Driving the Point Home

A question was posed in my Psychopharmacology class that I felt merited some consideration on my part.  

We were talking about why someone might fail to take their medication, or continue to say they're having significant problems when they aren’t.  
The question was “What is the gain from remaining sick?”  
This can obviously be answered in many ways, depending on the circumstance.

I began to think about this in terms of my own life and my own struggles with my fears and with a failure to drive. 

 If I don't try, I can't fail, right? 

This logic never worked in any other area of my life, so I'm not sure why I thought it would with driving, other than the fact that I did mostly have other ways around. 

Let's face it. 

I don't leave my home very often, and would generally prefer to be some kind of happy recluse, but I understand that this isn't a reasonable possibility. 

I also feel guilty now that I don't live by a bus line and occasionally need to carpool or outright ask people for rides, as I can't currently afford to take cabs everywhere while in the unpaid internship... 

Externship... 

Whateverthefuckship. 

In any case, I've been attempting and mostly failing to prioritize my health, and instead I've been obsessing over something that is generally not seen as a big deal. 

More than that, it is generally seen as a wonderful thing. 

For me personally, passing the test means that I now don't have to retake the permit test, which would have been embarrassing. 

I don't have to have the strange looks when I have a non-driver ID instead. 

I don't have to have anyone questioning how I function in life, just because they are too unimaginative to think of living without a car in my situation. 

I wanted to be proud of myself too, but I'm having trouble with that. 

I think the issue is that I really had no desire to do it at all, so rather than feeling accomplished, I just feel like I gave in. 

I did this thing that I had no desire to do, just because someone else told me to do it. 

Christ. 

How much of my life has been like that? 

 

Still, having passed is great, if only for the wait for the next one to now be gone forever. 

The pressure each time was slowly killing me. 

It became everything. 

It took over every aspect of my life with the sheer power of not-want. 

I just don't want to think about it anymore. 

Passing means I don't have to worry about the test, but now I have the car I can't afford, the insurance, the upkeep, the responsibility, and the assumption that I will drive. 

Now, it has become an issue if I do have the audacity to ask for help. 

After all, I can drive. 

Everyone involved seems to think passing the test has immediately cured me of my not-want. 

It did not, just as doing any other terrible thing forever doesn't automatically make people Stockholm-syndrome themselves into loving the thing. 

Now, I just have more questions, more pressure, and I fear that I'll wind up on the side of the road sobbing and hysterical, missing my appointments that were otherwise never an issue to get to on time. 

I guess any lingering depression winds up more apparent when it's on me, rather than being able to say, "Well, better get going so my ride doesn't get upset."  

 

I feel like I'm constantly letting everyone down either way, or that there is something significant wrong with me, beyond all the things that have actually made my life harder. 

It's frustrating to note that the things I actually want to work on and struggle with are somehow not good enough to those around me. 

I fully realize that I am not those people, but some solidarity would be nice. 

I have found myself falling from pushing on and through and up, to just wanting to be left alone to rot. 

Of course, my Knight in Pinstripes and my very good friends ARE supportive and would never let me do that to myself, as much as I may try. 

Still, this is upsetting because I understand that it has all been hinged on this idea of having a car and driving and freedom in this lonely, expensive, wasteful death machine. 

Again, Rob is all for carpooling and is steady in his belief that I should not have to drive if I do not want to. 

He generally believes I shouldn't do ANYTHING that I don't want to do, but again, that means I would do... pretty much nothing. 

Ever.  

Sometimes, I pretend that I want to drive. 

Sometimes, I pretend that I am already someone who drives. 

It is a fun fantasy, but ultimately leaves me feeling empty, realizing I am lying to myself because I feel like I am worth less than I would be as a driver. 

I feel like while I've been told I am not, I must certainly be a burden, and something to be ashamed of. 

Otherwise, why would any of this have come up at all? I wind up wallowing in everything else I've been trying to fix, just to have this barrier of, “No, look. I'm too sick. I can't drive because I'm too sick.” 

