Weight Loss Comments

Weight loss.

A daunting battle since I was in junior high.

It seems those fifty pounds I gained in three years are hanging on.

Only now it's eighty pounds.

Daunting.

It's depressing.  I've lost twenty-six pounds which is fine.

It's good.  It's okay.  It's frustrating.  I ought to be happy.

One time I lost sixty pounds in six months.

I was in my late twenties.

Emotionless.

Right now my appetite is way down.

At the hospital they have you eat three meals a day plus snacks.

I thought I was going to burst.

I gained eight pounds.

Boundaries.

I cannot watch the skinny commercials.

"Take this pill, use this machine, take a yoga class."

None of those work for me.

I like to eat very little but what I eat isn't always the best choice.

Puzzled.

Some protein drink.

Some water, tea or sugar free lemonade.

Some fruit smoothie.

Some ice cream

Truth.

Prayer about it is always good.

Now that I'm in a small group I have hope that I will make friends.

Going to AA meetings is helping.

Talking to my friends and family is new and good.

Hope.

Who To Tell Your Diagnosis To

When I started my GoFundMe campaign, I believed telling the truth was the best decision.  After all, as a follower of Jesus Christ, I am encouraged to be a truth teller so long as I do it respectfully and in His love.  I believed in my heart that saying I had mental illness and more specifically bipolar depression would serve as a reason why I was on disability.  I felt I needed to explain myself so that it didn't look like I was financially irresponsible or mooching off of my friends or the public.

The first couple of days went okay.  I told a little bit of my story and then something happened.  I had a day when the bipolar depression hit my psyche.  I thought, "Wow!  I could record this video so people can see what bipolar depression looks like for me."  I pressed the record button and this is what I said:

I thought it was really good because:

1. I stayed focused on the lens
2. I did not garble my words
3. My message was clear and concise

But that's not what a member of my family and a close friend said.  They didn't like it, each for their own reasons which they freely told me.

I felt hurt.  I felt judged.  I felt embarrassed for having recorded and posted it.  I felt ashamed of having bipolar.  I was encouraged to remove it.   I did and I never should have.

I was asked why I posted that video.  It was to educate people about bipolar depression.  Neither of these people who shared their opinion have ever seen me this way.  No one has.  I stay inside my house on days like this, lay on the couch and wait for it to pass.  It lasts for days at a time so I'm safest by myself.  I don't want people to see me but then again, I have nothing to be ashamed of.

It's my choice who I tell, why I tell and how I tell.  But I have to be wise in each of those.  I tell those who are closest to me.  I tell them because they love me and want to help.  How I tell them is gently as I'm shaking a bit with anxiety.

Maybe taking the video off the GoFundMe page was a good idea.  All I know is that taking it down was taking down a part of me.  

I guess, in some circumstances, keeping my diagnosis a secret is a good thing.

The Water Color Painting and The Tree

I was trying to paint the sunset at a forest preserve that I've grown very fond of.  It's where I go to meet with God, walk with a friend, cast a fishing line or sit on a picnic table on a sunny fall day listening to the wind and watching the boats going by.

What came out was a bright sky, a circle for the river and walkway and a tree.  But not just any tree.

The trees at the forest preserve which is what my painting represents (my safe place) are hundreds of years old.  Their trunks are so thick it would take multiple people to wrap your arms around them.  They have branches that reach out on each side for several feet and then they reach up toward the sky, so high, you have to shield your eyes from the sun.  They are magnificent creations that only the God who formed our earth and formed us could have created and preserved.

My tree has a thick trunk, too.  The branches have a wispy feel to them - not rugged or stiff.  As I was putting branches onto the main limbs, I dropped my paint brush.  I was disappointed because the smudge messed up my picture but then I took a closer look:

Do you see her?  It looks like a little girl with angel wings, kneeling and praying.  She is supported by what I believe is God's hand.  If you look to her left, that's an upside down picture of Peter Pan extending his hand to an angel who is extending her hand.

