The medication, well, we wait. I wait. To see if it is friend or foe.
It is still too soon to tell.
My hands now shake when I try to hold a mug of tea, when I try to write a check. My vision is screwy, fuzzy. I can’t get warm. I am not complaining; I am listing the facts. This is hardcore stuff, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare me some. Still, I hope.
Yesterday, my mother—who is sick with a wretched upper respiratory infection—could hear the panic in my voice. “I don’t have milk,” I said. She sighed, with more love than exasperation. With my mother, there are no strings attached, and my God, that is rare in this world.
“Let me put on some clothes and I’ll drive you to the supermarket,” she said.
She dropped me off at the Big Y (the Big Why?) and headed to Rite-Aid for Sudafed. I clung to a cart and made my foggy way up and down the aisles. I had a sweaty list crunched in my hand, but still, the Big Why is always misery for me.
I don’t know what to feed my children, because my children do not eat the same thing twice. The guilt of purchasing food that I know they will waste, with money that we can’t afford to spend—it is simply too much. Combine that with the haze of the medicine and simply not feeling well yet, and it is the Perfect Storm of the Grocery World.
So I inched up and down the aisles, scratching off items on my sad little list with a mini-golf pencil I had found in Mom’s car, trying not to cry, trying not to listen to the pop songs of lost love that kill me.
I can usually hold it together. I am used to putting on a happy, perky face. “Chipper,” my one friend calls it. I am the queen of chipper. This means you might not notice that I am dying inside as I put milk, yogurt, apples, white bread and two Lunchables (gasp!) in my cart right beside you.
Which means, of course, that everyone at the Big Why could be dying inside. There are many kings and queens of chipper in this world.
This is what I was thinking as I shuffled my cart into the canned food aisle. There, the dizziness struck. I lurched sideways, trying to catch my balance, and fell into a row of canned lima beans, pinto beans, beans, beans, beans. The other woman in the aisle pretended not to notice. But the humiliation of the small moment was potent. A drunk. I look like a drunk.
I gave up on the rest of my list. I checked out, cheeks flaming, head low.
“Play your game,” said the checkout clerk.
“What? Oh.”
I played the Big Why touchscreen slot machine. One silver coin, two silver coins…a gold coin. Not a winner. Surprise, surprise. Maybe someday.
I paid and pushed my cart outside. No sign of Mom yet. The wind had kicked up, and I could feel the weakness, the wooziness, taking over. I shoved my cart up against a concrete pillar to steady myself and put my hood up and head down.
“Is Kansas City close to New Orleans?”
I looked up to see a straggly, worn-looking man. He was waiting for an answer.
“What?”
“Is Kansas City close to New Orleans?”
I pondered this.
“Hm. Not super-close, no,” I replied.
He nodded and continued on his way.
I wondered at his question. Kansas City resonates for me, the home of an old friend who had struggled with mental illness. New Orleans, well, I think of rebuilding, of art, of struggle.
Not super-close. No.
When my mom pulled up, it was all I could do to get the groceries into the trunk. She offered to get me a warm latte before taking me home. The girls would be home soon.
I agreed. A takeout cup beats an open-top mug these days. I stayed in the car, shaky and cold despite her having left the engine running and the heat on.
When she came back with lattes and chili for us, I was sobbing.
“Oh dear,” she said. “You’re crying.”
She is charmingly sweet about stating the obvious.
“Yup,” I said.
She got in the car. We sat.
“I’m scared,” I said. “How did I get here? Is this my life?”
“Right now it is,” she said. “It won’t always be like this. It won’t.”
“My hands shake. I fell into the lima beans. Who’s going to hire me? What kind of job will I be able to do? I looked like a sad drunk, Mom. I’m so tired. I am so, so tired.”
“Let’s go,” she said. “I’m coming over.”
“You’re sick too,” I said. “You need to go to bed.”
“You need help with the girls. I’m coming over. And you need to EAT.”
We managed to drag all of the groceries inside. We collapsed at the kitchen table with our chili and tuna wraps.
“I’m serious,” she said. “It won’t always be like this.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. I love you so much,” she said.
“I love you too, Mom,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I want to believe it will get better, like she says it will. But right now, I can barely keep my head up. I perk up when people show up, and I wish I didn’t. It’s old habit. I wish I could drool on the pillow like I am going to do now, as soon as I finish writing this post. I wish I could say, I’m scared. Who’s going to hire me if I stay like this? No, I’m not better yet. No. Really. Yes, the medicine is still kicking my ass. Yes, it was a good day when I managed the Christmas lights. But those days are few and wipe me out. I need help, still, and don’t know when that will end. I want it to end. I want to be self-sufficient. But I’m not, not yet.
