Downward we go....

On December 1st I wrote about vacation anxiety. I am 10 days into my vacation. I have worked really hard to get out of the house everyday. I have visited with old friends...some good...some not so good. I have accomplished a lot...and today I have crashed. I told my doctor 3 days ago that I felt this coming...I am extremely fatigued. I wasn't sure what it was (is). But as the days went on it hit me that it maybe depression. There is A LOT of painful stress in my life with my family, finances, my sick pet and work. Yesterday I pushed myself to take a bus uptown during a snow storm...I felt like I wasn't going to be able to get off the bus...I was too weak. Last night I got in bed at 8:00pm and got up at 1:00pm today. I am hitting PMDD time of the month and this is exacerbating my depression. My Christmas plans are different this year. For the first time in 15 years I am not going to my cousin's house for the holidays. There is too much stress in their house and I have been advised by my doctor to steer clear. I know this is for the best - but at the same time...I am very sad (I weep about it often...the children really need family right now...but I just can't do it).

Today I feel downright breathless. Heavy hearted and exhausted. Tomorrow I MUST get on a train to NJ for my best friend's 40th birthday party...I have no idea how I am going to do it. Everyone says - you must keep going...get fresh air...exercise...well, I have done that for 10 days and here I am...crashing HARD! It is my responsibility as a person with bipolar to keep myself safe from tailspins. I did a 90% good job this week...and still...sigh...here I am. One foot in front of the other - but for today - I am cutting myself a break and letting myself be sad. Sometimes you just can't fight it.

Update on Facebook Series Chapter 1 - Part 1 & Part 2

Please read The Facebook Series - Part I & Part II.

Update...I had dinner with Elana 2 nights ago (my next door neighbor from childhood). I wish I could report that we connected on an adult level that was refreshing and new - a fresh start...I was immediately reminded why she was picked on as a child and why I did some of that picking. We met at her hotel...I was excited to see her...especially healthy since her battle with breast cancer. She looks fantastic. She has the sweetest curls and a very warm face. We have not seen each other in over 25 years! Her half sister Julie met us at the hotel before dinner. She remembers me fondly. Her little sister is a very negative person - I could tell that their relationship was strained and they could not be more different - I just sat back and soaked it all up. I did A LOT of listening that night. I found myself delivering a different tone for me...I paused a lot and spoke slowly. I didn't care to impress. Perhaps I wanted to soften any negative memories she may have of me...but she seems to remember very little from her childhood...she was truly bullied for years!

Elana likes to talk...and not listen...if she asks a question she is not really interested in the answer- she is more interested in what she can add to your story or how it relates to her. For example she asked me how I knew I had cancer 13 years ago...I got only 1 minute into the story before she jumped back to her cancer tale - which I had been listening to for 2 hours. So I gave up on talking and just asked a lot of questions. The big bummer of the night was the meal. She insisted on going somewhere expensive for dinner. I explained that I did not know where to go because I have been on a budget and don't really splurge on meals - her response "I have been on a budget too and finally have an expense account - let's do it up!". So off we went to an all out steak house. The check comes and she only pays for herself...her expense account is for HER...not to cover me...so I had to dish out $75 for dinner! She is very out of touch with what other people need. She doesn't listen...I mean even during dinner I mentioned my major medical debt and how I have cashed in my 401k to chip away at the medical bills. She just smiled and kept on talking about herself. I was also disappointed to hear her say that she cannot deal with other breast cancer patients. That she will give back to the cause - but only to people who do not need her support or will not talk about their struggles with her. She is completely shut down to giving back emotionally...not just because she is afraid to hear challenging stories (which I can respect) - but because it is just not in her nature to give in that way. She mentioned a young survivor group she is in and was upset that too many women with breast cancer were in her group - she has gone to the leader and demanded that they move some of the women out of her group. The world revolves around Elana...and it always has.

I am still grateful that I reconnected with her...in a funny way it has relieved my guilt for giving her a hard time as a child - perhaps I prepared her for a life of people giving her a hard time...it sounds like it happens all the time to her. She is quite a difficult personality. I was true to my nature. I smiled all night and told her I had a great time, followed by a long hug. It is likely that we will not see each other ever again.

Vacation = Anxiety!

"How was your vacation" they all ask. I reply with a fake smile, "Uh...It was good, thanks"...I try to change the topic as quickly as possible! "So, how about those Giants...Go Big Blue!" Yikes.

Vacation! UGH! I took 3 vacation days this year - all of those days were used for doctor's appointments (7 doctors and 4 tests...none of them by choice - they take you very seriously when you are a cancer survivor). I didn't realize how much I was avoiding vacation until I asked my department assistant how many days I needed to use by the end of the year - the answer - 14 business days! What?! I started to tear up (gotta love those embarrassing mood swings). But there was a real reason for my tears. I was frustrated. Like everybody else I want to hit the beach or hike in the mountains (ok, or hit a 4 day spa!). To be free from my depersonalization and panic attacks. I want time away with loved ones or to party it up (haven't had a drink because of meds in 3 years!)...but I can't - my panic disorder is too paralyzing at this time. I usually just settle for a facial or a pedicure in the city and call it a day. I am also flat broke due to thousands of dollars in medical bills and those damn taxis. I have not left NYC since May! I work in stressful Times Square which only keeps my anxiety spinning and spinning...I need to hit the pause button and fast!

If I don't plan out my days and lock in some real commitments - I will spend all of my time in my dark junior 1 bedroom with the view of a brick wall...slowly spiraling into depression. My only journey out of the house becomes CVS and the deli. I just had 10 days off for Thanksgiving (11/21 to 12/1) - I was trying to chip away at those 14 days. It was not a good time. I spent 2 of the days visiting my cousin and her family in Connecticut for the holiday. We are VERY close. She had to come get me and drive 2 hours each way. My anxiety was too high to get on the train. (I did manage to take the train back...that was a success! Yay Metro North). I used to go to my cousin's house in CT as an escape from the city - but unfortunately there is a great deal of stress in their house at this time (understatement!). They have 3 kids and my cousin's husband tried to kill himself 6 weeks ago (one of the longest nights of my life!). That story is for another time. As a result their 18 year old daughter (who is like my little sister) went into a bipolar tailspin and started cutting herself and abusing prescription drugs - so she ended up in the hospital (for the second time). She came home 3 days before Thanksgiving. While we had a great holiday (with some dramatic bumps in the road) - the trip took a real toll on me. I did my best to be the balance in the house - playing Rock Band with the kids and doing art therapy (it proved to be a good move for the youngest). Me...being the balanced one? I spent the next 3 days recovering. Nice try.

I have vacation time again starting on 12/15 to 12/29. I must make plans and leave the city. I strive to surround myself with positive people who like to have fun, but can also sit and play Yahtzee for awhile with no stress of a watch. I would like to spend time near a quaint village. Good decaf coffee and a fire place. I want to walk on crunchy dried leaves and smell the firewood burning or walk on winter sand with the crisp sea air in my face - something to remind me that I am alive. My parents sold our family beach house - so that place of "free" solace in now gone (above beach photo from New Years 2006 "Winter Sands"). Just 3 days of peace is all I ask. Peace and feeling safe in my own skin. Any ideas?

The Anxiety Timeline

My anxiety has taken on different personalities over time. I never know which wacky panic attack I will have. They seem to run in long cycles. For example - if my anxiety/fear is crossing the street - I will struggle with that for at least 6 months. I have not had a "classic" panic attack in about 15 years. What is a classic panic attack you may ask - well, I would say that would be a racing heart, numbness of your legs and/or hands, shortness of breath and dizziness. I will still experience some of these symptoms - but usually as a reaction to my main panic symptom (whatever it currently is). The anxiety I have been suffering from over the past 5 years has been downright paralyzing. It has halted my life and I have talked about some of these more recent experiences in other entries (like my challenges with the subway or when I battled Serotonin Syndrome). When I talk about my symptoms with friends and family...I am usually extremely embarrassed and if I am not crying...I am making it into a comedy routine, because it is all too wacky to be real. It is hard to let my guard down and just let people hear how I am feeling - let them into the window of my brain and experience what it is like to be me right now. Even my doctors tend to mock me about my most recent panic - it is just so odd. I know it is silly - but to my brain...it is a fight or flight situation and I can't stop it if I am in a tailspin. All rational thinking goes out the window...yet at the same time I am completely aware that it is happening. We will get to my current anxiety state, but first I feel it is important to go back to the history of my panic...I guess back further then I have ever considered to be panic. Shit! As I sit here writing this with my aging cat on my lap I realize that my anxiety attacks started as a child...shortly after my Mother died. Welcome to the journey of my anxiety history...

Hmmm - what is the earliest panic attack I can remember? They are all kind of blurring together on the "early years timeline". I did have a lot of anxiety surrounding sleep - as young as 5 or 6 years old. Even before my Mother died (but she was sick - so my little world was being rocked to the core). I remember needing someone to sit with me while falling asleep. I just needed to know I was safe. After my Mother died much of that security was gone, so I created an army of protectors. I had over 75 stuffed animals and I slept with ALL of them. I suffered from the classic "monster under the bed" syndrome. My monster was an alligator. I would take a running jump into my red gingham bed. Once safely under the covers (the quilt my mother made for me when she was dying) I would meticulously encircle myself with my plush army (head to toe and side to side). Snoopy under my arm. I was afraid to lay on my side...if I turned my back to the windows then someone would get in and kill me, if I turned my back to the wall...a monster would reach through and kill me too. The hall light had to be left on and my door had to be at least half way open. I would lie awake at night wondering if my mother was out there somewhere. Wondering if it was all a lie and if she just chose to leave. The decision to not allow me at her funeral proved to be a mistake...I never completely believed she was dead.

