10 forms of twisted thinking.

I am one twisted mother. I have been told so many times by so many professionals and lay persons that my main problem is the way I think, so I had to re-post this item from Therese over at Beyond Blue. I think I have more than 10 actually because I'm an overachiever and really special. See? There's one right there.

Both David Burns (bestselling author of "Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy" and Abraham Low (founder of Recovery, Inc.) teach techniques to analyze negative thoughts (or identify distorted thinking) so to be able to disarm and defeat them.

Since Low's language is a bit out-dated, I list below Burns' "Ten Forms of Twisted Thinking," (adapted from "Feeling Good") categories of dangerous ruminations, that when identified and brought into your consciousness, lose their power over you.

1. All-or-nothing thinking (a.k.a. my brain and the Vatican's): You look at things in absolute, black-and-white categories.
2. Overgeneralization (also a favorite): You view a negative event as a never-ending pattern of defeat.
3. Mental filter: You dwell on the negatives and ignore the positives.
4. Discounting the positives: You insist that your accomplishments or positive qualities don't count (my college diploma was stroke of luck...really, it was).
5. Jumping to conclusions (loves alcoholic families): You conclude things are bad without any definite evidence. These include mind-reading (assuming that people are reacting negatively to you) and fortune-telling (predicting that things will turn out badly).
6. Magnification or minimization: You blow things way out of proportion or you shrink their importance.
7. Emotional reasoning: You reason from how you feel: "I feel like an idiot, so I must be one."
8. "Should" statements (every other word for me): You criticize yourself or other people with "shoulds," "shouldn'ts," "musts," "oughts," and "have-tos."
9. Labeling: Instead of saying, "I made a mistake," you tell yourself, "I'm a jerk" or "I'm a loser."
10. Blame: You blame yourself for something you weren't entirely responsible for, or you blame other people and overlook ways that you contributed to a problem.

Depression and addiction. Or Lincoln and me.

Although drug ads would have one believe that depression can be cured, it's beyond the scope of medicine, encompassing the physical body and the mind, which makes it exactly like addiction. Both are chronic diseases that need to be managed daily. Both have, at some point, taken a person to her knees in defeat. Both require the sufferer to admit she is powerless and to turn the care of herself over to a higher power.

I recently read this article, which is a synopsis (although it's an Atlantic piece, so it's still long) of a book about Lincoln's depression. To compare my depressive/addictive nature to Lincoln's is like comparing a  mosquito bite to full-blown psoriasis, but I could relate to the guy.

Lincoln: "They meant to set up a standard maxim for free society," Lincoln said, "which should be familiar to all, and revered by all; constantly looked to, constantly labored for … even though never perfectly attained."
AA: Progress, not perfection.

Lincoln: "Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it."
AA: Do the next right thing.

I hear many drunks in meetings identify themselves as "grateful alcoholics." I used to think they were grateful to be sober, but now I see what they mean is that they are grateful for the gift of their disease. Lincoln, too, seemd to come to believe that his disease was not a curse, but a gift.

It's a pity that it would be an uphill battle for a great man like Lincoln to be elected today. Aside from the fact that the camera didn't love him, once People magazine ran a story about his black dog, the race would be over. The public views depression and alcoholism as character flaws and weaknesses, which is too bad because both diseases, when being treated, result in a person who is rich in humility, has examined her soul, and taken responsibility for her actions. I wouldn't mind seeing more of these traits in my elected officials.

Die young. Stay pretty.

The headline on this week's Parade magazine, paragon of useful information:


PARADE REVEALS THE SECRETS TO A LONG LIFE; DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO GO THE DISTANCE?


My thoughts (right after Ooh, yum cake!) were I sure hope not. 

What's with the big desire to live endlessly long lives? The things I enjoy--exercising, shopping at Forever 21 and wearing clothes meant for teenagers, eating high fat/low fiber/high sodium meals--are typically things that can't or shouldn't be done by old people.

Let's face it, most of life is a veil of fucking tears. What's the attraction to prolonging the misery?

Here's the bad news, according to this article, some of my behaviors are predictors of long life: unmarried, chronic worrier, introverted, active. Fuck. I don't, however, have a fulfilling, successful (or existent) career at this point, so staying unemployed isn't all bad.

Maybe I'll change my mind some day and want to live to 97 like my neighbor and Big Gun's dad. She's doing OK, but as far as I can tell, his biggest enjoyments are the three squares his caregiver mashes up on a plate and serves him, even though his doctor has ordered that they have to be low in salt/sugar/fat/flavor to ensure he lives even longer. Not my idea of nirvana. I'd take an early death over that, but ask me again in twenty years.

An ounce of prevention.

Dear married or engaged people,

After you bring your significant other a coffee and tell him/her how smashing hes/she looks, read this article.

Love,

your divorcing friend

This article ran in Sunday's SF Chronicle. It cleared a few things up for me. I have been confused why some economic news appears to be good, retail sales are up, traffic is increasing, homes continue to sell, ex gets a 45K bonus, and yet Big Guns and I still can't find good jobs. I've been waiting for the proverbial "trickle down," which is like waiting for Santa. True capitalism and free markets will never work because people are selfish pigs. We're pack animals. We live in herds or groups or communities or whatever you want to call it and part of the responsibility of living in these herds/communities is taking care of all our members. Fucking rich people.

Secret mormon mother stalker.

So my friend Sandee sends me this link to an article about feminists who obsessively read blogs written by Mormon women. I have plenty of character defects, but I was fairly certain that wasn't one of them.