I hurt. I will get there, but the distance from here to there? Not super-close, no.
{ 59 comments… read them below or add one }
Your mom is right. Things are changing even now, it’s just hard to see when you’re in the middle. We are all pulling for you.
I wish I could come over and help you, even if it was just to change out the heating pad or make you a millionth cup of hot coffee.
I believe, too, that it will not always be this way. Either your body will adjust to the medication, or you will take something different. It *will* get better. It must be so tough hanging in there waiting for it to get there, though.
We love and think about you, all of us.
And you sat with the girls and watched Word Girl and they cuddled with you while I made canned ravioli and frozen pierogies. Sophie and Hannah cleaned their plates. You drew a bath for Hattie while I helped Sophie with her homework. Helped? The kid needs no help – she is quite on task. Before you know it, Sophie had completed her entire week’s assignments. Wonderful to see. You then gave Sophie a bath while I let Hannah draw with me and then show how many letters of the alphabet she knows. Finally, bedtime. The girls were cared for by a shaky mommy and a sick grandmom. And the Christmas lights continued to twinkle and bless this house. I wish we could trade places, Jenn. I love you that much.
Your mom is right. It will get better. In the mean time know that you are loved and cared about by so many.
And I bought a Christmas CD yesterday in the coffee shop. “New Orleans Jazz Christmas”. How odd that both of us, unknowingly, had encounters with the city of New Orleans. It is a city that struggles but has oh so much soul. My Dad loved Dixieland music. It lifts my spirit too. Hope. One day at a time. One shaky step at a time.
You are so brave. Really. You are. This will get better. There is an other side, and someday you will be on it.
If I’ve learned anything in life it’s to trust what your mom says. Take it one day at a time. That’s all you can do to keep yourself steady. One. Day. At. A. Time.
You need a new market. I know that sounds like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, but we have a fancy-shmancy new market that “everyone” loves that I find horribly disorienting even when I’m not on meds. I love our small community market for that reason.
And it will get better. You are so lucky to have a mom who loves you like that. And she is 100% right. It’s impossible to feel that way right now, I know. But from one who’s been to the other side and back….it ends. Really. It does. And you’ll be so glad to be past it, and one day you’ll read a post by someone else who is in the thick of it and it will bring you back. And you will remember feeling that way and wonder anew that today, you don’t. And you will send them a note of encouragement, reminding them: it gets better, even if it feels like forever.
Hang in there.
Oh, Jenn. I know the magnitude of this is more than I can imagine. But I also know that one of the most poignant lessons I have ever learned was from my Aunt, 9 years ago. I was pregnant with Liam, and things were going badly. We were at great risk of having him very early, and I was not allowing people to help us. I felt like a burden, and did not want people to feel that way about us. Dear Judy told me something that changed my life – she said that the greatest act of love is letting the people who love you be at your side when you need them. You, my dear sweet old friend, are allowing people who care to love you. Perhaps in some ways, for the first time in your life. You are the queen of chipper – and because of that I never knew the depths of how you feel until years after we lived in the same place. You are not a burden to anyone. You have given so many of us so much joy over the years, joy given from the depths of your heart. Now it is time for us to help hold you up, and it is an honor. Things WILL get better. They have to. The universe is wanting to hold you up, and you are letting us help. That, my friend, is love at its greatest.
Jenn, I love you. It’s true.
Doesn’t this illness qualify you for disability payments or whatever? At least temporarily until you can get the meds worked out? I’m sure figuring out how to get on disability seems like too much for you now. I would definitely find one of those people who know you well and ask them to figure it out for you. If I were close enough, I’d do it for you.
xo
how is it that i love you when i’ve never even met you?
and your mama, too. oh, your mama. she’s something.
i would have held you up in the grocery store aisle. taken the lima bean hit for you. i would steady your mug for you, if i were there. steady YOU. i would love sophie, your moon child, and hattie, your sun child. i would cook. well. maybe that’s going too far. cook the basics, anyway.
you inspire all of that in me. if only i were closer.