I went through a short period of sleep walking. It was a haze...but I remember some of it. One night I had a dream about lions attacking me...the faces and fangs just kept coming at me like a looping film and I was banging on my brother's door confused and afraid. My brother put a latch on his door so I could not get in his room. I was terrified and no one helped or hugged me. The lion was an important symbol of courage in our house...when my mother was battling cancer she was given a plush lion to help her keep the faith - those lions turned on me after she was gone.

I developed a paralyzing fear of thunder storms. As I got older, it got worse. I don't remember how old I was when it started, but I do remember freaking out at 13 years old while in our summer home on Cape Cod. My room was an open loft in our small uninsulated cottage. There was nowhere to hide from the storms and I would completely panic. My Dad and my Stepmother eventually stopped trying to comfort me and locked me out too. "Go to BED!". The panic during storms was with me into my 20's. I would hide in the closet with my cigarettes and a candle to wait out the booms and rumbles. I feel safe from thunder storms in NYC...not sure how I would react in the country - but I think I am MUCH better then I was.

When I was 20 years old I moved to Boston for a year. I was not in college. I moved in with a friend from my hometown who was in college and a bunch of random roommates. After a few months of sharing an apartment with 4 other girls they decided to move downtown and I decided to stay near the Chestnut Hill Mall where I was working. I got my own apartment...boy, was that a mistake. My ridiculous fear of sleep came back with a vengeance. I kept the lights on and always thought someone was outside my window. This felt like panic. My heart would race and I slowly feel into a serious depression. To numb myself from the pain I would eat excessive amounts of food and put on at least 40 pounds. I had to call my Dad for money to help me buy clothes since nothing fit. Eventually my Dad came to get me. I don't remember much about that time - only that one day my Dad was there and the next a moving truck took all my stuff back to New Jersey. Somewhere during the madness...I got myself into college - so in the fall of 1991 I finally went to school and that is when the mental illness kicked in.

I attended a women's seaside junior college in Massachusetts. No distractions of guys or being 18. I was 21 years old and finally mature enough to focus on school. I already knew what life was like without college and I wanted more than just a job at the mall or being alone. I was an advertising major and I kicked ass at it. I was a role model in my dorm. I'm not sure...but I think I was in a good place emotionally for the first semester - the second semester was another story. My roommate did not return to school after the winter break...and I was alone again. I was pulling a 4.0 and on the tennis team. I started to develop a fear of large venues - I always needed to not only know where the exit was...but where the bathroom was in case I needed to throw up. My heart would race. Eventually the fear of being sick followed me everywhere and I could not sleep in my room at night...rather the bathroom floor! I was afraid to leave the bathroom!!! (Note I had not thrown up since I was 18 and maybe 5 times in my life). I would usually fall asleep against the cold lime green tiled floor and would wake-up in the middle of the night and finally get in my bed. I would sit in class having heart palpitations. I eventually went to the nurse's office and told her about the palpitations. She showed me a way to stop my heart from fluttering - which was to bare down as if you were trying to take a shit! (Sorry to be so blunt). It actually worked. I never told her about the fear of throwing up. My anxiety started to shift towards psychosis in the spring. My graphic design professor was pregnant and I couldn't stand to be in her class because I would obsessively visualize her internal organs, the fetus and pulsating blood...I almost passed out in her class. I was her favorite student...and I was losing my mind! I started to have problems driving my car. My hands and feet felt numb and disconnected from my body. I finally told one of my best friends from boarding school about some (not all) of my "issues"...she was having anxiety as well and decided to come visit me. Holy crap...this is one of the more hilarious stories from my life...and also one of the most embarrassing and sad. What is terrible is that I have never told a professional and I really should have been hospitalized during this time...if I had...maybe all of this would have been fixed 17 years ago.

My best friend at the time was Jessica (she is still in my life today). We had been best friends since we were in boarding school together for one year back in 1984. She was a rebellious debutant from Connecticut who was kicked out of 6 high schools for behavior issues. We somehow managed to stay in touch as she bounced from New England prep school to prep school. Jessica is one year younger then me, a stunning platinum blond, who is brilliant, creative, incredibly talented, and unfortunately insane. She stops traffic with her looks and wins every argument. She is a whirlwind and for about 10 years of my life we were terribly co-dependant. Jessica often caused riffs with the other people in my life and my parents even banned her from my house. (Of course I would sneak her in when they were away).

When Jessica came to visit me up at school she had recently been told that her family had lost most of their money and they were moving to North Carolina to be with her grandparents...without her. During this time she was in her hippy phase. She would rarely shower and wear long dresses. A week before her visit with me she had been out in LA with her verbally abusive boyfriend and was caught in the middle of the LA riots. She came to me hyper and in a bipolar tailspin. She believed she was dying from either AIDS or cancer and had gone to an emergency room in LA seeking help. Between me sleeping in the bathroom and Jessica staying up all night rambling to my dorm mates - we were a terrible pair. She was driving me crazy and I was just trying to finish the school year. She just wouldn't leave!

The last straw for us came on one of my last nights of school. I was attending the athletic awards ceremony where I was receiving an athletic scholar award. Jessica sent one of my friends to come get me and interrupted my evening - I wouldn't leave...I wanted my award and this was my moment. Jessica showed up just as I was leaving with my lame piece of paper in hand...they spelled both my first and last name wrong...such a buzz kill. I was furious with Jessica for ruining my night...but I was afraid of her mood swings so I NEVER confronted her. She said she was having a panic attack and needed to get off campus. That she was too sick to drive and could we please just go somewhere. We headed to the white trash mall near campus. We wandered around with little money and nothing to do. We finally bought a huge bag of Twizzlers, some soda and headed back to school in defeat. We quickly started to binge on the Twizzlers in my car, our only relief from our inner pain. We often binged together. Half way through the bag Jessica asked if I thought the Twizzlers seemed wet. I told her that I thought there was just some condensation on them. She started to freak out...literally! She was convinced that we had been poisoned. She said she did not feel well and that we had to get to the hospital immediately. I refused to take her. But as the minutes went by I started to feel funky. The funny thing about me is that I always know when I am losing it...I never JUST lose it. I told her that we were both just having a panic attack. She pressed on, begging me to stop at the nearest payphone so she could call poison control. Finally I appeased her and pulled over. I watched her as she called the 800 number from a payphone in front of a 7/11. Shaking my head in the car. My hands were numb. She was working herself into a tizzy. She jumped back in the car and she said that poison control told her to take the Twizzlers and herself to the nearest hospital...she was now hysterical...I had to listen. I drove as fast as possible...then out of a comedy....we were stuck at a train crossing. A TRAIN CROSSING! We were going to die from Twizzlers as a freight train blocked our path to the hospital. I tried to joke about it...I think we may have managed at least one giggle. We were both sticking our heads out of my Honda Accord windows trying to get fresh air...being that we were dying and all. I was laughing and crying. Finally the train passed and the white barricades went up. We pulled into the parking lot and I chickened out. "Jessica, this is ridiculous, we are not dying from Twizzlers, we are having a panic attack, I'm not going in there!". She hopped out of the car - Twizzlers in had and ran through the emergency room doors - her vintage Ralph Lauren southwestern wrap blowing in the wind behind her. It was all VERY dramatic. Jessica's life was ALWAYS dramatic! I waited in the car for about 5 minutes. I did not know it then...and we never talk about it now...but Jessica suffers from borderline personality disorder (BPD) - all I knew was that she must be making a scene in there, and maybe I should go in and save her. Even before I got to the check-in window I could hear Jessica screaming at the doctors that if they didn't test her Twizzlers she would sue them. Yep, she was making a scene. Sue a hospital for not testing her moist Twizzlers? Oy vey! I could see security milling around...and it was getting serious. I leaned over the check-in window. I told the nurse that I was with the young lady in the wrap. I whispered to her that Jessica was in LA a week earlier, unfortunately during the riots and had taken herself to the emergency room then as well. Clearly...she was unravelling. The nurse looked at me and said "You don't look good honey, I think we should check YOUR pulse". Of course I didn't look good! I had not slept in 4 months other then the bathroom floor, my professor had a creepy fetus growing in her belly that I could see, I needed to "bare down" a few times a day to stop my heart from fluttering and my best friend was having a fucking meltdown.

I don't know how we left the hospital, but we did. I just remember telling Jessica that she had to leave the next morning. I told her she did not have AIDS, or cancer or Cyanide poisoning. It took her about 8 hours to drive home because she had to keep pulling over to the side of the road (the trip is usually 3 hours). Within a week Jessica was checked into a psychiatric hospital. I finished the year with my 4.0 and never told my parents or anyone else about my mental breakdown. The first time I told a doctor was last year...because he was smart enough to ask. I too had a difficult time driving home - it was the longest trip of my life. When I visited Jessica in the hospital she was still in a paranoid state.

