I’ve been on a list to take a Dialetical Behavior Therapy course taught by my therapist and got the call today that there is an opening. Part of me is like “I’ve been doing this for five years and have my self-help DBT workbooks, do I really need the course?” And the type A me is exited to relearn these skills which are helpful for managing not just my bipolar symptoms, but maintaing my sobriety. Because I am a dual-diagnosis dame in long-term recovery. I’m coming up on three years of recovery, from both of these illnesses, and I don’t want to go backwards. So forward I go with DBT & ME!
A very good hearted, well meaning friend, messaged me tonight to see if I’d be at a social gathering this evening. I responded honestly that no, I would not be going because I am going through a depressive episode and am laying low, taking care of myself.
Her well meant response was “get out of that funk please!”
So how does one distinguish a “funk” from clinical depression? In my opinion, a funk can be a black cloud of sadness brought on by an outside source -a break-up, financial troubles, work stress. Where as sometimes depression is brought in by outside circumstances, but not always. As I stated before, I am perfectly happy with my life as it is now, yet at this moment in time am experiencing depression.
So I went to google for a definition of a “funk” vs depression and this was the best explanation I could find:
I have spent the past two days (while not working and sleeping) binge-watching Bloodlines, an intriguing family drama/suspense series which has done serious damage to my waistline. I initially guffawed at the media attention correlating binge TV watching to binge-eating, but my personal, non-mindful experiment has found it to be correct.
Time’s online magazine published an article yesterday, “This is What Binge Eating Does to Your Health”, describing a recent study that states the more you sit in front of the television, the higher your risk of diabetes. The article merely states that it is the act of being sedentary that causes the risk, not even addressing behaviors one partakes in while watching television.
I had a junk food binge last night that would make a six-year-old left alone with an Easter basket this Sunday marvel. I’m not going to go entirely into it, but it spun me out into a “sweets” shame spiral. A study out of UT-Austin connected binge-watching to not only binge-eating and binge-drinking, but depression and loneliness.
I can honestly say binging on Bloodlines was not done out of depression or loneliness, but because I found it to be a kick-ass thriller. And thank goodness I have solid recovery, because the amount of tequila drunk in this series would cause Don Jose Antonio de Cuervo (Jose Cuervo ) to worship the porcelain gods. For me, it was the suspense, and my natural proclivity towards sweets, that caused the binging. Why would I take time to prepare and eat a healthy meal when I NEED to know what Danny is going to do next, and I bought snacks for my son’s first visit this weekend?
As they say in recovery, everything in moderation. So now that I’ve finished the series, I’ll kill off some calories by making this place teenager friendly for the weekend. Oh, and I’m sure shopping for those snack replacements will kill some calories too.
Mike Doughty is a musician in long term recovery. When I was first in recovery, I could not get enough of listening to him, and did not even know he was “like me”- not until the release of his memoir, Book of Drugs.
I also finally watched The Anonymous People this week, which I highly recommend for anyone in recovery or who advocates recovery.
This is something I wrote four years ago in response to the death of my best friend. We had been friends off-and-on for 10 years. We both battled our mental health and addiction demons, and became incredibly close when we went through treatment together five years ago. I want to turn this into a personal essay but I can’t: it’s a time capsule of love and loss in early sobriety. She died on my old sobriety date, and although I wish I had not relapsed for four months two years ago, I am glad I have a new sobriety date. If I had not relapsed, I would be celebrating 5 years of sobriety today, and grieving her death four years ago. I try to keep in touch with her daughter, who now has a daughter of her own, but I am terribly human at it. But having a selfish day of suffering from the should-of, would-of, could-of’s will not bring JED back, however I can try to stay better connected with her daughter in the future.
A Beautiful Mind with Tits
I’m so sad and still wrapping my head around your loss. I am so blessed to have had you in my life. You were my closest friend this year. I hope you knew that. I got a year Jed! You should be fucking celebrating with me ~ with a Diet Coke. I have a roll of quarters; we could be at “The Big L” right now, raiding the pop machine, ensuring that there are no Diet Cokes left for the rest of the residents. And clear out the Reese’s Peanut Butter cups as well. I hope you know how much you meant to me. I wish you had called me one last time. You would not have been a burden. Here are some random memories of you from the past year:
- When you arrived at “The Big L”: I looked up from my lunch and said “Jenn?” You were so happy to see me. I was hesitant about seeing you. You said “You know me as Jed, PURPLE!” Then would get pissed at anyone who did not call you Jed: “It’s Jennifer Ellen Devich ~ JED!!”
- We talked about this so I have no problem posting it, but you had scared me for years prior to our time together in rehab. I was so afraid of being friends with you. Even though we hung-out off & on for the past ten years, I had always kept you at a distance. So I didn’t want you in my group, on my floor, or eating meals with me at my table.
