Sensitivity

I am reading The Secret Life of Bees for book club, and I love it! I know it's old, but in our last meeting we discussed which books made us wish we could spend more time with the characters, and one of the members mentioned this one. I can see why. I love all of the characters, too. Well, maybe not June so much. She's a little too guarded for me. Although I wish I could be more like August, the matriarch of the sisters, I am actually more like May--the fragile one who feels other people's pain too deeply. Not as deeply as she did, thank goodness. But more so than I would like sometimes.

On the one hand, I recognize that it is a gift to have such a keen sense of empathy. I know I have helped a lot of people because of it. But I am also easily thrown off balance when the people I care about are in pain--especially since I am also prone to depression and anxiety. I have always assumed this meant that I was weak. Fragile. Too sensitive.

I spent time with my brother this weekend--the only one of the four siblings who does not have a mood disorder. In talking to him, it was clear that he does not experience his feelings as intensely as I do. He does not get his feelings hurt very often. He is better able to maintain distance from family drama, and his advice really is to tell them to suck it up.

I envy him for this, but I cannot be him. I can only be me. I feel things intensely. My feelings get hurt easily. And when someone is in pain, I feel what they feel and try to help them, even if it hurts me.

But rather than berate myself for it, I am learning to accept that this is who I am. We all have different vulnerabilities. Some people may be prone to heart disease. Other people have diabetes. I am a hyperempath with depression and anxiety. Therefore, I have to be sure to take care of myself in certain ways: make alone time a priority, set boundaries, and be more selective about who I spend time with.

I used to joke that I'm not trying to save the world--just the people that I meet. But perhaps I will have to narrow down my scope in my life-saving efforts, too.

Self-Handicapping

Yesterday Sloane Stephens lost at the U.S. Open to Johanna Larsson, an unranked player. This is sad news for American tennis fans, because Stephens is predicted to be the next great female American player. In musing over why she has not yet lived up to her potential, the commentators observed that Stephens doesn't play with the same intensity as the top players, perhaps because she is afraid of losing while playing her best.

I had the good fortune of attending a warm-up tournament to the U.S. Open a few weeks ago, and after looking at my photos, I, too, noticed that Stephens did not put the same effort into her shots that the top players did. For example, here is a picture of 17-time Grand Slam champion Roger Federer, hitting his famous forehand.

Notice how intensely focused he is on watching the ball and how he jumps into his shot. This is an aggressively hit forehand.

Now here is a shot of 17-time Grand Slam champion Serena Williams, hitting her equally famous serve.

Again, notice how she is in the air when she hits her serve and the intensity of her facial expression. In fact, she looked downright pissed off and scary in most of the pictures I took.

Now here is a picture of Sloane Stephens hitting a backhand.

In contrast, notice how casually she is hitting the ball. This looks more like the kind of shot you would see in a practice session, where players aren't trying to hit that hard. So I think there is some truth to their hypothesis that she is afraid to play her best tennis.

In psychology, this phenomenon is called self-handicapping, and it is fairly common. I have worked with students who were so afraid that they would not get an A that they didn't turn in any work and got an F in the class instead. They all believed that if they had put in the effort, they probably could have gotten an A, which helped to preserve their self-esteem. Sort of. Because they ended up on academic probation, which they were embarrassed and ashamed about.

To my knowledge, I have never sabotaged my chances of succeeding, but I can relate to the fear that my best effort might not be good enough. I have always wanted to be a therapist and thought I could be a good one--until I got to the clinical portion of my training in grad school. Then I started to worry: What if I suck at it? What if I'm no good at this thing that I've wanted to do all my life? What am I supposed to do then?

My worst fear came true: I did suck at it at first. I had several supervisors tell me that my anxiety was interfering with my ability to do therapy. (This was the first time I contemplated the possibility that I may have an anxiety disorder). Even though I ordinarily freak out when I'm given negative feedback, I wasn't that upset. I knew that I could get better if I worked at it. And I think I'm a decent therapist now--although there's always room for improvement.

The same is true for tennis. I'm not really afraid to go out there and play my best and lose, because my best performance today isn't the best I can ever hope to play. At least I don't think so. I always think I can get better, even as I get older. If this is a delusion, then at least it is one that serves me well. That's why I look so intimidating in this photo:

So if you see me on the court, watch out!

Choices

When it comes to money, my mom and dad are on the opposite ends of the spectrum. My dad loves to buy things and does so often and freely with no regard for cost. My mom, on the other hand, doesn't buy something unless it's "half of half of half" off. Depending on the day, I can be on either end of the spectrum, but most of the time I am more like my mom. As a result, my relationship with money is plagued with anxiety and guilt.

For example, when my ex and I were at the airport on the way to our honeymoon, I bought a neck pillow because we had a long flight ahead of us. It had one of those tags that they have on mattresses that you aren't supposed to remove under penalty of law, but it was annoying me, so I ripped it off, anyway.

Apparently this law exists for a reason, because after I ripped it off, all of those little white things started coming out of the gigantic hole I had created and were spilling all over the place. I had to throw the darn thing away. I was distraught about destroying my pillow less than 5 minutes after purchasing it and wasting $15. It was only fitting that I should have to spend the next 10 hours on the plane with an unsupported neck.

While I was berating myself for my obsessiveness, my ex bought another neck pillow and snuck behind me and put it around my neck. Unlike me, he did not obsess over buying stuff. This became a source of many arguments later, but at the time it was a sweet and loving gesture. He was not great with words, but this one action said everything I needed to know: it's OK by me that you're obsessive, and you still deserve a neck pillow.

When memories like these pop up, it activates the same cycle of thoughts. Am I doing the right thing? Is there anything more I could do to make things work? I go through the scenario of what it would be like if we got back together, and I always come to the same conclusion: things would be exactly as they were before.

