Overcoming My Fear of My Own Mind

The other night, as I was falling asleep, I realized that I was actually thinking about myself.  Boring stuff mostly, where I'm going, how to get there, my complete lack of confidence in my ability to do so.  The odd part is that it wasn't scary.

Since my psychotic episode, I've been terrified to delve too deeply into myself.  I've had a creative block.  My meta-cognition has sucked.  I've been put so much effort into hanging on by my fingernails that I haven't had time to think about myself ... but it's also something I've studiously avoided.  I've been afraid of my own mind.

My psychotic episode, and the subsequent mood issues, makes me feel like my mind completely betrayed me.  I'm a person who has always prided herself on being rational, on being able to think straight, of only holding well-reasoned opinions.  The belief that the universe is devouring light particles is neither rational nor well-reasoned.  The fact that I could believe such a thing, even while knowing it was false, is deeply frightening.

The belief came from such a deep part of my mind that I've been afraid to go back, so to speak.  I've been afraid to look into my own depths.  What if I'm overwhelmed again?  What if my mind starts lying to me again?

Last night, something shifted in me.  It was as if I'd been hanging on to a branch for dear life.  If I let go of the branch, I'd go over Niagra Falls.  I had to put all of my energy into hanging onto that damn branch, or else.  Then, a channel opened up in front of me, a peaceful stream, and I can start making my way toward it.

I still find myself hoping that the stream isn't too deep.  I'm afraid of what else might be in the water with me ... giant sturgeons, ichthyosaurs, anglerfish ... but at least I don't hear a thundering waterfall in the distance.

The Danger of Broadening the "Bipolar" Diagnosis in the DSM V

Bipolar Blog posted an opinion piece today from a research psychiatrist, Mark Zimmerman, MD, who sees danger in expanding the definition of bipolar disorder in the DSM V.  Some of you may already know that the DSM V is considering such diagnoses as "bipolar III" and "mood spectrum disorder" to describe those whose symptoms are "sub-threshold" for bipolar disorder, but are a little closer to bipolar than to unipolar depression.

This is a controversy in the psychiatric community, with some doctors, like Nassir Ghaemi, advocating for the expanded diagnosis.

I'm not sure what to think about this.  My own official diagnosis is "depression with psychotic features".  For whatever reason, my illness involves daily depressive mood swings that last from 3 pm until 7 pm.  My illness cycles in a way that typical depression doesn't.  While I don't have a bipolar diagnosis -- I've never had a hypomanic or manic episode -- I'm being treated in exactly the same way I would be if I were bipolar: I'm on a mood stabilizer instead of an antidepressant, with an antipsychotic thrown in for additional support.  In my case, it doesn't matter what my diagnosis is called; the important thing is that I'm getting the treatment I need.

But it would be pretty easy for a pdoc to look at my symptoms and keep trying me on SSRI's, no matter that they sedate me.  In that way I might be better off with some sort of expanded bipolar diagnosis.

On the other hand, as Zimmerman points out, there is a danger in expanding the definition of bipolar disorder to include people who've never had mania of any stripe but are considered "sub-threshold" in some way.  There's no evidence that mood stabilizers are a better treatment for these folks, and mood stabilizers often have more unwanted side effects than SSRI's.

There's a bigger danger in misdiagnosing and medicating someone for bipolar disorder: some of these meds can actually cause the symptoms they're meant to alleviate.  I've seen this first hand with my friend Anna.

Anna had been on SSRI's for years without really feeling an effect from them.  Her depression worsened, and she was diagnosed as bipolar II based solely on the fact that over the years, she hadn't responded to trials of at least three antidepressants.  So her pdoc tried a cocktail that involved a mood stabilizer, an SSRI, and an antipsychotic.  At that point, she had her first hypomanic episode.

That was a year and a half ago.  Since then her pdoc tried her on various combinations of meds in those categories.  She wound up in the hospital several times.  She had to deal with side effects like tremors, at which point her doctor put her on a beta blocker; then came the anxiety, for which her doctor put her on clonopin.  She was finally able to talk her pdoc into giving her much lower doses of her meds.

