Tag depression

Do I need to put on clothes today?

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

Tonight I have a long-for-me shift at the fast food restaurant. 4 p.m. to 10 p.m.

Tomorrow I have a very busy day– gynecologist appointment at 7:30 a.m., helping Nan with her stuff around 9:15 a.m., teaching in the afternoon.

Thursday, we are recording our radio program at WDVR. Then, selling chicken from 4 p.m. to 9 p.m.

So, today I wanted to send out our acceptance letters for the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group The Write Stuff conference, March 11-13, 2027 at the Homewood Suites by Hilton in Center Valley, Pa. And I almost sent one so far. It’s ten minutes from noon.

Did I do things? Yes. Were they important? Yes.

Just not what I intended.

One of the items I have needed to do is grab a few groceries. I have been very careful with my diet lately (which has led to a new number today, one I haven’t seen in more than a year if not since the pandemic when I started rapidly gaining weight). And my daughter made me get dressed and go to Aldi.

Why Aldi? I wanted chicken salad and shelled endamame.

They didn’t have chicken salad and only had whole edamame. I didn’t want whole. I also wanted a salad and all their greens and pre-bagged salad mixes looked past their prime. So I came home with baby carrots (which I don’t eat, and I was hoping to make carrot pickles but I didn’t get the vinegar…), plain greek yogurt (because the flavors have too much sugar, but I probably won’t eat the plain), half and half (but I did not get coffee), crab cakes, and cheese. And bologna. Cheap cheap bologna because despite my primarily vegan tendencies I just really needed a bologna and cheese sandwich.

And two boxes of protein bars since I didn’t buy much food.

I did not want to get dressed. Until later.

Yesterday, I had my annual physical with my primary care physician. It was the first appointment of the day, and he spent 45 minutes with me. I had told myself that I did not intend to bring anything up. That I wanted to get in and out, continue my own experiments into diet, exercise and sleep, and ask for follow-up bloodwork.

He went through my late June bloodwork I did for him and the mid-August bloodwork I did for the life insurance company, with me, and requested I do another A1C and some vitamin D and some stored Ferritin… He was surprised to see– that as I told him– my “bad” cholesterol and my weight change very quickly according to what I eat. It’s how I gained almost 15 pounds this winter and lost it since July.

I still think I am among a rare amount of people who really pay attention to their bodies and try to understand and improve. He also asked how long I’ve been off my blood pressure meds– and I said– “about a year,” and then I reminded him that my cardiologist knows, or at least I told her I would probably stop taking them.

“Your blood pressure is great,” he said.

“The pills didn’t help,” I replied. I was prescribed the beta blocker because of my single incidence of afib. I stayed on it because I hoped it would help my anxiety– specifically the way my heart will sometimes race for hours for no reason. But the medicine never stopped that. If anything (and I have yet to prove this, my evidence so far is purely anecdotal, it’s food. I think the right blend of high sodium and refined white carbohydrates makes my heart want to explode.)

And my blood pressure has maintained itself in a healthy zone the entire time I have been unmedicated.

But then my doctor found out, I have been having stress dreams, disrupted sleep routines and general poor sleep since incorporating more “easy food” and less of my “outside aisles of the grocery store” home cooking. And now he’s worried about sleep apnea, my tendency to display symptoms of mild clinical depression, and my inability to relax (or have fun). He offered me a temporary antidepressant, and I declined.

And then today I remembered… I have been on the waitlist for a psychiatrist appointment for almost a year. During my routine physicals last fall I talked with my entire care team (primary care, cardiologist, mental health therapist, and neurologist) about the prospect of trying a low dose of valium as a breakthrough medication.

According to my research, doctors often give valium to children with cerebral palsy to calm spasticity and help them sleep. I asked my team about it. No one has experience with that sort of thing so they referred me to psych. So I reminded my doctor of this is an email. I told him that on bad days I often take 60 mg of baclofen– so could we try a small dose of valium in a small amount of pills to see if I took 2 mg of valium instead of all the baclofen if that would calm my muscles, alleviate my twitching hamstring, settle my heart, reduce my spasticity, and allow me to (1) stretch everything, (2) sleep better and therefore (3) recover better.

Remember– my leg muscles are unable to relax. I can’t even describe what it feels like. Sometimes it feels like my calves are so tight they burn. Sometimes my thighs feel like bricks. So if my doctor thinks I might benefit from a little something… this might be the something.

And on my one tangent for today: I have been binge-watching Nurse Jackie. I never liked Jackie, found her repulsive as a person but the older I get the more I recognize the accuracy of the depiction of people in addiction. And my daughter brought up something vital to consider:

Is Nurse Jackie an unreliable narrator?

My daughter votes yes, because there’s no way that an addict taking as much shit as she does (especially as a nurse) could appear to have her shit together as well as she does.

Interesting thought.

I have reached the midpoint in the series, and I’ve never watched this much before. And she has entered rehab and thrown her husband out of the house. And I’m thinking about it.

