Cycling
A girl and her bike with some beer.I can tell that my mental life is in an unstable place by the number of times I check my e-mails a day: over 100, and the number of posts I am itching to write every day: at least 3, and also by the amount of household chores that have been accomplished: 0.
When some people get submerged in a depressive episode they don't get out of bed. I've never been a bed lingerer. Even before I had a child that liked to wake at the butt-crack of dawn. I don't cry all the time either because there's always too many people and I have become very disciplined about not crying in front of people*. Even Philip. So if anyone has seen me cry, you can be sure that underneath the surface there is a vortex of suppressed emotion.
For me a depressive episode manifests itself in an uncontrollable need to write because it accomplishes a couple of very important functions. The first and most important function is that of a pressure valve- it releases words out of my head which would otherwise explode silently and render me brain-dead; it is the grounding for my circuitry.
The second function it provides is that of an anchor for my attention which becomes fractured and I find myself able to focus on nothing while my brain buzzes five hundred miles a minute causing my eyes to slide all over my life and I wander from room to room wondering what I should do. What I "should do" is generally self evident in piles of dirty laundry, dirty dishes, clutter everywhere, and dog vomit that should really be cleaned up right now before it fossilizes into the carpet. Writing is the one thing that can anchor my attention when I'm depressed and/or in panic mode.
I am always close to one of these two states of being. That's what it means to be clinically mentally ill. That's why my blog jags between good days and bad days as fast as Paris Hilton changes boyfriends. You can almost count on getting a dark post soon after reading one that is happy and hopeful. When life is going generally well the jags become less visible to the naked eye, but they're still there. I could have a trillion dollars, two book deals, and my son could suddenly be a calm and non-combative kid who eats vegetables and I'd still be on my own mini mind roller coaster. My emotive state always requires monitoring and work. There is no break from my head because it's attached to my nervous system.
If it weren't for my blog, most people in my life wouldn't see anything I don't want them to see. I've been working on being more honest when people ask me "how are you?" but if I tell people how I am then they'll want to find a solution and I know that ultimately the solution is to ride this out, write it out, and then do it all over again tomorrow. Fixing my life problems will make my life better but it won't make that brain itch disappear. The brain itch is nature's little physiological gift that will keep on giving until I die. Thank god** nature also gave me beer, cheese, and bread. I thank science for giving me Paxil.
Going through this job hunting experience has precipitated a really big depressive jag and the anxiety has also become more intrusive. I have been on the verge of tears for days. I couldn't hold it in several nights ago and Max saw me and I felt awful. He asks me all the time "Why do you look so mad?" or "Why do you have that sad look on your face mama?" and I realized (yet again) how tough it is to be the kid of a mentally ill parent. I want to tell him that I will be happy when I get a job, or when we're not so poor, or that when life gets less stressful I will stop looking so angry all the time. But that's not true. It raises false expectations in my kid, a kid with a mind like a hypodermic needle, sharp with lots of memory room.
The truth is that I find life stressful. All the time. It's stressful when it's going well and it's even more stressful when it's not. Nothing turns it off. Some things turn it down, like medication, happy moments, quiet alone time, and therapy. Nothing turns it off. That's why mentally ill people kill themselves sometimes. It's the endlessness of it.
Mental illness is a lot like laundry, it is an endless cycle of dirty clothes piling up and just when you have all the laundry clean and folded the cats pee on the bed and you have to start all over. Perhaps it's laundry's resemblance to my mind that makes me hate it so much. I can never catch up with it, never get all the stains out, and even after reading Martha's instructions on how to fold the fitted sheets no matter how hard I try they always look like a giant wad of industrial trash.
Yesterday was another bad day. I hovered around my e-mails all day looking for some kind of relief. I wrote a post and then deleted it because it was so negative. Then I finally got into the kitchen and cooked. Cooking has the same effect as writing, cutting vases of roses, and drinking beer has on me: it puts me in a softer place, one where science and art meet; a padded cell where I can taste and experiment in quiet.
