I fear not. Not really. Snakes nor spiders, heights nor depths. I fear not. Not exactly. Darkness nor monsters, flying nor driving. I fear… oh, what do I fear? Aloneness and uncertainty, pain and discomfort. And yet, I know, these are inevitable.
This post was written for Friday Writings #120, for which the prompt is to write either a prose poem, tankaprose or haibun. I chose the prose poem. I am also sharing this post with Friday Faithfuls, for which the prompt this week is “fear”.
Hi everyone. Today’s Sunday Poser is about worries. What worries you about the future?
Unlike Sadje, I mostly have personal worries occupying my mind. Most of them also aren’t long-term. I mean, I do sometimes worry that the sweet and high-fat foods I consume today will lead to an untimely death ten or twenty years from now, but that worry isn’t as all-consuming as my worries about the next few weeks, months or the next year. I joke that, in 2034, everything will be okay. I got that from the book titled 2034, which I still haven’t read and is about World War III erupting that same year. I think it’s more likely that World War III is going to break out that year than that the care system will be any closer to ideal. However, in reality, I can’t look that far into the future, so I know I should care, but really I don’t.
This is probably the same reason the state of the planet doesn’t keep me up at night. That is, except when I read a news article detailing that the magical 1.5 degrees of warming have been hit in some parts of the world in 2023. Then I did worry: will the planet catch fire (not even sure whether I’m talking hyperbolically with all the wildfires we’ve had) next year?
Still, most of my worries concern my personal life. That doesn’t mean the news doesn’t effect me, but it only does when I think it relates to me personally. For instance, when I read that policy makers were talking about reintroducing 24-hour diapering for elderly people who can still use the bathroom but need assistance with it, I was intensely worried. It was said in the same article that the phrase I repeat many times over and over again when talking about my care was: “It’s better to have reasonably good care for two people than excellent care for one person.” Did they mean me? Was my care, with (at the time) nine hours of one-on-one a day, “excellent”? Apparently, because now I have just seven. But I’m still worried they mean me. After all, I still cost considerable money (far more than elderly people needing an hourly assisted bathroom break) and aren’t sedatives cheaper than one-on-one, just like diapers are cheaper than nursing assistants?
It isn’t really a clear thing I do worry about though. I mean, yes, I do worry about my care being cut, but then again, I can’t look far into the future. When I try, I’m always wrong on so many levels. So they remain mostly vague worries that keep me up at night.
Sometimes though, like recently, they’ve been more short-term, concrete things that worried me, such as over the past week the fact that my support coordinator, behavior specialist and intellectual disability physician had a meeting on Friday. The positive news is that the explicit compensatory system, by which every minute I’d come out of my unsupported time in distress had to be compensated for at my next one-on-one moment, was discontinued. Rather, from now on, staff will again discuss with me once I’m calm whether they can come back at a later time for my next support moment since they needed to spend more time on me. I am so happy I no longer have the compensatory system hanging over my head, even though some staff said the end result would be the same. I don’t care about the end result (which, by the way, will probably mean I’ll need slightly less support, honestly); I care that this makes me feel much more comfortable.
I am pretty sure I answered this question before when rambling on for one of Paula Light’s former #TGIF posts. At least, I did share that Erwin Kroll, the Netherlands’ most well-known meteorologist during the 1990s, said in an interview for the kids’ audio magazine I subscribed to at the time, that partly cloudy weather with a daytime temperature of 22°C was his favorite and I probably added that mine wouldn’t be far off. I’d prefer slightly warmer weather, but I don’t care for daytime highs in the high 20s, let alone 30s or above.
At night, I prefer a temperature below 10°C. Oh wait, I’m being a bit difficult, as with daytime highs in the 20s, you hardly ever get night-time lows below 10°C.
I used to hate rain with a passion, but now, though I don’t care for it, I will still go outside if it’s drizzling a little. I still can’t stand snow, sleet or hail.
As a side note, I had a discussion with one of my staff a few days back. He said he’d love for the daytime temperature to be 20°C now. I said me too, and we will more than likely get our way sooner rather than later given the speed of climate change, but this does mean summer highs will be in the 40s too. Be careful what you wish for…
Hi everyone. A lot is still on my mind, but today, I’d like to write a lighthearted post. Thanks to John Holton, who provides the Writer’s Workshop prompts, I now have several ideas. One is to write about my first airplane trip. Let me share.
