Soul Thumping

Self Overhaul. Presto...I'm Now a Flake! - Managing Anxiety and Depression

You know the over-used adage:  "If you can't be 'em, join 'em" (this is my more colloquial version of the saying)?  I've gone and done it.  After spending decades trying to "cure" my chronic depression and anxiety with slight results, an epiphany of sorts led me to this realization:  there is no cure for anxiety, depression and stress.  There just isn't that one magic bean I have been hoping for to make me anxiety and depression-free.

In my early twenties I began a daily regimen of anti-depressants that seemingly helped with obsessive thoughts and I believed for a while I was "repaired," until my next episode of depression came out of no where.  Meds and therapy for the next decade, same results.  Last year, 2 years ago I added neurofeedback to the mix.  Magic bean?  No, but it has helped me re-train my brain to function more appropriately to stressful plights, allowing me to react more rationally in situations rather than immediately going into super-charged anxiety mode.  Without the neurofeedback, I doubt very much I would have had my revelation, which in 2 months time has led to an entirely new way of dealing with myself, and an arsenal of new tools I'm incorporating into accepting and, dare I say, embracing my anxiety and depression.

The phrase for today is "managing."  There is no "curing" anxiety and the related depression, it all comes down to accepting it is there, thereby "controlling" it so it doesn't control me.  I accept that I'm going to be anxious most hours of the day, breathe my way through it, and decide to function after all.  It is that simple (though it has taken me a rather long time to reach that mesa).

Now what?  The crow sandwich part.  I have myself become one of those people I haughtily judge as "flakes."  I'm taking a more holistic approach to living with anxiety and depression since I now realize the anxiety fairy will never leave the magic bean under my pillow.  I'm eating "happy" foods (see my earlier post on happy foods), I'm having massages, I'm researching homeopathic doctors and acupuncturists in my area, I've started seeing a chiropractor to repair some of the damage my anxiety and stress has inflicted on my poor innocent spinal column, and I'm continuing my neurofeedback (though I'm down to monthly instead of weekly).

I repeat positive mantras to myself throughout the day, and I'm attending online "anxiety and the creative soul" seminars, and I am now attending group meditation each week. 

I continue to take my antidepressants daily, but will remain at my lower dose.  I just purchased a new set of relaxation and meditation cds that use brainwave entrainment technology on my alpha, theta, and delta waves, similar to the neurofeedback, and of course, I still run a few nights each week because the endorphins are the star player in knocking the wind out of anxiety and depression.

The most important change?  I breathe.  Breathing is critical to punching my way out of the anxiety paper bag.  I was not aware, until my therapist told me last year, that I'm breathing from my chest, and not my diaphragm, which does not give my brain enough oxygen.  OK, done!  I've practiced breathing enough that it has become automatic.

Another hugely important issue came up a few months ago:  I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism and have been prescribed Synthroid.  Depression and anxiety can be caused and exacerbated by thyroid issues, so I urge everyone to have blood work done and make sure they test your thyroid!  I know, it is yet another pill I have to take everyday, but it is most certainly worth it!

Presto...no magic beans, but now that I'm a flake, I have yet another great reason to laugh at myself.

 

--Fortuitous "Flaky" Observer

Oatmeal and Peanut Butter Make for a Happy Breakfast

In 2009 I blogged about a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast because that was my choice for the all-important first meal of the day, and I had nothing better to write about that morning than what I ate for breakfast.  I then added half a banana to the mix and breakfast became a spoonful of peanut butter and half of a banana.  I christened this my "Elvis Breakfast" for kicks.

Recently I read an online article, published by Redbook I believe, that discusses foods that can improve mood.  The witty title of the article is "Happy Meals" and I found it to be an enlightening piece, especially for those of us trying to get a handle on stress, lousy moods, or anxiety and depression.

Desiring another tool for my arsenal against my own anxiety, I decided to make a conscious effort to incorporate some of these foods into my diet.

But wait, peanut butter is not on the happy list!  "Okay," I thought, my breakfast plan is going to have to change.  Peanut butter, I will miss you, but as it turns out, the first peppy food on the list is oatmeal and I like oatmeal.  Another trick I've added to my repertoire of defensive against anxiety/depression is to cut out as many preservative-filled foods as possible.  I had purchased the Weight Watchers brand oatmeal, but it left a strange after taste in my mouth (I could be wrong, but it probably contains aspartame or another sugar substitute), so I nixed the WW brand and switched to Mom's Best Naturals Better Oats brand.  I stumbled upon this brand in the "Natural" section of my grocery store.