- But JED, you were a force that pulled me in. I am so glad we were in my group, on my floor, and followed me around like a puppy. And I got to know YOU; you let down all those walls you’d been hiding behind for so long!
- Remember when we ordered out of The Victoria Secret’s catalog in rehab? Remember how scarred I was because I was sure it was against the rules? BTW, you never gave me my underwear.
- You’re constant, questioning, “Who DOES that?” Especially when I told you I was moving to Rochester.
- After wanting to keep you at a distance, you and I manipulated our way into being roommates.
- We both had chicks at “The Big L” that threatened to beat us up
- You helped me when I entered that horrible halfway house. When I told you they took my crayons away you said “Why? Are they the new gateway drug?”
- I helped you when you needed to flee your horrible halfway house.
- Going to see The Flaming Lips together last September. You laughed when I gave “bubble Wayne” a kiss through the plastic.
- One of our last conversations, you were so proud because you had an IQ test taken, which of course proved your brilliance. You proclaimed, “Who knew! I’m a “Beautiful Mind with Tits!”
- It was you who I had present me with my graduation certificate. You gave the most wonderful, heartfelt speech. No one had (or will) said (say) such wonderful things about me. We cried in each others’ arms. I will always have this memory. I know how much you loved me.
I fear fanny cancer. Fanny is English slang for vagina and sounds less anatomical than the V-word , and less insulting than pussy or cunt. Cancer……well I can’t think of any funny slang for that disease, and putting fanny before it does not take away the fear.
This fear is a tsunami, which runs deep and long in my emotional waves, surfacing again and again as an overwhelming sense of dread crashing the calm surface of gratitude I so desperately want intact.
The cause of this particular fear tsunami happened 25 years ago with the earthquake/landslide/ volcanic emotional eruption that was my mother’s death. She died suddenly at age 52, when I was 17, of uterine or cervical cancer. I do not know which one because my dad did not keep track of such things. He’s very academic, and theoretically she died because the cancer spread plaguing her inner surfaces.
She died on Father’s Day, approximately two weeks after she was diagnosed. She did not take care of her health, was my understanding of the situation. She had a fear of doctors, I remember family members telling me at the time.
It was a blessing and a curse. Losing a mother is extremely emotional at any age. At 17 the loss was unbearable at times, but I lost a depressed, alcoholic mother who I never thought loved me, except that one time she soberly told me so on her death bed.
Blame is an easy reaction to life events when you are 17. I blamed the doctors for not catching my mom’s cancer sooner. I blamed my mom for not receiving health care sooner. Their timing was all off, and consequently my mom died.
As I got older this blame turned to shame. I became an alcoholic myself because I did not want to feel. Shame on me. I would occasionally get physicals and pap smears performed, but after one bad biopsy experience didn’t follow-up on the bad paps. Shame.
Shame damned-up my emotions. Slowly I’d let the emotions flow when I found sobriety. Then an ego-based tidal wave of fear would rip my sobriety away. This time after six months of sobriety, I faced the fanny cancer fear and had a pap smear done. It came up negative. I let nearly two years pass before following up.
The fanny cancer fear tsunami washed away my calm surface after I finally saw a gynecologist, got a colposcopy done and four biopsies. Four minuscule pieces of my cervix that were once intact and then sat in separate petri dishes in some lab.
“Two years too late?,” I asked myself as waves of tears surfaced, again and again over a week’s wait. The lapse of time it took for me to get the procedure done was illogical, which I told myself again and again. New shame surfacing its ugly unproductive head, spiraling my emotions, wreaking havoc on my serenity surface.
Calm came again with the results, which proved I was fanny cancer free. My feet are again planted firmly in the sand, faced forward, away from the tide. I will let my feet get wet with the passing tides of emotion as I maintain my two plus years of sobriety, but for now the tsunami of fear has ceased.
With the onslaught of freelance writing work, I have a fear that I will post even less (if that’s even possible) on the blog. So each Sunday I will post a song that either speaks directly to sobriety, addiction or moving positively forward. And on the subject of moving, Bass and I are making a home together.
Yes, I know it’s super quick but it’s just happened this way for three important reasons:
- Bass needed to move into a new place first of February.
- I need to move into a place by March, and would have to live with a roommate because my income is tiny.
- Life is short. Love is infinate. When you feel it, give it. When you receive it, unconditionally, it is a blessing. Accept it. A good relationship is a very precious; don’t waste your life if you know its right.
But I’m also cautious so here are the steps in place in case things go astray, although hate to put this out into the Universe. This is the healthiest relationship I have ever been in, but I also want my readers, friends and family to know I have thought this through.
- The lease is month-to-month.
- Bass can afford the place on his own.
- I know women with whom I can live. I would have to find more income sources, though.
I’ll post pictures of our new place in another post this week. Also, the name of the blog will be changed to reflect the changes in my life. Now, here’s your Sunday Sobriety Song: