healthcare, mental health, psychology

I don’t want to suffer, but…

Last night, Bill and I had a conversation that I found kind of difficult. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him, either. Right now, I have a problem. The rational side of my mind is fighting with my irrational side, and my irrational side seems to be winning the fight.

It’s not exactly a secret that I suffer from depression and anxiety, which causes a bunch of related problems. It’s not as bad as it once was. Instead of the psychic roar I used to experience daily, I now have a lower level kind of depression that makes me kind of apathetic. Like… I’ve been dealing with recurrent stomach issues and potentially related itching for months, but I have yet to visit a doctor. Rationally, I understand that I should go find out what the problem is, but I just can’t seem to be arsed to do it. I start thinking about the things that could be causing the vague pain that kind of comes and goes. Some potential causes are pretty minor. Some aren’t super serious, but won’t go away without medication(s). And some are potentially deadly.

I think about how this could be something that might be solved with medication or maybe a simply surgical procedure. I’ll feel better, and enjoy life more. Or, it could set off a tidal wave of medical procedures that would be my idea of actual Hell. Then I read the news, and wonder why I’d want to hang around this earthly hellscape any longer than I have to be here. From the wars around the world, to the prospect of Donald Trump being president again, to the fact that I’m in my 50s, and I feel like I’m going downhill. I am on the brink of menopause, which I think is a good thing, for the most part. But with menopause comes annoying side issues, like itching and skin problems. It doesn’t help to read all of the mean spirited comments on social media, too. People have become so nasty.

I’m sorry if this post sounds shitty. I know I have many reasons to be grateful. This is part of what depression does to me. Sometimes it helps if I do something I really enjoy, like making music. Maybe I’ll get around to doing that today, after I make the bed with fresh sheets, which also helps me feel better.

I was telling Bill about this last night, and he said, “Let me find you a doctor.” That, of course, means finding one on a list put out by Tricare, which just makes me feel really pessimistic. If you have any experience with Tricare, you might understand. 😉 I have a hard time talking to him about this, and he doesn’t know how to respond when I do talk about it. He doesn’t want to upset me or make me angry, so he’s probably more wishy washy than he’d like to be.

Poor guy…

I’m sorry about this post. I know I should do something constructive. I just don’t feel like doing anything. It seems kind of pointless at best, and is very scary at worst. This issue is completely ridiculous and irrational, and I’m a little ashamed of myself. I feel like an asshole. But then I look at some of the utter nastiness in the world today, and I figure most people don’t care, anyway. I feel like most of my family has either forgotten me, or would like to forget me. And the sooner it’s over, the sooner I don’t have to think about it anymore.

I have a college friend whose sister recently posted a picture of herself at a mammogram appointment, wearing one of those horrible vests. She’s got a big smile on her face, and is encouraging people to “take care of themselves” by getting a mammogram. The idea of doing that strikes terror in my heart. I certainly wouldn’t be smiling at such an appointment. This is in spite of my educational background, which one would think would make me a lot better about routine checkups and screenings. I hate dealing with doctors, though. I’d rather do almost anything than seek healthcare. I hate the whole process– from sitting in the waiting room to talking to the person to paying the bills. Maybe it’s a good thing that I was a “failure” at my chosen profession. But, back when I chose it, I was trying to become employable. I was also less reluctant to deal with physicians back then.

Well, at least I’m reading an interesting book. I hope to get further in it today, because I look forward to reviewing it. That’s a good sign. I haven’t completely given up, if I want to finish my book.

So… those are my thoughts for Monday. It’s not a great post. Sorry about that.

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Armenia, healthcare, law, mental health

The Peace Corps is being sued over mental health policies…

The featured photo is the public domain version of the Peace Corps logo that existed when I was a Volunteer. It has since been updated, unlike the Peace Corps’ mental healthcare policies. 😉

Friday, at last! I’ve been waiting for today all week, because it means that tomorrow, we’re out of here for about ten days. I’ve been eagerly awaiting our trip for some weeks now, even though the first three nights of it will be in Germany because it’s time to see the dentist. I don’t love going to the dentist, but I don’t hate it, either. At least my teeth get nice and clean.

Facebook is telling me that we went to the dentist at this time last year, too. But last year, we stayed at a luxury hotel in Baiersbronn, which is a very pretty town in the Black Forest. I remember being stressed, because Arran was newly diagnosed with lymphoma, and I was afraid he might decompensate while we were gone. But he pulled through fine, and afterwards, we started his chemo, which gave him another five months with us. That might not seem like a significant success, but five months is a long time to a dog. And it meant that when the end of Arran’s life finally came in March, we could both be there for him. He also made it very clear to us that he wanted to live.

I think our time in Czechia is going to be great fun. The hotels we’ve booked have all contacted us with final details. I hope we find lots of art, and I’m able to take plenty of photos. The Cannstatter Volksfest is also going on right now. I just tried on my Dirndl, and I can still get into it. But I don’t think I’m going to bring it with me, because it really needs to be dry cleaned. Also, I think Bill and I are probably too old and crotchety for Wasen, even though we usually go on Sunday afternoons, when it’s not so crowded. Maybe we’ll go to Ludwigsburg instead, and see some huge pumpkins. We always seem to miss the pumpkin festival.

