I've put this off long enough.
The last couple of weeks, I have enjoyed the kind of sleep-through-the-night-for-the-most-part, wake up before the alarm with no desire to hit snooze, get stuff accomplished kind of energy I haven't known for almost two years. Was it taking my anti-depressant faithfully at the same time everyday with no gaps in between? Was it using my planner that brought structure and predictability to my days, seeming so powerful with its ability to box in my horror, contain my grief, give me purpose, and color the endless parade of days to come without my baby girl? I have no idea, but I felt safer and more hopeful than I had in quite some time.
Then something happened that wasn't on my agenda. Last Sunday evening I was notified that Cory's monument was finished, and ready to be shipped. There were pictures.
Just like the video footage of Cory and her little brother being silly that I stumbled across a couple of weeks ago, I was okay with my first look. I could look at it from a purely aesthetic viewpoint, and admire the beauty and craftsmanship. The designer had taken a straggly little sketch that a desperately heartbroken mother had made and turned it into something real- it was like having a passing thought turned into reality before your eyes...a sad sort of magic.
It was that second look. I looked at it again, and my heart began to beat so fast I thought it would just explode. End of the road...end of the road...my brain began chanting.
Because, truly, isn't the marker the culmination of the whole putting someone to rest process? I am a line-it-up sort of girl; order soothes my brain. When a loved one dies in our culture, a certain predictable giant machine of grieving takes over. The one responsible for the deceased sort of falls in line like stepping on a conveyor belt: choosing a funeral home, choosing an outfit for the deceased, planning the service, choosing the flowers, choosing the casket, choosing the flowers, how to feed the mourners. These tasks provide structure to the free fall of shock that the survivors are experiencing. Supporting family and friends nudge you gently whenever you stray too far from the path. But at no point, do you wonder what you are supposed to be doing in the ghastly situation...there is an unwritten checklist that demands your attention.
So the final item is then the marker. Some people find comfort in having it placed as soon as humanly possible and feel deep shame and embarrassment every day that their loved one goes with their resting space unmarked. Others put it off as long as they can because it seems so incredibly final.
Guess which group I'm in?
It took me a good long time to order the monument in the first place. I struggled against my own heart to buy Cory the last thing I would ever give her. I wanted her to have something unique, something that resembled her, something that said she was cherished, but at the same time, I was loathe to start the process. Who, exactly, is eager to buy their kid a headstone?
Since the monument was a custom piece, it took a long time to be finished, and that was fine with me. Once it had been ordered, I had fulfilled my obligation, and could walk away, continuing to deny her death in varying degrees to my heart's content. I never followed up. Not once. I sent the guy partial payment, and washed my hands of the whole miserable business.
So it is a little ironic, isn't it, that I would get the news that it was ready when I was feeling as healthy as someone walking around without their heart can possibly feel? It was as if two strong and angry hands reached out and pushed me from behind. I know, by the way, exactly what that feels like, and there was such a sense of deja vu... I nearly looked behind me for her father.
Don't get me wrong, the monument is absolutely beautiful and exactly what I asked for. But at the same time, I have never hated something so beautiful in all my life. And while I asked for it to be made, I never asked to need it.
The anger is back and just running rampant through my veins. It boils and sizzles. I smile on the outside and say all the socially acceptable things, but on the inside I am foul mouthed and beset with such a sense of jealous and envy, it's a wonder there's room for anything else in there. I am right back to "why do they get to keep their kids and I had to lose mine?".
In the midst of all these emotions, I remain conflicted about the monument itself. I profess to hate it, but can't stop myself from showing people who matter to me, slowly, one at a time.
What does the monument say?
Corinne Nicole Mansfield. February 23, 1993-July 5, 2012. Never, ever, ever, ever give up.
What does it say to my heart?
"Here lies Cory. She is dead."
Acceptance was gained some months ago...wasn't it? How can I be back at this waystop? Because that's what this is really about, isn't it? The monument is just the trigger. Cory is no more dead now than she was two months ago.
I don't want her to be dead. I'm not ready for her to be dead. It's not fair. I need her. I need her in my life. She didn't have enough time.
These are my thoughts running non-stop over the last week. Which one of them specifically mentions the monument?
