Session 4
Jen and I are back in the play therapy room sitting at the table
with the sand tray, except instead of putting action figures in the sand, Jen
sets down a piece of paper in front of me and some markers.
“I want you to draw a picture of how you feel.”
“Ok.”
I look at the markers. I
don’t know what to draw, but it’s easier to draw than talk. The black and the red markers stand out to
me. I pick up the black marker and place
the tip on the paper. I quit trying to
think and I just draw. I make some peaks
on a mountain. Then I draw another
mountain on the other side of the paper and a valley in the middle. I draw myself as a stick person on the top of
the mountain and a huge boulder hanging on the edge. I don’t have to try to think anymore. It’s just coming. I make a frown and angry eyebrows and my arms
on the boulder because I’m pushing the boulder off the cliff. I look at the valley and then at the markers. I choose light colors and draw three stick
people in the valley; one light blue, one orange and the smallest one
yellow. I put the light colors down and
pick up the black marker again and draw stairs going up the side of the
mountain. Then I draw a box around
myself with bars on it. I make the
boulder so it’s just barely hanging, about to fall down on top of the three
stick figures in the valley. I look at
the picture, put the marker down and look up at Jen.
“Who is at the top of the mountain?”
“That’s me.”
“Why are you in a cage?”
“I feel trapped.”
“Who are the three people in the valley?”
“Those are my kids.”
“And what are you doing with the boulder?”
“I’m pushing it over the cliff on top of them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to, but I don’t know how to stop.”
“What do you think the boulder represents?”
I look at my little stick figure children in the valley and think
about Andy.
We’re in the
neurologist’s office. She is helping us
determine why Andy has a facial twitch.
Our pediatrician said most kids grow out of them, but he hasn’t. I’m trying not to think about the worst, but thoughts
of brain tumors and cancer creep into my mind.
She checks Andy’s reflexes. Then she makes him follow her fingers with
his eyes as she moves them up and down, back and forth. She gives him a few more instructions and
then tells us he’s fine. JB and I look
at her. I don’t know what to say. She hasn’t done any scans or anything. She just moved her fingers around! She tells us to take him to an eye doctor and
a psychologist. I can’t move. She’s staring at us. Andy hops off the table and walks toward
me. I still can’t talk. I want her to do something. JB says something and I follow him out of the
office holding Andy’s hand. I start
thinking about who we’re going to call next.
Obviously, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I can’t believe we’re going to pay for this.
We decide to take
him to the eye doctor and psychologist so we can check that off our list before
we find a competent neurologist. Then we
can show that we followed her orders.
The eye doctor says Andy has a slight stigmatism, but it’s not enough to
cause twitching. We get him some glasses
anyway. Then we take him to a child
psychologist at a nearby counseling center.
We explain to her briefly what has happened with his twitching. She asks to have a few minutes alone with Andy.
We sit in the waiting room. Two large
pictures of flower arrangements are hanging just above the cherry wood
trim. One frame is slightly crooked, and
I want to get up and straighten it, but there are people sitting in front of
it. Several minutes later, Samantha
comes out of her office. She tells us
she is really glad we brought him. He is
showing some signs that could be causing his twitching. I can’t move again. I can’t talk.
She asks for a few more minutes with him. I look around the office and begin to wonder
what she saw. Maybe my drinking and
anger have caused his twitching. My
heart suddenly feels like lead. I slump
into a chair. My mind is trying to
wander back through his young life, but I can’t think. I stare at the crooked picture frame. The people who were sitting in front of the
picture are gone, and there’s no one else in the waiting room, so I get up and
push the bottom edge of the frame until it’s straight.
“Andy is in play therapy.
He has a twitch, and I think it’s because of me. I yell a lot.
It’s like it comes out of nowhere.
One minute they make a mess and I’m fine, and the next minute Jenna
spills some milk and I completely explode.”
I see pictures in my head of things I’ve done. I look at the floor. I like Jen so much; I don’t want to tell her
things that will make her think less of me.
But, I have to tell her. My kids
are more important. I take a deep
breath.
“One time when Jenna was three years old, I exploded and was
screaming at her. I didn’t stop until I
saw the look on her face. She was
terrified. I knew then that I needed
help. I worried that next time…”
I trail off. I don’t want
to think about it.
