On Faith

Wow are there days when my faith is tested. Let me just say here at the beginning that my scriptures are a set of my best friends. They are well worn, marked, cross referenced, wrinkled, full of various bookmarks, and filled with things I love that make me feel enlightened, peaceful, and full of hope. Ok. So you get where I am starting from.

--If you're not religious or don't believe in God or a higher power or whatever, that's cool. You may or may not want to continue reading my rambling thoughts.--

The last 30 days have been difficult for me. The last week has been a sob fest in more ways than one.

I get snippets of happiness now and then, but they are fleeting. My mind is an emotional beach, the wet sand under my toes a source of peace and joy. Then the surf rolls in and pulls the sand out from under my feet and I am helpless to stop it.

When it comes to dealing with the emotional ups, downs, ins and outs, I go through various stages:

* I can feel God with me, loving me and helping me through.
* I don't understand what I'm supposed to be learning from this, but plead for help anyway.
* I try to be patient and get through the days, looking for things to be grateful for and laugh about in a world that seems gray and dreary.
* I get angry and frustrated, and instead of just talking to God, I yell and cry and demand that He fix me. I know He can, I just don't understand why He won't. What more does He want from me???

There are days when I can feel the Spirit walking me through life because I can't do it myself. And then there are days I am so angry that I couldn't hear God if he was in the same room with me and yelling back. On days like those, I find myself thinking, "Well, I'm in hell now, I might as well be prepared to be there when I die, because this is too hard."

My mother would be so ashamed to hear me admit this. It's hard to admit this out loud, but it's the truth. And on those days when I just don't want to hear Him, when I curl up and sleep or stare at the wall because I just can't make myself read my scriptures or get on my knees to pray, those are the days I get small miracles.

There is a sweet Jehovah's Witness woman who comes around once a month. She has the best smile. I swear this woman is an angel in the guise of a woman. She stops at the door, checks on how I'm feeling, apologizes if she's woken me up, and then says she'll come back at a different time if that's better for me. But she's already there, and I always ask her what her message for the day is. She gives me this sweet, loving smile, and shares a scripture and thought with me. Her bible is different than mine in its verbiage, but the message and the spirit are the same.  It doesn't matter what scripture she chooses or which thought she shares, it's always what I need to hear.

On days that I just don't believe that I'm loved anymore, an angel shows up in one form or another and says, "Yes you are. Don't give up yet."

Even though I get angry, petulant, pouty, grumpy, and throw tantrums, somehow it's still ok. Even though it's not, it is.

What does all this have to do with faith? I think it boils down to: Faith doesn't mean God will fix me. It means that I understand He's there, no matter how bad it gets. And He understands. I absolutely, totally, firmly believe that He understands my illness. That if it gets so bad that the illness wins and takes me, that He understands that, too.

I may not always be able to feel Him with me, but that doesn't mean He's not there.  That is my definition of faith.

-- Let me just add... this doesn't mean I don't 'kick against the pricks' or struggle with basic commandments. Oh I'm so far from perfect... There are days when I'm so angry that I want to go break every covenant I've ever made, just because I can. Just to say, "So there!" Not that it would accomplish anything but cause me pain, but honestly there are days that I believe that's all I deserve. So please don't come away from reading this post thinking that I feel like I'm somehow... I dunno... perfect, or above, or more blessed, or 'better than' or whatever. I'm just me, struggling through life as best I know how, given the tools I have at hand. And one of those tools is the belief that I am not alone in this fight. --

Success vs Failure

I have been trying to figure out how one measures success.  I feel like a failure so often that when I step outside myself and look at my life, I have to wonder what I can say I succeed at. And by what measuring stick do I check?

As a working mom/wife, I climbed that corporate ladder. I was good at it. Probably going to sound vain here, but if I put my mind to it, I learned quickly and became very good at what I did. I made twice as much as my husband. And I hated it. Ok... I loved the travel when I worked for Marriott. AND the travel when I worked for the cable company. But aside from the travel, I really hated it. So is that a success? I'm not sure.

Not Alone

The last few months have been full of ups and downs - ha, surprising, I know. More downs than ups, but I guess that's to be expected, all things considered.

Once a week on Sunday afternoons I go to a friends house and we play board games, D n D, or just watch movies. But mostly, we laugh. There are no kids running around, no loud pressing groups of people to set off the social anxiety, no loud noises, just fun with a few people I love, and lots of laughter. I usually end up going home feeling recharged and ready to face the week.

