Category: Wellbeing

The truth about me

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This is me.

This is not me.

This is who I’d be if I could be me without fear.

I’ve often wanted to talk about work in this space because it’s such a big part of my life – possibly too big.

There are three important things in my life: my family, work, and you. This poses several problems. You’ll notice there’s a big hole in that group. Nowhere do I mention friends. There’s no such thing in my life independent of these three groups. My only friends are my family, my co-workers, and you. Not everyone can count their family as their friends, so don’t think I’m not grateful for this bit of fortune. Many of us love our family. Some of us can trust our family. Not all of us can really count on them as friends – folks we can turn to in a pinch, or call on a whim to discuss what troubles us.

Work can be work, and even though I find value in what I do, what truly makes it special is the rapport I have with the people around me. But unlike some, that rapport stays at work. I rarely speak or interact with them away from the office. Inside, they are my friends. Outside I go my separate way. I don’t know why, other than the fear.

Then there’s you. The internet can be an amazing place, but when I think about it, the internet feels like having supercharged pen pals. The internet is a much faster way to communicate than the good old USPS and a first class stamp, but blogs, twitter, and everything else we call “social media,” are still mostly the printed word. We can learn a lot from them. We can even grow care about/for people through them. But we’ll probably never really meet. I’ll probably never recognize you by the sound of your voice. I’ll never shake your hand, give you five, or share a hug when it’s needed.

Maybe none of that should matter, and I certainly don’t want to alienate or diminish my fondness for any of you, but it does matter to me. It matters because outside of family and work, you are my only friends. While the internet can be an amazing place, it can still feel isolating, for the reasons I give above (even though they’re a bit vague, leaving them to wither alone as if they’re self evident).

That’s what it means to be me: the shy guy with my love and my very best friend Cheryl, a relatively small family, and a smattering of relatively loose connections I consider friends, who pass through my life rather quickly. Words flash on a screen, or turnover churns the mix at work, but either way it leaves me wanting.

Why don’t I connect with people?

Normally the question doesn’t bother me, but at times like these, with my wife and kids half way across the country, it plagues me. I’ve mentioned we’ve lived in our house for many years, but have I told you I can only name one last name among all the people around us? Have I told you I can only name two first names? Surely that’s not normal.

Folks aren’t obligated to be friends with their neighbors any more than their family – but people usually know their names… don’t they?

That’s the extent of my fear.

The sad truth is, if you were next door I probably wouldn’t know your name. I still wouldn’t shake your hand, give you five, or share a hug when it was needed.

You may not understand. I wish I understood. I wish any of the “professionals” I’ve seen really understood.

It’s not as depressing as it might sound. It’s all I’ve ever known. Mostly I don’t feel alone – because I’m not. I have my family, my friends at work, and you. But take either of the first two away for any period of time and I’ll carry the loneliness like a dark, heavy cloak – masking all of my life’s color from others and myself.

Although it doesn’t always bother me, no matter what I do the fear never goes away.

This is me.

All this time

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A few months ago I reached a relatively low point in my life. I wasn’t dying, starving, lonely, unemployed, or bankrupt so I use the word low lightly.

I visited my psychiatrist six weeks ago. (I’m not ashamed to admit it, I have one of those.) After the last few years chatting with me, even she was a little concerned by my appearance.

My sleep situation was worse than ever. I was sleeping between 10 – 13 hours a night with naps in between, possibly 15 hours a day all told, yet I felt like I’d got none (or very little). Efforts to slowly start exercising again left me in much worse shape. My blood pressure was inexplicably low. I was suffering from pretty bad reflux/heartburn, confirmed by a tube they stuck down my throat – despite a relatively good diet and avoiding the common triggers. This came after a brief ECG scare, suggesting irregular heart behavior, which turned out to be a false alarm. Leukemia hung in the background, never affecting my health, but seemingly biding it’s time for the best time to strike. I set a personal record for body mass. Since I didn’t get any more dense (Cheryl might argue the point), I set a similar record for volume. My natural tendency to slip towards depression made it all seem worse.

