ToadMama.com

I’m not the alarmist type. Usually. But an article I stumbled across today has definitely raised a red flag for me.

I admit I’m a bit naive when it comes to matters of privacy. I know I am a straight, stand-up type. By that I mean I am not a criminal, I’m honest almost to a fault, and I would never intentionally inflict bodily harm on anyone unless provoked, as in self-defense. I don’t own a gun and, if I did, I wouldn’t know how to use one. I wouldn’t steal from anyone either.

The only illegal thing I do, that I’m aware of, is sometimes drive too fast. Even then, I don’t speed through neighborhoods. I drive slowly through parking lots. I’m always aware of what’s going on around me, which is a by-product of riding a motorcycle. 

Why should someone like me care if my cellphone tracks my movements? I don’t do anything wrong. So it shouldn’t matter, right?

Wrong. Check out this article about Zachary McCoy. He seems like a normal, stand-up guy, too.

Data from his bicycle ride-tracking app put him in the hotseat. At one point, he became lead suspect in the burglary of a 96-year-old woman. As the article states…

“‘It was a nightmare scenario,’ McCoy recalled. ‘I was using an app to see how many miles I rode my bike and now it was putting me at the scene of the crime. And I was the lead suspect.’”

Zachary looks harmless enough, right? What if he looked more-menacing? Or his skin were a darker color? He would probably have been even more worried. He SHOULD have been even more worried, sadly. Judging a book by its cover, wrongly, is a common occurrence these days.

How did authorities get access to his location data? They used a geofence warrant. What exactly is a geofence warrant? It’s kinda scary stuff.

If you care to know more, follow the links I provided. I can’t go into more detail now. I need to go change all my location settings before I forget.

Notice I did not say Bigfeet as in Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Yeti, or, my all-time favorite, Woodbooger? That’s because this post really is about feet. As in, my feet.

Why feet? Because I got a pedicure the other day. That may not be a big deal for some people, but for me it is huge. No pun intended.

I am tall. I have big feet. They are not particularly attractive, either. When I was younger, my feet got ridiculed regularly. I was told they were ugly. And big. Not to mention ugly because they were big. That stuck with me. So I tend to hide my feet under socks, in closed-toes shoes, under sand or water (when at the beach), etc.

Yes, I know that sounds stupid and irrational. Really, it’s evidence that bullying, i.e., frequent ridicule, really does leave scars. But that’s a whole ‘nother story.

I used to have a large bunion on my left foot, too. It was removed when I was in my early 30s, or around there. Since then, I have hated to have anyone touch my feet. I don’t know why.

Many folks I know talk about loving to get foot rubs, wanting people to touch and/or massage their feet, LOVING pedicures, etc. Even men. It always sounded awful to me. Seriously awful. And the last time I got a pedicure, years ago, which I think was the second one I’d ever had, I was seriously weirded out by the tech massaging my legs. I was all like, “WTF?! I was supposed to get a pedicure on my feet, not a full body massage!” I suffered silently through the whole thing, but never went back.

I hate the thought of getting a massage, too. Again, I know that sounds stupid and irrational to some. To me, it just sounds invasive, and I cannot imagine relaxing while some stranger is touching all over me.

Anyway… while I was visiting Amy, I decided to do something really drastic, as in WAY outside of my comfort zone. I figured what the Hell, maybe it would shock me back into normalcy.

So I went all by myself and got a pedicure. And a manicure, so all my digits would match.

I did not give the tech any instructions. My inner voice was saying, “Tell that bitch not to rub your feet. Or your legs. A pedicure means feet!” But I kept my mouth shut, used my yogic breathing technique, and let her do her thing.

It was awesome.

If only I could have bridged the language gap well enough to explain to the pedi tech why, exactly, I insisted on her giving me a high five when she finished.

I am not the only one with big feet. When I found these shoes in Amy’s closet, I assumed they belonged to her husband. As it turns out, they belong to Gaige, my sixteen year old grandson. How is it possible that he’s that big already?

