Thursday, September 8, 2016

On Sankofa...

to go back and find my confidence (where ever the fuck I left it).

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

... Because it's Been Over a Year.

I have managed to maintain my mental health as it’s been about two and a half years since the onset of my last episode. While much has remained the same, there are some notable improvements as well. A few months ago, after tipping the scales at 225+ pounds, I rejoined the gym in keeping with the go-hard-for-five-or-so-months-every-four-years-or-so rhythm. To date I am down 22 pounds and have seen my body fat decrease from 26% to roughly 17.5% (according to Wikipedia the body fat percentage for those considered fit begins at 17.0%, so I’m creeping upon that goal). Getting regular exercise is good for folks in general, but especially those looking to maintain their mental stability. In that sense it was almost something of a panacea for me, as it meant I cut out the binge eating/drinking and daily toking, in favor of caloric restriction, clean eating, and a veritable elimination of the substance (ab)use (apparently I was right on the borderline according to most generally accepted definitions of abuse). While the weight has plateaued over the last few weeks there have been NSV’s (non-scale victories), most noticeably not having to squeeze into my favorite pair of jeans.

I finally escaped the Target nightmare, where I had been working for a year and some change, mainly as a cashier and occasionally as a cart attendant (think ducking parking lot traffic while maneuvering 25 shopping carts for 8 hours at a time- yes about as much fun as it sounds). After working with a state employment counselor, I was finally able to take his suggestion and enroll in a human services training program. For those of you not in the know, the field of human services assists people from vulnerable populations (e.g., folks with developmental disabilities, the elderly, the abused, the addicted, the homeless, etc) regain their footing, confidence and independence. After being on the receiving end of said services off and on during the course of my cycling, I thought it was would be a good way to give back and find some semblance of occupational satisfaction and fulfillment. To this end, I hopped in an eight week human services training program, that immediately led to a spike of call backs and interviews to positions for which I had had little success in applying prior. Streamlining and updating the resume helped immensely, as did leading with something other than Tar-Jay. After a series of varied interviews, call backs, and cost/benefit analyses, I chose to work as a community support counselor in a residential setting, helping middle-aged people who are dealing with schizophrenia and/or schizo-affective disorder. The agency actually turned out to be the same one through which I have received therapy and med prescription while home, so there was a bit of anxiety about running into someone and being “discovered/outed”, so to speak, as I was hesitant to ever disclose my diagnosis unless “lived experience” was part of the job description (as is standard for certain recovery jobs). After reading the files of some of the consumers, it became clear that there was substantial overlap in both background and our providers. As I flipped through their phonebook-thick cases prior to meeting them, I thought, yep, “I’ve been on that med, seen that doctor in the psych ward, and have that same prescriber.” Despite hitting close to home, they seem more like reminders of my progress than triggers for my potential relapse. The robust off-site orientation and training period lasted four days, and I recently completed my second day of on-site work. Both my co-workers and the consumers seem like a solid bunch.


Wednesday, July 29, 2015

The Quarterly

I tend not to update this bad boy a whole lot for fear of repeating myself and the same follies that are endemic to (mood) instability. In other words, the constancy of what I perceive to be a perpetual rut serves as the chief reason that I avoid writing. That said, my treatment team, most notably my Shrink Scott, and another social worker Sam (a female) with whom I worked for eight months or so, continually marveled at progress I have made (this progress is, of course, in comparison to the rest of their afflicted clientele). 

The way I see it, barely keeping my head above water is hardly cause for celebration, but then again things could always be worse. Scott and Sam continually applauded my efforts to put in the work necessary to improve across the board. Though most days my attitude hovers around a semi-depressive baseline and my physical energy seems to be nil (sometimes it feels like I'm glued to the bed, where today, I spent an all too common twelve hours) unless I'm forcing myself to work or the gym, minimal progress is better than no progress. 

When I take one step forward after taking several backwards (the seeming story of the last decade- now leaving me in the figurative red as far as net progress is concerned) it's important to remember that that step forward is better than stagnation, or worse yet further backsliding. 

Monday, March 30, 2015

It's Been a While

While things have settled for the time being, it seems, and perhaps because of my doing, or lack thereof, there exists an omnipresent and damn near unshakable air of potential instability lurking. I was describing to Scott, my shrink, how stability seems to be like that Whack-a-Mole game that used to be popular during the Chuck-E-Cheese days. For those that may be unfamiliar essentially you are given a mallet and a fixed time to knock down the eponymous moles that continually pop up. Just when you smash one back into its hole, another one, or two, or three pop up, turning it into a quite the exercise after the sixty seconds or what have you is up.

Mental (i.e mood), domestic (e.g. housing), financial, and physical (weight and wellness) are all such or domains (or, in keeping with the above analogy, moles) that require consistence maintenance as they have all faltered at one point or another over the past decade, sometimes crashing down simultaneously in an (im)perfect cacophony.

While my mood has been fairly stable for the past few months, despite an unexpected hypomanic hiccup a few weeks back, I recently found out that my roommates (were I any kind of decent blogger, I would have filled in a gap or two-- as of the new year, I moved out of the shelter and into a room in a house full of good-natured, overachieving, yet hard-partying college kids) will be deserting the house in search of greener pastures in a couple of months or so. As things stand right now, I'm not sure how or if it will affect my occupancy, but at the very least I could find myself in a dark house sans wi-fi, as the utilities are currently in my roommate's name.

