tightrope

I can’t decide if something is creeping in, stealthily, or if something is slowly seeping out, escaping unnoticed.  All I want to do – all that I feel compelled to do – is to write it down and lose myself in the careful choosing of each perfect word, each sentence, so that later I might read it as someone else’s wisdom and understand something that only they could show me.

I've been good, really very good for what feels like a very long time, though in the context of 37 years of course it isn't.  It’s been…what? Not quite two months since I was fired in a way that my employer was kind – or lawsuit averse – enough to call “laying off”.  And really not even very good in action, but oh I have prided myself on how well I’m “handling things”. “Finish this sentence,” I said to myself three days later (after sobering up), “I got laid off and _____.” And I decided first that I wanted to say “I got laid off and got healthy” but that was simply not motivating enough, and I soon discarded it in favor of “I got laid off and lost 20 pounds,” or “I got laid off and got hot,” or “I got laid off and now I look good naked.”  I was stunned by the discovery that vanity could motivate me so thoroughly, that that particular motivation – more so than “Be at peace” or “Set a good example” or “Take responsibility for your health” – could be sustained. I was impressed by my ability to set aside years of “Don’t try and you won’t fail” and go full throttle. I congratulated myself on how sensible, how thoroughly healthy, it was to recognize that 10 hours a day at home alone would exacerbate my depression, and that I should spend three of them at the gym. And then – that I actually did! I was astonished to discover that there resided in me the capacity for follow-through.  It seemed out of character, and I was surprised that no one else found this to be so, or deigned to mention their surprise to me at least. I should have fully expected a spiral, a complete meltdown, and I felt that those who know me well would have expected as much also. Maybe a return to anti-depressants; at best more therapy, at worst a few days to rest in an institution of some sort. The idea was warmly inviting, and I succeeded in eschewing it, and that is really something.

I lay in bed somewhere around day 4 – the shape of this memory leads me to believe I had not had any wine that evening – and looked at a dress I had hung on my wall for no real reason other than there was a hook there. I had bought it a week previous at the Goodwill in Thurmont with the dim hope that I may fit into it next Halloween (fully 8 months away at this point). It’s a 70’s go-go girl type dress; halter top, white and pink and red and orange with large flowers. It comes to my knees (or will, if and when I can get it on) and ends in a ruffle I’m determined to have my mother remove, and hem to a respectably sexy mini length before October. It’s labeled a size 8 but I have my doubts. I couldn't zip it in the fitting room, and it seemed like the perfect invitation: a 6 would have been dangerously optimistic, a 10 would not have been challenge enough. God help me if I find the knee-high white patent leather lace-up platform boots I’m envisioning.

So I get fired in just the awful way sales reps do (“Surprise! You’re position has been eliminated. Give us your laptop and phone, sign this paper, no you may not forward family pics – the phone and thus the data are ours. This security guard will escort you to your car”) about 4 days previous (I should not have been surprised but I was) and had commenced quite the bender, which everyone assured me was completely acceptable and appropriate given the circumstances. And lying in bed sobering up day 4 I am looking at this dress. Thinking how some of the flower petals appear to be fingers splaying out from a fist, and how could flowers be so violent? Thinking how I secretly would've liked to wear it elsewhere but knew I only had the balls to don it on Halloween. Thinking how I had probably squandered $5 because all the Spanx in the world wouldn't get that zipper up. And something lights up in me – I catch myself as if I’m….other than me (outside of me); I think “Why? Why is your assumption failure? I know. I know why. Because then you don’t really have to try. Then you can give it a half-hearted week and throw in the towel, knowing you were never really going to pull it off anyway. You can say ‘It’s only $5.’” These doubts, this overly cautious approach, have been with me as long as I can remember.  Had the dress cost $10, I probably wouldn't have even bothered.

I thought or felt that something had changed, a barely perceptible internal shift. I am fond of believing, or at least of attesting to believe, that the moment one becomes aware of an irrational or detrimental mental habit, one becomes instantly responsible for changing one’s thinking. And I felt like I had that moment. And I promised myself – this is something I’ll do, I’ll succeed at, and when I do I will have proven to myself that I am capable, that I have beaten my age-old, sorry habit of embracing failure as a way to dodge challenge. And I’ll take that proof and I’ll extend it to all facets of my life – to my career, to my parenting, to my quest to be the perfect and deserving girlfriend, daughter, sister, friend.  I was in desperate need of quest, a purpose, and I had found one.

