It's Good to Be Back

For months, I toiled in misery at a job I despised for the sole reason of making money to pay bills. I left a position that was somewhat flexible and allowed me a little bit of independence and went directly to a job that kept track of every single minute of my day. EVERY. SINGLE. MINUTE.

Circumstances were such that I wanted a change and thought the call center job sounded much less demanding and certainly would allow me to be home more for The Pie.  It did, but it was also draining my intellect at a rapid rate. I knew on the second day of training that I needed to get out and I set in motion a plan to do just that. Thankfully, the plan finally came to fruition.

Almost a month ago, I left that horrible job and started working at a job I love. I now have a position with a local non-profit organization that works with abused children. Instead of making sales in a call center environment, I'm making a difference in my community. It is important to me to work in a field that is respected and that is fulfilling to me as a human being. I don't want to be a faceless number to my employer, I want to be a contributing member of a team working toward a common goal.  I'm thrilled to have found my niche.

The Pie is happy, too. She has said numerous times that she is happy I got "the great job." She could tell from my episodes that I dreaded going to work every day, that I hated sitting on the phones for 8 hours, that I did nothing meaningful. She said just yesterday that she was glad we could laugh together again. That made me get teary because I had to wonder how long it had been since we had actually laughed together.

Here's another thing: my salary increased by just over 1/3 of what I have been making. That translates to a more stable financial situation for the two of us. Immediate concerns are paying what is most behind, but as time goes by, we will be able to save and plan for The Pie's future instead of just wonder how we can get food on the table for a couple of days.

Most importantly, The Pie and I are now completely off any state assistance and are self-sufficient. Since her birth, The Pie has been on state Medicaid and now I can afford to provide insurance for her through my employer. She no longer qualifies for the free lunch program due to my salary and though we have been slowly downsizing the amount of food stamps we received, we are no longer are eligible for that assistance. I am a believer in the "welfare system" and a hand up to help those in trouble bridge the gap. I've witnessed many people turn it into a lifestyle and be proud of it, but not I. I am excited to announce that those days are behind me.

It was worth the wait. What's important to note is that I did what I HAD to do until I could do what I WANTED to do. I worked in a crappy job, I tolerated crappy treatment, degrading comments, strict time allotments and host of other issues and worked in the mean time to get where I wanted to be.

TOTALLY worth it.

Before You Speak

When you’re sad and depressed, people always try to cheer you up or offer sentiments of encouragement. I love those people; and while I do appreciate the thought behind the statements, I get irritated by the fact that social convention prevents me responding with my true thoughts or feelings.

For example, when someone says to me: “Everything happens for a reason.” I want to say, “Yeah, because I made a really stupid decision and set in motion a course of events that sent me spiraling into a miasma of self-loathing and unmitigated fear.” But I usually, say, “That’s so true.” Thanks for basically saying I was supposed to go through this tragic situation. Yes, I understand the message, but please don't say this when my pain is still fresh. It usually doesn't help.

Or when they say, “Hang in there!” I fight the urge to respond with, “You betcha! I’ll tie a noose in that rope, slip my head in there and hang like snot from a toddler’s nose.”  But I typically just nod my head and mutter, “Thanks.”

How about this gem: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I get the sentiment behind the statement. And I agree that some trials do serve to teach us lessons and give us strength. However, it has evolved into a statement that connotes the idea that in order to be strong, we have to ultimately fend off death. ACTUAL death! In some cases, I would rather hold hands and play footsy with the Grim Reaper than deal with the crap sandwich currently on my plate!

Here’s a good one: “God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle.” Here’s the thing - I don’t believe God is the cause of pain, loss, hate and sadness. I’d like to think that God is not somewhere cackling maniacally and rubbing his hands together in a classic Machiavellian fashion, thinking, “Let’s see if she can handle THIS!” There are people who can’t handle it. I’m one of them. That’s why I’ve shut down. And it’s not encouraging to say this awful event is my prize in life for being a strong person.

