Shoulds

I'm have an exceptionally bad time of it lately. Panic attack upon panic attack upon please-don't-make-me-get-out-of-bed attack upon restless-legs-so-I-can't-sleep attack upon work-is-sucking-my-soul-out-of-some-extremely-painful-orifice attack. Etc.

Just moments ago, feeling awwwwwwfully sorry for myself and internally lamenting about how I can't afford (time, money, energy, you name it) to find and start with a new therapist right now, I started to talk in my head to my old therapist, and wondered what, if anything, she might be able to say to me to help me now. Since I can't channel people who aren't me, that was a non-starter. But what I was saying to her was kind of interesting...if you find my tsuris interesting. Which I do. Hence this blog.

Here's what I was saying to her, boiled down: Everyone seems to have an opinion on what I 'should' be doing to make things better for myself. The less someone knows me, the more justified they seem to feel in telling me what I should do. (And before you start feeling sad or insulted, I am talking about people in the World Out There. I've been interacting with too many people in the World Out There lately, methinks. Mostly New-to-Me People in the World Out There. And I'm finding that these people don't just leave supportive or gently chiding comments on a relevant post, so that you can deal with them when you want to, and when you feel strong enough to. No. They tell you things. To your face. And sometimes those things are Really, Really, Intensely Stupid. I think I spend too much time dealing with smart bloggers, because I'm surprised at just HOW intensely stupid, if well-meaning, World-Out-There people can be.)

Anyway, about half of these shoulds (mostly involving the enormous variety of ways in which I'm not doing for N what needs to be done) send me into panic because I know that the people are right; these ARE things I should be doing. The other half of those shoulds (mostly involving the enormous variety of ways in which I need to handle my and Baroy's work situations or lack thereof, and the financial crises that result from that second part) send me into a panic because they make me angry, and anger makes me panicky, since I don't know how to handle it. And if it were possible to have a third half, it would involve the enormous variety of ways in which I feel I am failing Em, simply because she doesn't squeak loudly enough. Those come directly from me, though. No World Out There involved.

I suppose the word 'should' is just another way of expressing guilt. And that's really nothing new...not in my life or in yours, I'm sure. But somehow I realized, today, while talking to my imaginary therapist (and if that doesn't qualify me for institutionalization, I don't know what does), that while there are a variety of individual reasons why I'm not doing any one of the 658 'shoulds' on my mental list, there is one overarching reason: Because I don't wanna.

I don't wanna take a job at Starbucks so that I can get out of a bad job situation. I don't wanna go back to a cubicle job, either. I don't wanna divorce Baroy because he's not a good provider (and you'd be SHOCKED at how many people actually feel it appropriate to suggest the dissolution of my marriage over this issue). I don't wanna spend every waking hour taking N to another therapist or diagnostician. I don't wanna quit doing volunteer jobs that make me feel good in order to have more time for stuff that doesn't make me feel good. I don't wanna stop taking my daily walks so that I can do more freelance work (or take N to a therapist or clean my kitchen). I don't wanna go through the headaches and nauseas and what-have-yous that would mean getting back on antidepressants, especially since there hasn't been one that worked well yet. I don't even wanna get back into therapy. Just because. Because I don't wanna.

Which, really, you know, is fine. I don't have to do anything I don't want to do, and I'm sure that that's precisely what any (imaginary) therapist worth her salt would tell me. But she'd also tell me that I have to recognize the costs of those decisions--the costs being my continued depression, or unhappiness in my job, or concern over N, or disgust over the state of my house.

And, guess what? I don't wanna. And therein lies the problem.

Trader Joe's Done Done Me Wrong

I'm a big girl. I should know by now. Decaf doesn't mean no caf.

As someone with an extreme--and really, I can't overstate that word, extreme--sensitivity to caffeine, I keep a sort of mental chart of what I can and cannot handle. A few sips of Diet Coke will speed up my heart, but it won't make me sick to my stomach. A whole can? Well, let's just say I'm not that far from my 13-year-old self, who got so hyped up by a can of soda at sleepaway camp that she decided to try to jump off the concrete steps leading up to her bunk. It took the rest of the summer for the skin to grow back on the backs of my thighs after I slid down the last four or five of those steps.

[An aside: When I worry about having bipolar disorder like my dad did, it is to stories like that that I obsessively turn. Because I distinctly remember giggling about how I was Supergirl or something equally insipid. And that is pretty much textbook mania...if you're not on drugs. For me, however, caffeine is very much a drug. Whether there's a connection between the two, well, you tell me.]

What else can I handle? One tall Starbucks decaf coffee a day, so long as the barista actually POURS decaf. (I would say that two out of every five cups I order has to be poured out when I ask, "That's decaf, right?") What can't I handle? Any decaf coffee beverage from Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. I don't know why. Their decaf is just too...caf for me. Which is a pity, because their Iced Blendeds kick some Frappuccino ass. But it's not worth the price.

