Cycles

"Making resolutions is a cleansing ritual of self-assessment and repentance that demands personal honesty and, ultimately, reinforces humility. Breaking them is part of the cycle." Eric Zorn said - or wrote - that. Some columnist for the Chicago tribune. Smart guy, I reckon.

I've got cycles on the brain these days. How they can be so predictable yet...somehow I'm always surprised. The merry-go-round - it doesn't go anywhere. You're gonna pass that same brass ring everytime, and if you've never grabbed it, chances are you never will. But every time you pass it - the same cycle. Hope. Anticipation. Effort. Dissappointment. (Denial, Anger...oh, wait - different cycle. Kind of)

I work in sales and that is a cycle. Lead generation, cold calls, initial appointments, proposals, rejections, cheaper proposals, and (I'm told, from time to time) closes. At this point I've cost my employer more in locksmiths and replacement blackberries than I've brought in, so apparently this is a cycle I have yet to master.

Parenting is a cycle - a one step forward, two steps back sort of cycle. In that case, though, giving up on the brass ring is just not an option.

Marraige - mine, at any rate - cycle. Things are okay. Things are annoying. Things kinda suck. Things suck bad. I'm looking up lawyers on my lunch break. Big fight. More couples therapy. Things improve. Great weekend. Things are awesome. Things are really good. Things are okay...

Depression. Ugh - such an obvious cycle. Stimulus is unpleasant/stressful/reminds you that you were never breastfed/what-have-you (pick your theory). Your brain, dopamine or seratonin deficient, reacts with anger/ambivilance/insomnia/fatigue (pick your symptom). In so doing it creates a neural pathway which it becomes, sadly (pun intended) very comfortable with. The more times you're presented with the stimulus, the more worn in the neural pathway becomes, the more predictable your response.

Medication - beyond cyclical. Start at 10mgs, wait 6 weeks, go to 20, add (excruciatingly overpriced) Abilify...still not working? Perhaps a mood stabalizer...at any rate - it's an efficacy/tolerance/efficacy/tolerance cycle that frankly scares the bejesus out of me because, you know, at some point you just run out of new shit to try.

Throw in the fact that every depressive episode makes another depressive episode more likely...meh. cycles.

So here's my question - why can't we master the cycles? I mean they're so obvious, so predictable...why can't we head them off at the pass? Offer a cheaper proposal to begin with? Skip right to the great weekend? Go straight for the crack?

I'm guessing Eric knows what he's talking about. It's the process. It's the 'cleansing ritual of self-assessment and repentance'. The journey, not the destination. The ride, not the ring (pick your cliche).

I think he's a smart guy, but I get the nagging feeling that I'm missing something. I get the nagging feeling that, perhaps, I should be conisdering new resolutions rather than making and breaking the same ones in a, well, never-ending cycle.