I've been self sabotaging and ruining so much of my health, both physical and mental, in an effort to convince those around me that I am sick enough to not do this one thing that I have never done before anyway. 

 

All that having been said, I did face my fears. 

And now, I have it, whether I ever use it or not. 

These are things I CAN be proud of, because they were important to my growth as a person. 

That is the most important part.

And... I actually do like the car.  Well, when it starts up, anyway.  

I call it The Grey Ghost, and I understand that my aversion to driving is not the car's fault. 

...My tendency to personify objects a bit probably doesn't help the guilt though. 

Just sayin'.

All the Kinda Jobs

So, I technically started my internship.  
I also have a school-class that is supposed to… help?  Somehow?  
I don't know.  
All I know is that I look at the homework and make a face.

Apparently part time unpaid internships plus a three credit class don't count as enough to do for financial aid, so I'm a little bitter about that.  
…Also, we take our big test by week three, so what the Hell is the rest of the class for other than irritating otherwise busy, stressed, and not-paid students?
I guess to give us time to retake it if we fail.

...Hope I don't need that.

It's my first week at the hospital and already I have been able to make a lot of connections to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. 
I find this both comforting and horrifying.

It's exciting though.  
I'm getting a calendar, I have a desk with a phone, and I'll even have a key to… things. 

Now, what made this sort of Alice-like was 
A. the computer system is actually called ALICE, and 
B. running around following my supervisor in order to meet new people was a little like following the White Rabbit.  

I found myself dragging behind and wondering if I was going to lose her in the endless maze that is those hallways. 

At one point, looking for a key for me, we went to someone higher up.  
Everyone is really nice, by the way.  
This is a very good thing. 

This particular very nice higher up person had a bowl of keys.  
My key was not in said bowl. 
She lamented the fact that she was unsure as to what the keys were even for.  

Someone else had handed them to her a while before.
They said things like, "Bin 2" and "Desk" but no indication of what such bin may contain or where such desk might sit.

Yep.

I have been walked around that area of the building a few times now and I still have no idea how to get from point A to point B. 

All I know is that they keep the interns in the basement. 

No, like, seriously.

It wasn't nearly as scary as had been described, but the hallway is sort of thin and there isn't really a ceiling, so much as exposed pipes and such.  

A little Silent Hill-y, but I had no fear of Pyramid Head or anything. 

Once you get into the room, it's actually very cozy. 

Admittedly, it is a little odd to know I am physically replacing a previous intern. 

This makes sense, but it's still a little jarring to realize that her stuff was once right here, where my stuff is.  
I know she just moved on and may have even gotten a nice cushy job somewhere, but I had a sense like she was dead.

I'm pretty sure she isn't dead, but I didn't want to ask.

That seemed rude.

Either way, any worries were replaced knowing that I have those cubical walls where you can pin stuff up like a giant corkboard.  
Dad told me not to cover it in Batman.  

I'm an adult and I'll do what I want.

Overwhelming horror returned when I had to record not one, but THREE voicemails.  
I don't like the sound of my own voice, and recording things always leads to my sounding like I have eight thousand sticks shoved up my ass.

That actually wound up more harrowing than getting a needle shoved in my arm right before then.

Oh, wait…

Did I not mention that?

Yeah.  You know.  The PPD for tuberculosis and such. 
We had gotten my photo for my ID, and run over to the nice nurse to ask about what proof of what immunizations I'd need.  

Working in a hospital and occasionally wandering into the ER makes this pretty freaking important.

Once there, suddenly my supervisor has her arm exposed like, "LET'S DO THIS" and I'm sitting there saying, "Yes, hi, I'm terrified and confused and you just took a syringe out of like a mini-fridge? and what is happening I don't even-" and suddenly a needle was happening in my arm.
 
Now, obviously I've had this done before, and I had actually signed the needed paperwork…
BUT HOLY CRAP PANIC. 

I apparently don't like getting that kind of thing sprung on me, but in all fairness, if it hadn't gone that way, I would have had a lot of trouble mentally gearing up for it later.  
This way, it was done. 