This oatmeal for breakfast routine was working very well, then I remembered another goodie on the good food list, walnuts, so I started tossing some walnuts in my oatmeal to liven up the party.

Even though I had embraced my new breakfast plan, I began missing my spoonful of peanut butter and my half of a banana in the mornings.  Last week I had a flash of brilliance (which does not happen often):  oatmeal and walnuts are good for the brain and the body, and peanut butter and bananas are good for the body (even if they failed to make the cut for the "happy list"), so why not marry them, creating a breakfast of ambrosial harmony?

So I did.  My oatmeal is now sprinkled with walnuts and bananas, and I have a teaspoonful of peanut butter every other day with my oatmeal.  Me, my oatmeal, my peanut butter, and my half of a banana are blissfully happy!

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Saying Goodbye to my Gallbladder

"Ms. Slaven, you have gallbladder sludge."  As soon as the ER doctor said those words to me, (as I was squeezing the hell out of Poseidons hand) I knew it was official:  after 42 years together, my gallbladder wants nothing more to do with me.

The irony of this tale is that earlier in the week I had a discussion with my therapist about how down on myself I was being, and she said, in a joking manner, "Well you must not be too bad of a person because your arms and legs have stuck with you all of these years."  I felt so much better about myself after leaving her office.  She was right.  If my limbs don't hate me and they don't want to take off on their own like baby birds dropping from a nest, then I'm doing ok.  Did I mention the irony?  My limbs were still officially in like with me, but internal organs...another story.

Anyway, after a couple of weeks of thinking I could find some natural cure by changing my diet, etc., I decided I really should consult with the surgeon that the ER doc had referred me to in order to get his perspective.  I met with him today.  I discussed my concerns about having surgery and not having surgery, and he humored my neurotic ideas for a bit.  I told him of the negative things I'd read online, and he made me feel better by telling me that most of the people who bother to write about negative things online are hypochondriacs, and have no life, and I have to admit, I agree with him.

So, surgery is scheduled for July 11 and I'm feeling rather positive about it, but being 42 years old and never having had a major health problem (other than my plethora of mental issues), I'm also a bit sad that my internal organs have decided to put on a production of "The Caine Mutiny" without my permission.  Upstarts!

I'm already in pre-mourning at the loss of an internal organ, albeit an unnecessary organ for survival.  I'm still considering asking the surgeon if I can keep the gallbladder after the surgery (but I'm not sure if this will raise red flags and he demands to speak with my therapist).  It's strange to me because I've only had one other surgery in my life, and that was oral surgery to have 3 of my 4 wisdom teeth removed (and I was given some amazing drugs for that).  I wasn't upset about the loss of my teeth, but I was also in my mid-twenties at the time, and wasn't too concerned about losing "parts" of me yet.

With age, do we become more attached to those things that are apart of our being by default?  Maybe I've finally realized that I'm not invincible and parts of me are inevitably going to stop functioning?  Or, could it be that perhaps the older I get the more sentimental I am about body parts?

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Oh the Things You'll See...at the Gym

As I was leaving the gym tonight, a woman in a white Mercedes SUV was sitting in the parking lot, right by the doors to the gym, holding up traffic.  I wasn't sure what she was doing until I noticed she was watching me.  Creepy.  Then of course, I realized what she was really doing:  she was waiting to see where I parked so she get my parking space!

The SUV started following me slowly as I walked across the parking lot, like a vulture poised and ready to swoop down on a field mouse.  I'm not sure which is the vulture in that analogy, the woman or the Mercedes SUV.  Now here is the funny part:  unfortunately for her, I park as far away as I can from the gym so I can get a good warm up on my way inside for my workout.

She seemed to get more than slightly annoyed when she realized she wasn't going to get a spot close to the door if she continued to follow me, so the SUV sped up and went down the next aisle, then up the next aisle, passing up several parking spaces along the way.  I don't get it.  She could have already completed a 15 minute warm up inside had she just parked and hiked it across the parking lot.

Anyway, I'm mentioning this little slice out of my evening because it gave me a chuckle, and more importantly, made me glad to be me today.

 

--Fortuitous Observer 

Sun Bunny Loves You!