Running on Empty

I have a sneaking suspicion that the best way to combat that feeling you have when you see someone running and think "man i wish i was that kind of person" might just be to get off your ass and run. Even if you're really, really bad at it.
Let's be clear. I'm not striving for Olympic marathoner here. More like...Forest Gump Running on Empty maybe? Forget it. The point is, on more than one occassion now (and let's just leave it at that) I have gotten off my ass and run. And, utterly predictably, gleaned some seemingly life-changing (but no doubt short-lived) lessons from the ordeal.
A favorite quote, which I've seen attributed to Oprah of all people, states that "Luck is a matter of preparation meeting opportunity." I am not a lucky runner - I have FAR too much opportunity and no preparation to speak of. My first run, in fact the first time I did any kind of exercise at all in the last 6 months, was a 5K two weeks ago. Upon arrival I realized I forgot my still-good-but-nicely-broken-in New Balances, and considered myself lucky to find a beat up pair of Nike's in my trunk (previously relegated to 'unprepared for hike in the mud' duty). Nikes which, by the way, I BEGGED my father to buy for me...for tennis season...in eleventh grade. Are you familiar with Plantar Fasciitis? All my friends are. Intimately. I haven't shut up about it since. Apparently I'll never be able to wear flip flops again? I digress...
A couple of things about my 5K experience. First - I didn't run the whole thing. I ran as long as I could, then I walked. Quickly. When I caught my breath, I ran some more. I never really expected to be able to run the whole thing, so I wasn't dissappointed. (Life Lesson #1 - Manage Expectations).
Also, I went with family who do this sort of thing alot. They have best times they like to try to beat and whatnot. I made it clear to them in advance that they should go for it, and not feel obligated to slow down for me. They were out of my sight before I finished the first block - it was a very lonely 3 miles - but they cheered me on at the finish line. (Life Lesson #2 - Root for your friends, even as they leave you in their dust.)
I have no concept of distance, never have. Even in a car. The idea of 3.106 miles is as forgeign to me as...well...Plantar Fasciitis was 3 weeks ago. So I didn't worry about it. I looked up, and saw a stop sign. "I'm gonna keep running till I get to that stop sign," I'd think. Then I'd put my head down and do it. Sometimes, when I got there, I found I had a little left, so I looked up again. Saw a 'No U-turn' sign. Thought "Ha. That's ironic. Anyway, I'm gonna run until I get to that 'no u-turn' sign." You get the point. (Life Lesson #3 - Tackle the race one block at a time.)
Throughout the race, I imagined myself bringing the house down at the end - sprinting. (I was a sprinter - in high school. Its over quick and doesn't require much commitment. I felt good at it - which isn't to say I was good at it.) I held a little in reserve that whole 3 miles, thinking how good it would feel to burst into a full run at the end. Only..."the end" was preceded by 4 blocks of steep up hill. So much for my reserves. (Life Lesson #4 - Whatever you're doing, do your best the whole time instead of trying too hard to make it look good.)
Those 4 blocks sucked. I almost walked them. Some stranger - a lady who looked to be in her mid-fifties but in MUCH better shape than me - said "we're too close to quit now. Let's keep at it." (Life Lesson #5 - random acts of kindness and support make all the difference in the world.)
Life lessons 6 - 9, in case you're interested, are that sometimes spitting is just necessary, youth really is wasted on the young, and no one - NO ONE - has figured out how to make a decent sports bra in my price range.
In the end, I ran it in 37:28, for an average pace of 12:03, which I'm told is respectable for an unprepared newbie. Today I did 2 miles on my own with an average pace of 12:59. The difference? No audience. (Life Lesson #10 - An actress must never lose her ego - without it she has no talent - Tom Lehrer.)
June 5th is my next 5K. Working on that whole 'preparation' thing. (Life Lesson #11 - just keep running.)

The Ups & Downs of Self-Diagnosis, or OH MY GOD WHY AM I TAKING SPEED AT WORK

Oh how I love self-diagnosis, and not JUST because it is so often a preamble to self medication...

So I am taking out and shining up Sam's fairly new ADHD/ODD diagnosis. Now that he has things like homework and reading log and "dress like the 50's day" it suddenly seems to matter in a way that it didn't before. I am doing, well...what I do. Sam gets a diagnosis, and I get a new library card. I have read more about ADHD in the last month...this is just my approach to life. It presents a challange, and I respond confidently, "the answer is in a book somewhere. I just have to find it." (This attitude will inevitably be replaced with "Fuck the experts they don't know my kid." But we're not quite there yet.)

I've learned that ADHD is almost always genetic. We're talking anywhere from 75% - 90% of the time, depending on what study you're reading. So of course I'm looking at the hubby & I. Which one is it? Well, anyone who knows me knows I suffer from my husband's OCD, and for that (thank God) he's medicated. But he is very...focused. On task. What have you.

I, on the other hand, operate similarly to the dogs in the recent Pixar film 'Up' (squirrel!). I have a horrendous time staying focused at work, as evidenced by my numerous mid-day Facebook posts and almost compulsive visits to CNN.com. It takes me 3 days to finish a grocery list which I will more often than not lose before I go grocery shopping. Could it be...?