My parents were moving from New Jersey to NYC and they suggested that I transfer schools and live with them in the city. They were very proud of the work I had done at school and wanted to see me challenge myself academically. Perhaps they knew that I needed to be at home and found a different way to word it. I spent the summer of 1992 at fat camp again as a counselor. I was VERY stressed out. I was on medication - Prozac and Xanax. I was having panic attacks all the time and trying to hide them from a bunk full of 16 year old girls. I have no idea how I did it. I was often agitated - and eventually my campers confronted me about being mean all the time...I was always the nice one. Once they called me out on my shit I changed my attitude. I recently had dinner with my campers who are now in the their 30's! I told them about my challenges with mental illness and they were all shocked...they couldn't believe that I was able to hide it from them...most of them really looked up to me and we were very close.

The fall of 1992 I went to an art school in NYC and was fine except for when I had to drive. When driving I would "disconnect" from my body...everything would go numb and I couldn't feel my hands. I remember driving out to New Jersey for an event with my cousins and on the way home I had such a serious panic attack that I needed to turn around and stay at their house. I never went into detail - they just let me in when I showed up at their door crying...I crawled into my cousin's bed and took a nap - I waited out my mental storm.

I was able to live with this kind of panic for about 10 years. It was off and on - but manageable until 5 years ago. I have blogged about my experience with the start of my meltdown 5 years ago. Read my last entry about my brother...I talk about how disconnected I became...all the time (depersonalization). The combo of my thyroid medication and Prozac sent me over the edge and I went on medical leave. I was disconnected for about a year - seeing life through a fish bowl...unable to snap back. It's like being on a ton of cold meds all the time or stoned.

Once I started to snap back from the disconnected feeling - my panic of walking the streets and open spaces started to really kick in. My fear of open spaces started with a walk to see my psychiatrist through the uptown part of Union Square. I needed to be near buildings or at least a railing - if not...I didn't feel safe and everything would start to spin. Eventually this need to be near something to lean on made it impossible to cross the street! I once stood frozen in the middle of 3rd Avenue...my feet just stopped moving. I suffered from this anxiety of the streets and open spaces for nearly 2 years! This panic just recently lifted. While I am still "aware" that I am crossing the street or walking through an open space...I am still able to do it. Recently there was construction in Union Square so I was able to walk through a fenced in area that made me feel safe. They removed the fencing and just last night I walked through the park...I wish I could report that all went well...but it did not. My heart started to race - but I was able to keep my feet moving...by the time I met up with my friend for dinner I was having a panic attack. It wasn't massive...but it was brewing. We sat in the restaurant for about 15 minutes staring at the menu - and finally I started to have a meltdown. I needed to leave and on the street I let my guard down and told her I was not doing well. She has heard about my problems, but never seen them...I just cried in her arms (literally)...completely defeated. We went to a coffee shop and she bought me a ginger tea. We talked until I calmed down. I dumped all of my recent major family stress on her - since I do not have a therapist - I clearly needed to put it somewhere. This was my second panic attack in a week. I am also currently suffering from PMDD - please reference my entry from 10/4/08 to learn more. PMDD exacerbates all of my anxiety.

Here is a VERY honest description of what I am currently battling. I will be using words that maybe (and SHOULD be) offensive. My current major anxiety symptom is a fear of losing control (I guess all of them are about losing control!). This fear manifests in the form of what I can only describe as "inner" turret's. This panic is the one that when I share it with others - either causes people to laugh because it makes them SO uncomfortable or for my doctors to at some point mock me. I think that no one emotionally knows what to do with this information and I just hate talking about it. When in a public setting where I cannot speak...like a Broadway show, movie or conference room presentation I get the sensation that I am going to blurt out something completely inappropriate. This started about 4 months ago when at the off-Broadway show "Saved". Again...this was exaggerated by PMDD. The lights went down in the tiny west side theater and suddenly I thought I was going to blurt out "Fuck" or "Nigger". My mind focused on the MOST offensive words - words that even offend me. I covered my mouth with my left hand while squeezing my right thigh with the other. I was 3 seats in and I couldn't get out. I tried to focus on my breathing...I tried counting...I tried focusing on the colors on stage...nothing would release me from what was like an OCD hell! My heart was racing and I couldn't breath. The play was awful and just kept going and going. "Fuck", "Nigger"...racing through my head..."STOP"! My hand was aching from covering my mouth...I had to switch hands. The room was spinning. Finally after a painfully long first act - the lights went up. I turned to my boss's assistant next to me and I told her I had a migraine and needed to leave. I couldn't get out of that theater fast enough. I broke down crying the moment I walked in my door.

Attending movies and shows is a requirement of my job. What a wonderful requirement...wonderful for anyone but me. I have to hide this anxiety and all I can do is cover my mouth and sweat. I have since attended stand-up comedy and a major award show...all the while suffering. I thought that maybe I was getting better - I still felt like I was going to "blurt", but my mind has stopped focusing on such terrible words - it is just a general feeling of losing control. My heart does not race as much...well..until 10 days ago...UGH! I went to a Broadway show with the same assistant - "13 the Musical". We were in the 3rd row...luckily I was on the isle this time. I know most of the kids in the show. The lights went down...and my panic came back! I waited about 15 minutes before getting up. I went to the bathroom and took Klonopin. I stayed at the back of the theater for the rest of the show...only returning to my seat for the finale. When we left the theater I finally told my collegue about my anxiety. I certainly did not tell her the details - but I sobbed. I could not hide it from her any longer - I needed her to understand. She is the one that arranges most of my nights out...I needed her to know that everytime I cover an event it is a success for me...it is a big deal. That I spend weeks worrying about the next one. She had many questions, but was also VERY supportive. I begged her not to tell our boss and explained that it was a big deal for me to be sharing with her...I just pray that she has the maturity to not gossip about it. I found the words to tell her that I am still strong and a competant bussiness woman and that this will pass...but that I need her support during this time. I needed her to know I was still a good person. If I was not facing Disability Discrimation at work - I would tell everyone.

I hope to one day share my story with everyone...and show my face with pride. For now I can only share annoynomously and pray that I get better.

My Brother / Our Story…

My Brother is a painful topic for me. I can’t talk about where we presently are without talking about the past and what got us to today. This is our story and there is much to resolve….I’m not sure how to do that….but I’m gonna give it one last try….one last….

My older Brother Jason was adopted because our parents not only had difficulty conceiving, but because they suffered several miscarriages. I know more about my older Brother’s adoption then he ever cared to know, simply because I asked…Jason never did. From the hundreds of baby photos of him you could see that Jason was wanted from the moment he arrived. He was adopted from birth. The photos reveal a curly blonde haired boy with stunning blue eyes. My parents tried several fertility treatments in the 60’s – one which included some sort of radiation therapy…or so I have been told. About a year into their happy life as a family of three my parents learned that they were pregnant…again…perhaps this pregnancy would go full term and they would joyfully have 2 children. Their wishes came true and they had another boy - Jeffrey. Jason and Jeffrey were only 2 years apart and would grow to be best friends. The photo album grew. These two best buds watched the first snow fall together in their footsie PJs, tippy-toed up on the sofa in front of the picture window, they took baths together and shared a bedroom. Four years later my Mom became pregnant again, with me…their third child. During the early stages of her pregnancy with me she did have a few scares with spotting. But nothing could ever prepare a parent for what they were about to face with one of their beautiful boys. While they were pregnant with me they learned that Jeffrey had a brainstem tumor. He was about 4 years old at the time. My Mother asked her ob/gyn if she should abort her pregnancy with me due to all of the stress and the spotting – plus fear that I would be sick too. Obviously, that did not happen. I was born into a very sad household. How do you welcome one child into the world while one is dying? There are only a handful of baby photos of me. It was not a joyful time in our home. When I was about a year old and the boys were 5 and 7 years, my Father’s sister was checked into a mental institution for one of her bipolar meltdowns (gee, I wonder where I get it from) – she was a single mother and my parents bravely stepped in to welcome a 3rd boy into the house (the same age as Jeffrey – 5 years old)….even with Jeffrey dying. I may have only been a baby…but I swear I remember this time. I loved having three older boys around. From family photos that I have kept…because they were too sad for anyone to keep on hand – you could still see the youthful joy in Jason’s face. He was the oldest and loved his 2 best friends – his brother Jeffrey and his cousin Daniel. The 3 musketeers – they all slept in one room (right next to mine). They dressed the same. Eventually Daniel’s Mother got better and Jeffrey got sicker. Daniel went back to California to be with his Mom and Jeffrey went into the hospital. Jason was left alone with a baby and a housekeeper. Mom and Dad were at the hospital most of the time. We did have relatives to pitch in on our care. Jeffrey died when he was 6 years old. A parent never recovers from losing a child…and Jason at only 8 years old lost his roommate, best friend and brother.