I wish choices could be more clear-cut, like on a test. But life isn't like school: answers are rarely 100% right or wrong. I have to remind myself that with any decision, there are things that I will lose. I can't make the perfect choice. I cannot escape the sadness of having to give up the good parts of our relationship.

Memories like this one make me want to cry. But at the same time, I am also thankful. Even if things didn't work out, he was a good guy. He was a good choice for many reasons. And even as we finalize our divorce, he continues to be kind and helpful. Not many people can say that at the end of a relationship.

Mistakes

You know how I hate making mistakes? Well I made a big one last week, and now my inner critic is in full force. I am having a hard time forgiving myself, so I thought I'd blog about it.

Intellectually, I know that everyone makes mistakes. But my inner critic tells me that everyone else is allowed to make mistakes. I, on the other hand, am on strict probation: one mistake will lead to dire consequences--failing, getting fired, going to hell, losing everyone's respect, etc. I don't know what I've done to warrant this zero tolerance for errors, but it must have been pretty bad.

I am trying to put things in perspective. I try to remind myself that, although some people could judge me harshly, God does not have a zero tolerance policy for errors. God knows that I am not perfect and does not hold me to the standards that my inner critic does.

I gave a sincere apology for my mistake. I didn't lie, get defensive, or evade responsibility. I acknowledged what I did wrong and that I am aware of the consequences of my error. That I am committed to making amends. While this should move my transgression into the somewhat healthier guilt category, I am still feeling quite a bit of shame about it.

My inner critic wants to make sure that I am taking this seriously. That I am not one of those people who superficially apologizes without being genuinely sorry. That is one of my pet peeves, and I don't want to be a hypocrite by doing the same thing. So I keep reminding myself that this is a big deal--which only serves to reactivate the cycle.

I am trying to call to mind all of the sage advice on forgiveness, perfectionism, and letting go. Advice that I, myself, have given to other people. It seems to help them. Why doesn't it help me? Why am I not improving faster? I envy people who can read an inspirational quote on social media and feel better. People who are simply able to turn off the obsessive soundtrack of shame in their head. Or who listen to a different soundtrack altogether.

So I am also trying to remind myself to honor my own timetable. That self-improvement is not a race that I have to win. In fact, I'd settle for a participation award. I tell myself that at some point in the future, perhaps even later today, I will be able to put things in perspective. And if it takes longer than that, I'm talking to my therapist on Tuesday.

Luckily, tennis is on all day today, which I am hoping will be an effective distraction until I have my moment of clarity.

Interventions, Part 2

In the book Stumbling on Happiness, psychologist Daniel Gilbert gives multiple examples of how we are terrible at predicting what will make us happy. I'm sure you've heard some of the studies. How people who are paraplegics from car accidents and people who win the lottery both return to their baseline level of happiness after about a year.

I often tell clients the same thing when they're catastophizing about what will happen in the future. How they'll be flipping burgers at McDonald's because they got an F on their chemistry exam. How they will never find love. How they will be depressed for the rest of their lives. We don't know what the future holds. We know that we don't know, but we still act like we do.

So how are we supposed to make decisions if we're so terrible at predicting the future? Gilbert recommends that we ask someone who has made a similar decision and find out how they feel about it. Psychologists say that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Still, there are no guarantees. Ultimately important decisions often come down to a leap of faith.

A few weeks ago I shared my anxiety about having to do an intervention. I asked for advice from my psychiatrist, my therapist, and from God. They all said I had to do it. But I couldn't make myself do it. Because based on the two suggestions above, the forecast looked pretty gloomy. But a promise is a promise.

I've been reading Thomas Merton's "No Man Is an Island," and he says that God is involved in every aspect of our lives, guiding our every step, trying to move us closer to where we need to be. I wasn't sure if I believed that, but it was comforting to think that it might be true. That perhaps God was moving me closer to this conversation, even though I felt like I wasn't getting anywhere.

I decided to blog about it because that always seems to help. One reader said that perhaps the opportunity would naturally present itself. She was right; I got my opportunity. I did my part, expecting that my concerns would be completely dismissed, but they weren't. My words had an impact. Things are in motion, moving in the direction they're supposed to go. And I am thankful.

When I pray for courage, I feel like God tells me that if I do my part, He will do his. And while that has always been true, I'm always still afraid to take the next step. Will it happen this time? Was I just lucky before? Will God really be there on the other side?

Sometimes it takes awhile, but I usually take that leap of faith. I may not know what is on the other side, but I know I can't stay stuck on this side forever.

Birthday Reflections

So I'm reading The Fault in Our Stars for book club, which is told from the perspective of a 16 year old girl with cancer, and guess what? I still talk like a teenager. Yup. Some of her comments could have come straight from my blog.

Even though I turn 45 today, I guess I can consider this a compliment, since this is a best seller with a movie that is a box office hit and has gotten great reviews. So if I sound immature, at least it's in a way that people can relate to. And if you've read the book, then you know that Hazel Grace is no ordinary 16 year old. For example, she refutes the adage that without pain, we cannot know joy by pointing out that "the existence of broccoli does not in any way affect the taste of chocolate." I love that!

Still, I find it ironic to discover that I still talk like a teenager as I hit what is irrefutably middle age. I thought I would be OK with it, because it's not like I didn't know I was middle-aged. And as long as I don't hit a prime number, I'm usually fine. And 45 is divisible by 3 and 5, so I figured I was safe until I turned 47. But no. Mother Nature likes to rub it in your face that you are becoming an old lady, and I received a couple of early birthday gifts just to make sure I was aware of this. 

Before someone sends me that quote about how old age is a privilege that not everyone gets to benefit from, let me preempt you by saying that I am grateful for my life. It's just that signs of getting older bring up that feeling that I talked about in the Beginnings and Endings post. Sadness about the loss of gifts that I had not even been aware of until I began to lose them. Anxiety about the losses to come. Panic about how fleeting time is. 

