Pura Vida

There are many things I loved about Costa Rica, the coffee not the least among them. I have a case shipped in for Christmas every year.

People will talk about the rhythm there – the Pura Vida – and it’s all true. But what they often don’t mention is that the keeper of the rhythm is the rain.

The sun wakes you before your alarm can, no matter how late you were up, and it shines straight through to 1:00ish. Just bright, hot sun.

 From 1:00 – 2:00, its beautiful blue skies dotted with innocent white clouds. It’s beautiful. It looks the sky over a prairie, not an ocean.

At 2:00 it rains just like it’s raining tonight – heavy and loud and straight down like someone has a giant watering can just above you. Everything is soaked inside of 2 seconds, if you stayed outside (the locals stay outside, and by the end of the week so do you). It starts like someone turned a faucet, is amazingly steady & monotonous for 30 minutes, then turns off like a faucet between 2:30 & 2:45.

The rain stops and the sun is out within one minute. Bright as Dawn. Within three minutes, anything you left out is dry.

The sun shines till sunset, no clouds to be seen.

Every. Day.

That’s what tonight’s rain made me think of. The rain in Costa Rica, and its inherent & blessed predictability.

I want this for my life. I think, in any given day, if could just squeeze all the bullshit into one hour and know that the other 23 would be golden, I could do it. I would so prefer this to 2 minutes of bullshit every hour. Because it’s not the 2 minutes of bullshit, it’s the 20 minutes of seeing it coming and dreading it, and the 20 minutes of being pissed about it after, which leaves like eight minutes to not be annoyed. If I could do that ONCE a day instead of TEN TIMES a day, just for longer – sign me up. I can plan around that.

That is, unfortunately, is not the way rain works in my life.  This week, it’s like just barely shitty enough to keep you inside, but not so crazy as to offer you a decent excuse for it. My life has been drizzling for weeks. I want a 40 minute downpour, and be done with it.

June of Jeanine becomes July of....?

So what is June of Jeanine? Well, its morphed a thousand times, and its only June 19^th.

At its core, June of Jeanine is being good to myself – doing what feels good. That’s included AM yoga instead of a cigarette & coffee, but sometimes it also includes Taco Tuesday and barhopping with my guy. But what it requires more than anything is honestly.

Because yoga feels good. And beer feels good. But that doesn’t make them equal.

The key is honesty. I come from a long line of people who are very talented at lying to themselves. The superpower of Denial runs strong in my veins.  And there isn’t a day I couldn’t convince myself that beer or wine is just what I need. June of Jeanine is about creating the space to think about that – what REALLY feels good? Downward Dog, or a hangover?

A buzz feels good, and I haven’t denied myself that.

Reading a good book on my lunch break feels good, and I haven’t denied myself that.

Half pigeon feels good, and I haven’t denied myself that.

Quitting smoking doesn’t feel good, and I’ve made strides. But alas, smoking cigarettes feels good, and I haven’t entirely denied myself that.

The point of June of Jeanine, succinctly, is that I have not denied myself ANYTHING. I have put self above all – some would call it selfish. I’ll go with that whole “put your own oxygen mask on first’ thing.

The promise I made myself in late May was that June of Jeanine would NOT be about judgment. The overarching message was “make the next best choice”. Don’t big picture. Day by day.

By not having a strict plan to follow, here’s what I’ve gained: I’ve woken up to do yoga first thing 17 out of the last 19 days. I’m certain if I made a strict rule, I’d top out at ten, cause that’s just me.

I’m down to 3 cups of coffee a day, none after 3:00pm, which is a marked improvement.

I’ve drank, mostly socially, 5 times in 19 days. That’s down from, roughly, 18 in 19 days.

Its not perfect. I’m not the juicing, detoxing queen of sitting Lotus. But I’m  not a hot mess, either.

So what does July hold? If June was about gentleness, July is about ass kicking. July is about challenging myself – sweating every day, upping my miles & my weight, lifting, running…so, yes, July is gonna kinda suck. But June laid the groundwork for relaxation, for daily (almost!) meditation, for the self love I was missing that will make July possible.

It will still be day by day, minute by minute, choice by choice, because I’ve discovered ‘rigid’ just doesn’t work for me. But while June was about being gentle with myself, July will be about kicking my own ass. 

Wish me luck.

Mom's Birthday

                In my twenties, I decided I didn’t believe in an afterlife.

                In my forties, I lost a parent.

I was taught early on that principles are only principles because you stick with them even when it’s hard. You’re anti-death penalty? That means you may find yourself fighting for the life of a rapist murderer. You’re pro-choice? You stand up for women who have had 5 abortions in 3 years, and you don’t ask them why. Love the first Amendment? Then you fight for the KKK’s right to march.

All of these examples are outliers of course, none are in any way representative of the bulk of what these principles protect. But protecting the outliers protects the center. So that’s what you do.

Losing a parent is an outlier, in this example.

The afterlife is so….prevalent. Omnipresent. “Look for signs from the Universe! She’s always with you.”  “Happy Birthday to your Mama in Heaven!” “They are running that 5K beside you.” The super weird & creepy idea that you should be good, so you can be reunited in Heaven one day (conversely, don’t be bad, you’ll go to Hell and be alone forever).  That’s a head trip.

