The moral fiber of the story

When you find yourself gently weeping and muttering, "low fiber diet" in Costco, you have to stop and take stock of your emotional well-being.

Which is to say that I don't know how long I've been in a not-so-great place, but here we are.

Also: I have a colonoscopy scheduled for next Wednesday. It's been three years since I had those back-to back colonoscopies, because, as Wendy said then, who knew I was so full of shit? 

Because I seem to be more attached than most to the contents of my colon, in addition to 48 hours of liquid diet ahead of time, I'm supposed to be on a low-fiber diet for this whole week ahead.

Do you know what this means? No fruit or veggies. No oats. No nuts. No seeds. No beans! You're basically left with meat and dairy and white bread.

Nick was like, "I don't see anything wrong with that!"

I was like, "It's basically your life."

Because as it turns out, my entire life is high fiber. And apparently fiber is hard to get out of the nooks and crannies of your colon.

Stuff like broccoli hangs on for dear life, while white bread happily slides right out.

So yesterday I was going down the shopping list and I was all, "OK, I'll get the Brussels sprouts even though I'm not allowed to eat them."

I was being rather petulant about it. And clearly feeling very sorry for myself because I think I started crying somewhere around the sweet potatoes. Muttering "low fiber diet, fucking low fiber diet".

But what I think is going on is that spring is fucking tough.

Every year I forget this. Maybe I should just put an annual reminder on my calendar or something saying, SPRING IS HARD. Little sticky notes. AZALEAS ARE BEAUTIFUL AND SPRING MAKES YOU CRY. SPRING IS A FALSE FRIEND!

Little motivational poster kinds of things.

And this spring, jeez this spring, which absolutely refuses to get warm. I mean, it's supposed to be in the damn 30s tonight. What the fucking fuck.

But it's like I slog through winter, and winter never my friend. So I brace for it. Winter. I can do it. Winter. Be vigilant, because winter is rough.

But then winter ends, and spring is all new life and flowers and baby birds and hope!

Except not so much on the hope. I don't know if it's the residual exhaustion from winter, or that it's brighter and days are longer so I feel like I should not be so tired but I'm just so very tired, or something else entirely.

Maybe winter is long and all my reserves are gone.

I had a therapist who said that even when you don't realize that a traumatic anniversary is approaching, your body knows it. And I know that April and May are linked with big trauma events for me. Maybe that's part of it.

I don't know. What I do know is that I have to start eating a fucking low fiber diet like now and then next week I have to  liquid fast for 48 hours while taking mega-laxatives.

I don't honestly mind diarrhea, but now I have anxiety about not having a totally empty colon for my doctor to examine. Like, she's going to be able to tell that I had oatmeal for breakfast today, even though I don't think I have to start until tomorrow.

But being who I am, which is an external approval-seeking a first-born rule follower, I don't want to fail this excretion test. 

Also, and more importantly, I don't want a little piece of spinach obscuring a polyp. So there's that. White bread for days.

On the bright side, at least I don't, as my friend Kristin envisioned, have to lie on my back with my legs up and my feet by my ears while they peer in my anus for the procedure.

That would most definitely be something to cry about.

When you need a train it never comes

Included for dramatic effect or something

I don't have a plan, and though I have a propensity to blurt out awkward little statements every once in a while, I'm not actually an impulsive person.

I always save dessert for last. Or for tomorrow.

Even as a kid I'd have waited on that marshmallow forever if I needed to.

I'm not even good at planning. So I guess that helps, too.

But sometimes, like today, I think things like: what if I just tripped in front of that huge, heavy truck? 

Sometimes, like today, I think it would be a relief to not be here anymore.

I know for a fact that it wouldn't be better for my family. I have been in spaces before where I didn't know that, and this right now space is not like that. I would be crushed to never see my kids again. 

I have also in other times been in a space where I didn't believe it would ruin there lives if I were no longer here. Not today; I know it would ruin their lives.

I yelled at my daugher after she spent 38 minutes, beginning the second she woke up, scream-crying about the Mondayness of Monday and also everything else. With two minutes left to go, two minutes till we were meeting her friend, she decided to change her outfit.

I'd been so good at sympathy and empathy for 38 screaming minutes, and then I lost it.

We put on her shoes and hustled her down the block, wailing like a banshee all the way.

I hate myself when I yell.

Sometimes I hate myself even when I don't yell.

Today is not one of those days. I don't hate myself.

Everything just feels very heavy and impossible.

Our house is such a mess. 

I think I killed or at least severely damaged my succulent by leaving it out in the sun.

There is so much laundry. So much. So much that I could probably burrow into it and fall asleep and it would be hard to find me.

There is so much everything. And it's all hard.

How come nothing is ever easy?

And then I feel like an asshole, because there are real people with real problems. Not that I'm not a real person. But my god, compared to so many people, my life is so easy.

It's not like it's a fucking tragedy to have housecleaning and too many dirty clothes to deal with.

It's more that I just...think it could be peaceful. Not to be here anymore, I mean. Not to be me anymore.

Like I said, I don't have a plan, and I don't lack impulse control. 

I know bad place this is brain chemicals, and this is temporary. I felt joy this weekend and I know I will again. It's not one of those dark empty places with no hope in sight.

I want to take my mom to the doctor and hug my kids after school and kiss my husband when he gets home. Oh, and walk Wanda.

I don't want to not be here to do these things. Or anyway, not all of me wants to not be here.

So really, I have a great grip on that stupid fucking marshmallow. Although I guess that makes it sound like suicide would be gratification. Which of course it's not.

Maybe I just needed to say all of this out loud. To acknowledge these feelings and remind myself of what they are. And to try to let them go.

This isn't a cry for help. Truly. 

I'm so solidly here, buried under the laundry.

Comme il pleut sur la ville...

Every grey day, of which I believe we've lately had more than our share, I feel like I've never seen the sun. 

It's been raining my entire life.

Intellectually, I understand this is not the case. I have photo documentation. It was sunny on Monday. Maybe even Tuesday. Whichever day India and I did this fun photoshoot with my in my pink supersuit.

And incidentally, there is a photo of my butt that India took either before I jumped or after I landed, and she thinks it's so funny she wants me to put it on her birthday card. No lie.

Anyway.

I can't exactly remember if there was sun on Tuesday, because as I said, it's been grey my entire life.

When the sun is out, it's the best day ever. I feel like this is a childish response, but it is mine. The world is full of hope and I have energy. I'm filled with joy.

I can smile and leap. I know that I radiate happiness, and in the moment, it is true. I beam and it is genuine.

And when there is no sun, it takes all my willpower to get out of bed. Willpower and Nick saying, "Lisa. I need you to. Get. Up."

He has a tone. Nick, who is never affected by the vicissitudes of weather, never pulled up or bogged down by light or lack thereof.

