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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Hope after Divorce

Hope is around us and within us.  Always stirring and sometimes ignored.  Sometimes, when I get to the other side of an obstacle once thought insurmountable, I look back to discover what brought me to the other side.  It’s always the same thing—hope.

It was a day like today—sunny, warm and breezy—that I walked out of the court house no longer married.  During the brief hearing, the judge asked me to confirm that I wanted to keep my married name, Speranza.  I responded, “Yes.”

At that moment, I thought I was keeping my married name because I wanted things to be as simple as possible for my daughters.  Maybe I wanted things to be as simple as possible for myself?  I mean, what kind of paperwork was involved with going back to my maiden name?

Although brief, my divorce hearing was tense, sorrowful, and sickening.

What was I doing?  Was this really me standing here confirming the beginning of a new life in which I had no idea how to navigate?

Confirmations of child support, number of days with children, and financial awards.  Confirmations that I made a mistake, could not figure it out, and basically failed. 

I felt small.  He in his business suit, accessorized by an expensive lawyer and tears, me in my in inexpensive black slacks and a barely-crisp white blouse left in my wardrobe from the days before babies, when I worked.  I looked down; my black shoes could have used some polish.  His were shiny.  He cried and I didn’t.  I looked like a heartless, money-hungry conniver but knew I was just a lost middle-aged mom who didn’t know what she was doing or going to do.

When it was all said and done, I walked out of the court house, alone, onto the busy sidewalk and expected tears.  Instead I felt a swift breeze hit my face, looked up toward the sun and smiled. 

My last name was still Speranza.

Speranza, literally translated from Italian, means hope.

Some days, I do not know what I am doing.  Things my ex-husband used to take care of still baffle me.  But I try.  I have to.  Someone has to take care of the grown-up things—things other than caring for the girls, cleaning, and grocery shopping.  Those were the things I was good at before my divorce.

Today, I’m good at more.  I pay bills (sometimes on time), I have a degree, and I write.  I do figure out the grown-up stuff, even when I’m scared to death.  And I’m still a good mom.  Maybe better.

I remember one night this past April, because it was National Poetry Month, I wanted to read some poetry to the girls at bedtime.  I stumbled upon Emily Dickinson’s poem, Hope Is the Thing with Feathers:

Hope is the thing with feathers. . .

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity, 

It asked a crumb of me.

I read it aloud to the girls, twice, and cried. 

It was a soft cry, not one of those sobbing, guttural displays. 

I think the girls understood. . .something.

I understood.  We have hope.

Linking up with Flicker of Inspiration Linkup #56  

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Memories Captured: Frodo

After my divorce, I knew I would most likely never have another child.  This thought did not diminish my gratitude for the experiences I had with my then six and eight year old daughters.  But I did grieve babies.  

So, I purchased a dog.

A small baby dog. 

A boy dog. 

And I named him Frodo. 

I knew that he, like Tolkien’s character, would be interested in the outside world. 

Frodo frequently escapes from the confines of his dog life in our fenced back yard.  I send M out into the dangerous parts of our neighborhood to find him, while I sit and worry if his little body is being crushed under a car.

We have the fence rigged now, with bricks from our landscaping—all spaces filled, creating a barrier between Frodo’s safety and the outside world. 

When he is not enjoying the sun outside, he is inside, curled in my lap, or snuggled deep beneath the blankets on one of the girls’ beds.

He is not a real baby. 

He is not a boy. 

However, he is the baby boy I will never have.

Don't judge.

It is scientifically proven that the brain changes after one gives birth to a baby.

My brain certainly changed after my divorce.

Wordless 

Wednesday

10 Things in a Divorced Night Owl's Morning

My kids are at their dads' house during the weekends.  On Mondays, after dropping off the girls at school, my ex-husband brings their stuff to my house.

I am a night owl.  Night owls like the night.  Monday mornings are difficult for night owls.  Therefore, greeting my ex-husband on Monday mornings is difficult for me.

10 Point Excerpt of My Week's First Hour:

8:15 a.m.: Wake startled wondering why I didn’t choose to vacuum before going to bed at 3:30 am

8:20 a.m.: Go downstairs to the basement, retrieve dogs from their kennel, and let them outside.

8:22 a.m.: Light incense so that my ex-husband doesn’t realize I allow his kids to live in a house that smells like Chihuahuas.

8:25 a.m.: Girls’ dad pulls into my driveway, I frantically plug in the mini-shop-vac, turn it on, and begin to guide the machine in sucking up dog hair.

8:26 a.m.: He knocks at door, I can’t hear him due to the vacuuming.

8:27 a.m.: He knocks at window, it startles me, I jump and throw the hose of the vacuum down to the floor.