Not believing in an afterlife, it seems, is pretty lonely.

Sometimes when I hike – often, actually, in a way that feels contrived by my brain or my heart or the aforementioned Universe – I see butterflies. And not just fleeting away out of the corner of my eye – they’ll loop around me twice, or follow me on the trial for a half mile. How does one NOT assign meaning to that? Butterflies were my Mom’s thing. Well, first they were my Aunt’s thing, and my mother took her passing very hard, and they became my Mom’s thing. Much like her things become my things. But…pictures of butterflies. Calendars. Little 3-D butterflies with one-sided tape for her bedroom walls. And now it seems they find me far more than they used to, and they like to stick around, and it’s weird.

Do I welcome them? My heart welcomes them as my mind rails against them. (Lois would know this, so if she did have a hand in it, touché Mom). Even that comment feels like…a dangerous slip into self-soothing at the cost of truth, at the cost of my soul that is me.

So…I’ve read all there is to read on Grief. I get it all…it’s like ocean waves, it’s a bottomless pit, it will always be there but it will change, it will lessen, it won’t lessen but it will become more bearable, you will grow, you will shrink, you will purchase luminaries and wear pink ribbons, you will HATE luminaries and pink ribbons, you will become more of a mom and less of a daughter, you will become less of a mom because you’re less of daughter. It’s all there.

I want Grief to be linear. My Dad is sick, turns out, same disease different place. And my mind wants to unpack, categorize, re-pack, and bury all the boxes of Grief for my mother. I need to make room, you see. For my boxes of Grief for my father. There’s no space here for both.

Maybe it’s like having babies. You have one, you think “I could never love another the way I love this one.” Then you have another baby and realize your folly.  Maybe Grief is the same way. Maybe there’s an endless capacity for it. Maybe the reason your heart can grow enough Love for more babies is the same reason your heart can grow enough Grief for all that you’ve lost.

 I don’t know yet, I don’t have to know yet. But I like my buried boxes, they’re tidy and out of the way.

Tomorrow - and Countless Mounds of Yesterdays

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is going to be SO great!

I’m going to wake up early and go for a walk, maybe with my coffee. Not like an exercise-level speedwalk, no no no – I’m going to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the sunrise and be mindful and full of gratitude at this very phenomenon of self-propulsion. One cannot, certainly, achieve this with a cigarette in one’s hand, so I will not partake. This may be difficult, but I’m confident the deep breathing exercises I’ll be doing anyway will help.

I’m going to come home and poach a range-free egg to put on my mindfully-prepared avocado toast. I will consume this breakfast with loving gratitude for the nourishment I’ve prepared for myself.

I will be present & engaged with my children while waiting for the bus. I will listen with enthusiasm to Sam's re-cap of yesterday's Yu-Gi-O game and Anna's re-re-telling of that funny thing her BFF said last week. I will enjoy finding week-expired permission slips and accept any & all sub-par quiz grades with equanimity & understanding. Perhaps we’ll bake some cookies for an after-school treat?

I will drive to work in silence or with uplifting music, and eschew my usual political news.

Oh work is going to be awesome! You should see my Outlook calendar! I get to meet with my always-charming boss who SO enjoys & encourages my out-of-the-box BIG PICTURE thinking, and is never dismissive, thank goodness. I get to walk on the treadmill at lunch reading AWOL and imagining the canopy, the birds chirping, the soft pine needles beneath my feet. I get to attend a Webinar on better-utilizing LinkedIn for Sales, which I just KNOW will be relevant and fascinating and provide all sorts of ideas about this fresh & dynamic platform. Most importantly, in between I will be diligently working in three Excel spreadsheets and out of our delightful Microsoft CRM. I will not once check CNN or MSNBC or HuffPo or even Facebook! But I will be loving to myself, and if I find it difficult to stay focused, I will indulge in a TED talk or inspirational video, or maybe just re-read Desiderata as needed.

I will drive home from work in silence or with calming music, and eschew my usual political news.

I look forward to cooking something creative & delicious for my lover from fresh, local, organic ingredients, without that evil devil-juice Pinot Noir. Cooking without a wine glass in my hand IS within my abilities to master!

After dinner, we’ll take a restive walk through the neighborhood to aid in digestion. We’ll discuss wedding plans, household projects, our lifelong dreams – that sort of stuff.

When we return, I will watch a baseball game with him. I will be super-present, not check my phone at all, ask relevant & witty questions and just generally be fascinated with this amazing, American game. It is only one out of 162 this year, after all!

I’ll enjoy some restful, winding-down-the-day type Yoga. The kind where you feel you’re being good to yourself, not competitive or super judgmental about how long you can hold a headstand! Nope – maybe Wednesday. Tomorrow will be all about good vibes.

I’ll make some tea. Green, with no caffeine, some lemon & some honey. I’ll lean over the mug as the steam floats up and breathe in its healing properties, grateful for the moment of peace. I’ll snuggle up in a blanket and read some Frost – no, I think Eliot. Lovesong for J. Alfred Prufrock perhaps.