“Next time what?”
I close my eyes.
“Next time…I might hit her.”
I open my eyes and look beyond Jen to a picture on the wall. I can still see my daughter’s face. She is curled up in a ball. Her eyes are so big. People used to stop me on the street to say
what beautiful, big eyes she had. Now
they are full of terror. I want so much
to disappear, to make everything I’ve done go away. I am the person I swore I would never
become. I hate myself.
“I also spanked Johnny once.
I mean, I had spanked him before, but one time I did it too hard. I was out of control.”
I stop talking and put my head down. I close my eyes. After I did it, I knew I had crossed the
line. It was as if someone else was in
my body.
Johnny is
screaming and holding his bottom. My
heart falls down through my chest. I am
frozen. If I could die right now I
would. I pick him up and sit in the
rocking chair. I rock him back and
forth and back and forth. His crying
finally dies down. I hold him
tight. Tears run down my cheeks. I want to say I’m sorry, but he’s so
little. He doesn’t understand. He’s so sweet and innocent. He deserves better than me. He stops crying and falls asleep in my arms,
but I’m not done rocking him. I’m still
crying.
“It might seem like your anger erupts without any warning, but
there are signs you can watch for and ways to keep yourself from exploding.”
Jen gets up and opens a desk drawer. She flips through some files and pulls out a
piece of paper. I think about child
abuse. Before I had kids I wondered how
someone could hurt their own child. I
don’t wonder anymore. I love my children
more than anything. If someone else
tried to hurt them, I’d kill them. So,
how do I hurt the people I love the most?
“This is a chain analysis chart.
It will take us step by step through a situation and help us see where
your anger comes from, and it will help you figure out what thoughts you need
to change in order to change your behavior.”
I look at the worksheet as Jen walks me through it.
“What is something that just happened this week that you see as a
problem behavior?”
It doesn’t take me long to think of being angry.
“I blew up yesterday and threw a baseball bat across the garage.”
“Ok, write that in the first blank where it says problem behavior.’”
I write in “angry” and “threw a bat in the garage.”
“Ok, what was the prompting event that started you on this chain
to the problem behavior?”
“What do you mean?”
“What happened right before you blew up?”
“Nothing.”
“Something happened. It
doesn’t matter what it was. It could be
anything.”
“Well, I think I was making dinner.”
“Ok, write that down.”
I write down making dinner in the box entitled, “Prompting Event.”
“Do you remember how you were feeling while you were making
dinner?”
“I think I was frustrated.”
“Do you remember why you were frustrated?”
“Because I was making a frozen pizza.”
“Was there something frustrating about that?”
“If I was a good mom, I’d be making something other than frozen
pizza.”
“What would a good mom do?”
“She’d make a healthy meal with vegetables and fruit. She’d make sure they have all their food
groups and nutrition and they’d eat together and everyone would do their part,
helping to set and clear the table. It
would be like the Brady Bunch.”
“Do you think there are real families like the Brady Bunch?”
“Yes.”
I don’t know why she’d ask that.
Isn’t everyone’s family like the Brady
Bunch? That’s all I want. If I could be a combination of Mrs. Brady and
Caroline Ingalls from Little House on the
Prairie, I’d be perfect and my kids would be perfect and life would be
perfect.
“One of the myths adult children of alcoholics believe is that
everyone’s family looks like the families on TV. Actually, most families are
dysfunctional in one way or another.”
I think about one of my mom’s friends. Her house is spotless and her kids are
perfect. Once, her son didn’t make his
bed before he left for school, so she went to the school, picked him up and
brought him home to make his bed. My mom
was appalled that her friend would do something like that over an unmade
bed. I thought it was a little
overboard, but it worked. It intrigued
me. I wondered if that’s what you had to
do to keep order in the house.
“What else was going on that day before you began to make dinner?”
“I ran some errands in the morning, and I was meeting someone in
the afternoon, so I didn’t have time to go running.”
“Do you feel better after you run?”
“Yes.”
I think about how running has always been an outlet for me. When I’m really frustrated, JB carefully asks
me if I want to go for a run. I get mad
at him every time he asks because I know he’s really just saying I’m crabby. But when I get back from running I feel like
a different person.
