Still going quite stable overall. I still have minor flare ups a few times a week, usually they are triggered by stress or moments of excessive irritability. Fortunately they don’t usually last more than a few minutes. Most times I can burn them out through a few minutes of ranting to my self. Sometimes I’ll verbalize my rants but keep my voice quiet enough so I can barely hear myself. I don’t want to scare my neighbors and cause trouble. So far it has worked. I did have a real bad flare up in late August, which I regret. The older I get, the more regretful I am of my taking my problems out on others.
While I am grateful that my friends and family don’t make issues out of my problems (at least not to me), I feel bad anyway. I feel like I’m abusing my position as a friend and family member. I think it would probably be easier for them to deal with if I just broke down and cried during my real bad flare ups rather than lash out at family and friends. But most times, even when I feel really sad, I can’t bring myself to break down and sob. I sometimes do tear up, especially when listening to really emotional instrumental music pieces (such as theme songs to some of my favorite war movies like Braveheart, the Civil War documentary series, and We Were Soldiers). But I haven’t just broke down and sobbed since I was in college. Sure I was sad at my grandparents’ funerals, but I wasn’t distraught. Instead I had a stronger sense of being happy that such honorable people lived and had a sense of duty that it was on us who were going on into the future to continue the work of generosity, fairness, decency, and honor. I just hope I can be an honorable and decent person to those I come into contact with on a daily basis, whether in person or online.
Besides my family and one college friend, I haven’t kept in strong contact with most of my friends the last couple weeks. My best friend’s mother died a few weeks ago and I haven’t talked to her much. I decided to let her do what was needed and not bother her much. She probably wasn’t much in the mood for talking the last few weeks. I haven’t had a parent die yet. All of my grandparents and a couple uncles have died. But I wasn’t really torn up by their deaths as I was just happy that such people had lived. At my grandparents’ funerals, the immediate family was mostly spending the time retelling stories of the cool and funny things they did during their lives. We weren’t crying that much but instead were celebrating their lives. There was almost as much laughter as crying at my grandfather’s funeral as the immediate family were retelling stories of my grandfather’s jokes and funny things he did during his life. And my last grandmother to pass away was quite sharp and aware until she had a stroke about two weeks before she died. But she was in her late nineties and had real bad arthritis to where she could barely walk. She had said for the last few years of her life that she wasn’t afraid of dying and that she was ready at any time. I think that maybe she was sad seeing most of her friends and family die over the years. Fortunately I was able to handle the grandparents’ funerals without any flare ups of my mental illness. I was a pall bearer for both my grandmothers.
I guess that as I have now crossed into my late thirties, I’m beginning to think about my own mortality a little. This has been especially true the last few months as I’m getting more unexplainable aches and pains and I can’t lift as heavy as items as I could previously. It also doesn’t help that schizophrenics, statistically speaking, have shorter life spans than mentally healthy people. If I were to die prematurely, I think I want to donate my body to science. I figure that something good should come from my having schizophrenia effect my mind and destroy my career.
I’m sorry for sounding morbid with this entry. But I have been thinking about how several people who have influenced me in my young years are now dying off. Even my own parents aren’t in the greatest health. But I guess they are in their late sixties. I’m thirty seven and that would have made me an elderly person in the Stone Age. But I suppose it doesn’t really matter how long you live as long as you make the most of the days you have.
I visited with my nephews and niece a few days ago. I got to see my parents too for the first time since Christmas. I had a good time with the kids. They are ages 12, 10, 8, and 5. They are old enough they don’t get into a lot of trouble and can be quite entertaining. Seeing those kids grow up and develop interests and personalities of their own is bittersweet. I am happy that my brother and his wife were able to have several kids, are able to take care of them, and raise them to be respectable and well behaved kids. But it does make me realize some of what I have lost and will never be able to experience on my own because of my schizophrenia.
I have written a lot in the past about alternating between being sad, angry, and depressed about the career and life opportunities I lost in the name of mental illness. I have written much less about being sad and depressed about never being able to marry or have kids. Outside of my best female friend, I really have little experience with dating. I was turned down every time I ever asked a girl out on a date in high school and most of the time when I was in college. By the time I was halfway through college I gave up on the idea of ever marrying because it just seemed like a lost cause and wasted effort. I never could figure out why I did so poorly with women. But I haven’t really cared for years as I know that ship set sail a real long time ago and that I just as well make the best of being single and lonely for life.
