Time for Patience

Remember when you were little and the school year seemed to drag on for an eternity?  Forget the school year.  Each class seemed to last longer than summer break.

I remember staring at the giant, industrial, white-faced clock hanging on the classroom wall, watching the second hand slowly tick around its sphere.  Each time the second hand met the big hand, I felt relieved.  One minute down, 40 to go before the bell rang, signaling it was acceptable to move my body out of boredom, discomfort and anxiety.

As an adult, it's different.  Time flies.  Does anyone know why this phenomenon occurs?  One day seems to last a second, a year is like a day.  And now, January is almost at its end and I have yet to set any definitive goals for the year.

I know you are saying, “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself.  It’s OK.  You can start, or change, any time.”

This is true.  However, as one who struggles with depression, when I give myself permission to stall, or get to it tomorrow, it means three days on the couch.  

Three days on the couch means the depression is fed with a powerful fuel that helps it continue for three more days.  Then I am left with nothing but a fried brain full of terrible self-talk and a sweaty bottom stuck to my jammie pants, jammie pants stuck to, you guessed it, the couch.

I do not remember the word I chose to focus on last year in order to focus on having a good year.  I think it was “fearlessness” or “courage”.  I think I exhibited some of both.  Each time I let bravery simmer to the top it was met by the outside world with enthusiasm, empathy and encouragement.  I was and am grateful for that.  But my inside-world, my self-talk, quickly drove any success into a massive car wreck.

Although the destruction did not go noticed by anyone, I saw it.  I saw it in the things I did not do.  Instead of taking advantage of the momentum of success, my focus fastened itself on the things yet to be accomplished.

 

I have experienced success.  I know I can do it.  That’s not the issue.

The issue is that I have no patience.  If it’s not done now I tell myself "I can’t" or "It’s not for me" or "It's something I do not deserve."

That’s all pretty harsh. 

No one deserves that kind of talk, so why inflict it upon myself?

Lately I have noticed my daughters who are 12 and 14 have very little kindness for themselves.  If their hair is not just right, they are ugly.  If their shirt hangs slightly different than they imaged, they are fat.  It’s frightening.  Although I never verbalize my negative self-talk, they must be picking up this technique of beating oneself up from me through motherhood osmosis.

Enough.

The awesome team at Just.Be.Enough has chosen three words to focus upon for 2013:  “. . . words to help us in setting goals, dreaming big, and being intentional about our journey to being enough.”

I am choosing one.

Patience.

Just.Be.Enough

I unofficially put my focus word into practice starting two days ago.  On that morning I had dishes done, the floors swept and mopped, and the living room dusted by 8:30 am.  I finished all of the girls’ laundry.  I got help moving the treadmill from the basement to the first floor so that we use it.  I showered, put on make-up and took the girls out shopping.  I even said “hello” to a friend I saw at the store, which is unusual.  Typically I hide.

At 8:00 pm I was contemplating scrubbing down the treadmill and hanging blinds in the room wherein we will be using it.  But I stopped.  I had done enough.  I didn't want to overdo it, waking up the next day with exhaustion which would be permission to go back to the couch.

Patience.

Everything takes time.  Everything has a process.  Change does not happen overnight.  Success isn't awarded in an instant.

I will be holding myself accountable for being patient by linking up monthly with Just.Be.Enough.

You just read month number one. 

Time flew, didn't it?

photo credit: BramstonePhotography via photopin cc

10 Foods for Depression Fun

Some people fall into depression and lose their appetite.  Unfortunately, this is not the case for me.  As some of you know, I've been battling depression for the past several months.  When I’m down, I eat.  This causes a terrible cycle of feeling terrible.  See, I’m a firm believer that if I was one of those non-eating depressed people, at least I’d have a nice slim body to admire in the mirror and possibly this would lift my mood.