He strides steadily forward in life, accomplishing all he needs to accomplish, never pausing to lament the cloud cover.

Nick has said before that he doesn't envy my lows, but he also doesn't experience the joy of my highs.

So it's been rainy and grey for at least two days or my entire life.

Unless you're with me, you don't know. I still post funny memes and use exclamation points and laugh emojis. (I also wear skinny jeans and have a side part, but that's a whole nother things.)

Yesterday, I turned on the car in the garage before I opened the garage door. Because we live in a place where things disappear quickly if the door is left open, we have it close automatically on a one-minute timer.

And even though we have a sensor, I have this fear that the door will come down on the car if I don't get out in time. So I get in, turn it on, adjust the seat and other bits to my size, start Waze, and generally do all the whatevers necessary to get myself to where I need to go prior to pressing the open button.

As I sat there organizing, I wondered briefly if our garage could fill with carbon monoxide, even though there's a large opening where we come in from the deck.

Would it be possible to sit in there and fall asleep forever?

It wasn't a plan, or even a wish, just a brief wonder.

These are the "just quit" whispers that I know not everyone has. Nick doesn't have a line he needs to keep from crossing, a bridge he sometimes sees.

I thank god that he doesn't. And I know my kids are more likely to.

This isn't any kind of cry for help. I'm fine. I know I've shared this essay before, but I just think it's such a good way of explaining how things are for some of us.

On Wednesday my son said he was absolutely not going to school in the rain.

He's back in a classroom. They're still doing school online, but they have someone in the room to help keep them on track. They get to see friends. They go outside for lunch and recess.

It has changed the state of his mental health.

This is currently only available to the kids who were in the most difficult situations, or who were struggling most online--and still, many turned it down. But we got to a point where it seemed worth the risk with Jordan.  

But Wednesday, with more rain, he was all, "This is the worst day ever. I'm NOT going to school!"

And I understood, oh, I understood. Every rainy day is the worst day ever, unless the sun is also shining, which almost never happens.

We cajoled him out the door, teeth unbrushed, because we could only choose between him brushing his teeth and putting on his shoes, and shoes seemed more critical for walking to and attending school.

He voices the extremes in my head. THE WORST DAY EVER.

Obviously, it's not the worst day ever. Hell, I know my worst day ever, and a plain old rainy day will never come close. But in the moment, I get it, I really do.

I think Tuesday might in fact have been sunny, because I think Nick woke me up and said, "It's sunny!" And I said, "Oh, thank God." And Nick said, "I know you mean that."

Sometimes I think about the spring my dad killed himself. It was a relentlessly grey spring. There was no sun.

They went to Hawaii to visit a friend, and it was unseasonably grey there, as well. 

The day Dad disappeared was sunny and spectacular, but I think by then he'd hit his limit. I know medication, or lack thereof, was the main problem. But I can't help but think that if it had been a glorious spring, he'd have held on longer.

I don't know. What do I know?

I mean, here's what I know: sun lamps are helpful for me, and so is medication. Getting outside always helps, even if it seems like the stinkiest idea ever. Fish oil is good for your brain. 

Wine is a false friend. So is sugar.

I didn't set out to have tea and Cadbury eggs for breakfast this morning, but sometimes that's how it shakes out.

And apparently the sun will come out tomorrow.

I mean really. Not because I'm trying to be all Orphan Annie about it.

WTFness of 2021

Many of my friends, perhaps including you, expected 2021 to be a fresh new start.

Goodbye 2020 Dumpsterfire! Hello, 2021!

WTF, 2021? 

It's like Dante's Beatrice ushered us in, and we all popped pomegranate seeds.

I won't recap the terrifying goings-on in DC. But I will say that Nick's office is near the White House, and I was super twitchy about him biking to work because roads were closed and we'd all been asked to stay out of downtown. 

And he was all, "Lisa. I look like one of them."

Which...is true. 

In angry moments I sometimes remind him that he's part of the patriarchy.

---

Sometime in December, I read this article, and I decided that it was time for me to get my nutritional house in order.

My sleep is never restful, and much of this, I am afraid, is age and hormone related. But I was also eating like a kid in a candy store.

When I tell you that all through December I had peppermint bark with breakfast, and cookies and pastries all day long, and more treats well into the evening, I'm not exaggerating. Sugar and sugar and sugar.

So I decided that in January I would limit myself to sugar in my morning tea. 

Nick decided to do dry January, and I've since learned there's a term: Dryuary. Apparently scads of people do this after the excesses of the holidays. So I figured I'd join for support.

Alcohol, fortunately, is not one of my problems. It easily could be, as we have alcoholism on both sides of the family.

I think if they'd been medicated--or properly medicated, or willing to stay on meds--it could have been different. There was a lot of self-medication going on.

But I don't need to get all heavy here.

I had a tiny glass of prosecco on the first, really a few sips, to usher in what I believed would be a good year. I had a hard kombucha on the sixth, to celebrate the wins in Georgia and to recognize the terrifying nature of the attempted coup. 

I haven't yet turned to sugar, my preferred comfort, my snuggle friend, my favorite nighttime dance partner.

Honestly, I'm not looking for perfection; I'm looking to break habits and head toward healthier eating.

This is happening. We are having more vegetables--although let me be honest, anything is more, because many days in December we had zero, much to my shame. But we're again having vegetables at dinner, sometimes with lunch, sometimes as snack.

Friends suggested monk fruit and allulose as sugar substitutes. So far I've only tried the monk fruit, and it is the best not-sugar I've tasted. If allulose is even better, I'll be delighted. It's very very close to sugar and almost not at all weird.

I've kept to sugar in my tea, because milky sugary tea is a pleasure. I'm just lessening the amount of sugar in a teaspoon. Friends had warned that this would be a gateway to sugar cravings, and maybe it has, but I've satisfied them with fruit or dried fruit.

And maybe it's the dried fruit, or the upped vegetables, but something has been seriously giving me crazy gas. I told Nick that fortunately all these farts aren't all that stinky, and he was like, uh, yes, they are. 

Oh.

I guess this means I could live up to my imagined porn star name.

Anyway.

My sleep is still fairly fractured. So far I haven't started sleeping solidly and waking refreshed and ready to charge into the day. 

But it's like Nick says: "You never wake up and regret not drinking." 

This is how I feel about sugar. 

---

And I had an appointment with my psychiatrist last week. A check-in, since he'd upped my medication dose in the fall, after a long struggle with insurance to allow it.

(Can we get rid of for-profit healthcare already?)

Shortly beforehand, I asked Nick if he had anything he wanted me to tell my shrink. He and my mom keep an eye on me, as I recognize I'm not always a good judge of the state of my mental health. I know this, even though I forget sometimes.

And I still have to really think about how I'm doing instead of just automatically saying, "fine" when talking to a mental health professional. I believe I no longer have the urge to lie, but that could be because I haven't ditched my meds lately. 