My first airplane trip was also my first trip abroad and my first vacation without my parents. It was a trip from Schiphol (Amsterdam) airport to Moscow on August 4, 2000. I was flying Aeroflot, a relatively okay Russian airline. Still, everyone clapped when the airplane landed successfully, something I recently found out stopped in the 1970s with Western airlines.
One thing I remember quite distinctly is the horrible pain in my ears and head in general during takeoff and landing. I haven’t flown in years, but the memories came back when my spouse reminded me about it, having had a similar experience on a recent airplane trip. Honestly, I can’t imagine people actually taking pictures while the plane is taking off or coming down.
I still did have a tiny amount of vision back in 2000, so remember looking at the clouds once the aircraft had fully risen.
I also to this day remember the film playing in the airplane. Not that I could understand any part of it, as it was in Russian, but my fellow travelers explained to me that it was called something like “I want to go to prison”. The plot revolved around a Russian character who had heard that, in Dutch prisons, inmates get their own TV etc. (something that isn’t exactly true, by the way), so he wanted to flee to the Netherlands even if it meant going to prison. I bet nowadays this film wouldn’t be considered appropriate.
Hi everyone. Oh my, I don’t think I’ve ever gone this long without blogging since starting this blog, have I? I’m really struggling and today, I don’t really want to do a gratitude post, so a regular #WeekendCoffeeShare will have to do. I’ve long had my last cup of coffee for the day, since it’s 9:30PM. I’ve also had my soft drink, Dubbelfrisss. I’m afraid I’ve only got water to offer you now, but oh well. Let’s have a drink and let’s catch up.
If we were having coffee, I’d share that my burns, which I told you about in my post last week, are almost completely healed. I no longer need them dressed and just need a cream put on them to keep the skin from getting too dry. As a result, I’ve been able to walk regularly again too, meeting my movement goal on my Apple Watch each day this week except today so far.
If we were having coffee, I’d tell you that I had a really rough week this week otherwise. I’ve really been struggling with the fact that staff are to adhere strictly to my day schedule and to make up for every minute I come out of my unsupported time in distress by showing up at my next support moment later. The fact that it’s literally by the minute, wasn’t a misinterpretation, it turned out today when I talked to my support coordinator. It’s been causing me intense distress though, which has gotten me to send staff away with ther “freakin’ stopwatch”, even though when I’m in severe distress staff are supposed to stay with me (and I’m usually open to them making up for it later on when I’m calm). The compensatory system (staff having to make up for every minute of extra support minutes) only applies when I’m in distress and not when I need support during wound care or a pedicure or whatever. The reason, it turned out, is the fact that I’ve been needing more suppport lately and the staff fear my one-on-one will need to be increased, which they say they don’t mind for their own sake (assuming it gets approved) but would think is a pity for me. They seem to think, but I wasn’t to look at it that way, that my distress is attention-seeking.
Honestly, I can see their point, in that I’ve needed more support lately, but my care needs fluctuate and will probably go down again. Besides, they never write it down when I agree staff can leave at 5:15PM rather than 5:30PM to put their pizza in the oven, when I have a lie down for 30 minutes during my one-on-one or whatever, essentially cutting my one-on-one back. I don’t care about those 15-30 minutes, but staff have agreed to cut back on my support if I’m even a few minutes in distress outside of my one-on-one. And it’s not because they have other duties, because like I said if I have a 30-minute pedicure, that doesn’t get compensated for. It’s essentially to encourage “crying it out”, which has actually had the opposite effect.
Like I said, once I’ve calmed down, I’m quite open to staff having to compensate for the extra time they’ve spent with me, because I can see they need to attend to the other clients too. However, having this compensatory system hanging over me and it being strictly by the minute, causes me even more severe distress. I’ve also been ruminating over it at night, leading to night-time agitation and the night staff needing to come out to me. Wednesday night, they even had to come out to me three times. After that, I now have a PRN sleeping pill until Monday per my and my mother-in-law’s request. I only took it Thursday night. It’s a short-acting benzodiazepine, which had a slight effect when I took it. However, I honestly feel I should be able to cope without it now.
If we were having coffee, I’d share that I was two weeks on my new, decreased antipsychotic dosage yesterday and feel a lot more alert. According to my former mental health agency, the first two weeks don’t count with respect to behavior and honestly I’m noticing I’m slightly less irritable than I was until Wednesday. It might have been a night of relatively restful sleep or it might’ve been the fact that the staff who worked over the past few days weren’t stopwatch people. I certainly don’t want to go back on my old dosage.
If we were having coffee, I’d end on a positive note by telling you that my mother-in-law visited me on Tuesday. She was able to bring me the package of crafting supplies I’d ordered a few weeks ago. I ordered a few clear stamps (to be used with polymer clay in my case), a mold for polymer clay, precision paintbrushes and a couple of earring cutters.
