Self-Care fo' Real: It Ain't All Play

It didn't really hit me in the grocery store just why this med container appealed to me.

I'd been in a serve and return pattern with my GP's nurse for a couple of days.

Can I get a referral to a psychiatrist? My depression is hitting especially hard.

You will probably want to check with your insurance to make sure that is covered and who is in your network. We don't really make referrals as much as advise or recommend providers based on their specialties.

Ok - called Anthem BCBS because I was too overwhelmed to navigate the online info. Also, I was on the phone while driving and maximizing my time. Gotta make those customer service reps earn their suppers, no?

The insurance peon emailed the list of eligible providers to me.

I then uploaded it to the patient portal app with a note:

Psychiatry is covered in my plan. Affordably so, even. Here is a list of providers that I am ok to see - could you please tell me which of them on the list specialize in brains dealing with undue societal gender norms in which we have to be super women? With a ton of traumas and two significant concussions in life? Mmmkay, thanks, bye.

Maybe it was a little different. Same idea. You get the point.

Almost as soon as my finger tips hit send on that hot little note, my phone rang.

It was my doctor's nurse. That woman is my freaking hero.

My doc is out of town, and she urged me to come into the clinic and visit with a lovely NP as well as the social worker (aka Patient Navigator), because it could be more than the depression.

True enough. Though not likely, having recently had all my thyroid and endocrinology panels done at a health fair.

Nevertheless, the message was clear: WE NEED TO SEE YOU.

Not to mention the fact that I was just spent psychologically because working up the nerve to coordinate all that shiz was a lot of Big Steps?

Exhaustipating.

So, yesterday morning I found myself sitting in the exam room, waiting for the NP to come in. I'd seen her before with one of the kids' ailments over the years, though who knew if she would remember me.

Soon as she opens the door, I lose it and turn into the bawling, sniveling creature I've been for the past month.

She is great.

We decide to up my Wellbutrin by 100mg a day since I have been on a conservative dosage. We also change it from standard release to extended release for a steady stream throughout the day.

Then the stuff I knew was coming.

How's the sleep?

Well, while I would totally love to cocoon myself and sleep the days away, I am still somehow a responsible, functioning adult and I make do with what I get. I rarely have trouble sleeping, but with homework and all I find myself getting 4 hrs here, 9 hrs there, etc. I know that isn't healthy and I have to regulate, but....yeah.

How's the diet?

So, it's been a whole lotta fish sticks and Poptarts lately because of time and schedule. What? That's not ok? [KIDDING] No, I know, I need to get back to more produce and whole foods, and I'm pretty good at it, it's just a matter of implementing.

So maybe ask your family for some support there in planning and prepping ahead?

Yeah.

How's your relationship with exercise these days?

Completely non-existent....which explains the newly acquired 10 lbs (since November health fair weigh in) your scale informed me of. Again, I was doing SO GOOD getting to the gym, walking dogs, etc. But since school started this semester....I haven't been to the gym since.

Ok, well, let's work on that.

And by 'let US,' you mean me, but yes, I'm aware of the need and that it will help, it always does.

By now, I'm tallying up the list of "small changes" that I need to implement and my head is about to implode.

After 25 years of dealing with depression/anxiety, I know, logically, intellectually, that these are key components of maintaining my mental health. But knowing and doing, especially when your brain is shutting down your motivational centers, are quite different things, it turns out.

And, the knowing of All The Things combined with the not doing of All The Things when your mind is wonky, turns into the "ONE MORE REASON YOU ARE A HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, NO GOOD HUMAN BEING!" cheer that depression does, ad nauseum - literally, in your head.

What about therapy?

I was seeing a therapist after Vegas. And, while it helped, I really feel like I could have gotten the same impact by going out with my girlfriend and talking - there were no tools, no exercises to work through that gave new perspective or coping mechanisms, ya know?

We talk about CBT and bio-feedback options and how the patient navigator could help me explore options regarding providers with those qualifications.

The patient navigator comes in and thank you, Jesus, she is amazing at her job.

We talk a lot about how difficult it is to disclose when you're in the field of helping. How you know people and they know you, but do you want them to know that? How while we preach no stigma, it is almost doubly stigmatizing to disclose our own diagnoses and struggles.

We talk Brene Brown and apps like Calm (which I've had on my phone for several months) and other mindfulness/self-help tools.

I show her the brilliance that I found on the website Unf*ck Your Brain, and she is impressed. The woman behind the site, Kara Lowentheil, is a BAMF feminist with the smarts to use cognitive neuroscience in her coaching - Sweary Magdalene approves.

"See, you got this!"

Heavy, shaky sigh.

"Yeah."

I go to the grocery store to get my new RX, determined to buy the fixings for a healthy dinner, but hey depression has my executive functioning by the balls, so to speak. I can't think of anything.

I have a Pinterest account with eleventy-one thousand recipes, most of them health conscious, at the ready on my mobile life manager - but that idea never even lands.

