1-9-10

My friend was talking about writing a guidebook about herself so people would get her. She called it “The Manual Michelle.” So I wrote one for one of my therapists. This is an excerpt from it. There is a lot more that’s not blog-friendly. I wrote about what she would need to know to really understand me. Where I come from, why I do what I do and think how I think. I wrote about my mental health history and what’s most important to me now. My family, who I actually share with, my symptoms, and finally some random interesting facts. I’ll post the facts separately. Doing the project was very helpful. I wrote most of it at Bing’s my first night there. Good times.

Important things to know

• I’m addicted to helping people.
• I hate most people, people in general, and/or at least one person or class in particular at any given time. (I’m hateful a bit less lately, not much.)
• I need things to be right and to make sense. Even if I hate the situation, if there is a plausible, honest reason it’s better.
• If I don’t sit down in your office, I don’t plan to stay.
• I send food back when I don’t like it and I usually speak up when things are unacceptable.
• I don’t ask for help. If I do ask for help, I’m not bluffing and I expect a response.
• If you can’t help me or don’t want to, just say it. Don’t bullshit me. That makes it worse.
• If you don’t ask, I won’t tell you how I’m doing.
• Even if you do ask, I might not tell you.
• Responses like surviving, hanging in there, here, glad to be here, crazy, alive, etc. mean I am NOT at all okay but not going to tell you why or tell you in that setting.
• I don’t do things I don’t want to & I’m not afraid of going to the top or offending most people.
• If I tell you I’m struggling, things are bad.
• I expect people to do their jobs and do them well, to know their field and to be helpful. If you can’t help me or don’t know, help me find someone who can.
• If I ask a question, I want an answer. A direct one.

Regarding Behavior/Appearance

• If I’m not talking in group, something is wrong.
• When I get very angry or upset I become very still. I don’t talk. I stare at the floor. I may or may not be slowly playing with a pen. I breathe very slowly and talk precisely or not at all.
• When I am anxious I play with a pen or my fingers, crack my knuckles, massage my hands, drink lots of water, knead Play-Doh, tap my foot or bounce my leg.
• Moving around a lot means I’m either anxious or my body hurts. Sometimes both.
• I wear fancy clothes for protection or to feel good, usually the first. When I need the strength of looking strong, I wear black slacks and heels. People are much less likely to ask how I am or think of me as weak. I attract less attention.
• Just because I look or sound good doesn’t mean I am. I get mistaken for staff even in the ICU. Very few people read me well. Not even my best friends.
• I am good at reading others.
• The further down I get, the less able I am to tolerate other people, any people, especially stupid ones or ones who don’t do their jobs or meet my needs. If I’m pissy, it’s not PMS. Something is wrong.
• Sometimes I am just too tired, physically or mentally, or too weary to care. I’m simply moving. No hope for the future or the now, no energy to try. I’m just here, showing up, getting through the day.

See Random Interesting Facts.

5-1-10                   2:28am

I know that losing someone is a tragedy, no matter how they go. But I see a lot of good in things. Some call me a mercenary, others an opportunist. But I’m the one who in that dark moment tends to find something to take advantage of. Randy’s suicide is no different.

I know there is a lot of pain right now, but I think that Randy gave us a gift. Several. It was a choice that he made to leave us and yes there are consequences. But there are good ones. The first thing I thought once I was able to think after the news was, “Well, S— will call me back.” And he did. But that’s not it. I’m finding friends in people out of my network, people I had only known professionally. Someone met me for coffee when I needed to talk. Others networked together to find help for my group.

I see the change in others too. People are angry and they’re hurting, but they’re feeling. We’re feeling together and we’re talking about something that’s usually taboo. We’re talking about suicide and experiencing it together. L- is angry that more people don’t respect Randy’s choice. But she’s sharing… W- is confused, but confused with the group. It’s not something we’re experiencing alone. It brings us together. D- gets to see firsthand, as do we all, the effect of a suicide on the group.

I was feeling suicidal the day before Randy died. Tonight that feeling has gone. I won’t lie. It’s been back, but tonight I’m okay. I have people to take care of and life to live. Mags posted a note tonight similar to my realizing that I too am a key (The Key to My Heart). She is considering her potential and what only she has to give. There are questions being asked about how we as a group can help more, can make a bigger difference. How to change for the better. I think that’s a gift.

People showed up to group last night who have not been there in ages. Yes, they were distraught. But soon they will be ready to do something. I have often thought when I’m considering suicide that everything happens for a reason. I tell myself maybe I’m supposed to die so that others will take a stand, to make that change, to make things possible. I don’t think Randy died in vain. I think his suffering is now gone and that it served a purpose. Randy gave us a gift. Many gifts through his life and also through his death. And for that, I’m grateful.

5-1-10                   2:15am

As I listened to Sara fiddle tonight I remembered bluegrass memories. I used to hate bluegrass. It drove me nuts. But it’s grown on me. There is something sweet and savory about a singing fiddle. Not everyone can do it. Sometimes a fiddle makes me scrunch up my face. But a good fiddle can grab me and take me back.

One of the years I went to the Classic I was invited by Scotty and Jeff to go to this after party-like thing. It was up in a lodge on this mountain, at the top of a winding road I was sure would never end. It was like  driving into another world. There was a bluegrass band there and lots of food. The fog was rolling in and we ate watermelon and bbq and watched the sunset. And listened to the music. I felt honored to be invited and share that time.

There was the bluegrass festival in Julian I performed at with Bucking Tradition, Charlie Metzler’s team. That stupid choreography prank on Jake. The ride up there in Mary’s car listening to “Here’s Your Sign.” Everyone sitting on Tanya. The heat and the dirt.