Which I hopefully will not do again. 

So Nick, my beloved, said, "I think you're doing better."

I'm well acquainted with The Better. The Better annoys me. He'll say better as a compliment, which, I mean, it's preferable to worse. But it's something I don't know what to do with.

Now, the man was not raised with compliments or praise. It was more like criticism to motivate improvement.

As such, he's pretty reserved with praise. And I love to dollop compliments on people. Sincere ones. It just feels good to me.

So knowing our differences, and wanting to report accurately about the state of my mental health, I said, "Do you think I'm doing WELL? Or just BETTER? Because better than terrible might be better, but still is not so good."

He said, "You're definitely doing better. You can still be pretty sardonic sometimes."

I said I didn't really know what sardonic meant, and he said extremely sarcastic. And I was like, well, yeah.

So I said, "OK. I'm going to tell him I think I'm doing pretty well and you said I'm doing better but still a little too sarcastic for your taste."

At which point India piped in with, "Mama. You're getting so much better at driving! I'm very proud of you! You're less anxious about parking!"

I laughed and thanked her. Sincerely. I have tremendous anxiety parking our new car in the garage and I do think I've gotten better.

She added, "And you're very good at sarcasm, Mama! I'm working on it, too!"

May 2021 get so much better for all of us!

World Suicide Prevention Day 2020

Today, September 10, is World Suicide Prevention Day.

My dad was struggling at my wedding. He was proud, and he was happy. But I could see it in his eyes and his smile. 

You know I use the same photos over and over. Some of them just resonate.

Also, 2009 was a hard cut-off. I won't ever have more.

Sometimes I obsess about the fact that I don't have a nice photo of my dad and me dancing at my wedding.

---

Prior to my physical last week, I had to answer a couple questions about mood. One of them asked about hopelessness. I chose the yes I feel hopeless every single day answer.

I knew this was a depression screening. I figured it would raise a flag. But it was accurate.

So when I saw the doctor I felt the need to explain my hopelessness. I told her that I chose ever day because currently, with Covid and our political situation, as far as I can tell, there is literally zero hope on the horizon. 

I don't think it's my chemical state; I think I'm appropriately medicated. I'm not in a personal pit of despair. I just think we're in a hopeless situation. The world right now is a hellscape.

Uh. Sorry if this is making you depressed. 

Boy howdy am I fun at a cocktail party.

I think. I can't really remember cocktail parties.

---

Anyway, it was our first meeting, I don't know that she was convinced. This was OK. I don't mind if in my file it says keep an eye on this one. 

I wasn't trying to convince her. I was just, I don't know, feeling like I was OK. Mentally. Not physically.

Because physically my elbows hurt all the time even though I have taken a break from yoga and try not to lift anything heavy and also I have nose rot AKA rosacea, on which I am currently putting private parts cream which is holding it at bay until I can see the dermatologist.

Jeez, this really isn't the post I thought I would write.

In any case.

---

The doctor asked about my support system. Who I have to talk to and to check in on me.

I have people. I reach out. I have a psychiatrist.

But I told her I was glad they ask those questions, and I know what they're trying to get at. 

I want everyone to be asked these questions. I want doctors on the lookout. When there's an opportunity for a health professional to help someone who may need it, I am so glad. 

---

At this point in my life, I know so many people who have lost loved ones to suicide. I know so many who have either contemplated or attempted suicide. 

We--those people--we are everywhere. And a lot of us are all sparkly on the outside, so you wouldn't actually know it unless you knew what to look for, or asked the right questions.

Sometimes even then you wouldn't know.

I don't know what one does about those situations.

---

So far, this year has been more about self-preservation than activism.

I remind myself that this is OK.

I'm actually one of the vulnerable people I worry about. Even though I think of myself as really, really strong. I mean, I am. Just not always.

We have to nurture or at least preserve ourselves so we have something to give to others. And also so we don't just walk around all batshit crazy.

---

I probably should've written a poignant post. The truth is, I think about my dad every day. I no longer carry the weight of the should-haves or the what-ifs, at least, not most of the time. I slide into them every once in a while, but it's become rare.

What I think about more is if he'd had the vocabulary to talk about his feelings.

Because part of the problem was that we weren't allowed. But perhaps a bigger problem was that I don't think he'd have been able to, even if we were permitted.

---

I'm raising my children to know that all feelings are OK.

Crying is good. We need to express our sadness. When bad or upsetting things happen, we all feel sad. Everyone does.

Anger is fine. We are allowed to be angry. Often or maybe always, anger is covering up fear. It's also OK to be afraid. Everyone is afraid sometimes.

I wasn't raised this way, and neither was Nick. But this is how we're trying to raise our kids.

---

And I believe that in these small or maybe actually very big, ways I am protecting my kids. 

Kids who are allowed to voice feelings and who feel heard are less likely to self-harm. I don't know if this is the same for adults, but I have to assume so.

I want them to feel safe in letting their feelings out, and to not feel aberrant for having them in the first place. And to know in their hearts that they can ask for help anytime. That help with your feelings and help with your brain are just as valid and just as normal as help with your body.

This, I think, is one of the best things we can do for prevention. We can teach people that all feelings are valid, and there is no shame in needing help with some of them.

---

That's highly simplified. I feel no shame in asking for help, and I know my feelings are valid. I also know that my brain just needs some chemical help. And I feel no shame in this either.

---

Maybe this meandered too much. I don't know.

It's a day of remembrance for me, and a day of looking forward, trying to make the future a better one.

Because while I'm absolutely certain that it's hopeless right now, I'm just as certain it won't always be.

Told you I was appropriately medicated.

SD Day 8: "Things are different today" I hear ev'ry mother say

Yesterday I went out for a long run to try to lift my mood and lower my anxiety.

Actually, it was more of a run/walk, because the pollen has been out in full force and my allergies are making me cough. And running through the gently frolicking pollen made me cough. A lot.

Now, on the one hand this was helpful because I didn't have to cross the street when I saw people approaching. They crossed the street when they heard me.

On the other hand, coughing incessantly is miserable in the best of times.

But at this juncture I am all, cherry blossoms? Or Covid? CherryblossomsorCovid?

I have been coughing so often that I have a perpetual headache. Which I believe is also a symptom of the illness.

So now I'm regularly checking for mucus. Mucus? Check! Good! I have a stuffy nose. Also good! I'm coughing because my throat is irritated by the mucus. Good! I don't have a fever. Excellent!

Not all people who got sick had a fever.

I really and truly don't think I have Covid. I have seasonal allergies. And anxiety. It's just very bad timing.

I mean, let's be fair: all of this is very bad timing for everyone. There's never a great time for a pandemic.

Which reminds me. Have you read Year of the Flood? I really do believe Margaret Atwood is a visitor from the future. She knew everything way ahead.

