Mental Miranda Rights

Blog.  Web log.  Log of Thoughts and Happenings.  Journal.

When one connects the dots, it becomes apparent that writing a blog is essentially opening wide the pages of one’s journal and allowing the world to read.

There are certain thoughts or musings I keep between the covers of my hardcopy journal, but since I’ve started blogging, I do frequent those pages fewer and farther between.

It’s interesting seeing people whom I know read my blog.

Have they read the latest post chronicling my latest neurosis?  When they ask how I’m doing, do they mean, are you stable?  Or have they not read and really want to know how things are going?  Do I update close friends on my true status or will I be repeating myself?  Do I allude to a topic I’ve covered online, thinking they already know the details?  Or am I assuming a steady readership?

I usually worry that I’m baring my soul to people with whom I’d never discuss such things in a face-to-face conversation.  And will they judge me for it?  Will they see me in a different light now that they know the brand of crazy I am?

We all struggle.  With something.  At some point.  There’s some crazy skeleton hanging in every person’s closet.  But most people don’t write about it and then post it on-line for the world to see (if they so choose).  I’ve never had a good poker face and I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve.  Perhaps I am just the sort of person who would share such details publicly.  But I’ve also always been the type of person who demands that you take me as I am.  I may obsess about whether you will or not.  And worry myself sick if you don’t, but at the end of the day, I am who I am.

So while I might wonder if that pause between words is you calling to mind my self-indicting ones, or if that quiet look is one of pity or concern, I cannot be anything other than truthful.  And there’s no sense pretending to be perfect because everyone knows that’s a lie straight out the gate anyway.  I’d rather be honest and flawed.

Just don’t hold it against me.

You Got Some ‘Splainin to Do


This morning my daughter sat down to some interesting breakfast reading.

Coming home late after an evening “med check” appointment with my physician, I had left the visit summary on the dining room table.  Yesterday’s visit went swimmingly well.  No problems to report.  Successful treatment measures.  A-ok – until the next six month visit.

The chart information on the second half of the sheet told a different story, though; that of my history.  The medication I’m on; my ‘problem list’.

Depressive Disorder Not Elsewhere Classified.

I’m hoping that eight years old is not old enough to know what that means.  Hell, I don’t really know what that means.  The first time I saw it, I stopped in my tracks.  I remember the NOS designation on IEPs from my teaching days.  I remember the frustration of parents and teachers who knew something was up, but no diagnosis could be made.  How would this individual get the help he or she needed without a direction to go in?

Now that was me!

My eight year old wouldn’t be able to recognize the name of the medication I’m on either, Sertraline sounding more like a foreign language than a medicine to help her mother get through life.

Thank God, in this case, for medical illiteracy.  I’m all for blowing apart the stigma, but haven’t quite figured out how to explain it to my young children yet.  How much information would help them see it’s perfectly acceptable to struggle and receive help and how much would open them to an overwhelming, suffocating side of this world they don’t need to know exists yet?

I didn’t know there was a family history of whatever the hell ails my family until I was an adult starting to suffer from similar problems myself.  As a child, there was an underlying tension at family gatherings, but having no explanation and no other frame of reference, I just thought that was how it was.  Do I let my kids live in ignorant ‘bliss’?  Do I give my oldest an age-appropriate mete-ing out of Momma’s struggles so she doesn’t think she’s responsible for Momma’s wrath?  Or will I be giving them the framework for their own self-fulfilling depressive prophecy?

All important questions.  All of whose answers will remain unspecified for now, just like my diagnosis.  I’m still trying to wrap my head around all this.

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