Also, the thing didn't swell or anything.  
Just a little bruise.  

The nurse was even super cool because she used to be an allergy person at my allergy… place. 
 
So we talked about the drops and how they're working, and she told me that since I have allergies, my skin would do exactly what it did, so I didn't freak out.

Mind you, any little red splotches are not only usually very brief, but often a creation of my own brain-pan anyway. 

It's the worst of super powers.

WHEW.  Okay.  So.  That's that.

Donna is still going strong… (www.rowyngolde.com/donna)

OH!  If anyone would like to submit guest strips for Deddrie.com, send an email to deddrie@gmail.com! 

Since updating that has taken a huge backseat to Donna, my internship, my class, my relationship, my sanity, and so on, I'm looking for help to fill in that gap.  

It can have however much swearing, violence, and so forth.  
Ideally, hand me an idea for a script/concept, and anything you'd like me to post under the comic about where to find more of your work or who you are/lwhat you do. 

Woot!

Lastly, we are done the casting for EVE and are now in the beginnings of funding!
Check out www.isitEVE.com, like us on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/eveindiefilm), or follow us on Twitter @EVEindiefilm for more news!

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The Anxiety Monster

My Knight and I were talking about what our anxiety looks like, assuming it has been personified into some kind of horrible creature.  

We very quickly came up with this:

It was quick because, well, OF COURSE it looks like that.  

Now, on good days, there are people who can ignore the anxiety monster.  

I've never been so good at that, so while he isn't the most threatening thing in the world to me, (these days) he can still be super creepy.  

Like... 

Really. 

Though, for the most part, he's just kind of annoying.  
He is annoying in the way that he does shit like this:  

He is the opposite of helpful. 

He also enjoys SCREAMING in the middle of the night.

Normally I'd give some advice on how to deal with the anxiety monster.  
I usually try to use these kinds of posts to offer some helpful hints on how to avoid the ball of stress I had become in my life.  

Unfortunately, I haven't quite figured out how to get rid of this guy.

Ugh.  
 
 

The Stress Snowball

I am very familiar with the Stress Snowball. 

You see, it starts off small. 
It's so small, that I ignore how cold it is. 



I even ignore the rock in the middle of it, which makes it dangerous, but I'll get to that later.

I ignore the snowball, thinking that I can handle it. 

…

I'm wrong. 

Eventually, I drop the snowball and it starts to roll around. 

It picks up other stress inducing things.

This happens because I didn't take care of the small things, and now I'm too stressed to deal with the bigger things…

It picks up pretty much everything, from school stuff, to work stuff, to even other people who were just there to help.
 

This can get overwhelming to the point where I just don't want to do ANYTHING and so the ball continues to grow. 

 


When it gets this bad, we are tempted to dive in and get to the source immediately, but sometimes that gets us stuck in the ball. 

Instead, take a moment to take a closer look.
 

In general, if you can peel off some easy tasks and stresses first, just little ones from the top, you can start to get some layers of snow off of your stress snowball.
 


Keep at it, and before long, your stress snowball will start to shrink to a more manageable size.
 

More layers removed, and you'll get to the rocky middle. 

The stress which started it all.


The stress I thought I could handle, whatever it may be. 

The stress I didn't realize was so heavy. 

For me, it looks like this:
 

This center of stress is generally just a failure to keep up with the tasks of taking care of myself, along with everything else.

I have learned to keep this center of stress happy with tea and comic-books.  

It is often tough to find time for this though, so to-do lists come in handy. 

I treat taking care of myself just like any other task.  

This is the key to avoiding the stress snowball. 

Do I still fail to do this on occasion?  
Of course.  

I'm actually a little worried about this coming semester, since it's my last.  

Here's hoping I remember this post! 

Therapathetic

People find themselves drawn to different professions for a lot of reasons.  

Personally, if I had my way and all the money required, I'd be a cartoonist.  

