Did you get to work this morning?

Posted on 2013/02/12 by aliceatwonderland

Did you get to work this morning? Then you accomplished a monumental feat. Does that sound crazy? I mean, you get up and go to work. Simple, right? No. In fact it takes several steps. If you are depressed, or even just plain tired and burned out, each step is a hurdle in itself. Here’s an average overview of my morning.

6:00 A.M. The alarm goes off. You have to crawl out of bed. Out from under the warm covers. Don’t hit snooze, it will only make it worse. Get up. You have to get up. No one else is going to do this for you. No, you don’t have any more sick leave, and you aren’t actually sick either. Just crawl out. Come on now.

That is not going to help matters.

6:05 A.M. You’re still there. Get up. You are losing time. This is just going to make it harder. Get up. Getupgetupgetup!

6:10 A.M. Okay, yay, you are on your feet. Now you have to find clothes. Go to your closet. Perform the checklist.

1) Did you do laundry last night? Or ever?

2) Do any of your clean clothes fit? Do any of them match?

3) Will the clothes protect you from the elements, including weather both outside and inside your office?

4) What possessed you to buy that? It’s horrible.

6:15 A.M. You still haven’t selected clothes. No, you can’t give up and go to bed. Pick something. Quit staring at your closet. Just grab something. Anything. Well, not that. You’ll look like a freak.

I should probably update my wardrobe.

6:20 A.M. Oh, hooray, you have on clothes. No socks or shoes, but we’ll get to that. Now it’s time for breakfast. What to eat? Doesn’t matter if you aren’t hungry now. You will be later. You have to eat. Another checklist.

1.) Did you go grocery shopping this weekend? Or ever?

2.) Is there something in the refrigerator that isn’t either expired or growing new life?

3.) What’s the easiest thing to fix? Cereal. Milk, cereal, bowl, spoon.

4.) Do you have any cereal? Or milk? Or clean bowls? Or spoons?

5.) Do you have the money for McDonalds? Or the time? Wait – are those Poptarts? These are okay. There are vitamins in them.

Breakfast of Champions

6:30 A.M. Eat breakfast. Hurry up. Don’t take so long looking a the internet while you eat. There’s still stuff to do. Like socks and shoes. Oh, and what was the other thing? Kids. Oh, right.

6:35 A.M. Wake up children. Get sucked into bed with them. Cuddle. Try to wake up children again. Motivate them. You want to get up because – school! Fun! Yeah, I’m full of crap, just get up.

6:45 A.M. I meant get up, GET UP NOW! Stop crying. We don’t have time. Just get up and get dressed! No, you can’t wear your capris, it is 20 degrees outside. Where are your shoes? All you have is snow boots? Fine.

A typical school outfit for younger daughter.

6:50 A.M. Those kids. Can’t find anything. Where are my socks? Or shoes? Or glasses? Or coat? Or purse?

7:05 A.M. Kids dressed. I find most of missing objects. You still have to brush your hair, kids. Wait, so do I. And make up. Do I have time? Do I have the energy? Probably not. Skip it. Do brush the hair and teeth though, that’s too much.

7:10 A.M. No, we don’t have time to watch a silly youtube video. Okay, just one.

7:20 A.M. Kids, did you eat? Well, go eat something. I don’t know, a granola bar. What do you mean there aren’t any left? There was a box – that’s empty. Right. Hey, there’s Poptarts. Eat those.

7:25 A.M. We must be out the door to beat traffic. Two schools to drop kids off at, then to get to my own workplace. No sweat. We’re making good time.

7:30 A.M. Your shoes. Where are your shoes? Don’t forget your coat. You have three. Where is one coat? Get your band instrument. Get in the car. Get in! Oh, I have to unlock it. Okay. Hey, there’s frost on the window. Die frost fairies, die!

Aw, pretty. Buh-bye!

7:35 A.M. Leaving the driveway. Headed for School Number One. Turn around. Pick up forgotten backup.