I love me a good hoedown. I’m not ashamed to say it. Sitting through one is almost torture. It’s in my blood. I need to dance. One of the instructors told me at Ray’s traditional workshop, “Ya got black blood in ya, girl.” One of the best compliments ever. I didn’t quite get it at the time. I was like 12. Now I do and I’m grateful. I remember Bill Nichols making sex jokes to make everyone smile for pictures. Lol. Good times.

I think one of the reasons I started listening was to make my mom mad on Sunday nights. She HATES bluegrass. But I started to love it. I started to love flatfoot too, which is equally as weird. But I’m grateful for bluegrass and memories.

5-1-10                   12:28am

I hate stepping back into reality. Those moments when whatever fantasy or wonderful event I’m experiencing ends and it’s my life again. It’s more like falling off a curb than taking a step.

I went to an awesome concert tonight – Molly Jenson, Sara Watkins, and Jamie Drake. I invited S—. I know he digs Sara but he didn’t text back. The music was powerful. A few singalongs. A fight. I wished I had someone to talk to at the break. But as best I could I stayed in the moment.

Images of Randy flashed in my head, of faces at the group last night, text from emails. I wished that when it was over I could write and then walk to my own little apartment nearby. Like at USC I could leave the concerts and go home peacefully, or not peacefully, or not go home.

Instead, I walked outside to wait for my mom, who upon my entering the car began complaining about the time, and money, and asking me a bunch of irrelevant questions. She’s upset that I’m hungry. Now silence. I will get home not to a quiet place of my own but a stressful place I can’t seem to get away from.

But for just awhile it all goes away. Music does that for me. Live, loud, emotional music. And the ocean. And the movies. Tonight was interrupted by a stupid text I chose to ignore, but was lovely. And yes, it was lonely. But even for lonely, it was good.

4-27-10                 12:34am

I woke up this morning to an image of Randy, followed by total black. I had never seen anything like it. My body kept trying unsuccessfully to throw up. My head was searing. I am grateful my Maxalt is now covered. S— called. Then I went back to sleep.

I was not doing well before I found out. Now I’m confused. Nothing makes sense. I had trouble singing in choir. I couldn’t even read the menu at dinner tonight and realized two hours after that I paid $10 too much. I get waves of emotion, a few minutes, then it’s gone. I’m exhausted.

My friend Randy took his life yesterday. My other friend and his gardener found him. He told us before group last night and we told the group.

I feel like my whole body is shaking, but it’s not. I rock. Stare. My thinking, is slow. I didn’t know Randy well but I knew him and I understand why he would take his life. I get it. I’m glad he’s not suffering. But we are.

It’s a weird position to be in. I’m a survivor who not infrequently considers suicide who is tasked with managing the after-effects on a group of others who have attempted or considered it also. It’s good to have something to do, but…

The logical side of me fights with the emotional one. I’m proud of myself for calling Bonnie tonight to meet for coffee. I don’t usually ask for help, but I’m not okay. (breath) I’m not okay.

The break will come. I’m not sure when. The moment when the emotion comes out and the anxiety goes away. I wait. Had one a few weeks ago in Jim’s bathroom. (deep breath) It’s good to breathe.

-Michelle

1:50am

PS – I’m so grateful for good friends. Reading my email tonight makes me smile warmly. So much love.

We’ll miss you, Randy.

Randy

4-26-10                 5:03am

Time really fucks with me. I have no concept of time. My day is significantly shifted from that of the average person. I don’t understand. It just all flows together. The difference between a minute, an hour, and a day are dependent on how I feel and 10 other things at any given time. I don’t usually know what day it is or the date or the month. I have to think what year it is. I also don’t instinctively know my age.

This gets confusing when I know I have to be somewhere at 4pm but I don’t know when 4pm is or I have an appointment on the 18^th but I don’t know that’s tomorrow, and if I do know that’s tomorrow I don’t understand how long is before now and then. This also messes with my perception of how long it’s been since I’ve done something. I gave someone whom I know is extremely busy a letter on Thursday night. It’s now 5am Monday morning and I’ve been freaking out because I have no response. For me those 3 days are FOREVER. It doesn’t help that my amount of downtime with no external distraction is almost constant. If I had 2 hours a day to think about these things my time might seem to go quick. But about 22 of my 24 hours each day are downtime. (sigh)

Suffice to say, I’m confused. It’s kinda like this. Imagine if you were looking at your monthly calendar and there was no title, no month, and no numbers. Just a bunch boxes not even in the right order and some in a language you don’t speak. You look down at your watch to see the time but there is only a second hand, it’s rotating backwards and there are no numbers. Now try to be on time for something or make a deadline… Right.

My psychiatrist blames this inability to comprehend time on my staying up all night. I think that’s bullshit. I’ve never met another person who has this and I’m damn sure not every shift worker is as confused as I am.

Anyone have any experience with this? If so, what do you do to help? It’s nice to not be tied to a calendar or clock, but sometimes I need to know what’s going on. And yes, I am asking for advice. ;)

Wrote this poem-like thing tonight. I’m thinking in shapes. Yes I’m safe. Yes my therapist knows. Not about the shapes but the rest. Music and rocking and writing help.

Decompensation

4-26-10                 4:14am

4:15 in the morning
Music plays whether it’s on or not
At least I love this song
Rough day
Rock almost constantly
(falling asleep)
Screamed at Mom
Wrote all day
Assessed myself

Decompensation sucks
Is it worth the joy?
Maybe.
Not right now.
Ask me in 2 weeks…

Why is it I never remember at the top that the higher I climb the harder I fall?
I guess it’s a blessing.
Would ruin the high.

I’m wanted at a group tomorrow.
I want to die.
But I’m too tired.