A friend of mine (who happens to be a Lutheran minister) recently reached out to me regarding my shutting down. Not once, did he mention that if I “let go and let God”, things would get better. He didn’t say to “place it in the Lord’s hands” or offer clichés or platitudes. What he did help me understand is that sometimes people lose their joy when they feel like they’ve given everything they have. He mentioned combat veterans and caretakers as two primary examples.

The thing is, I have slowly sunk to the point of not caring about anything. The Pie basically takes care of herself now and when I’m not at the job I loathe, I watch television. I recently started watching Breaking Bad on Netflix, and must admit that I considered participating in illegal behavior to get out of my financial abyss. But then, I realized that it’s fiction. So, rest assured that cooking meth is not a viable avenue for my future. If there IS a future, that is.

I am so blinded by the financial ruin and debt that suffocates me that I can’t see past the moment. Try as I might to apply all those inspirational and encouraging phrases in my life, I am unable to feel hope that it will get better. I worry about how I can properly parent my daughter when I just. Don’t. Care. Will there be a time when I can find joy in the little things…in ANY thing? 

Social Chamelons

What’s so bad about being who you really are? Why do we feel such a powerful pull to act, dress, speak like someone we aren’t when we are with other people? I think everyone is guilty of it to some degree, but those who make it a lifestyle simply baffle me. In fact, it creates in me a level of distrust of that person. My best friend, The Pie’s Favorite Aunt, is still the exact same person I met over 22 years ago. Her personality remained the same through massive weight loss, getting married, enduring major surgeries. She has met and mingled with people from all walks of life, with different backgrounds and experiences, but SHE has remained the same. And I think it’s because she really likes herself, as silly and “self-help book” as that might sound.

It’s true, being comfortable with our personalities can be a real challenge because I think that, at our core, we want to be liked or loved. The motivation to be liked quickly overcomes our need to be ourselves, so we transform into what other people expect us to be. If we spend an inordinate amount of time around people who flagrantly use foul language, that trait will slowly seep into our subconscious and eventually become part of our daily self. If we work with people who imbibe alcohol at every possible moment, and always join in those activities, it changes our chemistry, literally, into something that we are not. Conversely, if we spend time with intellectual, cultured and clever people, we can learn myriad ideas, philosophies and concepts that can change our lives. What’s important, I believe, is that we remain true to ourselves – not turn into social chameleons.

Urban Dictionary defines a social chameleon as such:

social chameleon

Someone who changes the way they interact with people depending on who they're with.

 

Do you know someone like this? Are YOU someone like this? I’m not talking about behaving appropriately in varied situations – like a job interview, bachelor party or afternoon tea – but changing the essence of who we are just to accommodate the person or group of people whose company you happen to be in. I think the reason why it bothers me so much is that I see this behavior in people I care about and was shocked when I first witnessed it. It was almost as if I was sitting across from a stranger. It forced me to question who that person REALLY was: the filthy-mouthed drunk begging for attention that sat before me, or the sweet, caring mother I knew her to be from years of friendship.

No one wants to be rejected, I get that. I’ve always said that I can handle rejection, it’s humiliation that kills me. But we should all be our authentic selves; otherwise, how would we know if it’s us they like or like the façade we present?

I Am an Addict Part Two

I realized early in my life that I have an addictive personality. You know how you do one funny thing for a toddler and they just keep saying, “Again”? That’s me – but I never grew out of it. I embraced that need for repetition and ran with it for 50 years!  I’ve smoked for almost all of my adult life and that is most certainly an addiction! My addiction to food is obvious and insidious; I was addicted to television shows, foods, sex, people…I think it gave me a sense of comfort and familiarity that I longed for as a child.

What I did NOT become addicted to was recreational drugs. Looking back, I realize that I could be telling a very different story today. I never tried cocaine or crack or crank or anything that required me to snort or inject. How undignified! I did smoke marijuana a few times in college, but I never cared for the loss of control I felt when I did. I sampled variously colored amphetamine tablets – which were GREAT for losing weight, but I eventually grew fatigued by the constant head itch that resulted from it. I took Ecstasy one time. ONE TIME! That singular incident proved to me one thing: I was doomed to be Ecstasy’s slave if only I took it one MORE time.