Last week was not one of my better weeks, though, in spite of all the things I do to try to cope with the down days. One of the days I was pretty sure I was going to have to walk myself across the street and check myself back into the psyche ward because I could feel myself slipping.

That "I just can't do this anymore. I don't want to do this anymore. I'm done." feeling. Perhaps you know this feeling. I think everyone knows this feeling. The danger when I feel that is that it's two steps from "Ok then, end it, already." And I can't do that. I'm not allowed. I'm needed.

So instead, I call my psychiatrist and say, "Hey, my meds need to be adjusted, because I can't talk myself out of this slide, and I feel like I'm going to be a danger to myself really soon." And then I wait until he calls me back. If it's a day where he's working the floor at his hospital, which it was last week, I end up waiting a while. If it's a long wait and I feel it getting worse, I then call a friend or sister-in-law, arrange for the kids to be taken, tell the hubster to take me out to a movie, anything, I don't care what we see, I just need to get out of my head for a while, and then take a xanex to sedate my brain enough to wait for the change in meds. Because I have help, I have people who love me, I can do this.

It can't be easy for the people who live with me to deal with my ups and downs. My mood swings that go from exuberant and excited tail-wagging puppy to curl up in bed and not move because I suck, I suck, I suck. Yet they do. I've discussed it with my kids and they try to understand. My eight year old understands the anxiety more than she understands the depression, but she is the sweetest little thing on my bad days.

Today my cousin linked a blog entry that I found touching. Robin Merrill Kramer's blog entry about dealing with her husband's ups and downs. And while I'm not on her side of the fence, my husband and kids are. And I admire her viewpoint and strength as much as I admire the folks suffering with mental illness who continue to fight the fight.

I have to admit, though. It's so nice to know I'm not alone in this fight. I know there are people who don't understand. My mother is one of them. She just doesn't get it, or understand why I won't stand up in church and do a flute duet with her now, or why I curl up and hide in bed when the kids are being normal kids and laughing and being loud and it triggers the anxiety. And that's ok. I'm glad she doesn't understand.

But there are people who do get it. There are people who live it. There are people who care, who pray, who hug and hold and don't judge me if I have to leave church early or if I can't make it at all. Who understand that I can't do the things I did a couple of years ago. Who step up and help and are angels.

Oh, it's such a relief to know I'm not alone.

Christmas at my house

I felt I needed to share how Christmas turned out. I will forget if I don't.

I couldn't do this Christmas by myself, so all of my big kids helped while I directed traffic.

Those who know me, know that I reaaaaaalllly don't like holidays. With the anxiety, it's even worse. BUT, I've discovered that if I turn Christmas into a game, it's not about the presents, it's about the fun with family. This year, though, I really wasn't sure how to do that. But we had a theme: Monsters.


On Christmas Eve, we had some surprise visits. Santa Claus showed up at our door and delivered presents to the kids. My husband and I about had heart attacks. Completely unexpected. And then another secret santa came and left several bags of presents on our door step. I have no idea how to express what a blessing that was. It was wonderful, and I am extremely grateful for it.

Ok, so here's what happened Christmas Eve night:

I put Daughter A's husband in charge of sorting presents into piles. One pile for each person, family presents to be put in mom or dad's pile.


I put Daughter B's boyfriend in charge of finding most of her small presents and taping them to the ceiling and walls throughout the house.

Daughter A, B, and C sat at the table and made monster footprints, eyes, and teeth. And a misspelled sign that said "Monsters in Trayning Came and Played with your Presents. Go Find Mom and DAD!!!"  - it was more misspelled, and quite cute, but I can't remember now exactly how it worked.

We had all the little kids sleep in the main room in the basement so the monsters could hide presents in their closets.

There were eyes and teeth on the dishwasher, laundry washer, and dryer. There were footprints on the walls, floors, and even ceilings.

Son-in-law separated gifts for the various closets and locations chosen for the monsters to have dropped or played with the presents. Boyfriend took extra presents that didn't fit evenly into the hiding places and taped them randomly around the house on walls. Daughter A helped sort presents and hide some in the tree.

Daughter B and C  helped formulate the scavenger hunt and game.

Here's how it went:

* Kids came in to mom and dad's room to wake us up. There was a note that said, "Go wake up Sister A and her hubster in Brother's room. While you're in there, grab one of the matchbox cars, then come right back to mom and dad's room."

