Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 168

Spiral

Here’s the Friday photo, a day late but hopefully not a dollar short.

Medication

Neuroplasticity.

Basically, your brain can–and will–remodel itself in response to stress, injury, your environment, a whole host of pressures. Humans are marvelously adaptive critters, but (as always) there’s a catch.

The pressures you encounter when you’re young and defenseless run deep, and they wire you for certain things. You can (and to some extent will, just by dint of getting older) change that wiring. (Yes, I know I’m reducing incredibly complex neurological and physical processes to a laughable simplicity. I ain’t no brain surgeon, and I’m not giving advice.) However, the longer you’ve spent doing something, the more deeply it’s burned into your wee neurons, and the more effort it takes to redirect.

Calm Therapist, I think, put it best when she explained that I most likely had a genetic predisposition to anxiety that environmental pressures triggered and reinforced. If I’d had a different upbringing, I might have avoided the triggering, or had different resources and means of coping when the slings and arrows of just-plain-living descended. My coping mechanisms worked when they were initially wired in–I survived, after all–but they weren’t quite doing me any favours later in life.

I had some success rewiring myself with cognitive therapy, visualization, EMDR–those were just the things that worked, because Calm Therapist and I tried a million other things as well. But then came the plateau. Again, completely normal.

So when we last visited Lili Long Ago, Calm Therapist had broached the subject of medication again. I said I’d think about it.

And I did.

My objections were many. I wanted to fix myself, dammit, and not just take a pill. I’ve seen people use medication as an excuse for bad behaviour, or habitually go off their meds and lash out, again blaming it somehow on the pills–people I do not want to be like. Plus, the idea of pills triggered the stigma of mental illness. If I depended on medication, would I finally have to admit I was weak? Broken? Less? Stupid? All those things various nasty abusers had said to me might well be true. Maybe I was a crybaby, looking for a pill to fix things.

Balanced against this was the fact that so far, Calm Therapist had been right about pretty much everything. And frankly, if something short of medication would have worked, that would have been great, but the anxiety was still with me, along with its friends the panic attacks and insomnia. If there was something that meant I could sleep again–or drive without one eye always looking for places to pull over if an attack threatened–well, that was something to sit down and think about. I wanted to give my body and brain a rest and the best possible chance to get itself rewired to a state more conducive to, let’s say, not freaking out like a prey animal every time I heard a noise. It would make me a better writer, a better mother, a better all-around human being.

Still…pills. Pills, for God’s sake.

All of which ended up with me nervously sitting in an office, explaining to a very nice doctor my therapist had recommended why I didn’t want to take the damn pills, I just really didn’t, but if I had to, what was the lowest possible dose of ANYTHING she would recommend?

I’m sure that initial consultation was either hilarious or terrifying for poor Frau Doktor, as I’ll call her. (She’s tall, blonde, and very Brynhildr.) I was all but vibrating with tension and doing the nervous-talking thing. I am pretty funny when I get like that (as anyone who’s seen me speaking publicly can attest) but it can’t be comfortable to watch.

The bad news was that antianxiety medications are usually habit-forming. I squirmed on the leather couch and said, “I’ll live with the panic attacks, then. I can’t be dependent to that degree on–”

“There’s good news.” Frau Doktor interjected, gently. “You have family members that do well on antidepressants without major side effects, and low doses of those have antianxiety effects.”

I blinked. “Oh. Okay. Can you send me the research on that?”

I think it was at that moment Frau Doktor really started liking me. I do know that it was the moment I found out why Calm Therapist had recommended her, because she didn’t bat an eyelash. “Certainly. These things are only tools to help you, it makes sense for you to do your research and select the right one. I can tell you what I’d recommend, though.”

And so it was that I left clutching a prescription and some copies of medical studies with notes written all over them, and by the time I got home I found more research in my email inbox. She’d taken me at my word.

So I took her at hers, got the scrip filled, got a pill cutter (because the dose was so low they didn’t have pills in that size) and nervously (ha ha) waited for whatever would happen next.

Next: Side Effects

photo by:


e-MagineArt.com

Odessa

My favourite calla lily, which is saying something.

Editing slots open!

It’s a new month, and I have a couple slots open on my editing waitlist. I’ve added a full-manuscript package as well.

I’m looking into payment installment plans, too, so if that’s something you’re interested in, do let me know. Also, I’m now taking requests for other editing services. If there’s a service you think I should offer, pop me a comment below.

Fern

I had to stop working on the post about rewiring. It’ll probably go up Monday. Talking about that sort of stuff is…difficult. So, in lieu of that, here. Have a pretty.

One of the ferns in my backyard. I’m told that when the little thingies on the underside of the fronds turn brown, they can ameliorate the rash from poison ivy. I never want to find out. Also, I know very little of botany, so I’m hoping this isn’t plant porn.

OH WHO AM I KIDDING. I’m totally hoping it’s plant porn.

ETA: It is! It is plant porn! Sporangium! A number of you guys just pointed that out. (I have the BEST readers EVER.) OMG I am laughing so hard.

