Allison Fails: The evolving compilation

I fail a lot. As in: a lot a lot.

I cope with failure by telling other people about it. It's just what I do.

These fails are the short stories, the stuff that makes up my day-to-day life. Stuff that I post about on Facebook for status updates. The quick anecdotes that really aren't long enough to warrant their very own, long-form blog posts, but stuff that I kind of want to keep track of and have somewhere on my blog.

The best option I could think of handling these little ditties was to keep a running compilation. The bonus is that every time I add, I'll get a chance to go back and read about ALL of my recent fails. (And that, my friends, can be a bonus for you, too.) However, these will be dated with the most recent post being on top, so if you don't really feel like going back to read about every silly thing I've done, you don't have to. But I do encourage and recommend rereading. Laughing at me is good for the soul.

****
5/16/2018

I realized it'd been while since I posted an epic life fail, so here you go: 
Not long ago, I went through the checkout lane at my neighborhood Super Saver with these four items: children’s cough syrup, lice shampoo, a pregnancy test, and sauerkraut. It wasn’t my best day.

For my checker, I end up with a teenage boy who I often see there...so I’m doing my damndest to not make eye contact and just get the hell out. He slides the first item through the scanner.

Boy: So, you expecting?

My first reaction: completely gobsmacked by the question. Second reaction: Do I educate him? Let him know that a) if I’m buying a pregnancy test, I *don’t know* if I’m expecting, and b) it’s pretty much never going to be okay to ask a woman about a pregnancy test she’s buying at Super Saver?

Third reaction (and the one I went with): 
Me: Welp, it appears I might be! (silly, theater-style exaggerated shrug and goofy smile)

There’s a semi-long, awkward pause. I see that boy’s eyes land on the lice shampoo. My knuckles go white around my debit card as I brace myself for the next question.

Boy: So, sauerkraut for supper?

(AUTHOR’S NOTE, for the curious: No, I wasn’t. The only unexpected lives in our home that week were the lice.)

8/23/2017

Seal on my water bottle is messed up & water just spilled into my lap. Just in my crotch region, though. They call me Dr. Pee Pants. 

8/19/2017

I had to push my dinner away because I kept smelling something weird as I was eating, and it made me lose my appetite.

It's four hours later and I'm realizing that the smell was me. 

Winning at life this weekend.

8/18/2017

When you are diligently cleaning all the wood in your office..and realize you've been dusting with Lysol. 
I now have germ free shelves. And a shop teacher, wood fanatic hubs that *might* disown me.

8/16/2017

Just thought I'd share my last three meal choices with you all, for kicks:

1) Last night's supper: apple pie with Cool Whip. 
2) Today's breakfast: PB & J 
3) Lunch (at 2 PM): Greek yogurt

8/14/2017

I've listened to Hook by Blues Traveler four times today. I really don't know why, but it's all that sounds good. I've never really even liked Blues Traveler much. 

It's like the time I could only eat Arby's sauce (straight out of the packet), but with music.

EDIT: I also tweeted about this. It was not an especially complimentary tweet. AND EFFING BLUES TRAVELER tweeted back. *Sigh* #allyfails

UPDATE: And THEN all of the BT loyal came out with their pitchforks, after my head....so I deleted my Tweet! Yikes! Who knew I was so controversial....

8/6/2017

Superego: Are you gonna shower this weekend?
Ego: Why? Who cares?
Id: Also, let's eat sweetened condensed milk with a spoon.

7/14/2017

Pulled into Super Saver and saw James at the gas pump. Waved at him. He doesn't see me, so I wave bigger, flapping my arms wildly. Still doesn't see me. Drives away.

Guy at the next pump waves back. Flapping his arms.

6/12/2017

When you show up for your first night of volleyball at a new place. And walk into a strip club on accident.

5/16/2017

I accidentally brewed myself a fully caffeinated cup of coffee today. I started wondering if I had when I realized I felt IN LOVE with life and had SO MANY great ideas, but couldn't follow through with any of them. Instead I sang just Angelica's rap from Schuyler Sisters seven times in a row, while also trying to pay my biller and finish a case note and answer emails. 

The fact that my hands are shaking was another giveaway. James has confirmed my error by sending me a picture of the offending K-Cup. 

As a point of reference, I get a slight caffeine jolt from decaf. The most I will usually ever go for is half-caff, and that's pushing my limits. 

My clients are about to get either the best or the worst therapy experiences of their lives.

5/3/2017

Wanted to go to bed early. Instead, I inadvertently started a political debate on Facebook and spent upwards of an hour arguing with my husband about whether or not to soak crusty dishes before washing them.

That sounds about right.

4/26/2017

Last night while reading, something I do EVERY NIGHT, I managed to badly scratch my face. Deep enough that it bled. With my thumbnail. Just thought I'd share.

4/17/2017

This morning I discovered a brand new patch of white hair had cropped up on my head, seemingly overnight. Appalled, I moved closer to the mirror to examine. I ran a hand through it in desperation, trying to figure out what style would hide it best. The white crumbled off into my hands. And that's when I realized it was just Cool Whip in my hair. 

I don't know whether to put this in the Win or Fail column.

4/12/2017

Awesome morning conversation #2:

Evie: Jonah, what's black and white and red all over?
Jonah: I don't know.
Evie: A newspaper! Get it? R-E-A-D all over?
Me (having an epiphany): Oh my gosh. I totally get that joke now. I've heard it lots of times but just thought it was really stupid. Never understood the red part.
Evie: Mommy, sometimes I wonder about you.

3/6/2017

Saw my accountant today. I managed to make only one awkward and completely unprompted confession: one time, three years ago, I forgot to pay the electric bill for our house and got our power shut off. Fortunately, because I can't seem to stop myself, Tom has agreed to be my financial sin-absolver. He said this would only cost $50/month. Also, I brought him a six-pack of beer for his troubles, because I was pretty sure that I would say something stupid today.

#forgivemeTomforIhavesinned --> Tom, we have a hashtag now

(For more on my relationship with Tom the accountant, click here. He got his very own post.)

3/3/2017

Just spilled most of a bottle of Peppermint essential oil all over the front of my shirt, so much that it soaked it through. I smell like an effing Christmas village, but my stomach and chest now has this curiously cool tingle that I don't mind.