Yesterday, I noticed an article in The New York Times (temporarily unlocked) about the Peace Corps being sued over their mental health policies. Regular readers might remember that I served as a Volunteer in the Republic of Armenia for the Peace Corps from 1995 until 1997. Things have clearly changed a lot since my days as a Volunteer. In my day, you didn’t get your invitation to serve until you’d successfully passed the legal and medical clearances. From reading up on this lawsuit, I gather that prospective Volunteers can now get invited before they finish medical screenings. This policy is causing problems for a lot of people, hence the lawsuit.

It’s not that simple, folks.

According to the article in The New York Times, a group of three people, whose placement offers were rescinded over mental health treatment, have decided to sue the agency. They accuse the Peace Corps of “discriminating against applicants with disabilities in violation of the Rehabilitation Act, which prohibits discrimination in programs receiving federal funds.” Further from the article:

The lawsuit, which is seeking class-action status from the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia, includes accounts from nine people whose Peace Corps invitations were rescinded for mental health reasons. The suit alleges that those decisions were made without considering reasonable accommodations or making individualized assessments based on current medical knowledge.

I was interested in this story because when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer, I suffered from clinical depression and anxiety. I did not get treatment for it until about a year after I left Armenia. In my case, depression and anxiety were chronic parts of my life that were so normal to me that I didn’t realize I was suffering as much as I had been for most of my life. It got pretty bad in 1998, when I was feeling really hopeless and worthless. Some of it was because of my service, but most of it had to do with genetics and having to live with my parents while I picked up my life.

Mental health treatment was a lifesaver and a game changer for me. It was a huge shock to me when we finally found the right antidepressant and I started feeling “normal”, for the first time. I stopped crying and hyperventilating at the drop of a hat. I stopped feeling worthless and hopeless. Indeed, four days after I took my first dose of Wellbutrin, I decided to go to graduate school, and I started taking decisive steps to make it happen. Within a few months, I had offers of admission to two universities.

I quit taking antidepressants in 2004. For the most part, I don’t miss taking them, although I gained weight when I got off of the drugs. I have been pretty stable, mentally speaking, for a long time. I’ve managed to finish two master’s degrees, and am about to celebrate 21 years of marriage to a great guy who treats me like gold.

However, after reading the article in the New York Times, as well as some anecdotes from other former Volunteers and applicants, I feel pretty sure that I would fail the medical part if I decided to reapply to the Peace Corps today, even though mentally, I’m a lot more stable. I am also a hell of lot more mature and experienced today, than I was in 1995. I’m sure I would be a better Volunteer today, in spite of my mental health treatment history.

I would probably fail the medical clearance due to having a history of mental health treatment, but I might also fail it for physical reasons. They gave me a lot of grief in 1995 because of my weight, which was less then than it is today. After sending me a nastygram about my weight, they did ultimately let me serve. I didn’t have any serious medical problems to speak of during those two years, nor have I had any in the 26 years following my service. I’ve also seen photos of recent Volunteers and it looks to me like maybe they’ve backed off somewhat from weight standards. Some of the people serving today are clearly bigger than I was in 1995.

The comments on this story are pretty divided. Quite a lot of people, including former Volunteers, think the Peace Corps should be very selective about allowing people with mental health histories to serve. They point to the fact that Volunteers are sent all over the world, and a lot of the countries they go to have very primitive healthcare facilities that can take hours to get to by public transportation. I got that.

However, I also know, from my own personal experience, that not every Volunteer lives in a jungle or a mud hut, nor are they all isolated from each other. Accommodations of all kinds vary widely in the countries where the Peace Corps serves. While certainly not every place has cell phone or Internet access, quite a lot of countries do have those technologies today. That can make treatment more feasible for Volunteers who need counseling. And in other countries, there’s really nothing easily available… so those places should get the healthiest Volunteers. Common sense, you see…

Armenia, where I served, was considered a “hardship” post in the 1990s. In those days, it really was a “true” Peace Corps location, although it wasn’t like the experiences someone might have in Africa or South America. Every country has its challenges, though… and some locations are tougher or more austere than others are. Armenia still has a Peace Corps program, although Volunteers don’t serve in the capital anymore. I was based in the capital, where I could get help somewhat easily if I needed it. I mean, I couldn’t even call someone across the street with my rotary dial phone, but I could easily walk or take a bus to the Peace Corps office. Armenia is the size of Maryland. If I’d been in a much larger country, it would have been a different story.

Granted, the Peace Corps is a vastly underfunded agency. Even though I know firsthand how valuable the work is, and how it helps foster trust and relations between US citizens and host country nationals, most Americans have no idea. I noticed a lot of people who clearly knew nothing about the Peace Corps opining on the article. A couple of people were bold enough to state that the Peace Corps is a waste of money, since the US shouldn’t be trying to “save the world”. They don’t understand that the Peace Corps has three goals:

I talk about Armenia all the time. I even spoke to one of Bill’s colleagues about Armenia recently, to help her understand the country that our military is now being tasked to help. I’ve also talked to school kids as well as people in the community about my service. And God knows I’ve written a lot about about it. I truly can’t say my time in Armenia was wasted. In fact, it changed my life and my perspective.

I do think it’s prudent to screen potential Volunteers for health issues of all kinds. I also agree that serving in the Peace Corps is a privilege and an honor, and not a right to all US tax paying comers. BUT… I also know that any agency affiliated with the US government, including the military, has very antiquated policies regarding mental healthcare. And I think that ought to change. I think it will HAVE to change, because there’s been a lot of work done to destigmatize accessing mental healthcare in the United States. More people than ever are seeking services to treat minor mental health crises.