I couldn’t stay awake – anywhere. One of my doctors said I shouldn’t be driving. Cheryl became the designated driver in the family. I couldn’t focus at work for more than a few moments at a time, despite lists I made for myself to put me back on track. Trips to the printer left me week in the knees, my legs trembling, like I was going to collapse in exhaustion. Any sound reaching my cube was a distraction, pulling me from my work. Fighting these distractions made the headache gods VERY angry. Folks whispered about the time I spent working from home. For the first time in my life I was told my work was slipping. My daily routine shrunk to working, getting ready for work, and sleeping.

Many doctors, bad guessing, and failed treatments leached away my one remaining defense – hope. Even though poor sleep was clouding my judgment and slowing every step, I felt like there was no “big thing” to point at and say, “that’s what is wrong with me.” However, it felt like I was nearing my 990th paper cut.

Three months ago, I went to see my primary doctor. She ordered blood tests and a follow-up.

Two months ago, shortly after seeing the psychiatrist, she said my thyroid numbers had more than doubled in less than a year, suggesting hypothyroidism. She ordered more blood tests and another follow-up.

Three weeks ago the new, more extensive tests came back the same. I started taking thyroid hormones.

Things haven’t changed a lot, but they have changed. I’m sleeping a bit better. Work has been easier. Exercise doesn’t seem impossible. Cheryl signed me up at the Y so I could work out with everyone else (the whole family goes). My energy level remains low over all, but I have bursts where I feel more like my old self – like right now. Maybe best of all, I have something to point at.

I have hope.

– – –

Even though I’ve gone silent for quite some time, I know a few folks I consider friends have had tough times: tumors, hospital stays, and worse. On the off chance one of you stop by (you know who you are), you’ve been in my thoughts.

Life and cream soda

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My Lightning lost game seven to the team of my youth.

I’d like to introduce Chara’s long stick to his large intestine as much as the next Lightning fan, because Florida is my home now. When I say I’m going home, I’m always referring to Dunedin, not Boston or Billerica.

It took a long time for this place to become home. We moved from a neighborhood of young families and friends to a less than half developed, walled in compound in a remote corner of God’s waiting room. (In case you were wondering, compound is a term of affection, referring to the suburban subdivision.) It was lonely until a young family built a house across the street and a strange hybrid of friend/bully moved to the neighborhood. It was me, him, my younger sisters, and the retired people. When I think back on it, I think my relationship with the kid across the street had more in common with the fear of being alone and recurring domestic violence than a friendship.

My crowning achievement occurred after I earned the freedom to venture into adjacent compounds. It was when I received a well deserved beat-down from a girl my age (about ten if I recall). That’s all I have to say about that.

Life ebbed and flowed from there. My family went through the stuff any normal family goes through: broken bones, beloved pets dying, a mother having a mental breakdown in front of her kids, complete with paranoid hallucinations, and a sister with a rare blood disorder requiring her to miss a year of school.

We also had our good times: boating on the lakes and out in the Gulf, anchoring off pristine beaches inaccessible by any other means. We went hiking through the numerous county parks, learning the surprising diversity of life and ecosystems for such a small, flat peninsula on the coast of west-central Florida.

High school was such a social disaster I don’t want to talk about it. Two redeeming consequences of high school were I met my future wife, and it got me into UF. But despite all of this living and education, I was still as dumb as a rock who decides to take a swim in deep water. Then I got married, got my first job, got married, left my first job on good terms and got my second job, had a child, had several heartbreaking children who never made it into this world, and finally had Adam. (Not many folks know this: he started out as a twin but his little sibling didn’t make it to term.)

A Facebook friend from my high school years recently mentioned my intelligence back in the day (referring to my daughter’s academic success). It’s funny how differently we see ourselves. I still don’t feel like the smart guy in the room, but I see a world of difference between then and now. I wish I had half the confidence I do now. I wish I had a fraction of the experience to lean on.

Yep, in many ways I bet I’m just like you.

Sometime during all of this, Florida became my home. I don’t know when it happened, but I know why. This is where I became me. It was this place that pinched, stretched, and shaped the wet clay of my young soul.

