I promised an update before the end of 2016 without
realising quite how quickly it’d roll around. (It rolled around very quickly.)
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| Tomatoes from our plant. We're tired of tomatoes now. |
This time last year I noticed that my medication was more
anti-hair than anti-depression; both my forehead and my despair were growing. The yukkiness
must have lasted until at least early March (I remember feeling suicidal on my birthday)
but not long after that my new medication kicked in, and then, a few months
later, the new dose of the new medication kicked in, and now, at the start of a
new year, I am both happy and hairy. It’s the third medication I’ve tried – the
first left me unable to drive or reach orgasm and the second seemed to wear off awfully quickly (as well as making my hair fall out).
It’s been incredibly helpful having depression stuff sorted
out, because last year was a difficult one marriage-wise. Alan and I are opposite
in so many ways: when conflict arises, Alan withdraws, while I pursue. Alan
likes talking about mundane things at exactly the moments I want nothing but a
dark room and silence (he’s an extrovert, so working alone leaves him craving
people and conversation at the end of the day, which is precisely the time I - the introvert - long
for zero interaction). Alan’s motto is “Near enough is good enough” while my
motto is “Do it right or don’t do it at all.” (Actually, now that I’ve written
it down, I realise it’s just “Do it right.” Or maybe: “Do it right. Preferably the
first time.”) Our oppositeness makes us terrible housemates. Our relationship would
be far cruisier if we lived in different suburbs and didn’t share children.
I’ve been enjoying paying more attention to who each of us actually is (we’ve fallen into the
unhelpful habit of filtering everything the other does through set lenses –
Alan’s the thoughtless, incompetent one and I’m the cranky, impatient, perfectionist)
and what we each need. Strangely, the Enneagram, which I learned about through
this episode from The Liturgists, has helped a LOT, as has remembering Elaine Aron’s Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) theory, which
captures very well my experience of the world. With these in mind, I’ve been
doing a better job of looking after myself (avoiding caffeine, for example, or
choosing quiet over listening to the radio or a podcast), and Alan (thinking of
him as a Type Nine rather than a Defective Fool has done wonders for my view of
our relationship). (Come to think of it, thinking of myself as a Type One rather
than as a Defective Neurotic has done wonders for my view of myself.)
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| Flopsy with the fam bam* |
I’ve known for a long time that Moses is an HSP as well, which
is one of the reasons last year was also a difficult one parenting-wise. We
started seeing an Occupational Therapist in December to talk about Mo’s
sensitivities and difficulties with emotion regulation, and it’s been a huge
relief to feel supported and be given tools to help him feel slightly less
overwhelmed by the world, and us feel slightly less overwhelmed by his
overwhelmedness. I’ve also been appreciating the upside of his sensitivity: my
grandfather died in January, and Mo kept a close eye on me at the funeral and wrapped his arms tightly around my neck whenever he noticed tears welling up.
So Grandad’s gone, which hurts even to write. We found out
at the end of December that he was unwell, and then, days later, that he was
really unwell, and then, two weeks later, he was gone. He’d stayed with us early
in December and seemed exhausted but well; he said he felt old, and was
frustrated by the fact that his body wasn’t as young as his brain felt. I took
more photos of him than usual, pictures of him playing Boggle and showing Moses
and Hazel a gyroscope he’d brought along for them, and I recorded a few
conversations so I’d have his voice nearby forever, not realising how soon
after his visit these would become precious. I also got to see him a week
before he died; I fought off my fears of seeming overdramatic and flew to
Ballina to visit him in hospital, where he was chirpy and keen to talk of his
life. He, Mum and I played word games and made each other laugh (he was happy
to talk of dying, but he wanted us joking rather than sombre). Ridiculous
things are reminding me of him (“Grandad was one of the last people to use this
toilet!” *cries*), as well as not-so-ridiculous things (“Grandad loved camembert!” *eats cheese while
crying*), which means he’s not far from my thoughts at the moment. I miss him.
I’m glad, though, to feel grief over his death and to have
felt sadness/frustration/hopelessness over marriage and parenting struggles; to
me, being able to differentiate these emotions is a sign of my wellness. I’m
not sure I have specific emotions when I’m depressed, just an overwhelming sense
of pointlessness and mental exhaustion and wanting to not be around anymore. I
love my antidepressants SO. MUCH.
I start my honours course in February. Bring on 2017.
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* Flopsy’s the preschool rabbit we were petsitting over the summer break. I loved having a pet for a month or so, despite the fact he made my nose itch and my eyes run. I also loved dropping him back to his owner again, and no longer having to worry whether the kids were at that moment torturing him somewhere with their over-enthusiastic cuddles.
