Anger and frustration warring with exhaustion and sleep deprivation.

As I drove home this evening, I finally confronted something I’d been dreading all day: I have therapy tomorrow.

I’ve been alternating between pissed off, righteously indignant, terrified, and depressed since last Thursday when I agreed to let the bitch talk about the weight issue this Thursday.

Am I resistant to what she’s saying? Yeah, I probably am.

Am I in denial about aspects of my life? I’d like to say no, but realistically, probably yes. (If I could answer that one definitively, then it probably wouldn’t still count as denial. Don’t spoil it for me.)

Does she have a valid point? Probably.

That said, is it wrong to be angry at her? No, I don’t think so.

For a therapist, she’s really something of an idiot. Her approach sucks. Which is odd, we’ve had lots of conversations about how presentation is everything.

Hint to all you wanna be therapists out there: Prefacing something with the phrase “I want to tell you this because I care about you” tends to put people on the defensive. Oh, sure, once in a while, I understand. But apparently there is a lot that my therapist wants to tell me because she “cares about me”.

Perhaps I’m reading too much into this, but I happen to find the phrase insulting because it implies that regardless of the appropriateness of the following comment, no matter how shitty it is, I’m being told this for my own good, and I shouldn’t be upset.

Guess what. It’s like being told “don’t take this personally” or “don’t get offended.” If a person feels offended, they feel offended, regardless of your intent. If something feels like a personal attack, it feels like a personal attack. And dammit, just because you care about me, doesn’t mean that you get to say things that make me feel bad, and offer no solution for how to deal with them. That’s just not acceptable. Therapy is supposed to help me, not leave me feeling like a fat, ugly failure at life. I’ve been trying to learn to accept myself, and to love myself, and to feel that i was worth the effort of taking care of. And dammit, my therapy shouldn’t be countering those lessons.

How pissed am I about this?

I’m seriously considering asking for a different therapist for my private sessions. Oh, I won’t yet, it’s only fair that I talk to her and give her a chance to respond. She did ask something I considered to be a valid and fair question.

What would motivate me to lose weight?

Feeling good about myself, feeling like I was worth the effort to take care of myself, feeling like I wasn’t defined by my weight. It’s ironic, we had to work long and hard to get me to quit feeling defined by my weight. And now, ironically, it feels like I’m being told that I *am* defined by my weight.

Anyway… some how writing this down has taken that manic energy out of me, and I think I can sleep. So to bed I go. And I’ll ponder this more when I’m rested, and can cope. Cause I know stopping therapy now isn’t a good option, and switching therapists isn’t really a good plan right now either. But the part where she makes me feel like shit does need to stop.

Oh, and saw the rat in the kitchen this evening. Araceli doesn’t need an exterminator, she needs a rat trap. She’s planning a $100.00 solution to a $5.00 problem.

And last, but not least, Shorn, Ici, thank you for a wonderful dinner. And Rita, Chance, good luck in Az. It’s not a fun type trip, but I hope that in some way it is a good trip, even if not a fun one.

Anyway, to bed. Good night.

It’s psycho out there today folks.

And my fledgeling time management skills can’t cope.

Eep!

I can’t remember the last time I created something.

I do too much online gaming.

These things go hand in hand, there is no question about that in my mind.

***********

She stood in the sunlight, feeling it warm on her skin. It’d been so long since she’d had the blinds open; they didn’t like the light. They said it was bad for them, that it made it hard to see, that it made the place too hot.

As usual, she’d acquiesced to their requests. After all, perhaps they were right, and it was easier than arguing with them. She never could make them do anything. But that was before the visit.

She moved to the next window, blissfully alone, and opened the next set of blinds. They pulled up in a cloud of dust that made her sneeze. The birds startled, but the house remained silent. She looked outside and saw her garden, also empty of people. They’d been everywhere. She loved the girls, but she wasn’t as young as she used to be… 79 is not the best age for raising small children. But with Daddy’s help it’d been okay, though she’d had to take care of him almost as much as the children. If only he’d get things for himself! She hoped he’d come home soon.

She hadn’t liked the visit. The doctor had been so condescending, and even her own children didn’t understand. And the medication… it made her feel strange. The fact that she had to take it everyday made her nervous. She didn’t want to be an addict, who would take care of the girls?

She sat down with a bird on each shoulder to watch TV. The cockatoos chirped quietly in her ears and occasionally nibbled on her glasses. She looked around the room, once more amazed that she could choose what to watch. They’d been so demanding!

The doctor had asked to speak to her daughter alone. She’d agreed politely to the request and left the room, but stood close to the door, listening. “…medication… …dementia…” she heard,”…hallucinations…” A nurse came around the corner and asked if she was okay. She gave a guilty little jump, and, after quietly chiding the girl for not keeping watch, asked where the rest room was. The nurse looked at her oddly for a moment, then gave her the directions.