Then I will crawl into my cozy bed – I swear I’ll actually wash my face first. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day I begin washing my face before bed, so help me God. I may even put some sort of night cream on my face! Maybe. Don’t want to set the bar too high…one must always manage one’s expectations to avoid disappointment and the inevitable downward spiral it invites…

I cannot wait! I’m so excited to just do it ALL right tomorrow. I would be, perhaps, more confident if this hadn’t been my failed plan for today, and for countless mounds of yesterdays.

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.

Fucking inexcusable

There was that time yesterday when I cried. I had steeled myself to visit with my Mom (all the way upstairs in her room!) It was her first day of radiation, and I knew she'd be emotional. I knew she needed me, and I am just so very...needed. So I reminded myself that the diagnosis is terminal - what a fucked up sort of motivating that is, how ugly. How very fucking ugly. And I steeled myself, and I visited her. She had a list of favors, and she had written 'hugs' on it. Three times. But mostly she was wondering if we could rig up something with some rubber tubing out her window so that she can smoke in her room. And I came downstairs with her laundry, and her cooler, and some pills she needed cut, and I collapsed at the bottom of the stairs and cried very quietly for ten minutes or so. No one heard me. No one checked on me. No one really wants to stand too close to a bottomless pity spiral. A supernova black-hole of needed and needy. Lest they get sucked in.

But the crying felt good, I'd done relatively little of it. So I tried it again on the drive home tonight. I called a few friends for an audience, someone to share the sound with, but no one picked up. So I just talked to myself out loud between sobs, which probably allowed for a little more honesty anyway. When they call back I won't answer. Timing.

I am drowning.

I am avoiding everyone - my friends, my fiance, my children, most of all my mother. I am killing everything with constant distraction. No one has had a conversation with me where I'm not simultaneously staring into the inviting glow of my phone screen. Facebook. HuffPo. CNN. Give me all these stories, all these far far away stories. I can feel about them - I can feel sad or funny or outraged or heart-warmed. Because they are so far away.

I don't want to engage in anyone, in anything. My children appear to exist solely so that I don't get drunk before 8:00PM (on Mama weeks. 5:00 otherwise. Every. Fucking. Night.) I am incapable of enjoying them. I'm barely capable of feeding them. The house is falling apart - I'd rather use the restroom at Sheetz, it's cleaner. And I have finally said "Nothing" enough times that my fiance has all but checked out. No doubt feeling helpless. Because helpless is what I make people feel like when I'm like this. Helpless and frustrated and guilty. I wouldn't want to feel that way either.

I can tell you how I feel around me - utterly disgusted. Weak, and disgusted by the weakness. Dirty and disgusted by the dirt. Fat and disgusted by the fat! Ha. I keep waiting to prove myself wrong. To wake up one day, hangover-free, clean my house, fucking organize some shit and work out. Go to bed sober and feeling good about how I spent my day. Waiting to leave this cycle of escape-rumination-escape-rumination behind. Waiting for some fucking boot straps. Jesus.

There are, of course, lists. Get a therapist. Forget the crazy high intensity workout and just walk a mile at lunch. We know the drill. Aim small. Baby steps. etc. etc. Maybe some meds. Cause when the going gets tough, the tough get Zoloft.

I can't do all these things I'm supposed to do. The appointments, and keeping all the meds filled, and making sure there's Diet Pepsi and cigarettes because Jesus Christ, Jeanine, she's dying, and she shouldn't have to do it without Diet Pepsi and cigarettes. But apparently she has to do without me, as I have completely left the building, and that is fucking inexcusable.

Dear Middle School Teachers,

Dear Middle School Teachers,

                I just received Sam’s mid-term grades, and I just wanted to say ‘Thank You’. I had some anxieties about Middle School, organization, time management. I’m assuming you’ve all seen this manila folder, Sam’s file. In my mind it has this large, red stamp across the front that says, ‘ADHD’. Inside are old Clearview nurse forms with medication instructions – first Ritalin, then Adderall, then, (frankly a lifesaver- screw me anti-pharma extremists) Strattera. But nothing for the last year, as my blossoming boy is med-free (screw me over-prescribing psychiatrists). The world is not black & white. Find your grey.

                The diagnosis you won’t see in that file (which if you had a hot minute to spare among your spread-too-thin, under appreciated time, you probably reviewed on a screen, but in my head it is a manila folder with a red stamp.) What you won’t see is his Asperger’s diagnosis.

                You know how I have to annoyingly ask you to send two copies of every important paper/calendar home at Back to School night? That whole 50/50 thing? Well, it’s not just where they sleep. It’s something called Custodial Custody. And it’s shared. And if his father, who loves him very much, doesn't feel it’s in his best interest to  sign the release, he’s not going to sign the release. And he has as much right to that choice as I do.

                So you’re in the dark. You may not know that Sam will absorb information well if you present it in a straight-forward manner, but if you make an analogy or use hyperbole to make your point (which is exactly what will engage 80% of your class, and I get that) you will lose Sam. Your concern is the class as a whole, and my concern is one out of your thirty students, and this will sometimes put us at odds.