I walk to the magazine aisle, look at a couple of food mags, and snap pictures of a couple recipes that call out to me, then proceed to buy the items I don't have at home. How's that for coping mechanisms? Outta the box, I know. :pats self on back:

Go to the pharmacy department, pick up new meds. We're out of vitamins, so I grab some while I'm there. I recall being low in vitamin D, so I grab some of those. Out of the corner of my eye, the pill boxes call to me. The one I already have is too small for everything I need to put in it.

And then I see it, the rainbow stacker pictured above. Toss it into the cart, and don't think anything more of it.

Until this morning.

As I took my meds and the promise of a new day glimmered anew before me, it hit me.

His promise.

I "subconsciously" picked a daily pill box that will constantly remind me.

You will not be destroyed. 

You can do all things with Me. 

Nothing will EVER change that.

So may it be.

Shine that Light

If you experience suicidal thoughts, the following post could be potentially triggering, as I share some of my own struggles in this area. If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, the Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386, or reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

Sunday morning I was in the church nursery with a little body in which the biggest spirit I've ever known resides.

He's a special boy, who has overcome so many developmental barriers in his short life that his mere presence in a room teaches a thousand unspoken lessons. Too often I admire him and his family from a distance because of The Busy Life.

Together, we tentatively, shyly at first, sang that old song, This Little Light of Mine, giggling at the joy he displayed when we hid our little "lights" (index fingers) under "bushels" (our cupped hands) and then ripped them away as we stage shouted our "No's."

This little light of mine

I'm gonna let it shine

Hide it under a bushel?

NO!

I'm gonna let it shine

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine

Sometimes that light is to help guide others to a path that is right. That is the context Matthew 5:16 affords to the two verses preceding it and in which it is often preached.

Other times, that light serves to illuminate the dark within us.

The pain and courage it takes to summon that light, share it, and let the world gaze at all that is wrong within us is one of the greatest paradoxes the lived experience offers us.

The paradox continues in that this brightening process holds the key to our self-perpetuated prisons, offering freedom from shame and heartache.

Yet The Jailer* stands guard, whispering, "You can't tell them - they will never see you the same way again - all they will ever see is your weakness. Attention seeking, pathetic weakness."

That Jailer is a liar, but oh, how we fall hard for that tired old routine.

So...I did a thing today.

Well, really, I did a thing yesterday, the ramifications of which lead to this thing I did today.

I had a bit of a melt down at work yesterday.

I was the woman who cries at the office. 

And not because I was telling a sentimental story.

No, this was full-on depressed Heather riding the spiral of disaster ALL THE WAY DOWN because she just couldn't even, heaving sobs in reply to the non-stop barrage of inner self loathing that roared louder than the supportive words of my co-workers.

It was irrational. Completely crazy, if you will.

Which heaped up more shame for The Jailer inside to sling at me. 

I had class to get to and begged off finishing the meeting. 

A hand reached out.

"Are you ok?" was asked. 

Not the Captain Obvious variety of the question, rather, the "Are you ok to end the conversation/move on?" sort. 

The kind that implies "You're not going to do anything harmful to yourself, right?" 

The kind that makes me feel like a gigantic zero.

A muffled wail of, "No, but I'll be alright," was my response. I was humiliated, and of my own doing.

I fled the building, hot trails of disgrace snaking down my face.

I got to class and avoided eye contact, knowing the tell-tale puffy red look would elicit questions that I didn't want to, couldn't, answer.

Over the course of the next two hours, I re-gained my composure, even managing the nail-hitting commentary of the night. 

Home and straight to bed, skipping church.

I woke up this morning and had the same sense of dread wash over me as soon as my feet hit the floor.

Damn, still there.

Got through the motions of getting everyone off to school and arrived at work earlier than normal since Chris had a before school choir practice.

Had an unanticipated "so, about yesterday," conversation with my supervisor that went really, very well. 

And yet....

He said, "You're doing amazing." 

But I heard The Jailer, five times louder, screaming, "LIES!"

The sobs came to visit again.

My best friend brought me out to lunch, and I fell apart a few times during the conversation.

She said, "You're in the midst of a flare, Heather. It's ok. It happens, and you will recover, just as you have in the past."

The Jailer started up again, squeezing my heart, "This will never end. You're mine."

I silently mustered up the strength to counter, "No, I'm God's and God's alone. You don't own me. I will do my time, and then I'll be free again."

I rode the roller coaster of emotion the next several hours, culminating in a silent drive to FLTI tonight with Kelsey. 

Occasionally, the jailer's hurled insults and my recounting of the day resulted in fresh tears. The skin just under my eyes is so damn raw, y'all,

SO. MUCH. SHAME.

We got to FLTI and I sent my supervisor a text. 

"Thanks for the talk today. I'm in the midst of a depressive flare and I'm struggling..."

This little light of mine.

I pulled myself together and put a semblance of a mask on. I'm all pro at that. Have had a lifetime of practice.

I felt my heart lift more and more as the evening went on. 

