In Australia, where I live, New Year's Eve and Day fall around the hottest part of the year. It's not uncommon for the week after NYD to be filled with media reports advising elderly people to stay inside, issuing bushfire warnings for different parts of Australia and for there to be stories of people who have drowned, almost drowned or been bitten by sharks when trying to escape the heat at the beach.
Not exactly the best kind of weather to uphold your new years resolutions, then.
But I've got one. It involves starting with the Couch to 5K and then training further so as to complete the City 2 Surf in August this year. Roughly seven months training time by the time I finally get my act into gear.
I downloaded 'The Non-Runner's guide to Marathons' or similar and from what I've read so far, the author, Dawn Dais, decided to participate in a marathon in memory of her grandfather who had had a stroke and died. I got to thinking, exercise is supposed to be a fabulous way of stamping out depression. Now that I genuinely want to get better, if only so I can sit on the couch and read books without this fierce grey cloud threatening to unload every day, I think that it would be an amazing thing if I could get sponsored to run in the City 2 Surf in the name of depression.
This would involve admitting to people who don't know that I have this disease, chronicling my efforts in a blog (probably separate to this one) and, of course, training most days.
Which I would love to start, except that it can't be much less than 30 degrees out there right now and that's not conducive to the first day of the couch 2 5 k.
As always, updates to follow.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Wait, they don't love you like I love you
Happy New Year.
My NYE was spent at home online and purchasing books for my Kindle. I'm developing a pretty fierce Amazon habit.
When my depression first hit I felt such little satisfaction and accomplishment with everything that I stepped up my spending to feel in control. My therapist at the time, Tehani, said that compulsive shopping was a symptom of depression and that there were much worse things I could be spending my money on, like alcohol or gambling. In one weekend I blew $300 on a pair of jeans because I was feeling like I had no control over my impending UK trip. I guess whittling away at your finances before you leave is a pretty great way to sabotage a trip you're scared of taking. Nonetheless, though, I now wear those jeans and they remind me of a time when I had $300 to spend on jeans, when I felt accomplished enough and sure enough in my income and prospects to do this relatively guilt free. Plus they're Nudie.
So I guess it's lucky that I was given my Kindle now that my depression has become milder.
Now that it's milder, however, the bad days are even scarier. Is this what I felt like? I wonder when I feel especially depressed. It worries me because unlike last time, sensory memories of the dark days seem to have been stripped from my conscious. I can remember, mentally, how I couldn't raise my voice above a murmur or answer the telephone lest I have to speak to someone. I can remember how getting out of bed was a triumph. But I cannot remember how it felt.
I've been running from my first experience with depression, the one that hit in first year, with a very real memory of what that felt like. Maybe it's because that time I carved into my skin in an effort to feel real, whereas this time that seems a bit more folly. I think about it, don't get me wrong, and when the bad memories hit (my depression bank) I grab at my skin in a pinch, or I dig my fingernails into my palms, to focus on a physical pain that will replace a pain that rises from memories. I find myself looking for effective ways to self harm without actually doing them: it seems enough to envision digging a razor into my skin and remember how it felt when I did it.
My depression bank, as I've referred to before, is the name I've given for the bank of experiences, memories and feelings that inform depression but are too painful or perhaps seem too frivolous to deal with. For example, my fear of getting better from depression, which I spoke about in an earlier post, sits in my depression bank and makes me feel worse. I don't talk about it with my therapist as when I'm with her she makes it seem possible to get better; but when I'm alone and thinking about the ways I continually self sabotage, my depression kicks up a notch. Other things that reside in my depression bank include memories of times that I made an arse of myself at university when I was trying so hard not to, people who hurt me and who I misjudged, memories of childhood times when I felt ignored or oppressed and, of course, the sheer reality of my current existence.
Chalk up food issues and self esteem issues, like teeth problems and skin problems, to appearing in my depression bank. My parents' issues which spill over into what's supposed to be my sanctuary get a showing, as do thoughts of friends I've inadvertently dropped by only talking to the people who understand what's going on - all four of them.
It's not a pretty life. It's comfortable because there's no pressure to do anything but it's not glamorous or particularly fulfilling. I guess it frees me this time to spend working out my mind, which is an extremely valuable thing to do.