Please know I am not saying that slim depressed people have it better.  Depression in all of its manifestations of behavior is a harrowing existence.  Even more distressing is when one knows what makes one feel better and is unable to do it…due to the paralysis of depression.  It’s an evil, evil thing. 

This leads me to this week’s topic for Monday Listicles: Food.  The topic was suggested by blogger extraordinaire, Beth.  The leader of Monday Listicles, Stasha, has instructed that the topic is open to interpretation.   So, I chose to share with you the 10 foods that keep me physically filled-out while I am depressed.

10 Foods for Wallowing in Depression

1. Salt and Vinegar Chips

I seriously considered moving 55 miles east to Zanesville, Ohio where Conn's Salt and Vinegar chips are made.  They are by far, the best Salt and Vingar chip ever made.  I know, because I've tried them all.

2. Peanut Butter

My favorite way to eat this creamy goodness is with a spoon right out of the jar, but there are several ways to enjoy this luscious nut meal:  on warm toast, as an apple dip, smothered on top of an Oreo cookie.  Ironic that this spread was first introduced in the United States to sanitarium patients by Dr. John Harvey Kellog.  If those patients had the same experience that I do when eating peanut butter, it was the one time during their day in which they felt sane.

3. Nutella

                                                                                 Source: annies-eats.com via Sperk* on Pinterest

Nutella has become quite popular as I have noticed many Nutella based goodies, like the fudge pictured above, posted on Pinterest as of late.  But I've been digging into jars of Nutella for years.  I don't have the discipline to cook or bake with it.  The most patience I have is waiting for the toast to pop from the toaster and quickly getting that spread applied to assure a tremendous amount melting of the chocolate-hazelnut goodness onto my hot flaky bread.  (Did you know Nutella was created by a pastry maker during World War II due to the shortage of chocolate?)

4. Hummus and Pita Chips

When I bring home hummus and pita chips from the grocery store on Monday, they are gone by Monday night.  I've turned out the entire family.  And if the pita chips are gone before the hummus, scooping it out with your finger not only gets you more of the yummie goodness, the rest of the family runs away from the table in horror, leaving you alone with your hummus.  Perfect.

5. Fancy Creamers

Coffee-mate has made luxurious dairy flavorings accessible to the common folk and I couldn't be happier.  My condition of lactose intolerance is not a hindrance to me enjoying these feel-good flavors added to my favorite anti-depressant, coffee.  Oh sure, there's tons of sugar and fat, but remember, I'm depressed.  And, if you look carefully in your grocery's dairy section, there are now a few fat-free and sugar-free varieties   Plus, if you can't figure out how to make these yummie liquids work for you, the Coffee-mate website has recipes.  Yes, recipes.  I see no need to go beyond "pour half the bottle into coffee and stir", but whatever.

6. Pizza

My lactose intolerant gut always fails to send the "DO NOT EAT" message to my eyes when I see pizza flashing in a television commercial, staring from the grocer's freezer, or delightfully offering coupons via the mailbox.  And there are always excuses to order pizza: no time to cook, the girls would love me more, the football game is on, girls have friends coming over, etc.  My pizza of choice: The Works from Papa John's.

7. Ice Cream

Yes, there is such a thing as dairy free ice cream, but it doesn't taste good.  Yes, you have read correctly in the above points.  I am lactose intolerant.  I love ice cream.  It makes me feel good.  And the tumultuous gas it causes provides me an excuse to hide away alone in my room, which fits perfectly with being depressed.  Of course my favorite ice cream is Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby due to the "fudge covered PEANUT BUTTER filled pretzels in vanilla malt ice cream rippled with fudge & PEANUT BUTTER."

8. Bomb Burritos

These belly killers are for when I am at the lowest of my lows.  Brought to you directly from the convenient store just a few block away.

9. Stouffer's Grandmas Chicken and Vegetable Rice Bake

This one I can pass off as a good meal choice for the entire family.  Really, it's just creamy-good comfort food.

