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A Note on Being Socially Awkward

“Oh, excuse me,” I say to the person I’ve accidentally cut off in the hall leading to the ladies’ room.

“Haha, no problem. The squash at the mall is rough!” I think I hear.

Not wanting to make this crazy talker feel bad, I say, “Well, they can’t all be gems, can they? Haha!” and push past her and her disappeared smile and confused, slightly concerned eyes, and let myself into the bathroom ahead of her.

While I’m in the stall, I realize that she must have said, “Well, this hall is small enough!” and not whatever I thought she said about squash. My response made less sense to her than the squash mall made to me. Another missed connection.

I don’t hear very well, so add that to my momentary panic whenever someone tries to make small talk with me, my mind reeling, trying to force words out so I don’t completely mangle the transaction, and it’s a disaster. I’m starting to accept that I’m going to mangle it anyway, so I try to keep my tone light and hope for the best. I used OKCupid to date people after my divorce, and under What I’m Best At in my profile I said “Making it weird.” And I meant it with all my heart.

I have a lot of wonderful friends who love me very much, but even with them I’m socially awkward enough to make it weird on a daily basis. And it’s not just my hearing loss or loathing of small talk either. At first I didn’t think mental illness played into it at all, but now I’m not so sure. When I’m doing everything I can just to stay alive with the minimum amount of functioning, not to mention summon the courage to be around other humans when I feel like that, polite conversation is the last of my energy priorities.

I might be at a store in the checkout line and the friendly cashier will say something like, “Any big plans for the weekend?”

Dear god, that question. I hate that question.

My first instinct is to lie, desiring to be someone who does things on a weekend like normal people. It sounds something like this: “Oh yeah! We’re going paddle boarding at the lake. Standing paddle boarding. With Martha Stewart. She’s buying us beer. Then we’re all going off roading in her Jeep. In the mud. I’m very excited.”

My next instinct is the honest one. Let’s not waste time being polite, let’s just tell it like it is. It sounds like this: “Yeah. Big plans to not put pants on or shower or brush my teeth for two days. Just kidding it’s already been a month. I’ll probably lie in my bed sideways and watch The Office reruns for thirty hours while eating these four bags of dill pickle chips and wiping my hands on the dog. What will you be up to?”

There’s the third response and it’s one I call The Best I Can Do. It goes like this: “Is it the weekend? What day is it? Can you just… I’ve got to get home. Because…I have to.” and then I start to cry as I avoid eye contact while o wait for the cashier to finish scanning my items, imagining them judging me for buying dill pickle chips in bulk along with tampons and one single celery stalk.

No matter which choice I go with, I make it weird. The cashier, or whomever I’m talking to will give me a blank, confused, or pitying look. And that’s just the way it is. At one point in my life while working customer service, I learned to have a separate customer service personality. I was charming, helpful, funny, cheerful, and I could do it as long as I was getting paid for it. Afterward I didn’t want to talk at all. To anyone. About anything.

This feeling is the inspiration for my “today is a no talking day” sticker. I feel like that so many times when I am too busy fighting my own brain to have energy for conversation or even responses to simple questions. It costs me a lot of myself to survive depression, anxiety, bipolar, and type 1 diabetes. It would be nice to be able to enjoy being social instead of feeling like it’s an obstacle or a puzzle that’s too difficult for me to figure out most of the time. At least I also don’t have enough energy to care what these strangers think of me and my awkwardness. That’s an asset, especially when I know I’m doing the best I can. It’s an asset too when I’m writing a blog that talks about things that no one wants to talk about. I don’t care what you think of me because I know that there’s someone out there who will read this and not feel so alone anymore.

Weirdos, unite.

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Even When I’m High Maintenance

People like traveling with me because I’m very laid back and adaptable. I can be as happy staying in a fancy hotel (I get unreasonably excited if there are more than two TVs in the room and at least one of them is in the bathroom) as I am staying in a cheap motel as I am sleeping on the forest floor under the stars as I am camping out on a near-stranger’s floor in the middle of a city I’ve never been to. I can navigate a very wide range of social situations, I can pack like a man, and I can get as sweaty as anyone else while hooking up a trailer to the back of a truck. So I’m popular with travelers because I appear to be not needy at all.

The truth is that I can take care of my own needs, and when I can’t, first I try to suck it up and push forward anyway before I will finally ask for help. I hate holding up group plans by needing something weird, like a trip back to my hotel room for a bottle of insulin, or something with sugar in it to treat a low blood sugar which may require half an hour out of everyone’s way to find me a soft drink. I try to plan for everything, but inevitably something weird and 99% diabetes related will happen that I can’t plan for.