Still, gotta make a living somehow, and being a Psychologist not only makes sense for me, but allows me the opportunity to help someone...
...Or accidentally screw someone up pretty badly. 

Exciting!  

Okay, so I'm actually pretty terrified.  

That being said, I learned what to do from my classes, and what NOT to do from most of my therapists.  

I've had a lot of therapists.

I take this as a strength.  
I've been where the client is.  
Also, as a therapist, I'll know that not all cases will be the same.

I even had a therapist direct me to a hypnotist who got SUPER excited over the idea of me puking in her office.

Let me explain that one.

See, I told her that I was having nightmares.  
She asked what happens when I wake up.
I told her that if they are really bad, I get sick.
Her response was: 

And so my response was: 

And my mother promptly removed me from the woman's office.

Mind you, I've had nice, sane therapists too.  
My current one, in fact.  

She's been very helpful, which means she's been supportive in a way that allows me to come up with what I need to do for myself. 

She guides without telling, and gives hope when needed.  

The one before her also wasn't awful.  

She was an art therapist and helped me learn that I like art therapy techniques but would like to do other things with clients.

The one before that one was mostly...  Good?  
...ish? 
 
She went out of her way to say that once I was diagnosed with PTSD, that would be my life forever.  

Don't tell your client, who is in your office to get better, that there is no such thing as healing or a future without intense psychological pain.  

Not cool.

Also, she was wrong. 

So, let's get to the utter shit of it, shall we? 

When I was of Bat Mitzvah age, I went to a woman about my crippling anxiety and dealing with some physical pain.  

After hearing that I was not going through this traditional Jewish ceremony (which was a very minor part of my story), she explained to me that: 

Yeah.  

She decided to let me know that I'd be "letting my congregation down" and that the rabbi and my own PARENTS would hate me for not doing it. 

This was utter crap. 

I responded with a: 

And my parents reassured me that they weren't going to disown me AND that I didn't have to see that woman ever again.  

It turned out that my family actually knew her, but didn't realize that she had a different last name than her child.  

My father was training her child for his/her Bar/Bat Mitzvah.  

Projection!  Don't do it!  

Next up was a woman I actually had twice.  

What I mean by that is that I saw her for many months, then switched to someone else, and then tried her again.

I had left the first time because she was very open about also being the therapist for a frienemy of mine.  

She'd talk openly about said friend/enemy and I felt uncomfortable, realizing she was probably doing the same about me.  

Breach of confidentiality, for one thing.  

The second time was somehow worse.

I was talking about something... I don't remember what.  

It triggered her. 
She started crying.
A lot. 

I was not crying. 

Pretty much everything this lady did went on my "Don't do this to people" list.

Still, not as bad as a woman who forced me to take drugs. 

Look, if you have a chemical imbalance and want to be on medication, more power to you.  
It can be helpful. 

I didn't want it. 

Beyond that, I had ZERO signs of clinical ANYTHING that wasn't direct cause and effect.  

I had anxiety and some depression because my legs didn't work right and my sister was scary.  

I wanted to talk about it. 

I wanted to find ways to work with it and build my life into something better.

She decided that would be too difficult, and handed me a pill. 

Since I had said from day one that I did not want to take any medications, and she had agreed...

I figured I must be REALLY screwed up for her to demand I try them.  

...So I took the pill.

It didn't take long before I started feeling like I wanted to kill myself.

I had never felt like that before.  

Thankfully, I was able to see that it was the medication having a strange effect on me.

In retrospect, the fact that she didn't mention that as a possible side effect, the fact that she talked me into taking something at all, and the fact that she didn't mention just STOPPING instead of weening off of it could be dangerous... 

Bitch could have killed me. 

DON'T DO THIS TO PEOPLE.

And you know what her response was when I said I wasn't going to take it anymore?

Thankfully, I had brought Dad in that day. 
I don't even know why I had dragged him in.  

Maybe I was afraid of what else she'd ask me to do. 

He told me I never had to see her again.
...She had always silently repeated everything I said with her own lips anyway.
That was really creepy.  