Meanwhile, my daughter has been tracing ADHD and autism in her family tree. My daughter– from a young age– has been super keyed in to people’s minds, patterns and habits. And just like she’s freakishly good at seeing every ripple in a dog’s body language, she’s damn accurate with her psychiatric diagnoses. And she’s finishing her bachelor’s in psych at Lafayette, she’s also developed some ideas about medication (so I asked her to do one of her recent psychopharmacology assignments on valium). She’s wondering if I might have ADHD.

My response is typically that it doesn’t matter.

I have a disability. One that stems from lack of oxygen at birth. One known to affect GABA in the body.

I score fairly high on the ACE scale for childhood trauma.

My parents were alcoholics.

Did I inherit generational trauma? Probably. Do I exhibit everything from OCD to depression to anxiety? Yes. Because my brain never learned how to feel safe and/or let its guard down. I never relax. The last time I felt truly relaxed was during some good adult physical activities that I don’t get nearly enough of. And do you know how much I need to trust my partner to let that happen?

My daughter believes something interesting about this whole ADHD hypothesis. She basically said I have not allowed myself to fail enough to recognize the truth it what she’s said. AND that because of that no clinician could ever diagnose me.

Strange food for thought.

The bee, the blues, the books and the… pizza?

Angel Ackerman 2 Comments

I will be telling parts of this story on my Substack newsletter that I plan to post tomorrow morning. I write about my publishing company, Parisian Phoenix Publishing; books, the ones we publish, books for writers and fun books to read; and writing. You can subscribe here.

I had booked a table at Books and Booze 2 at Madness Distillery in the Country Junction Plaza in Lehighton, Pa. (With a name like Madness Distillery, how could I stay away?)

I had packed the books earlier this week but left decisions about signs and other marketing materials until today, and despite sleeping decently last night, my brain would not kick in. So it took all my focus to get out the door on time.

And I had to drop Eva off at her dad’s so she could borrow his car for the afternoon.

About a mile from the house, a bee flew onto my windshield at a stoplight. I pointed him out to Eva. About four more blocks down the road, he was still sitting there. I said to Eva, “If we take him all the way to your dad’s, he’ll be more than a mile away from his hive. How will he find his way home? Will he have food? Will he be warm? How is he just sitting on that windshield?”

And then I added a final thought: “If we leave him at your dad’s, that’s like someone dropping you off in England and telling you to swim home.”

We stopped. I said my goodbyes. I waited for my daughter to cross the street. The bee had not gone. So I resumed my drive.

About 4 miles later, I got onto the highway. Little bee did not fare well as my speeds increased. He slid across the windshield (toward the top), putting one foot down and another up, trying to get his grip.

I had to speed up even more, and now we’re about 12 miles away from home. The bee is starting to curl into himself and press down into the glass. I wonder: Would it be kinder to turn on my windshield wipers and smoosh him?

I can’t stop watching him, but I have to, because I’m driving 70 miles an hour on the highway. I’m getting upset, and fighting tears as my nerves fray. I ponder exiting the road because of this bee. I call Eva. I tell her everything.

“Mom, it’s a bee.”

“He doesn’t deserve to suffer. Nothing deserves to suffer.”

“Mom, life is hard.”

I cackle. I hang up. I get one more mile, and the bee rolls into a tight marble and disappears. He was on my windshield for about 15 miles.

About this time, I realize my mother married my father 50 years ago today. My father died three years and eleven months ago. My wedding anniversary was Thursday. My husband and I married 26 years ago. We splint up six years ago. And my mother’s 71st birthday was also Thursday.

The GPS took me past the site of the dirt track where my father raced micro-stock when Eva was a toddler. Past the post office where my father got his mail. Past one road to his house. Past the diner where he ate most of his meals. Past the gas station where he bought his cigarettes. Past the other road to his house. Past the funeral home where we had his services.

My parents divorced when I was 15. But my mom always loved my dad. And I think he never got over her. So I texted her when I arrived at my destination– which was alongside the lake where my dad would drive his boat.

“You married Dad 50 years ago today. I miss him soooo much.”

I set up my table, met some of my fellow authors, and tried to shake off my nerves.

Photo by author Shannon Delaney, a family member of my dear friend Mitzi from Pocono Lehigh Romance Writers and Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group

I counted about 20 people who attended the event– not including anyone with the other vendors at the event. I sold three books: two hardcover copies of Larry Sceurman‘s Bookworm’s Magical Journey and one advance copy of Geraldine Donaher‘s young adult Mouth Shut Head Down, which doesn’t officially launch until January.

The distillery had a sign in the window. It read “Adult Book Fair Today.” I think what they meant was “Book Fair for Adults today” or because it was a distillery, “Book Fair today. Adults only!”

But it immediately made me think I should have brought more erotica. The only erotica title I brought was Juicy Bits. Most of the authors for Booze and Books 2 were romance authors, and it looked like the most popular offerings were romances-with-shirtless-men-on-the-cover. It looked like most vendors sold 2-4 books, though I later learned that some vendors sold none. (To be fair, tables cost $10, so no one had huge expectations of kicking off a bestselling book tour at this event.)