Was it the radiation therapy or the stress that made my Mom sick? We’ll never know. At only 37 years old my Mother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. I was 4 and my Brother was 10 years old. The photos from that time (and there aren’t many) reveal a family that was forcing a smile. When Jeffrey died my Mom and Dad got a summer home on Cape Cod – mostly to give them peace. I love Cape Cod – but it also stirs up painful memories of my Mom being sick and our fight for happiness. In my fourth birthday photo…my Mother, Brother and I are gathered around my beautiful homemade cake (my Mom loved to bake…even when sick). I was in my favorite lavender dress and I looked sad. My eyes were red with tears, my Brother looks awkward and angry and my Mother looks exhausted. That would be our last summer with our Mom on Cape Cod. The house was filled with her artwork from that summer for the next 20 years. She did everything she could to keep beauty around us – even after she was gone. The following summer she was too sick to return and in the fall of 1976 she died at 39 years old. I was 6 years old and Jason was 12.

I remember looking through pictures that were tucked into a drawer in our dining room when I was about 8 years old. I found a picture of Jeffrey, but did not know who he was. He had the same eyes as me…I was confused…I did not remember. All I knew was that I had one brother –who was 6 years older then me, and seemed to hate my guts.

From the moment my Mother died…my Brother shut down. First he was adopted, then he lost his best friend, then his mother died. He told a therapist that everything he loves, dies. He never spoke to a therapist again - he just shut down. I have spent my entire life trying to love him and be loved back. I have always been awkward around him, I looked up to him, and I also feared him. Jason quickly turned into “trouble” by the time he was 13 years old. He was hanging out with a shady neighbor. He lit a garage on fire with firecrackers when he was 14 and was having big parties at the house when he was just 15 and our Dad was busy dating. He would leave me at home alone when he was supposed to be babysitting me. He would hit me…but the yelling and ignoring me was even worse. He had a way of just looking at me that would make me cry. I longed for his love…I still do.

In the albums of every major family event you can see me crying in the photos. The back-story to those tears ALWAYS leads to my Brother. It was not always something he said, sometimes it was what he didn’t say. I am extremely sensitive, he is extremely insensitive. His Bar Mitzvah was less then a year after our Mother passed. He managed to smile in the photos, but it was a lot for me, I was still just 6 years old, wearing a blue dress that our housekeeper picked out for me…I wanted my Mom. My Brother called me a baby…and I cried. "Click". At our Dad’s wedding to our Stepmother I was 11 years and awkwardly wearing a white crape dress that my future stepmother picked out for me. At that time I was often forced to wear whatever she bought for her daughter who was 9 months older then me…whether I liked it or not. Us kids were about to walk down the isle, my Brother called me a baby, I started to cry. "Click". At my own Bat Mitzvah…I was chubby and wearing a brown and black checked wool coat-dress that my Stepmother made me wear (yuck!), my Brother called me a fucking baby (he was getting older and meaner), I started to cry. "Click". When I was 2 weeks shy of my sweet 16 I got a day pass from fat camp to attend my Cousin’s wedding. It was rare that I got to see my Mother’s side of the family. My Mother’s sister pulled me aside in the ladies room and apologized for not being there for me…but she bluntly admitted that she couldn’t stand to look at my face because I reminded her too much of my Mother. I ran out of the bathroom in tears…up the hotel elevator to my Brother’s room – where his girlfriend Michelle, who I was very close with, was hanging out. She hugged me and tried to calm me down…within a few minutes my Brother was in the room yelling at me to pull it together, "Stop acting like a fucking baby!". Soon after my Stepmother was in the room too and told me to get down to the wedding. I was hysterical. "Click". From every major family event there are bound photo albums on a shelf and within them lies pictures of me crying…from those “clicked” moments.

Jason married that sweet girlfriend, Michelle, when he was 24 years old. She became my best friend. He didn’t really acknowledge me…but he didn’t yell at me anymore either. 6 years later I got cancer (Hodgkin's Disease). He never acknowledged that I was sick. I mean he seriously never said a word to me about it. His wife took care of me. Michelle alternated taking care of me with my Cousin from Connecticut (the same one who’s wedding I just mentioned). Michelle was wonderful. She was Jason’s representative. She would always say, “We are here for you” or “We understand”…it took a bit of the sting away.

When Jason was 33 years old he and Michelle had a healthy baby boy. I have never loved a child so much. I think Jason never thought he could ever feel love like that again…but his heart melted at the sight and touch of Matty. Jason was gentle and warm towards his son. He even told Michelle that when Matty would stare at a corner from his crib, he must be looking at the angel of his Grandmother (our Mother). He never talked about our Mom, so that was shocking. During this time I worked with Jason and Michelle at their special events company in New Jersey. I did everything from sales, to production management, to floral design, to event photography for their portfolio. Being in the office together and even sometimes alone in the van on our way to an events forced us to start talking. Never about anything heavy…but we were talking. I was very close with Jason's son and I was a big presence in their lives. Matty and I were best buds. I would baby-sit and sing to him for hours.

5 years ago was when my battle with my thyroid and mental illness began. It all came to a head when the combo of Synthroid and Prozac caused me to not only have sever anxiety, but crossed over to insanity. I could not function at my full time job. Faces started to look weird to me. I felt paranoid. My resting heart rate was about 105 and I could not walk down the street. I was to fly to Boston to shoot a big wedding. Not for the bride and groom, but for Jason and Michelle's portfolio. This was the big daddy of all weddings. Michelle was putting some of her own money into this event to get great photos and exposure. I was pacing in my apartment. My mental state was deteriorating…and I was expected to get on a plane the next morning. My bags were packed. Pacing. I knew I was too sick to go. I had to call Michelle and tell her…but telling Michelle was admitting that I was truly sick. Finally I did it. I called her. “Michelle, I’m so sorry, I am too sick to cover the wedding. Something is very wrong with me. I don’t know what to do…it’s worse then just a panic attack, I’m so sorry…something is wrong…” Michelle’s response was that of an over-tired and stressed out Wedding Planner, “I don’t care what is wrong with you, get on that plane before I have a fucking PANIC ATTACK!” (She said panic attack in a mocking tone). I was sobbing, “I know you want good pictures for your portfolio, but we know the bride, maybe you can pay her photographer extra money to take stills for you, or I’ll call around for a photographer…I just can’t get on a plane”. There was nothing I could say or do to help or get through to her. It was either get on the plane or that was it. She explained that she only trusted me to take these photos and beyond that compliment the rest of the conversation was mean spirited and selfish.

I did not get on the plane…as a matter of fact within a few days I was in the hospital with dehydration and began my official journey with mental illness. I have still not fully recovered. My parents tried several times to get Michelle and I to speak. She finally called to apologize about 4 months later. For me, it was too late. The one person I trusted and who knew my work ethic not only doubted me – but couldn’t even bring herself to admit she was wrong. I have sadly never been able to forgive her. She represented the gateway to my Brother and all of my trust and frustration was tied up in that friendship. I guess my way of taking my anger out on Jason has been through Michelle. (I see that now…this moment).


Jason and Michelle got divorced 3 years ago this month. By Christmas of 2005 my Brother was a mess. He was drinking heavily and borderline stalking Michelle. That is the only time Michelle and I spoke – was when she called me to “please help with Jason”. She needed me to be there for him. He was broke, behind on his rent and she was threatening to call the police if he didn’t stop calling the guy she was dating. Me, be there for Jason? I mean…I would try…but would he take my hand? I started calling him…no answer…his phone was “temporarily disconnected”. I tried the office…no answer. Finally a very direct email that if he did not return my call or respond to the email by 3:30 that day –that I was coming out to New Jersey to find him. Finally…I found him on AOL instant messenger. I said it again – “Pick-up the phone or I am coming out there”. He wrote me back. “I’m fine”. I responded, “I need to see it for myself, Dad is worried – please let me help”. I don’t recall the exact sequence from there, but I do recall being in his apartment for the first time. I noticed that Matty did not have a bed to sleep on - only a matt on the floor. I remember lots of vodka bottles and that my brother had picked up smoking cigarettes. He had always smoked a lot of pot…but now he was stoned all the time. That holiday season for the first time ever Jason joined me in Connecticut at my cousin’s house with Matty. I had been celebrating Chanukah and Christmas with my Cousin and her 3 kids for the past 15 years. For the past 15 years my cousin had invited Jason and his family up and he never came…not only did he never come…but he never even bothered to reply. This was like a dream come true. For the 2 hour trip there my Brother really spoke to me for the first time in his life. He was not only chatty…he was actually funny. I liked the person next to me. Matty was asleep in the back of the car and Jason rambled on about the girls he was dating and the anti-depressant he was on. (Perhaps he was a bit manic from the meds). We were able to share back and forth about topics we could relate to each other on. I felt high from the conversation and could not wait for my Cousin to see the new Jason. One that would let us into his life. I could also not wait for Matty to experience a real family Christmas. My Cousin even got him his own stocking to hang over the fireplace. The holiday was as magical as it sounds. The kids made cookies for Santa and we played games. When they went to sleep we wrapped gifts until 4:00am. My Brother was drunk most of the time…but we put that on the backburner…we were just so grateful to have him there. Christmas morning was early with 4 kids ready to go. The look on Matty’s face will forever be burned in my mind as one of life’s beautiful moments. He was so happy to be with his cousins. The trip back home was just as wonderful. We chatted the whole way – we picked up on our conversation from the way there. I was able to share about my mental health and I felt heard.