Financially speaking, my federal return, despite being far more than expected ($1,000 or so), soon went to some sparse furnishings, housekeeping items, and, I'm not going to front some other recreational indulgences that can be easily surmised by regular readership. I'm still waiting on the state return, and while it's only about four hundred dollars or so, I'm reluctant to just bank it, as that's simply an impulse purchase away from nothing. That said, I've thought about treating myself to what seems like my 45th new iPhone or perhaps a playstation; though these expenditures may come across as reckless, at least these items have a decent resale value, should necessity ever mandate a parting.


Wednesday, November 26, 2014

The More Things Change

In a nutshell, the four months since my last post have seen more of the same common denominator that has marred my life since my diagnosis: instability.

In the interest of time and energy, both of which are lacking as of the moment, I'll summarize with bullet points.

- Somehow, amidst the excitement of the birthday (in April), the tax refund from a year of slaving at Whole Foods, and my acceptance into the MSW program at the dear old alma mater, USC, I became manic.

- I then proceeded to lose my apartment and my car along with my sanity and stability that had been built up over the preceding year.

- Found myself broke as a joke, making less than a hundred dollars a week over the summer of 2014, while at the shelter again. I held on for as long as possible, and decided to venture out to LA, to give grad school one last attempt in earnest, knowing the odds were stacked against me.

- The daunting odds of going 0-60, on the proverbial scale of functioning, were indeed insurmountable.

- Withdrew from the MSW program less than two weeks into the program, and used the loan money to sustain and enjoy myself during my stay in Southern California. One month of this time was spent was a lovely and inviting Salvadorean family, and the second month was spent was my homeboy Terrie. Not having a sustainable source of pharmaceuticals, I self medicated with the finest medicinal mary jane, alcohol, nicotine, and the occasional Xanax, to induce some of the best sleep I've had in a while.

- Caught a cross country Greyhound back to Boston, not knowing where I would stay. Ended up crashing for two nights at the legally uninhabitable family property in Cape Cod, then in a motel 6, before finding myself back at the shelter.

- Linked up with my therapist and prescriber (and a new social worker, who thankfully is easy on the eyes), and began work at Target, as my sizable loan refund check had basically been squandered over the course of three months or so.

So here I am, riding the Manic-Depressive rollercoaster (currently working my way from the depths of depressive darkeness), in a situation eerily similar to that which I found myself two years ago at this point.


Thursday, July 10, 2014

And Scott Makes, "The List."



It seems Scott and I have hit the proverbial wall, you know the point where the patient-therapist relationship has been maximized in terms of returns. While I am interminably grateful for Scott and all of his atypical intellectual insights into my psychic workings, things came to a head last week when he challenged me by asking, “if you don’t have the wherewithal to endure the EBT (food stamp) paperwork renewal gauntlet, what makes you think you’ll be prepared to endure grad school?” Though these weren’t his words verbatim, it was something to this effect.

His query caught me off guard as he has to date been an ardent supporter of my efforts to return to school, but as is typically the case when nonplussed some time is required for me to gather my thoughts and development an argument that’s to my pleasing.

While I’ll spare the details of the multi-fanged rebuttal, it’s crucial to understand that my energies are indeed limited, and I’m the first to admit that burnout (and it’s oppositional cousin boredom) is a peak of said expenditure that leaves me winded and ready to quit any climb at a moment’s notice. That said, I’m eating. While my diet on a day to day basis may not be a nutritionist’s dream, somehow or another Scott seemed to be under the impression that I woke up and walked around all day with my ribs touching. Not the case.
As this notion of energy conservation goes further, it feels as if I’m gearing up for the title fight, or the gauntlet that is graduate school, part trois. Not only will I have to hit the ground running in mid – August, I’ll have to hit it gunnin’ as well. 

Long ago this notion of kicking my feet up and having some degree to time to just chill regroup and recoup yielded to the reality and gravity of the situation: that it will take work, and a constant and at times strenuous clip to make it through graduate school in particular and adulthood in general. 

Sometimes I countertransfer (I believe that’s what the term is called in clinical settings) and find myself both empathizing with and feeling sorry for my therapist, for at times, I know I can be hard-headed, imprudent, and prideful to many a fault and foible, but trying to change such character traits, or flaws as they may be, in one session, or even one year, is made difficult by the realization that they have been developed over one lifetime of conditioning and compulsion.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

On Suffering Fools.

My therapist, Scott, and I were talking about the trail of fissured, fractured, and some altogether broken relationships that have been left in my trail of relational glory. He essentially said that at this particular time, I lack the interpersonal skillset to repair them. While he may very well be right, he continued to point out that the aim of reconciliation is not to annihilate the other party with the cogency of your argument, but instead to express understanding, concern, and curiosity for their position.

After hearing him implore me to be more empathetic, I then countered by saying that the reason their positions are so easily dismantled summarily dismissed, is because I have, in fact, taken the time, to imagine their perspective and made every earnest effort to see things through their lens.

Though all or nothing thinking presents itself as one of my favorite cognitive missteps and rhetorical ferocity a latent passion of mine (given enough time to analyze the situation) assuming the blame, apologizing, and then asking for forgiveness when it can be all but proven that I’m that offended/defensive party, seems to be asking for a lot given this particular juncture in my interpersonal journey. In fact, it seems a bit absurd, so until further notice, I will heed Scott’s conciliatory admonishment, that some people and relationships are simply toxic and warrant distance over the disrespect and disregard that’s been heretofore offered with the utmost consistency.

In essence, arguing with fools, let alone apologizing to them for their intelligence deficit, ignorance surplus, if nothing else, reminds me, not to engage in battles of wit with the unarmed. It’s an exercise in futility and frustration, both of which I am best served without.