Living with Regret

The New Abortion Caravan

A big Texas "thank-ya" goes out to my sister for providing the follow-up information regarding "The Abortion Debate Changes Forever," a teaser video that I posted back in May. To get the scoop, click here.

You Can Take the Gal Outta Texas...

Jeremiah was a Bull Frog! da DA

His name was Bruce, and he lived across the alley from me. We went to the same elementary school. We were 11 years old.

When I think of Bruce, I see him in a bright yellow button-down shirt and khaki colored pants. (Boys weren't allowed to wear T-shirts and jeans in my school in those days). He had a slight build, bright eyes, and brown hair in a crew cut.

I recall running down the hallway with him after school one day, hoping we'd reach the Exit door before we were caught. We were singing at the top of our lungs: "Jeremiah was a bull frog, da DA, was a good friend of mine, da DA, never understood a single word he said..." About that time, teachers spilled out of classrooms and we slammed out the Exit door, doubled over in laughter.

One morning, toward the end of the school year, I got to class and heard deafening whispers. Bruce was dead. No one knew how or why. Some said he was POISONED. There was going to be an AUTOPSY.

I never heard or learned any more. I don't even remember hearing about a funeral. I think his family moved away. He was gone. The End

But Bruce, I remember you. "Singin' JOY to the world, ALL the boys and girls now; joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, JOY to you and me."

Good Girl!

To My Sweet Cousin

I think about you so often, Kathleen! I've missed you so much since you've been gone. Lately I've been doing several things that especially remind me of you: visiting old cemeteries, cleaning headstones, and I recently saw a book about ghost towns.

 

I remember not just our Cemetery Weekends and our Ghost Town Weekends but also little things that happened on those trips. Like in that one extremely rural cemetery when we heard a strange wild noise up in a tree; you immediately headed away from it and I immediately headed toward it. I was under that spindly tree, craning my neck, and finally you convinced me to get away. Later we found out it was a bobcat!

And the time we finally made it to that really small old cemetery, the one we'd been wanting to visit for almost 2 years, and a funeral was in progress. You said, "The nerve of them! Having a funeral on the one day we could visit!"

Remember when we snuck onto the posted property of that abandoned high school, and you became apoplectic because I went inside to take pictures? You peeked in from the small, hidden door, and you kept up a running monologue. You called, increasingly louder, "Don't go IN there. You know we're trespassing, right? What if there's snakes? Watch out for that glass! There might be dangerous squatters in there. We're hours from home - who's gonna bail us out? You're gonna need a tetanus shot! Don't go up those stairs - are you CRAZY? You'll fall through those boards! That's it - you come out RIGHT NOW." I finally realized you were really in emotional distress, so I came back outside. It had been so dark inside, and you hadn't let me go very far. So all that for one photo. It was an okay photo, though, of the stage at one end of the gymnasium; the only well-lit area I found.

And somewhere we saw that child's grave, Bonner Boone Brown. For years afterwards, out of the blue, you'd say, "I still want to know who would name their kid Bonner Boone Brown!"

Remember that cemetery where a huge block of family graves was surrounded by a cement curb? We approached, as we always did at blocks of graves, planning to work through the familial relationships and the order of deaths. But at this one, we just stood and looked in disbelief. One man, surrounded by 8 wives whom he had outlived. In the great silence of nature, you finally whispered, "Do you think he murdered ALL of them, or just some?"

Last week I ran across the photos from that ghost town with the huge football stadium that had risers made of cement. We were so lost in the past as we looked across those ruins that had melded with the desert. I miss those moments.

And I remember the time we drove to visit the graves of our great-grandparents. We couldn't find them in the first cemetery in town, and you said, "This cemetery doesn't look right. This isn't it." Being older than me, you remembered more. So we went to the other cemetery in town. "This is it. This looks just like it. They're somewhere over - there!" But we still couldn't find them. So we went to the town library and asked the quite elderly woman how we could find the graves of our great-grandparents. She helped us look through a large number of cemetery records but kept asking us, "Are you sure that's the name?" And you just kept saying, so politely and patiently, "Yes, we're sure that's the name." Finally, long past the realization of futility, I said, "We'll just ask our mothers exactly where their grandparents are buried and then we'll come back some other weekend." The old lady sighed with relief and began to close the books and files. "Yes!" she said, "That's good! You come back with another name." You managed to make it all the way to the outside steps before busting into laughter. "That's right!" you choked out. "We just need to come back with ANOTHER NAME! Then we'll find out where they're buried!"