Adapted To Anxiety

Come on in, grab a drink, sit down. Let me tell you a story. It’s about anxiety.

***

Six. At least.

That’s how many panic attacks I was having per day, minimum, when I started seeing a therapist. But that wasn’t what I went in for. I thought everyone had them.

It was during the divorce. The pain had gotten so bad I had to make it stop. Sometimes I think that’s the only reason people get better, because they reach a point where it’s just, fuck it, can’t stand it anymore, it’s less painful to change than it is to live like this. I just didn’t know what else to do, so I auditioned four or five different therapists and settled on the one who seemed the most accepting, the one whose office was arranged so the client had a clear shot to the door no matter where she sat.

I found it amazing how many therapists didn’t realize that was even a consideration. But that’s neither here nor there.

I’d grown used to the panic attacks. Narrowed vision, overwhelming fear, heart pounding, falling down a black hole. I’d grown so adept at covering them that even those who lived with me couldn’t tell. I would simply be sitting, or standing at the kitchen sink, or in the loo for a little longer than usual. I arranged every errand during the times of day the attacks seemed to leave me alone. I’d also grown used to the insomnia, the constant dread, my raw nerves twitching at every sound. I lived in a foxhole, under constant fire, my body and brain having long ago lost any setting other than “crisis.”

I’m sure it made me awful fun to treat. It took a while before Calm Therapist could get me to talk about some of the underlying causes. I thought everyone had panic attacks. I thought being crippled with anxiety was normal, that other people were just better at hiding it, stronger than me. The first time my therapist said “No, actually, your anxiety’s pretty high, and we can start finding ways to ameliorate it,” I outright wept with relief. Then I was pummeled by fresh fear–did this mean I was crazy? Broken? Weak?

No, she assured me. There were reasons why I was the way I was. She listed them off: a family history of disorders, depression, and trauma; childhood abuse; multiple stressors in my adult life. The wonder was, she noted quietly, that I was functioning as well as I had been. She said it showed great reserves of strength and determination.

I wasn’t so sure. But I was willing to chance it when she said I could find a way out. That was the first time she broached the idea of medication, and my reaction was…not very calm. I wasn’t rude, but I said flat-out that meds weren’t on the table.

“Okay,” she said. “Here are other options.”

Cognitive therapy. Twice-weekly check-ins and sessions. Visualization sessions. Book work–I took the books she recommended home, did my homework, brought it back and went over it in session. Exercise–I was already in the habit of running by then, and I’m sure it helped. Self-care homework–practicing setting boundaries, finding that the world didn’t end when I said “no.” Imagine that–over thirty, and I’d been trained that I couldn’t say that one simple word.

Days of just getting through the next five minutes, sometimes just the next sixty seconds. Sometimes I look back at the books (and the SquirrelTerror posts) I wrote during that time and wonder how the fuck I made deadlines. At least when I was writing I could push away some of the agony.

Slowly, very slowly, things got better. Finding out there were whole books written about some of the issues and childhood traumas was a comfort–I still felt like a freak, but at least I had company in freakdom if someone had gotten books published about what I’d gone through and was still suffering. Finding out you’re not alone can do wonders to fight the demons.

And it was a fight. “Give me something to do,” I told Calm Therapist. “Give me something I can grab, and I’ll beat it on the head until it stops moving.”

She winced. “Apt description. But sometimes that might not work.”

“It had better,” I replied, grimly. “What’s next?”

I suspect I was a trial to her.

The biggest breakthrough came with EMDR. It doesn’t work for everyone, but CT explained it, pointed me at the research for it, and told me why she thought it might help me. I decided to go for it. I don’t know if I’d willingly repeat those sessions, but it worked. I stopped having the intense, scream-inducing, paralyzing nightmares when I could exhaust myself enough to sleep. The flashbacks stopped, and the panic attacks became three or four a day instead of a half-dozen-plus.

It felt great.

And then…I hit a plateau. Progress seemed to stop. Days and weeks of circling the same thing, over and over again. Sessions had dropped down to weekly, or every two weeks, based on how long it would take me to finish the homework. Finally, I told CT that I was just going to have to live with panic attacks for the rest of my life, and the insomnia as well. I was resigned to it, what the hell, at least it wasn’t as bad as it had been.

“Plateaus are normal. But maybe we should talk about other options again,” she said, carefully.

I remember knotting my hands together so tightly my knuckles turned white. I always thought that was a figure of speech. “Like what?”

“More EMDR.” She suggested a couple other things. Paused. “Medication. A low dose of something to help your body and brain rest. You’ve been in this state for so long, your body has probably adapted to it and thinks it’s normal.”

What I thought was seventeen different flavors of oh HELL NO. Still, I’d grown to trust her a little. She’d been right about pretty much everything so far, and I was paying for her advice. (God, it was a relief to have someone I could just pay and not have to worry about taking care of, but that’s–say it with me–another blog post.) I’d be an idiot not to consider it.

So I took a deep breath, my fingers creaking as I squeezed a little harder.

And what I said was, “I’ll think about it.”