In 2007, when Bill was deployed to Iraq, I did a supposedly mandatory Exceptional Family Member Program screening (EFMP) because we were going to move to Germany. I was forced to join EFMP– a program that is supposed to allow commands to consider the “special” needs of family members before sending them to certain assignments. I remember being really upset about that situation, since the doctor who screened me said I could suffer mental health issues in Germany, as Bill could go “downrange” (and he was already downrange when I spoke to her). Then she said there was a shortage of mental health professionals in some areas. I have a master’s degree in social work. I could have gotten licensed and they could have hired me! I would have just needed to pass an exam and pay a fee. I wasn’t some 19 year old bride, with no experience or ability to take care of myself. But that is how I was treated.

In my case, the military’s EFMP screening was utter bullshit, and in the end, it wasn’t even a problem for us. The National Guard didn’t care about my history of depression, and they’d already cut Bill’s orders for Germany before I even got the screening (that wasn’t supposed to happen). It was a waste of time. I could have skipped the whole thing, which really pissed me off. I felt like I was being punished for doing the responsible thing and getting help for my depression and anxiety, and then being honest about it for the EFMP screening. I can see by comments left on the article that people affected by Peace Corps’ mental health policy feel similarly.

It’s not a small ordeal to apply for Peace Corps service. In my case, the whole process took less than three months, but that was only because I applied in the 90s. There were a lot more slots to fill at that time, as eastern Europe and many former Soviet countries offered chances to serve. In my day, people were getting invited to countries like Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Czechia, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, Ukraine, both eastern and western Russia, and the like. A lot of those programs have since closed, which means there aren’t as many programs that need Volunteers. That means it can take a lot longer for a person to be accepted and sent off somewhere.

But consider that there’s a lengthy application and interview, you have to have references– I think it’s three now, but it was six when I was a Volunteer– and you have to clear legal and medical. The medical exam is very thorough and arduous. I was fortunate enough to get mine at a military treatment facility /sarcasm, although at least it was provided free of charge! If you don’t have health insurance or the money to pay for the physical and dental screening, it can get pretty pricey. I also remember having to go to the county jail in my Virginia hometown of Gloucester to get fingerprinted. That was an experience!

Peace Corps staff members now apparently send invitations to applicants before they’ve passed all of the qualifications, which means that offers get rescinded after people have told their friends and families, sold or given away their possessions, quit their jobs, given up their housing, and made other life altering decisions. Consider also that many people who serve in the Peace Corps often tend to be high achievers, and having an offer rescinded can be personally devastating to them. The rejection, in and of itself, can cause mental health issues.

I read that this new policy of inviting people who aren’t completely cleared came about in 2012 or so, also because of the Rehabilitation Act. I’ve also read that the policy changed because Peace Corps is “competing” with graduate programs and jobs, so they have to make these offers before the applicants decide to go to graduate school or take a paid position. There could be some truth to that explanation, too.

Anyway… given what has happened in the world since 2020, I can’t imagine that the Peace Corps can continue this practice of screening out people who have sought mental health treatment. I have read that some people were successful in appealing decisions to rescind offers, although it doesn’t seem to be the norm. But– today’s youth have had to deal with a whole host of shit that my generation didn’t have to deal with– from 9/11, to school shootings, to two wars and terrorism, to COVID-19– they have really been through some tough stuff. They have also come of age at a time when people are being encouraged to seek mental health care if they need it. I think the Peace Corps will find that the pool of applicants with no documented mental health history whatsoever will eventually become very scarce.

Bwahahahaha… when I was a Volunteer, we were all issued a copy of this book. It was pretty useless in Armenia.

I do wish the plaintiffs luck with their lawsuit. It’s not because I think the Peace Corps should be sending anyone and everyone out into remote areas “where there is no doctor” (heh heh hehe… IYKYK). I just think the Peace Corps– like the US military– need to reevaluate their policies regarding mental health treatment. There’s a big difference between someone who gets counseling for situational depression and takes medication for awhile, and someone who is bipolar, has a serious eating disorder, is an alcoholic, or has schizophrenia (and some of those people do manage to slip into service, anyway). They shouldn’t punish people for being honest in their medical screenings, nor should people who do the mature thing and ask for help be penalized for taking care of themselves. And for Christ’s sakes, go back to offering invitations to service AFTER the applicant has jumped through most of the hoops, so they don’t uproot their entire lives for NOTHING!

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Not a day passes that I don’t think of my time in Armenia and how much it changed my life, opened my eyes to the world, and altered my perspectives. I was not one who dreamt my whole life of serving in the Peace Corps, but I’m so grateful I joined anyway. I would have really hated to have missed that opportunity simply because I very responsibly sought mental healthcare for depression and anxiety before my service, instead of afterwards.

And I dare say the people I served in Armenia would have missed out on knowing me, too… a few of them even liked me. 😉 I look forward to seeing them soon.

Well, that about does it for today. Time to get on with my Friday. Have a good one, folks.

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communication, controversies, ethics, family, holidays, LDS, love, misunderstandings, narcissists

Once someone gives you a gift, it’s yours…

This week has flown by! I can’t believe it’s already Thursday. I’m sitting here thinking about how my husband will be on yet another business trip next week, while I sit here and plan our trip to see our dentist and later, the Czech Republic (aka Czechia). I look forward to the road trip to Czechia. It’s a beautiful country, with a lot to see, great beer, and excellent food. It’s also not a very expensive place to visit, at least compared to some other destinations. I was pretty shocked by how much Yerevan is going to cost! I think it’ll be worth it, though, because I haven’t seen Armenia since 1997, and it’s a special place to me.