2/24/2017

I'm setting the record on first-world problems this morning, the most dramatic of which being 1) I bought almond butter that is salted, and it's gross and I hate it and it made me not be able to finish my breakfast, and 2) I fell really hard on the ice this morning, wounding my knee and my pride. 

In an attempt to heal my mood, I chose my Queen playlist, which always helps. First song up on shuffle mode: Another One Bites the Dust.

Tomorrow, or whenever my knee stops aching, I will laugh about this. But for today, I say: eff you, gross salty almond butter; eff you, stupid treacherous weather, and eff you, Freddie Mercury, for mocking me.

12/30/2016

So, I purchased $5 gift certificates for my office mates to Taco Inn, which is this small-biz, Lincoln-only, sort of good Mexican fast food place that all of us happen to like. It was more or less an inside joke/gag-gift-that-wasn't-really-a-gag-gift gift. Before Christmas, I placed the gift certificates into four Christmas cards, which I then put in my purse to distribute at work on my last day before Christmas.

I however neglected to distribute said cards, and the unmarked envelopes remained at-large in my purse. As it happened, the time came when we needed more Christmas cards to distribute to neighbors, friends, and family just before and on Christmas. Since I had a few in my purse, I grabbed them out and handed them out.

Including the Taco Inn-filled cards.

So now random friends, family, or neighbors have received Taco Inn gift certificates from me. I feel weird about this, for many reasons: 1) Taco Inn is not usually a gift card I'd distribute to people...I think folks are going to be looking at this and thinking "WTF, why Taco Inn? Couldn't it at least have been Chipotle?, 2) Will people feel like I went out of my way to give them a gift, and now feel like they have to give me some sort of gift card to a random place in return?, 3) Only FOUR people got a gift card, but we handed out 70+ cards. It feels like I inadvertently instituted some sort of lottery for my friends and family in which the prize happened to be really crappy.

If you were a lucky winner: Congrats! Enjoy your Taco Inn!!


12/8/2016: 

Yesterday I went to the bank (same bank where I recently poked myself in the eye with my sunglasses, incidentally). 

There’s this rug in front of the door that I trip over EVERY time I leave. Yesterday being no exception, I tripped—but I tripped hard. Like the kind where you trip and then that turns into a stumble and then you almost fall. I didn’t *quite* fall, but instead landed in what I can only describe as a “superhero crouch”—you know, how Spiderman lands after a big jump? Kind of squatted down but alert and ready for action? That was me. 

I somehow also landed facing the tellers, which was great, because I got to see their concerned/amused/horrified faces. One had stepped around the counter and was halfway headed towards me, looking terrified (because you know, I’m a very intimidating person). “Are you okay, ma’am?” he said, stopping in his tracks as I looked up at him. Maybe he thought I was about to pounce or shoot a web or something. 

And I swear to God this is what I did: I hopped up in one fluid motion, dropped straight down into a curtsy (I have NO IDEA why I chose to do that), said “just kidding” and then walked out.

Awesomely, I have to go back to that bank tomorrow.


******

10/26/2016

You need these facts to understand this story: My calves are kind of scrawny, and my feet are exceptionally long—genetic gifts from my father.

Yesterday I changed into my gym clothes in my office, which is something I regularly do after my last session. But yesterday I was in a rush. I was wearing skinny jeans—cut for someone whose legs and feet are proportionate. So I’m standing, because in my mind this makes things go faster, and pulling my clothes off at the rate of fricking Clark Kent. The jeans slide easily off of my legs but then stick when I get down to my LONG ass foot. The jeans are not made for these feet. I pull and pull, and I’m hopping backwards on my other foot as I pull. Unbeknownst to me, I was gaining ground as I hopped—leading to me hopping into the side of my therapy chair and going ass-over-teakettle over the arm of it. When the tangle of limbs and clothing and frustration and bemusement that was me landed on my rug, the jeans were still attached at the ankle. Because FEET. Size 11, y’all. 

Also, I collided with my socks on the way down and one of them was stuck to my face, somehow. 

#whathappensinmyofficestaysinmyoffice #notreallythough

******


10/20/2016

Yesterday I went to the bank. The light was golden, the trees were technicolor, and the air was crisp. All of this sensory input had a positive effect on my mood and outlook. And I was wearing these newish pants that I like. And the breeze was rippling through my hair, which I'd actually washed that day.

All of the sudden, I felt cool. Like a cool, empowered girl (woman?) walking out of the bank, her psuedo-trendy booties marking her progress on her journey back to her beige minivan. As I walked, another gentle wave of wind blowing back my tresses, I whipped my sunglasses off of my head to put them on my face...

...and stuck myself in my eye, hard, with one of the earpieces.

And that was the end of my 5 seconds of feeling cool.


#lizlemon

A day in the effing life

12/20/2016, 11:16 PM

Man, I know that some days are just like this, but shit, you guys. I’m spent.

I started the day hungry, because I had to do a fasting blood draw this morning. My doctors didn’t schedule the draw until 11 fricking o’clock, which meant two things: 1) I got hangry, and 2) my doctors hate me. I mostly stayed away from people, for the sake of humankind. It was the biggest relief to stuff a cold, stale PB & J into my mouth at 11:15. It honest-to-God was.  

I worked for a little bit, because sometimes I do that. Then I had a break between clients, and I decided to go to the effing mall. Again. I’ve already been there, oh, seven or so times so far this season, which is about seven times too many. But seriously, I needed to get my kids some bathrobes for Christmas, and I’m cutting things too close to the Amazon Prime deadline. My kids are NOT forgiving about late gifts, and mommy already messes enough shit up— I’m for damn sure giving them their damn bathrobes on mothafucking Christmas Eve. (Sorry for all of the cussing, Baby Jesus.)

After visiting EIGHT stores in search of aforementioned bathrobes, I found one for each kid, in two separate stores. Riding up the escalator of the second-to-last store, I had the realization that I would literally rather be counseling someone back from the brink of suicide than be doing what I was doing. I’m serious.

BTW, Evie’s robe is going to be like 3 sizes too big, but whatever, she’ll grow. She will have the damn thing ON CHRISTMAS and that’s what’s important, right?

Back to the office for an hour, to work with a client who is doing exceptionally well, and then to the gym. Those two hours of my day were glorious, golden. I moved right from a therapy flow to a solid workout and left the YMCA with the sheen of hard work and accomplishment on my body. (AKA, sweat. I was sweaty.)