Not one.
Grief is not a clean, linear journey, maybe that's another reason I suck at it so badly- my brain rebels this type of messy, haphazard denouement.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Cory's Perch
Shall we start with the good news?
In the last 30 days (with the help of my planner), I have cooked dinner 21 times! I know it may sound wholly ordinary, but if you'd seen me three months ago, six months ago, a year ago...you'd know what a huge accomplishment this is. I was at my kitchen counter when the boy came knocking to tell me of the accident, and being at that counter with my cutting board and knife in hand has been on par with hanging out at the scene- traumatic. I avoided- strenuously- the counter, the kitchen, cooking, and grocery shopping like the plague since the accident.
Also, I feel it worthy to mention that last night I shaved my legs and this morning, I sharpened my eye liner pencil. This is good news, not only because it means I am finally paying some attention to my personal presentation again, but in my experience, there are just some things that suicidal people don't do...shave their legs, apply makeup...floss.
I thought this morning when I took a selfie to paint from, that some of the very markers that showed Cory's progress with her symptoms can also be used to measure progress with grief. How so? Let me explain.
One, obviously, would be attention to personal appearance. Bathing isn't an issue once some of the depression subsides, but in the thick of it, you surely do feel as if you've been dipped in cement.
Another would be your ability to organize your immediate environment. When you start to care if your clean and dirty laundry mingle together on the un-vacuumed floor, you may have just turned a corner to better days.
Motivation is a huge marker. Truly depressed people aren't lazy, they just have no energy or desire...for anything, except maybe carbs. Again, I credit a great deal to my new found love of planners, and having done some tracking, I must say productivity doesn't lie. I used to be perfectly okay with laying in bed all day exchanging mournful glances with my dog. Now, I find myself having goals every day, even if they are small ones. In fact, they often have to be small- which is a great way to keep from feeling overwhelmed. That little hit of serotonin that you get when you've accomplished the tiniest task carries you over to the next, and the next. Before you know it, you may have actually cleaned your whole house.
I remember making Cory a "clean your room" checklist when she was just a little girl. I thought at the time that she was more cooperative because she liked the heft of that clipboard in her hands and the absolute delight of drawing giant pink checkmarks beside each task. While those things may be, I also know now how that small accommodation put some structure to a seemingly impossible task. She would run back to show me each step she'd completed...so proud of herself.
The final thing that fell into place for me was the ratio between Cory's mental health and her comfort being alone in different rooms of the house. When her symptoms were at their worst, I couldn't peel that baby off me if I tried. She was so frightened and anxious that she followed me into the bathroom when I had to pee. I sat on the commode; she sat on the edge of the tub. We had no secrets.
Her hallucinations were worse when she was alone, so it made sense that she didn't want to be left alone. Her sleeping arrangements progressed this way: my bed after her first hospitalization; the couch; the chaise; and her brother's top bunk to finally, finally (my big brave girl)was in her own bed upstairs on a separate floor. She was getting so much better! It was so wonderful to watch her gaining confidence. God, did I love that girl.
For me, my bed was my safe haven after the accident. I left it only to go to the cemetery, and eventually to go to work like a zombie, only to return directly and wearily to it, curling up like a beaten dog. I would not go in the kitchen or the dining room unless I absolutely had to. I would not spend one minute in the living room where we'd spent all of family time; it was too hard. I used the toilet when I had to, and I returned to my bed- sometimes watching tv, sometimes writing, sometimes just staring into space, unable to process the fact that Cory had been badly hurt, run over, broken, killed, and was not ever, ever coming back. That was a slow, slow lesson to learn.
When Tim and I redid the toy room into an art studio, I finally took willing steps out of my bedroom. Now there were two rooms of my house I didn't completely hate, and would frequent daily.
Ready for the latest addition? You'll never believe it!
It's the kitchen counter. The last place I ever wanted to be again has become a place to commune with my girl. We had so many happy times there, dancing and cooking, laughing and talking. Once I'd ripped my way through all the piled up junk mail (which by the way is absolutely OUTSTANDING as an anger management technique...for real, I ripped the shit out of some envelopes!), I could finally see the surface of the black bar stool we'd picked up at Hobby Lobby. There was only room for one stool in my small kitchen, and I'd told the kids they'd have to take turns. They did, of course, but let's tell the truth and shame the devil...that was Cory's stool and we all knew it. It was her little perch to be at my side every minute she could, feeling safe and talking to her best friend.