Jenn, I feel so sorry that you have to deal with this. To feel that shame of falling into the lima beans. If that woman knew what you were really dealing with, she’d have run over to help you. And she would have admired you. I do. You went to the grocery store even though you can barely stand or see. You keep trying and trying. That’s something to be proud of. And, your sweet mom is a true gem. A precious stone. You can lean on her and you can bet it makes her feel a thousand times better to be able to help you, even in little ways, than to have to stand by and watch, helpless. If she can drive you to the store, it is probably her joy. To be able to help someone you love is a gift.
I hope you get used to the meds soon. Thank you again for sharing this personal struggle that so many of us deal with in one way or another.
How can us readers help you? A lot of us live too far away to do anything concrete. And, I don’t have your address and don’t want to feel like I’m stalking you to get it.
How can we help?
Sigh. I am sighing with love and not exasperation as well. Here’s to hoping the side effects die down soon, or at least that the primary effect eclipses them.
You did a great job illustrating how the “normal” world is incredibly strange in and of itself, like it’s hard to tell who’s supposed to be “crazy” one.
I’m sorry. I trust it will get better, but it’s the waiting that’s interminable, isn’t it?
Thanks for posting, Jenn. I checked the site this morning because we hadn’t heard from you in a while. I am thinking about you. I still think you would be a great, very hire-able grantwriter. I am going to send you an extra copy of a book I have about grantwriting for you to peruse. No pressure, just something to consider for the future when you are feeling stronger.
Also, I think this pre-holiday time is a hard-to-get-through time for most people, so kudos for making it to the store and writing this very articulate post! Can you look forward to spring and daffodils?
I’m glad the queen of chipper has a Queen Mother like your mom. Believe her. It will not always be like this.
Wait…wait a minute
You:
Put up lights. Check
Festooned a tree with shiny. Check
Went to the store.Check
Gave council to lost soul in lot. Check
Provided sustenance to you and yours. Check
Wrote a blog entry (that rocked) Check
Bathed and Tucked your ladies in. Check
Me:
Just freakn; WOW Jenn.
The way I’m looking at it. (Clapping here now) I’m DAMN proud of you. Look at the list Jenn. Don’t get lost in the details-the big picture here Jenn.
How about we all show up in shifts when you have to go out. Except we (I) will drink and tipple over. No one will notice you shake a little.
Dear mind blowing, ass-kicking, direction giving Jenn YOU ARE DOING IT. Baby steps, second ticking little ones. YOU ARE MOVING. Slowly? Yeah..so what. YOUR A WARRIOR BABY!
Hang on, it is going to change. I believe it.
Cindi
i’m going to email you…
(notice i didn’t say that i’d call you…)
xoxo-k
So well put. And your mom put it well, too.
Jen, dear Jen. Having nursed my bi-polar brother through some truly terrifying episodes, I can state UNEQUIVOCALLY that it will not always be like this. It will get better. You will get better.
I promise.
Your mother is a priceless jewel. And so are you. Things will not always be this way. You can do it.
Your mom is a lovely, wise woman.
And if it didn’t suck where you are now, there would be no motivation to get out. Some of us have to hit bottom to find our way. As one hit-bottom-er to another, I promise you that it gets better.
I’ve played the chipper role before. Eventually I lost because I was lying to myself. It’s ok to just be you right now. You’re strong. And it does get better. I know it probably doesn’t seem like it ever will right now, but it will. You’re mom is wonderful. You’re wonderful, Jenn. You’re accomplishing so much more than it feels like to you on the inside.
Your mom is amazing…and so are you. I wish I knew you in the real world and that I could come over and babysit or make dinner or just sit and stare at the TV with you.
I have so much faith in your strength (and I generally run a little short on faith). Just use that word as your mantra – strength.
Ditto what cindi roo said. You went out in public voluntarily – that’s more than I can handle some days. You found it in your heart to help someone else – something some people can’t /won’t do even when they feel fine. You took care of yourself and your girls and let your mom know that you love her – that’s the essence of life right there.
You’re doing OK. Really. I know it sucks but you’re doing OK. Have patience, grasshopper.
“I wish I could trade places with you, Jenn. I love you that much.”
That’s a quite a lovely mother you’ve got there. Her comment moved me to tears.
Be well. Baby steps.
I hate that you are going through all of this, but so glad you have a loving mother to be there when you really need her. I can relate to and understand so much of your story. I just wanted to say hello, offer a hug and remind you that those on the outside can sometimes see more clearly than we can when we are in the middle of it all. They can see that it will pass. You will get through this rough patch, you just will. There is another side to this tunnel you are in…a brighter and sunnier place..you are on your way there now.
Thank you for writing. Hugs to you.