The event is between coal country and the Poconos, so I thought my spicy horror novels would do well. I also brought our romances, Trapped: What if Skunks Were Matchmakers? and Any Landing You Walk Away From… (the author of the latter, Dawn O’Harra, is from the Poconos). I made a Halloween section on the other side of my novels, with Hugo Yelagin‘s Lovecraftian Deadlights and Eva Parry‘s tarot journal. Any Landing served as a transiton into non-fiction, and I brought Motorhome Gypsies and Coach of the Building (as the author of Coach teaches public school in the area) and then Larry Sceurman‘s fiction to appeal to any men accompanying wives and his children’s book because many romance readers are moms. And Geraldine’s book? Not even sure why I tossed that in.

Two hours into the event, my mother returned my text. “Hadn’t even given it a thought.”

When I left the event, I was hungry and pining for pizza. The GPS took me a different way home, perhaps recognizing my emotional distress from the previous route. It took me home the route I had anticipated on the way up– it took me through Palmerton, Pa., one of my favorite places. I celebrated my 49th birthday in Palmerton. Read about that here.

As I was driving away from the venue, I thought to myself: That looks like I’m heading toward Palmerton. Maybe I can find that awesome little pizza shop in Palmerton. I looked at the GPS. It told me my next turn was onto Delaware Avenue, which, if I remembered correctly, was the main street in Palmerton. And the pizza shop was on it.

Sure enough, I entered Palmerton. Pulled up right in front of the pizza shop. Went in, ordered two slices dine in, grabbed a boxed iced tea, and paid the employee $8.64 (which is roughly the price of one Grilled Club Chick-Fil-A sandwich).

15 minutes later I was back in the car.

That little detour changed my mood. Perhaps a gentle reminder that we find our own destinies and don’t have to conform to outside expectations.

The shifting psychology of chores

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

As one of the perks of the online writing community, I have had the pleasure to meet Fausta, a life coach and therapist who has a wide range of capacities and wicked sharp writing skills. She has been working on her blog, and her business, Fausta’s Place to Ponder.

People often influence and inspire each other in the most unexpected ways—often without trying—and I’ve admired and respected Fausta for a long time in just that kind of subtle way.

Like most of us, she’s a real and imperfect woman with a quiet vibrancy. She’s touched me with her honesty about life as a woman and the everyday struggles as a mother, building/continuing her career/business, dealing with her own and her family’s health and keeping her heart and emotional state strong and well.

Isn’t that what most of us are trying to do? In a recent blog post (linked below) she talks about our attitudes and how our mental framing of tasks impact how we perform them. I have continued to ponder this.

Mindful Self Compassion Can Help You Get the Dishes Done

I love routine, order and cleanliness. But with 4 cats, 4 birds, 1 teenager, a full-time job, my own physical and emotional issues and a coronavirus pandemic, I can’t always achieve/complete/do everything I want to do.

I have to employ more mindful self compassion, and with the teenager’s help I am growing in this regard. She and I have been discussing the differences in how our brains are wired. This helps me look at my setting from multiple points of view.

My goal, in what used to be Standard American Life, was to workout either at the gym or at home 3-5 times per week and never leave dirty dishes in the sink overnight.

Now, the gyms are closed. I’m eating too much fast food. And my goal is to clean the kitchen every morning— as my energy levels are higher and it reinforces the idea that every day is a clean start.

But I still need to examine my motivations. There’s a flip side to chores.

Today is Sunday. Yesterday, I got up, did a load of laundry and started the dishwasher. I cleaned all the litter boxes— no small chore with four cats, but oh so worth it.

Two kittens and 3-legged Overlord

I did some other odds and ends too but I’ll be darned if I remember them.

And then I attended a business meeting, had coffee with a neighbor, cleaned up after the birds, let the teenager give me a haircut (a rather severe one that doesn’t exactly match the crazy hair I have, but give it two weeks and it will be perfect), split a ginormous, super-sweet cinnamon bun from Cake and Corolla, enjoyed dinner from Dairy Queen, and watched Hell’s Kitchen for the rest of the day.

What yesterday looked like

And I’m not beating myself up over “not doing more.”

But this morning— I got up, washed the pots and pans, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, did two loads of laundry and hung them on the line, fed the menagerie, scrubbed them kitchen counter, took out the compost, emptied the garbage, carried the garbage outside, and vacuumed and washed the kitchen floor.

All before 9:30.

And I feel good about the work I got done. Even if I am still worrying about cutting the grass, working out this week’s budget, and dealing with this week’s groceries and work stress. I dread both. I *don’t* want to do the grocery shopping and I never know what will happen at work on Monday.

So I have a delicate balancing act— what can I do to feel good about myself and my house and what can I do to not exhaust myself?

Because you see, I know I also do chores and scrub the bathtub to avoid facing my fears and emotions in the stillness.

Chores let me use the energy of my angst to achieve something positive, but in the end, that’s not always the best approach to my emotional health and physical self.

PS—

Early on in this pandemic I invested in good old fashioned cleaning products: Pine Sol, Ammonia, Fels Naptha, Borax, etc. I opened up the Pine Sol today. Just felt like my neglected floor needed something extra. I got this at the Grocery Outlet and as you can see it’s not traditional Pine Sol. It’s like super floral. “Fresh Scent” by patooty. Someone just exploded a fake floral bomb in my house.