Fully doing life and getting outside of your head will do that. Not saying it will replace talk therapy or monitored medication, lest y'all think I'm going all David Avocado Wolfe on you. But it does help.

At the end of the session, we had our closing circle as always.

"Aha's" first.

I raised my hand.

I'm gonna let it shine.

"My aha tonight was what a powerful mood booster you all can be. I've been struggling, really struggling, with a flare of my depression all week, I was crying on the car-ride all the way here tonight, and you all have made me laugh and feel lighter than I have all week."

Let it shine.

It's slightly terrifying to share with people who know you in the community, in a context where this kind of vulnerability could potentially damage your career / reputation. 

But, as Sweary Magdalene™ (Kelsey's new name for me, given my last post) would say:

FUCK THAT SHIT. 

That kind of thinking blows the light right out, and makes everyone think you're doing Just Fine.

Most of the world isn't doing Just Fine.

Our kids getting shot up at school is not Just Fine.

The deep-seated racism that continues in our country is not Just Fine.

The tremendous lack of access to safe, affordable housing and quality childcare  is not Just Fine.

The so common it pains me to think about occurrence of #MeToo events against women in our country is not Just Fine.

And really, so much more.

Bottom line is that we ARE NOT JUST FINE.

And I'm not going to perpetuate the lie that I am anymore.

Am I in a forever state of sadness? 

No - God and friends and family and the miracle of Wellbutrin have all gotten me through this before. I will get through this again.

Anyway, back to my point about tonight.

After our circle, I encountered the largest, tightest group hug ever.

The love. The light. 

It was shining BRIGHT.

Every body there was the power of Christ (Higher Power) that is laid upon us when we boast about our weaknesses. Because in that power, that fulfillment of humans living in relationship, as God intended, is freedom and life.

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Sidenote: In FLTI, we believe that what happens in FLTI stays in FLTI. I wish to make clear that I have honored that in this account in that I have only shared what *I* own to share and none of my peers' actions/statements.

*The Jailer is a creative literary device to symbolize depression in this story. I have chronic depression, not psychosis via delusions and hallucinations.

In which I out myself

Photo by Max Brown on Unsplash

If you experience suicidal thoughts, the following post could be potentially triggering, as I share some of my own struggles in this area. If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, the Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386, or reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

There is a war going on in my head

I've shared this before. Several times.

Why do I struggle so much with my depression?

Nature? Most definitely, my genetics are rampant with mood disorders and addictions. I'm medicated and unafraid to say so.

Nurture? Equally causal. It wasn't a rosy-glow picture.

Trauma? Multiple.

Systemic oppression? Check.

Spiritual battle? To the extent that I believe God made doctors and pharmacists to improve and save lives, yes, I would say the converse is that the fallen nature of this world means that biological ailments occur and can be used to rob people of their joy and peace. What I am NOT saying is that mental health conditions can be prayed away. That's bad theology and I won't have it.

Stress? You have no idea. BINGO.

I kind of stacked the cards against myself this semester; 

• Motherhood (which is now being acknowledged as the workload equivalent of 2.5 FTE)

• A full-time job (which I enjoy, even if it's fairly taxing)

• Six credit hours of graduate study/week (and that's just class time, not counting homework

• Participating in the leadership development program for which I work (with Kelsey and that has been a great bonding experience with her and my peers, also takes another 4 hrs/wk + homework)

• My marriage is turning 20 years old this year and both Seth and I are staring at mid-life somewhat disillusioned that neither of us are where we pictured ourselves at this point. We've changed and grown a lot. In some ways together, and others apart. And marriage is HARD WORK.

• The developmental task for my teens to think outside of their amygdalas (amygdalae?), utilizing critical thinking, empathy, self-control, is a task of MONUMENTAL proportions and is taking all of me to not eat them and be done. Kidding, I don't really have a taste for humans.

• I seem to be the only one who is both bothered by the chaos of unattended chores AND is willing to spend lengths of time doing them in our common areas. There is a child who is very meticulous about their space, but that's it.

• Two of my children are in high school. And one is driving, working a part-time job (struggling with time management and stress as a result), has been in relationship for two years, and is going to be a senior next year. This equates to a daily prayer of, "Dear God, please don't let me f*ck them up any more than I already have," and new strands of glitter hair making their debuts, contributing to my future as a peach-haired geriatric.

• In a world that bases the value of a woman on her appearance, the daily reminder of time beating along via the mirror's reflection of the more-than-fine lines on my face, steady accumulation of inches on my waist, and the fading of what has always been my crown jewel, my red hair, I'm not exactly feeling bodycon these days.

Add in the family dynamics of being between the parents of teens and launching center stages of the family life cycle, where family role strains are highest, and I. JUST. CAN'T. EVEN. 

In the grad school realm, I feel lost. Where I've always been a quick study, both socio-perceptively and intellectually, I'm struggling to focus and comprehend the pretentious linguistics of scholarly articles, much less to be able to recall specific details on which to base any intelligent fodder for the class discussions.