Last week I emailed my psychiatrist to tell him that while I am taking my medication religiously and exercising and getting out in the sunshine, there are times when I just lose it. I asked if he could prescribe Ativan or something of the sort.

He called. I didn't recognize the number, but fortunately I answered anyway, and we had a little chat.

When he asked how I was, my inclination was to say, "Fine!"

Remember how I was going to lie to him that one time and then didn't?

So I started to say fine but then was like, I am really not doing very well. I'm not in crisis. Except, in some moments I am kind of in crisis. Sometimes I just get myself so wound up that I can't calm down.

Not a panic attack, because now I know what those are like. But like the 3:00 am anxiety that jacks up my adrenaline and makes me physically uncomfortable.

I cannot be alone in this.

Just getting a prescription made me feel better.

Of course, I walked into the pharmacy wearing gloves, with my sleeves pushed up so I wouldn't have to push them up with my hands when I washed them, and carrying nothing but my credit card. Which I sprayed down when I got home, after disposing of my gloves and scrubbing my hands.

Over the weekend, the kids said they would like daily running to be a weekday thing. I agreed.

But then today, when I suggested we go for our run, my son said, "It's supposed to rain all day."

I looked out the window and said, "It's not raining."

"But it's supposed to. All day."

Frankly, I didn't have the energy to get them enthused for a run. I didn't even have the energy to threaten them into it.

So I said fine. We put on GoNoodle and they jumped around to a bunch of those and giggled, and I figure that's at least as good.

I don't have anything funny to say. All I want to do is sleep. I feel this crushing guilt for not scheduling my children today, for letting them have screen time, for having GoNoodle possibly be the most constructive thing we do today.

I'm supposed to be a positive force in the household, holding it together for the kids, whose anxieties are leaking out in crying and in anger.

And all I want to do is hide and sleep.

Hide and sleep. A new game for children with tired parents.

Stop, drop, and roll. Shelter in place.

Stay safe.

Love and  hugs,

Lisa

I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain

The thing about fall is that it can really sneak up on a person.

I imagine this does not happen further north, where the leaves turn beautiful colors and suddenly  there's a nip in the air and it's all just rather obvious.

We were in Maine in late August and one morning it was very fresh and our last two nights were actually really cold. I mean, we were colder than we might otherwise have been, because we were sleeping in a TENT and I have more to say about this.

When you don't write for weeks and weeks on end but keep living your life forward you wind up with a lot of things undescribed and unexamined. So I have lots to say about a ton of things but then where to you even begin?

And what I think I'm best at his here and now.

So here and now, today has a slight chill but it's the first day. Normal people are probably not wearing fleece yet.

We went swimming on Monday because it was so hot and humid. It's supposed to be 90 on Sunday.

This is not the heat of fall. 

Which, I guess it's technically still summer, up to the equinox, right? But in terms of light, it's fall. It's darker earlier and earlier. And the light is not winter thin, but the quality has shifted.

I know to be vigilant in winter, because winter is not my friend. And fall makes me nervous, because it's the gateway to winter.

But it's been so hot and we've been doing summer-ish things after school, that I hadn't yet gotten in an Aikido frame of mind for fall.

And then all of a sudden I realized that everything was hard and I basically hated everyone. Not you, of course. Everyone else.

Because people are really annoying.

We had back to school night and they were asking for room parents. Our class had one room parent--a truly lovely woman--and they needed another one. I didn't raise my hand but I did feel like I ought to.

So afterward I asked Nick if he thought I should volunteer and he said, "I don't mean this unkindly, but do you think you have the temperament for it?"

And I was like, "You mean because I'm ill tempered and hate people?"

Which was, in fact, precisely what he meant.

Then a friend who has been a room parent multiple years was like, "Just do it. You don't have to be nice."

So now I'm a room parent.

But back to the issue at hand, which is, basically, how to not careen headlong into a dysfunctional pit of despair.

I don't even look depressed, do I? That photo is from Monday. Whee!

Once it struck me that: 1. it was essentially fall; and 2. I was not dealing well with life; and 3. my sugar and carb consumption had skyrocketed, I called my psychiatrist's office. I have an appointment for next week.

Frankly, I kind of hate taking an antidepressant. And at this point, it's not about the stigma. It's that they all have side effects. I could list the ones I've tried and what they did. One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small. (And the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all.)

There is something that sucks, largely or minorly, about each and every one I've tried.

But let's also be candid about this: my genes are not so great in this area. And maybe I'm just a person who needs some help with the selective inhibition of serotonin reuptake.

I work out practically every day. I get myself out in the sunshine. I take a probiotic, and eat fiber, which is supposedly what our guts need. I barely ever drink anymore. My sleep isn't great, and I do feel like that would help.

But honestly. So much honestly.

And what I've begun wondering is, what if my problem is anxiety more than depression? I had a panic attack this summer. I was crying. And hyperventilating. I couldn't calm down and I couldn't breathe.

This had never happened before, not like that. Not even when I was dealing with my dad disappearing, or when he died.

I know I'm an anxious person. God knows I FRET. I believe there's a 50% chance of dying with every flight. I save voice mails in case loved ones die on a plane or get hit by a bus. I have to make things right before we say goodbye or good night in case it's the last time. Even if it's for, like, 8 hours.

But I'd never had anxiety symptoms, like heart racing or sweaty palms or the other physical symptoms they list, and because no professional had ever suggested it, I hadn't considered it.

And then my friend Jo posted a list of anxiety symptoms that resonated, and are not all the physical symptoms. Like irritation, lack of concentration, avoidance.

So I said to Nick, "Hey, maybe anxiety is my problem. What if it's been anxiety all along, and not depression?"

He said, "What if it's not one or the other? What if it's not red or blue, but rather purple?"

YES.

So this is what I'm going to say next week. This is where I am and it's not all that great, and I don't  know what it is or isn't, but what if it's purple?

I wanna glide down over Mulholland

Now that last week is over, I'm going to tell you it was one of those weeks where I felt less attached to life than I otherwise might.

I was not in crisis.

More like I was exhausted, demoralized, and really not excited about being in this particular body in this particular life.

I understand very well the repercussions of exiting life the way my dad did. I know, I really do know how much it would devastate my family, and screw up my children forever.

Though my dad attempted suicide the first time when I was 11, I didn't really understand that it was an option until I myself hit a low, low point in my 30s. My entire world felt pointless. Both pointless and devastating.

I was alone, and would be alone forever.

I didn't make a plan, but I had an idea. If, in fact, everyone on the planet except me coupled up, and I was the only one still single, then, when my parents died, I could opt for suicide.

I couldn't do it before that, because it would be too cruel. But at that point, it was an option.

This thought soothed me. I had a solution. An out.

