Gotta be honest… looks like a sock to me

Knitting knitting knitting “ah crap”. That is basically the story of this damn sock.

So in case you’re not following, I am knitting socks right now. Knitting is a coping tool for when my brain monster is taking control, so I’ve been doing it a lot lately. I decided to try a sock again, I’ve never successfully finished one but I was feeling hopeful. Upon finishing the ribbing I noticed a mistake in one of the rows. Looks wonky but not overly noticeable so I kept going. Then I finished everything before the heel, success! Furthest I’ve ever made it! Oh wait, my repeat pattern has a mistake a few rows back. I’m really bad at ripping back and picking up stitches so I’ll let it go.

I finished the heel flap yesterday, so proud of myself! And it was done without mistakes! Yay! Started the heel turn. Got to row 9 before I realized I’d done the whole fucking heel turn wrong.

I burst into tears. Hubby was wondering what was wrong. I held up the sock and said it was all screwed up and I should just give up. He said it looked fine and asked what was wrong with it. I pointed to the mistake in the ribbing, the one in the ankle, and then to the heel turn which would fit only if my heel slanted to the left.

Hubby looked at the sock thoughtfully, examined each part I had pointed to, then calmly looked at me and said “I gotta be honest with you. It looks like a sock to me.” 😐

So I went to bed and am trying again today. I had to rip out the heel turn, but couldn’t successfully pick up the stitches in the heel flap, so had to rip back all the way to the last row before starting the heel. Now to start the damn heel again.

Round 1 goes to sock, but Round 2 shall be mine!

Socks to the rescue!

I’m breaking down, so I am knitting non-stop. I’ve never successfully made socks, and am trying again. Usually I wouldn’t try a new pattern when breaking down, but my current feeling of constant failure requires a victory. So far I’m doing well and it’s definitely helping. If nothing else I’m proud of the fact that I’ve gotten myself to a point that I can fall back on a self care technique.

I need a break from me

I’m trapped in my own mind, stuck with my own company. I live the day picking apart my every action and shoving my own mistakes in my face. I torture myself, I cry, and then I hate myself for the tears. I go to bed at night and the mean part of me takes more control, feeding into my insecurities and stress in dreams. Tearing me apart worse than while awake because now that part of my brain controls all. I want to sleep, but I fear my dreams. I want to cry but fear my response to those tears. I want to scream and push back the part of me that is so filled with hatred, but I’m not strong enough. Or at least that part of me isn’t. I need a break from my own mind. I need to protect that little hurting girl in my mind from the monster currently tearing her apart. But I am that monster. I am both, and so hate both. I’ve been living on energy drinks this week for fear of sleep and for lack of sleep. I need a break. The house is quiet right now, the whole family asleep. My energy drink is wearing off and the TV is no longer blocking out the voices in my head. I need sleep, but it won’t give me the break my mind needs. I refuse to keep sleeping pills in the house specifically for this reason. Because I know I will take too many out of sheer desperation to not dream. So I sit and struggle. I’m safe, but I won’t have a break. I just need a break.

If we were having coffee…

If we were having coffee we’d be sitting on my couch under my favorite quilts drinking white chocolate mochas that my husband went and got us from Starbucks. Assuming you have bribe money to get him to go to Starbucks for us, it’s a bit cold today so we’ll probably need to pay him pretty good to leave the house.

If we were having coffee we’d be sitting and sipping somewhat quietly as we listen to the History Chicks. I recently stumbled on their podcast and can’t turn it off. We would listen intently until suddenly we’re joining the conversation. Cause Beckett and Susan can hear us through my iPad right? If you haven’t heard them before I highly recommend it! If you even vaguely possibly enjoyed some aspect of history, then ignore the child in your brain yelling “but I don’t want to memorize dates for a test!” and put it on. You’ll thank me.

If we were having coffee we would just be relaxing. Last week was a hard one and this week doesn’t look too promising. But today is good. It’s quiet, just the right amount of cold outside (if you don’t listen to my husband), and nothing else need exist. Just us, coffee, and podcasts.

The math is on my side

My father is a math teacher. There was a shooting at his school a couple years back. He knew the shooter personally, he saw the victims daily. He remembers fitting 60 kids in his classroom to protect them as shots went off nearby. He went through special courses on helping students through grief for weeks afterward.

I don’t know what can fix this type of thing. I don’t know how to protect our schools. I can’t solve this problem. I’m sorry. But being the daughter of a math teacher I know how to read my numbers.

The likelihood of having someone I love in a school shooting twice is significantly lower than having a loved one in a shooting once. The numbers tell me my children are safe because this won’t happen to my family again. Perhaps I sound selfish or stupid, but everyday I watch my kids get on a school bus and I say goodbye. And some days when the world is dark and I begin to fear for them, I have to rely on the numbers. Math helps me cope with the darkness of this world and the uncertainties in life.

When you fear, find that something you can cling to. Maybe you feel you know an answer to solve the problem, cling to it and share it. Maybe you are strong in your religion, cling to it and have faith in it. Maybe, like me, you have math, cling to it and rest in its certainty.

What ever it is that guides you through the terrible things in this life, keep it close. There are still good things in life, we just need our filter to see them sometimes. My filter is math, and I will use it as best I can.

If we were having coffee…

If we were having coffee we would be drinking it and munching some bacon. Hubby’s making bacon right now and the whole house smells yummy.

If we were having coffee you would notice that I’m making my way out of a depression. I still have those days of “I can’t do this anymore.” But I also have days of “wow, I accomplished things!” So I’m clinging to those days to get me through the tougher ones. I’m crafting more and talking more, but still fairly exhausted most days. I’m getting there. And I appreciate y’all being around even when I struggle to write.