Part of this (most?) is for sure a bandwidth issue - I am well aware of that. 

Perhaps another underlying issue is that I'm in a program in which I do not have an undergraduate foundation. I feel like the proverbial fish out of water in many regards as my classmates readily draw upon knowledge from an undergrad class they had with my professor(s), and I'm like, "Uh, I know about sensation and perception, socialization, and human development. Maslow, Piaget, anyone?" And....crickets. Not really.

While I feel confident that this is the right program for me, in the classroom full of young adults who are closer to my daughter's age than my own (that was made clear, again, tonight) and did study political science, or in my other class (in which I am the only master's student - the rest are all PhD candidates), sociology, I feel like I'm missing some of the basics, and often feel inept in comparison.

I know,

But being a PT student in a program that is heavily skewed toward FT students (classes only offered every 3-4 semesters) and no summer session classes, kind of required me to do this if I wanted these classes before 2020.

Scale back at work, you say? At a financial cost  - the tuition benefit I receive as an employee is pro-rated to FTE %. So, if I were to negotiate a reduction in my hours, I would have to make up the difference cost-wise. Being that we don't have a nest egg for Kelsey to attend college and that is in the near future, I would rather not rob her of any educational resources we could offer her, spending them on myself instead.

Also, grad school is competitive, and I yearn to do better than I did as an undergraduate, where I simply attended, gained, and applied knowledge without participating in student activities or forming relationships with the faculty because I was a working, married, 1st generation student who just kept my nose to the grindstone. Because this is important to me. This experience is something that will help me in furthering my goals of working for social justice through policy. I also hope for the advanced degree to serve as a means to facilitate Seth's future career change as manual labor continues to take its toll on his body, offering a higher income on my part to offset any losses that might be incurred in that life transition.

All of that is a lot. A freaking shit-ton of life burden.

I'm more sweary than I'd like...while I appreciate a well-executed curse on occasion, I'm not such of fan of the ubiquitous use of them that many are. That may be scandalous to some of my church friends, but I like to think I'm a bit like Mary Magdalene in that regard (aside from the whoring bit), and she and Jesus were tight.

I find myself crying a lot. Like "pre-natal a lot"....BUT IT IS NOT THAT. We took care of that...and had it confirmed. 

I lost my car in Denver, causing unnecessary stress that initiated the self-fulfilling prophetic cycle.

The negative self-talk is relentless.

• You're a crap mom, your kids wouldn't fight like this if you were any good at mothering.

• You don't belong here. (In grad school, at work, on earth in general - and PLEASE KNOW, this admission carries so much guilt and shame with it, because I KNOW that it isn't true, but that voice isn't one of knowledge and objectivity. Besides if God had meant for me to be gone, I would have perished with The Great Pneumogedden of 2009, among many other things which I have overcome. Also, no, I don't have a plan.)

• You were never meant to be..

• Nobody actually likes you, you know? 

• The only one who looks after you is you, and you can't even do THAT well.

• You FAIL

And that is just the beginning of the self-inflicted cruelty.

We could go all day. Oh, wait, I already do.

I try to combat it with affirmations, meds, therapy visits, and self-care the best I can. It's exhausting, and I'm just SO TIRED.

I am fighting my damnedest to get through this though. And enlisting help, so rest assured I'm not in this alone.

Looking at life a bit like Avery did when Jerry Maguire said he wanted to break up with her.

"I did the 23 hour nose-route to the top of El Capitan in 6 hours! I can make this work!"

I've done it before.

As my boy Bruno says, "Don't believe me, just watch."

*I totally should have been doing school work while writing this, but I chose to take care of my mental health by putting this out there.

Dude, Where's My Car? A Cautionary Tale of Distracted Femininity

Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash

Lately I have been channeling Green Day's Basket Case on a daily basis.

Things are pretty overwhelming.

But then, aside from my confessionals here, most people just see the outcomes that get produced, and think, "I don't know how she does it [all]."

Truth is, I am barely getting by [in my head, anyway] and this semester is thoroughly kicking my [rather large and growing daily] behind. Add in a touch of Heather's Crazy [un]Luck™, and well, things have been interesting to say the least.

On any given day, I've got a gazillion "browser tabs" open in my brain from meal planning, to chauffeuring needs of my children for their various activities, to bill paying (read: juggling, given Seth's recent medical leave), to two graduate courses' weekly duties/contents, to relationship maintenance, to blah, blah, blah. It never stops grinding, this ole cerebral system of mine.

A week ago Monday, I had to get off work early to take Kels to turn in her new job paperwork at Taco Baco.

It had snowed.

I got overly invested in the work I was doing and ended up leaving later than I intended.

As I walked out the door, I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket and called her to say she needed to be at the ready when I got home. 

I do NOT like to be late. Ever. For meetings/appointments, assignments, deadlines. None of it. And, when I am, the self flagellation that ensues is nothing short of neurotic, especially if said tardiness is caused by external, uncontrollable factors. But I digress.