A little girl praying to her God.  A little boy who never grew up.  And an angel taking that little boy's hand as he flies to his next adventure.  But the little girl - she looks alone but she isn't.  When I turned the painting around in a circle, I saw many images of other people in those branches.  She wasn't alone after all.

When I shared this at group, the therapist asked me, "Amy, what is missing from your tree?"  I starred at it for awhile and said, "Roots."  I had no roots holding me up.  In the past I had deep roots but lately my roots have been brought up in controversy, negated and not approved of.  I realized I was letting others who knew nothing about me steal my roots, one by one.  I had better get them back quickly before I topple over and can't get up.

My roots are Jesus Christ and going to church, my family, my closest friends, my lovely therapist, my smiling psychiatrist, my thorough primary doctor, my AA meetings, taking time out for myself and trying to eat well.

Do you have roots?
Maybe this exercise would be good for you to do as a reminder of your strength and steadiness each time you lean on them.
That's one of my new plans.

Alexian Brothers Still Helps

I made the phone call to my psychiatrist's office.  I'd forgotten they were closed that day.  Nevertheless, I received a call back saying my psychiatrist was on call that night and to go in.  I asked if I'd be admitted into the general psych unit.  She didn't know.  I asked her to call and ask him that question.  I did not get a clear response but in essence to come in today because I had an incident (self-injury).

I started to drive there in the late evening.  On the way I called ABBHH and spoke to someone in the assessing department.  That's where they discuss with your psychiatrist which unit you'll be on.  She couldn't guarantee I'd be on the unit I wanted.  She asked if I could stay safe until the next day when I'd have more clarity from my psych.  I turned the car around and drove home.

His office called the next morning wondering where I was.  I told her the story.  She called back and confirmed I'd be in the unit he and I discussed three years ago.  I drove myself there like I always have and signed the papers.  It's really not that easy.  You usually have to wait anywhere from 2-4 hours to get to your unit but it's a comfortable enough room with others who are waiting so you don't sit there like a dork.

I struggled again and cried with the body check.  "Please remove all of your clothing, including your underwear, and place them on this table."  They hold a gown in front of you to give you some privacy but still, the gown is lifted and moved to check for scars or wounds.  For a sexual abuse survivor, it takes a lot of self-talk to get through it and lots of tears.  The most important sentence I said to myself was, "You are not being sexually abused.  You are being checked for your own safety and those on the unit.  Everyone has to do this and so can you.  Go ahead and cry, feel those uncomfortable feelings and remove your clothes so it can be over soon."

Once that trauma passed, I was able to talk to both nurses about stuff outside of what just happened.  They didn't need nor want to hear my story. I wasn't the first nor the last sexual abuse survivor they've checked.  I needed to lighten the mood in the room so that I could get out of my dissociative state and back into reality.

I attended groups, had three different roommates and my medication was changed.  I went in with a heavy heart and came out in the same condition.  I'm used to coming out happy and my spirit lifted but that was not the case.  This time, I identified the coping skills I'd let go of (AA meetings, talking at a deeper level, getting out of myself and helping others and not allowing people who are ignorant about mental illness to take away my serenity).  

In Expressive Therapy I made a clay piece which I allowed to take shape without any prethought about what it should be.  It turned out to be rectangular/oval in shape with the side view of Aaron's face on the right and a smoothed almost smeared look of his face looking at me on the left.  When I shared in group, I began to cry.  But I kept talking because I have to get past the feeling of embarrassment for crying and honor what I'm feeling for myself - no one else matters.

Another day we were asked to draw/paint a place where we feel safe.  This is what I did in water colors:

I'll share it's meaning tomorrow.

Body is Home

My body is home but my mind is elsewhere.
Depression and discouragement still heavy on my heart.
I'm going to my women's AA meeting Saturday morning.
Do I ask for a 6 year coin?
I don't know.
I guess I'll decide when I get there.