I am at home now, finally feeling up to writing after a rough patch which included a spell of forgotten medication and a dip into the deep end of depression. It’s been one of those ordinary weekends that make up most weekends, where I try to make a little magic from the mundane. I made a trip to a favorite market with Adam after a pair of haircuts. I made a snap decision wandering the isles. It was time to introduce him to one of my childhood favorites: cream soda bottled in glass. He had to know precisely when the bottles would be cold enough to drink/enjoy after we got home. It was an afternoon of giddy anticipation. When dinnertime rolled around we got out our little-used bottle opener and popped a couple tops. The sound of pressure, released suddenly… the liberated gas seemingly visible as it made its escape… the sudden, light smell of soda wafting towards my sensitive nose… it all seemed to transport me in time, if only for a flash of a moment. Grasping the neck, Adam and I took a generous sip and signaled our approval with a satisfied “ahhhh.”

It was a good day to be a dad at home with his kid.

Vindication

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It’s not the kind of vindication I wanted.

Some of us go through life deluding ourselves that our experiences are wholly unique. We experience an accident or fall victim to illness and we believe we are alone. We are not alone, but we don’t know it. Maybe it’s because we’re unique among our peers, where our physical and mental injuries are concerned. The internet makes the world a little smaller but it doesn’t necessarily change the way we feel about ourselves, or how others feel about us.

Cheryl is often tired. I don’t deny it. She has a hard job and she doesn’t stop when she gets home. Still, as much as I love her, I don’t think she really understood how tired I am. All the time. A persistent state of exhaustion.

I knew from a sleep study I did several years ago that I suffered from abnormally frequent limb movements in my sleep, but the quality of my sleep got progressively worse. I’ve danced around the issue for a couple years, taking half measures with this doctor or that, but earlier this year I reached my breaking point. My doctor referred me to a wonderful pulmonologist specializing in sleep medicine. The first thing she wanted to do was go over the data from my last sleep test. She said she didn’t trust the folks who often interpret the data – she likes to draw her own conclusions. Then she wanted me to have another sleep test.

That was last night.

I’m normally tired, but a short, bad night of sleep with more wires than a late 80s sedan and tubes up my nose is not a recipe for a good mood. However, even with all those distractions, I felt like I slept a little better than usual. It would have been great if it lasted more than four hours.

I was surprised when my doctor called me this afternoon with the results. The tech said it would be a week or two. The good news is I don’t have sleep apnea, so I don’t have to wear one of those God awful looking masks plugged in to a cpap machine. The not so good news is my limbs still move around a lot, though that’s not exactly news. I also snore a lot – as in all night. That’s not exactly news either. My wife sleeps MUCH better when I retreat to the other room to sleep on my g-g-grandfather’s bed. The bad news is the quality of my sleep has gotten worse. According to my doctor, a guy my age should spend somewhere in the ballpark of half the night in deep sleep or REM sleep. I spend a whopping 2-3 percent.

And here’s the best part: it’s probably all in my head – or the drugs I put there. The drugs that help quell the dark beast of depression can also be responsible for a decrease in deep sleep and REM sleep. Then again poor sleep can lead to depression.

Chicken, meet your egg.

Wether it can result in such a stunning drop is another question, but it’s a conversation I’m about to have with another doctor – next week in fact.

In the mean time, I really freaking tired. Napping half the day didn’t do the trick, so it’s time to go back to bed and get my 2-3 percent. It feels like it’s better than nothing – if only marginally.

In the UF years

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People romanticize snippets of the past and I’m no different. If you listen to me talk about my UF years, you’d think:

1. I got straight As.*

2. I spent four years in Gainesville with Cheryl, a time overflowing with love, joy, learning, and fulfillment.

3. Ambrosia came with every meal. They only had enough to serve it as a side though.**

4. Classmates followed me on campus, collecting things my feet had trod.

5. Steve Spurrier begged me daily to join the team and solve his dreadful kicking game.***

6. I reigned over the Florida Gym like I was the king holding court, with stifling defense, dazzling dribbling, and a clutch, 3 point shot that would make Larry Bird get down on his knees and kiss my ring.

Obviously it wasn’t all that, to borrow a phrase from my daughter. I’ve got my finger on the pulse of teen culture, yo!

I had a theory about the good old days. I wasn’t just thinking about my good old days, but the concept – those periods in life we’re most likely to hold dear to our hearts. I won’t claim I came up with it first, because it turns out I didn’t. I only claim it occurred to me independent of outside influence – other than raw evidence. When I heard some of my private thoughts in class at UF, allegedly from people who had the same thoughts before I was born, I felt a little deflated. But go ahead, call me liar. I double dog dare you!