Further reading reveals that there are certain anti-depressants that work well in treating ADHD for those who, for medical reasons, can't take stimulants (ie heart defects, etc.). Guess what? The anti-depressants that most effectively treat ADHD symptoms also just happen to be the anti-depressants that have worked best for me. (oh, welbutrin...how i miss you. why o why have you forsaken me?)

Also, apprently adults who suffer from undiagnosed ADHD often self-medicate with caffeine. Hmmm...

I'm sold. And I just so happen to have a whole bottle full of these 5mg Ritalin. And did I mention I've had a really hard time staying focused at work lately? (and am trying to land a promotion?)

After my 3rd cup of joe one morning I slip one of these teeny white pills into my pants pocket and head to work (cups 4&5 at my side in my travel mug). Around 1:00pm, when having the same conversation for the 23rd time that day becomes unbearable, I pop the pill. And, well...casual drug use never really used to be a problem for me - you know, in my previous life. In retrospect I'm kind of amazed at how cavalierly I would once-upon-a-time take a pill because, well, why not (as opposed to now, when I will cavalierly take a pill because my doctor, in his Pfizer-sponsored lab coat, tells me to.)

But it occurs to me (about 20 seconds after swallowing the pill) that my casual drug use days were a lifetime ago. I'm a Mom now. And I'm at work. Why am I taking speed at work? OH MY GOD WHY AM I TAKING SPEED AT WORK?! By 1:20 my heartrate is through the roof. I'm pretty sure this has more to do with my anxiety about taking my son's Ritalin than the actual effects of said Ritalin.

Needless to say (so funny to write that in a blog. Blogging has pretty much killed the very concept of 'needless to say', hasn't it? Perhaps a topic for another day.) I digress...imagine that.

Needless to say I did not eek any extra productivity out of that particular day. And, sponsored by Pfizer or not, if I suspect my diagnosis of 'moderate depressive disorder' is off, I should probably have a talk with my doctor about it before experimenting with my son's meds. For now I'll chalk it up to "taking a proactive stance in my own healthcare needs". That said...anyone have any Xanax they're looking to unload?

Gutter balls

The problem with a blog about depression is, well...sometimes you're just too damn depressed to keep up with it.
I was reading the other day about how there's actual medical evidence to support the idea that "you can't teach an old dog new tricks". As we're growing and well into adulthood, every time we do something the same way or react the same way to some random external stimulus, we create a neural pathway in our brain. Think of this pathway as a rut, like the gutter on the sides of a bowling lane. Everytime you have this same reaction, that rut gets a little deeper, ensuring that the next time you're faced with same stimulus, you'll react the same way again - deepening the rut again. I know, I know...just bear with me a moment on this.
So, this is a lot of what depression is - that sort of grey, murky middle-ground between the physical aspect (fatigue!), the mental aspect (seratonin!) and the emotional aspect (guilt!). You get into these mental & emotional habits that contribute to your depression. The more engrained they become, the more difficult they are to correct. Once that bowling ball is halfway down the lane, it takes ALOT of outside intervention to get it out of the gutter. You gotta stop the game. You gotta get down the lane faster than the ball is travelling, stop it, pick it up, bring it back to the beginning...dear god its exhausting just thinking about it.
That outside intervention takes many forms. Some we do for ourselves - exercise, meditation (I'm told pets are supposed to help but my dog just pisses me off). Some our doctors help with - cognitive behavioral therapy, medication (which is kinda like bowling with the kiddy bumpers up). But it's all about stopping the ball. Getting it out of the gutter. Even though it wants to go to the gutter, because you've been bowling gutter balls for the last 20 years and frankly its the only way you know how to bowl.
I figured out I was depressed - I mean, really probably had a problem, the family history and all, the whole nine yards - maybe 7 or 8 years ago. And when I started taking Welbutrin, it was well controlled. I exercised. Meditated. Felt...joy, sometimes. But, you know, you get pregnant, gotta go off your meds, have a couple kids...you get busy. You put yourself on the back burner. We all do it.
So back to the ruts. All that while, it was sneaking up on me. My mind was reverting to those same old neural pathways, those smooth, easy-to-follow grooves it was already so comfortable with. And here's my fear: what if they're just too damn deep now to fix? What if the ball has travelled too far and its too late to stop it and get it out of the gutter?
Seven years ago I had all the time in the world. Depression was just this transient thing - a tough time I was going through. What if that's not the case? What if it isn't transient?
Before, I would be in a situation and think "This is really nice. This is the sort of experience I should feel joyful about." But I could remember feeling real joy, and had every reason to believe I would feel it again. Now, honestly, I have every reason to believe that for the rest of my life when I find myself in a situation where one should feel joyful, instead I will feel "This is really nice. This is the sort of experience I should feel joyful about." Its, well...its not the same.