7:40 A.M. Headed out again. School One. One kid sings, other yells. Drop off first child. Now to just . . . okay, so I’m stuck as car after car passes.

7:45 A.M. The car with the twenty stick figure children stickers on the back window has finally departed. I am free! Now to get to the other side of town with older child. Listen to her panic as she is certain she will be late and there will be all sorts of trouble for this.

7:50 A.M. Record time! Possibly speeding record time. Drop off second child. Have pretend struggle about letting go, just like in Titanic. Finally push her out. Now to just get out of here. Car passes. Another car passes. A bus passes.

I’m sure there will be a break in this any time now.

7:55 A.M. I am on my way to work. Stoplights. I hit every. single. one.

8:00 A.M. At work! Find a parking place! Fortunately I still have the lung disease placard and so do not have to park 1 mile away. When it runs out, I’m totally screwed.

8:05 A.M. Run, don’t walk inside. Ignore chiming clock tower. You will not turn into a girl with rags. Your clothes are bad enough already.

8:05 A.M. Make it up to your office. Collapse in chair. Is it time to go home yet?

© Alice and A Canvas Of The Minds 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alice and A Canvas Of The Minds with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Someone I Admire

Posted on 2012/11/03 by aliceatwonderland

Depression can make you think that nothing you do matters. If you’re a mom or a caretaker of children, you think you’re closer to Peg Bundy than Donna Reed. The funny thing is that when we’re down, we concentrate on what we don’t do. What we don’t realize is that the things that the children in our lives love and remember about us are not the fabulous trips to Disney World or big flashy Christmas presents or even cake you made to look like a life-size Darth Vadar.

Yes, this is a real cake. And she let people eat it after all that?

Children remember the little things you do, things you probably don’t even realize you are doing. Things that make you “you”, the very you you’re probably putting down right now. I discovered this when I read my daughter’s fourth grade paper “Someone I Admire.” That’s right, incredibly that someone was me, but I was humble enough not to rub it in her father’s face, at least not after the first day or so. I present this paper to you, unedited except for spelling and clarity (all those big words are hers), not to brag on myself (though that’s fun too) but to show you that children look at you in ways you probably ought to look at yourself.

Responding to the prompt “Someone I Admire”:

“Hey! So you wanna know who I admire? Well, I admire my mom and here is why.”

My mom is extremely smart. She was a teacher for a while and then she decided to be a librarian. She was a marvelous student. Sometimes a teacher’s pet. Soon she got her diploma in Language Arts from high school then she headed off to college. She had to take a school on the computer to get a degree so she could be a librarian. Now she is a librarian at (the university).

My mom is super fun! She likes the things I like and loves to hang out with me. Whenever we are done getting ready in the morning she would show me and my sister something hilarious on You Tube. She would play Life with me and name her fake kids Ketchup and Mustard. Sometimes she lets me play one of her computer games. She would even play video games with us.

My mom is immensely kind. She never gives me and my sister spankings. When I am down, my mom comforts me. My mom makes friends with everyone. She will be there to help if me or my sister has fallen down. My mom will always be there for me no matter what.

I wandered into the living room to see my mom. I plopped on the couch right next to her. I saw my mom looking very extraordinary with her hair in a bun. I smiled and her and she smiled at me. I love my mom and she loves me. That is why I look up to her.

By Thing One

This paper made me cry, because I had no idea she had ever noticed the things she points out in this paper. Watching You Tube videos? I never thought of that as a great parenting move, especially since you’re not always sure what you’re going to get on that site. Nor did I think about playing games with them. I’m just immature and I like playing games. I also like playing with them because they are hilarious and incredible little people. I often think I want to be like them when I grow up.

Apparently, though, I already am exactly what they want. And it’s hard to be depressed about that.