Walk to the parking garage, go to grab my keys.

And. They're. Not. There.

I rush back into the office to see if I left them there. 

Nope.

My phone rings. It is my gym calling to say that someone picked up my keys and called them, and that the woman also works on campus, in the Biology Center.

I wrack my brain, trying to mentally locate the Biology Center. The campus has changed immensely since I originally arrived 20 years ago. A flash of memory hit me with the revelation that I walk past the new Biology Center on my way to Clark every day. It is further away and I'm going to be still later.

Stress thermometer ratchets up more.

I walk to the Biology Center and go to their "front desk" area, per my gym's instructions, tell them like 5 times what I understand to be true only to be greeted with blank stares of confusion.

My inner voice is swearing a blue streak at this point.

Did they mean the new medical center?

I don't know, did they?

Add stress.

So I head out to check that alternative, when a train blares through the midst of my pathway, blocking my progress. I think to call the medical center - inside the Biology Center for quiet - and they say, no, no keys have been reported.

Ok, think, McFly!

Go to walk back out and see a woman I'd seen when I went into the parking garage, and just as I notice she has my keys, she asks me, and I'm like, "Yes,thankyou, lovetostayandtalk, butIgottago."

Call Kelsey's manager since this is MY mistake, and he's like, "Calm down lady, no big deal" dismissive.

All's well that ends well.

Fast forward a week to this Monday, and I'm heading to Denver to attend a meeting on my boss's behalf as he has yet to figure out how to be in three places at the same time. Will someone get on that, btw?

The balance in the checking account was -$1.20 (payday was the next day), my gas tank is half full, and I'm running on fumes. 

The ever present stress is simmering.

I have $10 cash in my pocket and roughly as much on the credit card in my wallet.

Google chimes, "Your destination is on the right," while I observed downtown parking had gone up considerably. 

I drive around shopping for affordable parking lots, feeling my anxiety rise as the time ticks further away from "on time."

I make note of the lot's general area, and decided to leave my heavy bag with my wallet in it, because I know I have to hoof it quite a ways to the meeting (roughly a mile).

It's a nice day, sunny and 60 degrees, so my black blazer will suffice.

I make a slightly less than fashionably late entrance, with some of the other attendees - solidarity! 

Learn, network, and fin.

I go back the way I came. 

Or so I thought.

I walked roughly 6 miles, back and forth, stopping to talk to some Homeland Security dudes. 

See also: this is a branch of law enforcement whose officers are less than impressive in their intellectual reasoning abilities. They were like, "Bruh," :shrugs: "maybe call DPD?"

Walk a bit more, notice it is getting dark. 

I know where I am, I just don't know where my car is.

I'm on Champa and 21st...aaaaaand there's CCH. These are my old stomping grounds, when I worked in homeless and affordable housing issues. The nature of homeless behavior has become more aggressive in Fort Collins in the 15 years since I worked in the field - legalized marijuana and the opioid epidemic has made the homeless more volatile than they used to be.

And I'm chilled. 

My feet are killing me. 

I'm not being kind to myself at all.

I walk to a 7-11 and I notice Seth has tried calling and texting.

I text, "I did a dumb thing....call you in a min."

When I tell him, he is incredulous. How?

Well, I was in a hurry and stressed and apparently my recall was screwed by the cortisol in my system. Also, do you not think I feel stupid enough? Because I assure you, I feel like THE village idiot on which the archetype was based.

I call DPD. 

"So, do you have a receipt - the address should be on there," the dispatcher says, kind of annoyed by my plight.

"See that's just the thing - it was a cash only lot. No receipts, just the slots system. It was $7, the sign was red and white, and it was somewhere near 20th and Stout, I thought. Seriously, the dumbest human trick I've ever done," I admit, defeatedly.

He tells me that he's sending an officer to me, but it will be awhile because they are busy.

I inform the cashier that I'm not casing her joint, but that I am waiting for the police because I'm an imbecile.

Then I post on Facebook.

And my friends - y'all are the best, you know? - tell me my Google maps should have a timeline (YES! It does! but, I've looped around no less than a dozen times, and there is no way to drill down to detail on my screen and see where I started/stopped) tracing my steps. 

Dark blue is driving (before and after I lost the car - we drove right past it several times). Light blue is my foot work. Imagine this on a smartphone, and every time you try to drill down or change from landscape to portrait, it zooms out and you have to start all over again.

Another friend (of the fabulous Tales of Public Transit) lives nearby, and comes to rescue me. 

The DPD officer comes at the same time and is awesome.She also looks just like Sylvie Brett on Chicago Fire and my pop-culture loving brain is dying to mention it, but, objection, your honor! Relevance?

My friend buys me a bite to eat (I haven't eaten since breakfast and it is now approaching 8 pm). We then drive around searching for this parking lot that has somehow been covered with an invisibility cloak. 

No dice.

The panic is real.

