I feel right at home in this stunning monochrome

When I get into a bad place, I slide so incrementally that I have no idea I'm doing so.

I cannot draw the descent, I don't think, better than I did a couple years ago.

I think, I'm fine, actually. Just tired. Just a little cranky. I cry sometimes, but I've been dealing with some big things. So who wouldn't?

Plus, I have a doctor; I take an antidepressant. I must be fine. (I mean, haha, in the scheme.)

I can live there for quite a while not knowing.

I've been told that if you put a frog into hot water, it will leap out. But if you slowly, slowly turn up the temperature, it will stay in until it boils. I hate this idea. Who tested this, I wonder?

But it's an analogy that works for me. If my mood suddenly plummeted six feet, I'd notice, and so would everyone around me. But with me it is so gradual. Rather than heating, my internal temperature lowers perhaps a degree at a time.

It takes me ages before I realize I'm the frog.

I get a little more impatient, more short-tempered, resentful. And then more. But this could be anything. I don't have enough alone time. The kids are fighting. I haven't had enough sleep.

It probably doesn't matter that much. Because nothing actually matters that much. And everything is hard.

I visit the bleak places in my head. But who doesn't, right? And then I visit them more often. And they become larger. Increasing from a room to two, to a large structure, to an elaborate labyrinth.

And it's grey, sharply, flatly so. It's not jagged. It's smooth, but with sharp corners. And you can see too much detail, like in dressing rooms with triple mirrors. Not muted and glowy soft-focus, like Cher in her later movies.

Time stretches endlessly in both directions. Looking back, my life has always been pointless. And, oh, look! It always will be.

It is bright but here's no rosy sun on the horizon. Just harsh obligation, repetition, joylessness.

It becomes easier and easier to slip into my mind, and harder to get out.

Eventually, because she asks how I'm doing, I mention the bleakness, the utter pointlessness, to my friend Kris. She lives in Europe; we mainly see each other on Facebook.

She expresses surprise. I seem so happy! My life seems full and purpose-driven. Look at my smiling pictures! My cute kids! Our adventures!

Yes. Look at us.

She's also a therapist, and a very long-time friend. She gets it. Can I talk to my doctor? Explore other medication options?

I tell her that I actually have an upcoming six-month checkup. I will bring it up. When he asks how I am, I say, "I'm not doing well."

Normally I'd say, "Fine!" I would ask how he was. I always do. Not with him, but with other doctors, I have often wound up hearing more about them than they have about me.

Deflect! Sit with your back to a wall! Eyes on the door!

This is learned behavior.

He suggests that it's kind of hard to know if this is depression or really just me reacting to the endless repetition and frustration that is summer with 24/7 demands from kids.

Is he validating my suspicion of utter pointlessness? I wonder this silently.

Out loud, I say that I think it is more than that. I visit the bleak places way too often. I didn't go to utter despair on Zoloft, but it made me so tired, which is why we switched. But maybe Wellbutrin is not my friend?

Things are way too ugly and hostile in my mind.

He suggests adding a wee bit of Lexapro. I say that friends have told me it made them tired. Or it made them gain weight.

He says both are possible, but we should try and see. I'm on the tiniest dose. I can double it in a week and I will still be on a fraction of what many people take. And you only gain weight if you eat more. It doesn't slow down your metabolism.

This was a little over two weeks ago.

The bleakness, the pointlessness, the anger, the hostility, the utter despair? At some point a week or so ago, I realized that they just...weren't there anymore.

Nick said I've been nicer to everyone that I've been in months and months. I'm not snapping. I'm not critical. I'm pleasant.

This, obviously, is good.

Now, instead, I'm tired. I could easily sleep 12 hours and still nap. Not depressed tired. Just tired tired. So this is not ideal. But I see my doctor fella again next week.

I've been through this enough to know that it is chemical. And this time, the switch was pretty dramatic.

What I find so disconcerting is this: all of those feelings, they were so real. The version of me and of my life that I visited in my mind, they didn't seem like alternate reality. Or unreality. Or ugly depression lies.

They seemed like the absolutely truth.

I watch the ripples change their size but never leave the stream

I don't tweet very often, but yesterday, I sent this out:

I was venting anger. Rage at the morning's shooting, anger at the power of the NRA, anger that our kids have lockdown drills at school because, as I said, any jackass can buy a gun and take a life. Can buy assault weapons and take so very many lives.