“How often do you run?”
“I’ve been trying to run every day now.”
“That’s good.”
She writes it on her whiteboard.
“Is there anything else you could have changed about your day that
would have helped you not explode by dinnertime?”
“I guess if I’d had less things to do I wouldn’t have felt so
rushed. I would have had time to
run. And if I’d planned ahead for
dinner, I wouldn’t have been late to my meeting.”
“And how did all those activities make you feel?”
“I was mad that I had to go to a meeting that night. I was mad that I was an alcoholic. I was mad that JB doesn’t trust me, and I was
mad that my schedule was so crazy that day.”
Jen stands and starts writing the list of things I did that day on
the whiteboard.
“So, you didn’t run, you had too many things scheduled, you aren’t
accepting reality and you’re beating yourself up. Looking at your environment, what do you
think you could do to reduce your vulnerability to anger?”
I look at the whiteboard.
“What do you mean?”
“What are some things you could do that would lessen the chance of
you getting angry?”
I start thinking about that day and how uncontrollable it feels
when everything inside of me begins to erupt.
I had my outpatient group that morning. I ran errands. I had lunch with a friend. By the time I got
home I didn’t have time to run. I hate
it when I can’t run. I clench my
fist. I breathe and try to think.
“I always feel better when I run.”
“Ok, so you know running should be a priority for you.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“What could you have done to fit running into your schedule?”
“I would have had to skip lunch to go running.”
“That’s good.”
She crosses out “lunch” from the whiteboard list. I feel a little weight lifting as I look at
the word lunch with a big line through it.
I’d never thought of cancelling something like that. What a great idea.
“What else?”
“I could have asked JB to pick up his own dry cleaning. He works really close to the cleaners.”
Jen puts a line through “errands” on her whiteboard. As she does, I don’t feel any lighter. I feel guilty. I don’t ask JB to do anything
because he works and I stay home. I feel
like it’s my job to do everything else.
“How about dinner? How
could that be better?”
“If I had planned ahead, maybe we’d have healthier meals and we
could all eat together.”
“That’s really good. Now,
what could you change about the thoughts you were thinking during dinner about
being a bad mom?”
“Well…”
I feel like she wants me to say I’m a good mom or at least that
I’m not a bad mom, but that’s not true.
I served frozen pizza. I am in
recovery for making a decision to drink instead of taking care of my
children. I want to buy a motorcycle and
drive off as far from my problems as I can.
I am not all the positive things she wants me to say.
“Could you say that it’s not the worst thing in the world to make
frozen pizza? Or that you have had the
courage to come in for help because you want to change instead of stubbornly
continuing to drink and hurt your family?”
I can’t argue with that even if I am a bad mom.
“I guess I could say that I’m not drinking today.”
“That’s the first positive thing you’ve said about yourself since
you got here!”
Session 5
I’m on my way to Jen’s. I
park my car in front of the three story building. I grab my notebook and purse. I do my usual ritual of stopping in the
bathroom before heading down the long hallway to Jen’s office. I try not to look in the mirror, but it
stretches across the entire wall and my reflection is hard to avoid as I wash
my hands. I walk down the hall to the
office door. The bell rings as I walk
in. There’s still no one else in the
other therapists’ offices, and I wonder how they afford the rent here. It’s an older building, so maybe it’s a lot
cheaper than most places. It’s
definitely not like the therapist’s office where we take Andy.
Andy’s play therapist is part of a busy, new office complex. It’s hard to find a parking place, which is
frustrating because I’m always late. We
enter the office on a marble floor and sign in with the secretary at a cherry,
wood desk. We sit in the large waiting
room where there are always several people waiting their turn. There are beautiful paintings on the wall and
music pumped into the room through stylish speakers, but I like the atmosphere
in Jen’s office better. The carpet is
old and the furniture is faded, but if we’re in the middle of an issue we may
go 15 or 20 minutes over my time. It’s
like I’m her only patient and she has all the time in the world for me.
I walk into Jen’s office.
She smiles at me as she looks up from the paperwork on her desk. I sit on the old, comfortable couch and sink
in. She sits in her arm chair.
“How was your week?”
“It was okay.”
“Just okay?”