                So I don’t expect miracles. But – that is what I got. I got a mid-term report that sent me over the moon. Much of that is Sam, and much of that is you, and I just wanted to say Thank You.

                                                                                                                Jeanine Pranses

                                                                                                                (Sam Carr’s Mom)

P.S. – you haven’t heard from me yet, because I spent most of elementary school micro-managing Sam’s education, trying (sometimes succeeding) to pick his teachers, his reading group, his disciplinary system. I called it “being an advocate”, and sometimes it is. But I didn't want to ‘warn you’ or ‘advise you’ – I think you know what you’re doing, more than I do as I didn't study the science of education – I wanted you to meet Sam with open arms and find your own way to him. And you have shined, and I am always happy to partner with you when you think it will be helpful. You can reach me at ________________________________.

I could...

Well I need to write about something.

I could write about what I suspect is the unnatural amount of anxiety I feel every time Sam walks on the football field. How my mind flashes to scenes from Varsity Blues. How I can see, in perfect detail, CT scans of his brain after repeated concussions. (Or, I could write about how my heart soars when I see him on the sidelines, slapping helmets & exchanging high-fives with "the boys". I could write about he started middle school with a built-in social circle, and how all the anxiety I had about him not having anyone to eat lunch with was in vain.)

I could write about my new job. I could write about how licensure hold-ups have meant I can't prospect, and instead I'm just renewing current customers and doing a lot of administrative stuff, and have needed to take time off for family reasons and have a lot of anxiety about it's perceived. How I'm lacking the opportunity to do the kind of work which will knock people's socks off and how, really, knocking people's socks off is what motivates me at work, and I feel I'm failing. (Or, I could write about my boss called a meeting to tell me how great a job I'm doing. How I've renewed every account I've been assigned, and how happy management is with the job I'm doing.)

I could write about Matty. About how I miss him and I hate seeing him come home, exhausted, after a twelve hour day. How every two weeks I have to swallow unswallable pride and ask if he can spare an extra $100 bucks for the never-ending bills. (Or I could write about how much it means to me that he sacrifices like this. His time, often his body & well-being, almost always his sleep. Just to ensure that me, and our kids, can eat & sleep in relative peace).

I could write about my Mom. A whole post about how I wish she would take better care of herself, how I selfishly feel that not doing so demonstrates a lack of compassion or interest in me and my children. (Or I could write about how amazing it has been to have her live with us. How wonderful it is that she gets to interact with me and my kids every day, and how happy I am that they know her so well. How much I appreciate that she makes dinner, and does laundry, and keeps my kids out of daycare. How very lucky I am, every day, to have the privilege of her company.)

I could write about drinking, On second thought, let's not.

I guess the point is - maybe there's something to this whole positive thinking thing. To the idea that you can choose to focus on the bright side of life or the bleak side, and what happens next - WHAT HAPPENS NEXT - might actually depend on which you choose. It sounds useless to me, honestly, on the surface. It sounds like some bullshit I don't buy mostly because I can't afford it. But what the fuck? It can't hurt.

The Middle

I like the idea of there being a middle. I know there is a beginning...oh how I see it coming and recognize it at the Arrivals gate. So if there's also a middle and there's a beginning then clearly there must be an end. Which is a nice warm fuzzy to curl up with at night.

I'm being dramatic. Of course there's AN end. But is there ever a The End? An end not followed by a uspecified period of "okay" and then, inevitably, another beginning? Another middle...another end?

I actually kind of like The Middle, though I'll have to backtrack to explain why. After an end (yes, its fucked up. There is stuff after an end, always). After an end there is a process. Sometimes - not always - a small moment of triumph. If it was short-lived, or not so...sharp, as usual. There are hours (usually days) of introspection. I had a customer service job once, where after every fuck up the team would sit down and have "an autopsy". What went wrong? How, in hindsight, could we have avoided it? Fucking process improvements, that's what I need. A workflow chart for my interpersonal relationships. So that's how I think of these hours/days of introspection...an autopsy. My team leader used to call them, "Come to Jesus meetings."

Was I exercising? Were there changes in my sleep pattern I could've identified earlier, and if I had could I have cut it off at the pass? What were the external factors - added stress at work, children having difficulties, some conflict with my family or partner? If so, how could I have utilized my self care practices to get through them without a spiral? (This process usually ends with something like "I should do more yoga" or "Why aren't I drinking the recommended 8 glasses per day of water?") Sometimes I think this autopsy is helpful, and sometimes I think it's an ingenious torture device, and sometimes - okay usually - I vacillate wildly between these two options for a time that, at the time, feels endless. The line between introspection and rumination is razor thin.

After THAT fun fest I generally convince myself I've learned my lesson and comfort myself with the knowledge that climbing back on the wagon - any wagon - burns a lot of calories. But then...well, then the doubt creeps in. I start thinking about Icarus or some crazy shit from a 101 - any 101 - Mythology, Literature, Religion, Science. Neural pathways and whatnot. Peer-reviewed studies. Centuries-old meditation practices. The best knowledge our world has to offer on easing the suffering of Depression. Now this is where the crazy comes in. Because these thoughts seem on the surface to be completely reasonable, and the time and effort it takes to eek out just how much is reasonable and how much is crazy...eventually I say 'fuck it' and go about my life. Every time. But now there is doubt. Now that I've had my end...it simply becomes time to await my next beginning. My next spiral. The Triumphant Return of the Tally Marks. Hours slept. Drinks imbibed. Voices Raised. The never ending search for Red Flags. The endless, exhausting self-care that is little more than Keeping Score.