The hubs had somewhere to be tonight, so it was just me and the kids. Arriving home all pumped from my good session and good workout, I offered to cook for them—I mean, we’re talking full-on “I will actually turn on the stove” cooking. They wanted Easy Mac. So they had watery noodles with cheese powder out of a plastic cup and I had some leftovers that I found in the fridge. (Now accepting nominations for Mom of the Year.)

After supper Evie stood up to clear her plate. Halfway to the kitchen counter, she froze. And then all Hell broke loose. A loud, ungodly sound came out of her…something I can only describe as “rage sobbing,” because she was screaming but tears were coming out of her eyes. And it was appalling because it came out of nowhere—like zero to “I’m losing my shit” in a second flat. I sat frozen at the table, spoonful of soup halfway to my mouth, not knowing what the hell was going on.  “I STEPPED IN TEDDY’S PUKE! AAAHHHH IT’S SO GROSS, I STEPPED IN IT, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?”

Yeah, she stepped in cat vomit. Our cat Teddy is a fatty and regularly eats so much that he throws up.

I attempted to be soothing, telling Evie that it was okay, we could just wash her foot off and I’d clean up the floor.

“I CAN’T WALK! I CAN’T WALK!”  Rage sobbing. Mild hyperventilation. It was fantastic.

So, because my nine-year old daughter was rendered an invalid via cat puke, I grabbed her under the armpits and manually hauled her towards the bathroom. She helped me out by hopping lightly on her unsullied foot as I pulled her up the stairs. Once we got her feet taken care of, the rage sobs ceased almost as abruptly as they’d begun. She, miraculously, could walk again. All was quiet on the Western front.

Then Jonah got up from the table and walked right through the vomit. And he yelled at me. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME, MOMMY?”

Because clearly, my son needs to be given a directive to NOT walk through cat vomit.

We got him cleaned up. Then I cleaned up the vomit on the floor, so that we could all stop walking through it and raging.

A few minutes after the vomit had left the building, the kids approached me, together, all clean feet and calm faces. They sweetly asked if we could go to Barnes and Noble. Their request was just too pure, too good. I knew they were in cahoots, had cooked up some kind of evil plan while they were tending to their puke feet.

The thing is that I really like Barnes and Noble. I like books, a lot. I like coffee almost as much as I like books. I like the smell of books and coffee mixed together. So I said yes. Consequences be damned.

As it turns out, while they were somewhat interested in books, what they really wanted was to look at Pokemon cards. Barnes and Noble was a bust on Pokemon cards, having no packs available under $6, which was Jonah’s entire life savings. (By the way, I don’t do buying Pokemon cards. I do buying books. The kids know this about me and thus brought their own money. Smart kids.) Because they’d both behaved exceptionally well at Barnes and Noble, we stopped at Target to look at Pokemon there. They both found what they wanted at Target, they bought their cards, we left.

At this point I was feeling like a smooth operator. Everyone was content, and we were going to get home at a good time. The steaming cup of tea and the episode of the West Wing that I was about to enjoy was in my mind's eye, just moments away from becoming a reality. 

Then Jonah opened his pack of cards and WAS NOT HAPPY with the Pokemon that he got. Meanwhile Evie had ended up with not one but TWO of the cards he wanted, which she hastened to gloat about. Jonah started hitting Evie in the face with his stocking cap, repeatedly. This just made Evie laugh, and so Jonah had progressed to slapping her with his hand. “I had to, Mommy,” he explained. Of course you did, son. Of course you did.

Bedtime took freaking forever, because they needed baths, and they dawdled around, and by this point I was all unfocused because I realized that I needed to have their teacher’s Christmas gifts ready by tonight, and also I needed to have their Christmas program outfits laid out tonight so they are ready for tomorrow, and also, the Christmas cards haven’t been sent and presents need to be wrapped and fudge needs to be made and Oreos need to be dipped and a grocery list needs to be crafted. Tis the season to have a mental breakdown, y’all.

I did the teacher gifts and the Christmas cards. The rest can fricking wait. Mommy needs a hot shower, and maybe a sedative.

How was your December 20^th, 2016, friends?

Dear Grieving Person: I STILL see you (Part 2 of a Grief series)

Dear Grieving Person—

I still see you.

I know you’re still reeling.

It’s been awhile since your loss. A couple of weeks, or a couple of months. Maybe even a couple of years. Grief moves along at a different pace for everyone.

But the rest of the world moves on at a predictable pace. The casseroles have stopped being delivered to your home. That overabundance of flowers? They’re long wilted and gone, out with the trash. You’re not sure what to do with all of the empty vases. People no longer look at you with those big, puppy dog eyes, pity oozing out of their faces. In some ways, it’s a relief that people are treating you somewhat normally now. In other ways, not so much. Your boss is less and less forgiving when it comes to your less-than-optimal work performance. Your friends and family, who at first were so patient, so understanding, now sigh and withdraw when they notice that you look sad—again. Still.

See, everyone else’s world kept turning. Everyone else’s lives are much as they were before your loss. And they all want you to go at their pace, to move on in accordance with their timetable. They look at your mopey countenance and they think, “How long is she going to stay like that?”  

Non-grievers don’t get it. They don’t get that your world, the world as you know it, has stopped, has stalled out on its axis. They don’t get that there is a hole in your life where there once was someone or something incredibly vibrant, meaningful. Something that was a part of you is gone from you, forever. Your world doesn’t know how to spin, hasn’t learned how to keep turning with a hole in it.

You have good days here and there. Maybe for you that means getting through supper without crying or getting through the day without listening to that voicemail that you can’t bring yourself to delete. Maybe it means being able to go more than five minutes at a time between mental snapshots of your lost beloved’s face, their smile, their laugh. Maybe on a good day, you laugh a little, or find yourself so caught up in the present that you forget to be sad.

But still, every morning when you wake up, it’s the same: a few seconds of peaceful unawareness, and then you remember. Awareness comes crashing in and pain descends over you like a pea-soup fog. Every morning is still like that. Every morning, you remember your loss and feel it profoundly. Some days, you shake it off, it doesn’t stay in your mind or keep your head on the pillow. Other days, the pain is worse than ever, and you wonder how you’ll ever bounce back from this.

