I Can't Not Say It

As I posted the first Wednesday’s Woman of 2013 this morning, reentering the world of blogging after what seemed to me like a long hiatus, I was reminded of how healthy and necessary this is for me--the practice of communicating, connecting, healing, and celebrating.  Laughing with one and other and holding each other up as we reveal parts of ourselves that need light in order to move on and let go.  As a parent and as a person who strives to get better and be better, I need to be here.

This sort of self-declaration may seem redundant or unnecessary.  However, while I was away from Sperk*, I did a lot of thinking (at times, maybe too much).  I questioned whether or not I should devote so much of my time to this space.  It certainly isn't bringing in any considerable income.  And, at times, I don’t feel like I can share everything I need to because I have to protect my children.  I mean, I am choosing to share these stories.  They are along as participants only because they somehow ended up being my daughters.  The are not participating because they are dying for the world to get to know them through my eyes.

I questioned whether or not what I was sharing was relevant to anything. . .

or nothing . . .

or something. 

I don’t have all the answers to the above.  But I do know this:  Using my voice forces growth in the right direction.   When I am silent, my growth is stunned.  And already, after just one post, I feel as though it is possible to let go of all the pain and worry I conjured up while away from Sperk*.

I am in the process of discerning how much pain and worry I conjured on my own and how much was inflicted: 1) I already left the job I started in December.    This was heartbreaking and I still haven’t figured out if being a teacher is really my calling.  2) My mother sent me the most evil text in the world in December.  (I am sure she felt the same about my text to her.)  This was heartbreaking and I still haven’t figured out how to put this one down and let it go.

But I do know this:  Without this process—writing, posting, and commenting—I will never figure it out.  So, here I am.  Stay tuned.

photo credit: Will Lion via photopin cc

The Bully Wins When I Am Silent

I am not going to whine by saying, “People were mean to me in high school.”  High school was and is weird.  When one enters adolescence, one can no longer discern between right and left but are required to discern between right and wrong.  Coupled with the academic and social pressures, it is a wonder any high school student is “nice” to anyone.  I get it.  However, people were mean to me in high school.

Like most teens, I was lacking in the area of emotional intelligence.  Like most survivors of sexual abuse, I was lacking in self-esteem and skills to defend myself.  High school for me was years of rumors (most of which were not true), gum-throwing-into-my-hair incidents, shoving-my-body-into-locker moments, etc.  Yes, etcetera.  Yes, there was more, the most painful I’m not ready to share.

There were many afternoons I would come home from school and simply bury my face in my pillow and sob.  My mom would attempt to find out what was wrong.  Half of the things I told her about and half of the things I didn't.  Her best advice was to keep smiling and ignore it knowing that the attacks were due to my peer’s jealousy.

I went with this tactic and I survived.  But it didn't work.

Last Friday, my 13 year old daughter, a freshman in high school, and I were bickering during the ride home from school.  When we got into the house, she went to her room and began crying, face down in her pillow, sobbing.  I thought she was upset that we were arguing, so I at first tried to ignore it, the sound of her sadness paralyzing me.

Then, my own high school experience flooded over me.

I knew if I remained paralyzed it could potentially paralyze my daughter.

I went into her room and said, “Why are you crying?”

No answer.

“Is it because we are fighting?”

She answered, “No.”

I sat down on her bed and asked, “Did something happen at school?”

Something did happen at school.  It made me mad.  I yelled. She cried.  We calmed down and talked.  In essence, I told her to never allow anyone, even her best friends, to be mean to her.  We discussed strategies for solving the problem that would cause as little hurt as possible.  I held her face in my shoulder and she sobbed some more.

During the course of the weekend, by talking to the person who hurt her, she peacefully worked out her issue.  I would like to think that our talk helped and I am really grateful I was able to put my own experiences aside and offer her support.

I now see why a lot of parents are emotionally absent from parenting.  It’s painful—painful to watch one’s child hurt while at the same time re-experiencing one’s own hurts over and over again.  But the hurt is no excuse. 

The bully wins when I am silent.  I am done being bullied.

(This post is dedicated to Xiomara A. Maldonado who shocked me out of the self-pity that was keeping me from writing with this post:  You Hide It Well: My Secret Battle With Depression.)

October is National Bullying Prevention Month

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I Am Doing It, So There.

As part of my plight to thwart depression, I have committed to blogging every day.  I have not come out with an official public announcement regarding this pledge because typically, when I broadcast what I’m going to do, I don’t do it.  Then I am left with evidence of my failure—that evidence being an audience and my blog.

There is nothing worse than the sting of your daughter saying, “Mom, you never do anything you say you’re going to do.  You don’t do anything, with the exception of Sperk*.  You do that.”

Yeah. She said it. 

No. It’s not true.  I do a lot of other things besides Sperk*.

I refrained from going into a raging rant about how there is always food on the table and asking her where she thought that came from.  

I refrained from asking her what she might think her life without a devoted mother may look like.

I just said, “Yeah, it’s probably too late for me to become the famous female music conductor I always wanted to be.”

She had a twinkle in her eye as she said, "That would have been perfect for you.  You could act crazy and everyone would politely laugh at your jokes, you know, because of the formal environment.  Everyone is always polite to the conductor."

Where was this coming from?