* Instructions there said to read the Christmas story from the Bible, sing a song, and then have family prayer. After that, the dragon on the container of presents would allow them to open the gifts. At the bottom of the container was another note. "All monsters must race their cars down the hall to the little brother's room."

* Once in the room, they had to ... I don't remember now... do something crazy? Like dance? before opening the presents hidden in the closet. And from there, they had to go brush their monster teeth to get rid of their monster morning breath.

* Oh my goodness, there were presents in the tub. And a note that said they needed to do a rain-dance down the hall to sister D's bedroom. In that room, they had to work as teams to build the biggest tower out of blocks before they could access the toys hidden in that closet.

* From there, the monsters were led to the front room where Daughter A's hubster, the Monster Wrangler, had them play a game to not only find the presents, but play a matching game to figure out the clues to the next set of instructions.

* Which led them to the kitchen where monsters needed to make breakfast and eat it. Because monsters need to feed their bellies, right? Then they had to load their dishes in the dishwasher. When they opened the dishwasher and the teeth appeared, they squealed in delight. Oh the giggles when they found presents on the washing racks.

* then they had to follow the footprints to the basement. Oh no, the washer and dryer had tried to eat some of the presents. The dryer had managed to close his mouth around them, but the washing machine had thrown some up onto the floor.

* they were then directed to the family room where they had to dance the Charleston. Which Sister A taught them. Someone had to win at Just Dance before they could get the next clue and move in to Sister C's bedroom, where the presents were hiding under the bed.

* Then in sister E's bedroom, there was a pile of presents hiding in her closet under the stairs. (I can't remember what goofy activity we had to do there.)

* And finally we ended up back upstairs in the living room with stockings and hunting for the presents hidden in the tree.

-- I couldn't have done it by myself. No way. But it was FUN. It involved the entire family, we all had to play and do the activities together. It made the morning about much more than presents, AND it made the morning last longer than the ten second flurry of wrapping paper flying everywhere.

This is the third year I've planned out a complicated Christmas morning. And in spite of all the anxiety and overwhelm and emotional issues I have before the big day, I have never regretted it. This is the first year that my big kids have actively asked to participate. A holiday I've hated for 32+ years has finally become fun for me. On the plus side, my kids love it, too.

So while it's a purely selfish motive for me to plan Christmases like this, my kids love it enough to help me pull it off. In fact, the little kids were begging to have the Grinch come steal Christmas again. Now I just have to figure out what I'm going to do next year :)

December

It's been a while since I've written here. It's been a while since I've felt like doing much.

This addition of anxiety to everything has not helped my mindset at all. Things I have done my whole life now seem monumentally hard.

* going to church
* going to a restaurant
* going to my husband's work parties
* family gatherings
* letting my children be loud when they play

I have turned down several opportunities for graphic design work because just the thought of a deadline or working and failing to meet someone's expectations made it hard to breathe. Sometimes it's not even the thought of failure, it's simply the idea of being creative that makes me feel completely overwhelmed.

I am barely able to be a human mommy. I am tired and annoyed at being an animal mommy. That makes me so sad. I have raised these cats since we found them abandoned at 4 weeks old. And now having to care for them and clean up and vacuum after them is too much. I just can't do it anymore.

This whole last few weeks has felt like that. Like 'I just can't do it.'

I *have* done laundry. I *have* made myself go to church except the last two weeks. I *have* attended my daughter's school play, although it terrified me and I was shaking so bad by the time I got home. I *have* gone to my husband's work Christmas party, although he had to hold my hand a LOT while we were there, and by the time it was over, I was sure he owed me big time for making the effort and surviving.

So, obviously I *can* do it, I just have to force myself to try. And it is so hard.

And this year my three oldest daughters have volunteered to help me do Christmas. We came up with a theme and a way to make it full of games, and planned it out... and it feels overwhelming and hard now. Not fun. The idea of having to get out of bed, tolerate the sounds of the laughter and squeals hitting my eardrums and reverberating through my head, and deal with the mess of wrapping paper and packaging... See, those are all things that usually make Christmas worth it. The smiles, the laughter, the silly games and things we do to find presents. The ability to play.

And the especially sad thing right now, is that the idea of playing is hard. Once I get into it, it's fun and I enjoy myself, but it's work. And I'm so tired afterwards.

I often wonder if the phrase, "I never said it would be easy, I said it would be worth it" was coined just for me.

