Elephants and Progress

I apologize for my absence in the past month. I will admit that while I am a good writer (or so my ego tells me), I actually dislike writing. I want to share things with you, but I find it hard to bring myself to do so. I will try harder in the future to post at least twice a week, for both my own theraputic sake and the benefit of my readers. (Also, please excuse any typos today, I have a big bandage on my middle finger from a sewing machine incident.)
I would like to talk about my progress. I will say that it is most important for me, than for anyone else, to recognize the progress I have made with my condition in the past year. My therapists, my family, and my friends may see progress, but I will not believe it until I personally see and feel it. And finally, I accept that I do, and I would like to share that with you.

Almost precisely on year ago, I graduated from college with a 3.7 gpa and an overwhelming depression that I was not yet ready to admit to. I came home and spent six months baking bread at a sandwich shop. For the time, it fulfilled my needs; I was on my own the whole time, basically set my own hours, and I could listen to my iPod while I worked. No coworker interaction necessary. That was the end of June. By the end of December, I could hear my coworkers' sniffles through my headphones, despite the 20 foot separation between us. I quit just before New Year's, with the intention of finally finding an occupational therapist, and maybe get some sewing done. Predictably, that isn't exactly what happened.

After months of searching, and extensive help from my talk therapist from high school, I finally found an OT who was even willing to accept a client older than the age of 20 (this was in January). Most of them deal with children only, but Kim was willing to take a chance on me. After three or four sessions, I was unhappy. I felt like we were simply talking and not moving toward any real treatment. I tried craniosacral therapy and the Willbarger brush, with absolutely no effect.  Kim sensed my dissatisfaction and came up with a new approach: obstacle courses.

In the clinic that I go to, there is a room in the back that has a steel grid across the ceiling to support whatever you may want supported by a carabiner and a daisy chain. It's fantastic. There are things to climb on, climb to, flop on, and slide down. It makes me feel like a kid again! It's a playground and a therapy room at the same time. Kim had me climbing from one swing to another swing to a suspended log to a suspended tire, and more. I was exhilerated and exhausted at the end of our sessions, but it got me moving, which I previously had not been doing, at all. I had been a couch potato. Kim encouraged me to take a short walk every day (no small feat in WI winter), and I tried to hold to that, to get moving, to do something other than sit on the couch and watch TV every day. It was rather brutal, I will admit, but it was the start. My mom always used to say, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time." So I started taking one small bite, and then another, and then another.

Kim actually had to give me a "tough love" speech after about a month. She told me that while the clinic was there for me if I needed help, and that they were a resource to guide me through this tough time, I had to do the work myself. I had been dragging my feet, completely unmotivated, and her chat with me that day had an enormous impact. I started making even the smallest of goals, like "I'm going to visit the YMCA by March." (I made it by the middle of February!) I had to learn to make small goals, and take small bites of the elephant, before I could take on the big issues, like housing and a job. I still haven't conquered those two, but I have hope now. I didn't before. By December, I had lost all hope of a vaguely normal existence, and today I truly believe that I can. I do expect more difficulties to come, but I believe that I can face them, and overcome them. Kim helped me realize that the small accomplisments DO matter, and sometimes focusing on the smaller picture can help you work toward the bigger picture. Through therapy and friendship, my OT Kim has helped me probably more than she can possibly realize.

Along with obstacle courses, my therapist suggested craniosacral therapy, The Listening Program, and yoga. While craniosacral therapy works wonders for some, it didn't seem to seem to do much for me. The Listening Program was a little helpful and helped me de-stress on occasion, but no fireworks. However, yoga has been my lifesaver. In the beginning, and still now, I go to an hour and a half session twice a week, and I started in mid-January. In the beginning, I took private lessons. I was too wound up about the possibility of another person in class making a noise that I wouldn't be able to handle, while I was trying to focus on my body positioning. Therefore, I took private lessons, and my instructor was wonderful. She is an accepting, non-judgemental person with a very positive attitude towards everything. Perhaps due to her wide perspective and open personality, she reminds me of my mom, which makes me very comfortable around her. After about two months of classes, she asked if I was willing to try having another person in the class, someone I was comfortable with. She suggested my OT, but instead I invited my mom to come to class with me. I had known that she didn't know much about my therapy, yet was being very patient with me, and I extended an invitation knowing that she would see it as I did: an invitation into my world, a chance to be with me while I attempted recovery. She was also interested in yoga, and we had taken a class together when I was in early high school (when my symptoms weren't as bad), so I suspected that she would accept. She came to several sessions with me, and still occasionally does, but it opened the door for me.

Not too long after that, my instructed suggested I try a group class. Since the beginning, she had been offering that as an ultimate goal, but at that point I had been too scared and too closed off to even consider it. When she suggested it again after a few months, I thought I ought to give it a shot. I couldn't have imagined such a change in attitude in such a short time. The class has 2-4 women, plus my instructor, twice a week, and I've been attending group sessions at least once a week for the past month. I am astonished that something I imagined as impossible 6 months ago would now be part of my regular routine.

I had class today, and I got farther into the splits position than ever before, and I did a handstand against the wall with only minor assistance. These are not things we do all the time in yoga, but they illustrate my progress in my practice. I was terrified of trying a handstand a year ago, in any form, and the splits were not even a remote possibility. Now, instead of disliking the Warrior series, I enjoy the challenge of 2 and 3, and am still working on 1. (For those of you who know anything about yoga.) I have become aware of and comfortable with my body, its movements, and its positions, and have gained strength I didn't know I had, both physically and mentally. I view my physical progress in yoga as a reflection of my mental progress in both yoga and therapy. I can now calm myself with breathing techniques, and I haven't felt this good in years.