I think it was last week, that I finished cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, wiped the counter down, lit a candle, and went to fetch my planner. I sat down on her stool, so carefully, and opened my planner up, looking at what tomorrow might bring.
Tim called into the kitchen from the living room, "Honey? What are you doing in there?"
"Nothing." I responded, which couldn't be farther from the truth. I was not only chosing not to give up; I was hard at work, planning a life that my Cory-Girl can be proud of when she looks down on me. Three rooms now, baby girl. Never, ever, ever, ever give up.
In the last 30 days (with the help of my planner), I have cooked dinner 21 times! I know it may sound wholly ordinary, but if you'd seen me three months ago, six months ago, a year ago...you'd know what a huge accomplishment this is. I was at my kitchen counter when the boy came knocking to tell me of the accident, and being at that counter with my cutting board and knife in hand has been on par with hanging out at the scene- traumatic. I avoided- strenuously- the counter, the kitchen, cooking, and grocery shopping like the plague since the accident.
Also, I feel it worthy to mention that last night I shaved my legs and this morning, I sharpened my eye liner pencil. This is good news, not only because it means I am finally paying some attention to my personal presentation again, but in my experience, there are just some things that suicidal people don't do...shave their legs, apply makeup...floss.
I thought this morning when I took a selfie to paint from, that some of the very markers that showed Cory's progress with her symptoms can also be used to measure progress with grief. How so? Let me explain.
One, obviously, would be attention to personal appearance. Bathing isn't an issue once some of the depression subsides, but in the thick of it, you surely do feel as if you've been dipped in cement.
Another would be your ability to organize your immediate environment. When you start to care if your clean and dirty laundry mingle together on the un-vacuumed floor, you may have just turned a corner to better days.
Motivation is a huge marker. Truly depressed people aren't lazy, they just have no energy or desire...for anything, except maybe carbs. Again, I credit a great deal to my new found love of planners, and having done some tracking, I must say productivity doesn't lie. I used to be perfectly okay with laying in bed all day exchanging mournful glances with my dog. Now, I find myself having goals every day, even if they are small ones. In fact, they often have to be small- which is a great way to keep from feeling overwhelmed. That little hit of serotonin that you get when you've accomplished the tiniest task carries you over to the next, and the next. Before you know it, you may have actually cleaned your whole house.
I remember making Cory a "clean your room" checklist when she was just a little girl. I thought at the time that she was more cooperative because she liked the heft of that clipboard in her hands and the absolute delight of drawing giant pink checkmarks beside each task. While those things may be, I also know now how that small accommodation put some structure to a seemingly impossible task. She would run back to show me each step she'd completed...so proud of herself.
The final thing that fell into place for me was the ratio between Cory's mental health and her comfort being alone in different rooms of the house. When her symptoms were at their worst, I couldn't peel that baby off me if I tried. She was so frightened and anxious that she followed me into the bathroom when I had to pee. I sat on the commode; she sat on the edge of the tub. We had no secrets.
Her hallucinations were worse when she was alone, so it made sense that she didn't want to be left alone. Her sleeping arrangements progressed this way: my bed after her first hospitalization; the couch; the chaise; and her brother's top bunk to finally, finally (my big brave girl)was in her own bed upstairs on a separate floor. She was getting so much better! It was so wonderful to watch her gaining confidence. God, did I love that girl.
For me, my bed was my safe haven after the accident. I left it only to go to the cemetery, and eventually to go to work like a zombie, only to return directly and wearily to it, curling up like a beaten dog. I would not go in the kitchen or the dining room unless I absolutely had to. I would not spend one minute in the living room where we'd spent all of family time; it was too hard. I used the toilet when I had to, and I returned to my bed- sometimes watching tv, sometimes writing, sometimes just staring into space, unable to process the fact that Cory had been badly hurt, run over, broken, killed, and was not ever, ever coming back. That was a slow, slow lesson to learn.