She's finally stable, and no longer has to take other meds to treat side effects of the first ones.  Needless to say, she resents losing a year of her life to the experimentations of her medical team.

In her case, it seems like the meds she's on actually induced her bipolar condition.  Keep in mind that she'd never showsn symptoms of hypomania before her bipolar II diagnosis.  In her case, it seems that an expanded definition of bipolar did not help to treat her illness.

I think the moral of the story is that whatever the DSM V committee decides to do with bipolar definitions, it would be nice if psychiatrists kept in mind that it's just a guideline.  People do not fit neatly into their categories.  When it comes to diagnosing a real, live, human being, the art, and not just the science, of medicine must come into play.

Worn Out, OR: Gotta Have Heart

I am officially sick of taking care of myself.

Why bother to limit my alcohol intake?  Why should I avoid sugar and caffeine?  Why make the effort to exercise?  I worked so hard to instill these habits four years ago because I wanted to get healthy.  And where has it gotten me?

Fuck-all nowhere.

OK, it worked for awhile.  I lost 60 lbs.  I got in shape.  I got organized.  Let me say that again: I, that is to say, Addy Bell, got organized.  If you'd seen my report cards from elementary school you'd know what a miraculous feat that is.  Anyway, as a result of working my ass off, my depression lessened, my ADHD symptoms improved, and I felt better than I had in years.  For the first time in my life, I was in control.

That is, until I wasn't.  Until I went nuts.  Until I had to spend an entire year rebuilding my brain from the ground up.  So much for control.

Lately, I haven't been moody, and I haven't felt sad.  I just feel tired and pointless.  Why put in the effort when past experience tells me that no matter how hard I work, I will fail?  And not just fail, but burn down, fall over, and sink into the swamp?

It would be easier to get off my ass and do something, anything, if I felt like I had any efficacy at all.  But I can't even remember what it feels like to feel a sense of control, to feel like what I do matters, to feel like I can effect the outcome of my own life.  Sure, I can put in the effort, I can work my ass off, but that won't make the Universe take down the "kick me" sign it's had on my back for the last two years.

Maybe if I just lie low, life won't notice me and will leave me alone.

But I can't think like that.  I know I can't.  Because I know that I have to take care of myself, or things will get even worse, and thinking so negatively is bad self care, and is practically a guarantee that things will get worse.  So I need to keep my chin up, stiff upper lip, put on my game face, and all that.  I gotta have heart, right?  Lots and lots and lots of heart!  Gotta keep singing Damn Yankees in my head.

And I guess, for me, for now, that's what success is.  Other people get to feel successful when they land a job, or a promotion, or a raise.  Or when they watch their children sharing a toy on the playground and they think to themselves, hey, I taught them that.  Me?  My success is measured in my ability to talk myself up from the depths of bitter despair, a place where I've landed because, well, my success is measured in my ability to talk myself up from the depths of bitter despair.

Only I can't think like that.  Gotta have heart.  Gotta have heart.  Gotta have heart.

P.S.: Damn Yankees.

Lamictal 300 mgs, Abilify 5 mgs: I Feel Like Myself Again

Last year at this time, though I didn't realize it, I was working incredibly hard -- and all the time -- to manage my psychotic depression.  My mental energy went to reigning in bizarre thoughts, or to distracting myself by fixating on an art project, or by obsessively cleaning the house.  It was exhausting.  The antipsychotic medication helped a lot, but it didn't fix it.

This year, I've been on lamictal, and the difference is like night and day (which is good, since my delusions were about photons).  I was able to see just how hard I had to work last year to keep the crazy at bay, and how this year, I simply didn't have to put in that effort.  Yay lamictal!

Nonetheless, I was still pretty moody by early December.  Overall my mood was better.  I no longer had to listen to cheerful, energetic music to keep myself from becoming untethered.  Sometimes I could even listen to a sad song without totally losing it.

Oh Ativan, How I Miss You; Clonopin, How I Hate You

I was a dumbass and let myself run out of Ativan.  I've been without it for two nights, and for two nights I haven't slept at all well.