We never had the chance to go back with another name.

 (That's me in the background,

wearing black and standing with my arms folded.)

I haven't been to your grave since the week you were buried. You were only 57 years old. It gives me comfort, though, to know that you're buried next to my mother. Anne frequently puts flowers on your grave and the graves of our mothers. I sometimes wish I didn't live across the country now, because it would give me some temporary peace to visit all three of you. Even though I know you're all in Heaven and I'll actually see you again some day; in Heaven I'll have real peace.

My dear, precious, funny, interesting, and loving cousin Kathleen, I remember you.

Happy Father's Day

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

I remember you.

Honor

On May 23, 2012, at 9:31 a.m., World War II veterans from South Carolina arrived at Gate 38 of Reagan National Airport in Washington DC to visit the WWII Memorial. Only moments before, the area was fairly empty and quiet until the gate attendant invited travelers to help welcome the vets.

 

See the article by Chris Muller.

"Double Depression"

I saw my new psychiatrist this week, and I really like her. I think this will be a good fit.

She asked me how my current meds were working. I floundered a bit, then said, "I've about come to the conclusion that I need to lower my expectations, that I need to accept that I won't ever be the person I used to be."

She said, "You do realize, don't you, that you have dysthymia as well as major depressive order?" I told her that, about a year ago, I noticed dysthymia as a diagnosis on my chart, but when I looked it up, it seemed to be contradictory to the diagnosis of major depressive disorder (dysthymia is defined as "mild, chronic depression;" I certainly knew that what I suffered with most of my life was NOT mild).

"Not at all contradictory," she stated, and she began to explain the impact of having both disorders. "Essentially," she said, "you have double depression." I was astounded. It explained so much. "So, yes, unfortunately," she continued, "you may need to lower the bar."

I've since researched her explanation, and now, dear reader, I will explain it to you. (Sorry, I just had a brief Brontë moment there).

Dysthymia is a chronic, depressed mood that lasts at least two years. Sometimes referred to as a "veil of sadness," this low, dark mood occurs nearly every day and persists for years. Dysthymia often begins in childhood. Since dysthymia is a chronic disorder, sufferers may experience symptoms for 10 to 20 years before being diagnosed, if diagnosis occurs at all. As a result, they may believe that depression is a part of their character, just who they are.

Symptoms of dysthymia include low self-esteem, a low capacity for pleasure, withdrawal from stressful situations, low energy, overeating, too much or too little sleep, feelings of hopelessness, poor concentration, chronic pain, headaches, and stomach disorders. People with dysthymia usually find little pleasure in regular activities and pastimes.

As time goes by, greater than half of people with dysthymia experience worsening symptoms that lead to the onset of major depressive disorder on top of their chronically depressed mood. This is known as double depression, a serious, potentially life-threatening condition. Double depression is under-recognized and harder to treat than either dysthymia or major depression by themselves.

A small study published in the Journal of Affective Disorders found that the distinguishing symptom of double depression, as opposed to a major depressive episode or dysthymia alone, seems to be hopelessness. People with double depression have given up on ever recovering from their condition and have a bleak outlook on life. It's difficult to motivate them to have treatment, such as medication and therapy. 

Symptoms of double depression are similar to both dysthymia and major depressive disorder but are greater in degree and impact. Extreme fatigue, feelings of guilt, withdrawal from family situations, delusions, and hallucinations are additional symptoms.

The constant stress causes changes in the brain and the body. Those with double depression are at a higher risk for heart disease, diabetes, and other major medical conditions. Double depression can also worsen other chronic diseases, such as rheumatoid arthritis and diabetes.

So. Now I have a much clearer picture of my depression, and hopefully my family will understand a bit better, as well. I'm always letting them down. I commit to things then cancel at the last minute. I get excited about family visits then back out. I've let down my little great-niece, age 7, so many times (including today), in both minor and major situations, that I worry constantly that she'll only remember me as an irresponsible person that was never there for her.

Guilt, worthlessness, fatigue, guilt, lethargy, hopelessness, guilt (did I mention that already?), withdrawal, self-loathing...

The battle rages on, but I'm a weary soldier.

Sources: WebMd, Mayo Clinic, National Institute of Health, Psych Central, Right Diagnoses, Florida State University, Depression Place, Wikipedia, and eHow.

A Woman on the Dollar Bill

Interesting fact:  Martha Washington is the only woman whose portrait has appeared on a United States currency note. It appeared on the face of the $1 Silver Certificates of 1886 and 1891 and on the back of the $1 Silver Certificate of 1896.