Even though it’s been awhile now, sometimes your grief is stronger than it was at the beginning, because the hole in your life is more palpable now. You’re running into moments that are entirely alien.  Something funny happens to you, and you want to share it with your person….and then you realize that you can’t. Their name pops up in your calendar, your gift list, your phone, social media, but they’re not in your life anymore. Their chair at the table is vacant. A constant in your life is missing. Your life is different, and though you’re working hard to re-equilibrate, you haven’t yet found your new normal. And the finding of it is exhausting.

The sharp pains of loss come upon you unexpectedly, like cat burglars on a quiet street. They sneak up, steal your attention and your motivation. They steal your sparkle. Sometimes they steal your breath, knock the wind right out of you. This is frustrating, because so many times, you’re unprepared, you can’t see it coming. You wish you could see it coming. But then, a part of you is glad that you can’t. A part of you is grateful for moments of blind optimism.

I still see you, griever.

You will find your way through this. A new normal is coming. Someday, this will all be easier to carry. Someday.

But for today: just grieve.
*****

To read Part One in the Dear Grieving Person series, click here. 

On going to the butt doctor

12/8/2016

I went to the GI doctor today. I do this once a year.

For the past several years, I’ve had nothing to report. All was well on the Crohn’s disease front. Lately, though, I’ve been having a little trouble again. Which sucks to have to say out loud, because I don’t want to have Crohn’s disease and fare better when I can forget that I do.  

But what super sucks, even more than having the disease itself, is having to admit to my doctor that I’m struggling. Why, you ask?

Because the GI doctor is the butt doctor, that’s why.

This visit started out much like they all do: First, a nurse came to get me. I got weighed, temperatured, pulsed, med checked, questioned. And blood pressured.

“One hundred and twenty-three over sixty-five,” the nurse said, as she removed the cuff from my arm. She looked at my chart. “That’s on the high side for you, isn’t it?”

It was. My BP runs on the lower end of things, usually about 100/60.

I looked up at her. “Yeah. Probably because I was greeted with that when I walked in.”

Does anyone else think it's weird that the reflex hammer is sitting right there next to the lube? It gives the impression that they somehow go together. Which leads to a mental image I recommend not giving in to. 

“You think maybe you guys could work on your exam room ambiance a little bit?” I was (mostly) joking, but why would any place of business use a bottle of lube as décor? The nurse said the bottles were left out like that in every room, just sitting there on the counter. Ready for action. A statement piece, really, only these bottles of EZ Lubricating Jelly say “Oh, aren’t you in for a treat today?!"

But the laughter and joking around between me and my nurse was all a distraction, a cover for the serious business at hand. We both knew the truth: a rectal exam was impending. (Cue that music that they play on The Price is Right when contestants lose. It’s like a sad trombone but with more flair.)

Now I don’t know about you guys, but I’m kind of sensitive about my ass. Not my actual derriere, the muscle part—I’m pretty whatever about that. I try to look back at it at least once a month, just to ensure that it’s still there. No, I’m talking about my inner ass. Shouldn’t your inner ass be some kind of temple, really? I know I prefer not to have random people poking around in mine. Which is unfortunate for someone with inflammatory bowel disease, because let me tell you, all of the medical people want a piece of that. They all want to talk about it, examine it. Take it to dinner, maybe. It’s All Ass, All The Time when I go to GI Specialities in Lincoln. (I invite any GI-focused practice to borrow "All Ass, All the Time" as a tagline. Copyright pending.)

I learned about the ass fixation of this place the hard way. When I was twenty-two and quite sick, I had my first visit to GI Specialties. My new doctor—youngish, not bad-looking in a Dracula kind of way-- asked me many, many questions about the state of my behind. And then the ultimate, the question that there was no way I could have prepared myself for: “And, to be clear, you’re not having anal sex?”  Best part: my mom was in the room with me. I turned every shade of red and shook my head. “Okay, that’s good,” he replied. “That’s not something you’re ever going to be able to do, just so you know.” I was fine with that. My mom? Equally fine with that.

So at this recent visit, my nurse practitioner, Rebecca, comes in, and predictably, we talk about my butt for awhile. Then we talk about poop. Because if there’s one thing that GI doctors like to talk about more than butts, it’s bowel movements. Honesty, my life has been altogether too shit-centric for years—first it was mine, but then I got that under control. Then I had kids, and anyone with kids knows that at least half of parenting is cleaning up poop.

But I digress. Let’s get back to talking about butts.

I halfheartedly tried to talk Rebecca out of the butt exam. I mean, aren’t there better ways to get to know each other?

I’m not sure I’d ever seen Rebecca for a visit before. Since I only go once a year, and the office randomly assigns me to whichever APRN is available when my appointment is due, I’ve seen many. But I’ll remember Rebecca now. I liked her a lot. She was funny and kind and she seemed like someone I’d enjoy having a couple of drinks with. Also, she had fantastic hair. I found myself wishing that she didn’t have to look at my butt, which I was convinced would unnecessarily destroy any positive vibes she was feeling back towards me. My butt isn’t pretty. I tried to tell her this.

But she persisted. And I, knowing the fight was pointless, dropped my drawers and gritted my teeth.

It was quick, relatively painless. Rebecca is a professional, let me tell you. At the end, she told me that my ass wasn’t even in the Top Five worse asses she’s ever seen, which was reassuring. 

I got a prescription for a new butt medicine, got commended on already having my flu shot for the year (Gold Star!), and then I was sent toddling on my way.

That’s what it’s like to go to the butt doctor.

Now you all know. 

The face of high-functioning depression

So I struggle with depression. And I’m a therapist.

This whole arrangement is craptastic.

I help people with depression. It’s sort of (not sort of—it really is) my job. As in, people pay me actual money to help them claw their way out of this stuff.  So, it's pretty demoralizing to be grappling with one of the things that I went to school for umpteen years to learn how to treat. It feels shameful. It feels like I’m not supposed to have these kinds of difficulties, because I’m supposed to have this stuff all figured out.

Ha. As if being a therapist somehow makes me immune to human difficulties.  (Spoiler alert, therapists-in-training: You’re still going to be messed up when you’re done with school. Just sayin’.)

So I’m not a superhuman. I can accept that. And my training didn’t save me from this bullshit. I can (mostly) accept that, too. What would be unacceptable to me would be not using the insight I have gained from this bleak period to maybe help someone else. Possibly, by virtue of being trained as a therapist and HIGHLY experienced as a depressed person, I can shed some light on the subject for y’all. Here goes:

Depression isn’t all sadness and crying and moping and couch potato-ing, even your mental image of “depression” might look sort of like that.  True, sometimes depression looks like this:

But sometimes, it looks like this:

I hope you guys like my face in that top one. Also, my hair.
(Long story. Actually short story: the Mai Tais did it.)