When we returned to my apartment Jason waited downstairs while Matty slept in the car. I went to get the air mattress that I had just bought myself. I needed for Matty to have a bed when he was at his Dad’s house. I also gave my brother $280 in cash. I could not afford it…but I told him otherwise. I even bought the gifts that he gave to our little cousin’s and told him to pay me later. You could not put a price tag on me finally having a brother.

Jason and I continued to speak at least once a week over the phone or via email for almost a year. If I called him – he would answer right away, even if it wasn’t a good time to speak. He sometimes even called me just to check in or to share a story. The weight of 30 years of pain was lifted. I finally had a brother.

In April of 2007 I became sick again. That’s what this blog is mostly about. Battling anxiety and depression…or shall I say…being bipolar. My Brother had a hard time with this. I went on medical leave from my very cool job and was talking about checking into a hospital to get off of an anti-depressant that was making me worse. He was almost begging me “Please don’t go into a hospital, that’s stupid”. May 24th of 2007 I checked into Columbia Presp Hospital and my Brother stopped talking to me. I was there for 12 nights. He never called. I sent him a long email explaining my illness when I got out and he simply replied that he was busy and would call me soon. He never did. If I called – it went right into voicemail. When Matty went off to camp I called for the address so I could send a care package…I got an email response with the address…nothing further. I finally decided it wasn’t fair to Matty and I needed to see him. By then it was winter again and it had been almost a year since I had seen Matty – they live only 20 minutes from NYC. (My heart literally hurts as I type this part of the story). I was having nightmares about Matty being all grown up and not letting me hug him anymore. I was losing time with this precious child who was 10 years old. I sent my brother an email that I knew he could not back away from:

Jason,

It is almost a year since I have seen Matty. Please look at your calendar and pick a date. I will meet you in the city.

Thanks.

He replied within a few hours with a date. I was still very sick and being out in public was hard for me…but I would do anything to see Matty. We met in Union Square on a cold day. We went to Max Brenner’s Chocolate. Matty and I talked for almost an hour straight while my Brother just nodded and look out at the crowd. I gave my nephew gifts, drawings I had done for him and told him stories. His face was beaming…and I am pretty sure mine was too. For dessert I ordered a chocolate fondue – I didn’t care that it was over-priced…I wanted to stretch the time together and watch this sweet boy roast marshmallows. Finally Jason spoke up, “Matty, why don’t you tell your Aunt about your hero letter?” - My nephew looked embarrassed…then a smile came across his angelic face. “I wrote about you in school…we had to talk about our hero and you’re my hero”. (I’m not gonna cry…I want Jason to see me for the strong woman I am now…not gonna cry…he can’t tell me I’m a baby anymore). Matty continued, “Every kid in my class had to do this project and bring their hero to school, but Dad said you were not able to come”. What? It was true that it would have been VERY hard for me to not only travel out to his school, but to speak in front of a class. But I would have fought like hell to try…had I have been given the option. As we parted ways in Union Square Matty hugged me goodbye and I promised I would see him again soon. We played a game where I kept waving from the street corner until he could no longer see me…I waved to him for almost 4 minutes as he made his way through the crowd in the park…turning back every few seconds to see if I was still waving. When they were finally out of site…I cried.

The below 4th grade project was sent to me a few weeks later…not by my Brother as he promised, but by my Stepmother.

My Hero – By Matty Z (10 years old):
(You don’t need Superpowers to be a superhero)

This is a story about my Aunt who is very generous. Whenever I see her she takes me somewhere special. Like the time in 2006 for my birthday she took me to the biggest art store in NY. The store is called Pearl Paint and she bought me tons of art supplies. I got 100 markers, a big sketch book and 3 special markers. Oh yeah, she also happens to work for the coolest kid’s channel.

My Aunt is also very thoughtful. She once took me to this big event in LA. It was amazing. I got to meet Jack Black and Ice Cube the guy from Are we Done Yet? She got me a VIP gift bag with a Fire Fly cell phone and a nice sweat shirt. My Dad and I got to go to the party afterward which was amazing.

My Aunt is always thinking of Me. She received a free game from work and gave it to me. It was a great game. I recommend it. I like to play it on my PSP video system.

Even though she lives in NYC I don’t get a chance to see her often. She works very hard with actors in kid’s television. It’s a really cool job and she works with a lot of famous people. Her office is a fun place to work and I always like to go visit her there. Thanks Aunt (blank), you are the top of my list! You really are the best Aunt I could have.

The above effected me on so many levels. It gave me great joy and at the same time made me very angry. How could he be kept from me like this? He obviously misses me and his Mom and Dad both helped him write this paper. Am I only his hero because I have a cool job? Or am I his hero because I love him unconditionally and show it through generosity and special moments? I wish his parents helped him with that message and I am not ever too busy working to see him! Ever. The other kids in my life know this - my little cousin from Connecticut wrote about me in school that same winter…I’m the cool Aunt that makes them feel special. He wrote about all of our holidays together and about how I am always there.

I have seen Matty only twice since last winter. Both times were family gatherings. He turned 11 years old on October 2nd. I sent him a video game – like I do every year. I emailed my Brother asking him where I can call Matty on his birthday and he replied to try Matty’s cell. I left a voicemail and have never heard back. I bravely left Jason a voicemail 2 weeks ago to call me. I was calm and warm…I simply said “Please call me when you have a moment”. My Stepsister told me there was a birthday party for Matty the Sunday after his birthday…I was not invited.

So now what? Do I finally forgive Michelle to have Matty back in my life? Do I confront my Brother one last time…balls to the wall…finally speak out loud and strong? What is my goal? To see Matty or is it to get the brother back that I only had for a year? It would be so much easier if I didn’t have him in my life for that one year. I would not feel the loss. You maybe asking yourself why Jason really stopped calling me…was it something more then me being in the hospital? The ONLY thing I can think of is a phone conversation with my Father where I told him that Jason does not call me back and my Father most likely said something to my Brother. That’s it. It doesn't take much for my Brother to check out when life gets too hard. From being afraid to love…because everyone he loves, dies.
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The above was written in Mid October – it took me a few weeks to post...it sat in my documents as it was very painful and I know the writing is not great (trust me…I know!). But the writing process gave me some clarity…..

Update:
I sent an email to both Michelle and Jason (yes…Michelle – his ex-wife). He was either going to respond…or I was going to reconnect with his ex-wife…my old friend. The choice was his…

Jason & Michelle-

Hope you are both doing well. I have been trying to get in touch with Matty since his birthday – via emails and voicemails to Jason and voicemails to Matty’s cell. I have not seen Matty since the family Memorial Day gathering in New Jersey. Matty is very important to me and I am pretty certain I am important to him too. Can you please help me stay connected with your awesome son? It is still hard for me to travel – but I will do whatever I must to see him. All of my weekends are free coming up other than 11/15.

I know things have been strained with each of us individually – for various painful reasons. I am not looking to fight or point fingers – only to move forward for the sake of Matty. We are all good people with lots of hurts. Matty is very loved – by many.

Please let me know how you would like to proceed as his parents. Please also let me know that you have received this email.

Thanks.

Michelle responded within minutes. She started with how much she loves and misses me. We picked a date to get together in the city. I finally saw Matty last Sunday 11/2/08. We had brunch with his Mom and her boyfriend. There were some old patterns from his Mom…like they were 40 minutes late for our reservation…and I didn’t know her boyfriend was coming…but I stayed calm and focused on Matty. It was painful for me to sit across from Michelle - but I now see that my anger towards her is not her fault…rather a default of my anger towards my Brother. We will see each other again soon. My Brother never replied to the email…it was sent 2 weeks ago.

PMDD Hell - In the moment

PMDD – This is ME - in the moment...

I am sitting at work – suffering. PMDD ruins my life for 7 to 10 days of each month. Today it hit hard (at least 7 days to go!!)! I feel like I want to die…or have a hysterectomy. I would never say that lightly – I know how serious that is (I watched many loved ones go through it). I can’t suffer like this anymore. I have not felt this out of control and agitated in a long time. I am extremely weak, light-headed, angry, emotional, anxious, brain fogged (I just tied to leave someone a business voicemail and had a hard time getting my words out). A work friend just called and I started to cry. Another colleague wanted to have a brief meeting – but I know I am too irritated to sit with her. My eyes are glassed over and I am pale. Plus I have terrible lower back pain for about 8 days each month…I feel like I am losing a kidney! Ok, that was a little dramatic - ok, all of this is dramatic...that is what PMDD is like in the moment (Welcome my dear friends, welcome). I am seeing the gyno tomorrow – made them squeeze me in. I also have a blood test in the am from my psychiatrist – for EVERYTHING under the sun. He ordered this before I hit bottom a few days ago. This is my 3rd cycle on Loestrin24 and clearly it is not cutting it. I was on Yaz – and while it seemed to really help with the sever mood swings – my doctor took me off of it due to migraines and lack of a period. I did not get my period for over 7 months. And while she was not really concerned because your period is not real to start with when you are on a pill…she wanted to try something else. I’m dying here people. I have been reading PMDD books. I have lost weight and changed my diet. I am walking more. I take Omega 3s and Calcium which should help with my mood. I went to bed at 9:45pm. I am doing everything I can to combat the beast which is PMDD. It affects my job and everything about me. Feeling like this flashes me back to when I had Serotonin Syndrome or a conflict with my thyroid. I can’t do this anymore! – Keep ya posted…and if you never hear from me again…I have jumped off the PMDD Bridge! Ahhhhhhh!