Oddly, I've been able to get to sleep.  I just can't stay asleep.  I wake up every hour and a half (apparently, this corresponds to sleep cycles), feeling anxious, coming out of what feels sort of like but not quite an anxiety-tinged dream.  It's as if I'm obsessing and ruminating in my sleep in a way that I don't actually do when I'm awake (thanks, Abilify!)

When I was first prescribed Ativan a few years ago, my doctor told me that it wasn't a sleep medication per se.  It's a make-your-brain-shut-up medication.  It's supposed to quiet those thoughts that keep us from falling asleep.  These are usually anxious thoughts, but in my case they can be everything from anxious or depressive thoughts, to thoughts about my next art project, to thoughts about the space program.

Ativan is a benzodiazapene, which means that your body will build up a tolerance to it.  Maybe this is rebound anxiety from suddenly having my 1.5 mgs of Ativan cut off.   I just wish to gods that I'd been on top of the refill.  My meds supposedly shipped last Friday, so it's been four business days and I should have them tomorrow at the latest. 

For now, I'm at the point where I might have to try clonopin again or risk something seriously weird happening to my brain.  Clonopin made me feel ill after just two nights at .25 mgs (I was prescribed .5 mgs).  I managed to cut my half pill in half last time -- I wonder if I can cut my quarter pill in half again?

Happy Solstice, Seasonal Depressives! We made it.

Today I wanted to wish all of you a happy shortest day and longest night.  The sun us is as far as it's going to get from the Northern Hemisphere.  It's all uphill from here.

Of course, for many people there are blizzards and snowstorms to come, and cabin fever, and the grey-brown misery that is February.  You know, I think the only thing I like about California's non-seasons is that February, though often gray at least part of the time, is always green.

We'll still need our sunlamps.  We'll still need to be gentle with ourselves and vigilant about self-care.  But the sun is returning, and bringing with it mood and sanity.

I wish you all the happiest of Solstices.  Remember -- axial tilt is the reason for the season!

Abilify 2 mgs: Holy Clumsiness, Batman

I've written about the Lamictal Stupids before, and how Abilify seems to make them that much worse.  Did I also mention that Abilify makes me really damn clumsy? 

Yesterday I broke the last of our entry-level Reidel bordeaux glasses.  We used to have two.  Now we have none.

Care to guess when I broke the other one?  It was last year.  Shortly after starting my winter course of Abilify.

The glasses were a gift.  They were our favorite wine glasses.  They suited our shared taste for red wines, and they're suited well to a lot of California reds.  Before you go thinking that we're affluent wine snobs, we're not -- our "house red" is a five dollar bottle of cabernet or shiraz or whatever else Trader Joe's has for five dollars.  We loved those glasses so much because they made cheap wines taste like NOT cheap wine.


Of course, you may have guessed that if you read last week's post about how I gave myself a third degree burn on my forearm while taking pizza out of the oven.  I've burned myself with the oven before; occasionally I graze my hand or arm on the oven rack, resulting in a small, minor burn. Never before have I actually made contact with the metal that lines the oven.  Never before have I gotten a burn that's an inch long.  Let alone one that's scabbed over, and that doesn't even hurt -- that last bit indicates nerve damage.  Yay!

How to Celebrate a Psychoversary

A glass of red wine, and the Hallelujah Chorus played nice and loud.  Then played again, only singing along this time.  In a pretty half-assed way, to be sure, because I was sight-reading and not all of it is easy.

Nonetheless, singing Hallelujah.

Happy First Psychoversary to Me!

I've made it past the one-year mark of my first (and worst) psychotic episode!

I know that I've been doing better this year -- no delusions in October that get progressively worse through November -- but I've nonetheless been very apprehensive about early December.  That's when it all hit the fan last year.  That's when I had to start covering things in foil.  That's when I went on Abilify for the first time.  And it wasn't as an "add-on treatment for depression", and it wasn't as a mood stabilizer like this year.  It was an antipsychotic.  I was taking it to control my psychotic delusions.