When Tim and I redid the toy room into an art studio, I finally took willing steps out of my bedroom. Now there were two rooms of my house I didn't completely hate, and would frequent daily.
Ready for the latest addition? You'll never believe it!
It's the kitchen counter. The last place I ever wanted to be again has become a place to commune with my girl. We had so many happy times there, dancing and cooking, laughing and talking. Once I'd ripped my way through all the piled up junk mail (which by the way is absolutely OUTSTANDING as an anger management technique...for real, I ripped the shit out of some envelopes!), I could finally see the surface of the black bar stool we'd picked up at Hobby Lobby. There was only room for one stool in my small kitchen, and I'd told the kids they'd have to take turns. They did, of course, but let's tell the truth and shame the devil...that was Cory's stool and we all knew it. It was her little perch to be at my side every minute she could, feeling safe and talking to her best friend.
I think it was last week, that I finished cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, wiped the counter down, lit a candle, and went to fetch my planner. I sat down on her stool, so carefully, and opened my planner up, looking at what tomorrow might bring.
Tim called into the kitchen from the living room, "Honey? What are you doing in there?"
"Nothing." I responded, which couldn't be farther from the truth. I was not only chosing not to give up; I was hard at work, planning a life that my Cory-Girl can be proud of when she looks down on me. Three rooms now, baby girl. Never, ever, ever, ever give up.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
I Hate Everything. Again.
I have redirected myself from browsing the internet and to this page. I am highly emotional and should not be wielding a debit card right now. It takes two hands to type, so here we are for the moment.
Mother's Day was another hard day to get through. It wasn't the searing pain of last year, but more a gloomy descent onto the household. Jake made me a card at school. Tim, after being begged, got me a hot chocolate from McDonald's. The rest of the day I hid out in my bed and tried to remember Cory's voice, her smile, her walk.
I talked to Tim a little before he went to work, mostly about how I know I shouldn't feel that the accident was my fault, but a lot of the time I still do. He sympathizes, but said he can't see why I would feel that way. I asked him how he would feel if he'd been home with her that day, and told her, sure, she could walk over and pick up something he needed to finish making dinner. The lights went on in his eyes. He nodded; he hid his face. He nodded; stared out the window. He said nothing. Nothing needed to be said. Just for a minute, he'd put himself in my shoes. How do you get rid of a feeling of responsibility that's been bred right into your bones over another human being?
Today, I got the notification that Cory's monument is ready to be shipped. I promised myself I wouldn't scroll down to see the finished pictures, but then I did it anyway. Something inside me that held out the tiniest, most flimsy shred of hope that this was all a nightmare laid down compliantly and died. Her name was carved in stone, six feet tall. It's really over. I feel like I can't breathe.
Mother's Day was another hard day to get through. It wasn't the searing pain of last year, but more a gloomy descent onto the household. Jake made me a card at school. Tim, after being begged, got me a hot chocolate from McDonald's. The rest of the day I hid out in my bed and tried to remember Cory's voice, her smile, her walk.
I talked to Tim a little before he went to work, mostly about how I know I shouldn't feel that the accident was my fault, but a lot of the time I still do. He sympathizes, but said he can't see why I would feel that way. I asked him how he would feel if he'd been home with her that day, and told her, sure, she could walk over and pick up something he needed to finish making dinner. The lights went on in his eyes. He nodded; he hid his face. He nodded; stared out the window. He said nothing. Nothing needed to be said. Just for a minute, he'd put himself in my shoes. How do you get rid of a feeling of responsibility that's been bred right into your bones over another human being?
Today, I got the notification that Cory's monument is ready to be shipped. I promised myself I wouldn't scroll down to see the finished pictures, but then I did it anyway. Something inside me that held out the tiniest, most flimsy shred of hope that this was all a nightmare laid down compliantly and died. Her name was carved in stone, six feet tall. It's really over. I feel like I can't breathe.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Move to the Side, Please
She was still warm.
How do I know this? I forced this bitter truth out of someone who was on the scene and had actually been able to touch her, which I was not able to do.
This is a thought that plagues me day and night: it stills my hands over my keyboard at work; it opens my eyes on my darkened bedroom in the wee hours of morning; it cues my right hand to cover my face at a moment's notice, a typical gesture of denial and despair in Nicole-body-language.
