Posts Tagged ‘clinical anxiety’

It’s Got To Be

October 2, 2017

Good enough.

Because I am about done and my brain is tell me I could have done more, I should have done more.

But really.

Fuck off brain.

I got done what I needed to do and then some.

Yoga.

Meeting with a lady bug and working on inventory for an hour.

Three loads of laundry

Cleaned the house, scoured the bathroom, took all the trash out, swept, vacuumed, swiffer’ed.

I know, swiffer is not a verb, but you know what I mean.

I went grocery shopping.

I cooked two different meals.

I made a spicy andouille and chicken soup with vegetables and corn and brown rice.

I canned up three jars and I froze three other containers of it.

I’m starting to stockpile meals for the next school weekend, every time I can I will freeze a little something to have for my school weekend.

Inevitably I have a lunch out with a friend in the cohort, much more so this semester than any other, I suspect since I’m in my last year with my cohort and making an effort to be connecting with my friends.

So food’s been made.

And I also roasted a chicken while I was doing my CBT webinar class tonight.

Plus a pot of brown rice with peas and corn.

I’ve got food for the week and then some.

And yet, I didn’t get enough done?

What ever.

Read an article for my Jungian Dream Work class and realized that I was pretty much caught up with all the material except for one article, I should be able to knock that out pretty quick, I might, maybe, even go back and read it before I go to bed tonight.

The CBT webinar kind of took it out of me though and I had to recuperate after wrapping it up.

Which meant eating some of said roasted chicken and brown rice with peas and corn.

It was delicious.

Then I put on a mixed tape and got my fucking good time on.

I needed to get a release.

Ahem.

Sometimes a girl has to do what a girl has to do.

Giggle.

Anyway.

I did do plenty today.

Made some phone calls.

Stayed connected with my people.

I did plenty.

Plus.

I mean.

It is my day off.

It’s ok to “slow down” a little.

And I’m feeling better.

Although this morning I was sorely wrong about takin my antibiotic when I did.

I’m supposed to take it four times a day, I still have one more to take tonight, around my meal times–breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack.

But.

I don’t like doing yoga with food in my belly.

And I still felt like I had some food from my little snack last night in my body, I thought, I should take it now, since I won’t actually have breakfast until 11a.m. or so, yoga and then a shower.

WRONG.

Not a fun yoga class, my tummy was super upset the entire time.

I got through the class though and the sweating was good and I’m glad I went, just note to self, take the antibiotics with food please.

I haven’t really had any sharp pain in my tooth today, so I’m hoping that between the ibuprofen I’ve been taking and taking the antibiotic that I’m doing ok.

Which is good as it will be a full week.

Supervision tomorrow, work, two clients.

Therapy Tuesday, work, two clients.

Wednesday is my short day, “just” work, and then seeing some fellows in the hood up at the Sunset Youth Services.

Thursday is work and two clients.

Friday is going into work an hour early to help my boss and two clients.

Saturday is group supervision.

And that’s my week.

I am sure wonderful things will happen during the week, it’s not always grinding and making things happen.

There are moments of sweetness and lightness, laughter, seeing the amazing beauty in my life, being grateful for all the love I have.

I have so much.

It astounds.

And.

It’s October!

How did that happen?

I noticed that the sunset was pretty early tonight.

I did something proactive for myself that I’ve been thinking about for over a year, ever since one of my professors mentioned that she had one.

I got a SAD lamp for my house.

I was diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder in my early twenties.

It wasn’t until my early thirties that I got the Adult Child of an Alcoholic, PTSD, Depression, and clinical Anxiety diagnoses.

Add Alcohol Use disorder.

And.

Cocaine Use Disorder.

Look ’em up, there in the DSM V.

Anyway.

It has been recommended by more than one trained professional that I get a light box.

They’re expensive.

But I said fuck it.

I got one today.

The Northern Light 10,000 Lux Boxlite.

I got it off Amazon, so it was a tiny bit cheaper than the one from the website, but yeah, I dropped a couple hundred.

I don’t get much natural light in my room and I noticed it a lot today since I was inside a lot doing work on the house and homework and meeting with the lady.

I had a bout of low-grade depression last winter, not much, certainly not enough for me to go back on antidepressants, and I almost didn’t realize it until it was just about past.

I also was having a very hard time resolving myself with leaving the boys that I had nannied for two and a half years and transitioning to starting a new job with a new family.

Compound that with some family of origin stress and I was definitely on the depressed end of things.

So.

I am going to be proactive and do good self-care.

If the dentist thing taught me anything I need to really be on my self-care.

It is important.

I am someone a lot of folks depend on and I want to be dependable and I want to be able to be present at work, for my clients, for the people I love in my life.

I’m worth the investment.

As they are.

Just trying to give myself more love so that I may love others as much as I possibly can.

So I choose to replenish myself and make sure I get enough “sunlight” this winter.

I will have more to give.

And there’s so much I want to give.

So much.

 

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To Dance

September 15, 2016

Or.

To not dance.