Most women wear cute, open-toed shoes to the nail salon. I wore the only open-toed shoes I could find. So I didn’t mess up the polish. As it turns out, I chose gel polish. It dries almost instantly. I could have worn my own shoes, complete with socks.

I am still learning. Next time, I will know!

As an aside… I chose a really bright, loud color to remind myself of my accomplishment. Not because I think it looks great.

It did NOT shock me back to normalcy, but it still feels pretty good. I successfully silenced that mean inner critic.

Baby steps are still steps in the right direction, right? RIGHT!

So…

I am completely at a loss on how to explain events of the past several weeks. I’m not even sure “events” is appropriate.

I’ll just post a cool photo while I try to gather some thoughts.

Okay, maybe one more photo that I like.

I shot both of those pictures last Monday, February 24. That day was the seventh consecutive weekday that I did not go to work. By “go,” I mean report in, log on, clock in, whatever word it is to describe what remote employees do to start their day.

I hadn’t been feeling right for a couple of weeks. Of course, right is relative. I knew I’d been feeling progressively worse and worse over the past several months. I just didn’t realize how bad things had gotten.

It’s been a difficult few years. I’ll spare you the details, which might just sound like whining. Let’s just say some issues or “life stressors” have been building/catching up with me.

Depression and ADD + life stressors
+ chronic job stress = DISASTER

My brain had finally shut down. It’s the weirdest thing. I literally stopped being able to think. One morning, Tuesday, February 4, I woke up knowing I was in trouble. Not physical trouble, mind you. Just trouble.

Really, from the minute I opened my eyes, I knew I could not go to work that day. I ended up staying “out” through Thursday. By Friday, I felt able to work again. It was a quiet, decent day.

By noon on Monday, February 10, my brain had frozen. Again.

Not like a stroke or anything. My thought processes just weren’t connecting. No pistons were firing, or spark plugs, or valves. Or maybe all of the above.

Things were simply just not making sense. Like, really. I was a big, fat deer in the proverbial headlights. Nothing was sinking in.

I didn’t know what to do with the millions of words being thrown at me. Emails coming in constantly. Instant messages via Teams (like Skype). Phone calls. Text messages. ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Conflicting instructions and probing questions. More and more work to get done in less and less time. More pressure from above to monitor those below me more closely, to help my employees, make sure they were dotting and crossing in all the right places. Knee-jerk reactions. Politicking among executives (scuttlebutt almost always trickles down).

I’ll spare you the sordid details around trying to determine where to go/who to see for help. I finally went to my primary care doctor on Friday, February 14. She told me to stay out for a few days. I negotiated her down to two. My boss insisted I take all three.

Through some small miracle, I got an appointment with a mental health professional on the third day, February 18. He, Bob, ordered another seven day break. A week later, I saw him again. He says he thinks he can help, and is pretty sure I’ll be able to get better/return to normal, but he has no idea how long it will take.

The last full day I worked was Thursday, February 13. Tomorrow will be the 13th consecutive weekday I have not worked.

That’s why I had time to visit a waterfall on a Monday.

Dark Hollow Falls

I’m currently away on a pre-planned trip (non-refundable plane ticket had already been purchased). Wednesday was a travel day. Thursday I tried doing some writing, to no avail. Amy took one day off (Friday). We went axe throwing. It sounds cheesy, but was actually fun. Then we went to a brewery for lunch, and some brews. In the evening, we went and got manicures. The weekend was fun-filled, too.

I look relatively normal. Physically, I don’t feel any different. Mentally is a whole ‘nother story. As soon as I even think about working again, I can feel my brain scrambling. I looked at LinkedIn for something tonight, but had to close the app after only about two minutes. Earlier today, while reading some industry news, I started feeling sick to my stomach.

Not working sure feels weird. It has all been so strange, really. I can do basic, everyday stuff, but nothing that requires complex thought. The least little bit of negativity, angst, or stress I experience, my brain starts to quiver.