Yeah! That cheerful, silly face is the face of depression, kids! These pictures were taken at the height of my misery. Many of us who are depressed are quite good at masking it. Especially those of us who have high-functioning depression.

What’s high-functioning depression? It’s the kind of depression that isn’t completely disabling—which means I can work and parent and play volleyball and other life things— but the tasks often feel harder, sometimes take longer, and they wear me out more than usual. I've had bouts of this stuff since college-- it comes and goes in waves, some keeping me underwater longer than others. The current wave has had a wicked undertow. 

For me being depressed is a lot about heaviness. Everyday tasks can seem impossible. For example, I’m someone who feels at home in the kitchen. Baked goods= love, in my book. In September, I had a friend who had a baby, and what better way to say “I’m happy for you” than chocolate revel bars?

These things are delicious. I’ve made them a million times before. Yet, making them this time was so hard. The reaching down into a lower cupboard for the mixing bowls, the measurement of dry goods, the having to go to the basement pantry to retrieve a bag of chocolate chips…every step took monumental effort. And this is so not me. On a non-depressed Saturday afternoon at home, I can bake two or three things, and maybe also rearrange the Tupperware cabinet and do some gardening and go on a 3-mile walk, and then whip up supper, and it’s no big deal. I like being energetic. I like getting things done. So this feeling that my body is perpetually moving through water? No Bueno. 

Even worse than the heaviness, though, is the thought parade….oh, the thought parade. If you’ve ever had depression, you know what I’m talking about. This is a rather soul-sucking phenomenon: when my brain decides to say really cruel things to me in a really convincing way. It’s like having Cersei Lannister living in my head. After that, my brain takes me down the Memory Lane of Failure. (With my clients, I call this part The Shitshow.) A sampling of Cersei + The Shitshow: You’re worthless. You’re never going to get your life together. You fail at everything you do. And the worst one, the absolute nail in the coffin: You are a terrible mother. And then I relive all of the moments that I have failed, all the ways I don’t have my life together, and all of the times I was a less-than-stellar parent. This is the part that makes me want to stay in bed and stare at the wall for hours at a time.

Art by Claire Jarvis

Here’s a weird thing I’ve noticed about me and depression, though— I’m a pendulum swinger. And what I mean by this is: depression will say to me you’re worthless and everyone hates you. And, in trying to shake this off, I’ll seek out my friends. Put on some pretty clothes and red lipstick, plaster on my most winning smile, and gravitate to wherever the fun is happening. Swing the pendulum. Try to find evidence that I am indeed worthwhile and that people don’t hate having me around. Also, alcohol provides a temporary reprieve from the crippling Cersei thoughts. And then they come back, ten-fold, the next day—because that’s how alcohol works. It depresses you the next day. #themoreyouknow  #friendlyneighborhoodpsychologist

Now, let me issue the caveat that I enjoy going out with friends when not depressed. That’s just me—I like people, and I like laughing—and, for the record, I like singing and dancing and not taking life very seriously sometimes. But when depressed, these times out of the house feel like lifelines in a way that they probably shouldn’t.  

Because of my pendulum-swinging means of trying to cope, it isn’t always obvious to myself (and others) that I even am depressed. That’s the thing: depression can be a sneaky, insidious little beast. It comes for me in camouflage, lays in wait, sniping, throwing grenades—full on guerrilla warfare—and I can’t see it until it’s bad.

It doesn’t help that I’m pretty good at denial and avoidance, i.e., “I’m not depressed, nosiree, I just suddenly hate myself and feel like my life is going down the shitter.” I either couldn’t or wouldn’t look at the evidence: I sucked way more than usual at making decisions—and this is bad, because I always suck at decisions. I hated all of the music that I usually love. Food sounded gross and made my stomach hurt, so I didn’t eat much. I couldn’t fall asleep at night. (Very uncharacteristic. I usually sleep like a boss.) If a client reported these experiences to me, I’d know right away what was going on. But despite the astounding, staggering amount of evidence of depression, I couldn’t see it. Its camouflage was too good, too complete. It blended in with the colors of my life, and I just assumed that the lies of depression were true. (i.e., I really was a terrible person, and people really did hate me, etc.).

Here's the thought that blew my depression’s cover:

“Wouldn’t it be easier on everyone if you weren’t here?”

Whoa. I’d never had that kind of thought before. 

Thankfully, I stopped and self-reflected. For one blessed moment, my internal voice had my back, and she said, “Hold up, sister. What did you just say to yourself?”

Then I knew what was going on. And to therapy I went and to the doctor I went and to the gym I went. Yep, the gym. Because honestly, I’ve never found anything as effective for my own personal mood management as good old fashioned gym torment. 

I’m slowly getting better. I wish recovery was as easy as a few grueling hours at the YMCA or a few weeks of therapy or a few months’ worth of pills. It’s not, though. Healing from depression is like slogging through a field of deep mud. One foot held up and striving forward, one foot sinking down into the goo. Repeat, repeat, repeat. 

So I cope. I read a lot. I do the gym thing. I go on walks. I watch The Office and The West Wing, two shows that comfort me. I attempt to be emotionally present with friends and family. I try to remember that the Cersei Shitshow thought parade isn’t the truth, even though it feels like The Truth when it’s happening, but rather, that these thoughts are depression being a little bitch.

And I write like I need it to survive. This too is a coping skill. When I write I attempt to understand myself, to be understood by others. It’s mightily gratifying to have some thoughts out of my head and on paper instead of rattling around on the inside. If I get to make myself or someone else laugh, that’s a bonus.

I want y'all to know: I’ll get through this. I already am. And I always have. 

I’ll keep putting one muddy foot in front of the other until the ground underneath me dries up again. And it will. It always has. 

And for my functionally depressed comrades-in-arms out there: I’m with you. I’m here for you. We’re all gonna make it. Take care of yourselves, do all the things that help, and the ground will dry. Just you wait. 

***

Author's note: Suicidal thoughts are serious and should be treated as such. If you're having thoughts of ending your life, get yourself to help. Call a parent. Text a friend. 
Call this hotline: 1--800-273-8255. Go to this website: The Hopeline.
Find a therapist. 

You matter. Trust me. 