I should have said I was fine.
I hate answering these feeling questions. But I need to be honest. I’m agitated and don’t know why. I need to think of some feeling words from
the picture chart.
“I feel frustrated.”
“What is making you feel frustrated?”
I want to run out of the room.
I make myself come back mentally.
My thoughts feel like they are on the Scrambler ride at the county
fair. I can’t slow them down long enough
to see what’s there.
“I don’t know.”
“Think of your week. What
comes to mind?”
“I was really busy this week.
It seems like I’m either bored or there’s too much going on.”
“Do you have a calendar?”
“At home I have one on the wall.”
“Do you see it often?”
“Not often enough. I forget
to look at it most of the time.”
“So, how do you plan things or keep track of your schedule?”
"I don’t. I just do what’s
in front of me at the moment. If I’m
excited about something I don’t forget.
But if it’s details and it’s not in front of me, I forget about it.”
“You need to get a pocket calendar that you can carry with you so
you always have your schedule in front of you.”
“Ok.”
I get out my notebook and write that down. I wonder if I’ll remember to look in my
notebook this week.
“You are probably creating most of the chaos in your life
yourself. A lot of people who grew up in
chaotic homes become comfortable in that environment because it’s what they
know. Without realizing it, they create
havoc in their lives because it’s the only way they know how to function.”
I cross my arms and look out the window. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever
heard.
“What is your schedule like?”
“It’s all recovery stuff and my kids’ activities.”
“What was your life like before treatment and recovery?”
I smile a little. I don’t
even know where to start.
“I was homeschooling my kids, taking a class to finish my degree,
writing skits for my church’s Women’s Ministry team, leading Bible studies, and
running weekend retreats. I coached my
kids’ soccer and softball teams and was looking at how to add homeschool sports
into the private school conference.”
“And you took care of your home and meals too?”
“Oh, yeah, that too.”
“That’s a really full schedule.”
“I like to keep busy.”
“Why do you think you like to keep busy?”
“I don’t like to waste time.”
“Is relaxing a waste of time?”
“Yes. I mean people have to
sleep, but I have thought it would be cool if I could learn to do that deep
sleep thing so I would only need two-to-three hours of sleep a night. Then I could get so much more done.”
“Have you ever thought that you keep yourself busy so you don’t
have to be alone with yourself and your thoughts and your feelings?”
I look out the window again.
I am fascinated by Jen’s question.
I would never have thought of that, but it makes so much sense. She’s right.
I don’t like being alone.
“I don’t know. I never
thought about it. I just don’t feel good when I’m not getting things done.”
“What kinds of things do you like to get done?”
“Well, there’s always housework, but that doesn’t really make me
feel good. I guess I feel the best when
I do something for my church, like write a skit or help out with our Bible
study.”
“Why does that make you feel good?”
“Because it makes me feel like I’m helping others, making them
think differently, see God in a way they didn’t see him before.”
“How do you think God sees you?”
I’m quiet and still. I
start thinking about the ways I’ve taught others about how much God loves them
no matter what they’ve done or who they are.
I’ve tried to write skits that move people in a way that they feel
closer to God. But how does God see me?
“I think he sees me as someone he created for a purpose.”
“For what purpose do you think he created you?”
“I think he gave me the talent to write and wants me to use it to
help people.”
Jen shifts in her chair and her eyes seem browner, almost black as
she leans closer to me. She raises an
eyebrow.
“Do you think God would think the same about you whether you were
using your talent or not? If you didn’t
do another thing for your church do you think he’d still love you?”
I can’t look away from her intense gaze. I feel like a rabbit caught in a trap. I know the answer is supposed to be yes, but
I can’t say that. I don’t believe
it. How can God think the same way about
the person who’s lying around on the couch watching soaps on TV and the person
who sells their house to use the money to go to Africa to help millions of
orphaned children?
“No, I don’t think he would.”
“So, you think you need to earn his love? Is that what you write about?”
“No! I write about his
grace and love for people.”
“So you’re special then.
The rules don’t apply to you.”
I move around on the couch.
I’m hot and my heart is beating fast.
She doesn’t understand either.
She is starting to sound like Nancy.
