Sunday, April 29, 2018

Forward Progress

I started trying to sew earlier in the week and discovered that it was extremely difficult to get up and down the stairs easily. Stupid knee is being grumpy still. We're thinking it's overwork from me attempting to work on my balance.

In an effort to keep me seated more, FuzzyHusband brought home a tabletop ironing pad. It worked out pretty well.

Once I got going with the blocks I discovered I needed to trim ad square up every single one. Apparently that was a step my friend skipped due to chemo brain. She also made the block seams a bit too wide, so they aren't the size they should be. But that's ok. I will add a bit more size with the borders.

In the effort to square up the blocks quicker, I put together a homemade template. It worked out quite well.

In fact it worked so well I've hinted to Himself that he could make me a few plexiglass versions in different sizes for fussy cutting and squaring up blocks. It gives him an excuse to play with the laser cutter at the makerspace.

At this point the rows are reassembled. They're looking quite nice if I do say so myself.

Next up is the horizontal sashing pieces.

As for the borders, I"m considering cutting a finished 3 inch border from the sashing fabric, as opposed to a 2 inch finished width like the sashing pieces. It would give a bit more size to the quit top. I"m not sure though, but I'll lay it out and ponder it once the rows are fully reassembled.

In other news, FH and I finally bottled the cherry apple cider he made last spring. Most of it's been given away to friends at this point.

It's not as clear as we thought it would be, but it does have a lovely color. If I was to compare it to a wine, I'd say it's most like a rose'.

Once carboy space was freed up, we started a mead. Honey is so pretty when it's pooling. This particular mead used 15 pounds of honey for 5 gallons of mead.

This batch is flavored with fresh ginger and these gorgeous, pink cara cara oranges.

It took a while, but the yeast finally got bubbling. Now we wait for several months.

That's all for now. I need to try and get some sleep and then get back to the quilt once the sun's up again. Hopefully I'll have a finished top and another 5 gallons of mead to show off next weekend. See you then!

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Back to Sewing

I started the sad business of taking apart my friend's quilt top this week. As I worked, I could see her husband and I made the correct choice. Many of the seams were close to falling apart already. 

As you can see below, I've made a labeled reference photo and labeled each block individually. The blocks will be put back in the arrangement she chose.

This is where I am now. The replacement fabric needs preshrinking and to do that I must get the current loads of laundry out of the way.


While waiting on laundry, I started this fellow. I found the pattern for him and the fabrics at a new quilt shop in the area while on the hunt for the replacement sashing fabric. I'd originally planned on using a fabric from her stash, but when I did a burn test on the scrap, it melted. It's polyester.

The name of the pattern company is in the "before" photo. I have to say he was lots of fun to make. I may find excuses to made one or two more. I may also find excuses to purchase another pattern or two... or three. I was particularly enamored with the octopus and wombat patterns, but they were out of stock. Happily, there's a website!


The creatures left me alone the entire time I was working. But Ellie appeared in time to "help" me with the photos.



She was quite pleased with herself.

That's all for this week. I'm hoping to get caught back up with laundry and get the quilt reassembled this week. Bonus will be one or both borders.

Sunday, April 15, 2018

Deviation

Today's blog is going to be a bit different. We're going to chat about why mental health awareness, knowledge, and support is important for all human beings.

I don't normally talk about my background at all because, well, it's personal. But in the last few years lots of things have happened thanks to said background.

I am a survivor of repeated exposure to abuse. Mostly emotional and mental abuse (by my parents) but also sexual abuse (former babysitter's husband, an ex-brother-in-law, and classmates) and a bit of physical abuse (again by my mother)... which caused me to develop a condition that is called complex-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's different from the usual PTSD because the symptoms can be vastly different. In fact only a few are common to both. In fact it's most often misdiagnosed and therefore mis-treated and can cause further problems for patients. That can be a big problem, depending on the quality of doctor who's treating you and what pills they decide to pump into you. Did you know that some anti-depressants used for treating bi-polar can make a person with PTSD psychotic? Yeah. Not useful. So like with physical health, getting a proper diagnosis is extremely important.

There's a tome of mental health definitions called the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5) that's in it's 5th iteration. It's an interesting thing because one would think that such a work would be definitive, but it's not. Science is still learning about the brain and how it works.. and how it breaks. So unless a patient happens to find a psychiatrist that hasn't stopped reading new publications, they might just get stuck with someone who is a believer in only what the DSM-5 says. In fact my condition isn't even recognized by said tome, according to my symptoms. But I am lucky that my doctor keeps current with new research. He was able to tell the difference between my complex-PTSD and something that I don't have: bipolar disorder.

If I'd been misdiagnosed, I have no clue where I'd be right now. None. The various drugs used to treat the bipolar spectrum (yes, it's really a spectrum) can be bad for patients like me. Not all of them, but definitely some of them. Again the importance of having a knowledgeable doctor is key.