I've still been moody as hell.  The lamictal has helped a lot, though clearly not enough; As I've titrated up, my mood has risen and stabilized, only to fall and destabilize as the sunlight decreases.  But I haven't had a single delusion.

I received my diagnosis of psychotic depression one year ago today.  Passing this milestone feels huge to me, like I can begin hoping for a full recovery.  I feel like I deserve to celebrate!  Any ideas how one celebrates a psychoversary?  Please, please share in the comments.

Phillips GoLite BLU, and How to Use It.

A few weeks ago, when I was particularly frustrated my life revolving around my sun lamp (oh I do crack myself up sometimes), my partner got me a Phillips GoLite BLU Plus.  It's battery rechargeable, has a clock and a timer ... generally more portable and convenient than my sunlamp.

The point: Follow the directions.  If you have trouble falling asleep at night, use it in the morning.  If you have trouble staying up at night, use it in the afternoon.
 
I decided to ignore the directions.  I figured that since my mood slumps between 4 and 8 pm, that's the time I should use the blue light.  It helped, insofar as it freed me up from my desk long enough to lift weights, do my SPCA shift, make dinner, that sort of thing. 

I now think that  using it in the afternoon was perhaps ... unwise.

Blue light is a tricky thing.  It can help with seasonal depression, but it's not necessarily a good thing for bipolar disorder (and whatever my disorder "really" is, it acts a lot like bipolar in some ways).  Folks with bipolar can be tipped into hypomania or mania if they get too much blue light.  For that matter, anyone using too much light therapy can experience headaches, nausea, and irritability.

And if you use it too late in the afternoon, you'll have trouble falling asleep.  Remember my delayed sleep phase?  Course you do.  I emphatically do not need help staying awake at night.

The upshot is that yesterday I used the damn thing for an hour in the morning.  This morning I woke up on my own at eight frakking thirty  Yeah.  8:30.  Me.

I had a bit of trouble falling asleep last night, but when I slept I slept well.  The sleep issue could well be due to the Adderall I took in the morning to alleviate my crazy mood.  I'm writing in front of it right now, so we'll see how it goes in the coming days.

I wrote yesterday about my mood lability over the past few weeks.  My pdoc and I had tried to address it with an Adderall booster in the afternoon -- it made my afternoon depression go away, but it also messed with my sleep.  Then I tried taking the Adderall booster in the morning.  It still helped, but not as much, and it still messed with my sleep.

Lamictal 300 mgs: Plus 2 mgs Abilify, minus 5 mgs Adderall

The short version: my mood has been all over the place for the last week and a half.  My pdoc had two options.  Number 1: Go back on 12.5 mgs of Zoloft, which would numb me out a bit, and shouldn't give me SSRI problems because they'd be tempered by the lamictal.  Or, number 2: go back on Abilify for the short term at a very low dose; I'd still feel my feelings, but I won't be reduced to tears over stupid shit.

In other words, the lamictal is helping a lot with the depression, but it's not stabilizing my mood as much as it needs to, and it needs help.

We decided to try Abilify first. We know from past experience that it will work immediately.  I also think it's important to feel my feelings; I just need not to be completely overwhelmed by them.  I feel pretty good about this.  I can start it tomorrow and stop crying like an emo kid.

We're also removing the Adderall from my cocktail.  After two weeks it's clear that while it does help my mood, it doesn't help enough.  It also wreaks havoc with my sleep.   Unless I can be sure to squeeze in some seriously vigorous exercise, and I can't always do that, and messed up sleep equals messed up mood.

A few words about my mood lately.  At some times I'm feeling really good, almost too good, and for no particular reason.  Then if I'm triggered (or sometimes when I'm not), I crash and crash hard.  I start sobbing and simply can't talk myself down, let alone stop, for several hours.  When I finally do, I last about ten minutes before I start sobbing again.

What do I mean when I say "stupid shit"?  Well, let me tell you about the day after Thanksgiving.  We like to cook our own small turkey, because we like to do things with the leftovers.  But, unbeknownst to us, the turkey was partially frozen.  It probably was up against the side of the refrigerator case or something.  Anyway, it took all afternoon to cook (way too long for a 12 lb turkey, so I was already crying about that).  Then we cut into it, half of it was raw.