The beginning can sneak up. The end is generally easily recognized & quantifiable, but fraught with anxiety about the next beginning. But the middle...

The middle I know like the back of my hand. I can recite it like poetry. Sometimes it recites me; we're that close. I don't enjoy the middle - that's the wrong word - but it is in a strange way very comforting. Because the middle is where the work is. The middle is "If I exercise every morning I'll feel better" and managing to half-ass it a couple times a week. The middle is no coffee after 3:00pm, even if that means I'm frantically pouring a mug at 2:59. The middle is a yoga DVD before bed more than 50% of the times I made that a goal. The middle is committing to only one glass of wine, having three, but feeling pretty good about not having five. The middle is progress. (Incidentally, the middle is usually blog posts)

I'm learning that I have some small measure of control over the middle. The beginning and the end seem arbitrary...I wait for them. In the middle there's really no waiting.

From Float to Flight

It seems counterintuitive, waking up to the same beep-beep-beep alarm on your phone while on vacation. The first few days I simply allowed the sunlight to stream in to my room at 6:00AM, and it did battle in my mind with the lulling pound of the waves until the light won out and slumber was lifted. And it was lovely.

But, for fear of future regrets and mindful of the dwindling days here in the Outer Banks, set my alarm I did so I could be waiting for the sun on the beach. In my mind of course this took place with me sitting Lotus, blissful and unthinking and unaware of flies, wind, or the discomfort of sand on sunburn.

Beep-beep-beep, and I briefly consider turning the alarm off and snuggling in closer to my man (who is 3 leagues away in the ocean that is this King bed). But future-regret-avoidance pulls me up three flights of stairs to the kitchen, where I start the coffee. I make half-hearted attempts to awaken my children, "Do you want to watch the sunrise with Mama, or keep sleeping?" Yesterday they were very excited about this idea, this morning they have chosen the proverbial 'snooze' button. But getting to smell them all sleepy and sunny with remaining hints of sunscreen and new freckles growing was...sacred.

I am impatient and pour my first cup of coffee before it's halfway done brewing, making for a stronger start to the day than usual. I head back down the many stairs - these houses are beautiful and long and skinny and full of steps - and out the sliding glass door, grabbing a beach chair on the deck and heading to the sea.

Things are rarely as I picture them ahead of time, which is probably why I've tried to stop picturing things ahead of time. The sand is too abrasive on my red skin for Lotus, so I assume the Low Beach Chair Position instead. The winds insist my hair fly itchily about my face, and I think, "tomorrow I'll remember a hair tie" but almost simultaneously acknowledge that I probably won't. I curse my racing mind and attempt to focus on my breath, but my cigarette of course makes this difficult. I see myself clearly - not the zen princess sitting Lotus being one with the world, but the harried mom, clutching coffee & cigarette and cursing the wind as I try to grab a few child-free moments before a day of corralling sun screens and sand toys and swim rings and bickering siblings. I'm more than a little bitter about it, and desperate to leave this image behind, always, always aware that there is only three days left...only two days left...only one. I feel like Peace is something I came here to achieve, and time is running out. I feel desperate.

But still I sit. It's cloudy, and the clouds have mercifully given me extra time before the grandeur. I sit. and I sit. and I sit. I have internal dialogues about dolphins playing and pelicans dive-bombing for breakfast, at the same time wishing for silence in my head.

The pelicans though - they've stuck with me. They seem to have two modes - coasting effortlessly across the water, skimming the waves with the tips of their wings - and diving for fish. When they come up, they cock their gullets back and swallow whole. Then they take off - but here is where the effort comes in. Going from float to flight looks like an awful lot of work. Not like the coasting at all. Like lugging beach chairs, not like sitting Lotus. And I think maybe the float prepares them for the flight, and the flight prepares them for the float. And I am smiling when the sun comes up. Effortlessly.

It's a Trap!!

Avoiding a serious (read: sober) talk with a loved one about criticism. Because, really, who am I to criticize someone for being critical? I'm not exactly on solid ground, here, because the go-to answer for the long-suffering loved ones of The Depressed is "You're so depressed & fragile that there's never an okay time or way to offer criticism without being insensitive." And that's, ya know, a little bit of bullshit - but if I'm perfectly honest it's probably a currency I've traded in.

Here's the best time to offer me criticism: A decent day - not the Best Day Ever because then you've ruined it, and the Worst Day Ever When Everything In The World Is Stressful because, yeah, then I'm likely to blow a gasket. (Okay, I'm likely to stomp off silently and go to bed, but that's to avoid blowing a gasket which I assure you is less pleasant.)