Because I *know* what I do is worth it. I know my friendships and family relationships are worth the extra effort it takes to keep at them. I know it's worth the effort of reading and doing homework with my kids. I know that time and effort pays off.

I just wish it wasn't so exhausting. I wish my brain worked. I miss it. I miss being able to do things that shouldn't be hard.

Choices

I made the mistake of reading comments on a cartoon about "if people treated regular illness like they treat mental illness."

Oh boy. People really believe that "You should just change your outlook" is a valid option for people suffering from depression.

Let me say this:

CHOOSING HOW I FEEL IS **NOT** AN OPTION

When I turned 40 and my brain chemistry altered so I am now Bi-Polar Depressive, I lost the option to choose the emotions that roll over me. I know the difference. I remember being able to say, "I don't want to be sad, I'm going to do something happy and think positive." And it fixed it.

That is no longer how my brain works.

When the dark oppressive weight of depression sits on me, I CANNOT say, "I'll just think positive and it will go away." That is not how it works.

Because I can look for and be grateful for all the things going right in my life. It still doesn't affect how I FEEL. In fact, when the depression is really bad, I can't feel anything but heavy and exhausted.

I DO have the choice to tell someone that it's a bad day.
I DO have the choice to go for a walk with my husband if he wants to get me out of the house.
I DO have the choice to use coping skills to try to relieve as much of the weight as possible. Or interrupting that negative tape that plays over and over and over. That tape that says I'm not good enough, why bother, my family would be better off without me.

Believe it or not, it's true. I am so tired of people who have never had real, true, clinical depression telling me to just think positive.

I firmly and will always believe that God sent me here to let me experience agency. I get to choose lots of things in my life. But now the choice of anger, grumpy, happy, sad, overwhelmed, discouraged, numb - my emotions are no longer in my control. I never know how I'm going to feel from one day to the next. All I can do is be prepared for any outcome, have coping methods in place, and trust that I will make it through the day.

I know I am blessed. I have good friends, good family, an awesome support system, and a nice safe bedroom where I can hide when I need to. I have great doctors and therapists. I have a good balance between medications and alternative supplements. I am doing the best that I can do. That still doesn't change the fact that my emotions are out of my control.

I really, truly, am glad for those who don't know depression, who don't understand it, who have never experienced it. I don't wish it on anyone. What I do ask, though, is for them to TRY to understand and not to attempt to tell me how to fix it. Just be there. I know I'm hard to live with. I know it requires a lot of patience, a lot of hugs, and a lot of tolerance of my mood swings. I get that. But for the love of all that's holy, STOP telling me to change my outlook.

My outlook is this: I will survive. I will do what I have to in order to survive. I will fight this battle for as long as I live, and dammit, I will win. My kids need me. I am stubborn, I am persistent, and I am resourceful. I have a condition. I am learning how to live with it and still experience life in a good and productive way.

That is the best I can do.

I Like Your Shirt

If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

I took a note from John Cleaver and came up with something nice to say:

I like your shirt.

Some blunt honesty

I'm not big on following the happenings of stars and reality shows, so I'm really out of the loop when it comes to the big "ohmygoshcanyoubelievewhatso-n-sodid?"

A good friend linked this article to me, and said they thought of me when they read it. I mean, it's no secret that I have a mental illness. I talk about it all the time. But here is another perspective, and I think it's a great one.

If anyone checks out this post, I highly, highly, highly recommend reading this article.

(I don't know how to link it in such a way that you can see the blurb, so please forgive my lack of internet programming skills. Just click here and GO.)

Trigger Issues

Ok. Yesterday's stress about food and all that? That was a massive trigger for me and ended up in a massively huge anxiety attack that has so far lasted 24 hours. I need to talk about it.

Let me bare my soul a little bit here.

When I was really little, my dad had a job driving big rigs for Dowell. (Currently known as Dow Chemical? I think?) He loved his job. He drove a motorcycle around town and would take my brother and I for rides now and then. He played the guitar and banjo, and we sang songs a lot. We'd go fishing at Flaming Gorge and spend weekends there as a family. I remember my brother learning the difference between a Peterbuilt and a Mac truck, and him identifying them on the freeway, proudly. I remember the sun. I remember laughter. I remember music.

Then one day he was laid off.