© Alice and A Canvas Of The Minds 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alice and A Canvas Of The Minds with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Overwhelmation: A Post on Physical Illness and Mental Health

Posted on 2012/10/12 by aliceatwonderland

Anyone who has read my other blog knows I’ve been struggling through Pneumonia. Anyone that doesn’t read my blog now knows as well, although really, you should go over there. I’m just saying. Anyway, while I have been able to see the humor in sickness and the medical profession, I felt it important to express that there is much more to being physically ill, especially when this is coupled with another illness, depression.

Sickness makes Sad Pony Sad

So what is overwhelmation? I’m glad you asked. Here is the definition.

Overwhelmation

O-ver-whel-ma-tion. noun

a. The feeling of being overwhelmed

b. A step before total meltdown

c. A totally made up word

Lately I have been feeling overwhelmation. Pneumonia is an impressive sounding name for a rather impressive illness. It even has a silent “p”. Why is that? Did they add that in to give kids trouble on spelling tests, or is the disease named after the guy that discovered it? Was there a Dr. Pneumon? I could probably answer these questions easily, but who cares? Where was I?

It stinks being sick. This goes without saying of course, but if you are depressed, any sickness becomes much, much worse. Your average person will contract some disease and feel bummed about it, but realize that it will pass and they’ll be back up again in no time. A depressed person will contract the same disease and think ZOMG I am going to DIE and here I haven’t made a will or anything and my husband better not remarry quickly or I will so haunt him.

In case you don’t know much about Pneumonia, it’s a disease of the lungs. Mucus goop gets lodged in your lungs and then gets infected and the body sends soldier cells off to defend you by burning you up from the inside out with fever. Not exactly the best plan, but hey, the body has been doing it for centuries so why change now? In other words, your body is much like the medical profession itself. In my case, I happened to have strong reserve systems, so the doctor was shocked when my Xray came back with so much of this stuff on my lungs. Apparently I was supposed to be without oxygen at that point, but there was my body, pumping away from God knows where.

Wait . . .they made stuffed toys out of the mucus in my lungs?

But at a certain point you reach a breaking point. And I did. They decided that two different antibiotics hadn’t worked, and put me in the hospital. By this point, I’d been sick a week with a horrible cough that threatened to split apart my lower abdomen and a fever that just wouldn’t quit. I was miserable. And I was scared. I got the IV and the blood draws and the Xrays, all at the most convenient of times of course. And I got nurses who were quite good at taking care of my physical needs. But then my husband had to leave me to take care of our children, and I was all alone, and I started to cry. And the nurses backed off, leaving me in tears. Only the sweet Hispanic janitor came to me and gave me a hug saying “God is with you, ‘kay?” I really appreciated that, more than she will ever know.

Why did the nurses ignore my emotional distress? I realize they are very busy people, and they have a lot of work to do. But would it have hurt for them to, say, touch my hand and say “It’s going to be okay” or something? I remember when I gave birth to my eldest daughter, and was again alone in the hospital, and having a panic attack. A sweet nurse brought me cocoa, and it calmed me down. Did the cocoa really take her that long to procure? I don’t think so. But what a world of good it did me.

The cure for panic attacks.

The mind and body are connected. We know this for a fact. A mental illness can make you physically ill. A physical illness can break you down mentally. It is hard to say where the brain ends and the body begins. Ever gotten a stomach ache when you were nervous about a test? That’s your brain there, but the stomach ache is also quite real. The two are connected. So why do doctors ignore that connection? The mind / body connection holds the key for many people getting over the harshest of illnesses, because hope is more powerful than any manufactured drug.

And that’s what I was struggling with that night. Hope. Despite my cynicism, I actually am an optimistic person. I want to believe that the world will one day be in peace, or at least that countries will stop bombing each other for a few minutes. When I was fourteen and my grandmother was ill with Cancer, I never lost hope. She would get better. It was just a matter of time. One more Chemo treatment, and she’ll be fine. When my father sat me down and said, “You realize that Grandma is going to die, don’t you?” my world crashed. Hope was an illusion. I’d hoped and hoped, and I’d thought positive the whole way through. My grandmother still died of Ovarian Cancer, just months before she was eligible for Social Security.