What is the price? Depending on the level of caffeine and the amount I drink, it can include some or all of the following: A rapid heartbeat that easily lasts six hours after I down the drink. Hands that shake more than normal (which means some fairly serious shaking, considering that 'normal' for me is Parkinsonian for most other people). Intense, low-level nausea. Other gastrointestinal symptoms (I'll spare you specificity there). Extreme irritability. And a post-reaction headache that can hang on for days.

So what did TJ's do to me that warranted a scolding in the title above? It sold me a can of decaffeinated whole coffee beans, is what it did. And not just ANY coffee beans. I've been trying to pay a little more attention to the quality of what I eat, and care a little more about where my food dollars go, and so I decided to forego my usual Trader Joe's brand decaf and try this new 'breakfast blend' that was both organic AND 'fair trade.' (I am the world, I am the children, lalalala...) After all, I've never had a problem with any of their coffees before.

Of course, now, one mug later? Oooooooh, I'm not feeling well. I'm not feeling well at all. Like venti-cup-of-full-caf bad. And I'm pissed about it (see irritability on symptom list, above). Because I have stuff to DO. And now I can't. Because I'm shaky, and my fingers are going all over the place, and it's taken me about half an hour more than it should to type this. And my mind is racing, as is my dinner, which clearly wants OUT of my stomach.

Damn you, Trader Joe's. There goes my night. And there goes a just-opened can of what had been a pretty nice, mellow cuppa joe...before it decided to try to kill me. And also, there goes another addition to my mental list of 'don't believe it when they say it's decaf.'

Neil "gets" me

So I've been loving reading Neil over at Citizen of the Month, even if he does talk about his penis more than I am strictly comfortable with. But now? It's gone waaay beyond that. Now I am his BFF (Best Fan Forever), because he quoted...me! He understood me! He thinks I'm nuts--which is fine, because I am, after all--but he GOT me!

Truly, is there anything more gratifying (and rare) than saying something...and actually being understood?

And the winner is...

This is what happens when you promise to post every day for a month; you yell down to your kids, who are tired and whose bodies say it's really 10 o'clock, even if the hands are pointing to the 9 and the 12, "Well, you're just going to have to wait a few minutes! I have to finish this post!"

Email me for the address to which to ship my Mother of the Year award, OK?

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Today was Mitzvah Day at our temple and about two or three dozen others in the area. (And by area, I mean all of Los Angeles County. Because, trust me, where I live? Not even two or three dozen JEWS.) And although there were wonderful projects galore--making blankets for the homeless, putting together care packages for the servicemen in Iraq, rolling the change the families collected over the year to be sent to the charity chosen by the congregation (and I wish I could remember its name, but the money is ultimately bound to Darfur), making frozen casseroles for temple members who are sick or in need--I ultimately wound up spending almost my entire time in one corner of the room, surrounded by donated books.

And here is what I learned: Never let the two biggest bibliophiles be in charge of the sorting of books. For one thing, it took us FOREVER to get through them all, because we had to open each one, and browse through it, and talk about the author, and read parts out loud and...you get my point. For another...well, let's just say that I didn't ACTUALLY take any of the books out of the boxes and sneak them home with me, despite my many cries of, "Oh, but I've been WANTING to read this one!" and "Oh, I remember this one from when I was a kid! I would love to read it to Em and N!" But let's also just say that it was really, really close. Really close. So close that the words, "Um, TC, you do remember why people donated these right?" and "Uh, TC, you could probably just take that one out of the library if you really want to read it..." had to be uttered on more than one occasion. And I should also point out that while all of the books will be making it to their final destination, some of them are slightly sodden due to having had me and my book-y comrade-in-arms drool all over them.

You might as well send my Volunteer of the Year award along with the Mother of the Year award. Shipping is probably cheaper that way, anyway.

Undefeated

Em's U-10 soccer team--under the same coaching staff (with Baroy as assistant coach) as last year--is 7-0-1 this year. Last year? 1-7-2.

To say that the coaches are happier with this year's team is an understatement. But I have to tell you; I'm finding this year's games so much more nervewracking. Last year, anything good that happened--from them heading in the right direction after the switch at halftime, to someone not lifting a foot during a throw-in--was met with huge cheers. There just wasn't that much to celebrate. Worrying about whether they'd win...well, it wasn't worth throwing a lot of energy in that direction.

But this year. This year, they RAWK. They are one of the tiniest collections of 8-, 9-, and 10-year-old girls I've ever seen. But they are fast, and they are strong, and they are GOOD. Their footwork is AWESOME. And they PASS to each other. They have an incredible bond; they giggle and chatter during practices, but when it's game time, they GO. (And Em, for the record, has been ALL OVER that field this year. Her strength is truly in defense; she loves playing defense, and has developed an awesome foot that can clear almost any shot that comes within her reach. She's also scored four goals this year...though three of them were in one game. I am exceptionally proud of her. And she is having an absolute, unadulterated BLAST.)