Life after that become complicated. It took him a long while to find another job. And when he did, from that point on, life at home was... well... not easy. Because one job turned into waiting for another job, which turned into mom hunting for a job, being shuffled to various babysitters - and boy do I have some really interesting memories about that, too - and, well... it seemed a downward spiral after that.

The wonderful things I remember: Dad loved to tinker, build, and play with electronics, engines, computers, etc. He had a soldering iron and was constantly fusing things. He read all the time and dreamed the biggest dreams. I was certain he could fix or build anything on the planet.  Mom loved music. I remember tchaikovsky, bed-time stories, imagination time, mud-pies, swing sets, piano lessons, and her drawing pictures and putting them up all over the kitchen to teach us songs and to try to keep us happy.

The not so wonderful things that creep up on me when I'm not looking: Not having food to eat. Going to school even when I was sick because that was the one place I could get a meal. Mom not eating at all so us kids could have what was available. Thinking powdered milk was the best thing on the planet. Eating cracked wheat cereal (that mom ground herself in a grinder) for what felt like months on end, because my grandfather was a farmer and would send barrels of it to my mom. My mom cooking a cow heart that someone had brought down, and us kids thinking it was food from the gods because we hadn't had meat at home in so long. My parents did the best they could under the circumstances they found themselves in. It wasn't easy for any of us.

There were other things, too, (birthdays and holidays being the next big trigger button for me) but the food thing... that's something that stuck with me in a huge way. That starvation thing has never, ever, ever been an issue as an adult. I have always been provided for since I was a teenager. Or I've provided for myself.

I guess this is the main reason that I've never paid attention to diets, counting calories, or anything like that. I've never allowed myself to worry about food. Not since those days of hunger and everything else. When I eat, I enjoy it and am grateful that I can. Sometimes I over eat. Sometimes I don't eat enough. Sometimes I eat lots of sugary garbage. Sometimes I just want fresh fruits and vegetables. I pretty much eat what I'm craving, but I try to pay attention enough to make sure I get enough fiber and whatnot to keep my insides running regular.

Yesterday's attempt at counting calories and actually thinking about what I ate? I've been shaking and spiraling down since then. I couldn't sleep at all last night. Shook and shook. Realized at 4 a.m. that I should probably take a xanex, but at that point was worried I wouldn't be able to help my kids get ready for school or be able to drive them back/forth to school. By six a.m. I realized there was no way I was going to be able to drive at all.

My husband took over all the parenting today, while I pretty much stayed in bed and either slept from sheer exhaustion or sat here and shook. My sister-in-law made sure my son got to kindergarten. By this afternoon I realized what had triggered the anxiety. I sat in the shower and cried and cried, just trying to let go of the emotions, the terror, these feelings that I don't even have names for. I took a xanex and decided that while I feel how I feel, I don't want to face it right now. I can't. I just.. no. It's something I went through as a kid, it's not how my life is now, and enough is enough. I have food in the house. If I want to eat, I can. If I don't want to, that's ok, too. I can choose.

My husband, bless his heart, made reservations at a movie grille and took me out of the house. We watched Guardians of the Galaxy again, sat there while a waitress brought us our meals and drinks while the movie played. Laughed. I enjoyed the food because I could. Thought about the movie and the wonderful tastes and sensations of the feta cheese, tomatoes and stuffed mushrooms. Because food is good and should be enjoyed.

I still haven't stopped shaking entirely. I still feel traumatized. I recognize that eventually I am going to have to figure out how to let go of my childhood ghosts. For now that makes it feel like I can't breathe. so I'm going to do what I can do, and concentrate on the now.

For now, I have kids I love dearly. I have a husband who cares and stands by me when I lose it. He has absolutely no idea what it's like to have a childhood like mine, but he tries to be aware and help me through it when I can't get myself to get through a day. I am very blessed.

Prescriptions for More Than Meds

My eldest daughter got married in September. As weddings are, it was stressful, beautiful, wonderful, and stressful. My in-laws were wonderful, my daughter's in-laws were wonderful, and my family was wonderful. Now, I *knew* from previous discussions with my psychiatrist, that there would probably be an emotional crash after the big day. So I put things in place to act as a cushion so I wouldn't crash so badly. Well, as much as is possible.

And I crashed. I expected it to last about a week. That's what happened after my girls left for college.

