And finally, a third image.
In order to get pics in the featured strip, I have to post pics, one per post. It won’t let me do it retroactively, so I can’t set old images posted. Please feel free to ignore these posts, meant only to put images in that strip.
I’ve been drinking decaf tea.
I’ve taken a benedryl.
It’s 4:46 AM.
I don’t think I could be much more awake.
Four weeks of death, with some loss thrown in on the side.
No, I haven’t lost (or misplaced) anyone this month. It’s my Crisis and Trauma class. The prof’s specialty is dying and bereavement, so we’re getting heavy doses. I had to write a list of all of my personal losses (any loss, not just death) that I could remember, rating each as minor, moderate, or major. Seven pages later, I was unaccountably depressed.
No fear. I learned a long time ago to take time out and remind myself of my good qualities and accomplishments. I didn’t plunge into the depths of despair.
If she doesn’t stop bringing up Christian Grey, though, I just might. Tonight she let us know that she approved of his therapist.
Good to know.
I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’m only on p. 135 or thereabouts. They’ve just had sex, and his mother has let herself into his apartment, ready to burst into the bedroom. I figured that was a good stopping place.
I had to read about death, you see. And oppression, poverty, and mental illness. But mostly death. And some loss.
Speaking of loss, did you see how badly the 49ers got spanked by the Seahawks? Couldn’t happen to a better team. I’d like to think it will teach Harbaugh, QB Colin Kaepernick, etc. some humility, but I won’t hold my breath. I still need oxygen to exist.
I didn’t get all of my homework done.
I didn’t get all of my game watching done.
I didn’t get much reading done.
I guess you could say I found balance.
Again without fanfare, my cousin and her boyfriend seem to have worked things out. That’s good then.
I’m dividing my time just now between watching the Packers play the Redskins, mentally balancing the demands of school for the next couple of days with doing the things I want to do for myself, considering all of the health issues I have to address because I forget to make appointments during business hours (and let’s face it, I’m probably going to forget again), thinking about my future career, thinking about how many touchdowns I’ve seen today called back because some idiot incurred a penalty, and thinking that one of my cats is trying to get into the garbage. The last is more of a hunch than a thought, really.
When I’m not busy thinking, I go blank. I think (that word again!) it’s my mind’s way of taking a vacation from all of that thinking. My body would like to take a vacation, too.
Alaska would be lovely, please and thank-you.
Today I delve into the world of diagnosis. I have to write up a mental status exam on Mrs. Z, a fictional woman whose son, a high school sophomore, died of an overdose. Though she has no history of mental health problems, she is currently in crisis. Her family has brought her to me in the ER in hopes that I can help her. Here’s the case:
1. Her husband and teen daughters found her in the son’s bedroom, holding his body, the night after he died; the husband and daughters hadn’t been home. When the ambulance arrived to take her son’s body away, she had to be pried from him.
2. She stayed in his room all night praying (not abnormal), unaware of anything going on around her, and remained in a daze for the following 4 days.
3. She wouldn’t eat, bathe, or visit with the clergy who came to speak to her during that time.
4. She refused to go to her son’s funeral because she insisted he wasn’t dead; he was sitting by God’s right hand waiting for the ordained moment to return to earth.
5. When attempts to get through to her did occasionally work, she screamed that she wanted to die.
6. She began to have nightmares in which her son’s rigid body gestured for her to join him, and she began to believe that maybe it was God’s will that she die soon, too. She was convinced that some abdominal pain she was experiencing, which extended up to her heart, was a sign of fatal cancer.
Her family has brought her to me, literally having to drag her in. She’s too upset to talk, she moans and screams and beats her head with her fists when asked simple questions like her name and age. She can’t sit still, pacing up and down the hall.
Now I have to write up a mental status exam on her. Once I figure out how, that is. It shouldn’t be hard because the prof gave us samples to work from. Although I’d like to be reading (something other than textbooks) or watching television, at the same time I’m mentally salivating and happily rubbing my hands together. This is the sort of case I can sink my teeth into!
We’ll be using this case for different assignments throughout the semester. Now you have the details and can roll along with me as I falter and develop. By the end of this course, I might have you looking at the people around you, diagnosing them with various psychopathologies.
Of course, you’ve probably been doing that already.
Another day. Today is brought to you by standard deviation, variance, graphing distribution, and correlation coefficients. It’s more effective than a sleeping pill. Come on, you almost dozed off just reading that, didn’t you? The most exciting part of my homework was trying to remember how to use my scientific graphing calculator, something I didn’t actually need to do but did anyway out of sheer boredom.
That’s me, getting all wild and crazy.
I’m making my way- very slowly – through 50 Shades. My greatest struggle is the fact that Ana is just plain stupid. Colossally, and I suspect irrevocably, stupid. He says he doesn’t do the girlfriend thing, so at first she decides he must be gay. Later, realizing that he’s not gay, she decides he’s celibate. When he laughs at the notion of celibacy, she descends into utter confusion, chalking him up as impossibly mysterious.
If I did a headdesk every time she thought, said, or did something idiotic, I’d be in a coma by now, hovering on the brink of death due to severe subdural hematoma.
I’m on p. 95.
Ah well, I’ve got schoolwork to do, football and television to watch. This book comes in 4th. Maybe I’ll make it to page 115 by next week. Although… he’s about to reveal to her his BDSM lifestyle, and I’m looking forward to it. She can barely think the word “sex,” so this should be good.
And on that note, it’s time to leave for school. Back to the fascinating world of statistics and test administration. Suddenly 50 Shades doesn’t look so bad.
She hasn’t come right out and said it, but it looks like my cousin and her boyfriend broke up. Their profile pics have changed. The “in a relationship” has disappeared, as has their names from each other’s friends list. I find this puzzling, as they seemed so incredibly happy and in love as recently as Sunday. I have no idea what happened, and I’m not going to ask. If she wanted to let me know, she would.
Why am I bringing this up?
Because I’ve come to realize that I don’t like break-ups. Obviously I’ve never liked them when I was personally involved, and I hope that nothing ever happens between Randy and I. That’s not what I’m talking about. I don’t like other people’s break-ups. Oddly, it doesn’t even seem to matter whether I’m very close to the couple, or only acquainted. If there isn’t abuse or infidelity involved, I don’t like it. Hell, I don’t like it when abuse and infidelity is involved, but for an entirely different reason of course. I don’t like the reason, or the guilty party, in those cases and couldn’t be happier that the wronged person is free of it.
However, regular we-couldn’t-work-it-out, or we-fell-out-of-love stories make me sad. It has absolutely nothing to do with me, but nevertheless troubles me. It’s the loss of potential between two people, I suppose. Something beautiful has died. Yes, each will move on and, hopefully, find love again. Still, something was lost.
So… you are not allowed to break up unless you run it by me first, okay? You might traumatize me otherwise.