I am afraid I am not one of those brave souls who will embrace aging with grace and dignity. I'm pretty sure I'm going to go kicking and screaming, fighting it every step of the way. I guess this is one of the downsides of being a warrior. 

I've been thinking about what I could say in this post for several days now. I was really struggling with how to make it positive, since my goal is to be honest, and I have honestly been in a place of sadness and anxiety about getting older. 

But I pray about blog posts, too. I pray that God will give me the inspiration to come up with something to say that will be helpful to someone, even if that someone is just me. So far, God has always answered this prayer. Today was no exception.

This morning, as I warned my inner critic that it was not allowed to make me feel guilty about sleeping in on my birthday, I leisurely checked out my birthday messages on my phone and FB, and I was humbled by how many of them there were so early in the morning. Well, early in the morning for me, at least. And I got the message: the one gift that will grow with age is love. 

The feelings of love that I have for others will only deepen, as will their love for me. And as I get older, the more people I include in the circle of who I care about. Blogging, which I also consider a gift from God, has dramatically increased the number of people who have been brought into my life. So I have a great deal of love to look forward to, for as long as I may live.

Plus, I will always have an inner infant, Sophie, and now a teenager, as well as a slew of other parts in my internal family. They are always vying for my attention, letting me know that they are there, whether I want to hear from them or not. Through the process of blogging--and aging--I am learning that these parts I've been at war with also love me, although they show it in ways that are sometimes annoying.

So I am thankful to God, and to all of you, for reminding me on my birthday how blessed I am with love.

Psychological Energy Conservation

Being single has its advantages. I never realized how much energy I was expending on compromising and trying to make things work. It's lonely at times but much more relaxing. So much so that I think I'm going to give up all of my high maintenance relationships. Maybe it will help me cut down on my crash and burn days. 

In fact, I'm thinking about promoting a psychological energy conservation campaign modeled after Go Green. Instead of Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, my slogan is Refrain, Reframe, Reevaluate. Since my tag line is less intuitive, let me elaborate.

1.  Refrain.  I'm going to do a better job of setting boundaries. Before, if someone asked me to do something, I felt like I had to do it if I was capable of doing so. Whether I wanted to or not was irrelevant. Or whether it was in my best interest to do so. But you know what? I can just say no. No, I'm not available at that time. No, I don't want to go to that wedding. No, I don't have room for you on my team.

I can also resist the urge to help people when helping them means hurting myself. My rationale in the past has been that I can take it, so it's OK. I can lose sleep. I can get my heart broken. I can sacrifice my time. But it's not OK. I always tell clients that you have to put yourself first, because you can't rely on other people to do so, even if they love you. If its a choice between you and someone else, pick you. So I'm picking me.

2.  Reframe.  I waste a lot of time beating myself up for things I can't control. Like being angry, or anxious, or exhausted. So I'm trying to reframe my feelings in a way that helps me to be more accepting of them. 

Lately, when my inner critic gives me a hard time for obsessing, I stand up for myself. Of course I'm obsessing! That's my thing. That's what I do. Why wouldn't I be doing it right now? That shuts him up. And it actually helps me to stop obsessing. 

And I've come up with another part to help me be more forgiving of myself for my anger. I think of my anger as a bouncer who is trying to keep people who have hurt me from getting back into the club. Because I'm standing at the door saying, of course you can come in! Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything? The bouncer gets mad at me when I do this, and who can blame him, really. Someone needs to be strong enough to kick these people out.

3.  Reevaluate.  I need to do an energy assessment after I crash and burn, rather than assume it happened because I'm a crazy, weak, bad person. If I choose to blog during lunch instead of take a nap and catch up on sleep, I might be tired later in the week.  Same thing with staying up until 2 a.m. Or choosing to captain 2 teams at the same time. Or playing 5 times a week. I can do it, but I have to be ready to pay the consequences later.

I can become more aware of what I need, rather than judge myself for what I think I should need, if I were a normal person. I can allow myself to do what works best for me. I'm the most productive after 7 p.m., so that's when I'm going to get my chores done. I'd rather work nonstop for 2 hours than leisurely spend the day working. And my favorite time of day is between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m., so I'm going to let myself enjoy those hours, even if it means that I'll sleep until noon the next day.

I'm thinking this campaign could really catch on. Think how much more energy we would all have for the things that are important to us if we used it more wisely. Heck, I might even win the Nobel Prize like Al Gore.

Fatigue

I don't know if you've noticed or not, but I have a tendency to be a little hard on myself at times.

Yesterday I had another one of those days where I slept 14 hours and didn't get up until 4 p.m. And then I still went to bed at my normal bedtime (1 a.m.) and didn't get up until 9:30. So as punishment for my excessive sleeping, I decided that I didn't deserve a cappuccino today. My colleague thought that seemed a little harsh, but it makes perfect sense to me. 

But in an effort to be kinder to myself, I'm trying to come up with alternative explanations for why I have been so tired, other than that I am weak, crazy, a bad person, etc. Here's what I've come up with:

1.  I'm depressed. But other than the fatigue and excessive sleeping, I don't really feel depressed. And even if it is depression, I'm already doing everything I can to treat it.

2.  I have some physical illness like chronic fatigue syndrome. This is possible, given that I didn't know I had asthma for a long time, and it accounted for what I perceived as a lack of mental toughness on the tennis court. On the one hand, it would be a relief to have a valid excuse. On the other hand, there would probably be some medication that I would have to take for that condition, too, which would be annoying. 

3.  I'm tired because it's the end of the semester, and I'm always tired at the end of the semester. This would make the most sense, but it still bothers me because my colleagues don't collapse from exhaustion at the end of the term, so that still makes me feel weak.

4.  I'm tired because I'm captaining and playing on 2 tennis teams and playing 4-5 times a week. This also makes sense. Until recently, I was only captaining 1 team and playing 2-3 times a week. But how lame is that to be exhausted from too much recreation? Boo hoo!