Anyway, I’m sitting here this morning thinking about a column I just read in The New York Times. A woman wrote:

“My mom has wanted to buy me a luxury bag for a few years, but I have reservations about spending lots of money on things. Still, when she asked for my opinion about a bag for herself, I provided one — though I suspected it was really for me. I texted her that I appreciate everything she does, but I asked her not to buy me a bag. (Having expensive things makes me anxious.) She agreed, but then she sent me more pictures of status bags. I repeated my request. Then I spoke to my sibling, who convinced me that gifts are my mom’s way of expressing love, and that she can afford it. (She’s also having a hard time now caring for my grandfather.) So, I prepared myself to receive a $2,000 bag. But the one that arrived cost $7,000 — which stresses me out! I love my mom, but she didn’t respect my feelings. How can I handle this nicely?”

The columnist, Philip Galanes, gave what I think is good advice. He advised explaining to the mom, once again, that receiving such expensive gifts provokes anxiety. He suggests giving her ideas for more appropriate gifts. Galanes recognizes that the situation is kind of tricky, since our social mores frown on telling people what they should or should not give as gifts to someone. An etiquette expert would likely say that it’s better to receive all gifts with a grateful heart. Galanes says this, which I think is pretty astute:

Your question isn’t really about gifts; it’s about getting through to your mother, kindly. You shouldn’t have to choke down anxiety to make her feel good.

I checked out the Facebook comments on this post, just because I was curious. I wasn’t surprised to find that a lot of people found this dilemma ridiculous. Here’s a woman with a mom who can afford to give her daughter $7000 handbags. Many people love expensive handbags, and would be very excited to get one as a gift. Moreover, some readers were focused on the mom’s feelings, pointing out that the mom might be hoping to see her daughter enjoying her gift. They didn’t seem to realize that even a $7000 handbag isn’t much of a gift if it makes the recipient feel uncomfortable. Part of gift giving involves being thoughtful, and giving something that the recipient can use and/or appreciate.

I liked this woman’s suggestion:

If it’s the bag I’m thinking, resale value is good. Get a bag you feel more comfortable owning and invest, save or donate the rest.

A few people agreed with her. But then she got this response, which prompted me to write today’s blog post.

“…it was a gift from her mother. I would be hurt if my daughter sold this gift.

I didn’t tag the woman who wrote this response, because I’m not looking for an argument with a stranger today. But I did feel compelled to leave my opinion, which is this:

I would be hurt if I repeatedly made my wishes known to my mom and she ignored them. Besides, once someone gives you a gift, it’s yours. I think exchanging the bag for a less expensive one and saving, investing, or donating the money is a great idea.

So far, several people seem to agree with me. Yes, there’s etiquette involved with receiving gifts, but there’s also etiquette involved with giving them. Gifts should be given with thought and care. I will admit, when I was younger, I didn’t always understand the pleasure of giving or receiving thoughtful gifts. I used to see Christmas and birthdays as burdens, as I was expected to buy presents for everyone in my immediate family. I didn’t have any money, nor was I close enough to most of them to know what they liked, wanted, or needed. Now that my Christmases mainly involve Bill and me, it’s a lot easier. I know what he likes. I buy most of his clothes for him as a matter of course. 😉 He tells me I’m good at the job. I also seek honest feedback from him, so I don’t end up spending money on things he doesn’t like or want.

One thing I’ve learned after being married to Bill is that sometimes giving and receiving gifts can be problematic in relationships. Most of us are taught from childhood that we should always be grateful to receive gifts, even if they’re inappropriate, not our taste, or leave a rude impression. We are trained to always assume that gifts are always given with the spirit of generosity. But I have learned that sometimes gifts can have weird messages attached to them that leave the recipient with negative feelings.

Ex was/is the queen of giving inappropriate gifts, which I think is actually a pretty prominent trait in people who are narcissistic. They tend to give gifts based on their own preferences, because they generally only think of themselves. If they do manage to give someone something they actually want, it’s because they have an angle, and will use the gift as a means of control and obligation. Bill told me that when he was married to Ex, she’d buy him things that were impractical, yet expensive. Like, for instance, she once gave him a bust of a Star Wars character. It’s true that Bill likes Star Wars, and the bust was kind of cool. But it cost $300 that they needed for buying food. He ended up insisting that she return it, which she did without too much protest.

Younger daughter has said that her mother will send gifts to her that have some kind of sentimental message or hidden meaning. Sometimes, she sends things that are just plain odd– like Christmas jammies for the whole family that are all in the wrong sizes. Or, she’ll send things that are kind of thoughtless. More than once, she’s sent tea sets to her grandchildren, who are being raised in the LDS faith, where most tea drinking is forbidden (although they can drink herbal teas). The funny thing is, Ex is the one who got younger daughter into the LDS religion. You’d think she’d remember the Word of Wisdom. But no… she has evidently forgotten that Mormons don’t typically drink coffee, tea, or alcohol. Or she doesn’t care. Or… she’s sending some kind of hidden message that younger daughter should quit the church.