The Facebook Series - Chapter 2 - Sex!

SEX!

It is 13 years this month since I have had sex. I am saying it out loud. My last impassioned evening was in a LAX motel room – with crunchy sheets and a stained comforter. Talk about hot sex. Yikes. I was 25 years old and out in LA for my Grandma Yetta’s funeral. I had been out there a year earlier to say goodbye to her. My Dad gave me a choice – “You can either see your Grandmother now, while she is still alive or you can come to her funeral, but you can’t do both – I can’t afford it”. The doctors gave my ailing Grandmother only a few weeks to live. I chose to see her alive. My father hated his mother. Grandma Yetta was a manic-depressive – otherwise known as Bipolar. Lucky me – the gene has traveled through the generations and has landed right into my brain. Ugh. Yetta spent most of my Father’s childhood in and out of mental institutions getting electric shock therapy and was quite difficult even in her not-so-golden years. My Dad spent many years living with either his equally as crazy Russian grandmother or living in a cramped apartment in Coney Island with several cousins. My father could afford to travel me back and forth to LA several times if he chose to (I didn’t have my own money at the time – I had just gotten my own apartment and was working at the GAP), he just didn’t know how to handle saying goodbye to his mother. He was angry at her for a life filled with pain and for being a financial burden. My Dad had been taking care of my Grandmother and my Bipolar Aunts since the 70’s.

So, off we went to LA – to say goodbye to Grandma. I barely remember the goodbye…I hadn’t been close with her for several years – the Jewish guilt and yelling at me for not calling was a lot to take. The upside to the trip was seeing Jim. Jim was a high school boyfriend. We had dated for only a few weeks when I was 16 years old – but it was boarding school – so a few weeks in boarding school life was more like a few months at a "normal" school. I was a prude when I was 16 years old. Jim and I would make-out, but nothing further. He never pressured me. I wore his preppy XL sweater almost everyday and loved the smell of his Polo cologne. Jim was heavy and made me feel small. He had the same build as his Dad who was a pro football player…his face was warm and handsome. By mid fall Jim and I were ready for a dramatic break-up. I wanted to dump him, but he was a fragile guy. He had told me once that he always got dumped….so I was waiting for him to make that move. Finally he did. We were standing in front of my white colonial New England dorm. I could hear the girls chatting just up the stairs. He said it was over and I exhaled with relief. I told him I was proud of him and kissed him on the cheek. My first boarding school romance was complete. As I headed up the stairs to my room I could feel the stares from the girls with the preppy blunt bobs. I didn’t understand what they were looking at…was it me…was it all that dramatic….then I turned around and saw it…it wasn’t me they were staring at…it was Jim at the bottom of the stairs making-out with one of my dorm mates. “We didn’t want to tell you, but ummmm – we heard she gave him a blowjob down by the docks”. This was it…the big teen moment that can either make or break your popularity. I had to react perfectly…make a scene, but be in control. Deep down I didn’t even care…but my performance was stellar. “How could you! And with that slut!” I ran past Jim (I couldn’t muster up the tears…but I was good at the furious part). I could feel him chasing me…and just before I would have been out of view of the gathering crowd I turned, bent down, picked up the loose gravel at my feet and threw it at him. “I will never speak to you again, and to think that I was waiting for you to break-up with me! You are a weak loser. I wanted to dump you weeks ago. Grow a pair!” – With that...I gave the gravel one last kick in his direction and walked away.

The next morning the school was a buzz…and I was the feature story. As I walked into the grand halls of our beloved Academic Center I could see crowds around the bulletin boards. As I got closer and leaned in I could see that it was a letter from Jim…to me! Plastered all over the place. He never said my name or his…but the letter started with “Can you please forgive me – don’t believe all of the rumors…” and ended with “Tonight I contemplate suicide”. As I read the last line for a second time my mind slowly started to process what Jim was saying....the hand of Mr. Weeks (as if in slow motion) – reached in front of me and tore the letter from the board. “Wait! That letter is to me!” I didn’t know if I was in trouble - but I did end up in Mr. Weeks’ office sharing the whole story – sans the blowjob detail. Jim was fine and given detention for his overly dramatic stunt. I spent the rest of the year single and proudly not speaking to him…I needed to drag out the drama for the remainder of our Junior year.

Senior year started with a bang. I was hanging out in the butt lounge smoking with the other cool kids. The butt lounge was a desired spot. Back in 1987 you were aloud to smoke on campus in a designated location IF you had a letter from your parents. I had manipulated my parents into signing a release form while they were busy arguing about some stupid crap. Many girls came up to me asking if it was true – did I date Jim last year? I didn’t understand why every girl on campus suddenly cared about chubby Jim…then I saw him…holy crap…he was HOT! Jim spent his summer finding his passion for cycling. His California tan, cut off shorts and flips flops had every girl wagging. I loved the attention and decided I would take control of the situation by picking the perfect girl for Jim…this was fun. I had narrowed it down to 3 – then walked up to Jim and broke our nearly 8 month silence. He was so happy to have me back in his life – he didn’t care what it was about. It went right over his head that he was now a hotty. I finally talked him into to asking out Pam. She was a cute, down-to-earth, cubby PG (Post Graduate) with the most amazing blue eyes. PGs are students that have already graduated from another High School – but need one more year to get their grades up so they can attend a better university. Pam and Jim dated the entire year and even part way through their first 2 years of college! I was a good Yenta.

During their college break-up Jim reached out to me through letters. (This was before email…damn…I’m old!). The letters started off friendly…and soon turned to passion. As the letters heated up – the mix-tapes started to arrive. Jim poured his heart out through words, drawings and music. He went onto to reveal that he wished it was me that he took to the prom – not Pam. The letters were even hilarious at times. The only reason Jim did not pressure me into sex was because I was Jewish! He thought that Jewish girls didn’t have sex – he didn’t get that I was a prude and it had nothing to do with religion…more to do with the fat around my stomach! We started to talk on the phone – by then I had my sexual sea-legs and was ready to call him to the challenge. “Hey Jim, maybe one day we’ll see each other and I’ll fuck your brains out.” We were horny and on opposite coasts. I loved getting letters from him…they made me feel sexy and desired. Suddenly the challenge was upon us…my Grandmother was sick and I was in LA.

Jim and I met in the lobby of the Four Seasons where I was staying with my parents. We headed off in his dirty pick-up truck. Jim was still living at home at the time…so we had nowhere private to go. We parked the blue dented truck on the Pacific Coast Highway and went at it. First the kissing, then the bra, then the rubbing…then…then…the cops. Flashing lights behind us and a speaker “There’s no parking on the PCH”. Oh my GOD! This was out of a movie…I quickly closed my shirt and snapped back into the moment…my Grandmother was dying and I was making out in a nasty pick-up truck with a guy I haven’t seen in 6 years. Yikes. We zipped, snapped, hooked, buttoned and called it a night. I wished him well – and headed up to bed.

My Grandmother lived much longer then the doctor’s expected…a year. By then she was not the only sick one in the family. I had cancer. I had completed chemotherapy and was about to start radiation. Jim and I did not speak much that year…once I got sick…he checked out – as many people did in my life that couldn’t deal. I wanted to attend my Grandmother’s funeral. My father quickly softened and not only flew me out to Cali, but also my brother. I stayed at my Aunt’s apartment and tried to provide her some comfort – even in her deeply depressed state (she was on a Bipolar down swing). My father suggested I stay in California with my Aunt for at least a week. She needed the company and in his words “You deserve a break from being sick”. I took him up on the offer. I also knew this meant I would have a chance to see Jim – and finally make good on our sexual promises.

On my last night in LA Jim picked me up at my Aunt’s assisted living apartment and took me out to dinner. Thai food – his favorite. We had it all planned out this time. We booked a room near the airport so I could catch my early morning flight with no complications. Jim brought all of the romantic accessories - candles, lotion, condoms and massage oil. We took a shower together first…to wash the Thai stink off of us and to calm our nerves. This was the first time we were seeing each other naked. My hair was starting to grow back from Chemo – but it was fuzzy and it was hard for me to feel sexy. I was starting radiation in a few days and it was difficult to focus on the task at hand…getting laid. Jim did everything possible to please me…but with all of the chemo in my system, plus anti-depressants – it was like I was numb down there. It was a long steamy night with little satisfaction for me, but I loved being next to him. I still found him very cute.

Once I arrived back in NY – my treatments started up again – radiation started on Halloween of 1995. The letters from Jim returned to their weekly flow – he no longer feared I was going to die – now that he had seen me – he was able to cope. More mix-tapes…this time his message was clear. He was in love with me. He hoped to marry me someday. I found myself taken back. As much as I cared for Jim…sadly I did not love him. On New Years Eve Jim called to tell me he loved me over the phone…I could not lie…and I told him the truth – “Jim, I’m sorry – I wish I could love you, but I don’t”. Jim was devastated. I was relieved. He stopped calling and the letters stopped as well. We lost touch.

