Normal Slippage

You know, normal is really just a way of saying, "This is what I'm used to."

What's normal is what's typical. It's the expected, the customary, "this is the way we've always done it."

But if you change all that, if you take the customary and expected and change it - maybe a little, maybe a lot - and then hold it there for awhile, not letting it go back to where it was until it's set up like molded gelatin ...

... when you have a new normal.

A couple of weeks ago I was standing at the sink, washing some pots and pans that don't fit in the dishwasher. I was looking out the window at the warming spring weather, noting from the corner of my eye, and with rather less of my attention, that Arielle was sitting at the kitchen table, absorbed in some complicated make-believe game with her dolls.

And as I thought about all these things and let my hands do their thing with the dishes, I noticed an odd buzzy, fizzy sensation in my chest. I stopped, and I thought, "What is this feeling?" It was a feeling of some kind, I could tell, some emotion ... and then I realized what it was.

I was feeling happy.

I didn't recognize it.

Which was understandable considering I hadn't felt that emotion for, oh (and I stopped here to calculate), wow, about four years now.

Four years.

Four. Years.

I'd thought I was doing so well with the depression when I went to see my new doctor a couple of months ago. I told her about the depression and how bad it had been, even things I haven't told anyone else, thinking that was just background. And then I went on and described some frustrating symptoms that have been bothering me lately.

You know what she said? Of course you do! She said she thought I was still mildly depressed and she wanted to put my on an antidepressant. She thought my frustrating symptoms were caused by that.

So. We talked for awhile about that, and I explained how badly I had reacted to the evil Cymbalta and how I had been flooded for most of the six months I was on it with the overwhelming conviction that I really needed to kill myself, and how I would have sudden impulses to do things like drive my car into a telephone pole that were so strong it was like someone standing behind me, with their hands on my shoulders, shoving me forward toward death, and how all I could do when those impulses hit was hang on to whatever was solid near me and try to keep breathing until the wave crested and broke, and how I thought ever taking any antidepressant ever again was a Very, Very Bad Idea.

And she said she wanted me to try Wellbutrin. It didn't work the same way Cymbalta did, she promised me. "Try it," she said. "If you start feeling strange you can stop taking it immediately without a need to taper off."

I agreed, but not happily, and I seriously considered not filling the prescription. But there was that tantalizing possibility of magically feeling better, and although I was feeling pretty darn good, I thought, well, maybe.

I realize now, that my standard of normal had changed. I was so used to being depressed that, especially after the Cymbalta, I had forgotten what I used to think was normal.

I still don't know if this is anywhere near what I used to consider normal, but right now, the Wellbutrin is really doing me good. I met with my doctor again and she said she thinks that we should just go with this for the indefinite future. Meaning, I might be on this for the rest of my life.

Fine with me. This might not be "normal" but it's so much better than where I was that it feels pretty good.

Just jumping in, pretending I haven't been gone.

On one of my email lists they've been discussing nicknames lately. Joshilyn sent in a (naturally) well-written letter about why she hates to be called Josh instead of Joss.

It got me thinking about my name and nicknames and how that's played out in my life. As I read her letter, Joshilyn basically put nicknames into two categories - ones given to you by people who are close to you and who love you, and ones given to you by strangers and/or bullies, who don't know you and are simply being presumptuous and rude, if not actually trying to be cruel.

I've never been a person who has inspired nicknames. Which is a shame, because I've longed desperately for them. Nicknames always seemed such a badge of acceptance. To be given a nickname meant you were part of the group, one of the gang, a friend close enough not to demand formality. Nicknames meant you were loved and I wanted that desperately.

When I was seven I decided to take matters into my own hands and give myself a nickname. I was the only person in the family who didn't have one. So, I started telling everyone to call me "Jenny". It wasn't the same as being given a nickname, but I was tired of waiting for one to happen.

It didn't feel the way I thought it would, though. It was like telling someone you want them to say, "I love you," and having them repeat it back to you. It didn't mean anything and it didn't do anything to fill that ache inside me. "Jenny" stuck, however, and for years I was called that.

Then, in 7th grade, I had this math teacher. Oh, he was horrible. Mean, impatient, angry, sarcastic - I dreaded going to his class. He really didn't seem to like working with kids and I couldn't figure out why he'd gone into teaching. He spent all period sitting at his desk with his feet up, reading paperback novels turned over on themselves to hide the covers (which, from the glimpses I caught of them, were pretty lurid.) He only came out from behind the book when things got out of hand, or when some poor kid had set himself up to be humiliated.

He always called me Jenny (Lastname), in this nasal, mocking way that grated on my nerves. It felt like he was making fun of me, making fun of my name. Looking back, I think he just hated all adolescents, but at the time it felt as if he was deliberately making a point that he disliked me more than anyone else. After a year of putting up with that, I hated the name Jenny. I didn't ever want to hear it again and so I started telling people to call me Jennifer. It worked with my friends, but not my family. They were too used to calling me Jenny.

After that I went without a nickname, except in my family. I had friends, but I was a serious kid, and very shy. I also have quite the tendency to be ... well, it's like this. I start off being equals in a friendship, but inevitably something bad happens in my friend's life and I feel the need to be supportive by taking care of them. I'm so good at this, that before long the relationship has changed and I find myself almost in a parent role, with my friends coming to me for advice and nurturing. People talk about how they admire me, and are impressed with my understanding of human nature. If I'm not being ignored, I'm being respected. Neither is conducive to the sort of casual friendship that leads to nicknames.

In all my life I've only had two people give me nicknames, and they both chose the same nickname. My best friend and the husband both call me Jen-Jen. I cherish that nickname like someone else would cherish getting flowers. I never feel more loved than when I hear one of those two calling me Jen-Jen.