Hi everyone. This past week has been tough. I was going to write an update only to realize there’s no #WeekendCoffeeShare this week. I could do one on my own, but that’d just leave room for endless negativity. Instead, for this reason, I’m going to turn things around and do a gratitude post. As usual, I’m joining Ten Things of Thankful. I’m going to cheat a little and do this gratitude list for the past ten days so that I can provide a little update anyway.
1. I’m grateful for the night nurse on duty during the night of February 29/March 1. Like I said on February 29, I was intensely triggered by my intake interview for therapy. Though I tried to calm myself down, it didn’t work and I ended up self-harming after my staff had left by throwing boiling hot water over my leg. Thanks to the night staff and particularly the night nurse, who cooled the wound under the shower for over half an hour, I am left with superficial second-degree burns. The wounds still cover most of the front side of my upper leg, but I realize things could’ve been a lot worse.
2. I am grateful my wounds are healing as well as can be expected. I’m getting them dressed once a day now, which is frustrating and sometimes very painful. I looked up my kind of burn (that’s how I found out there are two kinds of second-degree burns) and it usually heals within two weeks. Yay!
3. I am grateful for French fries on Sunday. As I couldn’t walk on Sunday (or most of this week, for that matter) because the band-aid that was on my leg would fall off if I did, I decided that my spouse shouldn’t come by for a visit. Instead, my staff took me to the institution cafeteria in a wheelchair to have fries and some snacks. They were delicious!
4. I am grateful for nice weather last week Sunday as well as over the past couple days. Last Sunday, the daytime temperature rose to 15°C. When having the fries I mentioned above, we sat in the cafeteria yard.
5. I am grateful I am feeling slightly better mentally. I definitely hit rock bottom on February 29 and from that place, you can only go up. I will have to see how things work out in the long run, as the behavior specialist is going to try to talk to the therapist I met on Feb 29 to see whether any changes to the plan need to be made. Though I’m ready to give it a try, particularly the thought of doing the therapy without the support of my staff, feels overwhelming.
6. I am grateful that my support coordinator listened to me when discussing the outcome of the monthly team meeting with me. The team meeting was on Monday and, though I had already asked that some things would be discussed, such as my day schedule, my self-harm made things a priority. The day schedule isn’t changing, as I expected, but I honestly don’t mind as much.
Initially, in the team meeting, the staff had agreed to stick with announcing staff switches half an hour in advance. I was really disappointed. Though I understand the staff don’t want to designate a one-on-one shift, I feel it will help me immensely if I know more in advance who’s going to support me for my activity slots. I am grateful my support coordinator reluctantly agreed to this.
7. I am grateful my support coordinator reassured me that she and the behavior specialist at least aren’t planning on asking for less one-on-one for me anytime soon. Of course, they aren’t the ones making those decisions, but then again neither is the therapist I met last week.
8. I am grateful I did manage a few crafty endeavors over the past week. Not as many as I’d hoped, but I did craft yet another polymer clay unicorn, as well as finally making the crocodile I’d promised one of the male staff here. He actually helped me make it. It’s maybe a little too cute, but oh well.
9. I am grateful my spouse came by for a visit today. We sat in my room talking, playing a card game and such, as I still didn’t feel comfortable going out.
10. I am grateful for the few short (as in, fifteen minutes tops) walks I did manage over the past few days. It’s been a pain f(sometimes literally) inding the right band-aids and other things to go over the wound. Let’s hope Dr. Google is right and my wound heals within the expected timeframe of two weeks.
Hi everyone. Sorry for not having touched the blog for nearly a week. I’ve been struggling once again. However, today I feel in an okay place mentally at least, so I thought I’d join in with John Holton’s Writer’s Workshop. One of the prompts is to share when you learned that Santa/the Easter bunny/the tooth fairy was your parents.
I’ll have to talk about St. Nicholas rather than any of the others here, because that’s what we celebrate most here in the Netherlands. St. Nicholas is like Santa, except he has helpers called Peters. They used to be black, but now they come in every color or with black streaks across their faces (from creeping through chimneys to deliver presents) because the concept of Black Peter is racist.
I was eight the last year when I still believed in St. Nick. This was 1994. As the legend goes, St. Nick and his Peters would ride over the rooftops on a white horse and maybe they’d descend through the chimney to deliver presents.