Immediately following this internal pep talk I dialed back. “One thing at a time,” I told myself, “not so much pressure. Do this first, and then sit with it and see if and how it can bleed into your life.” That seemed healthy, reasonable. Depression has taught me much about dialing back expectations, some of it no doubt helpful, some of it no doubt ‘Excuses 101’. Walking the tightrope between the two appears to me to be the source of…well, everything. My entire existence, really. It’s difficult to explain.

So I've embraced the gym with varying degrees of enthusiasm for two to three hours a day, five to six days a week, for the last six weeks. This routine has conceived all sorts of physical, mental and emotional benefits –I eat better because I don’t want to squander my hard work, I play more actively with the kids because I have more energy, I feel awkwardly superior about the fact that I don’t require matching neon shoelaces and spandex tank tops  to work out. Valuing the routine over the results has been helpful, which isn't to say I haven’t stood on a scale in anguish, cursing the unmovable slide weight; I have.  But inches – whole inches of my body have disappeared (somehow I don’t feel diminished, but suspect in some way I should). Better than that, new inches have made themselves at home, hard inches on my arms and my ass that astonish me. My stomach vexes me; it doesn't look at all like the motivational posters of strong women on Pinterest or hanging on the walls of my gym – it looks stretched and squishy like it’s housed two babies (it has). But my arms and my ass are banging, and that’s something. And my stomach, while squishy, is shrinking.

Most alarming and satisfying are the things my body is capable of that it wasn't previously. I am quite thoroughly in love with this part of the journey. Adding ten pounds to the bar, pedaling half a mile further than I could before – it’s new. It’s new, what my body is capable of, and I long to take credit for it – deserve to take credit for it – but I can’t because it’s too new. I don’t know this body yet, it doesn't feel like mine, which is unnerving and exciting because who knows what it will do next?

Old mental habits die hard, and it feels threateningly temporary. The last week or two I've slipped. Spent less time, allowed myself excuses for not pushing harder, pushing through. I’m “being gentle with myself”, sometimes.  I have other good reasons – I didn't get enough sleep; I dieted too much and am low on protein, or I fell from grace and stopped at Sonic for a cheeseburger and now I’m sluggish. So in spin class, I tell myself the fact I’m sweating bullets is enough, never mind that I went faster or longer or with more resistance last week. I never wanted to become obsessed, it’s not healthy. ‘Everything in moderation’, a phrase previously reserved for bad habits, now extends to good ones as well.

I’m nervous. I fear the beginning of an end, the return of excuses. All the while I have friends and family saying “take it easy – we’re worried about you. You’re taking this too far.” It’s so inviting, so tempting. And having already assigned such importance to my victory over mediocrity, the stakes seems impossibly high.

Once again I find myself wishing I could give myself an inch without taking a mile, but afraid to try. I am trying to balance balance against itself.

To my (many, many)pregnant friends:

It’s not my intention to pen one of these condescending diatribes from mothers to mothers-to-be (not even myself as a mother-to-be) that are so in vogue, please know that.

You are missing it. You are missing the best part. I know about the waiting. I have two, both overdue, both induced. I understand the heaviness of “will it be today” every day for two weeks on end. How it wears. But, really, you’re missing it.

From the moment – the very second – this child leaves your body, the world will have its way with them. There will be shots they need, measurements taken, but it doesn’t stop there. When they’re two, some well-meaning relative will give them their first taste of refined sugar in the form of a SpongeBob lollipop. When they’re five they’ll come home signing a song you’ve only heard on commercials for American Idol and which you hate. When they’re eight they’ll ask what “Nigger” means because they heard it in school and they think maybe it means “stupid” but they’re not sure.

And you will have to explain it to them. All of these things – they will require an explanation for the world into which you brought them. And you will be at a loss. And it will kill you.

And the world will continue to bring an ugliness to them that they never knew in your womb, and you will be at a loss. And it will kill you.

It is never as easy as it is when they’re in your belly. Everything I ate, they ate. Everything I drank, they drank, everything I breathed they breathed and everything I heard they heard. I could filter it all, I could pick & choose, the power was all mine. I had two commands: Eat right and quit smoking. And it was easy.

I'm not going to even mention commercials. Fucking diabolical.

Now I have to fight the rest of the world for them. And it is so much harder.

Darkness

“No matter how dark the room gets I can always see. It looks emptier when I put the lights on so I don't do it if I can help it. Brightness disagrees with me: it hurts my eyes, wastes electricity and encourages moths, all sorts of things. I sit in the dark for a number of reasons.” 
― Janice Galloway, The Trick Is to Keep Breathing

Perusing Goodreads.com for quotes related to 'Darkness' is generally not to be taken as a good sign, but let's start where we are. And we are in darkness.