My NYE was spent at home online and purchasing books for my Kindle. I'm developing a pretty fierce Amazon habit.
When my depression first hit I felt such little satisfaction and accomplishment with everything that I stepped up my spending to feel in control. My therapist at the time, Tehani, said that compulsive shopping was a symptom of depression and that there were much worse things I could be spending my money on, like alcohol or gambling. In one weekend I blew $300 on a pair of jeans because I was feeling like I had no control over my impending UK trip. I guess whittling away at your finances before you leave is a pretty great way to sabotage a trip you're scared of taking. Nonetheless, though, I now wear those jeans and they remind me of a time when I had $300 to spend on jeans, when I felt accomplished enough and sure enough in my income and prospects to do this relatively guilt free. Plus they're Nudie.
So I guess it's lucky that I was given my Kindle now that my depression has become milder.
Now that it's milder, however, the bad days are even scarier. Is this what I felt like? I wonder when I feel especially depressed. It worries me because unlike last time, sensory memories of the dark days seem to have been stripped from my conscious. I can remember, mentally, how I couldn't raise my voice above a murmur or answer the telephone lest I have to speak to someone. I can remember how getting out of bed was a triumph. But I cannot remember how it felt.
I've been running from my first experience with depression, the one that hit in first year, with a very real memory of what that felt like. Maybe it's because that time I carved into my skin in an effort to feel real, whereas this time that seems a bit more folly. I think about it, don't get me wrong, and when the bad memories hit (my depression bank) I grab at my skin in a pinch, or I dig my fingernails into my palms, to focus on a physical pain that will replace a pain that rises from memories. I find myself looking for effective ways to self harm without actually doing them: it seems enough to envision digging a razor into my skin and remember how it felt when I did it.
My depression bank, as I've referred to before, is the name I've given for the bank of experiences, memories and feelings that inform depression but are too painful or perhaps seem too frivolous to deal with. For example, my fear of getting better from depression, which I spoke about in an earlier post, sits in my depression bank and makes me feel worse. I don't talk about it with my therapist as when I'm with her she makes it seem possible to get better; but when I'm alone and thinking about the ways I continually self sabotage, my depression kicks up a notch. Other things that reside in my depression bank include memories of times that I made an arse of myself at university when I was trying so hard not to, people who hurt me and who I misjudged, memories of childhood times when I felt ignored or oppressed and, of course, the sheer reality of my current existence.
Chalk up food issues and self esteem issues, like teeth problems and skin problems, to appearing in my depression bank. My parents' issues which spill over into what's supposed to be my sanctuary get a showing, as do thoughts of friends I've inadvertently dropped by only talking to the people who understand what's going on - all four of them.
It's not a pretty life. It's comfortable because there's no pressure to do anything but it's not glamorous or particularly fulfilling. I guess it frees me this time to spend working out my mind, which is an extremely valuable thing to do.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Nothing Happy Here
I feel down again. The fog is coming back. I have sore eyes and I'm sleepy and I find it really hard to concentrate for long periods of time. I just saw Sherlock Holmes with my friend and I spent a fair proportion of the film staring without taking it in. And I feel a bit sick to the stomach. And I'm not digging Jasper Fforde - Something Rotten as much as his first three Thursday Next books.
Whinge whinge whinge.
I finished reading 'It' by Stephen King which is a monster of a book. I read it on my Kindle and it took me four days.
That's really all I've got. I can't really cope with this mix of awful symptoms which could be related to anything or nothing. Might just be a sign of too much time at the computer/television/cinema and not enough outside.
On the plus side, I've thought of a way to open my novel.
Whinge whinge whinge.
I finished reading 'It' by Stephen King which is a monster of a book. I read it on my Kindle and it took me four days.
That's really all I've got. I can't really cope with this mix of awful symptoms which could be related to anything or nothing. Might just be a sign of too much time at the computer/television/cinema and not enough outside.
On the plus side, I've thought of a way to open my novel.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The World You Love
Now that I'm getting better (definitely nowhere near the end, but somewhere near the middle, rather than at the start) I'm starting to reassess my position in the treatment spectrum. I feel really strange telling my psychologist all of the things I have told her. I don't have any skeletons or things that I would feel super ashamed of should they wind up on the front page of a newspaper but it makes me feel quite vulnerable having told her the things that I have so far. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.