Winter solstice, first day of winter, whatever you want to call it, I call it the demise of Jack Frost (sorry Jack), and I am happy that it has finally arrived, because it means days are slowly (and I mean snail-slug-tortoise slow) getting longer now, and nights growing shorter.  Farewell grey skies (though I will admit, I love watching the snow fall like pretty little diamonds), cold mornings--and afternoons and nights.  Au revoir frigid car seats, and feet that won't warm despite the 10 pair of socks enveloping my little piggies (there it is again, hyperbole, I've actually only worn 2 pairs of socks at one time).

I am a sun bunny.  I love the sun, I love being outside in the sun, I love the humidity (yes, I really do), and I even love seeing my kooky little freckles, that make me, me, sneaking out (like the groundhog on Groundhound Day), hoping to soak up some sorely missed sunlight and all that lovely, lovely vitamin D.

So, thank you winter solstice for finally arriving, now you can go away.  Though I know you will take your sweet time, I will dip into the assemblage of patience that I am somehow able to store up during this season every year and calmly wait for the return of our brightest star, my beloved sun.

P.S.  Check out the song I added (the link below)...I heard this the other day and it is really growing on me.  It's from Eux Autres' newest album.  It makes me think of summer!

--Fortuitous Observer

04 - Wind Me Up

 

The Vileness that is the Women's Locker Room

There wasn't a thing in the world I thought that could get me down...except the pig sty that is the "ladies" locker room (notice I put ladies in quotes because I'm using that term in the sarcastic sort of way today).  I was in a great mood yesterday as I sashayed into the gym, excited about jumping on the treadmill and running a full 33 minutes without slowing my pace (33 is an odd number I'll admit, but there is a method to my madness)...but then I entered the locker room.

Were the women of North Raleigh truly raised in barns?  There is still a great deal of farmland in the vicinity, and I can see how the area may have been over-populated with barns a few decades ago, so it might really be true.  In that case, the condition of the locker room is excusable because if you all lived like farm animals while growing up, you didn't really know any better and it's carried over into your adult life, and your kids probably treat their rooms and your house the same way, so I apologize for calling you out.  Continue to throw your "things" in the locker room toilet without flushing, and pee all over the seat (and don't forget the floor and the walls...I don't know how this is even possible, but apparently it is) without cleaning up after yourselves.  It isn't too difficult to hover and still make it into that toilet.  I perfected the art on a trip to Osaka, Japan once.  It can be done "ladies" (oops, noticed I used those quotes again?).

The repulsiveness of the locker room bathroom isn't even my biggest gripe.  It's actually the changing room area.  I've seen the most curious of items left laying on the changing benches and scattered around the women's locker room. I've seen articles of clothing left on the floor, for example:  a pair of jeans, a blouse, a pair of heels, and of course, some underwear.  Did some of you go home naked?  You forgot to get dressed after your shower?  I've seen women clipping their toe nails in the locker room like it was something everyone is supposed to do.  Your not!  I don't want to step on one of your mangy fungus-ridden toe nails and cut my foot, requiring stitches and a rabies vaccination.  Stop it.

The management provides a large lovely bamboo basket in the locker room, specifically for the placement of your dirty towels after you've worked out.  Leaving those nasty towels, drenched in your sweat, on the benches where other women sit down to put on their sneakers is not acceptable.  PICK THEM UP AND PUT THEM IN THE BASKET!  To not do so is primitive, spoiled, ignorant, animal-like behavior.

I'm not even going to start on the rude, spoiled 22 - 25 year-olds who screech into their cell phones with that affected, "I'm-sure-if-I'm-an-adult-or-a-child voice."  I could begin an endless diatribe rant about cell phone usage at the gym like no body's business, but that is for another day.  

Again, for those of you who were actually raised in a barn, I'll excuse you because you weren't taught manners, or how to clean yourselves or clean up after yourselves, much less keep a silly old locker room halfway sanitary.  For those of you who didn't feed from a trough, please take some time to review some of these common (what I thought were common) tips on manners and being lady-like at the gym:  http://www.divinecaroline.com/22176/76524-closed-doors-six-locker-room

I'm heading for the gym after work and I suddenly feel the need to don a protective suit from the CDC.

 

--Fortuitous "I don't want to touch anything" Observer

As the Elliptical Turns

So cliche, but when you see it in action, it's sad:  old dude tries to pick up young chick at the gym.

Wednesday evening, I had my usual date with the treadmill at the gym.  I'm trying out a new running routine that will hopefully boost me to 3 days of faster running each week, with one of those days at a 60-minute run.  Anyway, this blog isn't about me (though my new self-imposed running program is moving along swimmingly--or runningly), it's about the soap opera that I've been watching unfold at the gym.