Now, this seems like a reasonable request on the surface, but (secretly) I know that it is not. It is a trap wrapped in an excuse. Because for me & my ilk, "decent days" are few & far between. Most days are either Zen Goddess Euphoria Winning At Everything And In The Present Moment or Jesus Life Sucks Make It Stop Now. So, clearly, my expectations include some eggshells to trod on.

And I am, cognitively at least (and always in hindsight) aware that this isn't fair. If there is no appropriate time to criticize me, than providing appropriate methods of criticism is pretty irrelevant, and there's a good possibility I push people to spew my many disappointing habits spontaneously for lack of a better outlet. Which, of course, makes Everything My Fault, or feel that way, making me defensive and incapable of responding to perfectly legitimate criticism in a constructive way.

See? It's a trap. BUT - here's what most people forget:

I didn't set this trap, and I am just as stuck in its jaws as you are.

Save the Date

Some habits are born without thought. Being thoughtless is of course a defining characteristic of 'habit', but not all habits begin in thoughtlessness. Some begin in over-thinking.

I have developed a habit of not thinking about my future. Now, you know, depression blah blah blah...but there's a loooooooooong history there. Therapy from the ripe old age of twelve. Anti-depressants on & off since my early twenties. And this lovely blog for going on six (yeah, holy shit) years. And a lot - I mean really just if you could measure it it would be mind-boggling - a lot of thought. Thoughts about how to think, mostly. Whole years spent trying to learn both how not to think, and how to not think. (read it twice, it makes sense I swear) Long story short I have thought a lot about thinking. And in thinking about thinking, somewhere along the line I thought that the future was something I would be well-served to avoid thinking about. And that became a habit.

The reasoning, in a nutshell, is that a lot of "actively managing" depression (which is something I do, you know) has to do with managing expectations. One doesn't wish to be bleak, but at the same time one must keep constant guard against the kind of hope that can be detrimental, that can lead to unrealistic expectations and thus disappointment (which, in depressed folk, spirals out of control easily). This is well-traveled ground on this blog, I know. Bear with me.

So this constant, ever-present, ever-conscious search for the happy medium, this quest for balance, this vigilance...its exhausting. Have you ever been punished (or just challenged - boy, use of the word 'punished' here sure is telling!) by kneeling on your knees and holding your arms outstretched with books in your hands? (I have - camp, 1989, pretty sure it's illegal now). Anyway, its that kind of exhausting. And so, at some point, like, mile 6 1/2 on the treadmill when you're hungover, you just decide you can't do it anymore. Thus - i don't really think about the future much.

If you look for it, by the way, you'll see this approach everywhere. In self-help books, in proverbs, in Facebook memes, in cliches all the world around. "One day at a time." "Babysteps." "Don't bite off more than you can chew." That whole God-closing-doors-but-leaving-windows-open-because-he-doesn't-give-you-more-than-you-can-handle thing I never quite figured out.

This approach has probably served me well in more ways than not. Perhaps not professionally, and definitely not financially, but in relationships, friendships, parenting. Sometimes its becomes 'one hour at a time' and sometimes, frankly, 'one minute at a time' and I can say for sure that there have been days that it was the only way.

But what happens when all of the sudden you have something to look forward to? Something you should look forward to? What if, say, someone proposes?

People keep asking. "Have you set a date?" Given all I've stated above, you can imagine how insanely debilitating this question is.

I'm striving to sit with this feeling without judgement. My first wedding - I was really into planning it. The photographer, the florist, the venue...it was fun. (Who knew I should have been planning my marriage?) I focused on the event; perhaps it was a needed distraction.

This time around I'm ecstatic and comfortable (at the same time! Its a crazy-great feeling) about the marriage, but the wedding? The planning for that? That requires...dreaming. And dreaming, I have learned/internalized/completely woven into every aspect of my being...is perilous.

What next?

Aaaahhhhhh...the mix of dread, adrenaline, and preemptive disappointment that is contained in Blogger's little orange "New Post" button...where to start? We'll skip the obligatory "sorry I haven't blogged as if you care" thing, and instead begin with a heavily edited list of the many things that have made me think "That should be a blog post" these last months:

• 734th post about meds, this one focused on how fucking ADORABLE it was that I used to worry about whether or not meds were a personal failure instead of worrying about how I cannot afford meds.
• post about a recently perceived addiction to outrage, in myself and in the general public. Have you noticed how much people enjoy getting pissed off these days? We are some controversy-loving mother fuckers, sucking on the snark teat like there's no tomorrow. (This included a grand scheme to have the word 'teat' appear in my blog, perhaps with some consideration to page view stats)
• annual post about New Year's Resolutions, and how they're still a good thing even when you don't keep them, and baby steps, and "find your gray", and lots of other things you've already read my take on.
• post about money, because money is more or less what is stressing me out these days. It will cost $2.75/view to read this post. Pony up. (Fun fact - if everyone who reads my blog pays for this, I can afford a $12 bottle of wine!)
• post about other things I could be doing for money. (read: new jobby job is no dreamy dream)
• post about getting engaged, which has no place on a blog about depression as it is super happy fun time for real, but which is important to me and feels weird to not write about.
• post concentrating on the anxiety aspect of depression, in which i recount my least favorite cub scouts meeting every year, where kids take turns using TABLE SAWS to cut pinewood derby cars while other kids PLAY BASKETBALL in the same room (gym) while I try really hard not to lose my shit imagining a finger-severing bloodbath.
• post about hating snow, trying not to hate snow, and being disappointed in myself for failing at not hating snow.

