A Moment of Hope and Optimism

I just had a call requesting an interview with me for a part time special education aide (with benefits) in the local school district! This would be wonderful on several points:

part time – I don’t know that I’m ready to work full time yet, but I WANT to work!

benefits – even if they aren’f full benefits, anything helps!

I know the district has a special education teacher retiring in a year. This position would give me an opportunity to show the district what I’m capable of and possibly have they interested in considering me for that position. Nothing is ever a given, but I’ve always wanted to have people evaluate my potential by seeing what I can do, rather than through an interview.

This is a local district. I would REALLY like to work in a local district to help support the community I live in.  These are small towns that deserve good educational support.

Please send positive vibes my way for this position!

American River Charter School

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Realities

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Yesterday, my husband and I took a walk across the Foresthill Bridge. It’s 730 feet high, the third highest in the US. At least one person commits suicide, by jumping from it, every year. At the midpoint, there were several names and dates scratched in the paint of the handrail. Each one named a person and the date of their death. It was very sobering to stand where they had stood and contemplate what had brought them to that same point on the bridge, with the intention of never walking off of it. Looking over the side was dizzying. They must have been extremely determined, and hopeless, to climb up and step out. There’s a call-box right there, imploring them to not jump, but reach out for help.  How many make the call? How many don’t? How many choose neither and return to their life with no one the wiser? They were very sobering, these realities. It was a cloudy day yesterday. Heavy with thoughts and emotions.

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IMG_2360I thought about all the times I’ve felt everyone would do better without me around. But I could not jump off that bridge, and I won’t. I will continue my search for strategies, methods, meditations, beliefs and actions to help me survive and heal here, on Earth and alive in my world.

Death can be very abstract until you see it up close and real. Those names and dates were real. And a caring, grieving family member or friend scratched them in the paint so that the person wouldn’t be forgotten. Nor their pain and desperation. Someone was the last person to speak to them. Someone discovered them, fallen. Someone had to pick up the crumpled, lifeless body. Someone had to find the family and let them know what had happened. And then there are those the person left behind. Those who knew of their pain, and those who didn’t. But they were all left with the loss of that person in their lives, and how they would take that knowledge forward into their own. I hope it made a difference.

Below the bridge flows the north fork of the American River, flanked by beautiful forests, tumbling to join with the middle fork in an area known as the confluence. It’s an area enjoyed by all kinds of people every day of the year. To see such beauty and energy so close to such sadness and desperation is difficult to comprehend. But in seeing and reflecting, I know which scene I want to reflect my life. I hope all those who choose to walk the bridge to the middle will stop and use the call-box. My next walk there will be to enjoy the view and beauty, before I continue my walk to the paths below where life is exuberant and ongoing.

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Scars and the tales they tell or hide …

My mom (who is almost 88 years old) just flew home after visiting me for a week. It was one of the quickest good-byes I’ve ever had at an airport. I think we were both afraid … afraid of the tears, afraid in case this is the last time we ever see each other. At her age, you never know. For someone who struggles with depression and BPD (me), you never know. These days in general, you never know. And we now live 2,000 miles apart.

my “Stoic Swede” mom and me in Tahoe

My mom knows that depression has plagued me most of my life, but she doesn’t know about the BPD and I don’t plan on telling her. She’s seen many of my scars. Some she asks about, most she doesn’t. Although she is quite educated and was a nurse and educator, she gets quite anxious at any indication that I might be struggling to cope psychologically with anything or be seeing a psychiatrist or psychologist. It worries her that there’s something wrong with me … Partly because she will then blame herself. So, I keep it to myself. I wore long pants and sleeves while she was here. I was continually conscious of myself and what she could see.

It was a good visit, setting her mind at ease that our move out here was right for me. The mountains help me to feel settled, grounded in a way the midwest did not. The movement of the American River soothes me whenever I am able to be near it and watch the sun reflect off its surface as the water rushes around and over rocks.

American River Canyon

American River Canyon (Photo credit: aresauburn™)

This is only a few miles from my house! The Forest Hill Bridge in the back is the 3rd highest in the US

I continue to have moments when my anxiety and fear of loss and abandonment overtake me. I had some even while she was here and again as I said good-bye. Will those ever go away? I’m beginning to doubt it. That is my cross to bear or fountain of youth to seek. Am I Don Quixote fighting windmills in my mind?

Don Quixote and Sancho Panza

Don Quixote and Sancho Panza (Photo credit: M Kuhn)

In my last post, I was very discouraged about how few people were reading my blog. I contemplated the suicide of my blog and the word suicide was in the title. Suddenly, there were many more hits and several comments from readers saying they were reading, even if they weren’t commenting. Thanks for the comments that were made to that posts. They helped. I guess I need to keep fighting my windmills and some of them might turn out to be real and I can win the fight! Others will taunt me as they will. More scars may come from the fights, but I will fight to the end – never giving up hope for happiness in life. Not just fleeting moments, but deep seated, know it in my bones and it shows in my face real happiness.

Reality

I want to be happy, I REALLY DO, yet my ears are whooshing like they usually do after I’ve been crying, which I haven’t , and I’m scratching at my leg in anxiety. Dragging my nails up vertically. This morning, I received a call stating that, due to our move, our insurance was cancelled as of July 1st. F#^*#, that wouldn’t have happened if I had just “retired” my position without going on disability. Then I would have had two more months of insurance. How does that change things??????

So now I’ve taken away insurance from my family.OK, OK this is not a victimization party. I’m not trying to feel sorry for myself. But I was told that my insurance went through August per our contract! Whatever! I need to get insurance coverage for myself ( meds and therapy) and my husband and son. It’s just too expensive and risky to not have insurance these days. I don’t want to lose our house.

So tonight I sit alone and drink. I’ve hardly eaten all day. I don’t want to. I wish the whooshing would stop. It drives me crazy.