It involves an older gentleman, I'm guessing in his very late 50s or early 60s, and a younger girl of 22 - 25.  The gentleman, I think I'll call him Mack (it just seems to fit, and I like making up names for people), works out on the floor, utilizing the weight machines in a half-hearted manner, because his focus seems to be on the entrance, and more specifically, who may be coming through the door.  It's the little red-haired girl he seeks.

The girl in the story, I'll call her Cindyloo, comes through the door, already dressed in workout clothes, and heads straight for the elliptical machines, chooses one, and begins a workout.  She never seems to get more than 5 to 10 minutes into her workout when Mack (after visiting the men's locker room, and reappearing with much less sweat than before the locker room) comes up to the machine and tries to engage her in conversation.  He starts flexing his biceps in mid-sentence.  He keeps messing with his hair (really, I thought only young girls did that when flirting, but I guess not), and puffing his chest out in a move that looks almost unnatural (I bet his backbone is going to snap one of these days).

I found this to be so funny (and at the same time, a bit sad) that I actually laughed out loud while on the treadmill (which by the way is on the back row, so I see everything), causing the gal next to me to stare and probably make some assumptions about my mental state.  If she only knew!  Back to the story.  I've seen this same scene going on now for a couple of weeks, and I'm not sure if the Cindyloo likes the attention, or if she is annoyed.  She never seems to stay long on the elliptical.  Maybe she just wants to do a quick cardio warm up and hit the weights, or maybe she just wants to scram and get away from Mack. By this time, I'm usually finished with my run, and I'm heading to the Pilate's room to stretch, so I guess I'm going to have to work up to my 60-minute run faster than I'd planned in order to stick around and watch the story unfold.  I'm not sure if I should bring popcorn (the low-fat no butter kind, of course), tissues, or a barf bag.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

 

My Journey to Becoming a "Prozac Nation" Ex-Pat: Del Ett

Prozac Nation, for those who don't know, is the title of a novel by Elizabeth Wurtzel that I have read more than once.

Del Ett is Swedish for "Part One."  As I'm part Swedish I thought I might start teaching myself some of the language by actually using it, even if in a small way.  Let's face it, I know it's cliche, but... 

"A journey of a thousand miles beings with a single step." 

Lao-tzu, The Way of Lao-tzu
Chinese philosopher (604 BC - 531 BC)

My journey begins...

I've been on antidepressants for 20 years, non-stop.  Why?  Because at the age of 21 I was diagnosed with clinical depression and that started my life long journey to popping happy pills everyday.  They didn't "fix" my problem.  My clinical depression diagnosis turned into a permanent diagnosis of "chronic depression."  I can go into slumps of dark, heavy hours, or days (and sometimes weeks) of an overwhelming sense of loss, sadness and melancholia that, unless one has experienced it, is almost indescribable.  It isn't something that sufferers of chronic depression can just "get over."  Even while taking daily antidepressants these symptoms can creep up on me and smash me in the chest like the proverbial ton of bricks.  Sometimes these episodes are so bad, it is physically painful for me to move, but I have to make myself get up and move or I will simply lay down and curl into a motionless, numb little ball and melt away.

Throughout my years on antidepressants I've learned a few things, and have been confused by even more things.  I'm not a doctor, but since I've been seeing doctors (psychiatrists, psychologists, licensed therapists, etc.) for more than 2 decades now, I consider myself educated a bit on the subject.  Here is the core of what I believe to be true (I'm not giving out advice or diagnosing others' situation, just my own):

Depression can be caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain, or by anxiety (or possibly a combination of the two, which I believe to be my case).  I believe depression runs in my family and has for generations, especially on my father's side, but that wasn't something that was discussed, therefore, it wasn't something that was never treated.

My parents were (and are) worriers and full of anxiety.  As a child, I saw their nervousness and anxiety and I learned to be that way as well because they were my parents and what they did and said, I was supposed to do and say.  At the early age of 5 or 6 I remember being in the backseat of my grandmother's car while she was driving around looking for a parking spot downtown, and I began counting the clicks of the turn signal (old cars had loud clicking turn signals).  I found the clicks to be soothing and I liked counting them because it kept my mind occupied and not worried about not finding a spot to park because somehow it seemed to me that something bad would happen if we did not find a parking space.  When the signal stopped, I could no longer count the clicks and I became extremely nervous and anxious.  Years later I was diagnosed with mild O.C.D. and the counting of the car signal was my first ritual.  I always count things when I'm nervous and anxious, but I can't stop on the numbers 4 or 6.  If I do, I have to start over and either double-up or triple-up on the objects or acts I'm counting so as not to end on 4 or 6 again.