10. Stouffer's Chicken Enchiladas with Cheese Sauce and Rice

This one can also be passed off as a good meal choice for the entire family.  The key is to only make it when family is around.  Otherwise, it becomes and over-sized pan to enjoy on my own during a marathon of America's Next Top Model (if I actually watched such a horrific soft-porn flick being passed off as a reality show).  

What are your go-to foods when you're feeling bad?

See how other fabulous bloggers interpreted "FOOD" for Monday Listicles!

photo credit: yewenyi via photopin cc
photo credit: brianc via photopin cc
photo credit: newwavegurly via photopin cc
photo credit: Scorpions and Centaurs via photopin cc
photo credit: roboppy via photopin cc
photo credit: rick via photopin cc
photo credit: inazakira via photopin cc
photo credit: LostinTexas via photopin cc

The Breath of Life

I feel I have been absent as of late, not just from Sperk*, but from something indefinable.  However, I won’t bore you with examination of the vague and give only the concrete.  Certainly there has been movement.  After months of a plague of depression, there has been forward progression even amid costly inconveniences:  Scruffy had his tail amputated after nearly chewing it off, the main drain to the house was clogged and filling the basement with feces, and my front tooth composite finally crumbled after many months of gingerly eating and cementing it with toothpaste during the night.  These were all financial setbacks, indeed, and at the most inopportune time of the year, the holidays.

The girls are well.  My tween who is emerging into a teen is quite gorgeous, like a sprouting tree in the spring, in her entirety, not just in her outward beauty.  My teen of 14 years is a constant mystery and deliverer of stress, but I’m learning to take it in stride with less seriousness and worry.  And last week, I finally put my year old degree to use and gained employment.  I’ll be caring for little ones full time.  It is funny that caring for small humans, during the most significant juncture of human development, pays the least in the field of education.  It is my opinion that early educators should be paid on the scale of professors.  And we should be required to have the same amount of education as college level instructors.  However, if that were the case, I wouldn't have my current employment, right?

The clock says 6:31 am, so I must wake the girls.  Here’s to coffee, cool autumn mornings, and the breath of life that keeps us going.

photo credit: Muffet via photopin cc

Wednesday's Woman: Light in a Dark Place

Depression, Women, the Holidays and Hope.

Thanksgiving, the official start to the holiday season, is upon us. 

Are you feeling happy, grateful, and excited, anticipating the wonderful food and laughter shared with family?  Or are you feeling stressed, anxious, and tired?  Possibly, and most likely, you are experiencing a mix of emotions. 

For those suffering from depression, the anxiety that accompanies the holidays can be unbearable.  It can be frightening:  the expectations, the money, the time…

….did I mention the expectations?

Contrary to popular belief, occurrences of depression do not increase during the holidays.  However, what is found to be true is that women are more likely to suffer from depression than men.

From the National Institute of Mental Health:

• One in four women will experience severe depression at some point in life.

• Depression affects twice as many women as men, regardless of racial and ethnic background or   income.

• Depression is the number one cause of disability in women.

Wednesday’s Woman is a space to honor women who are doing great things, on a grand, global scale, or on a smaller, but not less significant scale, in the home.  For many women, their greatest feat is getting out of bed.

Today, for Wednesday’s Woman, I am honoring all women who are suffering and/or surviving with depression.  To help me do so, I am grateful to welcome Kristen from the Preppy Girl in Pink:

************************************************************************

Hi, I'm Kristen from The Preppy Girl in Pink. I am a wife, a mom to two girls and work from home part time. I am not always strong but I am rarely weak. My daughters constantly remind me how good life can truly be. 

Light in a Dark Place

It was hard to get out of bed today. The curtains were drawn to keep the street lights out at night but weren't allowing the natural light of the day in either. I hit snooze on the alarm clock again and again. 

I stretched my arms, my legs and my back. I rolled over and faced the curtains. I had to force myself out of the bed and to them.

I pulled the panels apart and there wasn't much change in the light in the room.