 

I am not necessarily a devotee of the whole “life in moderation” philosophy.  As an only child, adopted by older parents, I benefitted from their attention and am the first to admit I was (or am) spoiled. Growing up, I wanted EVERYTHING and my parents did the best they could to provide EVERYTHING for me. But I didn’t learn how to moderate. Anything. Not my food, my fun, my voice, my thoughts.

For much of my life, I felt like a fraud. I behaved differently depending on the environment, company or activity with which I was involved. So when the opportunity to feel better about myself presented itself in such a tempting and convincing way, I didn’t want to miss the chance.  Over 15 years later, as I roamed Earth in the form of a “PharmaZombie,” I reluctantly agreed to face my life without medications ruling it.

I began the process of detoxing from Effexor back in November 2015; a gradual step-down in small dosages. The change caused only slight symptoms, but nothing unmanageable or debilitating. I would feel the occasional weakness of limbs, or a little light-headedness upon standing, but to me it was ok. Then the Big Jump happened. First, flu-like symptoms presented themselves with a vengeance. The transition from 150 mg to 75 mg felt akin to participating in the Pamplona running of the bulls: my adrenaline shot off the charts, I was disoriented, panicked, confused and fell down a lot! My heart raced and my senses were heightened to the extreme power; I had brain shivers, where I could barely pronounce my own name. My eyes made squeaking noises when I blinked; I could hear my eyeballs move around inside my head!! With every movement, I heard tiny little ninja noises: ‘whoosh, whish, whoosh.”  The sound of my own voice in my head nauseated me so that I stopped speaking to anyone for one entire day. All I dreamed of was laying perfectly still inside a cool, dark room.

For a period of about nine days, I barely functioned. I have no clear memory of that time in which I drove to work, spent eight hours at the office, drove home and took care of my child. It’s entirely possible that there was a night or two that The Pie had to microwave corn dogs herself for dinner!

After researching ways to manage the symptoms of Effexor withdrawal, I read articles about flushing the toxin out of my system.  I debated about all the options within my budget and eventually found something no too terribly distasteful.  A nifty cocktail of Omega-3 fish oil and a B-Complex vitamin, combined with a natural mood booster eased the symptoms within the first two days of taking them. 

At first, I thought there was NO WAY that some vitamins would do anything to ease my mildly homicidal urges or calm my unexpected sobbing jags. Which is why I know it was not a placebo effect – I had no faith in it whatsoever and it worked anyway! The B-Complex gives me energy and is fortified with Vitamin C which helps fight off yucky germ invasions. The fish oil has no identifiable effect, but it seems to work well with the B-Complex. The mood booster is a variety of things with names that sound foreign, but I will attest to its assistance in managing my mood.

My ultimate goal is to live completely without pharmaceuticals of any kind, unless I become seriously ill. I hated being dependent on daily medication – a slave to pills! I still have a few unexplained crying episodes, but I attribute it to being fully engaged with my emotions again. My temper is admittedly much shorter now that it was, but I just have to remind myself to breathe before I react.

Some of my friends have never known me without the medication and will be probably be confused and a little nervous in my presence. But for those who have been around for the long haul…”I’m baaaaack!”

 

 

I Am an Addict Part One

I’ve tried to ignore the truth for far too long. But now, in the midst of a wildly spectacular spiral of fear and shame of withdrawal, I accept that I am an addict. My drug of choice, however, is nothing so scandalous as alcohol, heroin, cocaine or meth (I do not intend to offend or minimize those who fight the battle with these substances - addiction is universal); the monkey on my back is a drug prescribed to me by a medical professional over 15 years ago as a way to help me live a normal, happy life. This week, Effexor ruined my life.

Allow me to indulge in a little literary device known as back-story:  My regular physician retired a few months ago and a young whippersnapper, who had only recently gotten a white coat, bought the practice. Our first meeting was pleasant enough and he refilled all the usual suspect pharmaceuticals that were part of my daily regimen for years. But only for one month. He lulled me into a false sense of security, thinking I could just blissfully carry on taking government approved poisons for the rest of my days. But he fooled me!