5.  My anxiety is leading to mental and physical exhaustion. This is also possible. But then I start beating myself up about not having a reason for feeling anxious. And I'm not really sure what I can do about that other than to take the Ativan sooner when I'm having an anxiety attack rather than suffering for several hours. But the Ativan might make me sleepy.

6.  Blogging is mentally exhausting. All this honesty and self-disclosure is pretty draining. And I hardly ever used social media before. Now I have to use it all the time as part of my blogger duties, which kind of feels like homework. Still, I've never heard of anyone needing more sleep from intensive blogging.

7.  I don't need to know the reason why. My feelings are always legitimate. It doesn't matter what other people are or are not able to do; I have to honor my own needs. I may really need more than 8 hours of sleep, and most of the time I don't even get that.

If this were a multiple choice question where I had to pick the best answer, I guess I'd have to go with #7, because this is what I tell my clients, over and over again, until they believe it. And I don't want to be a hypocrite. Because my inner critic would give me a hard time about that, too.

Anxiety

I have always been an anxious person, but ever since my last depressive episode, my anxiety has gotten worse--especially around sleep. Which is terrible, because I love sleep more than anything. I started having anxiety attacks in the middle of the night. Or when I'm trying to fall asleep. Or when I wake up. Or before, during, and after a nap. In fact, I refer to naps as demon sleep. But I rely on naps to make up for the sleep that I miss out on because of my 1 a.m. bedtime.

I don't want to call these episodes panic attacks, because that does injustice to people who have full-blown panic attacks. I don't feel like I'm dying or having a heart attack. I'm not completely debilitated. But it does hurt. It's like I have a bunch of bees buzzing inside my body. Or I have the psychological equivalent of a high pitched noise in my head that I can't turn off. Or I feel physically and emotionally paralyzed. Or I feel like someone has punched me in the heart. I think that's why my chest muscles are so tight--I have to absorb anxiety's blows to my body.

I've written about how obsessive I am and how easily my inner infant gets rattled. Those forms of anxiety are annoying, but I've gotten use to them. I'm learning to accept that they are just a part of how my brain works. But when I have an anxiety attack with no apparent trigger, I feel crazy and weak. 

It's funny, because if I'm talking to someone else, I can convince them that they don't need a reason to be anxious or depressed. That their feelings are valid, even if they don't make sense. That it doesn't make them crazy or weak. And they feel better afterwards. But saying these things to myself doesn't have the same effect.

I guess that's why it helps to tell someone else. Because without someone else's reassurance, it's hard to release the power that your inner demons have over you. When it's just you and your demons, they convince you that you're letting yourself off the hook too easily. You're just lying to yourself. You're really a bad person.

Last week when I wrote the self-compassion post, I was beating myself up for my lame excuses for feeling depressed. But after I gave myself permission to write them down, they didn't seem so lame. And then when I got all these messages from people asking me if I was OK, I started to feel like my suffering might be real. And then I felt better!

So I thought I would try it again this week. And I just took half of an Ativan for good measure.

The Inner Infant

So my inner child, Sophie, has a younger sister. She is an infant and doesn't have a name yet. While my relationship with Sophie is pretty good, I confess, I'm a terrible mother to my infant. But I'm working on it.

It's easier to enjoy Sophie because she is playful, funny, cute, and full of energy. But like most kids, she can be a brat and gets on my nerves sometimes. And she doesn't like it when I'm alone. She's afraid something bad will happen to us. She advocated for my last relationship and was terribly anxious whenever she thought we might break up. It took awhile before I learned how to comfort her and assure her that I can take care of her by myself.

I only became aware of the infant about a year ago--mainly because I was neglecting her so badly it was affecting my health. I wouldn't feed her when she was hungry. I wouldn't soothe her when she was upset. I yelled at her when she cried for no reason. If Social Services could have seen how I was treating her, they definitely would have intervened. After awhile I was having so many physical problems that I was forced to attend to her needs. It was starting to affect my tennis.

I've had to get to know my infant the same way any parent gets to know their child: by paying close attention. You don't automatically know which cry is the hungry cry, the poop cry, or the tired cry; you learn from experience. She is usually upset when I wake up on the weekends because I sleep in and throw off her feeding cycle. So if I'm feeling depressed or anxious when I wake up, I get something to eat because she's probably hungry.

Or she could be crying because that's what infants do when they wake up--especially after a nap. It's funny that we just accept that young kids cry when they wake up without understanding why and without being mad at them for it. I wonder at what age we start expecting people to have a good reason to cry.

I guess some people do acknowledge that they're in a crappy mood when they wake up and turn to things like coffee, cigarettes, and drugs to calm them down. Those are not good ways to comfort a baby, though. And maybe they're not ideal for us, either, really. But that's for another blog post.

She also gets upset whenever I'm rushing around, which is essentially all the time. She is very sensitive to transitions: leaving for work in the morning, rushing to a tennis match, rushing to the grocery store. I have no idea why. Maybe my stress upsets her. Or maybe I'm neglecting her when I'm on the run. This is the distress that is the hardest for me to be compassionate about.

So now there's this mantra I have to say multiple times a day to soothe her: It's OK. Everything's going to be OK. You're fine. Everything's going to be fine. And when I'm frustrated, I add although I have no idea what you're anxious about!  It's a process, accepting that she deserves to be upset and comforted, even when it doesn't make sense to me.

I know this probably sounds silly to some of you, but it works really well. I use this analogy often with clients as a way to get them to pay closer attention to what they need, to honor their feelings, to have compassion for themselves, and to learn how to take better care of themselves. It can work surprisingly quickly, once you reassure them that having all these parts doesn't mean they're crazy.