It was another grey, cold, damp day. The days that make it hard to get out of bed. 

Could I lie and say it is because of weather like this that I want to sink back into bed and enjoy the coziness of my bed? Yes, I could.

But I won't.

It is the darkness outside my window that awakens the darkness in the soul. 

All of the heartache.

All of the doubt.

All of the guilt.

All of the pressure.

I know I should move one foot at a time in the direction of both of my two daughters' bedrooms. They need to get up and ready for school. 

I can't though.

My feet move me back to my bed. 

I tuck myself back in and feel alone as I lay in the fetal position.

I think to myself, 'Maybe I can just let the day go on around me. Maybe...'

But then I hear a giggle.

And then another.

I glance up and see the light from my 8 year old daughter's bedroom pouring into the hallway. That can only mean one thing, she is reading before the morning routine gets started. Her favorite way to start the day is with a book in her hands. 

She calls out to me, "Mom, do you remember when Ron did this? He cracks me up!" and then reads a few lines from one of the Harry Potter novels that she is currently devouring. 

She belly laughs this time.

And that is when I can feel the sunshine even when I can't see it.

That is when I turn off the alarm clock instead of hitting snooze again. 

That is when I tell myself that I have two daughters that need me. They need all of me. Not just the person going through the actions of the day.

They need my heart. They need my soul. They need to see that I can keep the darkness out with the light they shine upon me.

And I need to allow their light in so that I can let my light shine too. 

*************************************************************************************************************************************

Resources for coping with depression during the holidays:

Stress, depression and the holidays

Dealing with holiday stress

Depression at the holidays

Please know I am grateful for you. . . Happy Thanksgiving!

photo credit: PHOTO/arts Magazine via photopin cc

Save It for Later: Women Veterans and Senators

Congratulations! You survived Election 2012.  It was exciting and great for women.  Here’s the best of what I bookmarked this week, all related to women and being American.  Happy Veterans Day!

Women Veterans

Veterans Advantage

According to Veterans Advantage, “Roughly 15% of today’s military are women, but military observers will tell you their influence is greater than their numbers suggest and it's growing.”  As you make your reflections for Veterans Day, be sure to remember some female military greats here: Saluting Women Who Served.

Rape in the Military

The Invisible War

Amy Ziering, producer of the film, The Invisible War, which sheds light on the epidemic of rape in the United States Military, states “There’s much about being raped in the military that’s categorically different from civilian rape.  In many ways it can be even more profoundly damaging. If you’re a civilian, you can seek immediate comfort and support from friends and family, you can seek recourse through an impartial criminal justice system, and you are not blamed and castigated if you report. What the public doesn't realize is that if you are raped in the military, you don’t have these options. Plus, it goes against the creed you've been taught—‘A good soldier doesn’t tell on a fellow soldier — good marines suck it up.’ All these things combined have kept so many victims from being able to talk about what happened to them,” (Los Angeles Post, June 26, 2012).

It is vital to raise awareness of the epidemic of rape in the military as we continue to strive in our country for the elimination of and healing from crimes against women.  For more information see the website, Not Invisible, where you can watch the trailer, request a screening, and obtain information on having your voice heard.

Celebrating Women Senators

Do you know all of the recently elected female U.S. Senators?  I love this presentation I found on Prezi:

Meet your Women Senators on Prezi

Let's Not Forget Our Widows

The American Widow Project

Back in April, Anna Mahler, a regular contributor to Wednesday's Woman spotlighted Taryn Davis, founder of the American Widow Project.  Veterans Day is certainly a time to keep our widows in our thoughts.

“While the service member’s sacrifice is acknowledged, many simply forget or fail to recognize the sacrifice of the spouse who is now left a widow of war. Often times the invisible wounds of military widows are disregarded due to age or a simple lack of knowledge and understanding." ~Taryn Davis

The American Widow Project provides peer to peer support for a new generation of military widows.  For more information go here: The American Widow Project. 