I don’t mean my brain is literally shaking, I mean it’s like the structure of my brain immediately turns to Jello. Signals are not connecting. Wires are definitely crossed. Or compromised.

I’m going home Wednesday night. I will meet with Bob again on Friday. I’m sure more visits with Bob will follow.

Now, if only we can get the ole brain working properly again.

I am not complaining. Honest. I do realize things could be MUCH worse. But, honestly, not being able to THINK is pretty fucking awful.

I would really, REALLY like to feel normal again. If that’s even possible in this crazy, new mixed up world in which we live.

I will keep on keeping on, taking things as they come, plodding on through whatever you call this state or stage in my life. Taking one day at a time and learning very important lessons as I go.

A positive frame of mind is important. So is love, and laughter. It’s been wonderful visiting with Amy and the grand kids. Very good medicine indeed.

There’s more excitement planned for tomorrow. Stay tuned…

My rational mind is telling me there’s something wrong with my brain. It’s not working the way that I think it is supposed to, which is the way it has always worked for me in the past. So it must be broken, right?

But there’s another part of me–another train of thought or perhaps my irrational mind?–that’s actually celebrating. That part of my brain is saying hallelujah, praise Jesus, hip-hip-hooray, and such. Because finally, 53 years after I arrived on this planet, my brain is working the way it should be working. Or is it?

That’s all perfectly clear, straightforward, and easy to understand, right? Yeah, it doesn’t make sense to me either. Trying to understand the why behind it all is making me crazy. For real.

Is my brain broken? Have I finally gone nuts? Or have I finally come to my senses? I don’t know which answer is right. Maybe there’s a little truth in both lines of thought. Or maybe my brain is and always has been working just fine, but my own reality has shifted.

That’s an even weirder thought!

Many people scoff at and immediately dismiss the whole idea of shifting reality. It’s tempting to dismiss it, certainly. I mean, reality is real. Everything we perceive with one or more of our five senses is either real or it isn’t. Right?

Nope. Scientists have learned an awful lot about brains and thought processes. Relatively speaking, however, there is so much more that scientists do not know. Really. So much so, that even science has started questioning reality.

Thinking about stuff like that can be quite mind-blowing. Literally.

If you have not read, watched, or in some other way come across any reality discussions, and are curious, check out this video I stumbled across on YouTube, “Reality is Not as it Seems.” I included an overview below.

The prevalent view in cognitive science today is that we construct our perception of reality in real time. But could we be misinterpreting the content of our perceptual experiences? According to some cognitive scientists, what we perceive with our brain and our senses does not reflect the true nature of reality. Thus, while evolution has shaped our perceptions to guide adaptive behavior, they argue, it has not enabled us to perceive reality as it actually is. What are the implications of such a radical finding for our understanding of the mystery of consciousness? And how do we distinguish between “normal” and “abnormal” perceptual experiences?

Cognitive scientist Donald D. Hoffman and neurologist Suzanne O’Sullivan join Steve Paulson to discuss the elusive quest to understand the fundamental nature of consciousness, and why our perception of reality is not necessarily what it seems.

Do we create our own reality? If so, does that mean everything we see, think, and physically feel is created in our own mind? Or do we share realities with people who are close to us?

If we see things others do not see, is it because those things are not real? Or is it simply because others are not able to see them? If we feel things, physically, that others cannot feel, are we nuts? Or do we just have different abilities?

I am trying very hard to find the answer(s). If you have any good ideas, do let me know. Meanwhile, I’ll keep digging.

Yesterday, I learned of the death of someone I did not know. I knew of him through mutual ties to a friend’s family. I’d met him, briefly, and probably saw him at various functions over the years, but had never had an in-depth conversation with the guy. Not that I remember.

He’d just turned 38 in early January. He was a veteran of the US Navy. According to the obituary, he’d served tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan. The obituary also said, “He was a man of God who loved serving the Lord, his family and others, always with a smile on his face. His contagious smile and laughter will be missed by many.” At the time of his death, he was employed by the US Department of Veterans Affairs, still serving his country.

