat the same thing over and over using different words; why the expression "you know?" is so often on my lips; why Pete never mentioned I talked too much during the first few years of our relationship; why I characterize my best friendships as those in which we don't have to talk, and why I'm especially talkative at first-time meetings.

Like so many other things I've been reading and hearing from Dr. Goodheart, once again, it explains everything.

And now that I know why I'm doing it and what I really need, I can focus on change.

Yesterday as my mom and I ate breakfast together before my session, I began talking about something and soon recognized that I couldn't stop and why. So I kept going, "And the reason I keep talking and talking is because I desperately need to feel understood and validated and I can't stop talking because I need that so much."

Finally my mom looked up. "You mean right now?"

"Yes, I can't stop even though I hate what I'm doing." I could feel myself growing more and more desperate.

"It's okay. You can relax," she said, looking at me. And I looked back and took a few deep breaths. And with that, it was over. I was understood.

Everything's going to be all right...

One Word Wednesday: Unravelling 2011 with Susannah Conway

2011-02-09T20:19:00.000-05:00

In the last few weeks of December, as I meandered around the internet in search of challenges, online courses and resolutions for the new year, I stumbled upon an amazing creative woman who just happened to have an entire set of free worksheets taking the "one word" concept to a higher level.

I'd already chosen my word (healing), but brainstorming and filling in my answers on Susannah's worksheets are what really brought the true power of that word to life.

Here's just a taste:

How does your word make you feel?

Hopeful; content; relaxed (like after a massage--stretching and smiling); strong; powerful; happy; passionate; full of life; loved; able to say yes and to accomplish my dreams.

Four words to support your one word

This part was one of my favorites--a brainstorming chart that I couldn't help expanding with arrows drawn everywhere! In the middle bubble, you write your word of the year. In the four surrounding bubbles, you write words that will support your word.

I chose travel, with arrows pointing outward to indicate friendship (as so many of my friends live far away), wonder, new experiences, warmth, and the knowledge that I don't have to lose the part of myself that travels just because I've lost "him."

Another word was bodywork. I'm well aware that my physical limitations--chronic pain and exhaustion--are intertwined with my depression, and that healing one or the other will benefit all the rest. I'm hoping to spend time walking, swimming and biking, look into getting a membership at the YMCA, and have the experts I worked with in Kitchener, where I was just beginning to "rehab" my body, help me design a program that I can do here in Sarnia.

My third word to support me in healing was hope--seeing a counselor, talking to other women about how they found their own healing, spending time being creative and laughing, and developing friendships. And my last word was love--developing a support system of people who would encourage me and provide constancy in my new journey.

I keep bumping up against the concept that we overestimate what we can accomplish in a short amount of time (picture your daily or weekly to-do list--tasks that get pushed ahead at the end of every day or week) and underestimate how much we can accomplish in the long-term. The next part of Susannah's worksheet drove right to the heart of that truth with a page divided into boxes for each month of 2011--a place to wonder and dream about what you want your next 12 months to look like.

My brain exploded with thoughts and plans, and as I became aware of how much time there really was in a year, my view of everything expanded. Perhaps I really could be in a completely different place by December 2011. A place of being healed; of being on my way, of looking back on 2011 as being a pretty darn good year, and of eagerly anticipating 2012.

When you look at time that way, it makes healing seem not-so-impossible after all!

Testing positive

2011-02-08T08:30:00.002-05:00

If you read the previous post, you know all about my brand new diagnosis of alexithymia: the inability to put words to what I feel. My new assignment is to watch my behavior and try to determine what I might be feeling from how I act.

One of the friends I've made on Facebook had a really stressful day yesterday--thoughtless things said to her that didn't need saying, on top of doctor's visits and a huge business proposal.

I felt awful when I heard. So I sent her a note of encouragement.

She wrote back:

"You're a doll. Seriously. I want you to know I look forward to emails from you and that I can't express enough how much it means to me to have your support and encouragement, Jenny. You're truly a gem. ♥"

When I wrote back, she sent another "heart."

And then it happened--a feeling! With tears streaming down my face and an uncontrollable smile, I knew it had to be a positive one. It had to be happiness! I felt happy!

And then it hit me: Happiness couldn't be the ONLY positive emotion. What about appreciated? Understood? Proud? Grateful? Content? Elated?

All along I've been thinking that learning to name my feelings is going to be a dreadful task--one involving what I thought were the entire range of emotions other than happiness: anger, fear, sadness, loneliness, despair.

But no! I have an entire world of new emotions to explore to their utmost. And many, if not most of them, can actually feel good!

I don't know that feeling yet--all I can watch is my natural behavior. But I know that it's good. And for now, that's all that matters.

Alexi- what?

2011-02-03T00:01:00.003-05:00

On my first visit to Dr. Goodheart, I was trying very hard to explain how I felt about something, and I just couldn't get it out.