Sandwiches

….and today, a vast departure from the blog norm.

I’ve been doing creative writing in my spare time. I tell people that I’m doing this, but I hesitate to share much of anything. It feels a little too personal. Which is messed up, if you think about it—I’ll tell humiliating real-life stories about fruit fly infestations and mice in my kitchen, etc., but I won’t share stuff that I made up? Weird.

In an effort to battle my own hypocrisy, here’s something from the creative writing realm.

This is written from the perspective of someone who has lost someone dear to them.

Sandwiches

You kept finishing my sandwiches

Even though I’d intended to finish them myself

And the fact that this didn’t anger me, but rather, made me smile

Was how I knew I liked you

You and your quick wit

The only wit that has ever kept up with mine

You and your pure heart

Which you said had been broken and then healed

You said it was looking for home

And found it in me, accidentally

That was when I knew I loved you

The last time I saw you

You couldn’t look me in the eye

You didn’t even look at my face

Would it have been like looking at the sun?
Or would it have been like looking at a ghost

At the specter of the life we almost had

No matter, really

Nothing changes

The leaves have fallen

They are strewn about the top of our gilded table

And it’s cold and dreary

The little black bugs are dead now

Unable to hurt us anymore

Miraculously the world still spins

But nothing changes

I dreamt last night that you were there

I was sitting on a picnic table under a tree

Waiting for you

And you rode up on a horse

But then I knew I was dreaming

Because you’re afraid of horses

Like me

You’re gone now

An ocean away, more than that

But the memory of you

The last time you looked at me

Really looked at me

You were walking away, but you turned back

The sun lit your face

And you smiled

A heartbreaking smile

It was for me then

And it’s still mine now

I get to keep it

I get to carefully wrap your bittersweet smile in soft blankets

And hold it gently

I’ll tuck it away

In the safest corner of my heart

I hope that you’re well

No, I hope that you’re whole

Wherever you are, wherever you go

I hope you find home

As for me, I’m finishing my own sandwiches now

Dr. Bitz and The Fruit Fly Mystery: A tale of suspense, shame, and heroism

First of all, I’d just like to say to my office mates: I am so, so sorry.

*ahem* (That was me, clearing my throat as I steel myself to tell this story. It’s so bad that I don’t know if I should put it on the interwebs. My strong need to self-deprecate, however, has won the day.) 

We’ve had a bit of a fruit fly problem in our office suite at work these past few months. It’s arguably been the worst back in my office—or at least, I was the one bitching the most about it. On any given day there were at least one or two of the little buggers flying in my face, or worse, in my clients’ faces. It’s been not only annoying, but downright embarrassing, to have to apologize to my clients about this. “Oh, I’m so sorry…I’m apparently a filthy person. My bad.”

I’ve been on an investigative mission to find the source of these effing pests. Let’s call it Operation: Find the Funk. Granted, it’s been slow going. Probably because this operation mostly involves me sitting in my chair, scratching my head, and wondering what’s going on, more than me actually doing anything. Also, complaining to my office mate Megan is an important part of this operation.

A couple of times, I’ve gotten up to check some places. My initial suspicions centered on my purse. Let me tell you about me and purses: I choose to carry one big enough to hold all of these items on any given workday: my big fat wallet, a water bottle, a bag of toiletries, my phone, my Nook, my writing notebook, some files, my laptop and the charger, my lunch, and then whatever other random stuff I need to be carrying around that day. Sometimes an extra pair of shoes goes in there. Also, another small bag (for shopping trips) must be able to fit within the larger purse-- because who could lug that big one into a store, if they needed to shop?

As you’ve probably figured out, the handbags I choose are voluminous and accommodating—too accommodating, really, because I have no respect for them. I’m downright abusive. They get all banged up, slammed around. Small items, once placed in them, are gone forever—my purse is the Bermuda Triangle of children’s toys. And food gets spilled in pretty much every bag I've ever owned. One time I somehow dropped an entire buffalo chicken wing into a purse, and rather than getting mad I was all like “yep, that seems about right.”

That being said, having the thought that perhaps I had put a banana or an apple in my purse and forgotten about it indefinitely, hence generating lots of fruit flies, was completely legitimate. (Portable fruit flies! Bonus!)  Note: I have done this many times before. Purses have been tossed straight into the trash due to finding black sludge at the bottom of it that was once a banana.

But I checked my purse, and I checked it again and again: no decayed fruit. I even bought a new purse, thinking maybe there were fruit remnants from some past forgotten fruit incident in the old one--- like maybe old stank fruit juice was soaked into the liner or something and the fruit flies were living there. But no—even with the new, huge handbag in tow, the fruit flies in my office persisted.

I checked under the couch, my chair, and under my bookcases, just in case an apple or orange had gone rogue and rolled under there. Nope. I take the trash out regularly, so I knew the trash wasn’t the culprit.

Eventually I just gave up and accepted my fate as Our Lady of Flies—like a patron saint for household pests. I figured there was a rotting piece of fruit somewhere else in the office suite that none of us had noticed yet.

And then today happened.

Today I opened my food drawer. Yeah, I’ve got an entire drawer in my office dedicated to random food. It’s mostly chocolate, but also a couple of packages of Ramen (for super emergency “I forgot my lunch” days), an almost-finished bag of Cheetos, gum, other random stuff I’ve acquired as gifts, including a big bottle of Fireball (also only for super emergencies, mostly)…and one, super old, long-forgotten about cup of applesauce. I’ve literally had that cup of applesauce since internship, because I remember bringing it from my old office at Creighton to my current office.  In 2012. Whoops.

You might see where this is going.

Somehow…at some point…the foil cover of the applesauce was punctured. Guess what happened?

Spoiler alert: Fruit flies happened.

I have no idea when this started or how long it has been going on. (cue intense shame)

Oh my gosh, you guys…it was so gross. Have you ever seen the little cocoon shells that fruit flies hatch out of? Neither had I, until today. And boy, did I see them, all transparent and crusty, covering at least a third of the area of the applesauce lid. Cocoon on top of cocoon on top of cocoon. A pile of used tiny worm incubators. *shudder*

I was possibly more bothered by this than the average bear would be. Ask my mom: I have indoor worm issues. Outdoor worms: whatever, do your thing, you are good for fishing and keeping my soil fertile, so thanks. But as for you indoor worms: you have no place in my life. In high school, I went on a cleaning rampage in our family’s entire kitchen on several different occasions, each time tossing almost all of the dry goods, because of a weevil infestation. (Or at least what I perceived to be an infestation.) I HATE indoor worms. I have a VENDETTA against indoor worms. There is nothing about a worm that belongs indoors.