So, why nervewracking? Because the last couple of games--after a few that were embarrassingly one-sided--have been nail biters. And this year, a loss...well, it doesn't actually MEAN anything in the Big Wide World sense of meaning something. But these girls are seriously excited about what they've accomplished, and being undefeated is a huge deal to them. Today's game was a 0-0 tie until near the end of the fourth quarter, when our team finally managed to both penetrate their defense AND get a shot off. (They were doing well at the former, but having trouble with the latter...) Our sideline absolutely ERUPTED. I can't remember the last time I screamed that loudly...or the last time I ran down a row of adults, high-fiving everyone in sight. (Yes, I am a soccer mom. And yes, I'm embarrassing. But I'm not embarrassed. And, trust me. I wasn't the only one whooping it up.)

Still, I swear. The pressure that had built up until that point? All I could think was, "I need a Xanax," followed swiftly by, "Did I just think about taking a Xanax to deal with the pressures of a tied soccer game played by girls under the age of 10?" Clearly, what I really need is an antipsychotic.

Damn, soccer is fun.

Struggling

I'm having a hard time finishing up that letter to the school district about N's evaluation.

It's not that I don't know what to say, it's that I'm not sure how much I want to...lie is a strong word. Exaggerate? Dissemble slightly?

Here's the thing: There is a woman at our school, a woman whose son is on the spectrum and in special ed (though very much mainstreamed into a general ed classroom). She has become so consumed by this process that she is now on the district's special ed advisory board. Rather than having me pay an advocate, she has taken on sort of 'mentoring' me. She is a WEALTH of knowledge (you should have seen--or, rather, FELT--the box of information she handed me when we got together the other day to talk) and a very strong personality. Perfect for an advocate, actually. I would not be at all surprised if that's what she eventually ends up doing in her life.

I sent her a draft of the fleshed-out letter I wrote up the other night, in full panic-and-stress sweat, angry and nervous and unsure of what was right to say. She made a bunch of changes, suggestions, no more than that. She thinks I really need to push for an autism-spectrum diagnosis, or at least to push for the sorts of assessments that would lead to an autism-spectrum diagnosis, in order to get the information we both think I'll need to help N be successful in school. That's all well and good...except I am almost totally certain that he is NOT on the spectrum. And saying, "I think he's on the spectrum, thus you need to do the following tests" feels...deceitful to me. Put a little more positively, it would just be fighting fire with fire--stacking my deceits, aimed at helping my son, against their deceits, aimed at avoiding spending money on helping my son. Do the ends justify the means? And, really, if you think about it...Who am I to say he ISN'T on the spectrum? If pushing the symptoms that are spectrummy (and he has them, though some of them are fading quickly) to the forefront--even if they're not really forefront issues right now--will help, is it wrong to do that? Do I owe these people perfect forthrightness? Don't I owe my son more?

And have you ever seen a paragraph that more defines the words "self justification" than the one above?

There's also a lot of entitlement in what she wants me to ask for...which is a problem I have. I do not have a huge sense of entitlement--or, perhaps, just not one huge enough for the battle before me. But that I might be able to muster. One of her other main points--that I should insist on having people from the district level involved in and attending these assessments and IEP meetings--seems to me to be almost asking for too much attention for a child who is clearly at a lower level of need than many of the other special-ed kids. I worry, somewhat, that bringing in the people who see the full spectrum of what is in the district will backfire on me, make N's problems seem even more insignificant, and even less worthy of services. I just don't know.

So, I'll be spending part of this weekend tweaking my original letter complaining about the assessment process, and adding in those of her suggestions I feel could possibly have come from my mouth, and finding out the addresses of the people to whom I will be sending it. (In that, this woman's help has been absolutely invaluable...She gave me the names of the key personnel at the district level to whom I need to level the complaints I have about the way the assessment meeting went. And THAT I have no problem doing. Because that meeting was fairly atrocious, and I want blood.)

Wish me...not luck. A cool, calm head. And the ability to walk the line of morality and advocacy so as to achieve the best end possible.

The Season is Upon Us

I'm talking, of course, about NaBloPoMo--National Blog Posting Month.

What does that mean? It means that you lucky people are about to get 30 consecutive days of ME and nothing but ME. Oh, and maybe some turkey, too.

I'm psyched to do this, though for the life of me I don't know why...Like I need one more daily pressure? But this is FUN pressure. So, it doesn't really count.

Of course, 30 days of posting does NOT mean 30 days of making sense or saying anything of significance...as is evidenced by this, my first NaBloPoMo post. Don't say I didn't warn you.