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smokingbootNice little dinner party last night.
But there is a heaviness in my heart, and I am exhibiting familiar signs of Depression. Of course there's a lot out there to trigger it right now, so it could just be an appropriate response rather than a chemical brainfart.
Mother isn't helping. White Mad is not responding to the new medication, in fact her skin looks worse. I will put her back on the old medication, which seemed better. But there is the possibility of cancer, and Mum can't leave it be. Every day she asks about the cat. I have just started lying, saying that there is no change. Well, nothing short of full recovery will deflect her from her favourite pastime, Q the banging on about how I must get the cat checked for cancer, and then the other cats checked for cancer because she wants to believe that cancer is catching across species and that means I may have cancer and away we go, on her journey into misery. It is laughable and horrible. When I was young it was rabies, then Aids. Recently Covid and the Vaccine have held a place in her hierarchy of terrors, but these last are mere dilletantes compared to the big C. Funny thing is, when I actually had skin cancer she was worse than useless. She told me to put a plaster on it, not to have it removed, and then when it was removed she denied it had ever been there in the first place and said the mole I was talking about was on a different part of my arm.
I know she is going through a bad patch, because she told me the day before yesterday that the doors on her wardrobe needed repairing and she had to take them off their hinges. This translates to more vandalism of the flat, scratching the walls/furniture type looking for recording devices. To say I am heartily sick of it would be to trivialise the gaslighting effects of half a century.
This morning, regarding the cat she was just getting into her stride. I sent her a text of two words;
Stop it.
She texted back with OK.
And I get that she's ill, she can't help it. But it's not entirely unconscious. On some level she is aware that she goes too far. She does know.
Ah no wait. She's sent lots of panicky messages about cancer and the cats. I am not reading them.
I will leave this contact for a few hours at least, maybe we start again tomorrow. Maybe my brother could take up the slack just for once. I just cannot, not right now.
I occasionally medicate when aware that I am closing in on suicidal ideation. It will never be my intention to manifest this last; if all of the above has trained me in anything, I have learned not to put people I love through my misery. Despite doctor's recommendations, SSRIs do not feature in my mental health regime for more than a month at a time. Anti-depressants stop me dreaming, and that feels very odd. Besides, I'm struggling with the spread of a well-fed but seldom exercised middle aged woman; piling on more pounds will just compound my symptoms rather than alleviate them.
I won't start today and I probably won't start tomorrow. I will let myself soften away from thinking my mother's a ghoul into my understanding of her problems, severe mental illness compounded by trauma and what may well be undiagnosed and misunderstood elements of autism. Empathy, empathy, try to...
Nope. Not right now. I am not swimming in this muck right now. Tonight my husband and I are going out for a fabulous tasting menu. I will give my cat the medication that works for her. I will let my mother fret at my brother for a change. I am turning right away from this. That's it.
But there is a heaviness in my heart, and I am exhibiting familiar signs of Depression. Of course there's a lot out there to trigger it right now, so it could just be an appropriate response rather than a chemical brainfart.
Mother isn't helping. White Mad is not responding to the new medication, in fact her skin looks worse. I will put her back on the old medication, which seemed better. But there is the possibility of cancer, and Mum can't leave it be. Every day she asks about the cat. I have just started lying, saying that there is no change. Well, nothing short of full recovery will deflect her from her favourite pastime, Q the banging on about how I must get the cat checked for cancer, and then the other cats checked for cancer because she wants to believe that cancer is catching across species and that means I may have cancer and away we go, on her journey into misery. It is laughable and horrible. When I was young it was rabies, then Aids. Recently Covid and the Vaccine have held a place in her hierarchy of terrors, but these last are mere dilletantes compared to the big C. Funny thing is, when I actually had skin cancer she was worse than useless. She told me to put a plaster on it, not to have it removed, and then when it was removed she denied it had ever been there in the first place and said the mole I was talking about was on a different part of my arm.
I know she is going through a bad patch, because she told me the day before yesterday that the doors on her wardrobe needed repairing and she had to take them off their hinges. This translates to more vandalism of the flat, scratching the walls/furniture type looking for recording devices. To say I am heartily sick of it would be to trivialise the gaslighting effects of half a century.
This morning, regarding the cat she was just getting into her stride. I sent her a text of two words;
Stop it.
She texted back with OK.
And I get that she's ill, she can't help it. But it's not entirely unconscious. On some level she is aware that she goes too far. She does know.
Ah no wait. She's sent lots of panicky messages about cancer and the cats. I am not reading them.
I will leave this contact for a few hours at least, maybe we start again tomorrow. Maybe my brother could take up the slack just for once. I just cannot, not right now.
I occasionally medicate when aware that I am closing in on suicidal ideation. It will never be my intention to manifest this last; if all of the above has trained me in anything, I have learned not to put people I love through my misery. Despite doctor's recommendations, SSRIs do not feature in my mental health regime for more than a month at a time. Anti-depressants stop me dreaming, and that feels very odd. Besides, I'm struggling with the spread of a well-fed but seldom exercised middle aged woman; piling on more pounds will just compound my symptoms rather than alleviate them.
I won't start today and I probably won't start tomorrow. I will let myself soften away from thinking my mother's a ghoul into my understanding of her problems, severe mental illness compounded by trauma and what may well be undiagnosed and misunderstood elements of autism. Empathy, empathy, try to...
Nope. Not right now. I am not swimming in this muck right now. Tonight my husband and I are going out for a fabulous tasting menu. I will give my cat the medication that works for her. I will let my mother fret at my brother for a change. I am turning right away from this. That's it.
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no subject
Date: 2022-03-11 02:25 pm (UTC)GOOD. Get selfish.
I can relate to the maternal ordeal, by the way, because my mother was also very crazy—although a different crazy than your mother. In a few months, I am thinking we might want to do a kind of whose-Mom-was-crazier? contest, fueled by alcohol, in a cozy pub somewhere. If we're really feeling snarky, perhaps there can be prizes for particularly crazy incidents! Because trust me, snark is really the only way to survive lethal craziness. Empathy is too wounding.
Sending you the big ❤️❤️❤️
no subject
Date: 2022-03-12 12:50 pm (UTC)And yes, we will find ourselves some gloriously cozy pub and enjoy a grand snark contest!