So you can imagine my horror at realizing that I had been the cause of Indoor Wormageddon/ Fruit Fly Hell.

At least I know how to handle this shit. My high school anti-worm agenda prepared me well.

Out went the applesauce. Out went all the food. Anything that was not less than a week old: out, out, out.

In came the dustbuster. I sucked up the leftover worm cocoon casings. And then, because I had a couple of last-minute cancellations today, I spent the rest of the afternoon zapping the fruit flies up in the dustbuster while writing assessment reports. It was kind of fun. I felt like a superhero. They call me Dr. Dustbuster—Warrior Psychologist.

So, Operation Find the Funk draws to an end. My dignity dies with it.  (That’s so not true, by the way. I ran plum out of dignity a long, long time ago. Reference my previous posts on chasing mice while naked and sucking laundry detergent out of a straw, if you have questions as to the whereabouts of my dignity.)

Now that the story is out, I would be remiss to not offer one more sincere apology to my office mates, the distinguished Drs. Prendes-Lintel, Watson, Furr, and Davis. You guys, I’m sorry that I accidentally made our office gross. Also, let’s not tell the landlord.

One last time

If you knew you were doing a thing for the last time, would you do it differently?

I’ve been sitting around thinking about this a lot lately. Or standing around. Because, you know, shower thoughts.

Seriously, though: If you somehow knew that whatever you were doing was the last time you were going to do it…how would it be? How would you be?

It’s kind of freeing to know when you’re right in the middle of a last time. Graduation. A farewell bash. The last day at a job you’d planned to leave. The final day of vacation. The break-up. The watching your friend’s moving van drive away, with her in it. The doing one last thing with your cherished mentor, who you’ve found out is leaving. (Like Hamilton in One Last Time. Sorry, the nod had to happen.) It’s not like this stuff isn’t hard and sad sometimes, but at least you know what’s going on. Hopefully you’re being present and really taking in what you need to take in, saying the things you want to say to people you won’t see again, making your peace with the loose ends as well as you can.  

The last night my grad school friends and I were all together: We were eating supper at a local restaurant, and we all knew what it was…and there was this moment that we all went silent and just looked at each other, tears in our eyes (or running down our faces). That night is inked into my memory, like a tattoo that makes me sad to look at, but that I’m proud that I got. I’m glad I knew it was our last night together. I’m grateful we had that chance to say goodbye, painful as it was.

I’ve had some other Last Time memories tattooed onto me. Experiences seared into my very being, right as they were happening.

But sometimes you don’t know they’re coming. You’re doing something that you’ll never do again, and you never even knew it.  The tattoo doesn’t happen in the moment: it comes later.

I’ve pondered on simple lasts that could happen, things that don’t mean a whole lot. Like, if today was for some reason the very last day I could ever eat Rocky Road ice cream, would I eat it differently? Would I slow down, really savor every nut, every swirl of marshmallow? I don’t know. I like Rocky Road, but there there’d still be Mint Chip and Butter Brickle and Zesto Peanut Butter Cup Mix-Ins….I mean,  I’m pretty sure I’d be okay just tearing through my last bowl of Rocky Road, business as usual. (I eat ice cream Like. A. Boss.)

And for years and years I was a designated butt wiper, and then one day, when Jonah finally, at age six, decided enough was enough, I was butt-wiper no more. Eight solid years of cleaning other people’s assholes came to a screeching halt. I was good with that. No tattoo needed on that one.

Some Last Times have been and would be a lot harder, though. I spend more time thinking about these things. Of course. Because it’s me and my head’s all like “Buzzkill, buzzkill, buzzkill” all the time.

What if tonight was the last night that one of my kiddos asked me to come lay with them? I get asked by one or the other of them almost every night. To be honest, I’m usually annoyed—it’s inevitably already past when they were supposed to be asleep, I’m tired, they’re tired, and I just want to sit and drink a cup of hot tea and space out. And I also know that asking me to lay with them is the crème de la crème of their sophisticated arsenal of Bedtime Stall Tactics. But beyond the ulterior motives, I think they still crave the warmth and solidity of me beside them, that this makes them feel safer and calmer. And I like the feeling of them beside me, too—the feeling of unconditional love, oozing out of these squirmy, noncompliant and precious little people. Last night I laid with Jonah for a little bit…and I wondered: what if tonight is the last time I do this? Would I stay longer? Would I let myself fall asleep, with my nose buried into his curls? I didn’t. But I wonder.

Evie used to call eyelashes “eyeflashes.” And then one day she started saying the correct word. And I wish she would just say eyeflashes in her sweet singsong voice again, because I wasn’t ready for her to be done with this.  If I’d have known the last day of this was the last day of this, I’d have recorded it. So I could watch it again and again.

I work in a field that involves a lot of last times. Transition is central to being a therapist. I meet someone, that someone shares the most painful or shameful or scary things about their lives with me, we develop a trusting bond, and then the client leaves and I never see them again. Repeat: I never see them again. (Usually.) It’s a super weird thing, if you think about it.  Ideally, I know my clients are leaving. Maybe they’ve gotten better (*fist pump!*) and are ready to stop coming to therapy, and so we plan for that and do a final session together to say goodbye. Maybe they’re moving away—and again, we know that’s coming and plan for a goodbye session. But sometimes, people just stop coming...they’re just gone. Sometimes even people I’d been seeing for awhile. I knew them intimately, and then poof, they’re gone, like they never existed. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that this sometimes sucks. If I’d known that the last time I saw them was going to be the last time I EVER saw them, EVER…there were things I might have said to try to be a helper, one last time.

I’m pretty sure the Big Guy upstairs is laughing at me. I built this woman to have a love of laughter, and to be absolutely abysmal at transition…and so what does she do with her life? She becomes a therapist. Hardy har har, Allison. You are cheap entertainment.

Indeed.

One workaround to all of this painful wonder, all of this “oh hell, what if everything is different tomorrow?” is to accept that tomorrow is inevitably going to be different than today was. It just will be. I don’t know in what ways, but it will be. I might do something for a last time and not know it.  So I should probably do that unrealistic shit that song lyricists and overly optimistic people say to do: Walk through every day like it’s your last. Live like you’re dying. Treat today like it’s the most important day of your life. Etc.