Apparently even those writing ransom notes have hope

Hope is a huge part of many religions around the world. I was raised in a secular household, with a family that did not care for organized religion. They certainly had their reasons. And yet here I was, growing up in the Bible belt among believers, but forever shut out. I did join my husband’s church as an adult, but I never really believed. I tried, truly I tried. But I just couldn’t convince myself that there was a happy hunting ground out there for me at the end. It didn’t make logical sense. There were too many holes in the argument. No one wanted to study the Bible with me. I couldn’t make it out of Genesis without driving people crazy with questions.

My husband is a believer, and always has been. His family has for generations had strong faith in God. In some ways, I envy him, for my agnosticism adds one more level of fear to my life. I don’t think about it most days, but when I’m ill, what else is there to think about? There’s only so much Wipe Out you can watch on T.V. after all. So, like Moaning Myrtle in the Harry Potter books, there I was, hanging about in bed, thinkin’ about death. What would become of me? Would I just disappear, vanish, for good? Was that a bad thing? Like Mark Twain, I’ve often wondered why some people wish for a Heaven that is so much like church which, let’s face it, is often incredibly boring. Do we want that for eternity? I don’t know.

There isn’t just Christianity, of course. I could be reincarnated. If I was, I would totally want to come back as a house cat because those little furballs have it made. 17 hour naps and kitty food in those little glass dishes. That would be great. But even if I enjoyed the afterlife, there was one problem. My children. Who would be their mother? That’s what scares me the most. I am their Mom, and no one else. No one can teach them the things that I can. That’s my job. And it can’t be taken away from me so soon. It just can’t.

Reincarnate me as this guy.

Now did I truly think this Pneumonia would kill me? No, not really. But I did know that there were other illnesses that could, illnesses that run rampant in my family history. Cancers that eat you inside out, slowly killing you. That is the worst death imaginable for me. I don’t handle ill well. There’s too much time to think, and that is what someone with depression does not need. So as I lay there, day after day, hoping that the next day I would wake up better, but didn’t, I felt the hope slipping away, and I felt myself realizing that this would be what a terminal illness was like. Pain, nausea, misery day after day after day. It’s a horrible thought. And the relentlessly happy campaigns for raising money for Cancer, while noble, sometimes make people feel worse. What do you mean you aren’t going to fight the good fight like a soldier? How can you not be positive? Because I’m sick, that’s why! I’m sick, and I’m sad, and I’m so very, very scared.

Fear is a hallmark of depression. Hope is one of the few cures, however temporary it might be. This long illness, going on three weeks now, has taught me a lot. I’ve realized what is more important. It’s not keeping a neat house (let’s face it, that ain’t gonna happen), and it’s not being the top worker, or making the best grades, or even being a blogger champion. It’s just enjoying life the best you can, and keeping hope alive for yourself and for others. That’s why I believe that hospitals and doctors must focus on both mind and body, even for mentally healthy people. Only then can you heal the entire person. For our bodies are nothing without our souls.

Three great things that belong together

The Cool Table

Posted on 2012/09/09 by aliceatwonderland

Has anyone else ever been a child? Were you popular? You know, like a cheerleader, or a jock, or something like that? If so, go away. Oh, I’m just kidding, I guess you can stay. Though what I’m about to say might totally blow your mind. Also, it’s probably longer than an episode of Bachelor Pad, so you’ve been warned.

You see, popular people, there are a lot of us who were not popular. In fact, some of us were the opposite of popular. I had a friend like that. She wore her Girl Scout uniform to high school and talked about one of her favorite shows, which was Star Trek, rather incessantly. It just so happened that this was one of my favorite shows too (I’m talking Star Trek the Next Generation. The one that had Commander Riker. I don’t care if you like Sci-Fi or not, he made it worth it.)