The thing about darkness that I'm particularly stuck on is that it doesn't lessen by sharing. You can sit with me in my darkness and it's nice to think, for you at least, I'm sure, that that is helpful. But sharing darkness does nothing to alleviate it and in fact often grows it. And I and my kind are so very acutely aware of its pure contagion, that it becomes almost a moral obligation to the world in general and loved ones in particular to hide it away. To quarantine oneself. To say, through word or action, "Keep your distance - you don't want this."

Any decent therapist, first year psych student, or casual reader of the most pedestrian psycho-blog drivel (erhrmm) - will tell you that you are "isolating" (always the gerund, not sure why) and that "isolating" is a very bad thing. It turns depression in on itself, magnifies it. Leads to "ruminating" (a personal favorite) and, inevitably, "spiraling" (to be avoided at all costs). But that is irrelevant, because if they're selling that drivel then they've never been depressed, or compelled to add to that depression the concern about how said depression affects those around you, which is exhausting and omnipresent. As it should be, otherwise you'd just be a selfish asshole who doesn't care  how their choices (choices?!) affect those around them. And oh but there is a canyon of difference between self-indulgent and selfish. Thank goodness.

So, two things. A) Darkness is not alleviated by sharing and B) Darkness is in fact contagious. Quarantine is clearly the only reasonable response.There is nothing to be gained by its avoidance. But this offers a new challenge, which is how do you not alienate the people who love you with the practice of quarantine? They will feel slighted. They always do. And you will attempt to explain to them that you are sparing them your very ugly pain, and they will either be offended or look at you with the mixture of fear and disgust  reserved for the truly insane. If they're self-centered they'll be offended - of course they can help and how dare you presume otherwise? If they're merely so comfortable in their sanity, the only state they've ever known, they will fear you've gone off the cliff. Either way you've hurt them. There is no winning, which of course exacerbates the fight.

Wee little voice

I witnessed something very strange today. My fearless, ruthless daughter - the one that earned the red-hair-reputation, the one that rules our household with an iron fist - she got nervous today. It was her first day at Pre-K, her first day in a daycare "drop 'em off in the morning, pick 'em up after work" kind of setting....so yeah, okay - "nervous" would be perfectly appropriate. Except I've never seen my Anna nervous before, ever. I don't know that I've ever seen her anything other than overflowing with confidence. Angry, defiant, whiny - all of these things and more - but these generally spring from a misunderstanding around the undeniable fact that she is in charge (funny, not everyone gets that and Anna is constantly having to remind us all). But nervous...nervous is new.

Last night was all excitement. "I will wear my lady bug dress and my new black high heels (not really - sshhhh) and white socks and I want one barrette in my hair - the purple one, even though it won't match because purple is my favorite anyhow and..." This went on for roughly 3 hours.  When I entered her room at 6:30 this morning, she was sitting up in bed "brushing" her hair (unfortunately from the end to the root instead of the other way around).

This morning was all excitement. "I will have cinnamon toast for breakfast because I may not like the lunch there and I want to take my Hello Kitty backpack because Hello Kitty is my favorite and you forgot to give me my vitamins Mommy - the gummy one and the one with sparkles please." (She has ceased calling me "mama" and insists on "mommy" now, and I am heartbroken about it as I am out of babies to call me "Mama")

The drive to the YW was all excitement - she went in with me to drop her brother off in the much cooler "older kids" room, quick to tell anyone who dared grant her more than a passing gaze that today was her first day in Pre-K. You'd think she'd be intimidated by a bunch of 8-year-olds...you'd be wrong.

Then, as we climb the stairs to the Pre-K room, an almost unfamiliar sensation these days: she has willingly, voluntarily deigned to hold my hand. As we walk down the hall and approach the door, her steps have slowed down. We swing the door open and there she is, like any other 4 year old little girl, hiding behind her Mommy.

There were no tears - at least I didn't see any from her, and she didn't see any from me, mostly because I waited until I was back in my car to cry. There were more hugs than usual, and lingering, but no tears. And while I've been anxiously awaiting today - "That little girl needs a brisk wake-up call!" - I now find myself terrified that perhaps I've made a mistake. Yes, I want her to cooperate and to someday move towards acknowledging the slim possibility that other people in the world might know a thing or two about a thing or two, too...but this over-confidence, as much as it pains me daily and causes me to pull my hair out and raise my voice and feel bad about raising my voice and dig in my heels sometimes and cave to avoid the battle others...what I wouldn't give for it. That wee little voice in your head, the one we all carry around? Right now hers always says, "You got this kid, piece of cake." And isn't that what we all wish our little voices said to us? Did I really lament that my daughter lacked self-doubt?