It is a painful and senseless cycle. The thought comes; I ruminate on it; it gives birth to other painful memories; my mood changes for the worst.
What earthly good does this do me?
Yes, it happened. She was still warm. Ruminating on this does not change the past to a better outcome. She still does not live. It does me as little good as it's done me all this years to be stuck on the fact that her biological father would not accept help for his illness so we could be a family. How many decades exactly does it take to realize you cannot change anyone but yourself? Or that you cannot change a situation, but only your reaction to it?
I wrote she was still warm on a page in the coping section of my planner. It is safely captured. I have mourned this truth in my heart. Now when the thought comes to my mind, I gently push it to the side- not out of disrespect to my girl, but to honor her.
I am not always a graceful woman. And sometimes, especially with the hardest lessons of life, I can be a slow learner. That is okay. Who said progress has to be a straight and perfectly fluid line? This grief thing is full of zig-zags.
Ironically, that is a movement pattern I am already well-versed in. Challenges can be huge, but if you can stagger forward one jerky step at a time...guess what? You're still in motion.
How do I know this? I forced this bitter truth out of someone who was on the scene and had actually been able to touch her, which I was not able to do.
This is a thought that plagues me day and night: it stills my hands over my keyboard at work; it opens my eyes on my darkened bedroom in the wee hours of morning; it cues my right hand to cover my face at a moment's notice, a typical gesture of denial and despair in Nicole-body-language.
It is a painful and senseless cycle. The thought comes; I ruminate on it; it gives birth to other painful memories; my mood changes for the worst.
What earthly good does this do me?
Yes, it happened. She was still warm. Ruminating on this does not change the past to a better outcome. She still does not live. It does me as little good as it's done me all this years to be stuck on the fact that her biological father would not accept help for his illness so we could be a family. How many decades exactly does it take to realize you cannot change anyone but yourself? Or that you cannot change a situation, but only your reaction to it?
I wrote she was still warm on a page in the coping section of my planner. It is safely captured. I have mourned this truth in my heart. Now when the thought comes to my mind, I gently push it to the side- not out of disrespect to my girl, but to honor her.
I am not always a graceful woman. And sometimes, especially with the hardest lessons of life, I can be a slow learner. That is okay. Who said progress has to be a straight and perfectly fluid line? This grief thing is full of zig-zags.
Ironically, that is a movement pattern I am already well-versed in. Challenges can be huge, but if you can stagger forward one jerky step at a time...guess what? You're still in motion.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Lost and Found
Do you know the feeling you get when you finally run across something that's been missing for ages, something you've spent endless hours hunting for to no avail?
Multiply that by a hundred, and you know how I felt the other day.
Here's what happened:
After the accident, it suddenly occurred to me to share Cory's artwork at her viewings and service. One of the first places I went, sobbing with every step, was to my workplace to gather all the paintings that brightened the walls of my office.
One could not be found. Cory had painted a portrait of me when I got my current position. It was during a trial-filled time, as Tim and I were separated, and Cory was in the process of being stabilized on medication for her illness. This painting was very precious to me because it reflected the way my child saw me through her eyes, and was made immeasurably more precious because she'd never get the chance to paint me another.
No matter how I wracked my brain over the next twenty two months, I couldn't figure out where it was. I knew it had to be in my old office, but for some reason, it just wasn't.
One of Cory's favorite sayings was "If you're lost, you can always be found". She told me having an episode was much like getting lost. At the beginning, she felt mainly anxious, and a little uncertain. As the voices and delusions increased, she would get confused and began to doubt herself. After awhile, she'd exist in a state of full panic, not only unsure what was real and what wasn't, but afraid she'd never feel safe again.
Just take a minute. Can you imagine living that way? I try to get my head around the dragons that girl slayed, and it humbles me.
At the end of an episode, we'd talk about how she'd fought her way out again, how she felt better, how there is always a light at the end of a tunnel. She'd breathe easy for awhile, and then the voices would slowly creep back in on her. She held onto hope, my girl. She clutched it for dear life in those little hands of hers.
