Apparently, the lawyer I used to sue Ford is on LinkedIn. While this isn’t surprising, the fact that he was recommended as a contact pretty much makes my hair stand on end. Clearly, I have few qualms about internet privacy, but there is almost NOTHING online linking me to this man. Who’s been going through my file cabinet?
Super crazy.
Anyway.
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anecdotal, progress? | 
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Posted by erinire
So hey, I just found out something awesome. Wanna hear?
Katsumi got a new job! Yay for Katsumi! But no wait, that’s not the awesome part! The awesome part is that, once we finally divorce, I’m no longer covered under his health insurance! WOW! Isn’t that awesome? I think so.
You know, or not.
I had this magical notion at one point that MA law mandated a spouse with coverage to cover the spouse sans coverage, until such time as that spouse remarried or obtained coverage on his/her own. Problem with magical notions is: they’re not real. This one time, I imagined I had a million trillion dollars and a dozen pairs of Manolos. That wasn’t real, either. Reality sucks.
But reality is this: Divorcing Katsu is going to cost much more than the court fee, my friends. I take five kinds of medication daily to keep me on-par, my diagnoses include multiple eating and mood disorders, and I’ve got one 5-week hospitalization under my belt. I need good insurance more than I need halfway decent wine or even middling vodka. Or cheese.
If anyone has some real-world advice, I’m absolutely all ears.
1 Comment | Depression, eatin', matrimony, meds, money, progress? | Permalink
Posted by erinire
I work in Marblehead these days. Marblehead is a little seaside town of about 20,000 people, most of whom own boats. The median income for a family of four is more than double my annual salary, and, as such, I’m accosted by relative wealth wherever I go. There’s no 2/$14 section at THEIR wine store, no half-price dollar aisle in their grocery. Everyone is genteel, composed, polite – it’s like walking among a different species entirely. Pilates-thin mothers carting tow-headed twins into Starbucks, the lot of them tanned, happy, and clad in organic cotton. I spend a lot of time wondering if I’m fat and ugly.
Then, the other day, I was in line for coffee, and there was this girl in front of me. On her shoulder rested a Louis Vuitton bag, and in the bag was a matching wallet. She paid for her lunch order with an AMEX while her topaz-and-diamond ring glittered jealously under the lights. Leggings, knee-high fur boots, some kind of baby blue wrap thing and way too much makeup for 3:30pm… And suddenly, you know, I kind of felt better.
Because, I figured, money can buy you a lot of things. But it can’t buy you good taste.
4 Comments | aberrant behavior, money, progress? | Permalink
Posted by erinire
“Let’s go on Facebook, see what medication Erin’s on today,” said my boss with a smile as he opened up his laptop. “You know, you really should be careful about what you post on here. What is it again, that you take? Abilah…”
“Abilify,” I answered, pulling up a chair.
I thought about what he said all day, even as my brain filled to bursting with the exhilarating information overload that comes with starting a new, exciting job. I thought about it as I looked for apartments with the nuttiest realtor I’ve ever met, and I thought about it as I snaked homeward down the southeast expressway.
It’s not a new thought, that I should be a little less candid. Nobody needs to know what medications I take, nobody needs to know that I went to McLane, nobody needs to know my history, or my struggles, or my triumphs. But I think it’s important to break stereotypes and foster open dialogue. There’s still so much shame associated with being mentally ill, and so much stigma attached to taking medication to mitigate its effects, that I sometimes think EVERYONE who’s been depressed should start a blog. At least then we’d know we were in good company.
I’m a highly functioning person. Even when I was actively depressed, I was a highly functioning person. Even when I got to the point of being suicidal, I was operating on a level that most people would find acceptably, even extremely, productive. I was hired to my first industry job when I was 22, when I was 26 I had a co producer credit on a multi-million PBS documentary, and between 27 and 30 I devoted myself to learning every aspect of production and post. My entire resume was built on the back of my unmedicated depression. Because of the stigma, I was incredibly reluctant to “cave in” and take the pills my on-again, off-again therapists would try to prescribe.
My life is so much better now that I’ve caved.
I know that potential employers will likely google me and find all of this, and I know that this might one day hinder my job search efforts. My blog comes up on the first page, it’s not like you have to dig very far. But this candor is not something I’ve done without thinking, considering, and weighing the options. In the end, I come out with this:
I held all this in for so long, lived in shame, and when I was in my darkest moments I felt so alone. I thought nobody else (except CRAZY people) could possibly feel the way I was feeling.
Guess what. I’m not crazy. Neither are you. But we feel these ways sometimes. And there’s no shame in taking steps to make yourself better.
7 Comments | anecdotal, Depression, free advice, meds, progress?, work | Permalink
Posted by erinire
In honor of Saturday, B! and I decided to take a road trip to Tucson, a city he’d never been to and one I can’t spell without a dictionary. We had grand ideas, he’d made big plans, and we had a lot to get done. What we didn’t have was a lot of money. Solution? Budget hotel. I mean, I’ve traveled, I know what’s up, and although I love a swank pad to rest my head at night I’m not above some scratchy sheets and questionable comforters. I stayed at roadside dives in Costa Rica, I mean, how bad could it be?