Coming Next: Rewiring.

photo by:


chriszak

Well Reimbursed

Hit a snag in a dinner scene in the Ruby book. It’s awkward, as interactions between teenagers and grandmothers sometimes are. So, in lieu of sitting and banging my head against it…

…I decided to move furniture.

The living room is now rearranged. It’s a fun thing, to have your fifteen-year-old come out and say “What are you doing? Ooooh, moving furniture. LET ME HELP.”(And she did, too. We even got chairs up and down the stairs, for lo we are Pumped Up.) I thought they were supposed to get sullen and distant the older they got, but instead they’re these amazing human beings I get to hang out with almost constantly. I choose to take it as a sign that I’m doing something about this motherhood thing right.

Here, have a pirate mash-up of a LOTR fanvid, courtesy of my writing partner. I think she’s paying me for the Sekrit-Agent-and-Waitress smut I’m writing her. I consider myself well reimbursed. (ETA: For those that are curious, she’s tweeting snippets under the #SekritAW hashtag.)

Last but not least, there’s a few hours left in the giveaway for one of my books over at My World’s place. I can’t wait to see which one the winner chooses!

Off I go to finish that dinner scene, walk Odd Trundles, meditate, shovelglove, and write some more Spy/Waitress porn.

Life is good.

photo by:


National Library of Ireland on The Commons

Matcha

I’ve taken to drinking matcha after lunch. It tastes exactly like fresh-cut grass smells, and I don’t know why I’ve waited this long to try it. (This is Tao of Tea’s Liquid Jade, for the curious.)

The Juicy Bit

Miss B is quite perturbed. I went running without her this morning.

To be fair, she needs some rest. Our family is probably a herding dog’s idea of punishment, because we just laugh and go our own way when she tries to bunch us all up in one room. Plus, it’s summer, which means she’s a little warm under her fur if we run anytime past 9AM. Not to mention that Odd Trundles keeps her busy, since he can barely breathe on his own and gets into all manner of scrapes if she’s not there to redirect him. And sometimes when she is. I mean, Odd is a dog who tries to eat his own shadow, for God’s sake. Right now he’s under my desk trying to catch a reflection from the overhead lamp.

Then there’s the cats. Fearless!Cat downstairs and the Mad Tortie upstairs, and it drives Miss B absolutely bonkers that she can’t round them up into the same room. Let’s not even mention the cavy cage. She just wants to get in there and round those little squeakers up.

Anyway. I’m working hard on Ruby’s book, in twenty-minute increments. If I achieve my extended wordcount for the day, I get to play with the sekrit-agent-and-waitress-romance I’m doing for my writing partner. It’s hilarious to work in characters off her casual comments and see her recognize them. Of course it’s a trunk novel, it’ll never see light of day, but I enjoy doing it–and it pushes me through Ruby, which is sort of the point.

You see, Little Red Riding Hood scares me. That’s okay; the fear is the juicy bit, it’s where the power is. Just have to find a way through.

Time for me to dive back in, but before I do, here’s my latest earworm. It’s a parody by Mod Carousel, and it’s so awesome I had to download the mp3 and put it on my running playlist. Enjoy!

*bounces away, singing*

photo by:


h.koppdelaney

Tight Laces

Yesterday, while running, I had an odd experience. About 4.5km in, my left leg went numb. I was afraid I was going to spill over on the sidewalk (or even into the road, that would have been fun, oh yes it would, HA HA NOT REALLY) so I slowed to a walk for about thirty seconds before gritting my teeth and powering through. After I finished the last couple kilometers I yanked out my phone and did some quick googling during the cooldown.

It turns out this is fairly common, and one of the things that can cause it is too-tight shoelaces. (Here’s a vid on cool ways to tie your laces around hot spots etc., by the way.) Of course that’s mostly for foot numbness, not the whole legs, but I was fairly sure I wasn’t having lower-back nerve compression or sciatic compression. (One more thing massage school did for me!) I’d had sciatic compression while I was pregnant, and this felt nothing like it. Plus, after I lost a ton of weight and started shovelgloving and later climbing, my back issues went away.

Besides, why worry about nerve compression first if you can just loosen your laces and try that? This is a difference between me now and me ten years ago. A decade ago I would have started fretting over what was wrong, what the worst was. Now I’m much more likely to go “eh, let’s see if something small’s the matter first.” Motherhood, running, and age have all cooperated to loosen me up a bit. I’m too damn busy to obsess like that anymore. In the immortal words of my writing partner, it makes me tired.

So today I loosened my laces, and paid attention once I hit 4km.

No numbness. No tingling. Loosened shoes didn’t mean blisters, either, I found great socks long ago by a stroke of luck and bought a ton of them.

So that problem appears to be solved, but I think I’ll parallel-lace my shoes. I’ve always laced my shoes extra-tight. It started with ballet, and then with combat boots. It just became a habit. Plus, I have huge feet, and I’m sure I thought maybe binding them would make them a little smaller. *snort*

I wonder, in how many other areas of my life am I lacing myself too tightly? I was always told I was lazy, not disciplined enough, so maybe the tightness I hold myself with comes from there.

*is thoughtful*

photo by:


Renee Silverman