A few years ago, Bill was shopping for a gift for his granddaughter. He saw a cool looking tea set and was about to buy it, when something dawned on me. I said “Wait a minute! Are you sure you should be sending a tea party set to a child who is being raised LDS?”

Bill laughed and said, “Oh my God, you’re right! I totally forgot!” Then he found a really cool looking ice cream cart toy and sent that instead. Younger daughter said granddaughter was delighted with the toy and it was a huge hit with the other kids in their neighborhood, too. Bill wasn’t offended when I pointed out that he might want to take an extra minute to consider the appropriateness of his gift. His ex wife probably would have, but that’s most likely because she gives gifts with herself in mind, rather than the person receiving the gift.

Later, Bill told his daughter about the faux pas he almost committed. She smiled and said it would have been okay, since her mom had sent them a bunch of tea party sets, too. In my mind, that’s another reason to have sent something else. They already have a bunch of tea sets!

I enjoy sending gifts to Bill’s grandchildren. As I’ve been doing so, I try to consider whether or not the gifts are appropriate or will be received well. I’m sure I miss sometimes. A couple of days ago, I posted a picture of Bill wrapping a care package we made for his daughter, who is currently expecting her fourth baby. I usually send stuff for the kids, but this time, I wanted to send something more for their mother.

Bill and I like Molton Brown toiletries from England. They aren’t cheap, but they smell wonderful, are high quality, colorful, and just nice. I thought about younger daughter taking care of her kids and wondered if maybe she’d like them, too. So I asked her. I said I wanted to send her something nice for the few minutes alone she gets in the shower. I said I didn’t want to send her anything that would be offensive or make her feel sick to her stomach. She gave me some ideas of scents she likes. I ended up sending her a couple of assortment sets that have different samples of the scents Molton Brown sells. That way, if she finds one she really likes, she can tell me. If there’s one that offends, she can tell me. I didn’t make a big investment in a particular scent in the gift, so it’s no big deal if she doesn’t like certain ones. I hope she’ll let me know if there are any she doesn’t like… or even if she doesn’t like Molton Brown at all.

I included a pair of Irish wool socks, since she lives in Utah and winter is coming, ginger lemon bon bons for nausea, skin cream for the stretching, and a couple of bracelets that were made by a local artisan. We filled the remaining space with German and Dutch candy and stroopwafels. We know she likes those, and can’t easily get them locally.

One of my friends took me to task for sending sweets to a pregnant lady. She said that stuff isn’t “good” for her, and will only tempt her. I was a bit taken aback by that comment. First off, for years, Bill wasn’t allowed any contact with his daughter. So he’s making up for lost time now. We know she appreciates the goodies, and she will share them responsibly with her family.

And secondly, the last thing I would ever want to do is presume to tell younger daughter what she should or shouldn’t do– particularly when it comes to eating. I understand the point about not encouraging unhealthy eating habits, but food is something younger daughter enjoys. She’s a very busy mom, but she loves to try new things and test recipes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tries the stroopwafels and learns to make them herself. She’s never been to Europe, either, so this is one way to introduce it to her.

I’ve had to listen to a lot of unwelcome criticism and commentary about my body from so-called loved ones. It never seemed loving to me when my mom would look at me with annoyance or outright disgust and said things like, “I wish you’d lose some weight!” And then she’d offer to buy me a new wardrobe if I lost twenty pounds. I’m sure those comments came more from her desire to impress other people than any concern for my health or well being. But it was even worse when my dad would make comments to me, even when I was a normal sized teen. That shit led to years of body image issues and disordered eating. Now, I’d happily tell them both to fuck off… perhaps using more polite terms, but yeah– if I was angry enough, I probably would use the “f” bomb. I inherited the “gift” of their tempers, along with their gifts for music. 😉

And that brings me to my next point. Sometimes gifts come in intangible ways. Sometimes people pay compliments that turn out to be gifts. Or they offer constructive criticism that turns out to be truly helpful and constructive. Or they divorce their husbands so their husbands can marry someone who is more compatible. I consider the fact that Ex divorced Bill a tremendous gift to me. Sure, it was not meant to be a gift, but it turned out to be one, just the same. Ditto to the voice teacher I had in 1990, back when I was a freshman at Longwood, who suggested to me that I should study voice privately with her. That adjunct professor literally changed my life for the better by doing that. Yes, that was also a tremendous gift! It’s continued to give for 33 years and counting, even if only to me, and those who like what I do.

On the other hand, intangible gifts can also turn out to be duds. Take, for instance, the “compliment” someone tried to pay me a few months ago. I shared a meme on my Facebook page that featured an overweight woman in a bikini and the suggestion that people should mind their own business when they see someone on the beach in a bikini– even if they think the person shouldn’t be wearing one. The person who “complimented” me said I looked “great”. But that wasn’t me in the picture, so the compliment ended up being very offensive. When I pointed out that the woman in the photo wasn’t me, my former friend continued to try to compliment me on my looks. It made things much worse. Then I vented about it in my blog; she read it; and now we’re not “friends” anymore. :/ Her “gift” turned me into the asshole… although actually, maybe there was a gift in what happened. I got to see her for the person she really is. Now, I don’t waste time trying to be friends with her.

Then there are the “gifts” that come with many strings attached. I don’t want to get into that too heavily in this post, since I just wrote about how Jim Bob Duggar gives gifts with many strings attached. You can read my recent posts about the “gifts” he gave to his daughter, Jill, and his other children to get an idea of that concept. But I do want to point out that Jim Bob seems to have missed the point of giving gifts… which is to give someone something that will be a blessing or kindness to them as an expression of love or friendship– not as a source of control or “ego boo”.