Then if you add in the societal stigmas surrounding mental health, the lack of understanding that the majority of people have about various mental illnesses, and a lack of availability for treatment you get a perfect storm of effluvia that can make a person feel like they're drowning.

So here's where I'm lucky:


  • - I have health insurance that covers mental health. It's not great, but it's better than nothing. Nevermind that we went from paying $40 a month for me to stay alive (more on that in a bit) to $145 a month. I don't pay a thing for therapy and doctor's visits.
  • I have a doctor that uses the gray matter in his skull for more than calculating his golf handicap. The man listens and will key in on any small detail. He's very thorough and if any patient needs him, his staff will work them in.
  • I have a therapist that specializes in working with PTSD patients. He's fantastic. I am able to see him weekly, or more, as needed. 
  • I have a husband who truly sees my condition as an illness (which it is) and sees me fighting to keep it under control on a daily basis. He respects me for the effort I put in and supports me when I need it. 
  • I have friends who accept and understand me because of their own experiences with various illnesses, physical and mental. Knowing that I'm not alone helps so much.


Here's where I'm not lucky:


  • I have this bedamned condition in the first place, and with it: night terrors, depression with suicidal ideations, anxiety (at time crippling), agoraphobia, sometime uncontrollable anger, and hypervigilance.  
  • I've had to eliminate relationships with people who did more harm to my condition than good. Because of my background, I've cut out all but one member of my surviving immediate family and a couple of aunts and cousins. 
  • Forming relationships with other people is hard when they are supposed to fit into "family slots," as I call them. It's difficult to relate to my perfectly sane, kind, and wonderful in-laws because they don't have any kind of abuse in their backgrounds. Also "family" leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. 

All in all it's way better than some people have it with their conditions. But that's what bothers me. Everyone deserves to have their ills treated. Just like a cancer patient has no choice in their condition, a person with anxiety or depression didn't choose to live that way. But the person with cancer gets sympathy. The other people are called "crazy."

We're told to: "just smile more," "just snap out of it," "stop being dramatic," "just pray about it," and worse... like my personal favorite, "you can't have PTSD unless you were a combat veteran." Bollocks to that. A person can have PTSD from being mugged, being in a car crash, being raped, having a traumatic birth experience, loosing a loved one, and more.

Nobody says anything like that to diabetics (unless they happen to be fat diabetics... don't get me started on my hatred of body size shaming), cancer patients, folks with broken limbs... Nope. Not to any of them. That would be cruel and rude. Well it's cruel and rude to speak to people with mental health diseases that way too. In fact it can damage us further, undoing the hard work that we do with our therapists and doctors. That kind of talk reinforces the dark parts of our brains that whisper to us that we're not worth peoples' time. That we are horrible drains on society. That we should be denied love. That we don't deserve to live.

When I was younger (think elementary school age) there were times I wanted to crawl away, fall asleep, and never wake up. When asked if I wanted to hurt myself, I'd truthfully say no. Why would I want to hurt myself? Other people hurt me enough already. Those feelings never went away. As I got older, I always called it "bunny under a bush," because that's what happens when rabbits are sick. They crawl away to die alone.

Despite knowing my background and being excellent at what they do, the plan my doctor, my therapist, and myself made for my treatment went awry. Like any battle plan it is only good until the first encounter with the enemy. In this case the enemy was a combination of dealing with my mother and depression.

If you're squeamish, having a bad day, or easily upset please skip the next part. I'll tell you when it's safe to read again.

In the back of my mind I decided I was done. Just done. Many of my friends were dying (screw you, cancer), I'd lost pieces of my heart when Confetti, Castor, and Pollux died, I didn't have much of a family anymore, and I felt so worthless and that I was a burden on FH. So I started making arrangements like figuring out where my surviving pets would go, ways for FH to dispose of my crafting stash, getting rid of things that he didn't need to be bothered with, making lists of bills that need paid and when.... Thanks to my mother's pettiness (sister wanted one thing of our granddad's and mother wouldn't give it to her because, well mom's just a tantrumming 3-year old in an old woman's body) I had access to a large caliber handgun that would leave little chance in removing a good chunk of my chest. And because of the age of our home: a cast iron bathtub. Perfect for containing fluids, making clean up an easier task for the coroner and FH.

Yep. I had it all figured out. Because I didn't want any kind of margin for error. I meant business. No messing around with pills or blades. Too messy and unpredictable. So I had a plan. I just needed to figure out when was the right time to leave.

It's safe now, except for a possible swear word or two.

And then, somehow, I had a brief moment of clarity. I'm really not sure how or why, but the rational part of my brain finally got through by mentally screaming "what the actual fuck do you think you're doing!?!" I remember I was standing in the kitchen talking to FH when it happened. It was a Sunday. I know because I had a therapy appointment the next day. I think I interrupted him, but I'm not sure. I told him that I needed to tell him something important and everything came spilling out.