Lately, too, in my healing but still weakened mental health state, my needs have increased. I am traveling right now, and my usual laid back, adaptable self has been replaced with some kind of high maintenance needy woman that I never wanted to be. Outwardly I am still flexible, but my inner monologue has kicked it up about ten notches. “How am I supposed to sleep with only ONE pillow? I can’t find ANYTHING, who packed this backpack? Whyyyyyyyyy can’t we be there yet?!”

Outwardly I’m like, “We’re not stopping for 4 hours? Cool.”

We stayed the night with my boyfriend’s family last night. Granted I had met them before, so there was no first impression pressure, but we had also been driving for about twenty four hours and we were all exhausted and cranky. Also, I was on my period, which will become relevant soon.

We ate dinner with the family, watched a little TV, caught up a little, then a few of us excused ourselves to go to bed early. My boyfriend and I and our two dogs were staying in one of the kids’ rooms on a twin bed and a twin trundle bed on the floor. I was so tired and cranky that I laid down and cried because I had to poop and I didn’t want to poop in someone else’s house. (high maintenance)

I was also terrified to go to bed because I was on my period and didn’t want to bleed on a kid’s bed sheets. I decided to delay the pooping and change my insulin pump, which involves needles but very rarely involves bleeding. I changed the pump and realized I was bleeding, which only happens once out of every 30 or so times I change it. And I bled a lot. Right onto the kid sheets. Right where my ass would be if I was laying down. I was terrified for the wrong blood. But now so what, the worst has already happened, I can sleep sound.

Until I pooped in the kids’ bathroom and clogged the toilet. And the 12 year old had to bring me a plunger with a look on his face that said, “I know what you did and it’s gross and I don’t want to talk to you ever again.” Or maybe I’m reading into that. But I spent several minutes unclogging the toilet and sobbing a little to myself until I came out of the bathroom and made a poop joke, laughed, and went to bed still sobbing a little.

I know how to suck it up. On a road trip there’s not much choice but to endure and do the best you can. Sometimes I have to admit that I have needs, and sometimes I have to change other people’s plans to get those needs met. Always I have to be okay with that because what’s the alternative? Making myself miserable stewing over it while everyone else has moved on.

We finally arrived at our destination, and I can breathe a little bit. The toilets I clog from now on will be our own. And even though there’s still only one pillow for me to sleep on, the ocean is about 500 feet from where I’m sitting, so no matter what, everything is going to be okay.

Now I’m going to go take a fucking shower.

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Another Note on Journaling

Another “note” on “journaling” sounds a little redundant, and I tried to make a pun out of it, but I couldn’t make it work. Let me know if you come up with something better. As I mentioned in a previous post, I discovered journaling as a coping and survival method in my early 20s with the help of one my therapist at the time. She recommended a book called The Artist’s Way, which is a book I ended up loving. It has exercises for your brain and spirit to discover the artist within you. The exercise from this book that spoke to me was “Morning Pages.” This is where you write three pages in a journal every morning. It doesn’t matter what you write, how big or small you write, or even whether or not the words can be found in a dictionary. The idea is to develop consistency and to empty your brain of whatever is cluttering it so you can start ¬†your day with a clear head.

It was difficult for me to start writing in a journal, but once I got the hang of it I started doing it every day. There is so much cluttering my head at any given moment – racing thoughts, depression fueled thoughts, negative self talk, positive self talk, jokes that are hilarious until I write them down and read them to myself – that getting some of them out on paper, a place outside of me, frees up a lot of mental and emotional bandwidth and helps me continue to survive, function, and thrive.

My most recent psych hospital stay reminded me of how much I need journaling. I had given up journaling for about a year, and apparently a lot of thoughts and feelings and misspelled words got backed up in there and gummed up the works. My lack of journaling did not lead to my suicidal thoughts, that was my lack of functioning brain chemistry. But once I started writing again while in the hospital, a flood gate was open.

In the psych hospital there’s a lot of down time. There’s a structure of therapy and treatment and activities, but between those you don’t go home, you just, sort of, exist together. About 80% of my down time was spent journaling, sometimes by myself in my room, but usually around other people. Here is a non-sequitur journal entry from my hospital journal (written in marker because that’s all we were allowed to have to write with):

I want to say he eventually got the hang of Uno, but I don’t specifically remember that happening.