At my next appointment, he explained to me, in soothing tones, how he didn’t feel that I should be taking as many medications as I was at the time, especially the anxiety/depression medication known in user circles as Effxor, and widely known as Venlafaxine. He created a plan to step me down from the medication that would have me pharmaceutical free in three months.  “How lovely,” I thought. No concern of whether or not food or water would be available to take a pill. No adhering to a strict time table of when to ingest certain medicines. Sounded a lot like Heaven. What I got was a whole lot of Hell!

My first prescription for Effexor came in 1999 during a somewhat stressful time. I worked for a highly respected local private school, in the fine arts department and was elbow deep in planning a HUGE arts festival that drew over 3,000 to our campus.  I love artists (I AM one!), but I do not love trying to get them to be organized or meet deadlines. My sweet and long-suffering boss at the time was very understanding and often threw himself on my grenade of a temper when dealing with those free-spirited Bohemians! Several days in a row, I came home and cried. And cried and cried and cried. My roommate lost her patience with me regularly and once, when she, asked, “What the hell are you crying about NOW?” upon seeing my reaction a Hallmark commercial, I knew something was very wrong with me.

It wasn’t until a day about two weeks after that incident that I found myself wanting to hurt something or someone. Rage consumed me so that I was unfit to be in the company of humans – even managed to threaten a coworker at one point! I had gone to grab lunch, and on the way back didn’t quite make the green light. My next memory is of horns honking at me as I banged my hands and head against the steering wheel of my vehicle. I drove to my doctor’s office and waited until he had time to see me. He gave me a quiz (EXACTLY how I wanted to spend my time inside a murderous rage) and determined that I had issues with anxiety and depression. (DUH!)  He patted my head and sent me on my way to the pharmacy with a prescription for Effexor in my tightly clenched hand.

Within a week, I felt better – better about my life, my job, and my relationships – about everything! I no longer felt encumbered by fear, constantly worrying about how something would go wrong and I would break down. Things were good. Until they weren’t.

Over the ensuing decade and a half, my dosage would increase every couple of years until as of late 2015, I was taking more than 6 times my original dosage. I didn’t really see any problem. I managed to coast through the last five years pretty well, only occasionally really feeling the crunch. I mentioned to the new doctor that the Effexor was what I attributed to keeping me sane during the five years caring for my father, the last days of his life and, ultimately, his passing.  When he asked me to name the feelings I experienced, I discovered that while I could produce the words from my lexicon – sadness, grief, loss, anger, joy, love -  I wasn’t actually feeling those emotions. I felt…nothing.

My every reaction was flat. While on the outside, I appeared to react appropriately to a situation, on the inside, nothing really registered. I discussed with Dr. Whippersnapper what to expect with the change in the medication, but he kept repeating, “It will all be worth it in the end.”

What do you think he meant by that?

 

 

 

Stay tuned for Part Two of I Am an Addict.

GTFO 2015!

The Pie Baker took a self imposed sabbatical from blogging last year to concentrate on the more internal issues facing her. There was at no time a shortage of topics on which to pontificate in blog form - it's just that there seemed to be no time to adequately organize and form words into coherent sentences. However, as I take inventory of the past year, I see that there was, indeed, plenty of time...there was just no desire. And that is deeply disturbing to me. 

I recently told the campus president of the school where I work, that I write not to make money, but to make happiness - mine. Writing typically brings me joy and I usually feel compelled to write about even the most mundane things that I experience. However, last year robbed me of the ability to experience any real joy. The year began shortly after my father died and I jumped back into the work world with little preparation for what it would be like for me to leave my daughter for the first time in five years and slog away in a cubicle at the whim of sycophants, insecure ball busters and a manager who looked like a wet chicken and acted like a weasel gone to crazy-town. A month after I started working, I began traveling for the job almost every weekend; I had to leave my child when all I wanted to do was spend the time snuggling and laughing with her. That situation produced a highly unpleasant feeling that managed to stick around for the next several months. 

As the management changed several times at my job, I felt my personal relationships changed as well. I didn't spend as much time with the friends I love as much as I wanted. The Pie began to mature from a little girl to a young woman and the effects of that transition shook me to my core. There is no special man in my life - and that's because I want it that way - so at least there was no chance for a romance to sour! (Score one for me!) I withdrew into myself, hoping that something would magically appear to make me happy again. Still waiting. 