Frustration because the same people who are so quick to yell "murder" regarding abortion are often also quick to defend the right to own guns, no matter how many people, including children are murdered.

It's been suggested that the anti-choicers care about unwanted babies until they're born, but don't want to fund services for them once they're actual out-of-the-womb people.

In any case.

It was foolish of me to put them together, no matter how stupid I think it is that both of these things are true at the same time. Because though it got a bunch of retweets, it also garnered me some attention from both gun owners and anti-choicers. Because, duh, lemongloria, "murder is illegal, and dismembering babies should be."

That was a popular one. A number of these people seem to support Ted Cruz. Anyway, now I know who some of the Ted Cruzers are.

I texted Rachel, who is a social media and women's rights expert, and asked what to say in response to the first person about dismemberment of the unborn.

She gave me a suggestion, and then reminded me that you don't have to say anything. Unless you want to be in a back-and-forth all day.

I most certainly did not. I said nothing. I responded not at all.

As my dear friend Mark Bennett said some years ago (and I still refer to this list on the regular), "If you don't have to deal with a crazy person, don't."

Sometimes I remember this advice and sometimes I unfortunately do not.

Someone also called me a racist, suggesting I want to take guns away from black people and make them unable to defend their families.

What? I want to take guns away from everyone. So that nobody can attack anyone else with a gun.

Not all anti-choicers are crazy, but it is true that we will never agree. So I did not engage.

Not all gun owners are crazy, but we don't keep the crazy ones from owning guns.

And the argument that you need a gun to defend yourself from an intruder? If your intruder doesn't have a gun, why do you need one?

After Sandy Hook, I was naively sure that things would change. How could anyone defend gun ownership when so many children had been killed?

But nothing changed.

My friend Wendy said, "Once we decided that slaughtering children was unworthy of action, it was over."

I hate to agree, but I think I have to.

And I'm sticking to tweeting about my kids. I'm just not a controversial person.

Why does he say-ay-ay "Hush, hush! Keep it down now..."

Are you an introvert or an extrovert? I don't know if I'm right, but this is what I think the difference comes down to.

OK. To start.

I found this note taped to the inside of India's closet door.

I was kind of wondering if he taped it on the inside hoping it wouldn't be found but that maybe it would function like a charm or somehow the message would wash over her at night all Brave New World.

Once I found it, I did gently remind Jordan that we don't say "shut up" because it's unkind. But in my head, I was all solidarity, buddy.

Me, I am an introvert. If I don't have a certain amount of alone time, I start to get really tired and angry and resentful. And by alone I mean alone alone.

I've realized that the only time I'm really bored is when I am stuck somewhere with people I don't want to interact with. Otherwise, I can keep myself entertained just fine.

The other day my friend Rachel, who is an extrovert, said she's always happy to be with people. I mean, sure, she likes to be alone. But, you know, with another person.

And I said, "Oh, noooo. I need to be all by myself. Nick thinks I can be alone with him. NO. That is not alone."

I used to wish so hard that I were an extrovert. It would be so much easier to be so people-y.

But I am not.

Sometimes Nick will come home from work after the kids are in bed and I will subtly try to get away but he will follow me from room to room talking to me. And finally I have to be like, "Please, please just give me 10 minutes. I need 10 minutes of nobody talking to me, looking at me, breathing near me."

Anyway, Jordan is an introvert. He's always been able to play by himself. Not necessarily for long stretches, but I see him in his head, and I know it's an interesting place to him.

My daughter, on the other hand, wants to interact. She wants you to talk to her, to touch her, to listen to her. She wants to do a puzzle but she wants you to watch her doing it.

When they sleep, Jordan gets in bed and goes to sleep. Or if he crawls into our bed, he goes to the bottom of the bed. India wants to be right up next to you. She wants her face in your face. She wants to lie there and steal your breath just like a cat. She wants to touch you.

I don't know if extroverts tend to be cuddlers and introverts tend to be not-cuddlers, but I am an introverted not-cuddler. I mean, I cuddle my kids and I cuddle with Nick but when I want to sleep I want to sleep. This is my space and that is your space and now we do the sleeping.

Anyway.

India talks. Oh, she talks. Now, it's often charming. I find her interesting and she has a good vocabulary and it's just plain interesting to see this child of mine express her thoughts. She makes me laugh.