Nancy keeps telling me life isn’t about how much I do, but about who God
says I am. No one understands me. I can’t explain that inner drive to be the
best at something. It’s been there as
long as I can remember. The drive to
achieve something is like a train. It’s
so fast and powerful. There are no
brakes. It never stops. It just goes and goes and goes.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“That’s what you said.”
“I know, but….I can’t explain it.”
“Listen, people can’t keep themselves going 110 percent all the
time without burning out. Alcoholics are
often workaholics as well. And for the
most part, people who are workaholics are just covering their fear of being
alone and their fear of failure.”
I’m letting her words roll around in my mind. I’ve been living at 110 percent for
years. I don’t know how else to do it.
“I would like to teach you some exercises to help you slow down
your mind.”
It sounds painful, but it might be a relief if I could get my
thoughts to slow down enough to put them in order a little bit. Jen pushes a button on a little CD player
that sits on her shelf by her teapot.
Soothing music begins to play. I
move around on the couch cushions trying to get comfortable.
“Close your eyes.”
I close my eyes. The notes
from the music float from the CD player to my mind.
“Take a deep breath in, and let it out slowly.”
I listen to her breathe in and out. I take a deep breath in. As I breathe out, my shoulders roll inward
and I put my hands between my knees. The
weight of my thoughts pulls my head down.
“Take another deep breathe in and as you let it out, picture your
anger and anxiety as the color red and you’re pushing it out of your body as
you exhale.”
I try to visualize the color red inside my body. I have trouble seeing the color red inside me. The music continues to flow into my head and my brain is melting. I hear her saying something about breathing in a white light and breathing out the red. I’m trying to see the white light, but it’s harder to see than the red. I take a deep breath and try to force the white light to appear. The music takes me to a beach with palm trees and white sand. I’m in Mexico with JB and we’re walking along the beach listening to the waves crash against the shore and run up over our feet. It feels cold and tickles as it runs quickly and forcefully back to the sea. The shells disappear and reappear with every wave that washes in.
“Jenny.”
I open my eyes. Jen is
looking at me.
“Are you following?”
“I think I was with you for a while. I had a hard time focusing on
the lights and I started thinking about the music and then I was in Mexico.”
A wave of emotion washes over me as the tide of the Mexican daydream
vanishes. Not going any further. I was just starting to feel comfortable
talking. There’s so much inside of me. I just want her to keep pulling things out of
me until they stop torturing me. I’ve
kept them buried for so long, and we’re finally digging them out. But she stopped digging. And now she’s taking our shovels and hanging
them up. I feel mixed emotions, wanting
to share my pain with someone, but relieved that I don’t have to. On the other hand, ADD could be my
answer. I’ve always wondered what was
wrong with me. Why couldn’t I
concentrate in my classrooms growing up?
Why did I always get caught staring out the window? Why couldn’t I keep my house and life
organized? ADD would make sense. Of course!
This is the piece of the puzzle I’ve been missing for so long.
Jen changes gears and looks up a name for me: Dr. Randy
Nelson. She hands me a piece of paper,
and I copy down the clinic information.
“I want you to call him when you get home and make an
appointment.”
We talk about ADD for the rest of the session; what it is, how it
works, why it makes life so difficult.
I’m completely lost in this new development. Maybe this is the answer to all of my problems,
and things will be so much easier once I get some ADD medication. I’m expecting a miracle as we end our session
a little early, both of us invigorated by this piece of the puzzle. I can’t wait to get home. I haven’t been sharing much with JB about my
sessions with Jen, and I don’t like to talk to him about my feelings, but I
can’t wait to tell him ADD is the answer to all of our problems.
Session 6
I’m dragging a bag full of ADD books down the hallway to Jen’s
office. I bought them after leaving her
office last week. I don’t hesitate at
the office door today because I’m excited to get inside and talk some more
about this ADD solution. I’ve read a lot
of chapters out of all four of the books and I’ve made my appointment with Dr.
Nelson. I’m frustrated with JB’s
response. He doesn’t believe I have ADD. Neither does Nancy. They think I’m just
looking for a magic pill to make everything go away. So what if I am? From what I’ve read so far the magic pill
works! I could have a normal life. I could have one long constant flow of thought
without getting off track. ADD seems so
obvious to me now. I don’t know how they
can’t see it? What do they know? They think they know everything! I hate that!