So if you ever find that you are arguing with yourself, or that you're frustrated because your thoughts/feelings/actions don't make any sense, you might want to ask what part of yourself you might be neglecting.

Self-Compassion

My compassion reserves are running low. In my last relationship I took the words of Jesus and Buddha literally about how we should be able to love everyone. It was practically a 3 year exercise in compassion. But by the end I wondered if perhaps I had misunderstood what they meant about loving others. It was a lot of work to have to channel Buddha and Christ just to tolerate being in his presence. I feel like I'm experiencing a backlash now. All those feelings I tried to deny are coming out with a vengeance. I guess I was supposed to have compassion for myself, too.

I'm not very good at self-compassion. Every time I try, the Inner Critic berates me for whining about my problems when I have a good life. I don't know what pain is. I'm not living in a war-torn country. My life hasn't been devastated by natural disasters or school shootings. All of the people I love are still alive. Who am I to complain? 

But surely I must have the right to honor my feelings. My suffering must count, too, if God cares about all of us. So I'm going to write about what's upsetting me, without apologizing for it or justifying it or willing myself to be positive. 

This week I will be moving closer to divorce. Filing forms. Getting documents notarized. More tears. More snot. You would think there would be a limit to how much it's possible to cry over something. That 4 years would be more than enough time. I used to pray to God--plead, even--to tell me what I could do that would allow both of us to be happy. Leaving seemed like it would just make us both miserable. And it has. And I don't see an end in sight for me, at least. I'm trying not to blame God or myself. But in this moment, my faith in a happy future is wavering and I feel like I deserve the pain.

I have 2 family members who are currently on the opposite ends of the bipolar spectrum. My brother is trying so hard but still feels terrible.  It hurts me that he's hurting. My dad is manic. Mania feels great for the person experiencing it, but it's hell for the rest of us. But what power do I have to make him see?  If he were my client, I could make him see our psychiatrist, get him on meds. But as a daughter, I am practically useless.

I'm afraid to answer the phone when my parents call. Which makes me feel horribly guilty, because I know their time on earth is limited and I will regret not talking to them more when they're gone. But the call is almost always about something bad. Something I'm expected to fix. Or something I don't want to do. At minimum, I'm supposed to be a receptacle for the stress, but I can't take it. It's too much. I'm not able to function afterwards.  

So I have to be strategic about when I call or when I answer. It has to be a time when it will be OK if I fall apart. But since it's hard to choose something where there's a good chance you'll fall apart, I often forget to call altogether. Which makes me feel even guiltier and reactivates the vicious cycle. I wish it could be easier. I wish there were some way I could be a good daughter but also protect myself. 

It takes a lot of work to maintain my health. Since I have GERD, allergies, and exercise-induced asthma, I have to take shots, nasal sprays, pills, steroid inhalers, rescue inhalers. I'm not supposed to have coffee and chocolate. I can't eat or drink 3 hours before exercise or bed time. If I drink too much during a match, I'll even throw up water. It's frustrating to have to worry about throwing up every time I play. Or brush my teeth, even. But giving up dental hygiene and tennis are not options.

My mental health is always hanging in the balance. It's work to maintain my sleep cycle because of my night owlness. I can't miss any of my drugs. I can't miss Ativan for even one night. I meditate, pray, journal, exercise, and all of the other self-care strategies. But despite my best efforts, I can never make it to the end of the term without burning out before I cross the finish line. I can't handle the stress of my life. I can't get out of bed right now. It makes me feel weak. Inadequate. Unable to do the basic tasks of life.

Just got a call from my lawyer friend that my paperwork looks good to go, so I guess I'll be filing for divorce this week for sure. If you believe in God, feel free to say a prayer for me. If you don't, send positive vibes my way.

2014 Blog for Mental Health Project

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A Canvas of the Minds

Sometimes we make the most important decisions in our lives without consciously knowing why we made them at the time.

I knew that I wanted to become a psychologist since I was in high school. At the time I wasn't fully aware of being depressed in the clinical sense. Being anxious was so much a part of my personality that I didn't think I had an anxiety disorder. And I definitely wasn't aware of any mental illness in my family. I had no idea at the time that depression, bipolar disorder, and anxiety would impact every aspect of my life--in both positive and negative ways.

It's probably not surprising that I have been negatively affected by mental illness. But as I write this post, I realize that there have been positive things about it, too. I have learned the most important lessons in life through suffering and loss.

Even as a therapist, when I heard clients make comments about how they had a bad week, it didn't fully register how horrible that week was for them. In part because clients don't elaborate unless you ask them to. Unless they are certain that you really want to know. And because they are embarrassed about it. Ashamed, even. But after going through my worst depression 5 years ago, I have much more compassion when clients make these offhanded comments.

I admit, during that period there were times when suicide would cross my mind. But there were two things that kept me from seriously entertaining it. One is that my dad would be devastated, and I feared he would never recover if I went through with it. 

The other reason is that if I took my own life, it would undermine everything I ever said to my clients about how pain passes. That one day when they look back they will realize how strong they were at the time. That they will learn lessons from their suffering that it takes some people a lifetime to learn. How can you believe anything your therapist said if she committed suicide? That would be the ultimate betrayal.

So I spent months willing myself to get better.  I went back to therapy, started meds again, meditated and prayed, and forced myself to play tennis and spend time with friends. And I did get better. And everything I said about realizing my strength, becoming more compassionate, and acquiring wisdom were all true. I would have never chosen depression, but we usually don't choose the experiences that teach us the most about life.

People often ask me how I can listen to client's problems all day long. In all honesty, I can't imagine what else I would do for a living. It feels more like psychology chose me.  And when I hear a client's story, I always have hope that together we can change the plot for the better. After all, I always root for the underdog. I am the eternal optimist. And I never back down from a challenge.

There was a time when I would never have told this story about my struggles with depression and anxiety to my students or clients. Or even friends and family. But now I want to share it with the world, because every act of courage benefits someone else. My blog is proof of that.