I still feel clear but today it feels a little bit manic. I feel precarious, like tomorrow I might awake and feel bad again. I don't not feel bad now - I just feel an absence of emotion. That's not entirely true, I don't feel numb. But I feel as though I could watch a comedy and not laugh, watch a tragedy and not cry, listen to a friend mope and not feel concerned. I feel...
I don't feel. It's like I process the emotions mentally and the output is the same.
I was thinking, today, about how I don't feel connected to a life source that guides my journey. When I went to England I was full of it, relying entirely upon this instinct that informed all of the choices I made. I felt earthed, as though my decisions had been made for me and my path was pre-ordained. Nothing particularly magical happened on my trip except that I felt hopeful and stripped away of most worry, anxiety, fear, conjecture...
When I was in Brecon or somewhere in Wales, I stayed up for hours talking to this middle-aged guy from England who'd just completed a mountain run. The weather was atrocious and he struck me as a cross between an indie kid who'd never quite grown up and Marcus' dippy father in the film About A Boy. Harmless. We chatted about different things and I tried to put into words the luck and good fortune that I felt to be able to travel to the opposite side of the world for a holiday. Hang out. Do my own thing. He made no sign that he'd understood this needful quest that I was on and said he was going to 'have a wee' which I've never heard an adult say in formal conversation.
The point I think my therapist is trying to make to me at the moment is that nothing is pre-ordained, nothing is set in stone, nothing is certain or eventual. I can hope and wish and pray for the perseverance to write a novel, the talent to write a good one and the luck to get it published but it will take a lot of perseverance, talent and luck to achieve this. In the meantime my heart might be pulled somewhere else.
She asked me if I would be happy with the kind of existence I've currently got - a basic one, where my basic needs are met, my thoughts are moderate, my dreams forgotten. I said of course, it didn't seem so bad, and besides, I'm happy at the moment.
She said of course I'm happy, it doesn't hurt where I am, and where I was before was hurting me.
I guess I'm just ordinary. But maybe there's no need for a 'just' in front of the ordinary.
I still feel clear but today it feels a little bit manic. I feel precarious, like tomorrow I might awake and feel bad again. I don't not feel bad now - I just feel an absence of emotion. That's not entirely true, I don't feel numb. But I feel as though I could watch a comedy and not laugh, watch a tragedy and not cry, listen to a friend mope and not feel concerned. I feel...
I don't feel. It's like I process the emotions mentally and the output is the same.
I was thinking, today, about how I don't feel connected to a life source that guides my journey. When I went to England I was full of it, relying entirely upon this instinct that informed all of the choices I made. I felt earthed, as though my decisions had been made for me and my path was pre-ordained. Nothing particularly magical happened on my trip except that I felt hopeful and stripped away of most worry, anxiety, fear, conjecture...
When I was in Brecon or somewhere in Wales, I stayed up for hours talking to this middle-aged guy from England who'd just completed a mountain run. The weather was atrocious and he struck me as a cross between an indie kid who'd never quite grown up and Marcus' dippy father in the film About A Boy. Harmless. We chatted about different things and I tried to put into words the luck and good fortune that I felt to be able to travel to the opposite side of the world for a holiday. Hang out. Do my own thing. He made no sign that he'd understood this needful quest that I was on and said he was going to 'have a wee' which I've never heard an adult say in formal conversation.
The point I think my therapist is trying to make to me at the moment is that nothing is pre-ordained, nothing is set in stone, nothing is certain or eventual. I can hope and wish and pray for the perseverance to write a novel, the talent to write a good one and the luck to get it published but it will take a lot of perseverance, talent and luck to achieve this. In the meantime my heart might be pulled somewhere else.
She asked me if I would be happy with the kind of existence I've currently got - a basic one, where my basic needs are met, my thoughts are moderate, my dreams forgotten. I said of course, it didn't seem so bad, and besides, I'm happy at the moment.
She said of course I'm happy, it doesn't hurt where I am, and where I was before was hurting me.
I guess I'm just ordinary. But maybe there's no need for a 'just' in front of the ordinary.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
On the escalator, going up
I had this incredible weekend.