Jen is a therapist with a license.
Plus, JB and Nancy are so logical.
I know they don’t understand me.
Jen hears me come in and barely has a chance to say anything
before I walk up to her office door.
“Hi.”
I walk in and sink into my spot on the couch. I have my books and calendar in a red bag I
set on the floor.
“It looks like you brought some things with you today.”
“Yeah, I bought a calendar, a wristband, some athletic tape and
six books about ADD. I only brought four
of them with me and I made an appointment with Dr. Nelson.”
“Great! When is your
appointment?”
“I couldn’t get in until next week.”
“That’s great.”
I pull the books out of my bag and set them on the couch.
“I’ve been reading a lot this week. My favorite book was, Moms with ADD. It explained
what is expected in the role of being a mom vs. what the world actually gets
with an ADD mom. It focused on the
positive aspects of ADD like creativity and inspiration and a better ability to
play with your kids. It also had a lot
of great coping skills and information on medication.”
I think I should feel as excited as I sound, but I feel
empty. I feel like we hit a fork in the
road and turned the wrong way. I can’t
wait to get to Dr. Nelson’s office and get a confirmation of my ADD along with
the magic pill that will change my life!
But I’m worried that if I do have ADD, Jen will think that’s the answer
to my problems and she won’t ask me anymore questions or try to draw out how I
feel. What if this is one of the last
times I get to sit on her couch? I
breathe in deep and sit up straighter. I
feel the few cracks we’ve made in the wall around my heart beginning to seal
up.
Jen looks at the pile of stuff I brought.
“What is the wristband for?”
“Well, I bought the calendar and put my schedule in there, but it
didn’t help me remember what I needed from the grocery store or an errand, so I
thought if I could write down everything I needed on my wrist every day, then
I’d have it right in front of me where I couldn’t forget it.”
“That’s a great idea! How
did it work?”
“Well, it still needs some work.”
My first trip with my wristband is out to the
drug store where I not only need to pick up medications for JB, but I also need
to get lunch bags and distilled water. I write all three things down on the athletic tape and wrap it around
the wristband, which is on my arm. I
pull my sleeve down over the wristband as I walk into the store. I walk down the card aisle and start thinking
about my father-in-law because his birthday is coming up. I tell myself that I need to get him a card
before the end of the month. I walk to
the next aisle and stop. I don’t know
where I’m going. I think about what I
need and remember the wristband. I look
around to see if anyone is watching me.
I don’t see anyone. I pull up my
sleeve and look at the list. Oh yeah, distilled
water. I walk a few aisles down. Then I see the aisle with paper and pens, and
I veer toward the pens. I love
pens. I start looking at my favorites;
the fine tip ball point pens. I grab a
three-pack rationalizing to myself that it’s ok to buy them since I’ve been
doing so much journaling and recovery homework.
It makes it easier to fill in the emotional blank spaces when I use my
favorite pen.
I start walking down the aisle. Where next? I look at my wrist again. Oh yeah, distilled water. I need to focus. I walk down the next aisle and grab the distilled water. I look at my wrist again: lunch bags. This is kind of cool. I would have forgotten something by now, for sure! But I feel like an idiot. Who loses track of what they’re looking for with each new aisle or item that attracts their attention?! I’m so stupid. I get the lunch bags and head toward the check out. I keep my eyes down on the counter so I don’t have to meet the eyes of the cashier. I heave the gallon jug of water onto the counter and wince as I notice my wristband is sticking out. I look up at the cashier, but she doesn’t seem to notice it. I slide my sleeve back down over the wristband. I pay, and she puts my receipt in the bag. She says to have a good day. I’ve already turned to walk away so I add a half-hearted, “You too.” It’s probably not very convincing. I climb into my van and sit behind the steering wheel. I can’t help thinking about how stupid I am. I feel like I’m slower than the other people in the store. I wonder if I will ever feel like part of society again. I get home. That’s when I realize I forgot to get the medications. It was even on my wrist!
“Has your calendar helped you keep track of your schedule?”
“When I remember to bring it with me.”
“Your number one rule with your calendar should be that you don’t
schedule anything unless you have your calendar with you.”