Here's what's really important. If I didn't have that solid trust and respect with FuzzyHusband, I don't think I'd have told him. Even in that moment of clarity. If I didn't have a good therapist (who saw me twice that week) and a good doctor (who worked me in right after the therapy appointment the next day), I am quite certain the feelings of mentally drowning would've taken over yet again and I'd not be sitting here typing up my story. Because that's how it feels. Like you're drowning. And that's WITH the advantages of good medical care and a support network. I cannot begin to think what it's like for someone feeling the same way without what I have.

Now I'm fairly stable. Meaning I'm not actively planning on killing myself and I'm mostly mentally strong enough to tell the dark parts of my brain to pee up a rope when they come calling. There are still changes I've had to make to try and help myself recover. Dropping the blog to weekly was one of them. Having a weekly record of what I've working on is helpful because memory lapses are part of my new normal. Plus it allows me to stay connected to people I care about. Both of those are positive things. Walking away from toxic people, no matter their relation, is another thing. And man is that difficult to do. Particularly when you were groomed to behave a certain way towards people.

I remind myself every day that I'm worth the air I breathe. That there are people who love me and cherish me. Because there are and they do. Some days are easier than others. Some days it's all I can do to put on a clean pair of underwear. I really loathe those days...

A while back a friend of mine ran a live-streamed fundraiser for the American Foundation of Suicide Prevention. I donated in the named of a friend who'd taken his own life. What bothered be about that situation was: he never asked for help because of the stigma and when our mutual friend wrote the obituary, she wrote that he'd died of heart problems. We read the letter and in fact we found his body.... a day I'll never forget. And she covered up his pain because of stigma. If we as a society refuse to educate ourselves regarding mental illness, how many more people we take their own lives?

Anyways, when I made that donation, I was entered into a drawing for a giveaway. Many artists from all over had donated items for my friend to use as incentives to donate. As it happens, another dear friend was one of those artists. And suddenly I found myself the proud owner of a paracord bracelet woven in teal and purple, the colors of the suicide awareness and prevention ribbon. I started wearing that thing daily after it arrived because it served as a physical reminder of my worth to someone. I told FH that I was afraid of what would happen if I ever lost it or if it broke.

Then my brain remembered something I'd read about a few years ago. Project Semicolon.

And then the idea for this was born.


My chosen artist used a photo of my bracelet to create the design. Now I will always have that reminder that my story isn't over. No matter what my brain tries to whisper in the dark moments. Incidentally, my friend who made the bracelet cried when he saw the photo.

So. If you or someone you care about is struggling, please encourage them to ask for help. Make them understand that there's no shame in being sick and no shame in asking for help. We aren't weak for asking for help. We ask for help because we've been strong for too long and need to rest. But that rest does not have to be permanent.

American Foundation of Suicide Prevention

National Alliance on Mental Illness

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Suicide Prevention Resource Center

Sunday, April 8, 2018

Disappointment

I've mentioned before that I'm going to be finishing the last quilt that my late friend was working on before she passed away. When her husband and I initially looked at it, it was brief but I noticed a couple of places where the seams weren't holding.

On Tuesday I thoroughly examined all the seams and found that I could see my friend's decline as her disease progressed. The blocks themselves are perfect. But she didn't get them pressed well before starting the sashing. The short sashing is mostly well done, but about a quarter of the seams show signs of her becoming unsteady and possibly loosing the ability to see well. On one row, you can see that her seams were too large because the row is shorter than the two on either side of it.


The long sashing strips were cut completely wrong. I.e. along the selvages inside of the width of the fabric. This makes the fabric more easily warped and harder to keep your seams straight... which is a total rookie mistake. She was most definitely not a quilting rookie. And on top of all this were places where the seams weren't holding or would not continue to hold.

After talking with another quilting friend, I knew what I had to do. I called my friend's husband and explained the situation. He and I agreed that I would disassemble the quilt top, after labeling the blocks so I can put them in the order she had them in, and completely redo the sashing. Then I would finish the borders as planned. He's checking her stash for fabric for the new sashing. That way I'm at least using her fabric for the new work.

On one hand I'm really upset about taking apart something that she put together. On the other hand, I want to ensure that her eventual great-grandchildren can enjoy this quilt and her all about her from their parent, aunts, and uncles... and hopefully pass it on to their children.

Tomorrow afternoon I'll hopefully be picking up the fabric substitute. If there's nothing in her stash, I'll do some quick math and run by the quilt shop on Tuesday. Then I get to label the blocks and start picking apart the weak seams.

This quilt will be done the way she would be proud of. Even if I have to stop and cry once in a while.

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Happy Easter!


No, Artie wasn't too pleased about the bunny ears. ;-)