The rational side of my brain, and my husband, told me that this wasn't my fault, and that we could just use the turkey for stock, so it wouldn't be a total loss.

The crazy part of my brain was in tears because I'd wasted all day and my husband was sick so he couldn't help me cook so we hadn't spent time together and he was leaving the country the next day AND I RUINED THE HOLIDAY!

Don't even ask what happened when he returned from his trip and didn't immediately give me a hug.

I can't be crying so much that it interferes with my life.  And with my husband probably also being depressed, I can't be triggering that feedback loop where does something without knowing it will upset me, and then I start crying, and then he feels bad for upsetting me ... and gets stressed ... and I feel bad for stressing him out, so I cry more ... and he withdraws from me emotionally ... so I get more upset ... and the cycle begins anew.

To wrap up: Abilify.

Weekly Gratitude: My Coping Skills, and Three Things I Like About Myself

I've decided to turn this week's Gratitude Post into an exercise from my Mood Action Plan.  Last August, my MCBT class was assigned to make a list of three things we like about ourselves.  Things that we probably forget when we get depressed. 


This post feels awkward to write in some ways.  Depression is inextricably twined with negative self-image -- that's the whole point of this exercise -- but the way we're brought up makes it even harder.  Naming what we like about ourselves feels so much like bragging, like arrogance; and every six year old knows that nobody likes a bragger.

Women especially are socialized to play down their own abilities and give credit to others.  We're much better at telling other people they're awesome than appreciating our own awesomeness.  But, again, that's the whole point of doing this.  To remember that we're awesome, even when we don't feel awesome.  To hang on to three things we like about ourselves, no matter how hard our illness tries makes use forget them.

In my case, the problem is not really that I forget that I have traits that I like. I just get to feeling like they don't (and will never) do me a damn bit of good.  So I decided to change the terms of the assignment: I would look at how these traits do me plenty of good, because they're the ones that I use to cope with my mental illness.

I am grateful for my sense of humor, my creativity, and my curiosity. 

Oh Yeah, My Mood Action Plan

My experience the other night made me remember that I'd created a Mood Action Plan back in the day.  I've printed it up and posted it above my desk/studio table.  I've already acted on some of them -- namely those that deal with my daily mood crashes:

• Troughs or crashes in mood between the times of 4 and 8 pm become more frequent
• Troughs or crashes in mood between the times of 4 and 8 pm become worse (tearfulness, paranoia about relationships, pessimism running to despair)
• Troughs or crashes in mood lengthen beyond the 4 to 8 pm range

All three of these symptoms are occurring, a fact to which I have alerted my pdoc (which was action number 1 on my Plan). We're trying an Adderall booster in the early afternoon, but it's proving to be problematic for my sleep if I don't get in some vigorous exercise during the day.  And I do mean "vigorous". It has to be weight training -- going for a run don't cut it.

Lamictal 300mgs: Nearing My Psychoversary

It was last year at this time that things started to get really bad.  I felt OK during the sunny days, had low energy during the cloudy days.  Once it hit 4 pm though ... then The Thoughts started coming.  They went something like this:

There's not enough light in the house.  There's not enough light in the universe! But if I turn on all the lights in the house, I can keep it from tipping into the darkness.  

So ... darkness somehow "weighs more" than light?  That doesn't make any sense; how can darkness "weigh" anything?  It doesn't; it just doesn't.  

On the other hand ... I the dark, cavernous maw in the other room is sort of bugging me. All right, I'll humor myself, I'll turn on every damn light in the house.

And then, as the weeks wore on:

Lamictal 300 mgs: Dark Thoughts

Several months ago, I wrote about why I didn't realize my depression was worsening: because I was nowhere near The Pit.  Like a lot of depressives, when I get depressed I feel like I'm falling, as if I'm circling a dark pit, as if I'm falling into it.  Or at least I used to.  Before my psychotic episode I had no such feeling, and it didn't occur to me that I was headed for trouble.