Now I don't have those thoughts in that way, because, god willing, my kids will outlive me, and I would never do to them what my dad did to us.

That's the rational part of me.

The irrational part of me sometimes crooks a finger and whispers that it would be so easy. The line between here and not here is a fine one, and sliding over it would be so quick, so painless.

Like I said, I'm not in crisis, and I wasn't last week, even though I was at a pretty low point for a sustained amount of time.

What I'm saying, I guess, is that I'm here, and I'm glad I'm here, but sometimes it's very hard. And I appreciate knowing I have a community that will support me if I reach out and ask.

Sometimes I ask. Sometimes I free fall. I am just lucky, so lucky there are people to catch me.

Big hugs and much love to all of you.

Quicksand

You know, when I was a kid, I thought quicksand was an ever-present danger.

I knew that to escape, you had to calm yourself and spread your body weight out to swim. You had to  paddle yourself to safety, rather than stay upright trying to run.

Flailing wildly would just get you sucked down to your death.

I knew the concepts as well as I knew to stop, drop, and roll if I caught on fire. Better, in fact, as we didn't dwell on fire prevention.

Although now that I say that, did we dwell on how to survive quicksand?

Maybe.

It was tricky, though, because unlike fire, which is obvious, quicksand could be anywhere.

You might be playing and think it was mud you could walk through. It might just look like the floor of the jungle—so tricky! So you could be waist or even neck high before you even realized.

Best case scenario, you'd have a friend along, one with a long and sturdy stick to offer. If they didn't have a stick, they could lie down flat, making sure they were secure, and extend an arm to pull you to safety.

If you didn't have a friend, you could pretend you were swimming and get yourself to solid ground.

And this is how the slide, or stroll, or plod into depression is for me.

I realized last week that rather than being on the same plane as my peers looking them full and brightly in the face, I was peering out at the world from a grim, grey, industrial twilighty kind of place.

This journey in, which I’ve written about before, is so slow and gradual it’s almost imperceptible. I walk further and further in, until I almost can't see out.

It's like that frog in the gradually heating pot. It's not like raaiiiin on your wedding day, or a free ride when you've already paid.

If you don't know me well, and only see me at the office, or school, or wherever out and about, you wouldn't know it. I smile. I make jokes. It's just inside my head where everything is dark and relentlessly negative.

I knew that the rain pulled me down, and that we had an awful lot of it. In fact, I was pretty sure it had been raining my entire life.

But I was taking my medication. And as I’m at the office I have a an almost two-mile walk to work, and a free gym. So I was exercising pretty regularly. I mean, mostly, except when I wasn't.

And I was eating pretty well. More or less. Except for chocolate.

I was fine. Just tired. And frustrated and short-tempered. But I don’t have a single female friend who doesn’t feel that way lately.

So actually, I really was fine.

I mean, not great, and some days it took every bit of my willpower—and I have a lot—to force myself out of bed. But lots of people feel that way, right?

I was drinking a lot of coffee, and all of the coffee was not enough.

But other than that, I was fine.

I was fine and fine and fine, until I wasn't. Which is how I always am.

I stroll blithely forward, never realizing till I’m waist high, neck high, till I’m under. The farther in I get, the harder it is to do the things that help me surface.

I need that friend with the stick or the arm to extend.

Last weekend, after I'd snapped at him repeatedly, Nick pointed out that I was awfully annoyed with all of them. I was about to tell him that it was because he was being particularly annoying, when he said Betty had mentioned my behavior to him as well. I was short tempered.

And this is what happens now.

I don’t tuck into myself and cry. I get angry and direct it outward. It’s more unpleasant for others, but I’m a more functional human. I don’t have the luxury of time to stay in bed and cry all day. Not getting up and dealing is not an option.

This is what I need to do, every day, to keep myself balanced: Exercise. Walk in sunshine. Eat well, with little to no sugar. Sleep at least 8 hours. Take my meds. Have some time alone.

On a perfect day, all those things happen.

It is rarely a perfect day.

Because sometimes it rains for your entire life or anyway weeks and weeks in a row, month after month.

Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and suddenly you absolutely have to review everything you've done wrong, every single misstep, for the next three hours.

Sometimes chocolate seems like the only solution.

Sometimes for a long time you do not have one single minute to just breathe.

So after Nick said that, I upped my meds. And I ordered a sun lamp for the office. I have floor lamp for home that I use when I’m on my laptop. But now I spend a lot of time in the office, no sun or sky in sight.

On Saturday, Nick took the kids camping overnight. I had a whole day to myself. I had quiet time. I sat in the park under a tree and read a book.

This weekend, I felt like it was turning around. The world still seems grim—I mean, we are heading for a planetary water crisis and the bulk of my government is comprised of pustulent opportunistic lying cheats—but my particular personal little world is not quite so grey and apocalyptic.

Half a dozen colleagues have inquired about the lamp, because it is visible from a great distance, perhaps even outer space. Some asked if it was a grow light, and wondered if I was cultivating pot in my office.

It's legal in DC, but even so, that might be pushing the bounds of acceptability. Also, it is not my thing.

After I explained what it was actually for, several of them asked for the link.

When it rains for your entire life, or anyway weeks on end, months on end, and you cannot function without sunshine, it’s nice to have your own personal grow light to feed your soul and trick your brain.

The quicksand, for me, is always there. I'm vigilant, but it can look like the jungle floor, and I can be neck deep before I know it.

I am always at least neck deep before I know it.

Weaving time in a tapestry

December.

December. December there's so much to do, and not enough time.

And not enough light.

**

Our tree is missing a whole section of lights.

This is exactly how I feel about myself.

**

Christmas is my favorite holiday. I love the tree, the lights, the treats, the songs, the wrapped packages.

Still. Winter is not my friend.

This morning, after yet another disagreement between us, Nick suggested that I've been sliding into a dark place. Sometimes when we fight I feel like he puts the onus on me, because I'm honest about depression and anxiety. Easy to blame.

But in this case, I think his feedback is fair. I've been exercising five days a week, eating well with barely any sugar, and rarely drinking. Even with all that, I am going to up my meds, at least until we have more daylight.

I don't feel hateful, but why wait until I do?

**

December is one of those months where I easily feel like everyone does everything better than I do.

I got holiday cards. But being me, and continually adding people I love to my list, I wound up in the position of having more people than cards. So I got more cards. I haven't yet addressed them all.

I wrote holiday cards for the teachers, bought gift cards, stuffed them. They'll all be delivered by this afternoon, the last day before the holiday. Cards for our tenants, who are terrific. A card for the mail carried, a lovely man.

There are dearly loved ones on my holiday card list who aren't with us anymore. Our traditional Christmas Eve plan...isn't anymore.

Loss. This was a year of significant loss. 

Life is letting go. I've had a life of goodbyes. I used to be good at them.