Bottom line– whenever possible, gifts should be given with thought and good will toward the recipient. So, mom, if your daughter very clearly tells you what she does not want as a gift, you should respect that, and try to give her something more appropriate. And if you insist on giving her a $7000 gift that makes her feel uncomfortable and anxious, you should not be offended if she decides to do something else with the gift. Once you give a gift to someone, it no longer belongs to you. So, if she sells or returns the handbag and gets something she’d rather have, take that as a lesson. Giving and receiving gifts isn’t just about one person making a transaction. It’s something that should be done with a true spirit of generosity.

Personally, I love the idea of reselling the expensive handbag and either investing or donating the money. That’s a great way to turn this awkward situation into a winning solution that will pay dividends in the long run– either for the original recipient, or to less fortunate people who might benefit from donated funds generated by the sale of the unwanted bag.

Well, that about does it for today’s sermon. It’s Thursday, so that means I have to break out the riding vacuum cleaner. 😉 So I think I’ll get on with that, and check in tomorrow with something new. Ciao!

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celebrities, mental health, nostalgia, obits, psychology

Sinead O’Connor actually helped me survive the COVID-19 pandemic…

It was a shock last night when I got the news that Irish singer Sinead O’Connor died. My German friend, Susanne, shared a link to a German news article with the headline “Sinead O’Connor ist tot!” (ist tot= is dead). I went looking for confirmation and quickly found it in The Irish Times, a very reputable newspaper to which I am a subscriber. Then I remembered that Sinead O’Connor had lost her 17 year old son, Shane Lunny, to suicide in January 2022. Based on her last tweets, it appears that Sinead was still very deeply distressed about his death.

Sinead O’Connor did a fabulous cover of Dolly Parton’s song, “Dagger Through the Heart”. She wrote in her book that this was one of her favorite songs. It’s brilliant!

At this writing, details of how Sinead passed away have not been made public. She was 56 years old, and things do go wrong in 56 year old bodies. However, it wouldn’t surprise me if Sinead decided to exit life in much the same way her son did. Unfortunately, suicide can be contagious, particularly among those who are vulnerable to mental illness, as Sinead O’Connor freely admitted she was.

A couple of years ago, I read and reviewed her book, Rememberings. At the time I read the book, it was the summer of 2021. COVID hysteria was in full swing, and I was struggling with feelings of depression that were worse than usual. I remember wondering if life would ever go back to “normal”… or some semblance of normal, anyway, as my life hasn’t been really “normal” in years. Between noticeable climate change, moving to Germany, and watching the neverending Trump dumpster fire from afar, things have been rather weird for some time. COVID just magnified all of that anxiety I already had and made it much more surreal.

I’m not ashamed to admit that there were some times during the height of the pandemic when I wondered if I wanted to go on living myself. Who wants to go through life wearing face masks everywhere and being “locked down”, surveilled, screamed at, and possibly even arrested for not complying? Many people were talking a lot about how we should all be living life differently, and some were suggesting that those changes should be forever. Other people were denying the pandemic and becoming violent when they were asked to take the most basic precautions. It was terrifying, and the overall mood legitimately caused me a lot of angst, especially given how hostile and aggressive people were in pushing their views– and I mean on both sides of the issue. There didn’t seem to be much moderation… and I was so very tired of it all. It made me feel HOPELESS.

Anyway, there I was in June 2021, reading Sinead O’Connor’s book. It was about time for my birthday, and Bill and I had arranged a weekend stay at a beautiful five star hotel in Heidelberg, Germany. Heidelberg is not very far from where we live, but it’s a wonderful city. We went there for the first time in 2008, and had a blast. So, even though we could drive there in less than two hours, I was happy to enjoy the weekend turning 49… the last year of my 40s.

As we were driving to Heidelberg, I was reading passages from Sinead’s book aloud to Bill. Some of her stories were absolutely hilarious! Some were moving. Some were tragic and infuriating. I was sharing passages from her book with friends. My former shrink, who is now a Facebook friend, even had a laugh at one of them. I asked him if he thought he’d read Sinead’s book. He said “no”. I thought that was kind of a pity. I think he’d enjoy her musings. But maybe reading her book would be too much like taking his work home with him.

I remember that weekend in Heidelberg with so much fondness. It was the most “normal” I’d felt in a long time, even though COVID measures were in place. I remember having to go through a pain in the ass rigamarole to get my COVID vaccination credentials in order, mainly because I live in Germany, but got shots from the United States. We had to prove we were fully vaccinated before we could check in to the hotel, and we had to wear masks everywhere. I know a lot of people didn’t think any of that was a hardship, but for me, it was. However– I hasten to add– I DID COMPLY with the rules, even if I wasn’t cheerful about them.

Sinead O’Connor was a big part of that great weekend, because her book was so engaging to me. She made me laugh. She made me cry. I felt things other than anxiety and depression when I read her book. And we had so much fun over that weekend in Heidelberg, even if a lot of what we did involved people watching and taking pictures.