finales

Funny thing about fireworks...everyone's always waiting for the finale.
Last night I packed up the kids and the myriad supplies needed to travel anywhere with them these days (diapers, wipes, toy to distract Sam, water 'cause I'm too cheap to buy it, etc) and headed to our local state park for carnie food and fireworks.
Its my experience that carnivals of any kind, when attended with young children, are generally long periods of waiting and whining punctuated by short bursts of sheer joy. Add to that the fact that fireworks are always hit or miss with Sam, who lives in constant fear of loud noises, and you'd be correct to assume that I was viewing the evening with some trepidation...
Overall the carnival part was not great. Three time outs for Sam, Anna yelling every time she ran out of french fries, and NO ONE happy about the fact that I refused to pay $3 each for the fun house. But for the most part not horrific, anyway (with the exception of the live "music").
So we lay out our blanket and sit down for the 45 minute wait (during which Anna regales the crowd with her own special brand of adorable humor). The fireworks start and - mercifully - are not very loud. Okay, here's the part I thought was weird:
Not two minutes into it, people started wondering out loud about the finale. Anytime more that 3 fireworks were sent into the air at once, someone within earshot would say "do you think this is it? Oooo - that looks like a finale..." I couldn't help but notice that most of these people seemed unable to enjoy the fireworks at all except as preparation for the finale. Maybe they're like my husband - so anxiety-ridden that every moment of everyday is nothing but preparation for the next? Maybe they're like my in-laws - so religious that all of this life is but preparation for the ever after? Remove the context of "waiting for the end" and what is the point of sitting through the fireworks at all? Except, of course, to enjoy the fireworks that are actually taking place now.

the history pt. 2

Well, it was more than that really. I sort of...forgot to be melancholy all the sudden. Things just didn't seem that bleak. I wish I could provide a more detailed description...it wasn't that things were great all the sudden, it was just that they didn't always suck.
And that left me all sorts of...well, empty. In a good way. What was gonna fill the void of all that 'sucking'? I realized that I could decide that. I had time, I had the interest, the inclination and the just-plain-ooomph to do the things I previously enjoyed talking about wishing for.
Before & after the zyban, I'd wake up in the morning and think "I'd love to take a hike today." That didn't change. What did change is the thought I'd have before bed that night: before antidepressants it was "I really should have taken a hike today"...and after anti-depressants that thought would be "wow - I'm so glad i decided to get up and take a hike." It occurred to me that perhaps I'd been depressed? Maybe this is what life was supposed to feel like?
Eventually, of course, the refills ran out, and my doctor wanted to have a real conversation with me before calling it in again (after all, I hadn't smoked in months...) To sit in front of my doctor and say out loud "I think maybe I'm depressed."....ugh. I practiced out loud in the car on the way there, imagined all sorts of reactions and questions, and felt a little guilty even - I had never curled up in the fetal position on my floor and dreamt up ways to off myself...did I have a right to that word, "depressed"? Was I just being - dare I say it - dramatic? In my naivete I imagined a health care system where doctors would try to dissuade patients from using pharmaceuticals except as a last resort...ha ha. Needless to say, no one wanted to talk me out it.
That was six years (and more than a couple doctors) ago. Medications & dosages have changed as those six have been my baby-bearing years. Different combinations of pills, therapy, and habits have helped me maintain...well, my sanity, I guess. Or maybe I'm just being dramatic?