I have dated less then a handful of guys since cancer – 13 years ago. At first I was self conscious about my scars and my weight. I gained a lot of weight during chemo (not everyone becomes a sickly rail – my luck - I added 30 pounds and was topping 200 lbs). I started to fear the idea of being touched. The antidepressants in my life killed my libido – and eventually I didn’t care anymore. Masturbation was also a rarity.

At one point in my life I wanted kids…but now I am glad that I don’t have any. I used to say it would be nice to be in the game so I at least had the option of having children…or at least falling in love. Now – no matter what – don’t want them. It is time to stop passing the Bipolar gene in my family. Battling mental illness for the past 5 years – like my Aunts and Grandmother before me has been hell. I do hope to care enough to have sex again someday. At this moment it is about baby steps. I first need to start socializing with my friends again…and maybe it is time to buy a new vibrator. (smirk)

As for Jim – we reconnected on Facebook a few months ago. He was in a long-term relationship with a very controlling and abusive older woman. Pam gave me the details via email. Today is his 39th birthday. He is living with his parents and works as a fair grounds security guard. A few nights a week he is a Reggae DJ – which is his passion. We could not be more different. He sends me cyber hugs and pokes on Facebook almost weekly and I can feel him longing for me…he is lonely. I have no interest…I am embarrassed of my current mental state and can’t imagine myself with a security guard who smokes pot daily. He is warm and wounded – and I am shallow, single and bitter. I still have every letter Jim ever sent me – tied up in a bow in a box on a shelf…just like my sex life - maybe to be taken down someday and touched…

The Facebook Series Chapter I - Part II (Childhood Friend)

(Please read Part I – dated September 28, 2008)

December 1994, I had finally moved out of my parent’s apartment and I was living with a random French girl, Sofie, whom I met through an ad in the Village Voice. The apartment was tiny, but at least I had a cool exposed brick wall in my bedroom. My Ikea fashioned room was always hot…so hot that I had my radar removed by the Super. I would wake-up drenched every night. I would wander around the apartment opening every window to let the winter air in. It drove my roommate crazy. I was working at the GAP, but not on the floor. I was more “corporate”, but don’t really remember what my title was at the time. They kept trying to suck me into the GAP culture as a manager, but I was certain that I would leave soon and either return to film school (that I had recently dropped out of)…or land a job in television or talent representation.

Audrey and I spoke a few times a week and I had even made trips out to New Jersey to visit her. It was weird being back in her home, the same smells, the same bedroom, the same view of my old house and my Mom’s sewing room. I was depressed during that time. Actually, severely depressed. I recall missing a few days work (maybe even a week)…I just couldn’t get out of bed. One night I pushed myself to get out of the house (it was just before Christmas)… a childhood friend and his older brother were visiting from Boston. We were neighbors in Cape Cod where we had a family summer home for 20 years. It was an odd night with crazy details for another story. The most important detail of that night was that I had a terrible cold and seriously swollen glands. So swollen that I could see a lump protruding from the left side of my neck. I starred at my neck in the bathroom mirror in the restaurant for about 20 minutes. When I got home that night my roommate was still up and her Mother, who was a Doctor, was visiting from France. I asked her to check my neck and Sofie did all of the translating for us. Her Mother told me (in French) that it was nothing, just a swollen gland from the cold and not to worry. I was not a fan of Doctors, most likely because of my Mother’s death and fear of illness, so I avoided them whenever possible. My only concern at that time was that my family was going on a big vacation to Mexico to celebrate my Father’s 60th birthday and I didn’t want to get an earache on the plane. The next day I showed up at work and immediately called the Doctor. When I asked my boss to leave for a few hours she was pissed. Again, I had been missing a lot of work. She told me there was no coverage and if I left, I would be fired. I made several calls and found someone to come in. She was still threatening me, but I left anyway. I must have known that something was truly wrong – to risk my job over a swollen gland just so I could be healthy for Mexico - well it wasn’t really my style.

I had not seen Dr. Gersh in quite some time. He saved my Dad’s life a few years earlier – so I felt like I was in goods hands – it was comforting to see his face, but I was still nervous being in a doctor’s office. The space was getting old and dingy - but still had that prestigious uptown address. It was a quick exam. I pretty much just told him I had a bad cold and was going to need something for my congestion, especially on the plane. He is usually so thorough, but I think he got distracted as I talked about my Dad’s upcoming 60th and how grateful I was to him. He told me to take some Sudafed on the plane and I should be fine. As I was hoping off the table, I said “Oh, I forgot to tell you I also have this really swollen gland”. He felt my neck and quickly changed his tone. “We need to get a blood test, some urine, a chest x-ray and a possible biopsy…use this cup”. Then he left exam room. I stood there in my paper gown shivering, confused, concerned, and lonely. Suddenly I felt very grown up. After I got dressed I went into Dr. Gersh’s cozy dim office. I had never been so direct and mature. “Dr. Gersh? What are your fears and concerns?” My voice was very grounded. He paused and searched my face to see if I could take it, “I believe you have Hodgkin’s or Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.” I sat down. I told him about Audrey. I knew that Hodgkin’s was the “good cancer” and Non-Hodgkin’s was the “bad cancer”. It all made sense, the depression was a side-effect of the cancer, so were the night sweats.




The next few days were a whirlwind not just for me, but for everyone around me…especially my Dad. I had cancer. The details of this time will all be revealed at another time on this blog…but this my dear friends is The Facebook series…so back to the tale at hand. I called Audrey that night and told her the news. “Audrey, I think we need to go on Oprah.” That’s how I found the way to break the news to her. It was way earlier in my diagnosis – it was still just a lump, but my doctor was SO certain that I had some form of cancer and unfortunately he would be right. Audrey and I had the same disease, the same stage, the same everything. We went through it together. Our roles flopped again, now she was the Mother / advisor. She went through everything 4 months ahead of me. We actually went wig shopping together. 24 and 25 years old. Wig shopping.

I truly thought that cancer would change Audrey. That she would become less self-absorbed. We maintained the friendship for about a year. As Audrey healed and her hair began to grow back she decided she wanted to become a make-up artist and a model. I was still going through my battle, but since I had taken photography in film school I offered to do some test shots of her for a comp card. She quickly got signed to an agency in New Jersey (wasn’t quite NY fashion ready). Her agent actually loved my work and offered to hire me as one of their test photographers. I told them when I was healthy I would give them a call. I never did…but that was pretty exciting. A good friend of mine, who was a well known New York musician, was prepping for his own photo shoot and needed a make-up artist. I got Audrey the job. On the set she yelled at me in front of my friend a number of times. My friend who never gets involved with girl drama told me that he could not believe the way she was speaking to me. She was back to her bossy spoiled ways and I wanted no part of it – we had been through too much. That night when I confronted her over the phone, with my usual tears, she yelled at me and told me to get over it. That I was too sensitive. The disagreement got nasty. We both said some pretty hurtful things…that I don’t even remember today. We NEVER spoke again. I guess we just needed each other during that time, but both knew it wasn’t meant to be. That was over 13 years ago.

Over the years I kept tabs on Audrey through my Aunt B, just wanted to make sure she was healthy. I even saw her on the street once. I ducked to the other side of the street. She was working in the beauty industry and was wearing way too much make-up, but she looked healthy. Her hair was long again, and she was still beautiful.

About 5 weeks ago I started to reconnect with the few friends I had from my hometown on Facebook. I didn’t even bother to type in her name. But I did find Elana. I sat there starring at the computer screen. To friend or not to friend….. Did I want to open up that can of worms? Who did Elana grow up to be? I felt so guilty for the way I treated her all of those years. Finally I clicked and made the friend request. She replied within minutes. She was so excited. So sweet. When I opened her page I found a link to her personal website. I could not believe what I was seeing! There was Elana’s homepage, and there she was…bald. She had cancer. 38 years old and battling breast cancer. My eyes filled up with tears and I yelled out loud “No, No NO!” How could it be that 3 out of the 4 little girls that played together almost everyday had cancer in their 20’s and 30’s? I was angry. I was afraid for Elana. I worried about Katie! Elana and I have been in touch via Facebook and several emails. We don’t think our cancers are related. She is the 3rd generation on her Mother’s side to have breast cancer – but by far the youngest. We do believe that Audrey’s and my cancer are linked. There was a girl across the street from us and few years older that had Hodgkin’s disease as well. Elana is doing more research on this. She will be in the NY area over Thanksgiving and I plan on seeing her. She doesn’t remember anyone being mean to her as a child. She has either blocked it out or is too embarrassed to share otherwise, but I did say I am sorry.

The PMS Plung!

What the frig?!? I was doing great. I was happy. Conquering my fears of the subway with a smile. Then the hormones started to brew. Last night after my CBT session I hopped a subway - knowing full well that I was on edge from lack of sleep and PMS. It was just too much. The train was moving too fast. My heart was racing. It was packed and I had to hold on with both hands and just breathe. My ipod was too loud. Then too soft. The music was too fast, then too mellow. Nothing was right. I wanted to jump from the train..."just get to my stop already. Oh come on already, ok, ok...you're gonna be ok". Finally the train stops...but I need to transfer...not there yet. Through the packed Times Square Station at rush hour. Panic attack. keep moving...