I remember sitting at a wonderful Heidelberg restaurant called Chambao on the night after my birthday. Because it was June and COVID restrictions were in place, we opted to sit inside by a window. At the time, those who weren’t vaccinated weren’t allowed in most establishments. Consequently, Chambao’s patio area was packed. The inside was almost empty. I remember the first bite of that dinner, and how tantalizingly delicious it was. It was the first really excellent food we’d had in a long while… which I know sounds very spoiled, given how much people have suffered over the ages. In my review, which I linked in this paragraph, I wrote that “my tastebuds were exploding”. It was a reminder that there are still good things in life worth waiting for and savoring. And I instantly started enjoying things more, and living life, rather than just wanting to “fast forward” through the bad parts, or just quit working altogether.

I finished Sinead O’Connor’s book, and we headed back to Wiesbaden, taking a brief detour to an awesome German city called Speyer. Speyer is also not that far from where we live, and we probably ought to go there and explore it more. But going there in 2021 was a revelation that there are still things to discover and enjoy, and the world is still out there… and a lot of it, in spite of what’s in the news, is still good. When I got home from our weekend, I bought a bunch of Sinead’s less popular albums and got to know her better. I should have “met” her a lot earlier than I did. She was phenomenal.

I still worry about things beyond my control. I worry about Donald Trump getting back into office and turning the United States into a dystopian, fascist, nightmare. I worry about my body turning on me and having to make decisions that I’ve been putting off for years. I worry about Bill and my mom, and the prospect of someday losing them. As Sinead’s sudden end has shown us, no one is guaranteed tomorrow.

Well… I don’t know how or why Sinead O’Connor died yesterday. I have my suspicions. If I’m right about my suspicions, it’s just one more reminder that mental illness is a real, and it can be deadly. I know she had many people in her life who loved her, in spite of her difficulties with mental illness. My sincere condolences go out to those who actually had Sinead in their daily lives and will miss her very unique and unforgettable presence. I have no doubt that having her around could be very difficult at times, but I also have no doubt that she rewarded her loved ones with warmth, creativity, unusual insight, and true hilarity.

I obviously didn’t know Sinead as a regular person, but she really did help me survive the pandemic. At the very least, her hysterical stories about her fantasies of having sex with Mormon missionaries and the nun who drew a penis on the chalkboard at her school gave me a reason to keep going (and if you want to see those anecdotes, have a look at my review). I hope wherever she is today, she’s finally at peace.

RIP Sinead O’Connor– December 8, 1966- July 26, 2023

I recorded this cover of Sinead O’Connor’s version of Elton John’s “Sacrifice” 9 years ago. I’ll probably redo it today, but for now, here’s a musical tribute.

Here’s the remake…

It’s no sacrifice at all.

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mental health, musings, psychology

What it’s like to be chronically depressed…

Something came up yesterday that I feel like addressing in today’s blog post. I’m going to write about it today, because I realize that sometimes people must read my posts and wonder if I’m in need of “help”. I hope this post comes across as basically respectful and clears up some confusion. I also want to offer some perspective to people who may not understand, but would like to try.

I’ve mentioned it many times before in my blog, but I’m going to mention it again. I have a long history with major depressive disorder. I do not take medication or see a therapist for it these days, but there was a period of about six years during which I did seek treatment. That was back in the late 1990s, when I really needed help. It was the first time I ever sought treatment for depression. I wasn’t even sure I was truly depressed, since I’d always had kind of a bent toward being cranky, pessimistic, and sad. I thought it was just another situation during which I had said or done the “wrong” thing and I was to blame, yet again, for things not going the right way.

My experiences with being treated for depression were largely positive, although I didn’t like my psychiatrist very much. I am grateful to him for prescribing medication that helped me change my life and convinced me that clinical depression is a *real* thing. But I had problems with him, because he used to fat shame me, and he treated me like a child, even after I’d earned two master’s degrees and gotten married.

The psychologist, on the other hand, was wonderful. He helped me immensely. Even today, he is a friend.

I stopped taking antidepressants in 2004. I had a number of reasons for taking that step. Sometimes, I miss taking medication for depression, but I don’t miss having to see doctors regularly. I don’t miss having painful discussions with people about things from the past, especially when they judged me, as the psychiatrist had. But I can’t deny that Wellbutrin SR made me feel a lot better physically and emotionally. I had to take a lot of it, though. Apparently, I have a very efficient liver. What can I say? I come from a long line of drunks. 😉

So what do I do to stave off depression now? I mostly write or make music. Sometimes I write things that sound serious or dramatic. Such was the case a couple of days ago, when someone read my post about those guys who temporarily invaded my home last week. I wrote about wanting to “just die”. A reader got concerned and confronted me about it on social media.

I’m going to admit that when I first read the lengthy comment on my link, my first reaction was annoyance. That is, in part, due to my curmudgeonly personality, which is a feature of my chronic depression. But then it occurred to me that the person really meant well, and that’s a good thing. I also wanted to address the comment immediately, because I didn’t want people to get alarmed or stir up drama. The last thing I needed after last week was a visit from the Polizei because someone got worried after reading my blog.

You might think this isn’t necessarily something I needed to worry about. However, several years ago, a former Facebook acquaintance of mine got a visit from the cops because someone hacked her page. The hacker wrote a post that indicated that she might harm herself. Her friends and relatives, naturally, got very upset. They tried to call her, but she wasn’t answering her phone, because she was sleeping. Someone called the police. The cops came over and made her send her kids to someone else’s house for the night. They even threatened to send her children to foster care.