I know, I know...I know. This is just another challenge, another step along the road to independence, and the introduction of "sharing", late as it's come, is better managed now then in Kindergarten. I'm just...I'm nervous. I'm nervous about what her wee little voice will say to her tomorrow morning. I wish I had her confidence...

Thoughts on Moving

I have along and complex relationship with moving. My last house - my marital homestead - I lived in 9 years, and it is the longest I've lived in a house in my entire life. Prior to that was Mt. Wolf (we called it "the white house" - it was white) on the corner of Chestnut & Third. I lived there from the time I was 2 years old till I was 8. In between those two is whirlwind of moving between 3 states 8 school districts and dorm rooms. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I love it all. I love the concept of inventoring all your belongings - thinning out, prioritizing, being forced to decide what you really need (is this worth finding a box?). And it is always, always, a fresh start.

We've got a great place lined up. Some of the creature comforts divorce forced me to turn my back on - dishwasher, central air, etc. But also an amazing back yard, a weeping willow, a deck. It feels...like a happy place to be.

Which is funny, and telling, as I've only "been" there for a 20 minute walk through. But wow is it full of expectations already.

I love "new". I love it. I am, quite literally, addicted to it. I have my own personal New Year's Eve every 3 months, as tortured readers of my blog will attest to, and I embrace it whole-heartedly (read: drink the kool-aid) every time. And this is no different.

Its perfect. I've never fucked up in this house. I've never made a poor choice in this house, be that "one more beer" or "nap instead of run."

I know. Failure is certain - one can't set these ridiculous expectations of perfection and expect to succed. But here's the thing - I think, really, its still worth it.

I've never stuck with a new & improved lifestyle born of one of these self-indulgent re-imaginings - not in full. But...each time, I've picked up a bit of steam. The complete and utter peace I feel when I go to Zensday (DC mediation center) - its not enough to ensure I always make the two hour drive, but it doesn't render the time i DO spend there less valuable.

When Idid the food thing (Sam's first refined sugar ever was his first birthday cake, his second exposure was his second bithday cake) what did I gain? What did he gain? I can't say for sure but he likes clementines better than cookies.

True, now we eat fast food once a week. It could very well be catagorized as a failure.

But I always come back. I always strive for better.

I wonder if i can marry "everything in moderation" with "start from scratch". I'm not saying I'll quit smoking, I'm saying I don't want to be in the habit of smoking a cigarette on my deck, so if I'm desperate I'll walk around the block. I'm not saying I won't drink, but I don't want my kids to see me with a beer in my hand more than once a week (I'd go hard-core on this, but football season is right around the corner).

I don't know if I'll get anywhere. But I know I'd feel like shit if I didn't bother. I'm an oportunist, and this is an opportunity. New house, new Jeanine. Its a familiar concept but nonetheless thrilling. I don't know how to dip my toes (perhaps that's my problem?) but I know how to dive in headfirst. Sometimes it ends in a head injury, sometimes it doesn't. I'm gonna go for it.

toothpaste

this evening, the subject was toothpaste. Papa provides purple toothpaste, while i provide blue though - for the record - mine is sparkly, so...you know. obviously i win this round.
yes i'm joking but it often feels that way. each time sam says "my house" and its obvious he's referring to my ex's place, anna's new propensity for crying 'i miss Papa' every time i put her on timeout or (horror of horrors) say "no". each of these, though i know better, results in a mental tally mark on the chalkboard in my heart.
my parents were really good at this. i am fond of saying, to therapists or coworkers or random single moms at the park, "my parents didn't offer much of an example for marriage, but they set a high bar for how to be divorced." i could count on one hand the times a disparaging comment about the other parent slipped out. christmases, birthdays - we all spend these times together, as a family. me, the kids, mom, dad, dad's wife. it still surprises me today when people find that odd.
and i gotta say we're doing pretty good. we all spend time together at least once a month - the kids, my guy, the ex and i. in fact i do from time to time grow concerned its a bit TOO cozy (do you really need to invite my boyfriend golfing? ask him to pick your bracket for you? come on...) but overall its been good for the kids. they don't feel the pull of duelling loyalties and i'm grateful for that.
but - i'm a child of divorce. i know how this works. you are happier in one place than you are in another and while, as an adult, you may realize you had it totally screwed up...it plagues me. not to the point that i ever wish them a bad time at their dad's - of course i don't - but deep down...i wish them a much better time at mine.
Here's the rub: that's never going to happen. i won't use this blog to disparage my ex's parenting skills, but in the interest of context...i'm the one that says 'no'. i'm the boundary setter and sole enforcer of the rules. as such, i get the lion's share of the fallout.
i find myself at this precipice...like i need to just accept that they will prefer their father, probably until the point at which they have children of their own and realize what parenting entails. and - don't get me wrong - he's a great father, and all that...yada yada yada. he loves them. he's just very very very very very...averse to confrontation (and, maybe a little bit, work, where parenting is concerned). they always get the toy, the candy, whatever. they have to approach burning down the house for any sort of punishment to be handed down. as such - he's fun. he's the fun guy.
and i find myself, stuck inside of moments, really really tempted to follow suit. i'm sure i spoil them more than i would if we were together already. i'm certain of it. its so tempting because in the back of my head there is always this little voice saying, more than anything, "i want them to remember how much fun they had here this week." its not a - its not cause i want them to go tell him that or anything. its not a petty thing. its...honestly, its probably a self-absorbed thing. i want them to have good memories of me.
and the thing about being the lone disciplinarian is that you have to do it MORE than you would otherwise. the first two days at my house are the worst, because they're just accustomed to getting away with everything and that's the mode they're in, so i'm like crazy scolding mama for minimum 48 hours. and i step outside of myself and see those moments and think "geez they must think it really sucks here."
i get it. i know that i have a job to do, and that that job is more important than their reaction to me telling them "no, you can't have McDonald's for dinner (again)". but damn if i don't resent never getting the opportunity to be the fun guy.
that's what i'm struggling to let go of, that resentment. striving for acceptance, once again.