I've been at a loss to describe what did happen to me last year.  But last night I had just a brief glimpse of it.  This horrible feeling welled up for a few minutes, kind of like what happened last year but nowhere near as serious ... it felt like ... like ...

It felt like I was being engulfed by a wave of devouring darkness.  It's not falling into The Pit.  Trust me, they're totally different.  Believe me, the devouring darkness is worse.  But this being me and all, I felt better immediately when I could assign a dramatic metaphor to what I was feeling.

And yes.  If it happens again, or lasts more than five minutes, I'll be calling my shrink.

Your Recommended Dose of Irony: My Sunlamp is Depressing Me

In case you haven't read any other post on this blog, I have severe seasonal affective disorder.  Now, you're asking yourself, how "severe" can seasonal affective disorder really be?

It can be SO SEVERE, that's right folks, SO SEVERE that one can become actually psychotic due to lack of sunlight.  (I've written about it here, here, here, and here.  Also, on a lighter note, here.

Since I don't want to wind up psychotically depressed again, I sit in front of a sunlamp.  A lot.  My sunlamp is in my brightly-lit art studio, which also has full-spectrum lighting.  It's very bright in here.  Which is good.  It helps me.  But it's also getting kind of old.

I need to sit by the sunlamp in the morning, so I do that while checking my email and blogging.  Then I get distracted by checking my email and blogging ... and besides, I just feel so much better when I'm by the lamp.  So I'm here at 9:30 or 10 every morning, eating breakfast and messing around on my computer.  I do that for a couple of hours.

Then, I have to be back in front of the sunlamp when it starts to get dark.  My mood slumps, sometimes severely, between the hours of 4 and 7 pm.  Now that it's getting noticeably dim by 3:30, I have to be here by that point, or the dreaded slump begins.  On days when it's rainy and dark I just park myself here and stay all day.

The problem is that it gives me no flexibility in my afternoon schedule.  Having lunch with a friend from 1 to 3?  Can't stay an extra hour.  Can't run errands afterward.  Can't come home and exercise -- nope, need to sit in front of the damn lamp.  And it's not like I can move the lamp; I need to be in my studio, where it's generally bright, or I start to slump.  Anyway, having a light that emits 10,000 lux seriously strains your eyes if it's all up in your face in an otherwise not-brightly-lit room.

Lamictal 300 mgs: My First Really Bad Day

Yesterday sucked.

It began with a bad dream.  If you don't want to read my whole long post about it, suffice it to say that the dream involved betrayal, abandonment, rejection, and a package tour.  Horrible.  It affected me more than my dreams usually do, probably because it was so obviously about my deepest fears vis a vis my current situation, and I began my day slightly depressed.

When I hit my usual trough of 4 pm, I felt much, much worse.  Lately my troughs have been pretty mild.  I'll feel a little down, or a little less energetic, or both; however, yesterday was the first day in a long time that I've landed in the depths of despair.

I don't know what could account for it.  I'd been up late the night before, and therefore up early the next day, but I've done that before without suffering such consequences.  I'd skipped my sunlamp the night before -- this seems like a pretty likely factor.

Lamictal 300: Depressed Mood and a Really Bad Dream

This morning I'm fighting sadness and a depressed mood.  I've taken my meds, I'm eating breakfast, I'm sitting in front of my therapy lamps like a good mental patient.  But still depressed.

My mood trouble was brought on my a bad dream, which is unusual for me.  I have plenty of dreams that are weird or scary; lately I've had a long string of them in which, despite the varied content of the rest of the dream, I am escaping a city on fire.  Rarely do they continue to bother me after I wake up.

I think this one is a problem because it hit a little close to home.  My biggest fear is that I will be rejected for my mental health problems.  Maybe my friends will be scared or uncomfortable and stop talking to me (they haven't).  Maybe my partner will leave me because I'm just too crazy (he hasn't).  Or maybe word will get out somehow, and I'll be judged by strangers -- people will look askance, mothers will pull their kids close to them as I walk down the street, and I'll never find work again!