I turned 50 this year. As much as I outwardly took it in stride, I became panic stricken as I crunched the numbers. When The Pie graduates from high school, I will be 60.  At a time when most people are planning to retire to a tony condo in Boca,  I will be struggling to get college funded. And then, presumably, a few years later, I will have to pay for a wedding! As it is, I live paycheck to three days before paycheck, so some serious trimming of fat must take place. 

Speaking of fat...I am. But I am reasonably healthy so I have not made a resolution to go on a diet. I do, however, believe that The Pie and I both could eat healthier foods, so I do plan to insert that into the menu plan, rather than asking her what hamburger place she wants to go to every night. 

Last year was filled with such great loss - in society, as well as in my personal life. As I type this, The Pie is listening to the song, "Animal" by Maroon 5. It makes me realize that society is a wild kingdom of various species that just can seem to peacefully coexist. There predators and prey and at any given time, we can be either - it just depends on the environment. 

Speaking of animals - my beloved Furry Valentine, my cat that snuggled with me for over 16 years, my Valentino (Tino) passed away this morning. He was the greatest cat EVER and I will miss our time together and our conversations - mine in English and his in Kittyese - that only he and I could understand. I lay on the bathroom floor and petted him, speaking softly into his ear, sharing memories and thanking him for being the best friend a girl could wish for. His passing reminds me to cherish every moment, to take every opportunity to share our love with family and friends and to be the best snuggler possible. 

Last year sucked. In 2016, I hope to greet each day armed with the tools at my disposal to make the absolute best of the obstacles and gifts placed in my path. I spent 2015 in a depression that sucked the life out of my life. I was not the mother, friend, employee that I know I can be - that I deserve to be. So I'm shaking the dust off my life and heading full steam ahead with a new map, a new attitude and a new blog! 

Happy New Year. 

Happy Humiliation Day!

One of my biggest fears finally came to fruition. I turned the BIG 5-0 on Mother’s Day this year. (That’s not the fear.)  I put off the big celebration because it was a busy month and I wanted a big blow out bash to mark the milestone. I spent a lot of time and effort and money on putting together my perfect birthday party, only to discover that I must have some inflated sense of self to think that people I love would join me to honor my half century of life. (Sarcasm)

It’s the classic cliché’ – a sad, insecure, unpopular girl plans a party and invites all the cool kids. Hours later, she sits amid the uneaten chips, dips, appetizers and snacks, dejected and hurt that no one showed up. That’s what happened to me. On the night I so meticulously planned, lots of people stood me up. It’s bad enough getting stood up just one person, but 25?!?! That cut to the bone. It did a little tap dance on every insecurity I ever had about myself.

I think I did a pretty good job of covering up, to the four people who did show up, that I was disappointed and hurt. Everything was so beautiful and my two closest friends were there, so I made the best of it for as long as I could. I hoped that my friends, The Amazingparents, and Crazy Nurse, didn’t notice how disappointed I was at the turn out. But, seriously, how could they not? I’m grateful to them for not mentioning it. I felt like such a loser.

I ordered food – enough for 25 people: cocktail shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, cheeses, veggies and tasty chicken salad in freakin’ phyllo cups!! I provided two free drink tickets to everyone, so I paid for the alcohol, too! I set up a candy buffet in all the theme colors and the party took place in a beautiful VIP lounge on a rooftop bar in an historical downtown hotel. My friend, Doc, paid for decorations and other little party accoutrements to make it a special occasion. I felt horrible that she spent so much for no one to enjoy.

What I felt most was humiliation. I was embarrassed that I made such a big deal about the excitement of turning 50, holding out hope that the people I cared for would want to share that excitement with me. The brave face I put on weighed so heavily that as I began to pack up all the pretty little doo-dads and gee-gaws, I felt a tear slowly travel down my cheek. I turned away so that no one could see my sadness. I hid my mortification until I made it to my car, then I cried.

I can take rejection….but humiliation is a killer.