I got a very sweet e-mail message from a friend today regarding all things Burning Man and when the hell were we going to go out dancing?  And we need to wrangle our third mutual friend and do that damn deal.

Don’t I know it.

September is a tough month for me in regards to that.

It’s the only month in the semester that I have two full weekends of classes.

Next weekend.

Which means this weekend is going to be writing papers, doing as much reading as I can cram into my head and burrowing into a hole.

Unless I get asked on a date.

Heh.

Fuck me.

I’m pretty transparent as it goes.

I’m all about the books, unless there’s make out on the table, then I’m like, um, I can get up early next week and do that paper.

Ha.

Oh.

I do so love how my brain works.

I did, however, give myself an hour of reading today before work and I cranked out a lot of one of my classes.

I am however, loathe, seriously so, to even crack the syllabus for my Psychopathology class.

I got my DSM 5 in the mail yesterday.

Nothing says sexy like a $158 text-book.

This thing is a serious piece of work, I don’t know how much it weighs, but I’m going to say the 5 in the title refers to pounds.

Even though I know it means fifth edition.

This sucker is heavy.

I have the desk reference for taking to class and the gigantic one for working out of.

I have two whopper papers that are going to be a part of the class and the professor said we’ll basically be reading the entire DSM 5 by the end of the semester.

Yeah.

Right.

The full title in case you were wondering: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition.

Say that ten times fast.

The book is 947 pages long.

Now.

I have read books longer than this.

For pleasure, with eagerness and joy.

Not with dread and trepidation.

Also, said longer books were fiction, I wasn’t writing any papers on them and I won’t be going back to them for referencing the rest of my career.

Though to be up front I am hoping that I won’t be using the book all that much.

There is a substantial amount of controversy over the use of the book and how the medical model for psycho therapy has gotten its’ panties in a twist with insurance billings.

You have to have a diagnosis to get your health insurance to reimburse you.

Nobody wants a permanent diagnosis on their record.

I mean.

I joke about mine.

Acute clinical depression.

Acute clinical anxiety.

Severe PTSD.

Classic Adult Child of an Alcoholic.

So.

Let’s see, I’m a drug addict (in recovery, thank you very much), an alcoholic, and yes, I also have an eating disorder.

Anything else here to stare at?

Ha.

The thing is that I don’t really give a fuck what diagnosis I have, either on record or off.

The only thing that I don’t have is a criminal record, although not for lack of trying.

Ahem.

I sought professional help for the anxiety and depression and for three years I was on antidepressants.

I didn’t like being medicated and I was on the lowest dose possible.

I will also add that it saved my life.

I hadn’t had suicidal ideation until I got into recovery.

Which freaked me out.

I discovered later that I was self-medicating, first through food than alcohol and drugs.

And cigarettes.

God, did I love me some smokes.

I’m absurdly grateful for the help I got, help I didn’t even know existed and I didn’t know how to address all the things that were going on.

I couldn’t make sense of the trauma and abuse.

I didn’t know that the neglect and the upbringing I had were not not normal.

It was what it was and I was always surprised when I was told that what I experienced was not healthy, in fact, the very counter-indication of health and normalcy.

Yeah.

What’s normal though?

I suppose a body can get used to anything and my mind and body did what they did to get me through and I had no clue that those things which had helped me deal would eventually stop working.

And when they did.

Well.

It wasn’t very pretty.

But.

Thank God for the help I received.

I am beyond grateful.

I am graced.

Loved.

Taken care of.

“You are going to be of such service to so many people,” he said to me as we were driving back into the city from Sausalito.  “I mean, I just know it, you are going to help so many people.”

I hope so.

Actually.

I pretty much know so.

That sounds like ego, I know that, but I am in a special and unique position.

First that I have gone through the wringer, that I have gone through that puppy more than once, I have a great deal of experience with getting through.

And.

Not only getting through.

But.

Getting better.

Stronger.

More flexible.

More kind.

More loving.

To myself and to others.

But mostly to myself so that I could be more loving to others.

Second, I am extraordinarily resilient, which is just an offshoot of the first.

How I have not drown in all the muck and morass and the sadness and grief, I do not know.

I have hope.

Nay.

I have faith.

Faith like the sunrise rising no matter what, the disco ball spinning in the club, the music beating in my heart, the waves rocking the boat in the night, a cradle of love, God’s hand holding me a loft and strong.

I am taken care of.

So that I can take care of others.

I don’t take antidepressants any longer.

I manage my stress.

I haven’t had a panic attack in years.

Yes.

I get anxious, but I know what to do.

I have a meditation practice, a prayer practice, I am of service, I help out in my community.

Fuck.

People.

I go to yoga.

Spiritual giant, yo.

Mostly though.

I just do the work.

Take the suggestions.

Put one foot in front of the other.

And love.

Lots of love.

Lots of joy.

Lots of happy.

And free.

Yes.

To question the abundance and prosperity I have in my left would be to spit on the hand of God that has helped me through this all, made me stronger, more gracious, more bent with love.