8:27:30 a.m.: I go to the door, open it, and he says, “Boy, you’re up early getting things done!”  He means this sincerely.  He really thinks I’ve been up cleaning.  He begins to tell me about the weekend and updates me on the schedule.  I nod, smile, and pretend like I understand what he's talking about.  I try not to think about the pile of dog hair in which I'm standing, or the fact I that I probably smell because I've had the same clothes on since Saturday morning.

8:35 a.m.: After dragging suitcases, bags, a clarinet, and softball equipment back to the girls' rooms, I go to the bathroom and relieve myself after holding it since 8:15 am.

8:37 am: I go to the refrigerator, grab a Monster Absolutely Zero, and head out back to sit with the dogs.

9:00 a.m.: I come inside, locate laptop, take it to the kitchen table and begin writing Monday Listicles.  (Do you really think I do this ahead of time?)

For more amazing things on the Web, 

check out Monday Listicles:

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The Storybooks Got It Wrong

I switched off her desk lamp, turned to her closet with intent to shut its door and she said, “Leave it open. It helps me to dream.”

I was well aware of her obsession with fashion and her dreams of having a walk in closet the size of our small old house.  Without comment, I left the door to her dreams open and sat next to her on her bed.  I was smiling and ready for our nightly talk.

I listened as she recounted her recent birthday trip to New York City.  She described each Manhattan neighborhood.  SoHo was not what she expected, Chelsea was full of energy, Times Square was unreal, and Little Italy was crowded due to the number in attendance for the street fair.  However, one neighborhood was just right.

She said, “the Upper East Side was everything I pictured New York City to be.”

I was in agreement that the Upper East was lovely.  I added that it had one drawback--exclusivity.

Her eyes opened wide, and she said, “But I want that.  Not for the wrong reasons.  Mom, I can just see myself living there.  Dressing up my kids in cute little school uniforms, getting them into a cab.  I am wearing my Burberry coat neatly tied around my waist.  And everything is just perfect.  A great apartment.  Everything.”

I searched for words that would not sound judgmental, but would point out my concern.  I gently put my hand on her blanket-covered belly and patted it as I said, “It’s what’s in here that determines your happiness.  Don’t ever forget that.”

She said, “I know.  Mom, you aren’t going to cry are you?  You look like you are going to cry.”

I held back my tears and smiled.  I kissed her on the forehead and wished her pleasant dreams and a well-deserved rest.  

As I continued my nightly routine of emptying the dishwasher and folding laundry, I clung to her words.  I searched for the source of the tears she witnessed filling my eyes.  I looked around our tiny house and noticed the scratched wood floors, the chipped baseboards, and the water-spotted ceiling.  I was reminded that that I could not afford a plumber.  My body went down with a plop to the couch--the couch I bought 13 years ago.  It was old.  I cried.

Her fantasy on the Upper East Side paralleled life before I divorced her dad:  a lovely home at the end of a cul-de-sac, a pool, and daily commutes to a private school.  The impression of her smiling mom and dad was burned into her heart.  She was not an outsider gazing upon a smokescreen.  For her, the vision was real.  

Was I wrong to desire authenticity and divorce her dad?  In doing so, I destroyed her happiness.  Was she trying to recapture a time of contentment, a time she understood, by creating a picture-perfect life for herself in the future?

Later, as I tried to put myself to sleep, I saw a time when I will not be close enough to tuck her into bed.  I will not be there to listen to her dreams.  I will not be able to comfort her the moment when she realizes the storybooks got it wrong.

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Relationships, Weekends and My Blended Family

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Weekends are a bittersweet time for me.  On one hand they are a welcome respite to the weekday schedule.  I can tackle larger projects around the home, catch up on reading, and take time to assess scheduling and family management strategies that are in place during the week.  On the other hand, because we are a two household family and my daughters go to their dads on the weekends, I feel an underlying sadness due to missing my girls.  If I let it, the feeling can deplete my enthusiasm for all the things I like to accomplish during my two day hiatus from parenting.  

But typically, my motivation to have a house with groceries stocked in the kitchen, clean sheets on the beds, and promised tasks completed by Sunday night pushes uncomfortable feelings aside.  In my haste to create a welcoming environment for my daughters' Monday, I have overlooked an opportunity provided by the weekends without them—reconnecting with my significant other, M. 

This weekend, like any weekend, I had numerous personal and familial related tasks to complete.  M and I began painting the kitchen two weeks ago and I wanted to finish it.  There were shelves for the girls’ room to be painted and hung, groceries, meal planning, scheduling of activities, laundry and vacuuming.  In my obsessive quest for the home to seem “normal” and welcoming on Mondays, I wanted everything crossed off the to-do list. 

It’s 6:00 p.m. on Sunday evening and the shelves are not hung and the groceries are not purchased.  The house is not vacuumed and kitchen cabinet doors we removed for painting are still on the floor. But unlike my customary worry about how the girls will perceive their home upon Monday’s reentry, this evening I feel refreshed and calm.  You see, instead of tending to the typical, M and I tended to our relationship.   