If we were having coffee we would color or knit or something else that keeps our hands busy and our minds light. Bring whatever craft you want, but don’t worry if you don’t have one. I have a fairly large collection of colored pencils, and tons of yarn. Maybe we’ll learn to finger knit together!

The flu does not help my mental state

Can’t keep anything down, including my mood stabilizer and anti depressant. So not only did I spend all weekend sick, I spent it crazy. Between lack of meds, lack of fluids, and constant stomach and head pain I nearly had a mental break down. Luckily it’s starting to pass, but the flu really is not nice to mental illness. And I’m going back to sleep now. 😷🤧😴

You lose a loved one, then they die.

When I was a sophomore in high school we were expected to do a certain amount of volunteer hours for the year. So I reached out to a local nursing home and offered to help. They said just stopping by and spending time with the dementia patients would be wonderful. Upon getting there I was so impressed. The place was clean, friendly, and filled with safe activities. The staff were all wonderful. The place was clearly well run and didn’t need me, but hey I came to spend time with the patients so why not? So I sat down and started talking with a women. I introduced myself about 5 times, repeated the same answers to the same questions in small circles of dialog, and was surprised by just how comfortable I was talking to her despite my introverted tendencies. I came back the next day and started spending time with the people in the activity room when a nurse pointed out one gentleman who used to be a musician for a living. So he and I sat at the piano and I tried to remember tunes from childhood piano lessons and then muscle memory took over from his dementia eaten brain and he played something lovely for me. As another women began to sing I saw a few more swaying or dancing to the music. This became a regular thing. Bringing music, playing music, singing and dancing. It seemed to brighten their day, and I know it did mine. Staff always joined in when possible which was lovely to see. When my volunteer hours were up I kept going. For about two years I would go about once a month to put on a little “swing dance” night with the help of a couple nurses. It always seemed to go over well.

I remember the first time I sat near a family while they were visiting a loved one. As they answered the same circle of questions I did. As they had to explain who they were to someone they’ve known all their life. I could hear two things in their voices, love and grief. The person they knew was gone, she was different. They loved her and visited her and spent time with her, but it wasn’t her anymore and it broke their hearts. I saw this more times than I care to remember. See dementia doesn’t just steal short term memory, it eats away at the whole brain. The personality of the person is affected as much as anything else. The person you knew is gone almost entirely, but still there. That’s a hard way to lose someone, and a difficult way to grieve.

Twelve years ago I went to visit my grandmother. To anyone on the outside she would have seemed perfectly normal, but I saw something else. There were slight snags in short term memory that weren’t there the last time I saw her, but no more than the average person her age (or the average me at any age without coffee). Except she had always had a better memory than the average person. And what she forgot would be unusual, like how to change a basic setting on a tv she’d owned for 5 years. But it was more than that. She cooked differently. The women who has had the same cooking habits since before my dad was born had suddenly shifted them. Her intense focus on her daily hobbies wasn’t there, and she struggle to fill her day. She’d never had that problem before. I knew within an hour she was in the early stages of dementia. I called my father that night and told him what I noticed and to please take grandma to her doctor. Go with her. And then I curled up in bed and cried. I knew what would happen, I would lose her slowly, bit by bit. I would grieve for her for years while she still lived and I still saw her.

A few days ago my grandmother died. Twelve years of watching her slip away. She is now at peace. I have grieved for the last 3 years when she hit a stage of dementia that made her unrecognizable. But still I loved her, still do. So instead of the continued sorrow, it is time to celebrate her life.

She lived a long life filled with a great deal of joy. She helped keep her parents and siblings healthy through the Great Depression while still knowing how to enjoy life despite how little she had. She raised two children, a son and daughter, and had a wonderful and loving husband for many years. She had a great career that she worked hard at and loved, but somehow always knew how to balance work and life despite the tough hours. When she retired she was never bored. She spent time with her kids and grandkids, her and her husband took in foster children for a while, she kept her hobbies up. When her husband passed she spent her free time teaching sewing and knitting classes at the local community center.

She practiced what she preached more than anyone I’ve ever known. In fact I think she practiced far more than ever preached, simply living the example without the need to say a word. She lived a life of balance and stability, she took care of her health, she had fun, she practiced things she wanted to learn and taught things she already knew. I learned a lot from my grandmother, probably more than I ever realized. The things I struggle with I still try to pull from her example, and I always will. I haven’t lost her completely despite the disease that stole her mind and then body. I will pass what I can to my kids so they at least will get some of the blessings I got from her. I hope that will be enough to honor the amazing women that she was.

Questions about your boss with BPD?

From day one the most common search term for this site has been “my boss has borderline personality disorder.” That hasn’t changed. In fact it’s become even more frequent. I spoke on this once before, but am not sure it actually answers anything you want to know. If you are coming to this blog trying to figure out how to work with a boss who may have BPD please feel free to post a question in the comments section. I will do my best to answer.

Why is your face grey?

Because I’m doing a charcoal face mask. My son literally just walked into the living room and asked “why is your face grey?” I explained I was doing a face mask and so he asked “um, is it a real mask or just paint?” Well not the type of real mask your thinking of. It’s basically a thick goop. “So paint?” Um, I guess so. Kind of.

So I’m sitting here with charcoal face paint and eating chocolate ice cream. As weird as my face seems to my child, it is cleansing. As is the ice cream. Ice cream is always cleansing. And hiding in the house is cleansing. All in all a very nice evening. I hope you all are having a nice and cleansing evening as well.