The panir I made didn't set up because I didn't press it. The texture ended up being similar to ricotta. I have really missed ricotta since doing my eat local challenge. There's no local source for it. To be able to make it myself is an incredible boon. It's exciting. So last night I made four batches of pasta. I used sheets of dough to make ricotta stuffed manicotti with a marinara sauce. They turned out so good! I seasoned the ricotta with salt, pepper, and nutmeg.
I also finally started a chevre cheese. Except that I'm making it with raw cow's milk. I might not like the results because it turns out that raw cow's milk has a distinctly animal aftertaste just like goat cheese. But Philip and every other person I know loves goat cheese so it should certainly be appreciated. I used a chevre culture. This is such an easy cheese to make. You bring the milk up to a certain temperature, add the culture, then let it sit for twelve hours before draining and putting in chevre molds. The only tricky part is stabilizing the temperature. I wrapped my pot in a towel, put the lid on and stuck it in my oven.
The only problem is that for a brief time the oven (which was cooling from use) brought the cheese up four degrees higher than it was supposed to go. So hopefully it didn't destroy the culture. I will find out in a little while when I check under the lid.
Philip saw the wrapped pot in the oven and told me "When I first saw that I thought 'what is a baby doing in the oven?'." This is why I love Philip. He must think, on some deep level, that I'm involved in some very dark arts.
I'm taking today off from job hunting. It's an all consuming task with a whole lot of urgency surrounding it. Today I am doing some cleaning. I will undoubtedly come check my e-mails 150 times and it's entirely possible that I will write a couple more posts. I can feel the compulsiveness of my brain working overtime and I can feel the rest of me trying to compensate.
That's life here in my head. What's it like in yours?
*I'm not saying this is healthy. But if I cried every time I really felt like it I would be an unstoppable snot faucet and my eyes would swell shut.
**Not really thanking god since I believe that nature is god. "God" in this context is really just an exclamation. The more I say "god" the weirder it sounds and I can't help but wonder why any great entity would name itself something that sounded so similar to "gob"?
When some people get submerged in a depressive episode they don't get out of bed. I've never been a bed lingerer. Even before I had a child that liked to wake at the butt-crack of dawn. I don't cry all the time either because there's always too many people and I have become very disciplined about not crying in front of people*. Even Philip. So if anyone has seen me cry, you can be sure that underneath the surface there is a vortex of suppressed emotion.
For me a depressive episode manifests itself in an uncontrollable need to write because it accomplishes a couple of very important functions. The first and most important function is that of a pressure valve- it releases words out of my head which would otherwise explode silently and render me brain-dead; it is the grounding for my circuitry.
The second function it provides is that of an anchor for my attention which becomes fractured and I find myself able to focus on nothing while my brain buzzes five hundred miles a minute causing my eyes to slide all over my life and I wander from room to room wondering what I should do. What I "should do" is generally self evident in piles of dirty laundry, dirty dishes, clutter everywhere, and dog vomit that should really be cleaned up right now before it fossilizes into the carpet. Writing is the one thing that can anchor my attention when I'm depressed and/or in panic mode.
I am always close to one of these two states of being. That's what it means to be clinically mentally ill. That's why my blog jags between good days and bad days as fast as Paris Hilton changes boyfriends. You can almost count on getting a dark post soon after reading one that is happy and hopeful. When life is going generally well the jags become less visible to the naked eye, but they're still there. I could have a trillion dollars, two book deals, and my son could suddenly be a calm and non-combative kid who eats vegetables and I'd still be on my own mini mind roller coaster. My emotive state always requires monitoring and work. There is no break from my head because it's attached to my nervous system.
If it weren't for my blog, most people in my life wouldn't see anything I don't want them to see. I've been working on being more honest when people ask me "how are you?" but if I tell people how I am then they'll want to find a solution and I know that ultimately the solution is to ride this out, write it out, and then do it all over again tomorrow. Fixing my life problems will make my life better but it won't make that brain itch disappear. The brain itch is nature's little physiological gift that will keep on giving until I die. Thank god** nature also gave me beer, cheese, and bread. I thank science for giving me Paxil.