the history pt. 1

i've always enjoyed melancholy, even as a child. My favorite tv shows - Little House on the Prairie, Our House, Life Goes On...tearjerkers everyone. So when I hit puberty and the real angst kicked in - heaven. I enjoyed every minute of it: painted my fingernails black, listened to The Cure, REM, and The Smiths for hours on end...I was really in my element.
When I got to high school and came across an awesome English teacher (thanks Mr. Boehne) - of course I fell in love with Shakespeare, Frost & Plath, and decided to write...you know (are you gonna make me say it?)...the great American novel. And all of the sudden it made sense - all the melancholy. o\Of course! I was a tortured artist. I felt things more deeply than others. Suffered for my art. It was my cross to (proudly, enthusiastically even) bear.
College brought a little maturity - I realized that the discipline required for novel writing was WAY out of my league, at any rate. It also brought something magical: the discovery of self-medicating. I was a drinker and occasional pot smoker in high school, but college was a whole new ball game. I soon found a reason & method to obtain an altered state of mind at least 4 out of 7 nights a week. And life was good.
Six years later (yes, six - no surprise) I graduated, engaged to my now-husband, and - for reasons I won't delve into here - ended up back in my hometown. Apparently I have a fondness for cliche. A couple years go by, there's a wedding (a gorgeous one, btw) and talk of having babies. I realize it suddenly matters how I take care of my body, so I decide to quit smoking. After, i don't know...eight attempts, we'll say, I start this brand-new, raved-about drug called Zyban. And everything - I mean EVERYTHING - changed...again.
For one, I no longer enjoyed melancholy. Whatever kick it was that I got out of wallowing in misery...the Zyban (wellbutrin) blocked the receptor in my brain that made it possible. There was just no emotional pay-off all of the sudden. At first, this was heart-breaking. The only thing I ever really enjoyed - misery - and now I couldn't even enjoy that. What's more, I couldn't even muster up any righteous indignation over the loss of my love...of...er, misery. I was too damn...content.
No, really - happy. I had become one of those women iI so prided myself on despising: trying on wedding dresses, tasting cakes, reading (insert shudder of disgust) women's magazines - and loving every minute of it. What had become of me?

Intro

Hmmmm....I guess more than anything this will be a blog about living life as a stay-at-home-Mom (HATE that phrase, btw) who also happens to have (rather than 'suffer from') moderate depression, and is medicated accordingly. Its a niche, I know.
But I can't help but be surprised when I look for kindred spirits in the the great big "out there" and find so few. If you google "Mom Depression" three out of the top four results have to do with the affects on the families - "Mom's depression affects baby's sleep" or "Mom's depression leads to children's misbehavior". Are you kidding me? How about "Mom's Depression leads a generation of women to stumble through their half-lived lives wondering why they don't have the gumption to improve them"? That's the link I'm looking for. That's the link people need.
Not that I have any hope that "people" will benefit or respond. This is, more than anything, a creative outlet for a self-absorbed woman who spends her days focused on others, and must make up for it at night with a glass of wine (or two) and a blog. I have no misconceptions about that.
But - if you've ever lied to your children about bedtime because you knew a half hour more would lead to a meltdown (yours, not theirs), braved a conversation with your 60-year-old, male family doctor about whether or not its normal to crave sleep 14 hours of the day, or faked a quiet, serene voice through gritted teeth when your husband asks why you'd rather stay up till midnight on Facebook then go to bed with him...then you might find something entertaining here. I hope you do. Entertained is, at least, better than ambivalent ;)