the backslide

forgive me zoloft for i have sinned. it has been nearly 6 weeks since my last pill.

i have committed the following sins against depression self-care, in no particular order:

• i have not avoided negativity. while a particularly nasty facebook exchange that i know much better than to have gotten involved in prompted a brief hiatus, it did not last long. upon returning to facebook i did a fairly good job of ignoring political and/or negative posts...for about two weeks. also i have engaged in an unhealthy helping of negative self-talk, copious amounts of comparing myself to greater (or skinnier) people, and three full-fledged pity parties.


• i have not avoided alcohol. while i have artfully arranged for my intoxication to be "social" in nature (therefore ruling out alcoholism) i have nonetheless utilized said intoxication and after-effects to provide a narrative of my continuous failures (see above sin).


• i have neglected exercise. well, i mean, i don't know if neglect is necessarily the right word. i was aware of Exercise's whereabouts at all times. but i refused to engage it nonetheless.


• i have abused my sleep patterns. i have reveled in the decadence of 12 hour sleep marathons as well as cursed insomnia on numerous occasions.


• i do not recall the last time i gave meditation more than a half-assed 2-minute try, and even that ended with me cussing at myself silently in my head.


• i have eaten total crap.


• i have relied solely on the power of coffee and (gasp!) 5-hour energies to get through my day in even the most minimally effective way.


• i have perfected the art of changing of the subject.


• i have perfected the art of silently resenting people for allowing me to change the subject.


• i have embraced numbness as an alternative to...well, anything.

Ah, well.

Is this the part where I say "it was a good run" and call the pharmacy?

No. No, dear anonymous readers if you do indeed exist, it is not. Because when i call the pharmacy, that will be that. The fight will be over. The next time i rely on pharmaceuticals to buffer the effects of life on my psyche - it will be forever. i will cease to be a person who has occasional bouts of depression and instead become a depressed person. someone who "HAS DEPRESSION." like, all the time. I will be on meds for the rest of my life because 1)i have a good doctor who will only allow me to "give it a shot w/o the meds one last time"...one last time. 2)it can't be good for my body or my brain - the weaning off, the spiral, the weaning back on, the even keel, the weaning off...over and over and over again. 3)i know the ridiculousness of this, but i just naggingly believe (like, almost a faith type thing) that the only way to really get to the light at the end of this tunnel is to go the whole way through the damn tunnel and come out on the other side. 4)i made a deal with myself, and i intend to keep it. i am going to do EVERYTHING in my power to control (?) my symptoms through better self care. routine. exercise. daylight. fresh air. breathing. fucking ginseng or some shit, i don't know. But i do know:

• i have not missed work, any work assignments/goals, paying a bill on time, getting my kids where they need to be, etc.


• i have laughed, even when not intoxicated.


• i have not had a crying jag lasting more than 40 minutes, and i have not had more than 3 of those in the past month.


• i have enjoyed making & keeping plans with friends & family, and have only isolated myself emotionally just a teensy-weensy little bit.


• i. like. feeling. things.

2 steps forward, 1 step back. its called the backslide. give it a catchy beat and it will be all the rage.

So. took the two steps forward, this just happens to be the one step back part, which means the next two steps forward should be juuuuuussssttttt around the bend...