On Friday night I had Christmas drinks with two of my best friends whom I've had since high school. We had a box of bon bons which we opened all of: we each wore multiple hats and told the awful jokes and became protective of our hard won trinkets. We hung out with my dogs and told stories and compared our anti-depressant dreams (well one of my friends and I did, while the other I'm sure was thinking 'How did my two best friends turn into such crazy people?'). Anti-depressant dreams are extremely screwed up. Last week I dreamed that I'd been knocked into the ocean by two boys who were riding a couch down a slope into it. I was fine but my iPhone was broken. A couple of nights ago my dream had Marvel heroes in it.
On Saturday night, I hung out with two of my best friends. They're going to do guest posts on this blog as they too have depression or something like it. It's so liberating to hang out with people who understand what I'm going through and who can immediately relate to many topics that I bring up. I saw my lovely boyfriend on Sunday and while in Canberra on Monday, I ran into one of my Canberra friends randomly and saw another for lunch at an incredible chocolate cafe.
It was on Monday morning, however, that things seemed not so right. My past four months have been distinguisable by this foggy haze that's sat on the top of my mind. It's connected, somehow, to my internal monologue that listens intently to what's going on in my body, providing commentary on my interactions with others ('She seemed mad when she said that. I made her mad' or 'Why did she sigh so angrily? Is she angry? Why is she always angry near me?'). But this Monday morning the fog had lifted. I stopped feeling completely numb. I don't know why.
I've been on anti-depressants for about four months now so maybe they finally kicked in. It could be that I faced some demons this past weekend so they were lifted from my depression base (the thing that I draw from to continue my bad feelings). You would think I'd be happy. But I freaked out. I thought, 'I can't be cured. I've just started a blog. I've settled in at home again. If I'm cured this means there's nothing stopping me from moving back to Sydney and I don't want that.' Basically it seems as though I feel like I have no control in my life and my depression was removing anything that needed action. I stopped answering the phone, going out, reading my emails, checking my facebook. If I'm cured, it means I have no excuses anymore.
Obviously I'm not cured. Obviously if my anti-depressants have chosen to kick in (a few days before Christmas - what serendipitous timing!) they have done so without the issues I've been working on being properly solved. But I need to solve those issues, otherwise there's more of a chance of my depression kicking back in again.
I chatted to some people about it (I'm yet to see my counsellor) and I thought maybe I shifted from Severe depression to Mild depression. Or maybe it's just the Christmas cheer and I'll go back to feeling terrible in the New Year. I'm comfortable in my sadness, it removes responsibility from me and I've had to look after myself for the past three and a half years.
In the past when I've felt happy it's been a volatile feeling - as though I'm at the top of a rollercoaster that's about to plunge, or riding a wave that might throw me off. I don't feel that volatility now.
I will definitely keep posting on this blog - if I didn't need anti-depressants, I wouldn't be on them. Which means I'm probably still depressed. It's important for me to be depressed because it creates a point of difference and gives me a genuine excuse for screwing things up. It's heartening to think, 'Well if I'd realised at the start of first year that I was depressed, maybe I could have received help and made better uni grades during the rest of my degree.' I just don't know.
On Friday night I had Christmas drinks with two of my best friends whom I've had since high school. We had a box of bon bons which we opened all of: we each wore multiple hats and told the awful jokes and became protective of our hard won trinkets. We hung out with my dogs and told stories and compared our anti-depressant dreams (well one of my friends and I did, while the other I'm sure was thinking 'How did my two best friends turn into such crazy people?'). Anti-depressant dreams are extremely screwed up. Last week I dreamed that I'd been knocked into the ocean by two boys who were riding a couch down a slope into it. I was fine but my iPhone was broken. A couple of nights ago my dream had Marvel heroes in it.
On Saturday night, I hung out with two of my best friends. They're going to do guest posts on this blog as they too have depression or something like it. It's so liberating to hang out with people who understand what I'm going through and who can immediately relate to many topics that I bring up. I saw my lovely boyfriend on Sunday and while in Canberra on Monday, I ran into one of my Canberra friends randomly and saw another for lunch at an incredible chocolate cafe.
It was on Monday morning, however, that things seemed not so right. My past four months have been distinguisable by this foggy haze that's sat on the top of my mind. It's connected, somehow, to my internal monologue that listens intently to what's going on in my body, providing commentary on my interactions with others ('She seemed mad when she said that. I made her mad' or 'Why did she sigh so angrily? Is she angry? Why is she always angry near me?'). But this Monday morning the fog had lifted. I stopped feeling completely numb. I don't know why.