Lest I confuse or bore you further, here it is. Although we selectively remember the good times from our “good old days,” those days don’t become good and old unless there are a fair number of mostly forgotten bad days in the mix.

Forgetting those classes at UF for a moment (I did a long time ago), the only flaw in my theory (that I could see) was it relied on one study with an admittedly small test group and no control for comparison. Can I count that as one flaw or do I have to go with three or more? Some would even stoop so low as to call my evidence “anecdotal,” because it came solely from my personal experience – or my recollection of it after the fact.

Well! You do know you’re free to stop reading anytime you like, right?

I imagine “THE good old days” is a moving target, changing as we grow older, having more days in the sample for comparison. However, for the moment mine are my days in college – as I’ve suggested before, in this same post even! I “image” they are a moving target because at the tender age of thirty-nine, I have a lot more data to collect.

Emotional ups and downs filled my college years. I started dating and got engaged at UF, but I also spent some of the loneliest days of my life at UF. If you can believe it, Cheryl was actually dating someone else when we started school. (Yes, I was a rebound guy.) I had the closest friendships of my life, and I pissed each and every one of them away. (I think it’s why I’m a little dismissive when someone says I’m a nice guy. I have evidence to the contrary.)

For every moment of bliss, I can come up with it’s equal and opposite… if I try a little harder.

Do you know what you’re thinking? I know what you should be thinking: “Why the hell would you work so hard to remember the bad times? Can’t you just deal with a few fleeting moments of serenity and nostalgia and leave well enough alone? Are you one of those weirdos who enjoy pain?”

First of all, believe it or not there are some personal things I keep private, thank you very much!

Mostly I’m just curious. I did spend the better part of four years studying the mind and how it works. Well, actually I studied what a few folks not named Freud THOUGHT about its mysteries. No offense to the Freud dude, who may have had more issues himself than he studied and wrote about. I did two research projects at UF focused on memory. The formation, use, and retention of memories fascinated me for some time, particularly after my grandmother with Alzheimer’s died (while I was at UF).

I wonder if good, even great can get bland – in a way. Say you have a great day. What does it entail? I’m not talking about vacations or events, I’m talking about real, every day life. How is it different from other good days? If you string a bunch together, is the difference enough to remember the specifics of a particular day for a week, 6 months, or years? I think the answer for most people is no. I think our mind makes short cuts whenever it can, building a construct of “a good day” from hundreds of good days. Our minds learn things which typically make up “good days,” and our recollection of the specifics fade – after they’ve been classified, ranked, and processed – added to the mind’s algorithm used to reconstruct a “memory” of a “good day.”

Now think back to the good times you had to work for, when life was a little more roller-coaster than merry-go-round. Those days have contrast, the memories like the after-image of a flashbulb in a darkened room. It makes me wonder if we have to suffer a little to find happiness with any depth to it, rich enough in emotional texture to stand out in our mind.

Study this post and you’ll probably find more holes than my memories. A four year degree hardly makes me an expert. I haven’t even tried to explain the repression of bad times in this post. In fact, I don’t believe all of them are all that repressed. But that’s ok. Light lacks contrast without darkness, and many (if not most) of us can choose to see more light than its alternative when we’re given the gift of time. It’s enough to make me think a little differently about my depression. A few times I’ve climbed out of the hole to find great memories ready for the making.

– – –

*Actually, that one’s true.

**I meant to imply the mythological definition of ambrosia, not “beebread,” or “a fungal product used as food by ambrosia beetles,” as a pesky dictionary might suggest.

***I was actually pretty consistent from 40 yards off a tee behind my house in high school, using our narrow, 8′ swing set in lieu of goal posts. However, I never played a down of organized ball. I was always the guy with the “biggest leg” on my soccer teams though.

Good heart, bad heartburn

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Good news people!

Come on, how often to you hear those words come from my lips? I’m the human downer. Women shield their children’s eyes and run screaming the other way when they see me coming.

That’s a true story by the way (no it isn’t).

This morning, minutes before I typed this in fact (but after I called Cheryl – can’t have the wife thinking I love my blog more than her), I learned my echocardiogram was normal. You combine that with the results of my stress/nuclear medicine test and it seems my heart is healthy and strong.