Passing through Tucson en route to San Xavier Mission, we spied a row of old-timey joints on the aptly named Miracle Mile. “There!” I cried, transfixed by blinking neon, “We should stay in one of those!” B! was in agreement, especially after several well-made Mai Tais, and so it was that we found ourselves at the Terrace Motel.
From the outside, it didn’t look that bad. Standard one-story construction, rooms circling the parking lot like wagons on the trail, a run-down pool at the epicenter with weeds sprouting up through the chain-link fence. Forty bucks a night. Sold.
Moments later, we were reconsidering the value of a dollar.
The room was tiny, tiled throughout, and smelled of cheap cleaning products and years of aged nicotine. It was lit by a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling fan, which, it’s worth noting, only rotated if you gave it a push start. I pulled the quilt off the bed straightaway, a dingy old thing that smacked of 1980s Vegas, and a wad of toilet paper unceremoniously floated floorwards in its wake. The bathroom boasted but a single towel from which a long black hair dangled, and the water had a faint odor of rust. Its single window, covered by a plaid burlap fabric swath nailed into the drywall, looked out on an alleyway, beyond which was the saddest trailer park I’ve ever seen. Opening the kitchen cabinets revealed one plate, two stained glasses, and little else. There was no coffee offered, no complimentary mint. The sheets were like sandpaper. We had no ashtray. The toilet refused to stop running. I was a little scared to take off my shoes.
B! and I stood dumbfounded by the sheer unchecked seediness of the place, dirty kitchenette and all, and as our eyes locked we realized our escape plan for the evening: a strip club lay in wait just steps down the road. They don’t call it Miracle Mile for nothing.
4 Comments | boozin', free advice, progress?, travellin', vacation | Permalink
Posted by erinire
I was out at Drink with a friend the other night. We hadn’t seen each other for a long time, since just after I got out of McLean, so there was a lot to catch up on. After settling in and putting in a mildly challenging bar order, he asked me, hesitantly, “So, are you like, OKAY now?”
It’s an odd question, one that’s hard for me to answer. I mean, yes, you know, I’m okay, I’m generally good. But when I think about how badly off I used to be, how badly off I was last spring, being this okay is like a miracle. Waking up every day and being able to get out of bed, not dreading every minute of waking life, not lulling myself to sleep with thoughts unfit to print, this is miraculous. Especially considering.
In November, Katsumi moved out. Two months ago, I asked him for a divorce. I’ve been living with my parents since just after Arizona, and am moving from Eastie to the suburbs box by box. On paper, this is horrible, my life is a mess. I wrecked my car, I have no job, I have no marriage or money or children, and I’m thirty. I mean, this should be the nadir of my adult life.
But it’s not.
I really DO feel better now, I feel better than I’ve ever felt. I’m busy ALL the time – I’m doing free freelance on a new doc in production, I’m starting my own wedding videography business, I’m teaching myself Final Cut Pro and DVD Studio and Compressor and I’m seriously brushing up on my Filemaker skills. I see friends almost every night, I hang out with my mom every day, and I feel more connected and in control of things than I have in a very long time, despite the recent chaos. It probably doesn’t hurt that I’ve also met somebody new, and am floating on that kind of puppy love you think exited stage left around age 18.
So that’s my long answer, Chris. I’m doing great. Really. So great, it’s just fucking ridiculous.
2 Comments | aberrant behavior, confession, life story, progress? | Permalink
Posted by erinire
I hate GPS the way some people hate paperboys. You know what I’m talking about; that little white envelope, the hope for a tip, a reminder that you’re a horrible person because you’ll never – EVER – tip the paperboy. GPS is like that. It brings up your insecurities in this mindfuck backdoor fashion, all sweet on the outside but rotten at the core.
It started in Fargo, when the crew decided to travel with one. Her name was Karen, she had an Austrailian accent, and I hated her. I mean, Fargo is not a complicated city to learn – it’s basically a big grid, no one-ways – so I found their reliance on her not only pathetic but also personally insulting. I consider myself a good navigator, and it bothered me to have my position usurped by a satellite-driven voicebox. The kicker came when they enlisted her for directions to the restaurant we’d go to almost every night. Literally, from our hotel it was right left right go over the highway destination on left. COME ON. I do miss my job very much, but Karen… that bitch can go screw.
Happily now, Katsu and I have a GPS of our very own! In the Smart Car! Hooray! She doesn’t have a name yet, but my husband is at least as reliant on her as DSP was on Karen, and I am similarly afflicted with arrogance and misplaced rage. I feel that the GPS erodes one’s ability to put things together for oneself, to make mental maps of one’s surroundings, and that VOICE. Oh God. So bossy and annoying. I’ll use my iPhone any day for help with directions, but I’d rather set myself on fire than turn to the GPS.
I know that this might be alarming to some people. I might lose some friends here. So many people have GPS – love GPS, that I often feel part of a distinct minority. But I maintain that our reliance on such toys will eventually cause humankind to lose our inborn senses of place and movement. Like the little toes, over time they will wither and die. Consider this, before you turn on your TomTom to get to the grocery store or your sister’s apartment.
And seriously, I know I’m not the only one who feels that way about paperboys.
2 Comments | car-ma, charming neurosis, manifesto, north dakota, progress? | Permalink
Posted by erinire
First of all, Internet, thank you for the insights. I really expected a lot more of the “duh, quit drinking or you’re lying to yourself” type responses, and, to be honest, I thought at least ONE person would say there was no problem. You’ve given me something to think about, Internet. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and honesty.
Now, if you could indulge me in a rant…
Depersonalization of reader / commenters aside, I can’t really find a cute or funny way to couch my frustration with the medical system right now. I started looking for a psychiatrist back in May, before the meltdown, and had no luck. I thought (read: hoped) that once IN the hospital, I would be set up with treaters. And I was, at least for the month I was a patient. Now, I’m out. I have a shrink, but she doesn’t prescribe. She’s not affiliated with a hospital program. And, apparently, she doesn’t have any particular doctors that she works with for meds.
People, I am ON meds already. I am running OUT of meds. I’m also running OUT of patience trying to find someone to take care of my psychopharmological needs. I’ve called MGH proper, MGH North End, MGH Charlestown, MGH Suffolk, St. Elizabeth’s and McLean’s outpatient unit. I’ve called people from BCBS’ master list that seemed unaffiliated with a hospital, to no avail. Nobody, it seems, can help me. You have to have your PCP at the facility, you have to have your therapist at the facility, you have to live in Charlestown, you have to have Mass Health, you have to be OCD, and oh, by the way, there’s a two to three month wait.
Last month, with the help of my therapist, I begged my PCP at the clinic to write me refills on everything, but I’m not totally sure he’ll do it again, and I will run out again in two weeks. I think it’s a travesty that a sick person has this kind of trouble finding care in a system where we all pay out of pocket for coverage… I feel like I might as well be that Canadian woman with the brain tumor on the propaganda commercial.
God, fuck. /rant. I’m taking an ativan.
1 Comment | meds, progress?, tiniest violin | Permalink
Posted by erinire
You wake up and things don’t feel right. You’re in your bed and that’s fine, but everything outside the bed seems part of a vast nexus of choice and consequence, and the more you think about it, the more remaining in bed seems the best option. Because once you get up, you’ve agreed to become part of this neverending chain reaction and you’ll have to make decisions and your decisions will have weight. And the last thing you want is weight.
This is not today. But it has been, for the last couple.
It’s like some part of my brain simply stops working. The part of me that processes logical thought and systematic information just up and takes an unannounced vacation and suddenly the slightest complications become unimaginable obstacles. The simple act of leaving the house in the morning is Sysiphean in nature. Conceptualizing what elements might make for a relaxing Sunday is like trying to french braid your hair with your hands on backwards. And planning out a week… well, you might as well hand me a 12-sided rubix cube and point a loaded gun at my head.
But today I got up, went for a run, took an Ativan, and went to orientation at RFBD, where I’ll be volunteering time over the next few months. It was cold in the orientation room, the guy talked forever about nothing, and I spent the whole time wishing, oh, maybe, that I’d stayed in bed.
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Posted by erinire
I’m transitioning out of treatment altogether, starting this Thursday. My plan for aftercare is kind of a mishmash of options – I’ve secured a therapist, but am booking other consultations in case she and I don’t click. I have calls in to four other treaters, including my old shrink that first turned me on to the sweet sweet relief of Trazodone. I’m trying to get into two or three DIFFERENT DBT groups, and I’m contemplating getting a referral to a nutritionist.
Wait up here – a nutritionist? What ever for?
Well kids. Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, a long long time ago, in the age when Country Boys was just going to air, a girl named Erin ate a sandwich and suddenly got angry with how full she felt. “Aha!” she thought, “I know just what to do!” Following in the pattern of many other girls she’d known, she got rid of the sandwich the way some people get rid of poisoned food. Regurgitation. The whole thing worked like a miracle – she was no longer angry, and no longer full. Beauty.
So yeah, in addition to depression and anxiety, I’m also (drumroll) bulimic! Wow, the punches, they just keep on coming.
HOWEVER!
While in residential treatment we were safety contracted to avoid all self-harm behaviors, including the occasional purge. I tried to limit myself to smaller portions, so I wouldn’t feel that overfull feeling that so often precludes a post-dinner bathroom trip. Plus, all the food was weird, and there were all these rules and stuff, and I couldn’t deal. So I just started avoiding most of it altogether and spent a lot of money drinking Ensure.
It shouldn’t surprise me that I’ve dropped ten pounds since I checked in to Proctor, but, you know, it really does. And I don’t like it, except for how I kind of i do. And that’s scary.
So, a nutritionist. Because why not add on one more treater, at this point?
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Posted by erinire
