Remember Me?

5 12 2013

Hi. My name is Jenny, and I used to blog a lot.

I’m not entirely sure what happened, to be honest. Obviously there was the depression, but that didn’t stop me from blogging, so I can’t use that as an excuse. I certainly didn’t run out of things to say. You can ask any of my friends and they’ll confirm that. If there’s one thing I never stop doing, it’s telling people what I think.

Maybe I just got lazy.

But look! Here I am! Admittedly, I’m here mostly because I’m bored. Some of you might ask why I’m so bored. Here’s a pictoral explanation:

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If you’ll take a gander at the top of my humerus, you’ll notice it’s not quite right. “Good heavens, Jenny! You’ve broken your humerus!” I hear you saying (okay, you’re probably saying arm instead of humerus, because you’re not all into medical stuff like I am). “How on earth did you do that?”

Umm. Well. See, here’s the thing…apparently I’m a 90-year-old woman, because I slipped and fell in the shower. Just call me Grace.

So I’ve spent the past 2.5 weeks bored out of my mind, because yes, that’s my dominant arm. I can’t work. I can’t drive, because both of our cars are stick shifts. I can’t shower by myself.

But I can (finally) type. Lucky you!

Wow, this post is boring. I’m so terribly sorry. But they can’t all be Nobel-worthy. Really, what do you people expect from me? I’M ONLY HUMAN YOU KNOW.

That’s it. I’m done with this post. I can’t handle the pressure.

P.S. I’m thinking about trying my hand at fiction. I’m not sure the world is ready for this.

Oh, screw you, WordPress proofreader. Pictoral and humerus are totally valid words. WHY IS EVERYONE SO CRITICAL?



Happiness is…

30 09 2013

My therapist asked me to write a list of things that make me happy.

He’s a very wise man.

It sounds like a simple task, yet it’s been giving me fits. Still, it’s something I need to do and I want to share the start with you. After all, you hear plenty about the things that make me unhappy. Why shouldn’t you join in relishing the things that bring a smile to my face? So tonight I write the beginning of my list, with the plan to add a few posts here and there that expound upon the same topic.

  1. Hearing my boys laugh
  2. Holding hands with Car
  3. A good nap
  4. Coloring
  5. Crocheting
  6. Chocolate
  7. Reading a good book
  8. A hug from Car
  9. Going out with friends
  10. Talking to my brother on the phone
  11. Getting a haircut
  12. Sleeping in

It’s not a very long or profound list at this point, but I know I’ll think of more to add to it. I have faith that I can do this.

A Simple Prayer

18 09 2013

“…and please bless mom that she can be happy.”

It breaks my heart.

I don’t want my boys to even know about depression, much less have personal experience with a loved one who suffers from it.  I don’t want to miss soccer games because I’m exhausted from ECT treatments, or because I’m just too sad to leave the house. I don’t want to dread helping in their classes because of the massive effort it takes to convince myself to face a roomful of strange children.

I want to clean the house. I want to cook dinner. I want to play games. I want a smile and a laugh that appear at the slightest provocation.

I don’t want to be a depressed person. I don’t want to be a depressed mom.

It’s a simple prayer, really.

Please, God. Help me not be depressed.



3 09 2013

It seems that all I do these days is forget.

It’s the ECT, of course. Electroconvulsive Therapy. I imagine I’ll remember everything, but I immediately forget every detail of my day. Oh, I’m spending the night at my parent’s house tonight? I had no clue. I guess I’d better pack my bag before my dad comes to pick me up.

It’s ridiculous. Unacceptable, really—except for the fact that I’m not so sad now.

I don’t know which is worse; forgetting everything, or being sad.

It’s being sad, right? I’m pretty sure it is.

My eldest child is turning eight on Thursday. I’ve forgotten to buy him a present.


His mom is—if not overjoyed with her existence—less sad.

Have I just forgotten to be sad? Is that what this is? I just can’t tell.

I hate this.

Here’s what I know: My name is Jenny. A doctor gives me seizures to help reset my brain. I’m happier than I was a month ago.

It’s a good thing.


16 08 2013

Do you ever feel already buried deep?
Six feet under screams, but no one seems to hear a thing
Do you know that there’s still a chance for you
‘Cause there’s a spark in you?
~ Katy Perry


6:55 am

Waiting for my first electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) treatment. Got up at 4:15 to be here on time. I’ll be doing this three times a week for at least three weeks.