It does make the chronic heartburn a more likely candidate, but I chew up GERD and spit it out like spoiled milk.

Ugh, that simile was a huge mistake. I think I may have nightmares. Excuse me, I think I’ll go verify a few expiration dates.

News from the front

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As some of you may know, yesterday was my nuclear enhanced stress test and echocardiogram – or what will forevermore be known as, “the day my legs died.”

From a layman’s perspective, it seemed my heart was working even though I’m in terrible shape, My legs were killing me as I kept going and going on the damn treadmill, waiting for my heart rate to reach the target zone.

“Ok John, in ten seconds I’m raising the incline and speed again so be ready.”

“Ok John, you’re holding steady at 140. We need to get to at least 153.”

“His blood pressure is still good doctor.”

“Ok John, we’re going to dial it up again….”

Oh please God, NO!

I’ve known for years I’ve been cursed with exceptional lung capacity (even though the pipes swell up occasionally). I don’t know if this had anything to do with my ordeal yesterday, but I lived. I got a call from one of the doctors that the results came back negative – good blood flow through all the arteries and vessels.

Now I have to wait on the results of the echo – probably until Monday.

I’m encouraged though. One down, one to go.

He laughed

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Do want to hear something funny?

Who doesn’t, that’s what I wanna know?

It’s not human.

It’s un-frigging-American!

But enough already. It seems I may have heart disease.

Did you bust your gut? Maybe blow a few rivets? You gotta hand it to my body. It’s a regular… well… some comedian who’s really funny.

There are five-year-olds who deal with worse better than I do with less. That said, I thought it would be cool to run through my medical menu of malady.

I’m 39. I take medication to (somewhat) control depression. I have a sleep disorder which keeps me from getting a full, good night’s sleep – ever. I have leukemia. I have a recurring problem with my neck, which may or may not have something to do with my inability to walk or stand more than ten minutes before my lower back goes Old Testament on me. (Wherein God invents the disproportionate response.) I have allergies which keep my sinuses perpetually closed for business. Something called anaphylaxis happens when I try to take allergy shots. I thought I had a bad case of heartburn / reflux. I still might.

The other day I went to my doctor with heartburn and left with a possible case of heart disease and strict instructions to go to the ER the next time I have “an episode like that again.” I’m supposed to have a stress test and an echocardiogram scheduled as soon as possible.

I gave the classic, schizophrenic response to all this by laughing. It wasn’t a rip-roaring belly ache, so it wasn’t enough to be committed, but it was a robust chuckle that came up smooth and finished with a hint of strawberries. I had strawberry yogurt for lunch and did not brush my teeth.

The next thing I know I’m at the drug store buying baby aspirin – when everyone knows babies don’t take aspirin – EVER. I laughed again.

So, where do I find this baby aspirin that babies don’t take? Surely they don’t like the odds of putting it on the pediatric aisle. It turned out I couldn’t even find the pain relief aisle. I laughed again.

I spent five minutes trying to figure out if “baby” aspirin and “low dose” aspirin were the same thing. They didn’t have any baby aspirin, but they had lots of this low dose stuff. I laughed again.

Cheryl worked out the logistics of a late night ER run. Adam told me he was worried about me going to the hospital. I replied, “If anyone was going to be nervous it would be me right? Do I look nervous? I’m not worried Adam so you don’t have to be either.”

I didn’t laugh. I think it might be the first time I thought lying to my kid was the right thing to do.

Now I’m in a funny place, but I don’t mean humorous. It’s like the place I visited in between my first blood test and the infamous bone marrow aspiration and biopsy. Now that I mention it, I can’t wait to get me one of those again! This is a little different though. I think there’s a slightly lower chance this will turn out to be the worst case scenario, but in the mean time – by it’s nature – is more likely to kill me while I sleep.

That’s a bit dramatic, but it’s in my head and there’s no getting it out.

So once again I wait in limbo. I’m pacing between the initial screening that doesn’t look good and the definitive test. It turns out “as soon as possible” is March third.

One year

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On this day, one year ago, I learned my leukemia was not in remission anymore. The disease I think about every day anyway, was back on active duty.