**

Gifts. Gifts. This year, I pushed for one gift per person. One toy. People could still get books and clothes. Nobody but me liked this idea. But with my hard line--which has made Nick treat me like the Grinch--this year we are more restrained.

Next year, my hope is to travel. We all have an experience, rather than giving each other more stuff.

This year, as in most recent years, I made photo books for both grandmothers. It took me no fewer than 100 hours. Hand to God.

**

In prior years, I've invited a million people for Christmas dinner. OK, not a million. But one year we had 40 people. Because every time someone said they'd be here for Christmas, not traveling to family, I said, "Oh, you should come to our house!"

Betty told me to stop inviting strangers at the bus stop. It was practically at that point.

This year, I've held my tongue. It isn't easy. I open my mouth and then I tell myself to shut it and I do.

I wasn't raised with self-preservation skills. I was raised to carry your weight. Too heavy for you? I'm strong. Let me.

But it takes a toll. I can carry a lot, but I have a family of people who need me.

Sometimes I have nothing left to offer freely, because it's all been claimed already.

**

When I say I hate people, which I have exclaimed a plethora of times this past year, someone near and dear to me says, "Oh, bullshit. You love people. You have SO MANY people you love."

It is true. I have SO MANY people I love. I may have myriad weaknesses, but people are a strength; I have spectacular taste in people.

But when I spend a period of time all PEOPLE PEOPLE PEOPLE I stop functioning quite so well.

As it turns out, I'm a more delicate flower than I'd like to admit. I need a lot of sleep. I need a lot of time alone. My head is a busy place, and when there is too much outside commotion, I get exhausted.

It'd be easier, I am sure, if I were an extrovert. Or a misanthrope.

Apparently, I am neither.

**

I haven't yet made Christmas cookies with my kids.

I haven't finished my cards.

I have presents to wrap.

I don't even know what I'm going to make for dinner.

**

I'm doing my best.

It's December.

Blue, blue, electric blue, that's the color of my room

I was going to start this out with, "The problem with depression..."

But of course, there's not one THE problem. There are a variety of problems and inconveniences. I don't actually know that there's any upside.

A friend who has bipolar disorder described a manic episode to me, and I have to say--and in fact did say to her--that it sounded like fun.

She said they can be fun, and you can be super creative and get a lot done, what with the time you spend not sleeping and seeing the world in a very different way. Which is what makes manic episodes so seductive.

But mania has a dangerous component, and of course depression can be crippling.

So there's that.

Whereas I have plain old depression without the mania. It's not like I'm wishing for a manic component.

Of course, if I had a wish, it would be not to have to deal with depression at all.

But my depression is manageable, and so I manage it. With medication. With daily exercise. With nutrition. I have a light box. I'm limiting sugar, and trying to get off it (oh, but I love sugar...). I'm avoiding fast carbs and alcohol.

All of these things help a lot. But they don't completely fix it. There isn't a once and done fix, or not for me, anyway. There's maintenance and vigilance.

When I am overwhelmed, it seems Sisyphean. Other times, it's just like having asthma, which is only limiting when I don't manage it properly. I don't think of it as my defining characteristic, but I have to think about it, so I don't let it slide.

This is just how it is.

It used to be that when I got depressed, I'd cry. I'd cry at work, alone in my cubicle. I'd go home and sit on the floor and cry. I wouldn't be able to leave my apartment because I couldn't stop crying.

I could hold it together for meetings, provided they weren't all-day meetings, because if they were, I'd have to go to the bathroom intermittently to cry.

I'd run regularly because I couldn't run and cry at the same time. It was a good break.

But now, now when I sink, it manifests in anger. I still cry pretty easily, but I do not sit around and cry for hours on end.

Instead, I get impatient. Angry. I snap at everyone. I have so little tolerance for anyone and anything, myself included.

Basically, I'm a lot more functional in my depression, but boy do I suck to be around.

But this also means I don't recognize it so easily. It's much more obvious when you cannot leave your home, or have a whole conversation, because you can't stop crying.

Now I just seem like a harpy. I'm shrill and ill-tempered and screechy. But that might not be depression. It could also be hormones. Or a bad day. It might not be a shift in brain chemistry.

Hard to know.

I mean, I saw my shrink last week and told him I thought my current dose of medication was great. I'm doing really well, I said.

But it turns out I've been horrible to my family. No patience, no tolerance, very sharp tongued.

I could feel myself doing it, but I didn't recognize it. It was just...why why why is my family SO ANNOYING?

And then on Saturday, Betty asked if I'm depressed.

Depressed? Me? Why?

Because I've just been so unpleasant. So short with the kids. With everyone.

So I stopped and looked back and realized that I've been retreating for a while. It's been harder and harder to leave the house. I haven't been enjoying things. Was this depression? I thought my meds were right.

I don't know if it's my brain chemistry or the weather or the alignment of the planets or what-have-you.

Nobody really knows. My shrink admits it's a guessing game. They make their most educated guess, and then it's trial and error. Which is what makes mental illness so hard. There's still so much of the brain that's a mystery.

I have permission to up my dose.

So I did.

And the world is starting to look a whole lot more appealing.

That time I was going to lie to my shrink and then I didn't

"OK, so, I was totally going to lie to you, because I was afraid you'd get mad, but I'm not. I'm going to tell you the truth."

Months ago, that was what I said when I walked into my shrink's office.

You might think that of all people to be honest with, you'd be straight up with your mental health professional. The one giving you psychiatric medication.

Right?

But you know, my previous shrink, the one I chose because he took my insurance, he made me feel bad. I'd go in and talk to him and I'd immediately feel like I wasn't doing the right thing. I was doing something wrong, or I wouldn't be depressed.

He didn't make me feel like we could figure it out together. No. He made me feel like a loser.

I needed help feeling like less of a loser. Or a not-loser. I didn't want to pay someone to feel like more of one.

And here's the thing. I am a first born rule follower. I am a people pleaser.

I don't want to upset. I don't want to disappoint. I am terrified of getting in trouble.

Now, I don't know about you, but I was raised to respect and even fear authority. Certainly not to question it. I didn't know that was an option.

As an adult, I was once visiting my parents, and my dad called from another room, "Lisa, could you come in here please?"

I flinched. "Am I in trouble?"

He said, "What? No. Lisa. You're 25."

Sometimes Nick has a tone. I think, "I'm in trouble." My body goes into fight or flight mode.

I'm not kidding. I don't think it ever completely goes away.

When I was a kid, I was so truthful. If I did something wrong and was asked about it, I owned it, even if it meant getting spanked. Often I confessed before being asked. I was grounded a lot.

I don't remember my transgressions. I do remember the fear.

As I got older, things got more nuanced. I knew my dad wasn't always right. His rules didn't necessarily make sense. But he expected me to do as he said. He expected me to agree.

