I did some calculations, and figured out the price of happiness.

Let's talk about how we manage mental health care in this country. You can look up the statistics, and we'll avoid the weeds like gun violence and terrorism. Lets talk about how our mental health policies work for people like you & me. Okay, people like me. I am the great gray, the unspoken. I'll likely never kill anyone, including myself, and the Universe in all its wisdom has entrusted me with GROWING two ACTUAL human beings. But I am mentally ill. That's uncomfortable to hear, isn't it? I can tell you its pretty fucking uncomfortable to say. Here's the thing: it shouldn't be.

I'll eschew a scathing ass-kicker on stigma, though, to share my recent experiences with America's employer-sponsored health care system and how it manages - or fails to manage - mental health.

Long-time readers - both of them - know that for 15 years I have worked with my doctor to find an anti-depressant that fits reasonably well into my life. This is necessary because, due to a bad hand in the poker game that is genetics, I have neurons in my brain that fire when they shouldn't, and don't fire when they should. My Serotonin doesn't speak Epinephrine, it turns out, or something like that, and pills are frankly the translator. Lexapro, Welbutrin, Welbutrin plus Zoloft - oh dear, dear Zoloft - Cymbalta (scary!). You can imagine that some translators are better than others. And some have accents that some people will understand easily, and others will not be able ignore. Its all very subjective. And all translators, at some point, get old and retire, and you get to search for a one.

Good news - I found a new one! Viibryd, it's called. For long-time users of translators, you'll be happy to know this one A)doesn't make you gain weight and B) doesn't affect your sex drive. (clouds part, organ music, sun rays shine down - for real this is a BIG FUCKING DEAL). My doctor has given me the standard 3-week sample.

You didn't know about samples? Yes, well, for anti-depressants there is almost always a sample, because there's no telling what will work for who. There's no blood test - not even a brain scan - that can predict efficacy. Its literally just blind trial & error. And since side effects are most pronounced while you ween on and ween off of these meds, trial & error is a really long fucking process. Life is cruel.

So, Viibryd. I have to shit roughly 3 times an hour, but I'm told that will pass and experience bears out that this is usually the case. I feel...open to the possibility of improvement. That's huge - it may not sound like much but for real I can come up with a good reason to get out of bed more mornings than not, and that is an amazing improvement over where I was. We'll come back to the meds.

Lest you think I'm one of these soft, 'take a pill to make it all alright' folk, at the same time I sought out a new med I was also seeking out a therapist, and let me tell you - Jesus. If I have to choose between calling the crisis line and navigating a push-button menu for 20 minutes only to learn you have a 10-month wait for appointments - congratulations, I now need the fucking crisis line. What a shit show. I called EVERY SINGLE SHRINK IN YORK COUNTY. Unless you are in the process of driving your car off a cliff, you have two choices: take yourself to the ER for 3-day involuntary psych hold, or swallow your pain - swallow it! - it doesn't matter that it tastes bad, it doesn't matter that you're full. According to how this country manages mental health, you are EITHER a danger to yourself or others this moment OR you are absolutely fine and good to go for at least 10 months. There is no in between. There is no place for gray.

After checking in on a waiting list I'd been on over a year, I got an appointment with a highly recommended psychologist. I wanted a psychiatrist, only because I feel like I've exhausted a lot of options, medication-wise, and wanted some input on meds (psychiatrists can write prescriptions, psychologists can't). Oh well. Beggars, choosers and the like. Psychologist it is.

I finally procure this appointment - which required actual tears on the phone with the poor receptionist, from an office I share with long-suffering co-workers, because embarrassment and risked employment security are JUST PART OF BEING MENTALLY ILL. (Let that sink in, because its important. My mental illness makes me financially insecure in many ways.)

She calls back 30 minutes later - turns out my employer-sponsored health care (which i pay a hefty premium for) doesn't cover therapy until I hit a $750 deductible. Now to be fair - I could get 3 free appointments through a "Wellness Benefit". Here's where I'm going to be a Depression snob, and forgive me - those are great for mentally healthy individuals facing a tough time who could use a bit of help. Really its a great thing and I'm glad it's there for people facing transient challenges. If, however, you've been diagnosed with Moderate Depressive Disorder for over 15 years, you know that 3 appointments with a grad student is a huge waste of your time. I'm sorry - I've read and experienced more about Depression THIS WEEK. So. $150/appointment until my deductible is met. Which is going to hurt. Like, cancel the cable hurt. And here football was one of the few things that brought me joy...

So, I re-do the budget. You can't put a price on your health, right?

