The Irony

Sometimes there is too much to write.  That is one of the problems with depression, the rumination.  When news comes, whether good or bad, we over think it.  Right now, my heart and brain are too full because this was the day he left.  I have never cried so hard before or since.  I was so devastated that I was sobbing on my kitchen floor.  He left me because he had to protect himself and his job.  The irony of this entire piece of shit story is that the evil bank laid him off last week.  Abandoning his friends, his freedom and his principles for a paycheck didn't even buy him 2 years. My question is, was it worth it?

I believe that a job/career should add to someone's pile of good things, which is what I decided to call my non profit. If your job makes you change for the worse or compromise yourself, it's not worth having that job. This bank has been and looks like will always be a cesspool of misery for its employees.  He alienated himself from all the tellers in order to be above reproach.  He got a poor first year review mostly because he was too friendly.  There is a corporate culture of heirarchy, which is slowly fading away in most work places unless someone is the CEO or on the board. Maybe it's my Millenial point of view, but I will follow directions and respect you, if you give me the same courtesy, not because of your title.  They also complained about his hair being long.  In my opinion is wasn't long at all, but the CEO who is a micromanaging dictator kept complaining about it, so he cut his hair short.  The thing is that he needs someone.  He's not shallow, but he made himself distant because of money.  He was looking for a new job, but they couldn't match his salary.  I think he was in the financial industry too long because it came down to money.

He was laid off last week after the bank hired an outside company to do an efficiency review.  They found that he didn't do enough for the company to keep him around.  They laid off 6 other people as well.  This is how a company gain rapid assets in a short period of time: increase profits and reduce overhead.  No one listened to me about my criticisms because I was the opposition and therefore had to be discredited and silenced.  I'm still not silent.  The greatest irony was that he did everything to follow their rules and they still got rid of him in the end. 

So that's the end of the story with the bank.  He's finally free of that place, but not on the terms he would have wanted.  I'm glad that he is gone from that place.  That bank does not deserve to have employees.  I hope now that he will find something that he enjoys and doesn't compromise his beliefs or himself.  I wish him the best.  Maybe that makes me the better person.

The Scale and the Mirror

The battle that I'm currently fighting is between the scale and the mirror. I don't like what I see in either of them.   I'm fighting my weight and it's always a constant battle. It's so easy to eat junk food and soda (my biggest temptation).  My diet calls for a lot of whole grains, fruits and vegetables.  I am also not in the habit of exercising.  I'm working on all these things, however, it's a major difficulty.

My major obstacle is time.  I'm supposed to be exercising a minimum of 30 minutes a day.  With my rotating schedule and long days, sometimes that is a challenge.  I am on my feet at work quite a lot, but I also eat chips or chocolate for quick bursts of energy.  Maybe I should bring carrots instead.

The reason why I started the weight loss program at work is because I was sitting in my allergist's office waiting to talk to him, he is adorable by the way, and I saw myself in the mirror and I hated what I saw.  I am at my heaviest ever (236 lbs.) and I just don't feel great about myself.  Part of it is poor diet and lack of exercise, but part of it is overcoming the stress from evil bank.  I am high obese on the body max index scale.  My ideal weight is 175, but I doubt that I will get there anytime soon.  I did weight that once.  The closest I've come to it was when I lived in England as I was 184lbs.  I was still heavy, but I felt so great.  It was easier over there because I walked everywhere and went to the gym 2-3 times a week.  Now, it takes work to exercise.  The bottom line is that I don't like myself when I look in the mirror.

Then there is the scale.  I know that it's just numbers, but it's hard seeing those numbers when someone who was thin would complain about 5 pounds.  5 pounds is equivalent to one of my breasts.  I would literally kill to be 125 pounds. The other problem is the Hashimoto's.  Yes, I can lose the weight, but it's a lot harder for me.  I also don't know what my thyroid levels are at the moment.

The only good thing is that I feel more energetic for the most part.  I just don't like the scale or the mirror at all.  I can't believe I let myself get this way.