Patience Isn't Always a Virtue

I looked it up. While it is included in some lists, in Catholicism the 7 virtues are faith, hope, charity (the theological virtues), prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance (the cardinal virtues). Since I at least grew up Catholic, I'm going to use this list, because I'm not patient at all, and I don't want to be unvirtuous.

My greatest strength is probably fortitude. I never give up in a match, even if I'm down 0-6, 0-5. I continue to play tennis, even though it makes me throw up. I will do everything I can to make a relationship work, even if it's a lost cause.

Last week I had a client who started antidepressants and experienced a sudden onset of suicidal ideation, which sometimes happens in young adults. As she was describing what it felt like, I realized that I had experienced the same thing when I got back on meds, even though I was not a young adult. But I was on a higher dose than I was before. In retrospect, it turns out it was too high; I had a lot of side effects that I had attributed to the depression.

I didn't think much of it at the time because I always have some suicidal ideation when I'm depressed, but it was definitely different. It was what psychologists call ego dystonic. As my client put it, my brain told me in the most illogical way that suicide was the next logical step to whatever I was thinking. If I didn't have the energy to walk over to the fridge and get a milkshake, my brain would say Well why don't you just jump off the balcony, then? It freaked me out. I would yell back. No! I don't want to do that! I want to live! 

So I fought the thoughts off until the meds kicked in. At the time I thought I was weak, but when I recognized myself in my client's story, I realized how strong I am.

Patience, on the other hand, is a different story. Patience also requires strength, but in a quieter, more peaceful way. And as you know if you've been reading my blog, I am loud and obsessive. You can't will yourself to be patient the way you can will yourself to save break points. In fact, although this blog is about practicing other quiet, peaceful things like self-acceptance, compassion, gratitude, and forgiveness, I have never included patience in that list until today. Probably because it seems impossible to achieve--even for a warrior like me.

As I mentioned in the post on obsessiveness, I can only focus when I meditate about 5% of the time. But it still works. I am definitely less anxious, better able to tolerate my emotions, and more compassionate. Maybe patience is the same way. Maybe if you at least have the intention of being patient, even if you suck at it, it will still work. That's what they say in Buddhism--in a less judgmental way, of course.

Might as well give it a shot. Whether or not it's a virtue, it's still a good quality to have.

Obsessiveness

I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm kind of obsessive. I can't blame people for being annoyed with me. Sometimes I annoy myself.

I'm an excessive planner.  For example, because of my GERD and exercise-induced asthma, I'm constantly obsessing about what and when to eat. Last night I made rice at 1 a.m. while I worked on this post because it will save time and decrease the likelihood that I will throw up on the court tonight.

Sometimes obsessing is a memory device. Like I'll repeat a sentence that I want to say over and over until I see the person. Writing it down helps, but I can't always do that--like when I'm driving. Lots of obsessing while I'm driving.

You know how I said that blogging is my new boyfriend? Well, I'm kind of a stalker girlfriend.  I will check my blog stats repeatedly--hundreds of times on the first day I publish a post. Thank goodness it can't break up with me.

Sometimes I obsess like it's a hobby. I might obsess about my next blog topic.  Or what my strategy will be in my tennis match. Or when I can schedule my next haircut and if I want to try something different, like get bangs.

Obsessing is the most painful when it is fueled by the inner critic or drill sergeant or perfectionism. Then it's this relentless voice pointing out all my flaws (Your arms look fat in that picture!). Or when I'm not being productive (Get out of bed and do something!). Or how stupid I am for making a mistake (You shouldn't have dated that loser!).

There are things that help. I take antidepressants, which also help with anxiety. And when the obsessing gets out of control, I take Ativan. I used to obsess for days rather than take the Ativan, but my psychiatrist reframed taking it as a way to have control over my anxiety. And I'm all about having control.

I also practice mindfulness meditation.  You're not supposed to judge how well you meditate, so I will just say that I obsess about random things for 95% of the time while I'm doing it. But it seems to work, nevertheless.

I tell myself the same things I tell my clients. I remind myself that I don't know what will happen and I can't prepare for every possible scenario. To take one worry at a time. That no matter what happens, I will be able to cope with it. And that I have an excellent memory and won't forget.

Most importantly, I try to accept that this is a part of who I am. Some people may not have to deal with obsessive thoughts, but everyone has to deal with something. This is my thing.

Since blogging has helped me accept other aspects of my personality, I thought I would try blogging about my obsessions. Sometimes it helps just to say them out loud. And it's an added bonus when readers say they can relate.

I still obsessed all the way home about what to eat before and after tennis tonight and how to end this post, though. Oh well. I guess practice makes perfect.

Meds

The first time I started anti-depressants I was 30. By this time I had been depressed for at least 15 years on and off and anxious non-stop for about 30 years.

Obviously, it would have made more sense to start them sooner, and people told me that, but I was anti-meds up until this time. I was in a research program that strongly favored psychological interventions. Meds were just a product of the money-making pharmaceutical industry and were over-prescribed. People were more likely to relapse when they stopped taking meds. Blah blah blah.

Most of my resistance was really because I was stubborn. No one could have talked me into taking them any sooner.

I finally decided to try them after my husband and I had moved again after a year. Before we finished unpacking, he was already obsessing about buying a house. I knew at some level that we weren't going to make it, which triggered a depressive episode.

I started on Paxil and sure enough, I felt better immediately. So much better that I wondered why I had allowed myself to suffer for decades when I could have just put myself out of my misery by taking the freaking pill.

Still, after being on them for a year and a half, I stopped taking them--with my doctor's approval. And I was OK for awhile. But then we bought a house and my husband wanted to find another one a year later. My marriage was moving closer to its sad conclusion.