That year, on the evening of December 5, my parents, sister and I were having dinner when we heard noise coming from the roof. We didn’t have a chimney, but I was still too clueless to think about that. “St. Nick, help, I’m stuck!” We went looking for where the sound came from and saw that there were presents in the loft under the staircase.
Eight is a fairly old age to still believe in St. Nick. In fact, I’d been packaging St. Nicholas presents for my teachers for several years by then. By the year after this, when literally everyone my age had stopped believing, my father spoiled the beans for me: he came to me with a cassette tape, put it in the player and there it was: “St. Nick, help, I’m stuck!” It was his own voice, slightly distorted. By that time, I knew for sure that St. Nicholas was my parents.
Hi everyone. I’m sharing this past month’s reflections again, as it’s the last day of the month. February is often a hard month for me and this year was no exception. I honestly feel quite hopeless as I write this post, even though I probably should be feeling cautiously optimistic. Let’s dive in. As usual, I’m linking up with #WBOYC.
During the first few weeks of the month, I shared some more concretely about things I wish would change about my care here at my current care home, only to be told nothing will change until after the summer at least. This caused me quite a bit of despair, honestly.
The contrast couldn’t be greater when I did experience exactly one near-perfect day last week and saw nothing about it in the staff’s records. When telling my staff about this, I got advised that maybe reading the log notes might not be a good idea after all. WTF?
It also looks like my staff are using my current mistrust, and the fact that I’ll likely develop trust in my staff very slowly, as an excuse not to have to improve my care. After all, yesterday my assigned staff said my level of trust is currently zero so any improvement is to be celebrated when I was calling him out on ways in which he and his coworkers are expecting too much of me.
Today, I had the intake interview for therapy at my care agency’s practice. I probably portrayed myself as an attention-seeking, childish, purposefully-dependent monster. The therapist who asked me the questions (there were two in the room, plus my home’s behavior specialist), kept repeating how feeling isn’t dangerous.
At one point, I was talking about how I sometimes trigger myself by looking up idealized care situations. She was like: “But you don’t need full-time one-on-one.”. I know. Then she went on to tell me that sometimes she feels bored and lonely when she’s at home alone, but nothing bad happens so she can stay home alone. She also told me I’m an adult. This somehow majorly triggered me and now I feel bad for being triggered because doesn’t that prove my former psychologist’s point of view? You know, the one who diagnosed me with dependent personality disorder and told me I needed a good kick in the behind to live independently?
Yet things did happen. I dropped my meds. I dropped glass on the floor. I fell of a kitchen stool. The housing association came by and told me I needed to pull away the weeds out of my backdoor path. And a thousand other things. None of these are serious things, except that I had no idea how to handle them so spiraled into panic. And there’s no point teaching me how to handle every tiny little situation that could go wrong. And for the record, sitting with the feelings won’t solve the problems either. Calling for help rather than spiraling into panic might have, but that didn’t seem to be her point. Besides, I cannot do that when I’m in a panic.
She did say that she doesn’t make decisions about my independence, but I feel very strongly like I am being asked to be the strong, independent, intellectual part of myself again.
The therapists ended up recommending a form of play therapy, but the play therapist who comes to the main institution is male and I’ll be alone with him. That’s not an option for me, honestly. They are going to look into finding me a female therapist. I hope they will, as the rest of what they recommended, though I did agree to go forward with it and have my first appt on April 3, seems a bit off. They recommended psychoeducation on emotions, which seemed to me a bit like dialectical behavior therapy light (I’d mentioned I’d done DBT unsuccessfully). They’ll also help me identify my triggers and make a timeline of significant life events or something. I’m not sure what relevance that would have, but oh well.
Currently, I’m trying to talk myself into being positive. This care home clearly won’t improve, so either I improve or my life stays the same. Which is mediocre. I do have my good days, but I’m pretty sure the staff are going to agree at the next team meeting that the staff’s less optimal care approach should be the default.
On my good days this past month, I did craft some earrings, a polymer clay unicorn and bird’s nest, as well as make delicious homemade chocolate fudge. This was awesome!
Recently, there was a discussion online I participated in about what caused our complex PTSD. I mentioned emotional, mental and physical abuse, bullying, a few instances of sexual violation and medical trauma. Most others not only went into far more detail than I was comfortable, but also discussed traumatic experiences that seemed far worse compared to those I’d gone through. When I mentioned this, saying reading others’ stories made me feel as though my trauma was minor, someone else commented how there’s no such thing as “minor” trauma.