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We reconnected through a marathon conversation that lasted over 24 hours beginning on Friday night and ending in the wee small hours of Sunday.  We talked about the things that we have been hiding away for months:  blended family parenting issues, adolescent parenting issues, personal issues, worries, hopes, dreams, and goals.  We cried, laughed, argued, and agreed.  We also talked news, friends, dogs, technology, exercise, music, food, places we’d like to visit, and whether or not we’ll ever make it official and marry.  I feel as if I reconnected with an old friend.  I feel less alone.  I feel loved.  There is no other bliss like knowing one is loved and if I wasn't so tired from staying up, I'd probably be singing.  Why the need for the all-nighter?

My main goal in life is to be a great parent.  This was not an ambition of mine when I was a child or even when I was a young adult.  This became my mission upon the birth of my first daughter--good timing.  And due to my guilt over my divorce, I have made it my sole purpose in life.  But I have failed to acknowledge that my relationship with M has a significant impact on my success as a parent. 

Newly remarried couples without children usually use their first months together to build on their relationship. Couples with children, on the other hand, are often more consumed with their own kids than with each other.

M and I are not married.  Maybe this is why I allowed parenting to be more important than our relationship.  And maybe I’m not married because I am afraid it will distract me from parenting.  Maybe M and I fail to take the plunge because we are unsure if the girls will like the idea.  But, the "maybes" do not matter.  He’s here.  It’s our house. We are a family.

You will no doubt focus a lot of energy on your children and their adjustment, but you also need to focus on building a strong marital bond. This will ultimately benefit everyone, including the children. If the children see love, respect, and open communication between you and your spouse, they will feel more secure and may even learn to model those qualities.

I do not recommend staying awake for more than a normal amount of time in order to reconnect.  I truly am a bit stressed about the groceries that are not purchased.  But for couples in blended families, whether your relationship status is married or living together, I strongly recommend you and your partner stay connected.  How the girls see M and I in our relationship is much more impactful to their development than if the refrigerator is fully stocked.  Peanut butter and jelly for dinner is always an option.

Quotes:  Guide to Step-parenting and Blended Families at Helpguide.org

A Two Household Christmas

“Communicating your love for your child is the single most important thing you can do.” 

 ~the editorial staff at familydoctor.org

Our Christmas is tomorrow, December 23. My coupons are not printed and I still have bite size cheesecakes to make.  If I had until the 25^th, I doubt I would have more accomplished—maybe more stocking stuffers purchased, but not more cookies baked.

Tree, by Antonia, age 11

We are celebrating tomorrow because we are a family of two households.  This year my daughters will be with their dad, step-mom, and step-sister on Christmas Eve and day.  This is problematic for some families and I understand why.  I can feel envious when it’s their father's turn to have them at his home on the calendar day of the holiday.  But this family is a baseball diamond with two home plates where the kids always come first.

This requires communication.  Technology has helped.  My ex-husband and I primarily text and email.  We call when necessary and it's pleasant.  When the girls are with him and his family on the weekends, he keeps me updated on their happenings.  When they are here with me during the week, I regularly update him on their school performance, personal issues, and activity schedules.  We both are aware of what’s going on with grades, crushes, friends, sleepless nights, tummy aches, and accomplishments—the big and the small.  We may no longer be husband and wife but we are still Dad and Mom.   

The girls know that their dad and I communicate regularly.  Our communication is apparent because the girls hear from their dad before dinner about a D- on a science quiz.  They know we have been talking when I ask, "How was going out for pizza on Saturday?'

Having two households is not ideal.  Divorce is messy and emotionally damaging.  But I remember my therapist of a few years ago telling me, "The most important thing you can do to help the girls is to give them respect and love."  I respect them as human beings.  I love them as my daughters.  Therefore, I never let my fear or anger stand in the way of communicating with their dad.  I do not always get it perfect.  And when I don’t, I forgive myself, move on, and try it another way the next time.

The other night, while tucking my 13 year old into bed, I asked, "Are you looking forward to Christmas?"

I thought she may express some uneasiness over the irregular schedule caused by her school break.  I anticipated hearing her express sadness caused from her parents being divorced.  I expected her to be upset that she was having two celebrations and only one of us on Christmas day. 

She said, “Christmas is magical, Mom.  Everyone is so happy.  I am really looking forward to it.”

I said, “Even driving to Wisconsin to see your step-mom’s family?”

She said, “Yes, I like going to Wisconsin.  I have fun there.”

Well, if the kid likes Wisconsin in December, we are doing something right.

There may be two home plates on this baseball field.  There may be two managers.  But there is only one team and the players are all-stars.