That situation isn’t really the same as my situation. I had written a passive comment or two about “wanting to just die”. And the truth is, having chronic depression often causes me to think about my eventual death and realizing it will be probably be a relief. When you’re dead, you don’t have any problems, and you don’t cause any problems. You’re just a part of history. We all die. I do think about that reality and, sometimes, even kind of look forward to it. But simply making that statement doesn’t mean I’m in a crisis or contemplating suicide. It’s just a statement of truth for me.

Having chronic depression means that I don’t often enjoy life that much, and I tend to be pessimistic. I can and do have fun sometimes, and many people mistakenly think I’m “happy” because I have a good sense of humor. But some of the most depressed people I’ve ever known have been hilarious. A lot of them are artistic, too… incredibly gifted in music, art, drama, comedy, dance, or writing. You’d think it would be a joy to have that artistic bent, but in my experience, it can make people feel things very intensely, which can lead to extreme highs and lows or, in my case, much milder highs and lows.

I assume that most people see me in a negative light. I ruminate on the past and realize that I’ve been in a lot of situations with people that ended negatively. I never go into situations wanting them to end badly, nor do I want to cause problems for people. At the same time, I don’t want to be someone’s doormat, either. So I struggle to find the sweet spot of being friendly, but assertive.

Last week, I spent four days with two strange men in my home. They didn’t speak my language, and they were doing work that was loud, messy, and disruptive. They didn’t seem to care that their work was affecting me. In fact, I picked up distinctly contemptuous vibes from them. I felt helpless, and being around them brought me back to an awful time back in the late 90s, when I was seeking treatment for depression.

During those days, I lived with my parents. I didn’t want to live with them, and I was trying to work my way out of the situation I was in. But I had some setbacks. First of all, I got sick enough with cellulitis one day that I had to go to the emergency room. I had no insurance, so the bills wiped out the money I’d been saving. Secondly, my parents were putting tremendous pressure on me to move. I wasn’t welcome in their home. My father was an alcoholic control freak who would do things like come into my bedroom and use the toilet, which he then didn’t flush. I mentioned this to my psychologist, who was aghast. He said, “Just like a dog… marking his territory!”

Well… last week, I felt the same way I did when I came home from work one night in the late 1990s, and found concentrated urine in the toilet in the bathroom. There was absolutely no reason for my dad to use that bathroom. We had two others in the house, and one was in his picture framing shop. My bedroom was in an out of the way corner of the house. He would have had to go out of his way to use that bathroom, and with him, my mom, and me in the house, it’s not like there was ever a line to use the other bathrooms.

The way those guys treated me last week reminded me of my dad, peeing in the toilet and not flushing, leaving it for me to discover and deal with. It was blatantly disrespectful. You might realize that when your own father treats you with contempt, it makes you question the reasons for your existence. Here I was in 2023, sitting in my own home, a rental… and these two guys were acting in the same incredibly disrespectful way toward me, putting their tools on my freshly oiled teak furniture, sitting on my new cushions, and putting their sock clad feet up, while blaring music.

Now, I could have marched over to my landlord’s house and demanded that he do something. In retrospect, maybe that’s what I should have done. But I knew that would slow down the progress of simply getting them done with the job and out of my house, hopefully FOREVER. I also didn’t want to cause problems. I never do. So I reacted in a passive aggressive way, which isn’t the best way to be, I’ll admit. And I had yet another thought of how relieved I’ll be when I’m dead, and I don’t have to deal with this crap anymore.

Stating that, however, does NOT mean that I need an ambulance, or to talk with a suicide counselor, or anything else of that nature. Like I said… I write and make music for my mental health. Some people hate what I do. Some have even dared to offer me “constructive criticism” on my posts. I always encourage those people to just keep scrolling.

Generally speaking, I only post my links once on my Facebook page. The vast majority of people don’t click the link, so most people don’t read my comments about my inevitable death. But they might read the comments left on Facebook. At this writing, I have 383 friends. An inflammatory comment on Facebook can lead to some big time unnecessary drama and alarm. Fortunately, the reader who was concerned was kind enough to delete the comment when I explained that I prefer a PM or even better, a comment on the actual blog post, rather than a Facebook comment on a concerning post. Because people love a good drama, and some people want to be a hero when there’s no need for heroism.

Something else I want to mention… It’s certainly not wrong to express concern for someone who writes or says something that seems “disturbing”. But immediately assuming someone is in need of “help” because they mention something taboo can have a pretty terrible effect on free thought and expression. I don’t consider myself a great artist or writer, but part of what I do requires free expression. I would hate to censor myself because of fear that someone might misunderstand and summon help when none is required.

But even if I really was feeling suicidal… it is kind of my life, isn’t it? Which isn’t to say concern isn’t ever warranted… but I always feel like people tend to act in a disingenuous way sometimes when a person has simply had it with living and dares to express it out loud. They feel better for calling the cops, or whatever… saving the person’s life. But that means the person gets hauled off to a psych ward, where they pretty much lose every shred of dignity. And after the person is “okay” again, the helpers sort of drift off… maybe until the next crisis arises. Or maybe not.

Anyway, for those who might have been concerned, rest assured, I’m fine. I feel a lot better now that the work is done, and I’ve been able to unpack it somewhat. And no, I’m not thinking of doing anything drastic. There’s no cause for alarm.

And now, I must close this post, because I need to get dressed. Bill is taking me out to lunch.

For more reading on chronic depression, click here.

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