Let's Talk

We need to talk.

I haven't posted for a very long time. Part of this is because I don't know how much 'me' I should talk about. I know many interesting people, but I am not certain that I am interesting enough to hold your interest.

Today: Fuck that. I'm talking about me.

I have the usual spells of depression, of course, and I have also taken on the responsibility for maintaining the Florida Gulf Coast Chapter of Sisters in Crime's website. Then, there's the Strangely Funny series and the Three Snowbirds series I write with Gwen Mayo.

Plus, I work a job where I have a low hourly rate of pay, but get an incentive bonus based on how much I produce compared with the rest of my team. So, overtime.

Let's move on to the stellar disruption I'm dealing with now. My mother has suffered from moderate vascular dementia for the last couple of years. The way in which this differs from Alzheimer's Disease: portions of the brain are deprived of blood flow, and they die, creating the dementia. It is not a smooth gradual process, but stair steps into the basement. A 'new normal' happens each time.

In June, Mother took a steep step down. 

She does not know where she is. We can tell her, but that information doesn't really compute any more. She was calling the police in the middle of the night, saying she was lost. My wife and I have not lived with her since 2014 for Reasons I Will Not Go Into, but her actions made it impossible for us to cohabitate with her. That, and there is not enough Paxil in the world to help me deal with it.

The caretaking service had someone in the house for an 8 hour shift each day. She needed more care than that, and we (me, my spouse, and my POA sibling) soon realized she needed 24/7 care. The service said they could provide that for circa $19K a month (they pay their employees about half of what they charge, which is fucking criminal). None of us (including my mother) could afford that. 

After visiting several memory care units, we chose one and moved her there. It's not cheap, but is much more affordable than in-house care. It is near where we live, and my wife and I visit her on a daily basis. This is important for several reasons: 1) Even though she forgets we came, it does help keep her calmer, 2) The facility knows we are paying attention to her care, and 3) At some point, she will be gone and this is the time I have left with her.

Mother calls multiple times a day with the help of the staff at the facility. She claims that she doesn't live there and has never spent a night there (she's lived there since July), and wants to go home. Unfortunately, she didn't recognize her house when she was in it. We need to sell the house to pay for her care.

So, my brain space and time are more tied up than ever before, and the only thing I've thought about posting in a while is what I've said here. 

August

Ah, August. A time when my email boxes overflow... Strangely Funny submissions are pouring into the MAHLLC coffers, and my personal email has become a FEMA flood zone of politicians pleading for money. Volunteering is the gift that keeps on giving...
An update on the past few months:

• I began temping in a call center in April, mere days after posting how discouraged I felt. In July, the center hired me away from Randstad. I'm happy to be wanted, but I can't figure out why. My father was a great salesman of school textbooks, and all I picked up was a love of reading. This belligerent introvert is learning new skills.
• My ebullient sister-in-law is moving to Tampa Bay in the next few weeks. It will be good to have more family here, and I may develop a social life despite myself.
• Gwen and I have finished Murder at the Million Dollar Pier, the sequel to Murder on the Mullet Express. It's the second book in the Three Snowbirds series, and we'll be doing a cover reveal in the near future.

I'm glad that my life is coming back together. We'll see what these changes bring.

Depression

Before we go any further, let me tell you that yes, I’ve seen someone for it. So put your mind at ease on that front. Some people suffer in silence, but I’m not one of them. If you don’t need to hear grumbling and whining, go elsewhere. I’ll understand; this is a depressing time in history.

Since the upending of my life in 2012 and the death of my father, I’ve been in a darker place. An emotional place where fewer people have my back, and a physical place where the living is uneasy. Shortly after the funeral, I became a liability and expense, leading to anger and behavior which I think less of myself for exhibiting. Moving saved my sanity, but I may have to return because, again, I am needed. Sadly, the trust is gone.

In the working world here, experience and age are liabilities. I was advised to leave jobs off my resume by temp agencies to conceal my age. A prospective employer told me that they could hire a temp to do a job that I knew, from working in a similar office in Kentucky, required specialized training and pulled down $40K as a starting salary. Businesses hire temps at low wages in Florida instead of ‘regular’ workers, and the cost of living where the jobs are located is very high. My wife and I both have long commutes and are frequently tired, plus I live in constant fear that my position will be offshored.

Then, there's just plain old depression. Based on my family history, I think I come by it honestly. Depression is an open wound, always bleeding, giving you surprise flashes of pain like the 'jump' shocks of a horror film. Even when I've been the happiest, I can't say I've ever experienced unalloyed joy.

So, I’ve been chugging along, doing my day job and paying my bills, but that’s all I have energy for most days. There have been bright points, like publishing anthologies and releasing the first novel of a series co-written with my wife, but the number of “What’s the use?” thoughts to overcome has been ridiculous.

Besides the “seeing someone” business I mentioned above, I’ve also used affirmations, visualizing my goals, etc. to improve my mood. I’ve discovered that it’s very hard for me to even picture success any more, or to believe that I’m still capable – or worthy – of attaining it. Once you’ve seen an ugly person in the mirror, it’s hard to forget or forgive. 

I must keep trying to climb out of the hole, though, even if I have so much more to regret at 50+ than I did at thirty. If you're depressed, you must keep trying, too.