I've been on anti-depressants for about four months now so maybe they finally kicked in. It could be that I faced some demons this past weekend so they were lifted from my depression base (the thing that I draw from to continue my bad feelings). You would think I'd be happy. But I freaked out. I thought, 'I can't be cured. I've just started a blog. I've settled in at home again. If I'm cured this means there's nothing stopping me from moving back to Sydney and I don't want that.' Basically it seems as though I feel like I have no control in my life and my depression was removing anything that needed action. I stopped answering the phone, going out, reading my emails, checking my facebook. If I'm cured, it means I have no excuses anymore.
Obviously I'm not cured. Obviously if my anti-depressants have chosen to kick in (a few days before Christmas - what serendipitous timing!) they have done so without the issues I've been working on being properly solved. But I need to solve those issues, otherwise there's more of a chance of my depression kicking back in again.
I chatted to some people about it (I'm yet to see my counsellor) and I thought maybe I shifted from Severe depression to Mild depression. Or maybe it's just the Christmas cheer and I'll go back to feeling terrible in the New Year. I'm comfortable in my sadness, it removes responsibility from me and I've had to look after myself for the past three and a half years.
In the past when I've felt happy it's been a volatile feeling - as though I'm at the top of a rollercoaster that's about to plunge, or riding a wave that might throw me off. I don't feel that volatility now.
I will definitely keep posting on this blog - if I didn't need anti-depressants, I wouldn't be on them. Which means I'm probably still depressed. It's important for me to be depressed because it creates a point of difference and gives me a genuine excuse for screwing things up. It's heartening to think, 'Well if I'd realised at the start of first year that I was depressed, maybe I could have received help and made better uni grades during the rest of my degree.' I just don't know.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The Beginning
First things first, I guess.
I had an idyllic childhood, intact family, coastal holidays and good school marks. I had a good group of friends and received everything, material or not, that I wanted. I was raised with a good sense of Catholic morality; if you do good, you'll be rewarded, ergo, if you do bad you'll be punished. So it stood to reason that my friend who suffered domestic violence must have brought it on herself. Obviously this type of thinking is flawed.
I moved to Sydney for University where I lost my footing and became depressed, but didn't recognise it for what it was. I've since hypothesised that a lot of people who feel like we do don't know they're depressed or that they can get help. They feel that it's some type of moral failing. I felt guilty, that first time around. Who am I, who has had all this privilege and a duty to make something of it, to be ordinary? I sought no treatment at that time and gradually climbed my way into a place where the good at least equalled the bad.
But I ran from the experience. I was petrified that I would end up back there; I teared up thinking about it and became angry that nobody had asked me, "Do you think you might be depressed? Do you think that's why you can't stop crying or get out of bed?"
It's hard to see a friend suffering. Telling someone that you think they need help seems like a blunt, offensive thing to do. But asking someone, "Do you think you might be depressed?" names the symptoms a person has, tells that person "I recognise you're not happy and I'm not going to compound it by telling you to 'Cheer Up' ".
There's a lot more to my story but it's more recent and as such I'm less able to be objective about it. To tackle my newest bout of depression I've been taking 150 mg of Effexor XR and seeing a counsellor. For a while, I couldn't write, but my therapist suggested that I use one of my five strengths (more on those later), being articulate, to be happier again. Hence, this blog.
To be honest I don't want to get better because once I'm better I have no excuses. I know this is an unhealthy mindset and once I am healthy I'll be less scared. Until then, there's the Effexor monsters in my dreams and the invisible sunglasses I seem to continually wear, that darken all of my experiences. It's not a life I would choose nor recommend.
I had an idyllic childhood, intact family, coastal holidays and good school marks. I had a good group of friends and received everything, material or not, that I wanted. I was raised with a good sense of Catholic morality; if you do good, you'll be rewarded, ergo, if you do bad you'll be punished. So it stood to reason that my friend who suffered domestic violence must have brought it on herself. Obviously this type of thinking is flawed.