But you know what? The numbers from blood tests the docs look at to determine when it’s time to start chemotherapy haven’t changed since then. The disease remains better than the cure, so I continue to wait.

My red blood cell count, along with my hemoglobin has been a little low – but not drastically. One kind of white blood cell, my lymphocytes (those B cells and T cells everyone talks about) remain low, but the doctors told me early on they would probably remain low for the rest of my life (part of the reason my immune system isn’t as robust as it once was).

I’m happy to be where I am though. I’m not clamoring for another round of chemotherapy, or another few weeks in isolation at the hospital.
That was not cool. I was never on death’s doorstep, it just felt like it at times.

Maybe I’ll be telling you the same thing next year.

Piles of life

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Like many of my posts, I wrote the lion’s share of this one some time ago. I was inspired to polish and post it by a friend’s recent, much better post.

Let me tell you a little something you may not know about sinusitis.

I do not like sinusitis. I do not like it with a nose. I do not like it when it blows. I do not like it in my head. I do not like it lying in a bed.

It’s been one of those… oh hell, I can’t think of what to call it. “Three month stretch” doesn’t roll off the tongue the way I’d like. I’ve been negotiating a cease-fire with a series of colds/infections since November, but talks have stalled. They’re tricky bastards, I’ll give them that.

Plus, they have a superior negotiating position. Sudafed doesn’t strike fear in the heart of the common cold… or the uncommon for that matter. As far as they’re concerned, they can just sit back and let the good times roll… until my battered and bruised white blood cells finally catch up. Even then their retreat is more like leisurely packing up after a long vacation, having arranged a late check-out time with the front desk.

There’s something about being able to feel my heartbeat in my head that keeps me from tickling the keys on my MacBook. Worse, depression has taken something from me it rarely does: the desire to write. The depression has been on more than off the last couple of months. For those of you keeping track, you’ll recognize this as my latest excuse for silence – the disappearance of my words from the internets. For those of you keeping score, I’m afraid I don’t keep track anymore.

The sleep thing may play a roll too. I better not downplay its role. If you disrespect the sleep thing it’ll come back and bite you in the ass.

What is the sleep thing?

The first rule of sleep thing is you don’t talk about sleep thing.

I’m willing to risk it for you though.

It turns out my fidgety nature can be explained by a disorder. It’s not just any disorder, but a full blown syndrome. (Yep, another specialist is in business now!) It’s the syndrome with the funny name. It follows a pattern in my life. I have the stupidest sounding form of leukemia (Hairy Cell), and the syndrome least likely to be taken seriously… Restless Leg Syndrome. I feel like my IQ drops 100 points every time I say one of them.

I know what you’re thinking. “But John, you don’t have 100 points to spare. You do know it’s not possible to have an IQ less than zero, right?”

Fair enough, but let’s leave the irrelevant or irreverent sidebars to the professionals, ok?

If Restless Leg Syndrome drew a picture in my mind, it would be a little boy in desperate need of a urinal.

A funny sounding syndrome is worth at least half a dozen pictures, courtesy of my imagination.

O.K., I do look like a little boy who has to pee. Laugh it up, fuzz ball.

My knees bounce so much during the day I think I’ve developed a repetitive motion injury in my foot. I can’t stand or walk for more than twenty minutes before my feet are killing me. Not long after, the pain starts to travel up my legs to my knees and eventually my hips. You should see me after I’ve soldiered through a day at an Orlando theme park (for no one but my kids). If your name isn’t Adam or Beth, it’s best you don’t talk to me. Throw in some sloth (which I’d like to explain away with a lot of things not under my control – making it something not sloth), and you’ve got a dude with little endurance and bad joints.

I get all of this thirty or so years before I can retire. That’s assuming I’ll ever get to retire, or I aspire to retire. Send this one out on the wire: John don’t mind living his whole life in government quagmire. Admit it: it’s something you admire. But enough of this, I’m beginning to tire.

I used to drive Cheryl crazy when we were first married. In fact, she’d probably tell you I was a little late with the punctuation in the last sentence (to say nothing of the verb tense). “Would you please stop shaking your foot?!?” I used to hear it all the time. I can but it takes effort. Sometimes effort and sleep don’t mix. You ever notice sometimes trying something makes it less likely you’ll do something. Sometimes I sleep in another room.