Three weeks later I still couldn't bring myself to care much about anything. I wasn't so low that I was suicidal, but things like caring about homework, cleaning the house, basic stuff like eating... meh. who cared? It was either apathy or complete anxiety over how I would handle it. "How can I be expected to help my kids do homework?? I can't think." Just hooking up my laptop to the printer felt like too much. They couldn't really expect me to do that, could they? Did they know how hard that was?

Ok. So that was ridiculous and stupid. But it was how I felt. So when I saw my psychiatrist again, he made some adjustments. I have 'prescriptions' for four areas:

* Chemical: 1.5 pills of Lamictal/day, 1 pill of Lexipro/day

* Emotional: 1/2 or 1 pill of an anti-anxiety pill as needed. Or Deep breathing exercises. Or oils. Or whatever works to calm my self down.

* Physical: 30 mins cardio/day AND yoga or meditation a min of 3 times/wk. (Since I can't afford the yoga places around here, I compromise with doing stretching and meditation after my workouts.) I have the most energy between 11pm and 2a.m., so I do my workouts around midnight. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, but always at night. No kids to watch or interrupt, the house is quiet, and I can meditate afterwards with peace.

* Mental: Say NO to any new projects, and instead try to clean some stuff from my plate and simply life. This means no volunteering at the schools --which is not sad for me, since kids right now REALLY cause anxiety --  it means no new art projects, no trying to finish old projects unless it's something that relaxes me instead of stresses me. And find things to not do anymore that I'm already doing. (I have not figured out how to do this yet, but I'm working on it.)

These are things I *have* to do to try to keep my brain from being overwhelmed by stress and to regulate mood swings.

The exercise is NOT about weight loss. It's about stress relief. I get kind of defensive about that because yes, I am overweight. By, oh, fifty pounds? Ish? I dunno. I don't think it matters, really. I am struggling with enough other crap, that really, how much I weigh is waaaaay down on the list of priorities. A friend suggested I look at the other benefits of working out, and I jumped all over her case about it not being about weight loss. And that wasn't what she meant at all. So, obviously somewhere in my subconscious I must be worried about weight but don't want to be. I'll just own that right now. On a conscious level, however, I'm doing this because I want to feel good. I want to be able to think. I want the stresses of the day to evaporate with my sweat.

Food is obviously part of this. Depression affects the diet: currently I don't want to eat a lot except maybe once a day around 3 or 4. My therapist explained that depressive brains crave sugar. This is normal, the brain wants to feel right, so it craves sugar for the 'high'. Except eating simple sugars not only gets it a high, but then it crashes super fast. To account for this, if I'm going to eat some chocolate, I have to balance it with protein so I don't crash into an emotional low. If that makes sense.

(I kind of think of it as mental diabetes. Which ... well... it isn't, but the imagery of blood glucose ups and downs works for me in this instance. Wish I had a serotonin tester like my friend has a glucose monitor. Or, even better, a pump!!)

I've been discussing exercise with a friend. She's been doing a You Are Your Own Gym series of workouts and thought I might like it. As I like variety, I was more than willing to try it out. Because of the nature of the workouts they suggest 30% protein, 30% fats, 30% carbs. Which makes sense to me based on what my therapist explained about my brain chemistry. So I followed the link to a calorie counter to make sure my carbs and fats are balancing with my proteins.

Note: I HATE counting calories. I've never never never been a fan of fad diets or watching what I eat, because dangit, I'm going to enjoy my food! Sure, most of this attitude about food is because I'm inherently lazy. But a lot of it stems from my childhood and the fact that we went without food a lot. I remember being hungry more often than not, except at holidays. So if I have food to eat, I'm darn well going to be grateful for it and enjoy it. Anyway, I digress.

This counting calories stuff is for my mental health, so I get over myself and plug in all the numbers. I tell it how much I weigh, how tall I am, how much exercise I am doing, and it wants to set a weight goal, so I let it... whatever, right?

I get a target calorie intake per day of approximately 1863. From what I remember of my nutrition classes, that doesn't sound so bad. I then try to remember everything I ate that day and plug it in.

I figured with what I eat, my calorie intake would be laughably high.

Nope.

It was only around 1100. That is not good. That is bad. That is way bad. I already have brain issues, no *wonder* I want to sleep all the time. No wonder my stamina sucks. This is like some awful cycle. Brain issues breed appetite issues which breed more brain issues.

 You know what this means, right? It means I have to make myself cook during the day for more than just my kids. I hate cooking almost as much as I hate counting calories. That's why I have a husband, dammit!! I married the man because he cooks!

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.