The nurse gave me an injection to dry up my spit and now my mouth feels funny. I find this annoying, but not as annoying as the fact that I’ve been awake for almost three hours now.

I’ve got a lot of threes in my head.

After I sign away all of my good sense, the nurse leads me into a room and motions that I should get onto the hospital bed in the middle. I lie down and look around. There’s the doctor—always good to have at least one of those present. An anesthesiologist, thank goodness. Two nurses.

Okay, then. I guess I just…sit back and relax? There’s not much else to do, so I lie back and the anesthesiologist makes his way over. Within minutes, I’m out.

I wake up with an excruciating headache—not too surprising when people are shooting electricity into your skull. I don’t feel much happier with life in general, but I assume that’ll come with time.

The headache lasts around 12 hours so I sleep most of the day. If this continues for every session, I’m going to cry.


My headache isn’t as bad this time, thank goodness. I’m even able to be alert for more of the day.

I’m afraid I’m already starting to forget things. Things people said to me at the treatment facility. Things I was supposed to do. I don’t know how much of it is actual forgetting and how much is panic, but I’m afraid.

I don’t want to forget, but I don’t want to be sad, either. I’m not sure there’s a win-win in all of this.

For now I’ll go with slightly forgetful but hopefully soon to be happier.

That’ll do.


12 08 2013

I slept too much this morning.

The bed is not my friend, I keep telling myself. Even though I want to burrow under the covers and hide away from the world…the bed is not my friend.

By noon I’ve showered and dressed and I’m ready to leave the house. I’m exhausted, but feel triumphant. My mother drives me back to UNI, because they managed to discharge me without the meds for my ADHD—something I discovered Sunday morning.

That wasn’t a good moment. We’ll label it “crying episode number four,” and then we’ll stop numbering them, because I’ll just feel discouraged by how high the number gets.

The ECT people didn’t call to schedule my appointment. I suppose they have a full schedule, but that doesn’t make me any less annoyed. I’ve decided to have electricity run through my brain, people! Let’s get this show on the road!

I have moments where I wonder if getting ECT is the easy way out. Then I stop and I realize 1) there’s nothing easy about having an electricity-induced seizure three times a week and 2) nothing I choose at this point constitutes an “easy” way out.

I want to remember that. I need to remember that. Nothing about any of this is easy.

People ask me how I’m doing, and my answer is generally the same: “I’m adjusting.” It’s the truth. Actually, if you want the brutal truth, life is not as amazing as I’d hoped it would be when I got out of UNI. I feel sluggish—like I have mud running through my veins and filling up my skull. I stare at my food. I snap at my boys. I remind myself that it’s okay—I’m adjusting—but I don’t want to adjust. I want to be better.

It’s past 11, and time for me to go to bed. This is the only time of day the bed doesn’t beckon me sweetly, but I’ve made a schedule and it’s bedtime now.

The bed is not my friend.


11 08 2013

I’ve cried 3 times since I’ve been home, but I’ve mostly hidden it because it doesn’t seem like something I’m supposed to do on the day I’m released from the psychiatric hospital.

That’s probably not what you were hoping to read. It’s certainly not what I was hoping to write.

I know they expect some regression when they release us back into the wild, but I was kind of hoping I might be some sort of rare creature who simply learns from the experience and moves forward.

What? A girl can dream.

I feel oddly discontent. I can’t put my finger on it, but I just feel…off. Like I want to walk around the block or go for a drive or maybe just curl up in a ball and cry. I just don’t know what.

When I got home I took a nap, but not a long one, because they tell me the bed is not my friend. I’m trying to remember that. So when I was sad and I started to cry, I did breathing exercises to regain  my emotional control and I didn’t throw myself into a sobbing heap on the bed.

This is progress, yes?

The Gs were playing Minecraft today (the gist of their conversation: “Don’t put the chicken in the waterfall! You’re going to drown the chicken! Look at all those chickens!) and Little G said to Big G, “Go to water if you’re on fire.” It reminded me of a quote one of the psych techs wrote on the board at UNI: “When tempted to fight fire with fire, remember that the fire department usually uses water.”

So. Deep breathing. I will not heap sadness upon sadness. I will remember that I have hope.

And I will listen to the Dove chocolate wrapper, which commanded me to sleep late tomorrow. I took a picture of it so I could prove I’m not just making that up (and also just because I can do that now that I’m out of the hospital), but my phone is being a jerk, so no chocolate wrapper picture for you.

Now you’re going to cry, aren’t you? Don’t worry. I can teach you some breathing exercises.