Amy is amazing - keeps me calm. I think if I can look at my Google timeline on a larger screen, I can pinpoint where we need to be. 

Except Google says, "You're logging in from a strange device - let's send your phone a code to make sure it's really you." Which is great, really, Google, I do appreciate your security, but my PHONE WAS DEAD. 

I use my backup e-mail to send Google a note that I was stranded and unable to get in with a phone code. Hope for the best.

I'm housed overnight, sleep a little and set out with her Amy's husband in the morning. 

Second lot we see is the one! 

And there is my Silver Subie in all her unadulterated glory. 

Car starts, bag and wallet are in, and I'm on my way.

I get to FoCo around 8am, stop at home, change my clothes, go get the cars registered (due the next day), and go to work, then class, then meet the fam for dinner and pick Kelsey up from work at 9pm.

This is my life. 

I'm exhausted all the time. 

There's more to it than the sheer bad luck and stress response clouding my judgment and/or memory (a nagging reminder of the scene in Still Alice where she hides a gun for when she loses too much of her brain to Alzheimer's occasionally plagues me when I'm really in brain fog).

My mind is packed to the gills with new information from classes, umpteen schedules, things I want to say (and often don't) to my loved ones about how important they are to me, dreams...

There's this stupid insecurity and self-doubt of a 1st gen student popping up that never manifest itself in my undergrad studies. It keeps the stress dialed up. 

There's the mom guilt of not being there for ev.ery.thing. Am I spiting the quality of their childhoods by chasing this dream?

And before anyone gets all self-righteous about "But HOW?" could this happen and they would never... let me remind you that this crazy, American pace of life has had more tragic results than mine.

One mom got so into auto-pilot that one day when the routine was upset, she forgot her son in the back of her hot car all day. He died. My heart breaks for that family still, because I can totally see myself in that situation. But for the grace of God go I.

And sometimes, it's not just busy mom dysfunction. Our human minds are feeble, quick to take shortcuts, especially when the primitive brain is in control and being doused with cortisol, adrenaline, and whatever external stimulants we're feeding it. [I'm living on a caffeine drip these days...this is stupid, I know, but you do what you hafta].

For instance, the Australian woman who was raped in 1975, and accused a guy who couldn't have done it because he was speaking on the news at the time of the assault. You would think in such horrific circumstances, someone would KNOW who attacked them. But, like commonly happens, her mind mis-recalled and subsequently misinterpreted the cues she had seen.

The moral of the story is that when stress compromises your executive functioning, there is hell to pay.

---PSA - Had I "dropped a pin" on my phone in the parking lot, none of this would have happened.

Had I realized my confusion before walking around in circles for hours, I could have read my timeline better, and maybe figured it out.

Links are for your benefit. 

This is Heather (actually Emma Stone, but she's pretty and I like her voice better than my own - I would totally cast her to play me in a movie of my life).

Don't be like Heather.

I'm here to serve. So you don't have to.

You're welcome.

A Parent's Take on 13 Reasons Why

PLEASE NOTE:  If you experience suicidal thoughts or have lost someone to suicide, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. You can also call 1-800-273-TALK (8255). The Alliance for Suicide Prevention offers local support in Larimer County.

The other day, I was scrolling through Facebook (something I am doing entirely too much of lately in my unemployment) and came across an article for The Mighty called "Why I Wish I Didn't Watch 13 Reasons Why."

I'd seen the trailer for the show on Netflix some time ago, but quickly forgot about it. This article revived my interest in the series, and because I am the obnoxious type who actually likes spoilers, I read the review first.

Betcha thought I was done talking about depression...

It's now been several weeks since my depression coming out post.  The input from those close to me was overwhelmingly positive, but I received so many messages on Facebook from people I only know vaguely that it struck me in a powerful way.

Sharing my story is a little bit scary. For a variety of reasons.

Sometimes people don't know that talking about the feels one has when s/he is depressed is more about processing than actually intending any harm to oneself, and can result in the 'welfare checks,' those 'I'm suddenly totally interested in you because you kind of scare me but we're not super close so this is awkward' interactions that arise when depression talk raises red flags.  Such interactions, while well intended, can often leave a depressed person thinking, "Will I always be on psych watch?" and wondering if 'normal' will ever be attainable again.  A promising outlook, eh?

Other times, non-depressed people will try to relate, sharing a story from a grieving period or this situation or that, and then say, "But you know, it wasn't like I needed meds or anything!"  Tell me there is no stigma surrounding people with chronic mental illness.

But, I've weighed the options, and folks, there are so many people suffering in silence that all the generic advocacy and prevalence statistics in the world won't help.  No, it is the real stories that move people.

So, in bits and pieces I'm going to share my experience with depression.  If any of you out there have your own stories, I encourage you to pipe in and help in shining light on a grossly misunderstood health issue.

Anyway, up until this recent episode, I'd always brushed off my depression as situational.