So...those are the front-runners. Stay tuned. I got a box o'wine and am riding a serious snark spiral, so...the need to purge is strong!

P.S. - "Need to purge" reminded me, also maybe a post issuing sardonic response to super-crappy "Yay I'm celebrating how healthy i am" post from back when I was doing the gym rat thing three hours a day.

meds?

Do I have any previous posts named "meds?"  I'm guessing there's a good possibility I do. This one-word question is my albatross, my great white whale, and, apparently, the battle I wage when I grow weary of all other battles.

It started, as it always does, with an inkling. An itch somewhere inside I can't quite scratch. Maybe. Maybe things have spiraled a bit out of control. Maybe not quite out of control, maybe just leaning towards out of control and maybe the responsible thing to do is to nip it in the bud before it spirals out of control. Maybe its already out of control and I'm lying to myself. Maybe I can trust my gut. Maybe I can trust my feelings, my perspective on this. Maybe I can't. ... Maybe.

Like any good "oh I sort of worked in Marketing" professional, we go...(insert old batman sound effect)...to the data!

And data we have, good reader, for I am a recorder of raw, unadulterated data (which is filtered through my psyche and shifting moods and is thus less than trustworthy but hey - say it with me now - WE START WHERE WE ARE). I have documented like a mother fucker. Documented my days, my moods, my highs and lows and in-betweens and sorta-feel-alrights and kinda-wanna-sleep-forevers. Written down every last one of those bastards, sobriety allowing of course, like a good little mental patient. And the deal I made with myself - because those are always the easiest deals to keep, right? - was that when the bad days outnumber the good we will call our nice doctor and hit up the CVS drive-thru. Because we cannot fail our children again. We cannot fail our mother, our father, our love and most of all - because those are always the easiest deals to keep, right? - we cannot fail ourselves. Again.

So let us parse the numbers. I have not had more bad days than good. I've dutifully recorded every mood shift for two years - the last one and a half of them med-free (she says with an unhealthy pride) and I can report this: My spirals have decreased in both frequency and duration. (For the uninitiated, this means fewer pajama days on the sofa ignoring my phone) This progress has, admittedly, flat-lined of late...but remains slightly above where it was a few short years ago. My spirals have, however, increased in intensity. And decreased in predictability. (For the uninitiated, this means my moods are erratic and more severe)

These are actually much scarier than the days of "oh I feel not quite myself" followed by "uh-oh I think I feel a bad time coming on" followed by "who needs to get dressed?" followed by "okay I think I can take a walk today." Those days...I miss them. I look back on them fondly. Now its more like "what a beautiful sunrise" followed by "I hate every last mother fucker in the world" followed by "I wonder if anyone wants to go to karaoke tomorrow night?" Predictability...well, let's say I have come to appreciate it.

So why consider meds if, on balance, I have more good days than bad? Well, I feel...incapable. Overwhelmed. Some of this is life - getting laid off left me very bitter, looking for a job left me fairly hopeless. There is no routine to my days, and things seem to be spiraling wildly out of control. I am not entirely certain how I'll pay November's rent, and to spite that fact, I really don't have it in me to look at another job board this week, and it's only Wednesday. My friends who have battled Depression will know what I mean when I say "I really don't have it in me," my friends who have not, probably will not. And frankly I really don't have it in me to explain. Suffice it to say if you have any trust in me at all you will believe when I say I am quite incapable of typing www.indeed.com into the URL board, and then further typing "any fucking thing outside of stripping - 17331" into the search field. I. Really. Don't. Have. It. In. Me.

But I need to. Because, you know, rent and shit. And solitude. And feelings of worthlessness.

It isn't JUST unemployment - I won't kid you or myself by pretending that external factors aren't AS if not MORE to blame than, say, neuro-transmitters - but it is only one part. (please - I NEED that whole neuro-transmitter thing because SCIENCE)

This is very frustrating because my whole goal here is to be able to give voice to this feeling and I am failing even at that.

Its not that I'm unemployed, its that I feel incapable of handling being unemployed. Its not that I'm alone all day with no routine, its that I feel incapable of managing being alone all day with no routine. Its not that there aren't emotional & spiritual rewards attached to how I spend my time, its that I feel incapable of experiencing those rewards emotionally & spiritually.

I've been ALL about the controversy lately, as I am anytime otherwise-uninterested Americans pick up politics. Controversy, in the conversations around Depression, tend to circle around meds and here's my dirty little secret - this feels like a failure. I would never presume under any circumstances that anyone ELSE depending on medication to get them through Depression has anything to feel bad about...but...one and a half years, man! Med-free! I know it shouldn't, but this feels like a white flag of surrender. This feels like defeat.