Let’s see–you fell into some canned goods and someone pretended not to see? And you felt humiliated? *She* is the one who should be ashamed. If you are the closest person to someone who has fallen, you go see if they are OK and if you can help–that’s common decency.
You and Mater just made me cry at work. You two are amazing, strong, brave women.
It will get better, you will find the right meds, and someday you will write a kick-ass memoir about this time of your life and it will become a best seller. And we will be clapping and cheering and celebrating with you.
Know that you are loved and admired, even by those that don’t know you personally.
There are many kings and queens of chipper in this world.
Ain’t that the truth?
Just a thought, isn’t there some wonderful friend or neighbor who has been asking and asking to help who could possible handle grocery shopping for you, just for now?
I’m not a big asker-for-helper either, but I don’t think you need this right now. I also know that there have been times when I’ve watched friends (and family) reallystruggling and wanted deeply and desperately to help them…and they wouldn’t allow it. Consider that there may be someone who would love to help you.
And five years from now, when your book has been at the top of the NYT bestseller’s list for 53 consecutive weeks, this will all look different.
Love your writing, as always.
There are times when darkness is all that you see. Right now you are in this “perfect storm” of divorce and joblessness and anguish.
But, but, but – WE ALL BELIEVE IN YOU, JENN!
In spite of the wacky meds and the emotions – you still can put words together in the most amazing way. I can tell you with confidence that nearly all of the rest of us would write incoherent, whiny crap.
But not you, Jenn. You write these magnificent and deep essays, full of pain and reality and the richness of life (“Is Kansas City close to New Orleans?”)
I hope that you can imagine yourself looking back – and saying, ‘oh yeah, 2008 sucked big time, but I got through it. I did it. I made it.”
See yourself on the other side. That’s where we see you.
Keep writing, keep reaching out. We are here.
A vicious wait, so blessed to have your special mom along the way.
Your mother, oh, your mother, she is wonderful.
And so are you, Jenn. You will get out of this. I loved this comment from keriS:
The universe is wanting to hold you up, and you are letting us help.
Please keep telling us. Please keep letting us help.
You and your mater and your commenters have made me cry now, but not in any alarming way. My God, the love amidst the pain. Surely the good days will slowly come more often. I pray for you. I don’t know where you stand on prayer, but I pray for peace and comfort and security for you.
Oh Jenn, you have me crying too. This is absolutely not your life, in the “This is Your Life” wrap-up sense.
You are the heroine of this story, and I am cheering for you.
sending all the healing thoughts I can muster, and gentle hugs
I’m having a weepy night so this was the perfect post for me. I could weep with you. Hell, tonight I’m throwing myself a Pity Parade because Pity Parties are for those with low aspirations. ha ha. If it makes you feel any better, the kids and I went over to dinner with friends tonight (Luisa is in Haiti – darn her) and I broke down in tears not once, not twice but THREE times before we left. We gotta just keep putting one foot in front of the other and hoping that we make it to Kansas City. Actually, I’m from there and have some baggage associated…so let’s head for New Orleans.
It is your life right now, but everything changes. Nothing remains the same. While that sentiment may seem bleak in good times, I take comfort in it when I’m barely dragging myself through.
You are still giving so much, in the midst of this darkest time, to your girls and to us. As so many others have marvelled, you’re still going to the store, taking care of your girls, writing. That’s enough while you’re doing the real work of getting well.
Sending thoughts of strength, peace of mind, and love to you, the girls, and the mater.
Jen,
I read your blog these days and I cry, not because I feel sorry for you but because you put into words so well so many of my own thoughts and feelings, you truly have a gift for sharing your soul with the world and I hope that the world responds soon in kind by giving you the balance and strength to get through this tough time
my mother was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder when she was 45, she had her first breakdown the summer before my senior year of college, she has had her ups and downs but is basically stable with a healthy regime of pharmaceuticals that give her a range of ridiculous and frustrating side-effects
i have also struggled with my own mental illnesses and wish that i was brave enough and eloquent enough to share my stories as you have
i think of you often and wish you all the best
Marie
Jenn
You are too talented to work for someone else. Have you ever thought of writing children’s books? I have some ideas for a story line and you can write it (as if you don’t have enough of your own material). You could do it in no time. There are lots of illustrators. Are there any children’s books on polar bear disease?
First, I am appalled that you fell down in a supermarket and no one came to help you! What is wrong with people?!?!? That you had to struggle to your feet alone is NOT your failing, it is theirs. I don’t care if someone thought you were a baby-stealing, crack-cocaine addict, someone should’ve come to your aid. Harumph.