“That’s a good idea.”
I get out my notebook to write that down so I don’t forget. I’ve found that I don’t remember much of my
therapy sessions unless I write it down.
“How did you do with your anger this week?”
I think back through the week. I can only remember bits of yesterday
and the trip to the store.
“I was more depressed than angry this week.”
“What made you feel depressed?”
“I feel that way most of the time when I don’t feel angry.”
“Do you know that anger is a form of depression?”
“No.”
That’s weird. Anger and
depression seem completely opposite.
Sometimes this therapy stuff doesn’t make any sense.
“Many people with anger don’t realize they are depressed, because
it expresses itself in a different way.”
It makes me think about one of my appointments with the
psychiatrist at the treatment center.
She wrote down that I have chronic depression. I asked what that meant. She said it meant I’ve had depression for
many years. That sounded wrong because I
was a very happy person until I started drinking. Now it makes more sense, because I’ve been
angry for as long as I can remember.
“What do you think about when you’re depressed?”
“Well…”
What do I think about?
Mostly I don’t think at all. I
just exist. But it is better now than
when the depression was at its worst.
One day in particular stands out.
I’m sitting in my
office. No one else is in the
house. I’ve been sitting on this chair
staring at the wall and I don’t know how much time has passed. My head hurts. It’s not like a headache. It’s darkness. It’s a black hole sucking the life out of me. It’s not stagnant. It’s active.
It tortures me. I close my eyes
and rock back and forth. It does
nothing. It doesn’t matter how I move,
what I say, what I do. It follows
me. It haunts me. I want to push on it to ease the pain like I
do with a stomachache. I just want to
ease the pain a little, but the pain is so deep, like a deep-tissue bruise that
nothing can reach. Today is worse than
usual. It stretches on like there is no
beginning and no end. I just want it to
go away. I start thinking of ways
out. I think about getting into my car
and letting the garage fill up with exhaust.
I think about shooting myself. I
think about a big bottle of pills.
That’s it. I think of a huge
bottle and then lots of bottles. I pour
handfuls into my mouth and swallow them down with a glass of water. I watch myself slowly fall asleep. I look so peaceful in my imagination. I drift away into Jesus’ arms. He is holding me. There is no condemnation for those in Christ
Jesus. I don’t feel guilt, just relief. The thoughts of suicide relieve my mind just
a tiny bit. It’s all I can do. These thoughts draw me. I want to get closer to them. I go over this image again and again. My shoulders feel so heavy. Weights hold me to the chair. I feel like I can’t move a muscle. I finally look away from the wall. I look at the clock. It seems like it’s been an eternity. It’s only been five minutes. I can’t keep going. Someone has slowed the clock down to an
impossible existence and I wonder why God is doing this to me. This must be what hell is like. No, I think it must be worse than hell. Nothing can compare to this deep, heavy
darkness. It’s like it will never
end.
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been taking it?”
“I started it in the fall before I went to treatment.”
“We should look into getting you something else if this isn’t
working.”
“Ok.”
“Something we touched on, but haven’t really gone through is your
diet and exercise. These are extremely
important to your mental health. Are you
still running every day?”
“I’m trying.”
I know Jen thinks this is a good thing. And I think it’s a good thing, but there is
some huge tension with JB about my running.
He always wants to know how long I’ll be gone or where I’m going. I hate it!
I can’t stand that he wants to know where I am all the time. And Nancy has a totally different take on my
running. She thinks I just switched one
addiction for another. Well, at least
with running I’m staying in shape. How
bad can it be?!
“How are your eating habits?”
“Well, they’re not great, but they’re not bad.”
“There’s a great nutrition website I want you to go to. There are all kinds of books and other places
to learn how to eat healthy. It’s really
important for your recovery, so I want you to keep track of your exercise and
watch what you’re eating. It’s good to
avoid caffeine, especially if you have ADD.”
“Ok.”
I’m all for the running, but I know before I even leave her office
that I’m not going to look up a nutrition website. I’m also not giving up my Mountain Dew. I know there is caffeine-free Mountain Dew,
but that seems like drinking non-alcoholic beer. What’s the point?
2 comments:
GBU
amygdala
it was good. thanks for sharing.
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