I did a sleep study and they told me I could go early if I wanted to, they had enough data. I was shaking myself out of the normal sleep cycle (without quite waking up all the way) more than once every two minutes. This wasn’t a little leg twitch. This was full body involvement.

There are folks in New England who shake less taking a dip in the pool during a winter nor’easter (assuming they’ve salted the pool, of course).

It turns out the medications used to treat depression tend to make RLS worse. But that’s o.k. because the medications they use to treat RLS make my depression worse too. So I don’t take the RLS drugs. I tried anti-convulsants but they did nothing. I tried supplements with varying degrees of success – but nothing I’d consider acceptable. I take several drugs for their off-label works of wonder, but they don’t work entirely either – or at least all night. As an added bonus, they can make you drowsy. I think every medication I take made someone drowsy during a clinical trial.

I didn’t know this before, but it turns out one of the side effects of poor sleep is also drowsiness.

Predictably, I’m a bundle of energy.

I sleep more than I should (sort of), making up for the quality with quantity. However, sometimes depression, anxiety, or the fracking sinusitis keep me awake, or yank me fully awake prematurely. The result is I’m the guy who looks like a lazy slacker, spending his lunch in the car asleep. The next thing you know, our new Tea Party Governor will be holding a press conference at my front bumper, feeling giddy with vindication – exposing the typical government employee for what he is. The anchor person for one of the local newstainment shows will come on next promising snoring at eleven.

For the last year I’ve been spending a lot of time working from home, more than I meant to when I asked my boss if I could. My concentration has been staggeringly fragile, and the cubicle farm at the “office” feeds the tension headache fairy nicely. In fact, I hear she’s put on a lot of weight recently.

I’ll bet you thought fairies always brought you good stuff.

Over the last few years I’ve done the Family Medical Leave Act drill a couple of times, more for the protection than actually taking leave – and definitely NOT for taking unpaid leave. (We proud American liberals had to work really hard to gain the right to take unpaid leave when we’re really sick or pregnant.) I often wonder if I’ve worked myself right out of folks’ respect. There was a time when I was a bit of a golden boy, the fair haired child. Now I’m the guy who can’t be troubled to stay in the office for eight hours in a day. I’ve become the guy you can’t rely on for meetings, work groups, or special projects. Occasionally I overhear conversations… folks wondering why someone who can’t work in the office can work at home.

Please excuse me for feeling sorry for myself, but a part of me mourns what feels like a terrible loss: my credibility.

Then I got sick for a few months this year.

I try to set all of it aside. “I am relatively lucky,” is my mantra. I have a job, one that accommodates my quirks. That itself is a HUGE blessing. I have a wife who puts up with me, most of the time. I have an idea what it’s like to be in her position… worse even. I grew up with my mother. I know it’s not easy. Somehow I’ve managed to help raise a special needs child to the brink of adulthood, though folks often say the brink is the most challenging part. I have a brilliant son who seems to make fast friends with almost everyone. I just wish he’d use less of his brilliance trying to manipulate his parents and playing the angles. Sometimes it feels like we’re raising the world’s best grifter.

And I have you, who ever you are. I can’t fathom why you’d ever come back, but I appreciate it more than you know. You care enough to come, time after time, subjecting yourself to this. It’s a heart warming thought.

One of my biggest fears growing up was I’d be alone. I don’t think it was an unreasonable fear – being an aloof, shy kid. Sometimes I think expectations are the biggest threat to good mental health, but in this one case I think it’s worked out quite nicely. I’m not surrounded by a throng of admirers everywhere I go. I don’t even have a lot of friends. But most importantly, I know I’m not alone. I may be a lot of things, but I’m definitely not alone.

As for the day to day, mundane things in life, I try to embrace them, to treat them like they are not mundane. I say try because I often fail. It wasn’t always like this. That’s what I cling to: memories of enjoying a chore like laundry with my kids. Not every minute can be Christmas morning opening presents, but you can find a little joy in little things done well.

As for the small problems in life, I try to keep them small. It’s an issue of perception, right?

What ever it is, I’m doing something wrong. Maybe it’s a matter of focus. I do some things right. Somethings I even do well.

I’d like to remember what it feels like to appreciate those things.