As you may have read, I've had a rough couple of weeks. One morning as I worked on the computer, I put my headphones on and hit 'shuffle' on my I-phone. Sometimes one of Cory's songs comes on. Sometimes I feel it's random; other times I wonder.
As I worked this particular morning, my heart was hurting. Several songs that Cory and I had discussed in length to mean something significant to her and past hurts she had carried came on. I strongly, strongly felt she was sending me a message that she knew I was hurting, and for many of the same reasons she had hurt, and it would be okay. She understood. I felt her in my office so strongly, she'd might as well have been standing right behind me and placing her slightly trembling hands around me in a comfortable embrace. She may have done just that.
At the end of this playlist popped up one of our favorite "cooking dinner" kitchen jams. For a second, I could look off to the side and see a woman and her two children, silly and whole, dancing with pure abandon in their kitchen.
Right about this time, someone came into my office and placed that missing painting in my hands. It had been found behind someone's desk or filing cabinet. I hugged the person, and hung it directly over my desk, exactly where it is meant to be.
I sat back and looked at myself through my daughter's eyes. She'd painted me alone. There was an air of strength and determination in her lines and colors. It was as if she had painted me, her rock, her way home through all the scary places she was made to go.
I listened so, so carefully for her voice.
This is what she said,
"You're safe, Mom. You can handle this."
Multiply that by a hundred, and you know how I felt the other day.
Here's what happened:
After the accident, it suddenly occurred to me to share Cory's artwork at her viewings and service. One of the first places I went, sobbing with every step, was to my workplace to gather all the paintings that brightened the walls of my office.
One could not be found. Cory had painted a portrait of me when I got my current position. It was during a trial-filled time, as Tim and I were separated, and Cory was in the process of being stabilized on medication for her illness. This painting was very precious to me because it reflected the way my child saw me through her eyes, and was made immeasurably more precious because she'd never get the chance to paint me another.
No matter how I wracked my brain over the next twenty two months, I couldn't figure out where it was. I knew it had to be in my old office, but for some reason, it just wasn't.
One of Cory's favorite sayings was "If you're lost, you can always be found". She told me having an episode was much like getting lost. At the beginning, she felt mainly anxious, and a little uncertain. As the voices and delusions increased, she would get confused and began to doubt herself. After awhile, she'd exist in a state of full panic, not only unsure what was real and what wasn't, but afraid she'd never feel safe again.
Just take a minute. Can you imagine living that way? I try to get my head around the dragons that girl slayed, and it humbles me.
At the end of an episode, we'd talk about how she'd fought her way out again, how she felt better, how there is always a light at the end of a tunnel. She'd breathe easy for awhile, and then the voices would slowly creep back in on her. She held onto hope, my girl. She clutched it for dear life in those little hands of hers.
As you may have read, I've had a rough couple of weeks. One morning as I worked on the computer, I put my headphones on and hit 'shuffle' on my I-phone. Sometimes one of Cory's songs comes on. Sometimes I feel it's random; other times I wonder.
As I worked this particular morning, my heart was hurting. Several songs that Cory and I had discussed in length to mean something significant to her and past hurts she had carried came on. I strongly, strongly felt she was sending me a message that she knew I was hurting, and for many of the same reasons she had hurt, and it would be okay. She understood. I felt her in my office so strongly, she'd might as well have been standing right behind me and placing her slightly trembling hands around me in a comfortable embrace. She may have done just that.
At the end of this playlist popped up one of our favorite "cooking dinner" kitchen jams. For a second, I could look off to the side and see a woman and her two children, silly and whole, dancing with pure abandon in their kitchen.
Right about this time, someone came into my office and placed that missing painting in my hands. It had been found behind someone's desk or filing cabinet. I hugged the person, and hung it directly over my desk, exactly where it is meant to be.
I sat back and looked at myself through my daughter's eyes. She'd painted me alone. There was an air of strength and determination in her lines and colors. It was as if she had painted me, her rock, her way home through all the scary places she was made to go.
I listened so, so carefully for her voice.
This is what she said,
"You're safe, Mom. You can handle this."
Monday, May 5, 2014
Are You a List Maker?
Here's one to try the next time you're feeling overwhelmed. I sat down and drew a head and shoulders silhouette. Across the face, I wrote "STRESS"; coming out of the head, I wrote down each and every thing I was stressing about: losing Cory, my marriage, debt, grocery shopping, cooking, work, and clutter in my house.