In the process I figure I should probably find out the cost of this new, extraordinary med. The Zoloft/Welbutrin cocktail that worked so well for so long cost me about $35/month, and was well worth it. Let's just ring up CVS...

$200/month. Insurance doesn't cover it.

Let's just take a moment to appreciate the fact that I began this process in the first place because I was at the end of my rope.

The moral of the story is that is turns out that you can, in fact, put a price on happiness. On well-being. And that price is $500/month - for two therapy appointments and some pills.

I understand, of course, that things could be worse, and frankly I abhor the argument. I understand that this is not chemo, or insulin, and that its well within the realm of possibility that I would survive without this med or these services. And, if you're the kind of person who wakes up every morning hoping to survive the day, I suppose that would be comforting. I am not. Because I am mentally ill. Do you see how that works? Do you see how it closes in on itself and becomes a cycle? Can you appreciate that I began this process BECAUSE I felt I couldn't take one more fucking step? And the answer is...your credit rating or your well-being. You can buy these meds, and make these appointments, but you'll miss at least a car payment. Do you want to be capable of smiling now and then, or have the ability to buy a house someday? Do you want to provide your kids a childhood free of walking on eggshells in your presence, or do you want to avoid bankruptcy? These are the choices that the mentally ill face in America today, and we're not...anonymous. Its your baby-sitter, your sister, your coworker, your teacher. Hell, it's me.

Mom died. Here's how I'm feeling six weeks out. Helvetica version.

      Sorry, GoodReads.com, but I am finally sick of reading quotes about grief. Like anything else, it has as many meanings as there people struggling to define it. I may as well add my own to the cauldron.

      Grief is an empty glass that cannot be filled. Turn it over in your hands, inspect it – there are no cracks, no holes. It is solid. But whatever you pour into it goes running right back out nonetheless. Like a cheap magic trick from a novelty store on the shady side of town. And you think, if I could just FILL this thing and be done with it. Put in my time. Put in my tears. And come to some sort of end. I’m willing to put in whatever it takes. But it holds nothing.

      Grief is in many ways boring. It’s repetitive. After, say, day three, there are no surprises. Just wandering around the same old rooms, picking the same things up, looking them over, putting them back down in the same place they were. No amount of inspection reveals anything new or changed.

      Grief is a Nirvana song. The one about feeling stupid and contagious and even preferring to just be entertained. I am loathe to visit dear friends in the midst of their joy – I don’t want to drip my grief on their carpet. And I covet distraction. I long to be of the dead-eyed, cow-like masses and mindlessly consume because to be completely frank it beats the hell out of this utter void. My employer’s IT department can confirm this. Thank you, Arianna Huffington, for your cold comfort.

      Grief is a mad professor that asks you the same questions day after day but accepts no answers. You have an inkling that you may be in the presence of genius – there should be SO MUCH to learn here – but the tight-lipped professor offers no hints, no guidance, not even a syllabus. It’s maddening. And you think “why does the administration claim this guy has so much to teach me? Why do they revere him?” (I’m looking at you, Pema Chodron) But you get no answers, and since they’re in charge and presumably know what they’re doing, you’re pretty sure the failure is yours. No matter how great the teacher, some students are incapable of learning. I have a grieving disability. I am keenly aware that this makes me a bad Buddhist, which is pretty funny. Leave it to me to find the guilt in the world’s only guilt-free religion.

      Grief is lonely. People are very nice, very giving, very supportive. But even the ones who have suffered the same loss or one greater haven’t suffered your loss. At some point you’re expected to function. Work. Parent. Engage in the world around you. I imagine the inevitable whispered assurances among colleagues when I leave a room, “It’s okay – you know she just lost her Mom eight years ago. She’ll bounce back.” And people don’t do or say things that make me imagine this. It’s just me in here. If they did, I would be embarrassed, which in so many ways is the very opposite of and infinitely better than lonely.

      Because of the lonely thing, grief is also a guilt-trip. I've had moments of the purest gratitude I’ve ever felt – my mother’s service was one of them – but they are fleeting. And everyone understanding why you’re a bad friend/lover/mother lately does not, in any way, alleviate the guilt you feel for being a bad friend/lover/mother. Also, thank you cards. I can only assume it’s acceptable to send them six months late?

      Grief is disturbingly sentimental. Not only am I not a person who has to excuse themselves in the middle of a work day to cry in the restroom, but I am keenly suspicious of those people and have to take difficult and deliberate steps to not think poorly of them. Now, a butterfly inexplicably flutters near me for two seconds longer than seems normal, and I am sure my mother is trying to tell me something from beyond the grave. This is particularly inconvenient since I happen to not believe that anything exists “beyond the grave”. (Again, not the world's best Buddhist) But the after-life is a can of worms I am not at all prepared to take a can opener to yet.