This time I took Lexapro and stayed on it for much longer. When my life finally seemed stable, I tried going off them again. As soon as the meds were completely out of my system, I felt the depression slowly creeping back. I was a little more irritable. It was a little harder to tolerate stress. My thoughts were a little more negative. Occasionally I was emotionally explosive. And finally, I was barely able to get out of bed.

It turned out to be the most severe episode I had ever experienced. It seemed out of the blue at the time, but now I know that it was because my dad was also experiencing his most severe depressive episode. Even though I didn't talk to him much, I felt it. That whole super-empath thing. Damn empathy. So annoying sometimes.

I can honestly say that this time the meds saved my life. The depression and anxiety were so debilitating that I spent most of my time lying on the couch, willing myself to keep living, counting the days until the drugs kicked in.  And when they did, I was immensely grateful for the pharmaceutical companies that came up with drugs that allowed me to be myself again.

All clients want to try therapy without drugs, and we always do.  And sometimes that's enough.  But sometimes it's not.  And the process of going on and staying on meds for as long as necessary--which might not be for life--is long and arduous.  But when they finally take them, they are thankful that they did and wonder why it took them so long.

But they still want to go off them.

I don't criticize them for this, because my path to acceptance was longer than theirs.  I used to beat myself up over my stubbornness, but the reality is, you can't be ready until you're ready.

It takes a long time before we are willing to give up suffering.

Fear of Sadness

Most people find it difficult to tolerate negative feelings like sadness.  This task is even more difficult when you suffer from depression, because any time your sadness feels too intense or lasts too long, you worry that the depression is coming back.  And if you've ever been depressed, you know how terrifying the prospect is of going back to that dark place.

Your loved ones also become hypersensitive to your sadness, which just exacerbates your fears.  If you're feeling down, they ask you if you're taking your meds, or if maybe your meds need to be adjusted.  Don't get me wrong--I'm all for meds.  I've tried to go off them several times, and each time I got depressed again.  But it's unfortunate that once you've been depressed, every feeling has to be scrutinized for potential pathology.

There's also this added sense of failure associated with relapse.  Like you should have been able to prevent it this time, since you've been there before.  And even though you recovered before, you fear that if it happens again, you won't be so lucky the next time.

And even if you do recover, you fear that the wait will be agony.  I fear depression much more than anxiety because when I'm anxious I can take an Ativan and I feel better immediately.  But antidepressants don't work that way, so there's not much I can do to feel better right away when I'm depressed.

Whenever I am afraid I'm becoming depressed, I journal about my fears, my sense of failure, and my pain.  And when I look back at these entries, I realize how strong I am.  There are a lot of things that suck about depression, but I have no doubt that it has made me a stronger person, even while it tries to convince me that I'm weak.

But how do I know when I'm sad versus depressed?  To be honest, I don't always know.  Sometimes I feel depressed for a day.  Sometimes I feel sad for what feels like an eternity.  The line is not as clear-cut as we'd like to think.  But regardless of whether it's sadness or depression, the best I can do is to control what I can control.  This includes therapy, meds, stress management, and self-care. 

And most importantly, for me, it means practicing self-acceptance--of my sadness, my depression, and everything else that makes me who I am, for better or worse. 

How to Save a Life

A few years ago a client told me that I saved his life.  Well, he didn't tell me directly.  He told my colleague when he was drunk at a gala. But he told her to tell me.  Although I'm not sure he remembers doing so.  Still, I was humbled by this.  I knew therapy was important to him, but I didn't think his life was in danger.  But then again, even when clients are in therapy, they don't always tell you the full story.

Once I had to cancel a session with this client and he stopped coming in for about a month.  Apparently he got depressed because he felt like I had abandoned him.  A professor contacted him because he had also stopped going to class.  When he came back to therapy, he told me that his professor saved his life.  That was the first time I really understood how much therapy means to some clients, even when they say they're not sure they want to be there. 

Last week I went to a threat assessment training, and the first case that the presenter discussed was a student who had to go to the police department because she told her roommate she was suicidal.  While she was there, she asked for a piece of paper and a pen.  She drew what appeared to be a bunch of random doodles.  But later when they looked at the drawing, they saw that she had embedded the word help three times.

This, too, reminded me that people may say they don't want help but their actions tell you otherwise.

Before I started blogging, I thought blogs were just another example of our narcissistic culture in that journaling, which is supposed to be a private experience, was turned into something that you shared with the world and everyone was free to comment.   But now I realize that blogs can be a way for people who have never had a voice to connect with people like themselves.

My favorite blog is by Nelly N.  She writes passionately and honestly about her struggles with obsessive-compulsive disorder, among other things.  She shares her most painful experiences so that other people who suffer in silence will realize that they are not alone.  And it works.

A few days ago the student group that I advise had their annual eating disorder panel.  It consists of students in recovery who are brave enough to share their story.  On our campus, people with eating disorders are blamed and judged more harshly than any other disorder.  Not surprisingly, no one wants to admit to having one publicly.

Every year, at least one student seeks treatment after attending the panel.  And the next year, those students volunteer to speak on the panel so that they can help someone else who is alone with their eating disorder.  Sometimes they use the opportunity to speak as motivation to get better.

We don't have to be able to leap tall buildings to save someone's life.  Sometimes heroes are ordinary people who take action when someone needs help.

                    

Wants and Needs

The other day I had a session where I was talking to a client about wants and needs.  She said that she knows that she needs to allow herself to be taken care of, but she doesn't want to do it.  I thought that was interesting.  How can you not want what you need?  But then after I thought about it some more, I realized that there are all kinds of things that people don't want to need.  They are usually the things that bring people to therapy.

Most people don't want to need other people.  That would make them dependent, and dependency is bad.  It's a sign of weakness.  There is even a diagnosis called dependent personality disorder.  Excessive independence, however, is not considered a problem.  In our culture, you can never be too self-reliant.