Indeed, if something was significant enough to have caused C-PTSD, it was traumatic, and this means it was major. I am reminded of something my spouse said at one point when I was seeing a potential new trauma therapist back in 2013 (who ended up rejecting me for reasons not related to me). I was doubting the reality of my trauma. To this, my spouse said that, in reality, something as “minor” as slipping on the bathroom floor, could be life-threatening, so in theory I could’ve developed PTSD from that. I didn’t and I didn’t develop PTSD from any of my countless other falls, but I might have. Of course, this is a bit far-fetched, and of course I couldn’t have developed complex PTSD from falling, but I hope my point is clear: it’s not always easy to distinguish between events that objectively speaking count as trauma and things that don’t.
There are trauma centers here in the Netherlands that adhere very strictly to criterion A (the presence of things that count as trauma, according to professionals) in DSM-5 for treating people with (C-)PTSD. I’m not sure I’d meet their criterion. I mean, yes, I did experience exactly one potentially life-threatening medical event that I remember, when I was four. I was also hit quite regularly, but does that go beyond “tough love”? If it doesn’t, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t meet the trauma criterion for (C-)PTSD.
Then again, I’m not seeking to get into one of these centers. Tomorrow, I’ll have a get-to-know-me appointment with the care agency’s therapy practice. They haven’t yet decided whether they can help me or not. I hope they can, because right now I’m feeling rather hopeless.
Hi everyone. I’m joining in with #WeekendCoffeeShare again this week. It’s the last Saturday of February and I honestly can’t wait for spring. How have you been? I’ve had my last cup of coffee for the day already, but I can still offer you something to drink if you’d like. Let’s catch up.
If we were having coffee, first I’d talk about the weather, as usual. I’m really disappointed in it this week. It’s been raining a lot and it’s been quite cold. On Thursday, another storm even raged by and management decided we weren’t allowed to go outside. This was in light of the situation in which a staff member died last December from being hit by a falling tree while going out in a storm. I want sunshine, for goodness’ sake!
If we were having coffee, then I’d tell you that obviously I haven’t been all that active lately. I think I only met my movement goal on my Apple Watch three times tops this week.
I might go swimming soon though. My assigned staff told me they found a spot for me to go into the pool on Thursdays. However, I’d need a staff to actually accompany me in the water, because I won’t be able to follow instructions when shouted from the side and there will be other clients in the pool too. If there’s no staff available who’s willing to come into the water with me, he said we could do fitness instead. There’s some gym equipment on grounds here, but there won’t be an instructor there. I’m fine with this, since I know how to work most equipment or my staff will be able to figure it out.
If we were having coffee, I’d share that I did have quite a productive week in the crafty department though. I made a polymer clay unicorn (yes, another one) on Tuesday. I didn’t do it fully independently, but that’s okay. I did add wings to this one, as well as Hotfix stones below each wing.
I also made a bird’s nest out of polymer clay on Thursday. That one is still waiting for more projects to join it so that I have more things to put into the oven together.
If we were having coffee, lastly I’d tell you that my support coordinator came back to me on Monday after talking to the behavior specialist. My emotional functioning won’t be re-assessed until June at the earliest and my day schedule won’t change until after the summer at the earliest. At the end of our discussion, she gave in on the day schedule and said she’d discuss it in the team meeting. I honestly don’t really care about the day schedule as much. I mean, it’s not perfect, but no day schedule is going to be perfect. What I do care about, is to lessen the chaos of my care. I mean, I know it’s better than it used to be at the intensive support home and I probably sound like a Very Hungry Caterpillar if I request more accommodations. I said as much to my support coordinator, but she tried to validate me by saying my attitude stems from my trauma.
The fact that there’s no designated one-on-one shift, however, has a lot of drawbacks and not just the fact that I get confused about who’s going to show up each support moment. It’s frustrating also because only the staff who works until handover, writes the day’s logs and those usually aren’t the staff members supporting me. I do, for this reason, notice a lot of irrelevant logging and, last Thursday, when I had a near-perfect day, there weren’t any notes at all. I think my staff probably hate me comparing my situation to the one in Raalte, but there, my designated one-on-one had fifteen minutes at the start of their shift to read the previous days’ log notes and fifteen minutes at the end to write up theirs. This meant I didn’t have to explain everything half a dozen times, like I do now. I also feel like having a designated shift would mean I could be much more clear on what I am going to do, lessening the mere talking and increasing the actual activity. I see why, if I keep rambling to a staff member for all of my activity time slot, they won’t want to spend another time slot with me, but I don’t like to spend all of my activity time rambling about the same issues either. The only reason I do is because I can’t count on getting it across.
A Multitude of Musings 