That time I spent the whole night eyeing a bottle of Tylenol at age 13, knowing that overconsumption of acetaminophen would shut down my liver?  Surely that was due to the family turmoil going on - divorce, financial stresses, substance abuse, and absent father (just to name the big issues) - let alone the hormonal havoc of puberty.

The fall of my junior year at CSU when I just couldn't keep it together? I was certain that birth control pills (and the resulting 65 lbs I'd gained in just over a year on my newly recovering bulimic frame) were upsetting my neurochemistry, but as a newlywed was not willing to open myself up to the risk of a pregnancy.  So the menage of therapy, meds (Prozac this time) and I were introduced - and yes, my mood stabilized, but the side effects put a huge damper on the bedroom.  So, 6 months later, after much consultation, we decided I would go off birth control and Prozac, and other contraceptive methods were meticulously employed.  Except that one time.  Hello, Kelsey!

The following 6 years?  I blamed that largely on the Plan B turn my life had taken, dreams being ripped from my hands, a marriage that was fairly unhappy for various reasons, two post-partum periods, and a really bad financial outlook.  I figured if I couldn't change those things, what was the point of medicating?  All the depressing factors of life would still be there.

In 2006, I took a really bad turn.  Some of the hard issues we struggled with in our marriage resurfaced and I just couldn't deal.  A new job gave me the added bonus of an Employee Assistance Program, so the therapy I'd begged and pleaded for in the past was no longer "too expensive," and I re-enlisted.  I also sought medication, because the thoughts of ending my life had shown up again.  Knowing I had two small children that would be haunted forever if I took that route shook me enough that I started talking with my PCP again.

Due to the nature of our marital struggles, I was not willing to go back to Prozac and face the consequences of a nonexistent sex drive.  So Effexor and I began dating.  Again, my mood stabilized.  Seth and I started to deal with the marital wounds we had long inflicted upon one another, and things were looking up fairly quickly.  But then, I started getting these... brain hiccups?  I've no other way to describe them than that - it was like a physical sensation, that discomforting feeling of hard hiccups that hurt your ribs, only in my brain.  It also had an electrical feeling about it, like my brain was shorting out.  It scared the heck out of me, and after a year of medicating, I decided to wean off Effexor because I was scared of the long-term ramifications.

I was good for about a year.  In the same sense that Eeyore is ok.  I was living a flatlined normal that I truly thought was life.  Various interventions, such as a diet rich in B vitamins, daily sun exposure, St. John's Wort, adequate sleep, etc., helped manage but never totally eliminated my depression, keeping it to a dull roar that I could "talk" over and slog through the daily functioning of life.  Whenever a life event rocked me, I didn't hold tightly to my regimen, or for no apparent reason at all, my depression would come on stronger out of the blue.

In 2008, I crashed again.  This time, I'd noticed some pattern to my "episodes," and realized I was struggling most in the early spring.  That's it, Seasonal Affective Disorder.  It's the daylight, not anything long-term and chronic.  Nothing that made me totally defective, just seasonally so.  Back to a traditional SSRI, but not Prozac.  This time I went on Lexapro because my doc felt I would experience fewer side effects.  It was the same song, different verse as far as the side effects went, which resulted in me weaning off.  Again.

In 2009, my whole life changed.  I went from being a WOHM to a SAHM, had another baby, had a near fatal pneumonia with more complications than most people care to follow, the economy tanked, and our finances suffered greatly.  The depression was a slow, constant erosion in my mind.  Plus, the mental noise (the constant negative thinking) had new fodder; if I hadn't wracked up all that medical debt we wouldn't all be suffering so.  Unmedicated, I was stuck in a horrible cycle of avoiding the Hard Things (i.e. seemingly insurmountable debts, the isolation of SAHMotherhood, etc.), which made All the Things snowball out of control, which made me feel even worse about myself.

For 5 years I battled through this, unmedicated, again.  My circumstances camouflaged the evidence that I have chronic depression.  Again, I was slogging through, "passing" for functional but slowly starting to crumble from the steady wearing down inside.  It was during this time that I felt my cognitive functioning go downhill.  It seemed I couldn't remember anything, and I felt as if each day I dumbed down a little bit more.  This killed me as my early identified "bright" intellect has been part of my identity as long as I can remember; it was the thing about myself that garnered attention and made me feel special.  Without it, who was I?

This winter I went back to work and things were really looking up.  But even still, I found myself sinking lower.  I couldn't turn off my mental noise, and was battle-fatigue exhausted from the silent, constant combat in my mind every day.  Somehow, when I found myself thinking the Unthinkable Things more and more, and realized that I wasn't immediately shutting those thoughts down, my rational self knew it was time for help again.

Therapy.  Check.

Exercise.  Check.

Meds.  Check.

And I am saying hello to a stronger self in the mirror every day.  And the dumbing down?  So not an imagined occurrence.  Science proves my experience was very real.  (link is eluding me but I'll update when I find it.)