She surfed through the channels, but nothing caught her eye. She went back to the Western Channel. That’d always been Daddy’s favourite. She looked around the room again. Still empty except for her. She decided to have some ice cream, and turned to ask Daddy if he wanted some, but his chair was empty. As it should have been. Three years later she should be used to it, but still…

She’d slept a lot at first. They complained about that, because she wasn’t taking care of them. When she was awake she tried to remind herself that they weren’t real. And they’d started to slowly fade… Their voices went first. Then one day she woke up alone. The bed was her’s alone. The bathroom. The kitchen.

The living room. The TV.

She dished up a single bowl of ice cream, and reached for some spoons, remembering as she picked them up that she only needed one… The others fell back in the drawer with a clatter. Even with the drone of the TV it was too quiet. For the first time in years, she felt alone.

She sighed, and took her bowl into the living room. As she sat down on the sofa, she heard a voice next to her. “Hey Mama, got anything in that bowl for me?”

She looked at him and smiled. “We’ll have to share a spoon Daddy, I only brought one…”

******

Spell checked. That’s it. Maybe I’ll read it tomorrow.

The Road to Hell and Other Good Intentions

Never made it to Lindsey today. The swimming pretty much did it in for my stomach. But I did make the bed, clean up my crap out of the bedroom, and make a fabulous dinner. 29 years of watching my mother cook have finally paid off… I made a myriad of recipes I remember her serving me over the years. I made them from scratch, with no recipe, just a pile of things I thought would be good. And it was good.

I also had a conversation with my mother and found out that they finally diagnosed grandma with something, and it isn’t exactly good. They think she has Pick’s Disease. They don’t seem to know much about it other than it accounts for 1 – 5% of all cases of dementia. Until recently they thought there was no way to differentiate it from Alzheimer’s except posthumously (it involves a brain biopsy, which isn’t really something you want to do on a living subject if you can possibly help it…) so they haven’t done a whole lot of research on it.

Lots of sites emphasize that it occurs mostly between the ages of 40-60 (though the NIH suggest that it can occur from 20-80), but I wonder if (based off the things I’ve read) the 40-60 age diagnosis is skewed. A couple accounts I read about it had extra testing done because the patient was considered young for Alzheimer’s, and came up with a “probable Pick’s Disease” diagnosis instead. I can’t help but wonder how many older cases are just brushed off as Alzheimer’s or Dementia. It doesn’t matter really; there’s no cure, and no real treatment. Apparently Alzheimer’s drugs rarely work, usually increasing some of Pick’s behavioural traits.

Unlike Alzheimer’s it creates something called “Pick’s bodies” in the cells, and there is no plating like in Alzheimer’s. (Alzheimer’s ends up “plaquing” the neurons so they can’t communicate with each other. This occurs outside the cells. I can explain in more detail, but chances are, if you’re reading this, I’ve already bored you silly with this description. If I haven’t, and you want to hear it, ask me. Make sure you have about 2-3 hours free for the answer.)

Anyway….

I forget where I was going next with this ramble, so, if you want to know more about the disease, look it up on Google. That’s how I’ve been learning about it.

And before anyone thinks I’m too broken up about this: We’ve known about the dementia aspect for over 2 years now. It just has a name now. And as far as I can tell, dementia isn’t something that can be treated well, no matter what type it is. And truthfully, she matches much of the description of the disease, but I’ve yet to see a description that talks about hallucinations. I’m not sure it’s what is/is the only thing going on here. But even if it is, at least now we can learn about it. And it’s not a news flash to anyone (except my aunt who keeps thinking grandma is going to get better. I don’t blame her. I was like that for months about my father, and he was dead for god’s sake.)

The part I am upset about is the part where grandma is currently hospitalized because her blood pressure dropped to 60 over .. uh… 60 over 40 or 80. I can’t quite remember now. And that’s on the medication to bring her blood pressure up. Theories about dementia are abstract. Hospital stays are pretty damn concrete.

Bleh.

I haven’t blogged in ages, and I feel like I should, but there isn’t much to say.

My life has gotten pretty boring, and I suspect that’s no one’s fault but my own… though I’m not entirely sure it was avoidable.

Not that I’m blaming myself… As Monacita put it: everyone’s life becomes boring sometimes. It’s not a reflection of you as a person, it’s just the way life is.

Besides, boring is better than many states my life stumbles into; this beats the shit out of catastrophic despair.

I think I’ll go swimming and then go to Lindsey today. I’m not scheduled, and I should stay here and clean up, but I think this will help with the humdrum mood.

“Sushi baby… I’ll be yours. Eat me while I’m still alive.”