The Hospital

 Last week, I went to the hospital for a crisis evaluation.  It's not my proudest moment, but it is not my weakest either.  I just got overwhelmed with life, my job, my finances and was starting to feel the way I felt when I was working at the bank.  I'm haunted by the feelings of inadequacy and the fear that maybe they were right about me.  The fear that I'm dangerous and insane.  The truth is that I'm charming, friendly and bright.  It's just my insecurity and over-thinking that led me to the ER.

I think I had gotten over the worst of the despair by the time I got to the ER.  I told the receptionist that my therapist told me to go.  She had a straight face as if she had seen it all.  I guess working the front desk at the Emergency Room does that to people.  I wasn't waiting for long when I was called into the triage area.  The nurse was nice enough.   Then I was taken to the crisis wing.  Crisis is a locked ward that has security guards because I'm sure they get some psychotic patients.  So when I got to the ward I was taken to a room.  I was only allowed to keep my book and jewelry.  They took my phone, my bad, my shoes and my clothes because I had to wear a hospital gown and scrub pants.  The scrub pants were not designed for anyone about a size 6.  They were a bit tight.

Then it was a parade of people.  First a Physician's assistant came in to take my vitals and check my breathing.  Then an administrator came in to make sure that they had the right insurance information and emergency contacts.  Somehow they had my mother listed as my daughter...now that's just silly.  I had a lovely lab technician come in and take my blood.  We talked and joked and I felt charming, which is something that I hadn't felt in a while.  Between all these people I was reading a book waiting for the clinical social worker to arrive to do the psych evaluation.

The social worker was very kind and understanding.  Also joining us was a medical student on his crisis rotation.  I remember I kept swaying my feet while I was talking so that I could keep moving.  I was after all hanging out on a gurney with a pillow where nothing else but a chair and a tray table were in the room.  The psychiatric evaluation includes a lot of questions like health history, substance abuse, and why I came in today.  I told them about what happened at the bank and how the flashbacks and fear triggered the way I was feeling.  They also asked about things I do to cope with my illnesses, which led to the point that most of the things I do, I do alone.  Basically, I need more social interaction.  The medical student only asked me if I had the basics of delusions or hallucinations.  I do not, which means I am basically just run of the mill depressed. We also talked about my education and what I was thinking about for my PhD thesis( cultural history of mental illness in 16th and 17th century England).  Then they both left to make some evaluations and to call my best friend and my therapist about the option of discharging me.

In the middle of the evaluation, an orderly brought me dinner.  Now this particular hospital has decent food, which I know because my mother stayed there for knee surgery twice and I got to eat some of it.  My dinner consisted of grilled chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, apple juice and pudding.  I ate all of it because I was starving.  I had only had water and a granola bar all day.  As I was eating the chicken I was looking around for a knife to cut it with, then I remembered that I was in a locked ward where they put the mental patients before they get admitted.  That made me chuckle due to my dark sense of humor.

The social worker came in and out a few times to check on me and let me know the progress of getting in touch with people.  I read an entire book while waiting.  Yet, I had nothing else to do because they took my phone, which is probably due to the fact that there have been many cases of social media contacts encouraging suicide.  So, I took a nap.  Now, if you can sleep in a crisis ward, you can basically sleep anywhere because there was one girl in another room crying and one man was walking the halls saying it was time for him to go.  Yet, I still managed to sleep as I was overcome by exhaustion.

They did decide to discharge me after they got in touch with my friend and my therapist.  I felt OK by then.  I left the hospital with my papers and thanked them for their services.  I texted my roommate to see if he wanted to get some food, so we ended up at Denny's, where I was still famished and at the lumberjack slam. 

It was definitely and interesting experience.  I don't think I ever want to get to the place where I have to go back there, but it was still interesting.  I know that I need more people to hang out with.  It sucks that a lot of my friends are so far away.  We need to make time for people in general, but for someone with a mental illness it is crucial to their recovery.  Illnesses are socially isolating.  So, I guess I get to badger my friends into hanging out with me.  A lot of them did, so maybe that will help.  Basically people need people.  It's not just those who are sick, it's everyone.  We all need someone to rely on and I lost mine.  It's time to start again.