Here’s an entry about how people noticed how much I journal through the day:

The woman walked up to me while I was sitting outside, asked me if I had seen a rabbit, then pulled a carrot out of her bra and threw it in a shrub. She said, “I bet we’ll see it soon!” and winked at me. The level of commitment involved in smuggling carrots from the cafeteria impressed me.

A few people in the hospital asked me how I journal so much because they wanted to start. The first step for me it to stop judging yourself. That’s easy to do, right? Just flip the switch from On to Off, and you’re done, right? No? Oh. It takes practice. Start with words on paper. Don’t judge yourself for your handwriting, your ability to spell, your sentences, your thoughts, whether or not it makes sense…it is all good. If your pen (or hospital sanctioned marker) is making marks on a piece of paper, congratulations! You’re journaling! Now do it again tomorrow. And the next day.

I started this way, a little at a time, often writing through it when I judged myself for something. Before long I was able to just let the thoughts translate to paper. I don’t read anything I’ve written either. Not for a very long time. And when I do I realize I knew more about my own situation than I gave myself credit for.

It’s difficult for me to talk about my most recent psych hospital visit because I’m still so close to it, but I intend to face it and write through it. Reading my hospital journal in pieces is helping me process the experience, and continuing to journal daily after my discharge day is making me a stronger person every day.

Journaling is powerful. I’ve heard more times than not someone saying they would love to journal but they don’t know what to say. And I tell them that’s a form of judging themselves. We all know what to say it’s just a matter of learning how to get it from our heads to paper. It looks different for everyone so the most important thing we can do is just practice. Do it for you. I do it for me, not anyone else…

…until I scan them onto my computer and post the contents online for the whole world to see*.

 

*Note: you are not required to do this when you journal.

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Sticker Sale!

Get shameless for a dollar! All stickers are $1 for a limited time! Tell your friends!

There is a new sticker available too for the days when talking takes too much energy. It is also good for days when your state of brain ensures that talking can only do harm. I have these days most frequently when I’m hypomanic.

Here is a preview of the new sticker! And if you make any purchase you get the black and white website sticker for free! Let’s go shopping!

Screenshot 2018-06-30 10.19.03

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To Shamelessly Adult

I’ve known how shameless of a person I am for a long time. I spent formative years, from age four on, fighting type 1 diabetes and realizing that if you make a mistake (and kids never make mistakes, right?) with my medical care I could die. Not only that, but it will never go away and will probably get worse. Kids shouldn’t ever have to learn to face their own mortality, and yet… Then add to that bipolar with severe depression in my early adult years, also something that doesn’t go away, and a messy divorce, and a parent illness, and losing my job and then my career…dealing with all that on a daily basis, when the hell am I supposed to have the energy to give a shit about being polite? About feeling shame for the ways I have learned to cope with my life and be productive and successful despite its best efforts to keep me down?

The older I get, the less I care about being shy, and being afraid to speak up for myself, and the less I care about changing my personality to match whatever group I’m in. In addition to the human experience of aging and developing a sense of self, my multiple and repeated brushes with death have accelerated this shamelessness I have. Yes, I have a much stronger sense of myself at 37 than I did at, say 20, but even at 20 I had faced death multiple times with diabetes complication hospitalizations and one suicide attempt that no one but my best friend knew about (more on all of this later).

When I realized that everything I know could end in the matter of a second, it gave me a new perspective. I’m alive. I’m alive because I work my ass off to stay alive, and things could be very very different. So changing who I am to fit in? Not saying something I want to say because it’s different from what other people are saying? Needing validation from people around me to feel better about myself? Ok, I still need that one, but the others are things I just don’t have energy for. They are not important in the big picture of life, and I’ve been forced to understand the big picture, over and over again).

This most recent time I was in the psychiatric hospital I saw this shamelessness with new eyes. In an environment like a hospital you have a lot of down time. Even with all the structured activities, group therapy, psychiatrist meetings, yoga and stress relief classes, art classes, exercise classes, you have a lot of time to interact with your fellow inpatients. You get to know each other very well, you get to make friends.

It’s a unique relationship because you’re all hospitalized for serious reasons and you find you learn people’s deepest secrets. You can help them through their darkest moments while they help you through yours. You find people you have things in common with and you make friends. There’s also a tendency of people in groups like this to form cliques and create their own drama. I’ve never been a fan of interpersonal drama, and I’m even less a fan of self-created drama. But I understand its function, especially in groups. It can be intimidating to join a group of people you don’t know and just be left to you own devices to find your way. Cliques can provide comfort.

Continue reading To Shamelessly Adult