Women Do Not Belong in the Kitchen

This has nothing to do with the election or veterans.  I simply feel compelled to share.

The trouble with depression is indolence becomes my best friend.  Time with my best friend keeps me from doing things like chores, exercising, reading, and the like.  However, depression and its accompanying sloth does give a great excuse for leaving the dishes, which I despise doing.  

These dishes have been accumulating since Thursday,
a true, off-line, Save It for Later.

Even though I am happy to report that I am gaining momentum (yesterday I raked leaves and cleaned out my car with the help of my youngest daughter, Antonia), I could not bring myself to tackle that sink. This morning, my significant other did it for me.  Thanks, M.  I seriously do not belong in the kitchen.


Save It for Later is a regular feature sharing the week's best bookmarks that I saved to read later.

Obama Rally: We Were There

I heard the familiar ringtone at 8:37 a.m.  It took me a second to realize Sophia was calling from downstairs and not from her dad’s house.  I shook M’s shoulder to wake him and alert him of the time.

“Oh, shit,” were his words.  Or maybe that’s what I was thinking.

I crawled out of bed and said hello to Scruffy who was peering out from his kennel with his e-collared, cone-head.  With a tiny sting of guilt, I left him there to attend to my caller.  Once I reached the bottom of the stairs and peaked into Sophia’s room, I heard the question.

“Are we really going, because I don’t want to go?”

At that moment, I didn't want to go either.  In fact, with depression looming, every morning was a challenge—the fight with wanting nothing but to stay in bed was like that annoying feeling of knowing I needed to put gas in the car but of not knowing if I had enough fuel to get out of the driveway.  It didn't help that I knew everyone needed to shower and I had to pack Sophia and her sister, Antonia, for going to their dad's after the event.   

I answered, “Yes, we are going.”

“Should I get in the shower?”

“Yes.”

The girls showered.  I showered.  M took the dogs outside for business.  The girls packed themselves.  

Nationwide Arena

That’s how we made it to downtown Columbus by 10:30 a.m. for the Obama rally. Despite Antonia’s mysterious headache, M’s Sunday Night Football hangover, Sophia’s teenage pleas, and my depressive paralysis, we were there.  Standing under the mid-morning sun with thousands of others, lined up close on the cold, concrete sidewalk, a black mesh gate keeping us at a safe distance from the impressive brick, glass, and metal structure that is Nationwide Arena.

Me, Antonia, and Sophia in line at Nationwide Arena

The doors did not open until noon.

In line, we played I Spy.

We danced the cold away.

We watched the news helicopter.

We tried to identify people who may be Secret Service.

Sophia saw several high school peers, some who came up to her to say "hello," validating her presence at the event.

When the line began to move, we became aware of our bladders and our thirst.  But I was excited.

I said, "Sophia, if you wouldn't have called this morning, we wouldn't be here!  I'm so grateful!"

Her adolescent brain was annoyed by this.  Her real brain was proud.

The line-cutters did not squelch our enthusiasm, nor did being physically scanned by Columbus Police once we got inside.  We followed the herd to our seats and were pumped up by campaign videos and speeches from local officials.  We pledged our allegiance to the flag, held hands for a prayer, and stood for the Star Spangled Banner. Then we waited.  And waited. For what may have been an hour.

After a lullaby of a performance from Bruce Springsteen (I loved it, but it did nothing to wake the girls). . .

. . . Finally. . .

After a rousing, sign-waving raucous from the stage at the opposite end of the arena, Jay-Z introduced President Barack Obama.

They felt it.  They got it.  It was big.

***

Today, I voted to protect their rights.  I voted for moving forward, not for returning to old ideology.

I couldn't answer all the questions after yesterday’s rally at Nationwide Arena:

“Why can’t teenagers vote?"

“What are some good, unbiased things you can tell me about Romney?”