This guy. Am I right?

Wait, where was I? Sorry, I do that a lot. They call it ADD, I think, except once they gave me a med for that, and I was up for like two days straight. And by up, I mean my eyes did not close. For two days. That was some whack stuff. And they’ve had trouble with people abusing it so they can get stuff done. The only thing I got done was listen to my heart try to beat out of my chest.

There I go again. Anyway, this nerdy friend was the polar opposite of popular, and being the true friend that I was, I tried to distance myself from her. This was because I was a jerk. I knew I would never fit in with the outgoing kids who somehow magically knew the right stuff to wear and the right way to do their hair. They could make those fountain bangs just right. And their blue eyeshadow was the bomb. Also, they knew what was trendy, or they made it trendy. Stuff like legwarmers, and scrunchy socks, and tunic tops, and those stupid stirrup pants that fit no one tall ever, and, of course, inside-out off-the- shoulder tops and jeans that were pre worn out for your convenience. I wore stuff from Wal-Mart. And glasses that covered my entire face. That was the look of the 80s. Cover your entire face. So I didn’t wear my glasses most of the time. Which meant I didn’t see, but this was high school, so I don’t think I missed that much. My point – I’m getting to it, okay? – is that while I knew I wouldn’t be one of them, I knew how not to be hated either. You disappeared.

That’s what I wanted to do as a child. My mother says I was a happy kid, but in typical depressive style, I remember angst. She must have seen some of that, because she allowed me to become a latchkey kid at nine just so I’d shut the hell up about this or that friend hating me at the daycare center. And they did. Man, little girls are not sugar and spice. Unless you like poison with your sugar. All I knew was that one day some girl – and I always had a bestie friend, because this was an awesome way to put every egg in one precarious basket – would shut me out. One day BFF just hated me. Sometimes there was no a reason why. So there I was, baffled and shut out. Other times helpful “friends” let me know what I was doing wrong. One told me “The reason people hate you is because you cry. Like you’re doing right now.” Yeah, thanks for that, friend. You know why people hate you? Because you’re a freaking bitch. But I didn’t say that, because 30 something Alice couldn’t speak to little Alice.

Bullies were prevalent. One of the worst was a girl I’d called my bestie for a few years. We held hands and skipped together. Then she found another bestie. And they teased me. I told the teacher. She said, “Stop tattling.” Note to all teachers. Don’t say that. You know why? Because you’re being a bitch. Try something new. Listen to the kid. Investigate. Maybe she is a little whiner, but then again, maybe she’s on to something. In other words, get off your butt and do your damn job, which is more than educating kids. It’s humanizing the little monsters.

I learned to cope, though. People made fun of my smile, so I didn’t smile. They made fun of my laugh, so I tried not to laugh. In fact, I didn’t look up if at all possible. I disappeared. And I did it so effectively that by high school, when I was third in my class, no one knew who I was. They had no idea because I wasn’t in honors class with them. I didn’t have the confidence for honors classes, even though I made straight As. Oh, and okay, the History teacher was freaking cute. But mostly it was the low confidence thing.

But I was determined to make the grade, because that was something I could do. I couldn’t be popular, but I could work my behind off and get good grades. And I did. I graduated fifth in a class of about 170. Which was awesome cause smart is so valued in school, right? That’s why they have pep rallies for the chess club. No, smart isn’t valued. Beauty is valued. Athleticism is valued. Smart is not. But at least I could be smart. That was something I could do. So I clung to it.

So I guess you’re thinking I was a major troll right? Not really. I’m not unattractive. Do you know how hard it is for me to say that? To say that I’m not ugly? Nevermind saying I’m pretty. But the first time it occurred to me that I was attactive happened when a boy told me I was beautiful. I was twenty. My friend – the nerdy Girl Scout – said “I could have told you that. But I guess I didn’t have enough testosterone.” Exactly.