      Grief was, for a brief time, convenient. All of those loved ones who don’t quite get Depression? They get this. For a solid month it was perfectly acceptable to call off work, day-drink wine, and watch Law & Order reruns from the pull-out sofa because it was all I was capable of. Alas the excuse was short-lived, because modern-day Americans suffer under the delusion that there is an expiration date on grief. (I so wish there were an expiration date on grief.)

      Grief calls me a fraud. After all, I had Depression before I was grieving and, new med experiment notwithstanding, I will more likely than not have Depression after. (If there’s an after. Is there an after?) I can’t help but feel that this is, in all ways, a bad fucking deal. A real lemon. At the same time, there are so many differences between grief and Depression. I know Depression. I KNOW that bitch. I know every card she’s gonna play before she plays it.  And above all, I know that each spiral will come to an end. THIS IS SO IMPORTANT. In my darkest of dark spirals I have always known that at some point – two days or five days max – I will wake up and feel like a human being again. Smile at my kids. Blow a sales quota out of the water. But Grief? Grief is a new player at the table, and I have NO idea what she’s holding in her hand. I’ve got nothing left to bet. I wish she’d just deal me out.

Top 10 things I hope will be awesome about my forties

I had it all under control. The force of denial runs strong in my veins, after all. Honed through the generations to the shiny, impenetrable armor I thought fit so securely.

One well-meaning message of thinly-veiled concern was all it took for the house of cards to crumble. 

“How are you feeling about the impending milestone?”

Oh, it probably would’ve been fine on its own.

It was followed, on the drive home, by an NPR interview with a woman who just wrote a book about being in her forties and drinking like she’s still in her twenties (Blackout – review to come). 

Still – I’m good. It’s fine. It’s nothing I can’t ignore. I’ll just pour a glass of wine and turn on Sex in the City reruns – that’ll make me feel all young & fun, right?

The birthday episode. You know, where Charlotte turns 36, and decides she’s going to stop having birthdays because she doesn’t feel she’s quite accomplished all the things she wanted to by 36? And the girls go to Atlantic City to celebrate but  they're the oldest ones there and end up playing Old Maid?

Then for a moment I was sure I was having hot flashes (no doubt psycho-sematic). Turns out my air conditioning just broke on the hottest week of the year. So there’s that.

Oh for the love of Christ. Wait – do people still say that? It kind of sounds like something old people might say.

Should you ever find yourself in this particular predicament, I implore you – FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT GOOGLE “GOOD THINGS ABOUT TURNING 40”.

I have a few questions.

First of all and probably most importantly, can I please stop buying hair dye and just go gray already? No. Too soon. I'm told 20-somethings are actually dying their hair gray now. Kids these days...

Shall I hide my birthday on Facebook so that I don’t have to type ‘Thank you’ to hundreds of individual wishes, some of which could possibly mention “forty”? Is that just, like, part of the deal?

Mostly I’m wondering if my grown-up card is in the mail yet.

To save the young’ins out there the absolute HELL that was my tour through Google’s answers (apparently HuffPo is, like, FOR people turning forty) I’ve made my own list.

Things I’m hoping will be awesome about my forties

1.       My ovaries will no longer cry when I hold babies. It is now officially time to start asking my seven year old “when she’s going to give me grandkids already”.

2.       That tinge of disappointment when I don’t get carded will fade. For crying out loud, they’re not blind. And really, my time is limited…

3.       It will be harder to lose weight with this metabolism, sure, but the expectations will be lowered appropriately. (and let’s face it, I’ve had this metabolism since 30ish anyway)

4.       Over the next few years, I will have the privilege of assuring countless girlfriends that “forty isn’t the end of the world.”

5.       I can afford to fix my air conditioner…?

6.       If I get stoned I can pass it off as “having a senior moment”. (too soon?)

7.       It is now not only appropriate but practically required that I make snide remarks about millennials which, let’s face it, is just fun.

8.       Speaking of – I don’t suffer from “vocal fry”. I’ll always have that.

9.       The oldies stations will start playing Seattle grunge now, right?

10.   I only have nine. Don’t pester me, I’m old.

Politics as Usual

I’d like to share a bit about my experience deciding to run for Hanover Borough Council. I made the decision to run after the incivility, mud-slinging, name-calling, and pointless complaining that take place in my local government frustrated me; I felt like there is enough of that on a national and state level, and my beloved hometown can do better. The politics of my Hanover did not reflect the heart of its citizens, and I hoped to correct that.