What I did next is the part that really helped.
I took a yellow highlighter and colored all the things I could change.
I took a blue highlighter and colored all the things I can't.
(Yes, marriage was both colors, with two additional bubbles coming out of it- 1) Strengthen the marriage- which takes two participants 2) Divorce- which takes money.)
What I've been doing the last few days is focusing on the things I have some control over, instead of banging my head against a wall that will never come down.
What I did next is the part that really helped.
I took a yellow highlighter and colored all the things I could change.
I took a blue highlighter and colored all the things I can't.
(Yes, marriage was both colors, with two additional bubbles coming out of it- 1) Strengthen the marriage- which takes two participants 2) Divorce- which takes money.)
What I've been doing the last few days is focusing on the things I have some control over, instead of banging my head against a wall that will never come down.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
What's Your Plan?
Okay, so where were we last? Oh, yes, the pills.
Suffice it to say that the next time I hopped into my friend, Angie's, car under the premise of a quick lunch, I was not altogether surprised to see the car being wheeled firmly into the parking lot of Summit Pointe.
I went in willingly. We had a nice conversation with one of the crisis workers. He evaluated my immediate state and deemed me safe to be released back into the wild. He was going to, however, give me a follow up call with the name of a therapist he thought might be a good fit. This was fine with me. I held out not a lot of a hope, as the three I'd already tried had been complete and total busts.
Life went on. Work. Home. A dangerous stew of emotions had a hold of me. The follow up call didn't come for more than a week. Once transferred over to scheduling, I was told I couldn't get in to see anyone for more than three works.
When you feel the way I do, three works seems like an eternity.
So I figured I'd better get something started on my own. So out came my Filofax to save the day. I fell back on my strengths of writing and drawing, and tried to use them to problem solve.
I decided it was time to take inventory. I dated my page, and doodled out a gigantic mindmap. In the middle was the largest bubble: Losing Control. Surrounding in came smaller bubbles that may have any contributing factors: listening to negative forces, spending too much money, not eating for days at a time, taking too many meds, giving into guilt, missing work, isolating myself, and not art journaling anymore.
I sat and mulled these over for awhile, and then made a corrective plan for myself, including the following:
So if you flipped the page in my Filofax, you'd find another little mindmap. In the middle: Cory died from vehicular impact. At all sides are these little facts: "I was not driving the car", "I did not push her", and "I was not charged with her death".
It was a start...
Suffice it to say that the next time I hopped into my friend, Angie's, car under the premise of a quick lunch, I was not altogether surprised to see the car being wheeled firmly into the parking lot of Summit Pointe.
I went in willingly. We had a nice conversation with one of the crisis workers. He evaluated my immediate state and deemed me safe to be released back into the wild. He was going to, however, give me a follow up call with the name of a therapist he thought might be a good fit. This was fine with me. I held out not a lot of a hope, as the three I'd already tried had been complete and total busts.
Life went on. Work. Home. A dangerous stew of emotions had a hold of me. The follow up call didn't come for more than a week. Once transferred over to scheduling, I was told I couldn't get in to see anyone for more than three works.
When you feel the way I do, three works seems like an eternity.
So I figured I'd better get something started on my own. So out came my Filofax to save the day. I fell back on my strengths of writing and drawing, and tried to use them to problem solve.
I decided it was time to take inventory. I dated my page, and doodled out a gigantic mindmap. In the middle was the largest bubble: Losing Control. Surrounding in came smaller bubbles that may have any contributing factors: listening to negative forces, spending too much money, not eating for days at a time, taking too many meds, giving into guilt, missing work, isolating myself, and not art journaling anymore.
I sat and mulled these over for awhile, and then made a corrective plan for myself, including the following:
- Art journal everyday
- Be around comfort people
- Fight the guilt
- Eat healthy
- Rein in your spending
- Cut out negative influences
So if you flipped the page in my Filofax, you'd find another little mindmap. In the middle: Cory died from vehicular impact. At all sides are these little facts: "I was not driving the car", "I did not push her", and "I was not charged with her death".
It was a start...
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