I am still researching the best answers.  But, I know for certain, today my girls understand that the President and honoring our right to vote is a big deal.  I am looking forward to kindling their new fire.

Me, walking from my polling place

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

photo credit: Miss Blackflag via photopin cc

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

Proceed with Caution

There was a welcomed chill in the air this morning that allowed my thoughts to be crisp and driving.  They jumped from having an idea for this to wanting to finish that.  There was much to read, many people to catch up with via social media and blogging, and chores I actually felt like doing.

I took a moment to be with the high-spiritedness in the tingling of my fingers and toes.  It made me laugh.

I was wise enough to take step back.  I remembered to embrace the feeling of lightness and not let it overrun the day.  It could lead to more new tasks being created before I finished the ones I abandoned at the onset of my depression.  Like a prisoner being released from a lengthy sentence, I needed to proceed with caution.  The new free world could be a danger.

I took one more step back and looked around to see what had been going well.  I discovered that even when I had the shades drawn to the brightness of life, I did okay.

Two stars remained in my sky.  Their forward-spin towards adulthood did not stop even when I did.

With relief, I noticed my daughters were well, and for that I was grateful.

photo credit: Lori Greig 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.

photo credit: ashley rose, via photo pin cc

Altered by Fire

We have a routine.  In the morning, after the kids are off to school, I sit at the kitchen table and write.  M watches The Dan Patrick Show upstairs in the office.  If I hear the floor creak, I know M is coming downstairs.

He passes through the living room, opens the blinds, strolls by me at the table, and grabs some water from the sink.  As he retraces his steps through the kitchen, under his breath he asks me how I am doing.  I typically respond as I hear his footsteps returning him to his comfortable spot in front of  Dan Patrick, which turns into Colin Cowherd, which turns into the girls being home from school.

It was at that time yesterday, as I was in the ferocity of engagement that comes with the kids needing snacks, help with homework, and rides to practices, that M escaped the commotion by doing maintenance outside in the yard.  I was pleased because our lack of curb appeal was an item of embarrassment for my 13 year old.  What was more, it was good to see him going—plowing through months of depression with fervor and ease.  He seemed to possess the joy of a child outside for the first time since the thaw of winter.

In my distraction with the kids, I failed to keep watch over what was transpiring in the yard. 

As soon as I had the girls settled in their rooms for homework and while our dinner’s fresh green beans were steaming in the microwave, I heeded my instinct and looked out the back door.

M had moved a pile of sticks and branches from behind the dog house to the middle of the yard.  Only, it was no longer a mound of natural debris.  It was a carefully crafted sculpture of the picture-perfect bon fire—minus the fire.

I heard the microwave alert me to the fact that the green beans were done and ignored it.  I was too curious.

I said, “You aren’t going to light that on fire are you?”

M lifted his Budweiser-holding hand in my direction and waved it around as he replied, “I grew up in the country.  I know how to handle a fire.  I have the hose ready.”

My eyes scanned the tall grass for our garden hose to find it in a circular heap at the edge of the yard.

He pointed the beer can toward the hose and said, “I got it. Is dinner ready?”

Food was enough to give M motivation to set that wood on fire.

I could smell it as I was loading the dishes into the Maytag.

I could hear our neighbor's voice bellowing from the direction of the rusty chain-link fence.  He told M that it was against city code to have a fire in the yard.

M replied, “I got it. I grew up in the country.”

Responding to the urge to go out back and intervene, I closed the door to the dishwasher, shut off the faucet and grabbed the hand towel, drying my hands as I walked to the back door.

Instead of reaching for the knob, my hands remained in the towel.

M was using the garden hose to put out the fire.

This morning, as I sat at the table to write, I heard the creak in the floor upstairs but no television.  M got some water from the sink, retraced his steps through the kitchen, but stopped at the table.  He pulled out a chair and sat.  He asked, "How are you doing?"

His fire for life is returning.  I just hope it stays out of the back yard.

photo credit: MarkGregory007 via photo pin cc