I met this boy on a trip to see said friend, where, you’ll never believe this, but I kind of acted like a jerk again. We met and it was literally the guy walking across the crowded room. OMG this is FATE and I am being repaid for all that HELL that is high school at last! This is redemption! I have a hot guy, and he thinks I’m hot! This is the MEANING OF LIFE. To say I was slightly high would be an understatement. I shot up higher than any morphine trip on “love”. Because this was true love, guys, and not just two people who happened to have the hots for each other.

Okay, so it was. But at the time, I didn’t know that. And when the relationship crashed and burned, I hit rock bottom. How dare GOD or whatever the hell was up there – Mother Nature, sprites, leprechauns, whatever. Man I was seriously pissed. I had just been screwed. At twenty, I would never, ever find another man ever. I’d had my one chance and it was over and so was my life and – yes, I realize the irony. At the moment, on my personal blog, I am dissing the hell out of Ana Steele, the dim witted heroine of 50 Shades of Suck, er Grey who thinks her life begins and ends with a total asshole who happens to be attractive. Why do smart women do this to themselves?

I think the answer lies back with all the paragraphs up till now. What is valued? Not brains. Not sensitivity. The outgoing, active, loud, people person – the cheerleaders and the jocks of society. Outward beauty, what can be seen and touched, that’s what gets you noticed. That’s what gets you at the cool table.

And it doesn’t really change when you’re an adult, either. There are studies (which I am too lazy to look up right now) that say that beautiful, extroverted people tend to get the better jobs, and the promotions. They are more often presumed innocent in a court of law. We are so often judged by appearance. When you become a parent, there’s a new cool table. When you get a job, there’s another table. No matter where you go, there’s that damned cool table. And you’re not on it.

Recently, I’ve found a new cool table. It is the Internet. On the Internet, the introvert can shine. On the Internet, you are judged on your words, not your appearance, because hey, sure, you can put your picture up there. But no really knows for sure if that’s your real picture. I can assure you, though, mine is real. I really am a blond girl with a blue dress and a bitchin’ white pinafore. I’m a little taller, though, give or take. It kind of depends on my diet.

Yeah, I’m full of crap. I’m too cowardly to reveal myself. At least not yet. But even with the outward appearance removed, I still desperately, desperately want on that cool table. And I’ve found another one. It’s the blogosphere, people, specifically, WordPress. Yeah, yeah, I see you, Freshly Pressed people, with your fresh pressedness. A couple of months ago, I had no idea what that was. Now, hell yes, I’d like it. But honestly, that’s not what I want most. What I want most is what I am, slowly, discovering. I want to be part of the community of bloggers. They congregate, like groups hanging around other like groups. Humorous, brilliant, amazing people. And you find them by reading their blogs, and looking at other people who comment on their blogs. And you put yourself out there, just a little bit. And you shamelessly self-promote, just a little bit.

And if you’re lucky, you meet that blogger, or bloggers, who have made it to the cool table. Unlike high school, many of them are willing to help you get there too. A couple have helped me more than I can say – I won’t embarrass them or anything, but one is a Canadian clown and the other one speaks to puppets and stuffed rabbits. And one started this amazing blog and let me write for it. That is all you are getting out of me. These people are at the cool table. And if you put yourself out there, just a little bit, they’ll let you come too. Because here they appreciate sensitive. They appreciate funny. They appreciate smart. They appreciate YOU.

And you know what else? If people on the Internet can appreciate you, so can people out in the real world. I’ve experimented with this. It turns out, if I’m myself, people still like me. Get this, all you closet nerds. There are lots of other nerds, and they don’t care that they’re nerds. In fact, they are nerdy and proud. Who knew? Anyway, I’m taking my baby steps. I wear my glasses now (ones that don’t cover my face, thank you 2012 styles) and I look up. It turns out, there’s more to see than I realized.