The obituary did not mention the grievous, life-threatening wounds he suffered during one of his tours of duty. When an explosion wiped out most, if not all, of the other soldiers he was with at the time, his friends. It also didn’t mention the many, many surgeries and myriad other medical procedures, long, grueling periods of recovery, the physical pain he endured, and the scars. The beautiful love story that blossomed when, during one of his many hospital stays, friends of his stopped to visit with a young girl in tow. Unknown to him at the time, she’d eventually become his wife and the mother of two of his beautiful children. There was also no mention of the eventual divorce or detail about his second marriage being what blessed him with another wife,  daughter, and a son.

I have yet to see an obituary reveal the cause of death as suicide. Why is that? Suicide is not shameful. In my opinion, it is just as tragic as dying a long, slow, death from cancer or some other degenerative, fatal disease. The kind that slowly eats away at one’s physical body. Where families, friends, co-workers and others witness and have to deal with that person’s physical struggles. They can see the effect of pain on that person. They can empathize and, maybe, do things to help ease the patient’s suffering. They can offer support and friendship, do as much as they can to help, or at least take the patient’s mind off of the physical suffering.

When people die of “natural” causes, be it sudden death from a heart attack, accident, or something long and drawn out, like cancer, most of those who are left behind grieve differently than they would had it been death by suicide. They do what they need to do to wrap their minds around the loss and get on with the business of living.

People typically have a harder time accepting suicide, or dealing with it. Most people, anyway. It’s not spoken of, not at length anyway. Survivors are often treated like victims. Maybe they even feel like victims.

How often have you heard things like… That was selfish. How could he do that to his family? How could he leave his children behind? If only he’d told me he was suffering, I could have helped. Imagine the guilt his parents are struggling with. He just couldn’t handle it all anymore, he wasn’t strong enough. Etcetera, etcetera.

In my opinion, it is just another example of how ill-equipped our society is to deal with mental illness. Death by suicide is just as tragic, if not MORE tragic, than death by “natural causes.”

Why is natural deal more acceptable? Because we can see the effects of disease? Because we know what physical pain feels like, and are better equipped to understand and empathize when people are sick, injured, and/or dealing with a fatal disease?

Mental illness may be invisible, but it is also very physical. We may all be people, but we do not all have the same physical make-up. Our bodies have many, many similarities, but they also have many differences. Our muscles do not all work the same way, and neither do our brains. We think differently, we feel differently, we perceive things differently, we act and react in many different ways.

If more people understood mental illness, would it have been different? Could that young man’s life have been saved? Should it have been saved?

I cannot imagine how difficult the entire second half of his life has been. I suspect the physical suffering he endured paled in comparison to the mental anguish eating away at his psyche. How difficult it must have been to live a seemingly normal life while dealing with so many invisible, emotional hurdles.

Organized religion doesn’t necessarily help either. Suicide is considered a sin by many. But that young man “…was a man of God who loved serving the Lord.” Imagine just how bad his pain must have been for him to take his own life. To risk being condemned to Hell for all eternity.

Is suicide a bad thing? Really? Or is it a final, courageous act?

That young man was not weak. He was a hero. He fought for a very long time, physically and mentally. If he’d been wired differently, he might have lived longer.

Would you condemn someone for ending their life if you knew they’d spent the second half of their physical life on Earth suffering from pain? Should you?

If one’s physical brain is not appropriately wired to process the negative thoughts and emotions coursing through one’s brain, and there is no end in sight to the emotional pain caused by that faulty processing, how can choosing to end it be bad?

That young man will be interred at Arlington National Cemetery. He will be buried with honor, as he should be. He was courageous. He was a fighter. But he was also a human. His physical limitations were his undoing. His wiring had flaws.

I hope his children are better-equipped and, one day, able to understand how difficult life was for their heroic father. I hope the people he left behind are able to realize and rejoice in knowing his physical body may be gone, but his soul is finally free.