Am I someone with a broken hip who has every right to use the electric cart to get her shopping done? Or am I just that fat guy we all judge for using the cart, assuming he's lazy? (Don't do that, its horrible)

I think, at the end of the day, it comes down to our ability to cope. I am not coping, not effectively anyway. I know that exercise, routine, time outdoors and avoiding alcohol will help. I have known this all along, reminded myself of it every morning and beat myself up for eschewing it every night. Feel free to pile on with suggestions about yoga - this is not new ground for me. And I know, from decades of experience (I am old and not exaggerating there) that Welbutrin will kick my ambivalence in the ass, and a sidecar of Zoloft will dull the anxiety that Welbutrin invites along for the ride. Objectively, I'm pretty damn sure that if I reunite with this lovely cocktail, a year from now I'll look back on this as lost time that could've been avoided if I'd just stayed on my meds to begin with.

I also know that Matty, and Sam, and Anna, and yes me - because those are always the easiest deals to keep, right? - deserve a woman who is not seeking distraction from every single fucking experience life and family bring her way. And I guess there you have it, really.

My Sam

I’m sitting on Sam’s bed, waiting while he’s in the bathroom doing the still-very-necessary-before-bed-pee and brushing his teeth. I’m looking at the Angry Bird sheets and thinking about how my entire life, for the past 9 years, can be measured not in coffee spoons (see: TS Elliot) but in heroes.  When I left my husband and tried to make another home for my children, I bought Iron Man sheets.  Kindergarten registration was the beginning of the end for Thomas the Train, and I miss Bear in the Big Blue House desperately. As desperately as I fear what comes next…

Disney Channel and Superheroes have given way to football players and other celebrities. The Avengers accessories in his room are still there but gathering dust, while the Eagles poster is clearly current. The endless toy boxes I cursed have given way to a single shelf of baskets – the action figures suffering from disuse. The bay blades haven’t come out from under the bed in months. The legos still get some traction and I suspect will for some time…but what is prevalent is a desk – a ‘How to Draw Dragons’ book next to balled up failures, Diary of a Wimpy Kid (isn't that about middle school?!), the Nintendo 3DS and iPad.

He enters the room and perhaps because of my mood I can’t help but notice that the baby belly is gone, the armpits hollowed out; he is almost lanky. I remember thighs that encroached over knees before doubling back on themselves; the toddler that couldn't have his adenoids out because he was too fat for them to find a vein. Now, we come home from flag football and I notice an odor and realize that deodorant is next.

“Do you want a story? We can take turns reading pages.” “Nah. Are we goin fishin tomorrow?” “Sure, if it doesn't rain.” “What’s the Weather Channel say?”

Why does my son know what the weather channel is?

I fear these next years. I’ve been around children all my life – nieces, nephews  - and it’s always the same. They’re great till about 8, and I totally get them from 13 on, but between the two? Little aliens. I don’t even understand what motivates them. I lose them. And Sam is 9.

“I’ll take a song though. ‘In My Life’.” Thank you, Universe, for small miracles. Wanting goodnight songs again all the sudden is regression, no doubt a sad sign about anxiety around the many changes in his life – but I’ll take it. I will close my eyes and do my all to provide a voice sweeter than any he can recall, opening them only to make eye contact with “In my life…I love you more.” And he will of course avoid eye contact. Because it’s weird now, somehow. But I will always offer it, and I will wait with a mother’s patient-as-can-be heart until he’s comfortable enough with himself to return it again.

It’s a crazy thing, sons. I’ve never stayed with a boy who broke my heart so many times, and I never will. Just my Sam.

Chapter Two of Handy Dandy Field Guide to Dating Depressed Women

Dear M----,

I know how tired you must be of my constant apologies. To say 'I'm sorry' for that seems silly...yet here we are.

Because my Depression has a ridiculous share of self-loathing mixed in with it, sometimes being around other people - especially the people love the most - can feel worse.  I feel guilty about how it affects you but ultimately powerless to do anything about it. Knowing, cognitively, that this is bullshit is somehow more harmful than helpful.

But I want you to know that even when I feel or say that its hard to be around anyone - your presence is at the same time, always, comforting. I trust more and more that I can depend on it, something I've known all along in my head and in my heart but that Depression tries to steal from me. Even in my darkest places and my loneliest moments - you are winning that battle. You are winning that battle for me with your patient, persistent, omnipresent Love and I am so grateful.

I feel so much more for you than guilt and gratitude, but in my lowest lows these are the emotions that swell and take over. And I wish that weren't the case. But this morning you kissed me goodbye and I immediately thought of the time I apologized for being so hard to live with. You replied, simply and without having to give it any thought, "You're a much harder person to live without." I sat with that memory (okay, laid in bed with it) and right now I'm smiling, ready to tackle the day, looking forward to sharing all the love I have for you and our family. And you did that. And I sell you short when I say "This is MY battle." To spite what I've said in the past and will no doubt believe wholeheartedly again at some point in the future - this morning you loved me out of Depression.

I can't promise that this particular bout is over - it feels over but Depression is a sneaky bitch and an infamous liar. And I know that there will be more bouts in the future. Please know that even when it doesn't seem this way and I am unable to make you feel it - your mere presence makes all the difference in the world. Team Us, till the very end.

I love you so very much,

jp