Ugh. That shit is hard, though…am I right? If today was really the last day of my life, would I go to work? Would I clean the toilet? No and no. Yet I have to do that stuff. (Theoretically. If you snuck a peek at my toilets right now, you’d think that maybe I really am living each day like my last. YOLO.)

Damnit, I don’t know if there’s a great resolve to this post. I really don’t. Which ironically fricking fits—sometimes endings are hard and unknown and I don’t know how to do them right. Oh jeez.

Even acknowledging that irony...I still crave the neat ending. I wish for a way to tie this all up. It'd also be neat if I had all of the answers to how to do life, including how to really cherish experiences Just Because or Just In Case.

Hmph.

Okay. Let’s do for myself what I would try to get my clients to do for themselves. One heaping dose of self-compassion and a realism chaser, coming up: It’s probably okay that I don’t have all the answers. Because I can’t. Because I’m human and inherently messy and rough around the edges.

Oh snap. I found my resolve after all.

             

             

             

             

              

Sucking at life...and laundry

Guys, I really want to write something new and funny. Like, I really really want to. For me and for you. This election cycle and October and just everything feels full of doom and gloom, and dagnabit, I'd like to bring us all a little joy!

Yet it seems that I'm encountering sort of a humor constipation these past two weeks. When I look inward for levity, past or present...I draw a blank. I assume this is a temporary thing. It's got to be.

In the meanwhile, an old story. This happened to me in 2011, during another rough patch in my life, another time I was grieving and floundering-- much like me currently. I've already blogged this story once, in a past blog life, but whatever, I'm re-using, AKA what is now known as "repurposing."  "Repurposing" makes me feel like a cool hipster. Next thing you know, I'll be turning my worn out jeans into aprons and headbands and shit and overusing the word "rad." (No, actually. That's not going to happen.)

****

5/25/2011

In 1969, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross proposed a five-pronged model of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Scholars have argued to the moon and back about whether her model is “scientific” and “empirically validatable,” and all of these things that scholars care about. Basically, what they want to know is: does her model actually fit the typical grieving process? Forty-two years later, the verdict is still out on that one.

In spite of this, the verdict is in regarding the first four of MY stages of grief: 1) denial, 2) over-reliance on psychologically numbing agents and behaviors (this is the drinking stage, folks), 3) sublimation, 4) CRANKY, and 5) ?  

Tonight I’d like to talk about stage four, CRANKY, because that’s where I am tonight. I’m actually so cranky that I thought I was too cranky to blog, and wasn’t going to. I was going to put up my feet, continue on in my sixth reread of the Harry Potter series (an attempt at a lateral move to numbing, see grief step 2), and go to sleep early. I know going to bed would be a good choice for me, because part of the reason I’m cranky is because I’m tired. Tired+ me= no good, for anyone, least of all me. Or maybe least of all you, if you're lucky enough to get to hang out with me when I'm tired. You tell me. 

Yet as I prepared to leave my world for Hogwarts, I saw the jeans strewn across my bed and sighed— they’re physically dirty and also starting to have that “reworn one too many times” funk about them. I need them for tomorrow, and there’s no way I could possibly wear them again without offending someone...like myself. Being able to smell yourself is almost never a good thing. So I hefted my damn jeans and my damn dress pants and some damn shirts downstairs to throw in the damn laundry.

I put all of that crap in the washer and dumped in the detergent. Now, Jeb and I got ourselves this fancy new-fangled HE Washer & Dryer set last year. The washer has very specific places to deposit each washer agent—the detergent goes HERE and only here, the softener goes HERE, etc. Well, I’ll be damned if I didn’t put the detergent in the fabric softener hole. SHIT. The other fun thing is that there is no way to dump the liquid back out; the liquid holder is attached to the washer.

To recap: I was already super bitchy, and now I’d irreversibly dumped the wrong fluid into the wrong damn hole (shame on you if you had a dirty thought after reading that line). 

I considered putting the softener into the detergent hole and starting the load up anyway, just to “see what happens.” I considered yelling at Jeb and getting him to fix this issue for me. I considered wiping the detergent out of the fabric softener hole with a cloth and trying again-- but alas, we were down to our last "serving" of detergent, and those damn jeans need to be clean tonight, son!

What to do, what to do?

I'm not sure what made it happen: divine gift, desperation, whatever-- but as I stood there, surveying my wrong-hole debacle, I got a flash of memory from my undergrad freshman biology lab: the time we had to breathe through straws to inflate a rat’s lungs. Second flash of inspiration was the bendy straws that we keep in our kitchen to populate Evie’s spill-proof cups. Eureka!

So how did I spend the next five minutes of my night? Sucking laundry detergent out of the fabric softener hole and spitting it, by blowing it back out of the straw, into the right hole. (I feel that by doing this I may have somehow bastardized my fancy washing machine.)  It was all going so well-- until one overzealous pull left me with a small mouthful of Tide. I rinsed thoroughly afterwards, but I still feel like I could open my mouth and spurt soap bubbles on demand. 

I wish I could end this story with saying “And then the whole thing was so humorous that I just started laughing and my bad mood was gone, just like that, POOF, up in smoke! Rainbows and unicorns everywhere!!!”

But nope, double nope. I’m still cranky as hell. I opened up my computer to try to write this post and it was running slow, and I seriously wanted to punch it. I might have thrown it a little jab.

And as I sit here writing in my foul, foul mood, I'm aware of how long the aftertaste of Tide lasts in one's mouth, which was information I could have gone my whole life without knowing. (Was it karma? Is this soapy mouth the Universe's way of punishing me for all of the cursing?)

Also, I'm now wearing my retainer. I wanted you to have the complete image of me just as I am now, with my soapy mouth, and my sulky face, and my big metal retainer in place. Pretty sure I've also got a little zit starting on my chin. I'm not sitting in front of a mirror right now (thank God) but I'm thinking the look is somewhere between deranged sixth grader and Cathy. I have never felt sexier.

And that, my friends, is all. I’m putting my cranky ass to bed. After Ron whisks Harry away from the Dursley’s in the flying car, mind you.

Revised 10/18/2016; Originally published 5/25/2011 here: http://ideclarelifecrisis.blogspot.com/2011/05/sucking-at-lifeand-laundry.html