And she makes new friends and chats with new people so easily. This is lovely to see.

But.

Sometimes Jordan will ask her to stop talking. Which just prods her to talk more. She will talk and talk and talk. Or make up songs that go on and on.

Sometimes I think, "How can one little human talk so much? Doesn't she get tired of talking?"

Sometimes she talks so much she makes her brother cry. She knows how to push his buttons.

Every once in a while I will say, "Can we all just stop talking and have quiet for two minutes? Let's all be quiet for two minutes."

India will wail, "I caaaaaaaan't! I caaaaaaaaaaaan't stop talking!"

And it does seem to be true.

And now I am 46

This birthday business. It happens so predictably and yet somehow arrives so quickly and out of the blue.

When I was a kid I remember always wanting to be older than I was. I couldn't wait to be grown up. And my parents would say not to wish my life away, because it really does go so fast.

You don't really get it until suddenly you're in a position to understand it all too well.

Summers, my absolute favorite season, were almost endless--in the very best possible way--when I was a kid. And now they fly.

Although I will say that this summer home with my children has pretty much been the longest year of my life. I love them with my entire heart and soul. And still. It is so exhausting to watch and listen to and interact with them all day long.

We've started going to the pool a lot, which is fun for all. I have wonderful memories of long days spent at the pool in my youth. It also makes them very tired, which inures to my benefit.

But this requires a lot of watching. Not only because I'm making sure that my little dumplings don't drown. But because they are doing things. Things that would clearly otherwise not happen, like the tree falling in the forest with nobody around, were their mother not watching.

"Watch me, Mama!"

"I am watching you, sweetheart."

"Are you still watching?"

"I sure am."

"Mama! Look at me!"

"Do you see my eyes? They are looking. Straight at you. They are watching you and looking at you with the watchiest looks ever."

Recently I said to Nick, "I'd be a complete fucking lunatic if I were an actual stay-at-home mom."

He paused and said, "Lisa. You are an actual stay-at-home mom."

Oh. Yah. Well.

I think I actually grew up a lot in the past year, which sounds silly because hell, look how old I am. But I did. I realized some huge things, and let go of some even bigger ones. And I'm lighter for it.

I'm not saying I'm limitless (maybe one day!). I'm just stronger and less bound.

So tonight I plan to do something that I would never have done in the past. Maybe for you this is not a big deal. But it has never been something I felt like I could do.

I'm taking myself out. I'm going to a delightful restaurant in our neighborhood. Just me. I'm going to get dressed up and sit at the bar and order dinner.

When Betty asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said, "Time." I want some time. Oh, and a pedicure.

So I cooked up this plan whereby I leave my mother and my progeny and I walk out the door and spend a few hours doing whatever I want. With nobody asking me for anything.

When I told Nick about this plan, he said, "But don't you want to have your birthday dinner with me?"

"Of course I do. Except that you're in Boston."

It's not that I'm trying to be alone. I just want to have a grown-up evening without organizing anyone else, is what it comes down to. I don't want to ask people about their availability or accommodate anyone.

Mostly, I want to go where I want to go and just be.

It feels very selfish.

We ate cake for breakfast because we're not having cake tonight. I felt a pang of guilt because we're not having a real party, and my kids love birthday parties. And then I remembered that we are having birthday party for Jordan very soon. Tiny, and his request, but with candles and cake, which is really what constitutes a party in their eyes.

And anyway, it's my birthday. I got over the guilt pretty quickly. I mean, cake for breakfast, guys.

So. Me. Alone.

I've traveled alone, but I've always been self-conscious about sitting alone at a restaurant. I'm not, as my friend Kaysha likes to say, particularly food motivated. So it's always been easy for me to skip a meal or grab a sandwich or something.

I'm so good with alone at home. I revel in alone at home. And I love running alone.

But being alone at a nice restaurant? Being so very obviously on my own, sitting still? This is the kind of alone that I have avoided like the plague. I was not OK with it.

And now I am.

I'm 46. And I'm taking myself out for dinner.

O Captain! My Captain!

Even if the posts hadn't started popping up last night, I knew today was Robin Williams's day.

I think about him regularly. Does that sound ridiculous? Maybe. I don't know why, exactly. I just do.