So what if I haven’t finished redecorating her room, a project I started two summers ago.  She changes her mind about what she wants every two days.

So what if I haven’t gotten a job teaching at a preschool.  Yes, I finished my degree in early education almost a year ago, but even though I love babies, I don’t want to change diapers for $8 an hour.

Then I announced to her that I wanted to go back to school and possibly get my teaching license.

She said, “Well, you know you’ll have to be a substitute first if you go for teaching.  They call in the morning for that, you’d never be able to get ready.”

She was right.  I would never be able to get ready.

She went on, “Plus, you’d be that substitute everyone hates.  The one who is excited to be there, the one who is excited about learning.”

She was right.  I am excited about learning.

This week I’m learning to be patient with my depression and her adolescence.

This week I am learning that I actually do the things I say I am going to do.  Here's the proof:  you are reading post #4 on day #4 of blogging every day.  

So there.  

photo credit: xlordashx via photo pin cc

The One Thing I Can't Say: I'm Depressed

The first time I remember feeling depressed was in the first grade.  My grandfather had just died.  During recess, I walked around the school yard without talking or playing with anyone for at least three days. One of those times, Sister Miriam Ann decided to bring me into my classroom and tell my homeroom teacher what she had observed.  This attempt to help me included empathy from both her and my teacher.  I felt it in their words, even though I didn’t believe what they said: “Your grandfather is happy in heaven with God.”

That was approximately 36 years ago.

Since then, I have experienced many varying levels of depression, from mild to clinical—after every break-up, every time a performance run ended, when I failed exams, after recovering memories of sexual abuse, after each of my children were born and after my divorce.

I have had varying types of treatment—talk therapy, rehab, medication and EMDR.  They all worked for a period of time.

Time is a tricky thing.

I am on the upswing from what I thought was a mild bout of depression.  However, when examining the calendar, charting the amount of time I have felt down and the number of episodes of Pawn Stars I have viewed, I have to reassess—it has been severe.  On the other hand, it hasn’t lasted that long and to the untrained eye, or to those who do not regularly see me, nothing seems unusual. 

I don’t think my daughters have even noticed.  Or maybe they have.  And that kills me.

It’s not that there are glaring signs of my depression staring my daughters in the face.  I do not stay in bed all day (at least, not when they are around), there is always food on the table, clean underwear in their drawers, and I have made it to every beginning-of-the-school-year parent meeting.  However, I know what would be staring them in the face if I was not depressed.  It would all be better—the condition of the house and my enthusiasm for after-school time beyond making sure they get their homework done successfully.

The funny thing about depression is that it can become comfortable.  An upswing towards feeling good, although being the desired goal, is uncomfortable and unfamiliar—scary. 

And what would people think if they knew I struggled with depression?  That question plagues me with such ferocity that I dare not admit even the slightest bit of sadness.  So things come out sideways.  For instance, yesterday when I was driving my older daughter home from school, a telemarketer called.  I answered the unfamiliar number with enthusiasm because the opposite, ignoring the phone, is typically one of the first signs that indicate I am depressed. 

I thought, “Yay! I am answering the phone.  I am getting better!”

The conversation started out pleasant but ended with an inappropriate outburst that stunned my daughter:

Telemarketer: Is Kimberly Speranza available?
Me:  (with a very sweet sounding voice) It depends on who is calling.
Telemarketer: This is [so and so] from [so and so]
Me: (continues sweetly) She’s not available to you and please take her number off your list.  I mean, this is Kimberly.  Please take my number off your list.
Telemarketer: Are you on the National Do Not Call List?
Me: (getting angry) Yes.
Telemarketer: How’s that working out for you?
Me: (blows her top) Why don’t you suck balls and die.

(Uh-huh.  I know, I know. It was terrible and completely out of character for me.  IT was my depression being inappropriately expressed as anger towards and innocent person trying to do their job.  Additionally, it was a not-so-fine moment of setting an example for my daughter of how to handle annoying phone calls--not OK.)

I tapped the phone to hang up as the telemarketer whaled with laughter.  My daughter heard him.  She said, “Mom! That was awful. He was laughing at you.”

And there it is.

I don’t want to be laughed at.

I don’t want to be coddled and consoled.

I don’t want to be looked at like an insane person who is incapable of functioning.

Intellectually I know the above list of fears is unwarranted.  I understand mental illness.  I understand it is nothing to be ashamed of or to hide.  And yet, here I am, feeling exposed and afraid.

I am afraid that if I admit I am depressed, I will no longer be taken seriously.  Everything I say, write, or suggest will be met with, “She’s just crazy.”  Then I will be ignored, no longer heard or believed.

Typically, in order to avoid that vulnerable feeling of being exposed, I’ll cover it up by announcing my new “thing”:  quitting smoking, exercising, juicing, writing 2,000 words a day, yoga, meditation, taking walks.  Some of which I have tried, some of which I have only contemplated while lying on the couch with the TV mindlessly flashing before me.  And when all turn out to be unsuccessful attempts at getting myself off the couch, the depression worsens.

In AA, the first of the Twelve Steps is:  We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable.

I believe that within the words of Step One lies freedom.  Admitting.  Saying what is.  Calling a spade a spade. 

I admit it, I struggle with depression.

Gratefully linking up with Pour Your Heart Out
 which prompted me to write about my struggle with depression.

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