I regularly read several blogs written by really cheery moms--the type that I hate in person--but they aren't Mormon, at least that's what I thought. One mentioned going to church but also talked about going to bars so I was thinking she was Catholic. My bloggers don't look like Mormons; they don't have piercings or tattoos, but they do wear army boots.

Post article, I started noticing the tells, like multiple children and mentions of missions and husbands who get advanced degrees and the wife still stays home. (Who pays the fucking bills is what I want to know? God, I guess.) I'm not exactly a feminist, but OMG I've become Mormon mom stalker. Why? I'm held and repelled. I hate optimists, yet I'm attracted to the belief these women have that it's always going to be OK. They never worry about money. They never question their choices. And they do nice crafts.

Reading them is like watching an episode of "Friends," where good looking underemployed people live in fabulously decorated apartments (no hand-me-down Ikea sofas) and wear perfect clothes (never the same thing twice) and never talk about the cost of living. Is that what it's like to be Mormon? Right now it sound like a never-ending ecstasy trip.

The reason I keep coming back is probably because I never have to have coffee, I mean caffeine-free diet Coke, with any of them.

One more thing today that I'm obsesssing about.

Ex emailed me to tell me his company gave him a 45K bonus. WTF?! That's over twice my spousal support for the fucking year! More than most people's salaries!

He didn't know if he was supposed to share it with me. I wanted to say You should give me the whole enchilada because I pushed out your two 9-lb. children without drugs then kept them alive and healthy until they were both almost adults. 

I checked with a friend, then a lawyer friend and both said I would probably not be entitled to any of this. Then I bit the bullet and contacted my own lawyer who said "Not so fast, missy. Let's not forget Smith Osler. Certainly you put something in your settlement about Smith Osler."

I don't remember. Do I even have a final settlement? Do I really have to go back through painful paperwork? Yes, I do, but let's just say that I'm not going to get excited about any extra income coming in. Two days ago I was envisioning a vacation outside of my own backyard and the ability to pay for my new crown (not the royal kind, the tooth kind).

As Big Guns keeps reminding me: it's just money. We are the same people with or without it. It doesn't change our characters.  

Well no, it doesn't change most people's characters but it has a tendency to make me crazier. Have you seen those videos of lab rats sucking down nicotine? Sort of like that.

Squeamish people look away.

The procedure went as well as can be expected when a sweet, young doctor is sticking needles in your eyelids. I didn't feel the cutting stitching but I could smell my flesh burning as it was being cauterized and the blood dripping into my eyes. Apparently, I sailed through in record time. It was all over in 30 minutes. I was groggy from the valium and anti-puke pill plus the whole idea that somebody had cut through my eyelids. I could see light when he sliced even though my eyes were closed. Creepy.

Anyway, I came home and rested and, because I'm not very good at resting, I got up and made a pot of soup then decided to take a pain pill (my drug of choice, BTW) since I was having a bit of throbbing and it's always best to nip that in the bud. I ate a bowl of soup, chatted with mom (although I couldn't look up), ate another bowl of soup, started to feel "off," headed to bed, but only got as far as the hallway where I fainted.

Fainting is an odd thing. It's like the lights just get turned off. I've done it three times before--doctor's office, my own bathroom, and a crowded movie theater lobby. I'm practically a professional and, indeed, did not hurt myself this or any of those other times. I mean I could could fall on an ax or the corner of a bookshelf or something, but I just crumple delicately to the floor. At least that's how I imagine it.

Here's a photo. Forgive me. I look like Frankenstein. I am ashamed and embarrassed that I did this to myself. Was I that bored?

Is a Monday with no work better than a Monday with work?

I can't decide. I suppose they suck equally but for different reasons. Hands-down winner for the suckiest Monday is driving your sullen teenager to an 8 a.m. ortho appointment, then having to wait 1-1/2 hours with no coffee. I gorged on three weeks worth of People and the latest Redbook magazines. The only thing I remember: a story about  mom who killed her two teenagers for being "mouthy." The rest is a blur of diet tips, toning exercises, and ways to attract and keep a man. Oh, here's a thing I love: when they tout some cheap blouse from say, Forever 21, and tart it up with $300 pants and a $1,500 bag. Chanel anything can make an old newspaper look rich. Suck on.

And the universe said to snip my eyes.

A year or so ago, one of my fabulous nieces, the one who works for the plastic surgeon, mentioned that I might want to consider having my lids done. Another of her aunts had it done and she said it was a quick and easy procedure and she was AWAKE the whole time.

"You were awake while somebody cut your eyelids?!" I asked. I'd like to say I considered having it done for a minute or two, but the possibility of signing up for this didn't cross my mind for a second. Until I saw this picture:

At first, I blamed my bassett-hound dog eyes on my iridescent eye shadow that seemed to highlight an area that didn't need any attention called to itself. I spent 45 minutes with a Sephora beauty expert to locate a non-sparkly shadow. The first one she offered up was called "smudge pot," and clearly meant for some firm-lidded young thing. How many times have I heard "skin loses its elasticity as we age?" It's not true. The skin on my eyes is extremely elastic and capable of seismic shifts--I think I could stretch it all the way to my ear. I eventually found a creamier version that I could glide across my highly movable eye canvas.

This was not enough for the Universe. My Pilates partner works in the plastic surgery field and apparently the resident surgeon who's currently rotating through niece's office is a wunderkind, the best of his field! And he's leaving in two weeks! If I was ever going to do it, now was the time.

Next Wednesday I will go to Palo Alto and return sans two little crescents of my eyelids--those I'm leaving behind like extra baggage.

I will then be sporting a bandage across my face for the next five days and orders not to elevate my blood pressure too greatly, i.e. no exercise. Expect many pathetic posts. I hope this is not a slippery slope I'm stepping onto.