While I have certainly seen clients who depend too much on others, more frequently I see people who are afraid to rely on anyone, like this client.  Which is strange, because in the animal kingdom, humans have the longest period of dependence on their parents.  And even as independent adults, we still need other people to have babies, to have jobs, and to survive.  Even hunters and gatherers relied on one another.  I don't think anyone would consider them weak.

Despite this knowledge, I have to admit, I don't like to rely on other people, either.  I don't ask for help unless absolutely necessary.  And the flaw that I am most of ashamed of is my need to be in a relationship.  That's why I'm so proud of myself right now for being alone.  But the truth is, while I'm not in a romantic relationship, I'm not really alone.

The other thing that people don't want is to feel.  Usually they come to therapy with the hope that I can help them stop feeling.  This includes the feelings that accompany disorders like anxiety and depression, as well as normal feelings like sadness after a breakup or loneliness--because that makes you weak.

Like dependency, feelings are also necessary for survival.  Without feelings, we would have no signal to figure out what is causing us pain.  Without feelings, we aren't able to empathize with other people.  Without feelings, we would be classified as reptiles in the animal kingdom. 

I don't want to be a reptile, but I do get frustrated with the intensity of my feelings.  Sometimes they reach the level of depression and anxiety.  And then I feel other people's feelings, too.  That's a lot of feeling for one person to tolerate.  And some people do find my feelings overwhelming.  I'm too needy. Too sensitive. Too much. 

Or maybe they were too reptilian to be able to empathize with me.

I often have to tell clients up front that if what they want is to stop needing and feeling, I can't help them.  Sometimes they transfer to other therapists, which I understand.  Who wants to be told that they have to accept being human?  But most people stay.  When I point out that only robots have the luxury of not needing or feeling, they acknowledge that they don't want to be a robot.

But it's surprisingly hard work, this being human stuff.  It requires a lot of self-compassion, self-acceptance.

Which is why I started this blog.

Midlife

I don't like getting older.  I even obsessed about it as a child.   When I was around 7, I remember asking my dad if you get to choose your age when you go to heaven, and he said yes.  Every year I would choose my current age, because I was sure that the next year would be worse. 

I had a plan for what I would do when I got old:  I would use Oil of Olay to prevent wrinkles, Clairol to dye my hair, and Coast soap to bring me back to life--because that was their slogan, which I took literally.  That shows you the power of advertising.

I didn't consider myself middle-aged until I turned 43.  I'm immature for my age in a lot of ways because I still live the life of a college student--a night owl with no children and no spouse whose work revolves around the academic calendar.  

Although my mind is still somewhere in my 20's, my body has proceeded at a normal developmental pace.  Once I hit 43, I became far-sighted.  My knees hurt all the time--not just after playing tennis 5-6 times in a row.  I started dying my hair. 

I don't want other people to get older, either.  Every year I tell my niece that she has to stay the same age. Whenever I leave my parents' house, I feel anxious at the thought of seeing them sick or debilitated someday.  I am terrified of losing them.  I got a glimpse of what it would be like when my dad was depressed, and I did not handle it well. 

I try to practice gratitude, self-compassion, and mindfulness to accept the aging process.  I try to remember what I have to be thankful for in this moment, try to enjoy my blessings while I have them.  I tell myself that lots of people have these fears--it doesn't make me crazy.  It doesn't mean I'm a bad person. 

It helps some.  But I'm still afraid.

There are only two things that I look forward to about getting older.  One is that I will continue to become a better therapist because I will have seen more clients, had more life experience, and will possess more wisdom. 

The other thing is that my writing will improve for the same reasons.  I have wanted to write a book since high school.  In the 10th grade we had a writing assignment where we had to project what we would be doing in the future.  I wrote a mock interview where I was 45, answering questions about my book. 

So it's no coincidence that I made my first effort to publish my writing through blogging at the age of 44.  I realized that if I wanted to make something happen for myself, I had to start now. 

So I guess that's one good thing about being middle-aged:  as you reflect on the first half of your life, you realize what you have to do to make the most out of the second half.

Night Owl Syndrome, Part 2

I started this blog with a post about the stress of trying to regulate my sleep cycle.  Particularly since it was the beginning of the year and I had been off for 3 months--plenty of time to revert to my more natural night owl state.

I am in the same predicament this week, except that my sleep cycle is even more out of whack than usual.  In addition to the normal job stress and abrupt transition into having nothing to do at the end of the term, I was also dealing with the fallout from the student death and extended periods of loneliness and isolation.  I fell into a pattern of going to bed at 4 am and waking up at 4 pm, with a few hours of wakefulness in between.  And as usual, I was racked with guilt and self-loathing about this.

My dad and two of my brothers are also night owls.  While my family was together over Christmas, my dad hardly slept at all, and when he did it was well past 2 am.  One of my brothers went to bed around 6 am.  The other brother woke up around 6 pm.  Yet they did not appear to be racked with the same guilt and self-loathing as me. 

Which is the reason why I originally started this blog.  Accepting who I am, including my obsessive tendencies, problems with guilt, and wacky sleep schedule, takes continuous practice.  If I neglect to do it, I fall prey to depression and anxiety.

And writing about how I was feeling during that period definitely helped.  It was cathartic.  It helped me to remember what I tell my clients. It provided me support, positive feedback, and extra angels.  And some of the most depressing posts were among the most popular ones, so I know I'm not alone.

Perhaps I should start recommending blogging as an important component of self-care.  Right up there with sleep, exercise, food, and mindfulness.

Last night I went to bed before 1 am without having to rely on extra Ativan.  And I woke up at 7 am because I had a doctor's appointment.  That's as close to a "normal" sleep cycle as it gets for me.  So going back to work has been a good thing.  Still,  if I didn't have to go back this week, I wouldn't have. 

Fortunately, sometimes you are forced to do things that are good for you, whether you want to or not.