Last year I couldn't stop crying. I didn't know him, and felt kind of dumb for being so devastated, but understood the trigger. I felt the loss of suicide so deeply and personally.

I don't think I'm imagining things when I say that it seems to me that the world has improved in a year, with regard to the stigma surrounding mental health and suicide.

Do you think so? I really do.

Robin Williams's death by suicide brought the topic into every home across the country. Even people who weren't used to talking about mental illness or suicide were talking about it. How could someone be that funny...and take their own life?

And starting the conversation makes people think. And it prompts people to share. Mental illness is everywhere. And as such, so is suicide. And it's been such a shameful secret.

Pretending something doesn't exist doesn't ever make it go away.

I'm not saying that there's been a giant attitude shift, and I am hyper-aware of the topic. But I feel like I see more conversation and more action around it. This makes me hopeful.

Recently I reconnected with a number of old friends. A couple of them pulled me aside and thanked me for what I'd written about my dad. They said it had helped.

One of them is career military, and he shared some terrible experiences with me.

And he said that he tells all his men to seek mental health help if they need it. He tells them there's no shame in it. That many of them they have lived through or will experience extreme trauma. And that needing help with their brains is no different than needing help with their blood pressure.

No shame. Just like any other disease. Ask for help if you are struggling. 

How hard is this to say? How hard is it to do? So hard, so scary, in our world as we've known it. But it should be easy. He's helping to make it easy.

I was immensely impressed with him, and so glad to hear this as a voiced attitude in the military, which is traditionally conservative, and where we've lost so many soldiers to suicide.

Now I have some emotional distance from suicide, and I am grateful for it.

But I'm still never going to stop talking about it.

Tattoo?

I don't have any tattoos.

Do you? And if so, what, and what prompted you to get it?

It's not that I'm opposed to them. In fact, some are truly beautiful. And some have intense meaning. And some are both pretty and meaningful. 

I'm in favor of beauty in whatever form you experience it. And I quite like the idea of marking one's body as commemoration.

In my early 20s I went with a friend to get a tattoo. She got a dolphin. And then a couple weeks later, a starfish. And then she got a third, and I can't remember what it was, but some kind of marine life.

I started joking that soon she would cast a net across her stomach and then have a tiny snail peeking out of her belly button.

We lost touch a year or so after that, so I have no idea where her tattoo adventures took her.

They weren't my preference, but she enjoyed them.

For me it's that so far there hasn't been anything in life that I've looked at and thought, "I want to put that on my body for the rest of my time on this earth."

I mean, OK, maybe I thought that about a guy or two when I was younger but that was fleeting and anyway now I'm happily married ever after so I don't even know why I'd mention it.

So really, nothing. As such, I haven't.

Right.

Yesterday my dear friend Kristin, who you may remember as someone who spends too much time on her hair, turned 46. She was my high school partner in ridiculous shenanigans, my confidante, my fellow eating disordered thigh-size-comparison commiserater.

I have known her since we were very young. We've been friends through a lot of drama trauma.

And as happens with the way that time as I understand it seems to work, every year she turns our new age exactly one week before I do.

This year, to celebrate, to mark a milestone, she got her first tattoo.

She said, "If you can't read it clearly it says CLARITY PURPOSE. Two of my favorite words that have been a cornerstone of how I try to live and also how I try to guide whoever I work with in therapy."

I like it. It's pretty and small and simple, with very personal meaning.

Last night I fell asleep thinking about it. And wondering if I'd like to get a tattoo.

Because this past year, while nothing outwardly milestoney like death or birth happened to me, something big did actually happen.

I figured out that I couldn't save my dad. I forgave myself. I started letting him go.

This means that I no longer think about suicide every single day. Because I used to think about it, about what I could've done differently, about what he might've been thinking, about why and how he left us, every fucking day.

And now I don't.

I wasn't at fault. I didn't fail. I couldn't actually have saved him.

This is one of the biggest things to happen to me in a very long time. And I made it happen.

So I feel like this could be a thing to celebrate, to commemorate. I've grown. I've still got lots of scars, but I've healed a great deal.

And then this morning I got a message from Kristin asking my thoughts on getting a tattoo on my upcoming birthday.

I said that actually, she'd really made me think, and I like the idea of words in a simple design. I just don't know what.

And she said, "Pick two words. Just not 'hairy penis'."

Right. Thanks.