Second, someday, you may look back at this day and laugh, or smile at least, at the absurd curve balls life throws us at times. In the meantime, be gentle to yourself. You have a good soul and a kind heart.
When I couldn’t unlock the doors or windows in the middle of august, or go outside with my newborns, or call the septic guy to pump the tank b/c I was afraid he’d throw my babies in, or when I made my husband search the house in the night AGAIN, or when I screamed in anguish when no one else was here but me and the babies I thought “Is this my life? How how how could it be?” But I took the medication. I went to therapy and I got better. I still struggle. But it’s better. I can function and so will you. AND SO WILL YOU. Because I read in you an awareness and an unwillingness to succumb (as tempting as it might be sometimes). You are a blessing to those of us who could never articulate the beast. Keep writing. Keep snuggling. Keep reaching out. Keep taking the meds. Keep breathing. If that all seems like too much, just keep breathing. The rest will come. I wish I could bring you something, anything. So just accept my good wishes for you.
jenn. jenn. jenn. my little heart is sending you love and compassion; just know you are supported and cared for–you will get there, you will, you will.
Especially hard to go through this when it’s freezing and snowy out. Or maybe that makes more sense. I don’t know. But I do know that I admire you for toughing this out, asking for help, doing your best and writing so eloquently about all of it.
I was tearing up when I read your post (before I even read the comments), because I want your mom. I’m selfish that way. Yeah, I felt bad that you are having ot go through this, but mostly I felt bad for me because I want the relationship you and your mom have. Mine, not even close. I never think of calling her when I need consoling or counsel. Doesn’t work for us.
Your mom is right– it won’t always be like this. Somehow we get through these things. You have great support, you will do it. Someone will hire you. They hire less competent people everyday. You won’t be dizzy forever. It will work out or they will change the meds.
And, isn’t the universe interesting. Mr. question guy right ther for you, to give you food for thought so you could write about it for us. Either he was put there specifically for that purpose, or your mind makes wonderful connections. Either way something is working right.
Cindi is right, you are a WARRIOR!!!
I believe it will get better.
the holidays are not a super chipper time for many of us.
I HATE the pressure of sending cards and buying gifts and in between finding the time to see everyone for holiday get togethers that would be great if i didn’t have so much damn shopping and card writing to do.
i love my memories of christmas as a kid. i love christmas for my children. i love finding that perfect gift for a good friend or, rarely, for one of my parents. i love potlucks with wine. i love buying gifts for the foster families at Moulton’s because they might actually appreciate them AND get something they really want.
the rest of it i would love to bury in a shallow grave in the backyard. it is so much pressure. it is not fun or warn or fuzzy or jolly. it is demands on money and time i do not have. i write cards to stay off the s*&%t list, not because i want to spread holiday cheer with loved ones. i can accomplish that with e-mails. l buy presents for family that, at this point, i barely know the interests of and they do the same for us and we all end up with stuff that gets regifted or sent to the goodwill.
You are an amazing warrior, jenn. you are trucking through this crappy economy and crappy time of the year and surviving despite the monster. i have no monster and i mostly just want to cry when i think of tomorrow or the next day and what still needs to be done.i want to curl up at home by the fire and shut off the phones until January is here.
It will get better. It will. Stick with it.I know you are tired. I’m sorry.
“Queen of chipper”… sounds like a reference to the movie Fargo.
Still… no point in crying over spilt lima beans.
I’ve got this theory… it goes like this….
They treat ADHD with stimulants… what percentage of adult coffee drinkers to you think are self-medicating for ADHD? Same thing with drugs and alcohol… what percentage of the adult population is self-medicating for depression? What percentage self-medicates with “retail-therapy”? What percentage self medicates by externalizing all of their built up pain onto some scapegoat? What percentage retreats into a bunker mentality to hide away from a world that scares and hurts them?
Divorce and job loss are two of the greatest sources of stress and anxiety in the modern world. You got hit with both. When you have come out on the other side of this, you’ll know that you can deal with pretty much the worst of the worst. You’re banking it right now. Imagine how much power is being added to your writing by these experiences. Imagine how much better equipped you will be to help your kids if they go through rough patches.
Don’t regret this time of your life, be grateful for it. Only hardship builds character and wisdom, and you’re a regular construction project right now.
Merry Christmas to you, and to your mom, and all the moms of this world who rock. May we all be so blessed and be able to Get Through so we can see it that we all really are.