First – I was sued. SUED! My ballot petition was challenged, without warrant, and the plaintiff requested $1500 in legal fees for his troubles. When I bothered to show up at court the suit against me was dropped, leading me to conclude the whole thing was a fruitless effort to bully a young woman out of civil engagement. Nice.

And now…someone has anonymously emailed a link to this very blog to our local paper, implying my use of colorful language (rather than my Depression, presumably) makes me unfit for public office.

So. I find myself in the rare position of having to explain myself. (Long time readers know this appeals to my ego, ha!) Allow me to explain the context and purpose of the following blog:

I write at my worst. That’s important, so I’ll repeat it – I write at my worst. These words in no way reflect the whole of who I am. The purpose of this blog is to record as accurately as possible how I feel in the depths of a depressive episode. On one hand it’s a purge of sorts, but really it’s helpful in other ways. Sometimes I’ll read it when I’m feeling well, and brainstorm effective ways to talk to that girl – so that I can talk her out of that funk more effectively next time. This process of understanding my Depression has been more helpful than I can explain in overcoming it.

I won’t pretend my couple hundred readers (international readers – not gonna lie that’s kinda cool) have conquered Depression because of some crazy wisdom I somehow imparted. That’s not how it works. But I’ve received many messages from friends & strangers alike who are comforted by the knowledge that there are other people in the world who unwittingly explore these depths. And when I receive those messages they buoy me in a way I cannot find words for. To feel helpful, useful….it’s damn near a cure. It does something for them, and it does something for me, and I think that’s pretty awesome.

When I decided to run, a few friends asked if I would close or purge my Facebook page, censor myself, etc. No – I’ll leave that, along with opposition research and smear campaigns, to the politicians. I am who I am. I am a mother, a professional, a daughter, a volunteer, a woman (the only woman on the ballot, er-hrmmm), and a citizen of what I believe to be an amazing town. If you feel a diagnosis of Moderate Depressive Disorder – which over 30% of the U.S. shares, far more than the percentage that bother running for municipal office – disqualifies me for office, than I probably won’t have your vote. If you feel the colorful language I employ, when I am at my very worst, to connect with others at a time when connection is my healthiest goal disqualifies me for office, then I probably won’t have your vote. But if you think that politics could use a dose of authenticity these days – of good old-fashioned positive pragmatism in the face of all negativity – then I’m your gal.

Nothing New

There’s nothing new here, nothing to learn that I don’t already know. No fresh description. I've exhausted allegory, and that is saying something. I am out of metaphors for this absolutely horrific shit. (When out of metaphors, it is best to use cuss words for emphasis)

No, I didn't see it coming this time. Well, sort of. I had glimpses. I was surely manic about the clean slate of New Year’s, which was of course an invitation. But holy fuck…that really escalated quickly! We’re talking work (kinda) from bed, in jammies, all day. Forgive me Depression for I have sinned…it’s been four days since my last shower.

A dear friend reminded me of words I’d shared with her during an episode of her own: “I see you’re listening to that bitch Depression.” Actually, her telling me that this was helpful at the time was a ray of light. To feel helpful…useful…to feel like your existence does in fact yield some positive influence in the world. It’s novel. Because Depression (the aforementioned bitch) is whispering the opposite. She is listing in excruciating detail the evidence of all of my failures. I’ll stop short of saying “they’d be better off without me” – I assume because the Welbutrin/Zoloft cocktail is, in fact, doing something – but it’s pretty fucking close.

Last night my darling daughter said to me “Are you feeling well today Mom? If you’re up to it, could you please get me some apple juice? It’s okay if you don’t feel well today.” Seriously. For all the Pema Coldron books in the world, there is no way to SIT with that. Acceptance…would be blasphemy. Embracing my powerlessness to change that -  heresy. I’m pretty sure they’ll revoke my Mommy card for even trying.

My house is disgusting. Like, Hoarders style. Yes, I realize that everyone’s house looks like that right after Christmas, but I feel reasonably certain mine will look this way well into April. Also, the crock-pot full of once-soapy water that’s been in my sink for 4 days is probably over the top. I refuse to even look at the litter box. I don’t want to know.

My long-suffering fiancé. I can’t even.

So…the reminder is of course that it will pass. It always does. But even that – it will pass, but then it will fucking come back again! What the hell’s the use of that? This bitch will not stay away. It doesn't matter how many drugs I throw at her – prescribed or recreational. All the yoga in the fucking world…nothing.  Gluten-free, meditation, cleanse? Bitch please.

There’s nothing to do but ride it out. Look hard for glimpses of joy, acknowledge them. Minimize the damage to my loved ones as best I can, and forgive myself for the rest.