I never challenged my teachers or the school administrators. If you were in a position of authority, your word was law.

Then one day in eleventh grade my dear friend Kristin said, "I just agree with people and then do whatever I want."

What? Whoa!

You know what? This worked.

Disagreeing never worked. Fighting didn't work. Sometimes very carefully and thoughtfully articulated opposing arguments worked. I did this, in letter form, I think twice.

But this! This subversive strategy was so much more expedient! And less stressful!

Sometimes me actually doing whatever my dad was expecting didn't even seem to matter. The agreement, the "yes, Dad," was what mattered.

You could agree with something you thought was stupid, and then quietly go about your business.

If you didn't do what you were supposed to do, despite your best intentions...you could just kind of...not exactly tell the truth to the person in charge. And then you wouldn't have a disagreement and you wouldn't get in trouble.

Unless you were caught. But that didn't happen much.

So. My shrink's office.

I'd gone off my meds--you know about this--and taken that express bus to Crazytown.

And then I had this long-standing shrink appointment. To check in and talk about my medication. The medication I'd quit so cavalierly, without so much as an email to him.

My plan, of course, was to walk in and pretend that everything was fine. That I hadn't deviated from the course he set out for me. Because that would be not following the rules. And he might get angry. Or be disappointed.

I might get in trouble.

The day before my appointment, I saw a good friend, who asked about my upcoming appointment. I told her I was just going to say everything was fine.

And she basically said, "Look. This is someone you pay to help you. This is his profession, so he knows what he's talking about. And his only role in your life is to help you feel better. He's not going to get mad, and he's not going to judge."

"You're right. I know you are."

"So let him help you."

I knew she was right. I did. But still, I was so nervous. I hadn't followed instructions. I'd broken the rules. I had to keep telling myself, "He's not your dad. He's not going to get mad. You're paying him to help you."

And I walked in, took a deep breath, and confessed.

It came out in a rush.

"OK, so, I was totally going to lie to you, because I was afraid you'd get mad, but I'm not. I'm going to tell you the truth..."

I went on for a while. I told him everything.

That I was afraid he'd get mad. That I'd be in trouble. That I'd gone off my meds and gone to Crazytown and now I was pretty much back but I hated Wellbutrin and I just wasn't willing to take it anymore.

That I had to be reminded that he wasn't my dad and wouldn't get mad at me. That I recognized that I hired him specifically to help me with the very types of medication I'd been planning to lie about.

You know what he did? He chuckled at my confession. He said he understood how I'd quit and not checked in with him. He didn't chastise me.

He commended me for being truthful. For recognizing that his role is to find solutions, not to judge.

And then we talked it all through. And made a new plan.

He did exactly what I pay him for.

He helped me. And he made me feel better.

I'd love to pretend that with that, I learned my lesson. That I have gotten rid of this automatic response. That I do not react when Nick has a tone. That I do not keep my doctors on a need to know basis, with me deciding what they need to know.

But that would be a lie.

The truth is, I'm working on it.

I wish it were vodka

Nick found this video on an old hard drive. It is almost seven years old.

This video is small and oddly stretched, but it's not very long, and if you have ever had a newborn or suffered from depression or both at the same time, you may relate.

I watched it the first time and wanted to give myself a hug. And some antidepressants. And some sleep. I feel like these 45 seconds kind of sum up my life at that time.

Nick filmed this when Jordan was maybe two months old.

At that point, Nick worked until 9:00 or 10:00 every night. So this was taken shortly after he got home.

I was still recovering from my C-section, and our entire ground floor was under construction. Our kitchen was on the 4th floor.

Oh, and! And my dad had recently died by suicide. And my mom was doing things like smoking and watering one spot of their lawn until 4:00 AM. You couldn't blame her...but one cannot say it was helpful.

Nursing was hard, so I was nursing, pumping, and supplementing with formula. I felt like a huge failure. Also, people were all, "Sleep when the baby sleeps!"

And I was all, "But I have to wash the fucking bottles! And pump! And wash the goddamn pump! And eat! And drink water! And then he wakes up again and wants to eat!"

I had not yet been diagnosed with postpartum depression.

So I didn't know that I was deeply depressed. All I knew was that I hated my life. And I hated my husband. I fell asleep every night dreading the inevitable wake-up cries and dividing up our furniture.

Truly, I feel lucky that I was diagnosed not long after this. Nick came up to the kitchen one day to find me sobbing into the sink, washing out my breast pump.

I said, "I hate my life." And I did. I hated everything about it, so much. I was in utter despair. I saw no hope.

But not now. Thank God. Thank professionals and medication.

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition

Old photo swiped from porn name post because I love it.

So several years ago Nick and I had a conversation about porn names.

To sum it up for you: if he had a porn name it would be Girth Brooks, and since I had to think fast and did not want to be outdone, said I'd be Dolly Farton.

And then he pointed out that that kind of name will just not get you into mainstream porn.

It is always my instinct to be all, "I could too!" Whether I want to or not.

But let's be honest. Even if I were younger, I can't imagine myself in porn, Dolly Farton or no.

Also, even with more time I can't come up with a cleverer name. So there's that.

Anyway, one day we got on the topic of S&M. Not in an exploratory way. Because I am more M&Ms than S&M.

More in a like a "what safe word would you pick" kind of way. And I was all, "Either Brussels sprouts or creme brulee."

And Nick was all, "Those are both two words. It's a safe word. Not a safe compound word. Not a safe phrase."

So I was like, well, does it have to be one word? Well, maybe. Maybe you don't have enough air for two. So then Constantinople would be out as well because it's just too many syllables. You'd want one syllable, two at most. Cake? Fridge? Frodo?

Definitely not Flight of the Conchords. Or Australia, because they have like the top 10 most poisonous animals on the planet. Or something like that. I think. I mean, it is somewhere I would really like to visit. But doesn't fall under my vision of safe as a concept.

(Whereas clearly cake, fridge, and Frodo do.)

At any rate, we didn't really get anywhere with it and I basically forgot about it.

And then a couple months ago, I called Leigh to tell her that I had gotten into a really bad place and that I was getting better. And that she was right about the meds.

My purpose was exactly two-fold. One, I went there, and two, I'm back. Like, "Hey, I took this trip to Paris and now I'm home! Hi!"

So I called and said that I had gone to a very bad place, and she said, "I know."

And I was all, "You know?"

She said, "I knew before you visited. I knew weeks ago."

"How?"

"One of your posts on Facebook was kind of mean. And you are not mean."

So I said, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Leigh said she didn't feel comfortable. What if I got really angry? What if I didn't think it was her business?

I was all, "If it happens again, please tell me. I need you to tell me."

And she said, "I think what we should do is pick a safe word."

"A safe word?"
 
"Yes. We pick a safe word, and when I say it, you'll know exactly what I mean."