Yes, I have a dramatic imagination.

In my dream, I was in some sort of group (in jail?  On a package tour?  Both? I couldn't tell) and a good friend of mine was there.  The guard/tour guide (who was armed) announced that since I had been psychotic he would have to bound hand and foot to a metal bar.  I was tied up in dead lift position, bent forward with my ankles and wrists shackled to a bar in front of me, as if I were about to do a dead lift with a barbell (this at least makes sense since my dead lift form has been kicking my ass lately).

But how had the guard known anything about my mental health history?  I didn't know any of the other people in the group ... I looked around and realized my friend Kris was there.  She avoided my gaze, as if guilty and frightened.  She had ratted me out.  She thought I was dangerous.Then the group was led onto a passenger train.  I was still ted up, but thanks to Dream Logic could nonetheless move around comfortably, so I found my friend and asked he why she had told the guard something so private.  She looked away and told me that she thought I was unpredictable, possibly violent, and that he needed to know about me.  It was for the safety of everyone else in the group, she said.

In keeping with more Dream Logic, our friend Janet suddenly showed up out of the blue.  Janet is a doctor, and had also been told of my condition; she asked me a bunch of patronizing questions and responded to everything I said with patronizing half-answers.  I tried to explain that I'd only had one episode; it was almost a year ago; I had posed no threat to myself or anyone else.  She smiled condescendingly, as one would to a child, and told me it was for my own good.

The passenger train passed by a number of beautiful old stone buildings with the windows bricked in.  The tour guide explained that they were abandoned.  Nonetheless, someone had taken the time to make lovely, intricate Celtic knots with the brickwork.  And belying his statement that the structures were abandoned, we passed a building where one floor had people living on it -- and they were being evicted so the windows could be bricked in.

At the end of the journey we came to a swimming pool that reminded me of some of the beautiful public baths from the late 19th century.  This image of the Sutro Baths in San Francisco show the slides, the diving boards, and some of the seven different pools -- one fresh water, six salt water -- that were kept at different temperatures.

Image courtesy of efliv's Flickr stream, shared under CC license

 

Despite my protests that I had spent years on the swim team, that I had worked for years as a life guard, that I had in fact taught aquatic safety to numerous Girl Scouts, my friends wouldn't let me swim.  The proprietor told me it was "for my own good".

"Falling Back": SAD, The Return to Standard Time, and How I Survived It

On Sunday, the clocks officially got turned back by an hour.  On the plus side, an extra hour of sleep.  On the minus side, the sun sets an hour earlier.  And on the double-plus minus side (ha! see what I did there?), at this time last year is when I really began to lose it.

I was at home in Minnesota for a family wedding a year ago.  My visit had been great.  We'd had a lovely, late Indian Summer*.  The days were balmy -- I didn't even need a coat most of the time -- but the nights were cold enough that frost was forming on the ponds.  Since we've all grown up, the younger family members and friends have scattered all over the country, and all over the world.  Most of us (not me) have demanding careers.  We hadn't all been in one place since my brother graduated from high school ten years before.

After the wedding reception we set our clocks back (which, I'm just now realizing, means the happy couple added an hour to their wedding night ... clever!).  The next day we had a nice post-wedding brunch at one of the bride's parents homes.  And when we started home at around 4:30, and it was already dusk, I thought, bleahhh ...".

Back from Family Trip: Thoughts About Memory Loss, ADD, and Blue Light Therapy

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my anxieties about my pending visit to my grandmother.  Some of my anxieties were due to childhood memories of being bored at my grandparents' rural home.  Some of them were due to the fact that my father had told me that she her cognition had "really declined".  Would she even remember that my sister and I were coming in to visit?  Would she recognize us?  Would she be startled every morning to find us there?

The answer to all of these questions was, hell no.  We had a great visit with Grandma.  She has trouble remembering things like what day it is, and therefore what day we were coming, or what time my aunt was going to visit her next.  Her long-term memory, her personality, and -- thank the gods! -- her sense of humor are intact.