For many years I was making the best of it. After seeing some of my classmates go through rough divorces or slog through unhappy marriages, I was grateful I never did marry. But after seeing my brother’s kids mature through the years and come into their own, I am beginning to realize that if children are raised well, they can be the greatest things that ever happened to you.
It wasn’t until a few days ago that I realized just how lonely I am most of the time. I really don’t talk to that many people in person any more. I almost never socialize outside of close family and friends. I still sleep ten to twelve hours a day. I think that is a subconscious way of dealing with the loneliness. I really am lonely most of the time. Have been for the last couple years since three of my older friends in my apartment complex died within six months of each other.
As much as I hated the office politics of a job, at least I was able to find a few moments of joyful interactions everyday with other people. As much as I didn’t like the social aspects of high school, I still had my friends and some friendly acquaintances. I don’t have any of that anymore. I can understand how some people, men especially, lose a lot of joy in their lives and much of their identity when they retire or get laid off from a job. I would consider going back to work except that mentally I’m too unstable and too discouraged to work a traditional job. Besides much of what I could do in a traditional job will probably get automated within the next several years anyway. Perhaps that is why I devote so much time to this blog. It gives me identity and it could be my legacy since I’ll never be able to get married or have kids. Things have often been lonely and discouraging the last couple years. Being mentally ill is a death sentence to anyone’s social life.
On Tuesday, August 4th my paternal grandmother died in her sleep a few days after having a major stroke. She was 97 years old. Grandma Foster was one of these people who was always looking out for other people almost like they were her own kids. I can imagine as the oldest of eight siblings growing up on a farm in Nebraska during the Great Depression she would have developed those skills of caring for others and making that a huge part of her life at an early age.
Every summer my brother and I would spend a few days with her in her hometown. After my Grandpa Foster died of a heart attack at their farmstead in the early 1980s she moved into town. While I can’t remember the farmstead she, grandpa, and my dad lived on, she and my dad both used to tell us stories about life on their farm. Grandma was one of these farmers’ wives who could do a little bit of everything. She said she could have taken a chicken from the henhouse and cooked on the dining room table in about an hour. She also did quite a bit of the same farm work my grandpa was doing during the first few years of their marriage right alongside him out in the field. This was back in the late 1930s when the corn crops where still being harvested by hand well into the winter.
During World War II, after my grandfather couldn’t qualify for the army as in enlisted soldier because of his age, grandma and grandpa went to Wichita, Kansas to work in an aircraft factory. They both worked in that factory for the duration of the war. A few years after the war ended the family moved back to Nebraska. My grandpa farmed for the rest of his life. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I realized that grandpa and grandma never owned their own land and instead farmed for others. In addition to being a farm wife and a worker in a aircraft factory, Grandma Foster worked for a number of years as a payroll clerk in an automotive parts plant. In the 1960s and 1970s she was filling out those payrolls by hand, doing several hundred of those every two weeks. She didn’t have much time to enjoy retirement before grandpa had his heart attack but she did enjoy having her grandkids and the kids of her extended family around as much as possible.
Even though I have been fighting a mental illness for my entire adult life I’m not as distraught by her death as I thought I would be. That might be changing soon as my dad, my brother, and I will be spending the weekend cleaning out her apartment. I’m also going to be one of the pall bearers. I was a pall bearer at my maternal grandmother’s funeral too. But as I have been working with a mental illness for quite some time I know myself well enough that often anticipating some bad event will not only lead me into a downward spiral, the anticipation will be worse than the event itself.
So as of right now I’m not thinking about cleaning out the apartment or the funeral or being a pall bearer or the visitation the night before the funeral. It helps that we had a small birthday bash for her a couple of months ago and she was as mentally sharp as ever then. She had been hampered by arthritis for the last several years that made walking without a walker or a cane very tough. As much of an extrovert as my grandmother was this had to be tough. But she managed to stay in contact with her many friends and family members through Facebook and phone calls. She was one of these who wasn’t afraid to use new technologies while not losing the old style compassion and empathy for others. Grandma used her Facebook account to show her caring and to keep others aware of what went on in their social circles. A couple years ago she said that she went from being in awe of the Ford Model T to looking at flying drones just in her lifetime. Who knows what my nephews and niece will see in theirs.
At this moment I’m not completely torn up that this compassionate sweet lady has died and is leaving a void that will have to be filled by others. In time that void will be filled by others in our family and among her friends as it is natural for others to step into rolls that others filled after a death. Rather than being distraught about her death, I’m grateful that she and those like her lived and impacted as many people as they did.