I moved to Sydney for University where I lost my footing and became depressed, but didn't recognise it for what it was. I've since hypothesised that a lot of people who feel like we do don't know they're depressed or that they can get help. They feel that it's some type of moral failing. I felt guilty, that first time around. Who am I, who has had all this privilege and a duty to make something of it, to be ordinary? I sought no treatment at that time and gradually climbed my way into a place where the good at least equalled the bad.
But I ran from the experience. I was petrified that I would end up back there; I teared up thinking about it and became angry that nobody had asked me, "Do you think you might be depressed? Do you think that's why you can't stop crying or get out of bed?"
It's hard to see a friend suffering. Telling someone that you think they need help seems like a blunt, offensive thing to do. But asking someone, "Do you think you might be depressed?" names the symptoms a person has, tells that person "I recognise you're not happy and I'm not going to compound it by telling you to 'Cheer Up' ".
There's a lot more to my story but it's more recent and as such I'm less able to be objective about it. To tackle my newest bout of depression I've been taking 150 mg of Effexor XR and seeing a counsellor. For a while, I couldn't write, but my therapist suggested that I use one of my five strengths (more on those later), being articulate, to be happier again. Hence, this blog.
To be honest I don't want to get better because once I'm better I have no excuses. I know this is an unhealthy mindset and once I am healthy I'll be less scared. Until then, there's the Effexor monsters in my dreams and the invisible sunglasses I seem to continually wear, that darken all of my experiences. It's not a life I would choose nor recommend.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Anonymous Army
One of my dogs is spending the day today at the vet. He has a ruptured anal gland - probably as a result of me feeding him too much gingerbread. He loves gingerbread and it makes me happy to make him happy. My other dog, a four month old puppy, is spending the day at home moping around because it's the first day she's spent without him. She doesn't know what to do when there's no older dog to pounce at or bite on the bottom. I know how she feels.
The depressed state is one where there are hints and clues that point to your former existence. Maybe your friends still keep in touch with you, maybe you manage to do something productive like get out of bed or make dinner, maybe you listen to a song or spy a photograph that bordered your life when you were 'happy'. My puppy is the same; she knows there's something wrong, our other dog's not here, but her life looks much the same. And if you spied her for the first time today you'd be none the wiser.
This blog aims to keep a record of my depression in the hopes that somebody like me will find it and realise they're not alone. It will feature guest posts from people who are like me and are either going through similar treatment plans (anti-depressants and therapy) or choosing to work things out their own way, maybe through diet, prayer or exercise. We're the anonymous army: there are fuckloads of us, but we don't talk for fear of recrimination. We see public personalities suffer from depression and become reduced to being spokespeople for a disease that hits too close to home for any of us to properly focus on. We suffer when people call anti-depressants 'happy pills', when we realise that phrases like 'You're crazy' or 'You're mental' said in jest punch us in the throat. We never thought we'd get here but here we are.
I aim to keep on top of mental health developments in the news while reviewing the resources I have at my disposal and writing about anything I think is relevant. Should you stumble upon this blog and wish to contribute please contact me. Let's not go through this journey alone.
AnonEd
The depressed state is one where there are hints and clues that point to your former existence. Maybe your friends still keep in touch with you, maybe you manage to do something productive like get out of bed or make dinner, maybe you listen to a song or spy a photograph that bordered your life when you were 'happy'. My puppy is the same; she knows there's something wrong, our other dog's not here, but her life looks much the same. And if you spied her for the first time today you'd be none the wiser.
This blog aims to keep a record of my depression in the hopes that somebody like me will find it and realise they're not alone. It will feature guest posts from people who are like me and are either going through similar treatment plans (anti-depressants and therapy) or choosing to work things out their own way, maybe through diet, prayer or exercise. We're the anonymous army: there are fuckloads of us, but we don't talk for fear of recrimination. We see public personalities suffer from depression and become reduced to being spokespeople for a disease that hits too close to home for any of us to properly focus on. We suffer when people call anti-depressants 'happy pills', when we realise that phrases like 'You're crazy' or 'You're mental' said in jest punch us in the throat. We never thought we'd get here but here we are.
I aim to keep on top of mental health developments in the news while reviewing the resources I have at my disposal and writing about anything I think is relevant. Should you stumble upon this blog and wish to contribute please contact me. Let's not go through this journey alone.
AnonEd
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)