Going through this job hunting experience has precipitated a really big depressive jag and the anxiety has also become more intrusive. I have been on the verge of tears for days. I couldn't hold it in several nights ago and Max saw me and I felt awful. He asks me all the time "Why do you look so mad?" or "Why do you have that sad look on your face mama?" and I realized (yet again) how tough it is to be the kid of a mentally ill parent. I want to tell him that I will be happy when I get a job, or when we're not so poor, or that when life gets less stressful I will stop looking so angry all the time. But that's not true. It raises false expectations in my kid, a kid with a mind like a hypodermic needle, sharp with lots of memory room.
The truth is that I find life stressful. All the time. It's stressful when it's going well and it's even more stressful when it's not. Nothing turns it off. Some things turn it down, like medication, happy moments, quiet alone time, and therapy. Nothing turns it off. That's why mentally ill people kill themselves sometimes. It's the endlessness of it.
Mental illness is a lot like laundry, it is an endless cycle of dirty clothes piling up and just when you have all the laundry clean and folded the cats pee on the bed and you have to start all over. Perhaps it's laundry's resemblance to my mind that makes me hate it so much. I can never catch up with it, never get all the stains out, and even after reading Martha's instructions on how to fold the fitted sheets no matter how hard I try they always look like a giant wad of industrial trash.
Yesterday was another bad day. I hovered around my e-mails all day looking for some kind of relief. I wrote a post and then deleted it because it was so negative. Then I finally got into the kitchen and cooked. Cooking has the same effect as writing, cutting vases of roses, and drinking beer has on me: it puts me in a softer place, one where science and art meet; a padded cell where I can taste and experiment in quiet.
The panir I made didn't set up because I didn't press it. The texture ended up being similar to ricotta. I have really missed ricotta since doing my eat local challenge. There's no local source for it. To be able to make it myself is an incredible boon. It's exciting. So last night I made four batches of pasta. I used sheets of dough to make ricotta stuffed manicotti with a marinara sauce. They turned out so good! I seasoned the ricotta with salt, pepper, and nutmeg.
I also finally started a chevre cheese. Except that I'm making it with raw cow's milk. I might not like the results because it turns out that raw cow's milk has a distinctly animal aftertaste just like goat cheese. But Philip and every other person I know loves goat cheese so it should certainly be appreciated. I used a chevre culture. This is such an easy cheese to make. You bring the milk up to a certain temperature, add the culture, then let it sit for twelve hours before draining and putting in chevre molds. The only tricky part is stabilizing the temperature. I wrapped my pot in a towel, put the lid on and stuck it in my oven.
The only problem is that for a brief time the oven (which was cooling from use) brought the cheese up four degrees higher than it was supposed to go. So hopefully it didn't destroy the culture. I will find out in a little while when I check under the lid.
Philip saw the wrapped pot in the oven and told me "When I first saw that I thought 'what is a baby doing in the oven?'." This is why I love Philip. He must think, on some deep level, that I'm involved in some very dark arts.
I'm taking today off from job hunting. It's an all consuming task with a whole lot of urgency surrounding it. Today I am doing some cleaning. I will undoubtedly come check my e-mails 150 times and it's entirely possible that I will write a couple more posts. I can feel the compulsiveness of my brain working overtime and I can feel the rest of me trying to compensate.
That's life here in my head. What's it like in yours?
*I'm not saying this is healthy. But if I cried every time I really felt like it I would be an unstoppable snot faucet and my eyes would swell shut.
**Not really thanking god since I believe that nature is god. "God" in this context is really just an exclamation. The more I say "god" the weirder it sounds and I can't help but wonder why any great entity would name itself something that sounded so similar to "gob"?
Labels: cooking, mental illness