Like I said before, there have been good therapists in my life.  

They don't need to be on this list in pictures because every day that I talk about the progress I've made shows how not-shitty they are. 

Those are the people I hope to emulate. 
I hope to be a not-shitty therapist.

Getting Injured

I currently have a band-aid on each thumb as I type this blog entry.  

I consider myself a careful person, really... and I wouldn't call myself clumsy per se... 

But I'll let you kids decide for yourselves.  

I started young with the accidentally-hurting-myself-in-stupid-ass-ways thing.

My mother still feels guilty about an incident where I fell out of the shopping cart.  

Dude.  

Those things are, like, designed to avoid this.  
I still don't understand how I managed such a feat without breaking my legs in order to get out... 

But I clearly remember the milk isle zooming in toward my face: 

Obviously, I survived.  I probably lost a tooth though.  

I can say that, because I was generally losing teeth during these incidents.  

Considering all the oral surgery I wound up having as an adult later, it was probably for the best that I just get the baby teeth out of the way fast anyway.

I was walking along with a straw in a drink and a loose tooth to play with (do you see where this is going?) and not ONLY did I stick my loose tooth INTO the straw for fun, but then I tripped. 

This resulted in RIPPING THE TOOTH OUT OF MY FACE while also smashing the rest of me to the ground.  

Very efficient, really.

Doorknobs often had a similar effect.  See, I was "doorknob height" and wasn't always aware of my surroundings.  
I blame inner ear issues.  

Either way,

Lost at least one that way.

By now,  you've heard tales of how often I cut my hands open while carving pumpkins, or stabbing myself in the thumbs while sewing (often straight through the nail)...

But one time, I actually learned a lesson during a sewing mishap.

You know what?  I'm not gonna illustrate this one because it still ickles me.  

I tend to stick sewing needles pretty much wherever I can, with the (often very, very wrong) assumption that it will assist in my not losing them.  

So, I'm sitting on my parent's couch, sewing stuff.  

Probably making one of these: 

So cute. 

Such pain. 

And I put the needle in the couch next to me, just slightly, thinking I'll be able to pull it out by the thread later.  

Then I couldn't find it.  

...

Yep.

Cue a few days later where I'm on the same couch, trying to get something that has fallen behind said couch, getting up to sit on my knees... on the couch. 

Right. 

Our needle friend is promptly found.  

It goes up into my thigh. 

Let me clarify... 
It's not like, poking from the side into my thigh.  It's going from the top of my knee UP into my thigh-meats, along the thigh itself. 

Oh my fuck. 

There are no words to describe the combined horror, shame, pain, disgust and so on that I experienced in this moment.  

*ahem* 

Moving on.

Did I mention I've managed to STAB myself?  

Some were small, like the x-acto knife at art school.

We were snowed in, so there was a moment of, "Whelp, glad I didn't cut off my thumb.  Wouldn't have been able to get to a hospital in time to save it.  Whoops." 

Instead, I merely jammed it into the tip of my thumb.  
There's a vein at the base of my palm that had flipped out during this process.  
This happened a decade ago and it still puffs up if I'm stressed.  

...

Probably a terrible sign.  

Still, not as bad as the time I stabbed myself in the shoulder while working retail.  

See, I was diligently cutting apart and collapsing boxes for storing them in the back.  

"The back" was basically a hallway with shelves of walls filled with random crap to sell.  

Knowing we were the only two in the store, and knowing I had gone back there, I guess my work-buddy forgot.  

She didn't see me sitting in this hallway cutting boxes with the box cutter.  

She walked into me, kicking the box away.  

This was fine except: 

I remember thinking, "Oh, that didn't happen.  I'm just holding the box cutter slightly PAST my shoulder.  Here, I'll pull it awa- ...  Oh crud."  

My coworker wanted to rush me to a hospital, but, being me...  

Nope. 

I just wanted to keep on workin'. 

I still have a scar from it, but obviously I was fine.  

Well, obviously I'm fine NOW in any case.

...

Shh.