My teenage years and adult years have been riddled with anxiety, sometimes almost crippling.  Anxiety disorders affect both my sister and my brother as well and we have all been treated for them in one way or another throughout our lives.  When I began taking antidepressants, I believed they were working because I wanted to believe the antidepressants were working, and maybe they did work, but I'm not convinced I was a victim of the placebo effect.

I tried going off of the antidepressants a few months ago, but found that I should have tapered off at a much slower pace, and the side effects were disastrous, and as I was preparing for my wedding, I decided to go back on the meds again.  I found many chatrooms and forums with folks trying to go off of their antidepressants and the side effects and problems experienced by those participating in these discussions is frightening.

Now that the wedding is over, life is calm and normal again, I'm going to make another attempt.  Why you ask?  That is a very good question, one that I will attempt to answer in later blogs if I don't commit hara-kiri..that reminds me of a time just a few years ago when I decided I wanted to become a Samurai...

 

--Fortuitous Observer

My First Pair of Reading Glasses - A Gen Xer's Tale of Woe

I finally had to do it.  I had to buy a pair of reading glasses.  Typing those words just now sent pains through me like finger nails on a chalkboard, dropping a full can of paint on my big toe, breaking it into 3 pieces, and being forced to listen to any song by Bread...you get the point.  I can't believe it.  I am getting old.

For nearly a year I've known I needed reading glasses, but I've been playing little games with myself, trying to pretend that I don't really need reading glasses.  OK, maybe I can't read the dosage instructions on my new medication and I've been taking whatever dose sounds good.  I haven't died yet.  I haven't even been woozy or sick, so at least I'm not overtaking the stuff.  All-in-all, the "pretending" hasn't gotten me into too much trouble.  So, why then, you ask, did I buy reading glasses?

I'll tell you why.  Because I'm a sensible person and I know I need them, and the need will probably only grow, but the most important reason is because I found some of the funkiest reading glasses I've ever seen.  Yup.  I found them online this past weekend, ordered them, and I got them today!  They are too cool for words, and...I can see.

I'll admit defeat.  I'll admit I'm getting old(er), but I still insist on looking fabulous.  I was actually gonna post a Bread song from YouTube, but I think I'll post that awesome song, "I Can See Clearly Now" by Mr. Johnny Nash, so everyone enjoy:

--Fortuitous Observer

Cough Syrup & Lies!

Boyfriend is sick, I'm sick.  I suffered through a month of hell with an upper respiratory infection November through December; an infection that wanted to keep a strong hold on to me like it was hanging over the side of a cliff about to plummet to its death or likely to be dropped into a boiling vat of wax.  I finally shook the thing after getting two shots, one in each hip, at the same time (I believe I mentioned that in another post, Flossing and Fainting).  That was an experience to journal about and pass along to my grandkids (oh, wait, I don't have/want kids, so how am I going to get grandchildren exactly?  Can you adopt grandchildren?  Not saying I wanna, just curious...).

Anyway, as usual I'm whining.  To make matters worse I realized today that I'm going to be 41 next month.  Yup, that's right.  I'll be, officially, "in my 40s" which sucks.  This is making me think that perhaps I have no (or limited) control over my health now that I'm on my way to middle age.  God, I'm growing more depressed as I type.

What happened to the vim and umph of my youth?  As a kid I could walk around for days with a snotty nose, sniffles, watery eyes and that raspy cough (the one that as an adult makes me run like a bat out of hell when I hear it coming from a kid).  It took so much to knock me down and make me give up playing and take a spot on the couch or my bed, gulping down teaspoons of cough syrup.  Actually, I think that is why I refused to admit I was sick and feigned perfect health:  I didn't want to take the cough medicine.  Kids, your parents are lying to you when they tell you if you hold your nose and take it you won't taste it.  You will and it tastes like shit.

So, now that I've whined, I need to buck up and get over it.  Poseidon had to get two shots yesterday (he is much worse than I am this time), and he has to take 3 different meds, including a cough medicine, and he isn't whining.  I forgot to tell him to hold his nose when he takes it.

--Fortuitous Observer