Not only that, I went to the grocery store today. Not a big deal for most people, but I generally avoid it. I only ran in and out today, but I didn't put my earplugs in, even when waiting in line, and the same at PetCo yesterday. This is enormous progress for me. I must realize that even though they each may be baby steps, I am taking another small bite out of the elephant, and eventually, I will eat it all. I may never be cured, but I can function, and I must remember to count my blessings.

For instance, my mother. I could never thank her enough for the support she has given me over the years. She has always believed me, even when I was 13 and despite my mild symptoms, she believed my claims that something just wasn't quite right. She has always been looking and searching for answers, and indeed it was a book she purchased that gave us the answer we were looking for, almost 10 years after I knew I was different. Through my lowest points, which involved smashing a few pieces of small furniture in my bedroom, she has been right beside me, and not in my wildest dreams could I have imagined a better mother. She would (and has) gone to the ends of the earth for me, and unfortunately I don't tell her enough how much she truly means to me.

Today, I am thankful. I spent a little yet quality time with my beloved mother, I made progress in yoga, and I went to the grocery store. I worked on my current sewing project, played with my cat, and greeted my brother who is visiting from college. I did things any normal person would and can do, and my world is still expanding. I can be nothing but thankful.

The Normal One

I was wandering through Barnes & Noble one day about a year ago, and I meandered into the psychological/mental health section. I wanted to see if I could find anything for myself; alas, they didn't even carry Too Loud, Too Tight, Too Fast, Too Bright, which is pretty much the only adult SPD book that I have ever been able to find. As I was perusing the shelves, I saw a book called The Normal One. The author grew up with a mentally ill sibling, and as such, was labeled "the normal child." That was the first time I realized how much my condition may have affected my brother.

He is two and half years younger than I am, and as I grew, my problems arose, and my family dealt with it the best they could, since we weren't to find the answers for 9 years after my symptoms arose, and another 4 years until I was properly treated. My family tried to be accomodating, and for that I am eternally grateful.

My mom went on a quest for the answer. My dad understood something was wrong, and tried to work around it. I talked to my mom frequently about it, and I used to butt heads with my dad all through adolescence, and still now from time to time, but I believe that is because we have such similar personalities, and had nothing to do with my sensitivities.

My brother, however, didn't really know what was going on. If I asked him to please blow his nose, he would, no questions asked. Our 2nd floor has three bedrooms and a bathroom with two sinks and plenty of storage space; it was intended to be for Mike and me. After about three months, I basically kicked him out of the bathroom. I couldn't handle getting ready for school in the morning with him in the bathroom with me, washing his face and brushing his teeth and doing other perfectly normal morning hygiene activities. It drove me batty, and after my freaking out a couple of times, he started using the basement bathroom. Shortly thereafter, he moved into the basement bedroom too, so he didn't have to use two flights of stairs just to get ready in the morning. I didn't want to evict him from the bathroom, but in the morning I am especially sensitive, and we would even eat breakfast separately.

My "den" as I call it, my TV, computer, and sewing room, is called the bonus room because it is directly above the garage. This means it is right next to the driveway, where my athletic brother wished to play basketball during the warm months. The repetitive bouncing of the basketball was all I could hear, and I couldn't "tune it out" like everyone told me to. It happened almost daily, and I know on many occasions I stuck my head out the window and screamed at him, sometimes escalating to profanity. He would yell back, and eventually we had to work out a system that he could play ball for a few hours a day, during which I would hide somewhere else in the house.

He took all of the crap I threw his way, and accepted that it was part of who I was, even if he didn't understand why I was behaving so. To this day, he has never mocked me or teased me (well, about my sensitivities, anyway), which I took advantage of, and it wasn't until recently did I really appreciate that about him. Many siblings could have been cruel about it, as many of my classmates were, but the worst he ever teased me about was my haircut or the guy I was dating, which is normal sibling behavior, in my opinion. Around the time I started high school, we started to drift apart. As children, we played together all the time with dinosaurs, Thomas the Tank Engine, board games, and baseball in the summer, etc. For the past few years, I have been wishing that we were closer, and I know that our distance is personality related. He is an athlete, a football player, and my passions have always been craft related, and then I went into theatre. We live in two different worlds. But that doesn't mean we can't be friends, and I realized that if I wanted a closer relationship with my brother, I should initiate it.

Through my treatment, I've improved to a mental stability to share my condition with others. I used to be extremely prideful, hiding it from everyone. In the past week, I have posted many things on Facebook about SPD, including the simple admission that I have it, which may have been the hardest step. I also shared this blog on Facebook. I have had many discussions with my mom and my best friend about my sensitivities, and one or two with my dad, but I realized that I have never talked to Mike about it. The other night he came up to my den (I owed him $5), and when he came up, I talked to him. He sat and listened for a half an hour while I explained my condition to him, how it affects me, and my recent progress. We discussed the growing up, and the concept of his being "the normal one." He was an exceptional listener, and told me that he never felt that way; that I received more attention due to my issues than he did. He said he had always thought of my as just a bit quirky, and the reason we never would hang out was simply that we are two very different people, with which I agreed. He listened intently as I told him about this blog, and how already people from across the world were talking to me through this platform, and he thought that was incredible. I apologized for any hardship me and my condition may have caused him over the years, and he said he didn't think I had anything to apologize for.

Talking about your condition with those around you is important. I learned the hard way that while talking about it may result in confusion, lack of understanding, and sometimes mocking, but I also learned that not talking about it was nearly as destructive. It eats away at you inside, and it can be tremendously hard on your loved ones. Talking about it not only informs them, and may make your life easier. Sometimes, it means you are one step closer to a friendship with a distant sibling. Regardless, talking to my brother, and having him accept me for who I am and what I have, was so reassuring and comforting. My immediate family is so important to me, and I wanted him to know that. I love you, Mike.