A burden, no.

A gift, yes.

A perspective I am graced to have.

A life beyond anything I could have imagined.

One day at a fucking time.

It’s pretty awesome.

Seriously.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Being of Service Even When I Don’t Know

May 10, 2013

Where I am going.

I was lost.

Yeah.

That.

I get lost pretty quick.

I had thought I had it all figured out, not really, but I at least had the place mapped out on my phone, I was cranking down Piedmont Avenue on my bike looking for the turn I needed to make when I heard,

“CARMEN!”

I had no clue who it was, but I whipped a u-turn and turned my bike around.

There, a friendly face waving from the car.

“Where are you going?”

“1300 Grand Ave,” I replied with a grin, it’s nice to run into folks when you are lost.

“You’re going the wrong way,” she said and smiled.

“Of course I am,” I laughed.

“I can give you a ride,” she said.

“I don’t think my bike will fit in the back of your car, the front wheel is not a quick release,” I said scanning the back seat, “do the seats flip down?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “well, how about you ride your bike to my house, I live really close, then you can lock it up there and we’ll head over together?”

“Perfect.” I hopped into my pedals and whirled back down Piedmont the opposite direction of where I was going.

Arriving concurrent with her, I’m fast, and she got stuck at a light, I situated my bike, locked her up, and off we went, headed out to see some fellows in my new town.

It felt a lot better than last week, I was pretty cultured shocked and wonked out and I felt myself today, really myself for the first time since I have been back.

I am feeling CARMEN.

I am not jet lagged.

I am not having any more culture shock and my thoughts are now all in English again.

I am also digging on the sunshine.

Man, I get seasonal depression, yeah, chuckle now, that’s right, I wintered in Paris with its dark, grey, cold winter.  Makes great fodder for the depression.  I am lucky it did not get worse than it did.

Of course, I know that one of the best things for the depression, seasonal and the clinical anxiety and regular old depression I was diagnosed with six years ago, is exercise.

I walked a lot today, about two hours between pushing the stroller and walking the dog.

And I got on the bike and kicked out another 45 minutes or so, what with getting turned around.  The exercise really gets my head in a good place.  I am not a gym rat and walking and bike riding are where it’s at for me.

Good thing I will be doing plenty of it in the near future.

Tomorrow I will be heading into the city to iron out the details with the other two families that want me to do a nanny share.  Four families.  I am going to be working for four families.  Two days a week in San Francisco and two days a week in Oakland.

Actually a nice little balance between keeping my ties with friends in San Francisco and getting into the community here.

Hopefully the babies in the city will have a better start out to their weeks than I have had with the little monkey here.  Poor pumpkin has been sick all week.

Three diaper changes today with explosive yellow yuck.

I joked with her after the third change of clothes, “you are just a fashionista, that’s what’s going on, you want to have three full wardrobe changes, don’t you?”

Thank God for bubbles.

She is not a bath baby, does not like getting wet and lifted her little white frog legs away from the water like it was acid.

“Look! Bubbles!” I emphasized and splashed them higher with my hands.

“Bubbles?” She said wary, looking at the white froth.

“Bubbles.” I said with enthusiasm and lowered her little bum into the sink full of warm water.

She still cried.

Diarrhea is not fun for anyone.

Not the nanny, not the little monkey pants either.

Ah, yes 40-year-old woman blogs about poo.

Yup.

“Your going to have triplets,” my friend said tonight as we pulled out of the lot.  “I mean, really, look at all the practice you are getting.”

“Something, man, is coming out of this, I mean, I know there’s a good reason why I am doing this yet again,” I replied.

I don’t even have any cares about it right now.

Who cares?

I am a great nanny.  I am good with babies and toddlers and I like drawing, and singing, dancing, and taking long walks in the park and being outside.  I like that my tattoos are colorful and I use them to teach numbers and letters and colors and shapes.

“Star.”

“Bunny.”

“Pink.”

“Butterfly.”

There’s a great reason I am a nanny again, and I don’t have to know what it is or why.

Do I want to always be a nanny?

Nope.

I want to be a writer.

Oh, wait, I am doing that right now.

I am a writer.

The nanny bit makes it possible for me to do this.  The hours work for me, the money is not going to make me wealthy, but it is going to sustain me, and I get to sing and dance and make funny faces and hey if I fart, they think it’s hysterical.

Name me one other job where if you say “excuse me, I tooted,” your co-workers are going to hoot with laughter and clap their hands in glee.

Sure, I want an adult job, with benefits, and more money, and maybe some prestige, but when I look around at the beautiful children I have gotten to be graced with having in my life and how strong and funny and brilliant they are, to have been even a small part of that is a great gift.

Huge.

And if I do have twins or triplets, or even just one, I will have a solid foundation on which to build.  I cannot imagine that most parents have gotten to have the boot camp training that I have had in this venue.

Not to say that I am not looking out there for other work, I am, but until the book deal happens or Burning Man hires me, come on you know you want to, I am being taken care of.

Even when I get lost.

Most especially then.


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