I have been suffering from PMDD for over 2 years now. I have been on YAZ and I am now on Loestrin24. Now, I don't want to send my male blog readers running for the hills. "Ahhhh, she said vagina!" - ok, no. Get over it...this is about being bipolar and at times...yes, being a chick. Oops. This is also about a downward spiral that is out of my control. I get very sick each month - sick in the mental sense. PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder) is what it says - DISPHORIA! Learn about it here: http://pmdd.factsforhealth.org/
I completely lose it each month! I can't function. Some months it is for 10 days! This month so far it has been 4 days - 2 have been really bad. My psychiatrist does not want me on "the pill" for my PMDD - he feels that hormones should not be messed with. I have tried to go without it and it was a disaster. My gyno wants me on the pill - they never seem to agree. So I am trying Loestrin24. My guess is that I will suffer around 6 days this month. That is better then 10. I feel like I don't know where to turn. Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.

The Know You're Bipolar When....

You know you're bipolar or PMS when The Hills makes you cry. What is that?!?!

The Facebook Series Chapter 1 – Part I

If you are apart of the Facebook culture then you have experienced the exciting reunions with old classmates, neighborhood pals and perhaps former lovers. You may have also gotten the awkward friend request from someone you don’t want back in your life. This new culture has unearthed both the good and bad in relationship etiquette. Now, I am sure I am not the first person to chitter chat about this new culture on their blog, but many of my reconnections have been extreme tales - stay with me here...I know the first tale is long, but trust me it is a doozy. I will break it into a 2 parter. I have seen this exciting revolution bring me to the brink of absolute giddiness over random reconnections and it has also brought out the painful sorrow of deep down guilt. Here's one of those connections.



PART 1 (of 2)

I will start with my childhood next door neighbor. Ah, but which one....that mystery will unfold as we go. My hometown is 35 minutes outside of New York City. It's an idealistic New Jersey community with tons of ethnic and economic diversity, yet most of my block was Jewish. It’s the kind of town that doesn’t have a “downtown”, but rather a “Village”. My block was stunning and trimmed with real gas street lamps, it still is. (It is now known as the Historic District, which cracks me up). I was lucky to have 4 best friends on my block. 3 of us were the same age and one was 1 year older. Our colonel houses were in a row. It could not have been more perfect. We didn’t even need to cross the street to play. We could run from yard to yard with no interference. We even managed to create the world's sweetest Slip-n-Slide you have ever seen....yard to yard! For the sake of my own privacy (I won’t pretend it is for them) I will be using fictional names. The girl in house number 1 was the oldest, the tallest, the prettiest, the bossiest, a bit of a snob and my best-friend, Audrey. She had silky brown hair that flowed to her butt. It was the 70's and that was cool! The next house was me, short, artsy and very sensitive. I was a "natural" auburn back then with big brown eyes and freakles. The third house was Elana, spoiled, chubby and had the best toys. She also had great clothes. The last house was Katie, she was a bit of a book worm with a strict mother that scared the shit out of us, so we didn’t play with her as often. Audrey and I were by far the closest. My Mother died when I was 6 years old and just starting the first grade. Audrey, at only 7 years old, tried to take on the role of Mother. It was more then your average game of "house". I had a loving house-keeper at that time, but I remember Audrey making me oatmeal for breakfast and walking to school with me. I can’t image what that must have been like for her…watching your best-friend’s Mother die at such a young age…it must have been a terrifying reality.

Whenever we would play with Elana it would be fun…but we were mean. We would always leave a mess behind in Elana’s house so that she would get in trouble and we honestly just used her for her toys. I also remember us calling her names. Looking back I must have been hurting so much from the death of my Mom, that I took it out on my poor neighbor to the left. As we got older and our bodies changed – we got meaner. We toilet papered her house and made prank phone calls late at night. When I was alone with Elana I actually liked her…and we would have a blast (I think these moments are what Elana chooses to remember today). We liked many of the same things; we loved to sing together, ride bikes in her driveway and make-up dance routines. I just felt like I had to keep it a secret…she was the loser of the block…the kid that got bullied, and sadly, I was one of those bullies. I moved from that block when I was 11 years old. My Dad was getting remarried and we needed a bigger house since our family was doubling in size. The new house was in an affluent part of town “up the hill”. I did not hang out with those girls again and I eventually went off to boarding school a few years later.

I saw Audrey a handful of times over the years. Our Father’s played poker together every Monday night for almost 40 years and when the Jewish High Holidays rolled around there was always a chance I would see her at Yom Kipper Break Fast over a bagel with lox. Those poker guys were more like Uncles - so "family" holidays were often spent with the same cast of characters. I miss those guys today - a few have since passed away. When I would see Audrey at these holiday events it was usually awkward. I would linger in another room until we were forced to cross paths. When I moved away – she was hurt. I was getting a step-sister and that’s a role that she had always played – or wanted to. She didn’t know her place anymore and as much as we wanted to maintain the friendship, she was a year older, into being popular and a bit of a J.A.P. – it just wasn’t a fit. I always found her to be self absorbed and at times down right mean. We went to the same middle school and we did acknowledge each other in the halls with a slight nod. She was also in the same grade as my step-sister – that was just weird. We eventually stopped speaking to each other. There was no big blowout fight, it was just too hard. I would see Elana in school, but we were in different cliques, actually I’m not sure Elana had any friends. Katie went to private school in another town.

About 11 years later I was 24 years old and living with my parents in Soho (they moved out of New Jersey when all of their kids finished school). I was about to move into my own apartment on 29th street…but trust me, I didn’t want to go. I was living rent free and it was the most fabulous apartment in NYC. It was a Monday night…poker night. My Dad still made the trip to New Jersey for the weekly game. The same group of guys. Like any other Monday my Dad would get home around mid-night. It was always the same routine, he would say goodnight as he passed the lower level den and head off to bed. On that night he walked past, said goodnight and headed up the stairs…but turned around with news to share. “I have sad news about your old friend Audrey”. A shiver went through my entire body. I had a dream about Audrey the night before. I had not thought about her for years. In my dream we were in our childhood houses. My Mother’s sewing room faced Audrey’s bedroom window about 50 yards away. We were our adult selves…the dream was like a silent movie. I was trying to reach out to Audrey’s hand, but I could not touch it. “She doesn’t want anyone to know, but she has cancer”, my Dad said, “So, don’t reach out to her”. He actually said those words “don’t reach out to her”. I was completely freaked out. I told my Dad about my dream through tears and we agreed that I had to reconnect with Audrey. I was afraid for her. The next day I called my Aunt B. – she was best friends with Audrey’s Mother and she would tell me what to do. She immediately gave me the green light and said that Audrey just needed a friend right now.

Audrey and I were fine, we picked up like we were 10 years old again. She was terrified and it was my turn to be the Mother. She had Hodgkin’s Disease – stage 2b. As we caught up on our lives it turned out that we were on a similar career path in the entertainment industry. Although she wanted to be a writer she had just left her job as an assistant with a Talent Manager in the New York. I had interviewed for HER job just a few weeks earlier – not realizing at that time that it was her job. I recalled the manager saying that her assistant “Audrey” was leaving to work for Howard Stern. I was offered the position, but the hours conflicted with my schedule in film school. Audrey and I chatted for about 3 hours that night. She was starting chemo the next day and just needed to talk it out. She was 25 years old, back living with her parents…and very sick. I asked her if she was going to write about her journey with cancer since she was an aspiring writer, but she said it was too painful to put down in words. That night when we hung up the phone I started a journal for her. I have no idea where that journal is now…but I remember my first entry very well, “Audrey is starting chemo tomorrow, God I am so afraid for her, I would rather die then go through something like that.” Those words would come back to smack me in the face about 4 months later....


(End of Part I - The Facebook Series)
Stay tuned to find out who in this tale I reconnect with. Does Audrey survive? Why would my words come back to haunt me? Whatever happened to the girl we bullied?....

I can bust a move!

Another good day. I seem to be the 48 hour subway queen and still riding strong baby.

Tonight's tale is brought to you by Cracker Barrel & Gallo wines.
This evening we had a rare work gathering over some cheap wine and cheese (note the not-so-witty Cracker Barrel reference). The head of our department was in New York from LA and we were in need of some serious departmental bonding. Well - she brought along a little surprise guest with her (to rattle the nerves of every intern and assistant in the room) - the President of our extremely large and public media corporation. There were about 20 people in the room - so it was quite intimate and there was nowhere to hide. I saw many 23 year olds sweating and one side of the room cleared just to make room for her. (I must note that she had the most fabulous shoes on). We were asked to go around the room and say who we are...what we do...and one thing about ourselves that people would be surprised to know. My manic brain suddenly popped up the most random thing imaginable...something my parents don't even know. I don't even know how my brain filtered this particular segment of my life and I was already laughing when I shouted out that I HAD to go first! I built up the suspension...I told them that NO ONE knows this...not my family, not my best friends....not even my shrink (you know that got a big laugh)...
(Oh Manic Blogger would you friggen tell us already?!?!). I (my dear friends) - was in a break dance crew in 1983. To know me now....well you would die. I am 230 lbs, Jewish and have the biggest tits you have ever seen. I painted the visual and talked about my signature moves...the robot and the worm. I was only upstaged by one woman who has half a sewing needle stuck in her knee and it will be there for the rest of her life. Damn needle injury will win every time. Bitch.