"Well, that's because you have alexithymia," he said.

Alexi-what????

(Meanwhile, thinking: "He knows things I don't know! He knows what's wrong with me!")

He explained that it means I don’t know the words to describe what I’m feeling. The cause? Well, growing up I wasn’t allowed to have my own mind; not really allowed to feel anything. I learned so early in life that my feelings were wrong that I never learned to put a name to them.

At home again, I go straight to my computer. The first hit is a quiz--you click on the buttons; they calculate your score. I'm in a hurry, and not ready to dive into research, so I settle in, answering questions to the extent of "not knowing how to describe what you're feeling." But the other questions confuse me: "Has someone ever told you that you don't seem to understand what they're feeling?" "Do others often comment that you seem to have no emotions?"

What the heck? This doesn't sound like me at all!

Despite answering "no" to all such questions, the quiz determines that I'm highly likely to have alexithymia. I'm convinced.

Later, I meet with a friend, and tell her all about it.

When I mention the seemingly bizarre quiz questions, she stops. Of course, I have to know what she's thinking. "Have I ever done something insensitive like that--where you're frustrated because I don't get what you're feeling?" I ask. "Well, I remember once when you were at my house. I was trying to get the kids to bed, and...you kept talking to me. I just assumed it was because you didn't know what it was like to have kids."

I loved her for her sweet assumption, but my image of myself began cracking.

"Do you know what I'm feeling right now?" she asked. And I had to admit that I had no clue. Even after she told me, I still couldn't have guessed, although I could have described her behavior as compared to when I'd last seen her.

I took the story to Dr. Goodheart at my next session.

He nodded wisely. "It's surprising, isn't it?"

"Am I really that insensitive?" I asked, dreading the answer. How could I not understand other people, but at the same time care so much about them that I failed to care for myself?

Fortunately, he was quick to reassure me that there were other factors involved--that it was so much for complicated than that.

I thought about feelings and how, for as long as I could remember, I'd probably answer the honest question: "How are you feeling?" with “I feel depressed.”

"But depression isn’t a feeling, it’s an illness; a mood disorder! It’s like saying “I feel cancerous!” I suddenly realized.

The doctor smiled. "Now you can say, 'I feel alexithymic!'" he said.

What a way to smash all my illusions about myself!

My therapy begins...

2011-01-28T00:20:00.002-05:00

I haven't been writing as much as I'd like, but I've been working toward one of my 101 in 1001 goals--one crucial to healing, really in all areas of my life. I've found a psychiatrist; seen him 3 times in 10 days, and am hopeful about this new connection.

I've been extremely fortunate. In Canada, psychiatrists are hard to come by; people wait for months. In order to see my first one 8 years ago, I finally had to take the drastic step of going to the hospital. The second, the wonderful man who spent 7 years finding the best medications he could for my perplexing array of symptoms and whom I still plan to see when necessary, worked in the health clinic at my university. But he never really had time to talk, and therapy is what I'm lacking in my treatment.

Unfortunately, therapy costs money, but not psychiatrists. They're doctors, which means the government foots the bill. For that, and for the fact that family connections enabled me to have my first meeting with Dr. Goodheart so quickly, I will be forever grateful.

I'd actually seen him once when I was 16 or 17, but my parents weren't ready the way they are now. I felt immediately safe in his office, curled up in one of the "nest" chairs I hope to buy someday when I have money and the space to keep one. The room is wall-to-wall windows, with skylights and a ceiling jutting up in odd angles to a peek. The walls are painted in brilliant colors--one for each: turquoise, red, green and yellow--joyful and eccentric, they remind me of a seaside vacation.

At my first session, I spoke about my attempts to find help, mentioning that the latest counselor I'd seen--the one who actually helped me--believed I had post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I felt foolish just saying it aloud. How could an almost 33-year-old girl, who'd never been to war and never been raped, have developed this disorder? And even more importantly, how could I have survived as long as I had if I were really so debilitated? Why wasn't I pregnant and on drugs at 16, a prostitute, living on the street? How did I graduate from university; attain some appearance of adulthood?

Dr. Goodheart surprised me by asking to see me for a longer session in just 4 days. Was he actually taking me seriously?

I reached, but timidly. The PTSD thing--does it seem...weird? Do you think I really...?

He shook his head yes, emphatically, and I almost cried. A doctor who listened. A doctor who lived a 45-minute drive away--halfway between my own house and Mary's--who wanted to see me again, not in a month, but in days. And most importantly, an official diagnosis, from an actual doctor, of PTSD--a sign that whatever is wrong with me really IS as serious as it feels to me.

The treatment? Reading, living, and talking to him about both. He tells me that essentially, I have to re-parent myself. Perhaps I wasn't all that far off when I began this blog, when I chose its title.

And so Growing Up Jenny begins--this time, with expert guidance.