Now that I've found the right med, I am committed to lifelong treatment.  For this cloud has accompanied me all my life.  Upon initially arriving at that commitment, guilt sprang up as I worried about the damage to those I love that I incurred in my search for the right medicine.  But, I squashed that thought (with the newfound clarity Wellbutrin has afforded me) with this takeaway: I did the best I could with what I knew at the time, and that's all we can ask or expect from each other.

To those I love and who love me: thank you for your patience, concern, and grace.  They buoyed me throughout this journey more than you could ever possibly know.  Thank you for being my life support.  I love you all!

To those who are still looking for the best way to manage their demons - you are not alone!  Please reach out.  If not to a professional, to a friend who will get you hooked up with the help you need.  And if you are in the process of getting help, but just need the support of someone who gets it, I'm always hear to listen.

Don't suffer in silence.

#thisistheface

My last post was a turning point - a point wherein I had resigned myself to a truth I'd been unwilling to embrace for a long time.

I have depression.

Long-term, never going away, incurable albeit manageable, depression.

In April, I knew that I needed to get help.  Again.  So I re-enlisted in therapy and made an appointment to see my primary care physician.  I'm happy to say that I found my "forever med" in Wellbutrin and am finding my old, "normal" self a bit more every day.

And now I have a recovery story to tell that isn't so much like some huge, dramatic Lifetime movie as much as it is me screaming to the public and anyone with ears to hear in my little communities around me that I am the poster child to illustrates the potential for a depressed person who goes unchecked because, "she seems to handle so much so well."

It's been 5 months.  I am doing great as the light at the end of the tunnel grows bigger and brighter and nearer every day.  So why say something, why feel compelled to evangelize about depression now?  I mean, it's not like I've never broached the subject before, but why so passionate now?

Because three things.

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Because of Robin Williams.

Glennon's response to the news of his death said everything I thought and felt for days:

When we mentally ill find out that one of us was taken, we feel sad, yes – but mostly we feel afraid. Monday night I was going about my business and all was well-ish and then I read the news and suddenly fell still and silent with fear. I felt shamed- like the universe had caught me red-handed with too much peace in my grubby little hands. Like I was getting too free and healthy and big for my britches and so I needed to be put in my place.

In the wake of Robin Williams' death, hundreds of bloggers weighed in and people opined on social media.  Some posts were compassionate.  Others were not, simply spewing opinions and unsound (some downright false) "facts" to huge channels, often Christian audiences.

And the ignorance must be fought.

*********************************
Then, because Sunday at church, (we're talking about Hard Things - one of the many things I love about my church - and how to deal, particularly with Addiction) we broached the topic of prescription drug abuse, you know painkillers, sleeping pills, hard core anti-anxiety drugs, etc., when somehow, antidepressants and other psychotropic meds got lumped into the mix and I felt my face go hot.

Seth was in another room prepping for the worship he was about to lead.  So I was on my own with this.

The room began to close in on me as I felt the judgment, the impending, "If people just choose joy/pray hard to God/insert some other well intended but horribly wrong mental health prosperity gospel" platitudes that would cause the familiar and all-too-dangerous echo of doubt begin to play in my head.

Comment after comment came from the audience about how we are quick to just ask for a pill instead of working toward recovery the "hard way," that people just want to be numb and escape their issues.

All of which I agreed with, as pertains to the root of addictions.  That's when it hit me, and my shame turned to indignance.  I raised my hand and said, "Excuse me," with a tone that came out more harsh than earnest, "but I think we need to be very careful in our comments and comparisons here.  People who abuse prescription medicines to achieve an altered state of mind, or high, is one thing.  People who take medicines, as prescribed, to effectively manage a brain disorder that is a medical condition is quite different."

My point was conceded and acknowledged, but then the conversation turned back to more of the same.

I sat there for a few moments, as my love for the individuals in the audience warred with my desire to scream, much like Jesus did at the moneychangers, that they were all very, very wrong and Had No Damned Idea .

Instead I left the room and sought solace in a bathroom stall where I let some silent sobs free.  Some women, wise to my struggles and recent return to living medicated, came in and supported me with words of validation.

Upon leaving the bathroom, class was over and several other ladies I love came and talked with me, again offering support in the hallway.  Later that day, two older women told me they appreciated my comment in class, that it needed said.

But beloveds, as grateful as I am for those sideline nuggets of affirmation, these hallway assents to truth in hushed voices, these are the truths that need to be testified boldly, bravely, up front and center, and from people who've experienced the darkness and its unrelenting pursuit for their souls to shake the scales regarding depression from the eyes of everyone in our churches.

And conversations need to be taking place.

*******************************************
Finally.

The third because is because yesterday I went to a funeral with my 6th grade son for one of the students at his school, who, at the tender age of just 13, intentionally, tragically gave his life up last Friday night.

It needs to be ok to be sad.  It needs to be ok to seek help.  It needs to be ok to ask someone if s/he needs help.  And it damned well needs to be ok to treat depression with meds if necessary.

We have to be kind.  And care for one another in word and in deeds.

And lives need to be saved.