We haven't yet chosen one, but since breathing is not a factor, I'm thinking along the lines of spaghetti carbonara.

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.

Dear Lisa

This is you. Happy Mother's Day. Please be kind to yourself, today and every day.

You always, every minute, try to be the best mom you can possibly be. You love your child(ren) more than your very life. Hell, more than their father's life, much as you may love him.

You may not make them Pinterest-y lunches, or feed them all organic food, or cook what you might consider actual dinners. Every night may consist of endless chicken nuggets and Annie's (organic!) mac & cheese. Many nights may not even include a vegetable.

And this makes you feel like you fail Feeding Children 101.
 
You may not buy them expensive clothing or adorably put together outfits.

Or you might spend big money and buy the cutest outfits you possibly can. And then they won't wear them.

Sometimes you can shrug it off. It's only clothing. And sometimes this is beyond you, because do you know how much this dress cost and how CUTE it is and YOUR NANA bought it for you and you still want to to wear that horrible polyester nightgown because it has Cinderella on it? Every goddamn day?

And the you feel like an asshole.

You are depressive and you take medication, and you need sunshine and daily exercise and alone time and sleep. It is a hard little dance to keep you sparkly, and often you are not.

Your kids aren't getting your best. You should be joyful more often. You shouldn't let them watch so many videos. You should be doing papier-mâché projects with them. You ought to teach them to sew to improve their fine motor. But often, you are tired.

You should've had kids younger. You should've had therapy and exorcised some of your demons and developed the ability to commit earlier.

But then you wouldn't have this spouse and these kids, and they are your world.

Some nights you all sit down to dinner and someone says, "NO fish sticks!" and you just feel like you cannot fucking deal and you pour yourself a giant glass of wine.

Just standing up to take a glass out of the cupboard gives you a reset. Pouring the wine is like a small dive into the adult life you used to lead that never included oatmeal smeared on your butt that you had no idea about. All day.

You don't even need to drink more than a sip or two. Sometimes you carry the glass to the bathroom and then get distracted by the bathing and the rest of the nightly struggles. You find it mostly full in the morning when you're brushing your teeth.

And sometimes one glass is three. But even if it's just one, or half of one, you wonder if this is addictive behavior.

You don't do it every night. Not even every week. But there are times when you feel tempted to walk out the back door and howl at the moon. Or walk out and just keep walking. So instead you are like, "I neeeeeeeed a glass of wine."

Your daughter occasionally says, "I'm dwinking wine!" And it is adorable. But is this a mark of your bad mothering?

You grew up with your parents' nightly cocktails and cigarettes. Regular dinner guests, and more cocktails and more cigarettes.

But we're a different generation. We're parenting more gently, more mindfully.

Aren't we?

I mean, after all, we use carseats and seat belts. We don't put them in the dog cage in the back of the station wagon while we go into the supermarket. We validate our kids' feelings and don't spank and if they cry we don't tell them to go to their rooms so we don't have to deal with them crying.We tell them they can do and be anything, rather than implying that they are not capable of a whole lot.

This puts us ahead of our parents, even if we retain the scars. Wounds that leak and break open and push us to say damaging things in moments of rage.

You try to remind yourself to breathe, to use your gentle voice, to not completely lose your mind when your kid pulls the straw out of the milk and squirts it across the kitchen. Or whacks their sibling. Or whiiiiiiiines for the 15 millionth time in a row. Or physically fights over which book to read at night.

Sometimes this works, and you stay calm and get your kids through the situation without trauma or tears. You pat yourself on the back. Or maybe you don't. But you should.

And sometimes rage overtakes you and your head melts and you yell so loudly you scare the shit ot of them. And then your kids sob and you feel like a complete failure.

You ask yourself what kind of terrible mother does that?

You love your children more than all of the stars in the universe, more than all the sunshine, all the flowers. More than every single breath you have left in your body.

You tell them so. You say, "I love you more than all the rainbows everywhere, more all the drop sof rain, more than every single chocolate chip in every cookie on the entire planet."

They eat this up.

Please give yourself a hug and remember: you are strong, and you are loving. You tell people to be gentle with themselves, and yet you do not do this.

Be kind to yourself. You deserve sunny rainbow hug love, too.

You are doing your best.

My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on a limb. And all I remember is thinking, I want to be like them.

I know a lot of you have already seen this, but I also know that we are not all connected on Facebook, and so I wanted to put it on the blog to share.

This Is My Brave asked each of us to make an a short video introducing ourselves. I was first on the schedule, and here I am.

This was really scary to do, and I feel proud of it.

It's insecurity-provoking to share your own words, but then when you're sharing your heart words and  saying them out loud into a camera where everyone can see your regular eye rolls and the funny little faces you make, and hear your high little voice, well, that's a whole nother level of yikes.

And yet I think it's extremely important to talk, talk, talk until we are blue in the face about how mental illness is just plain old normal.

Eventually, if we talk enough, if enough people come forth and share their stories, mental illnesses will move into the realm of common everyday boring illnesses like high cholesterol and allergies. They'll be so prosaic that we'll talk about them on the bus and share contact info for doctors and swap medication stories.

Because they are that common.

Once this happens, people will not feel ashamed to seek the care they need. They will no longer go without help because they're too afraid to admit that they need it.

I said it in the video and I will say it again forever until it is no longer true. I believe that the shame associated with mental illness kills people. And I believe talking breaks the stigma.

Also, sorry for only being a semi-reasonable wife, Nick.

The kind of naked I do not like to be so could you please help?

I have the honor of being part of the 2015 This Is My Brave cast.

What does this mean?

It means that a group of us will each be sharing a 5-minute story of our own experiences with mental illness. It means standing up on stage in front of an audience of strangers and speaking from our hearts and lives on a topic that is still highly stigmatized. It means talking to break the stigma.

I'm proud of my audition piece. Crafting it was extremely difficult, and I learned a tremendous amount about myself in doing so. It was surprisingly healing.

And now, now I need a 2-4 sentence bio.

I'm comfortable telling stories about what's in my heart. I'm very not comfortable defining who I am. I mean, who am I? In 2-4 sentences?

Honestly, getting physically naked makes me more comfortable than getting this kind of naked in public.

But I can't just submit a naked picture of myself. I mean, one, that would be weird. Particularly in the boot. Two, I'm certain it would get me kicked off the cast. So I need a brief bio.

I asked for help on Facebook, and a number of friends very kindly did so. I took their suggestions, removed the extremely complimentary adjectives (oh, thank you, friends!) and the references to merkins, penii, my House of Cards extra-ness and the like (thank you again, friends!), and crafted this:

Lisa Jordan is a writer, wife, daughter, and mother to two young kids. Lisa documents her life journey on her blog, Lemon Gloria, sharing her stories of marriage, depression, suicide, motherhood, and life’s stranger moments and everyday pleasures with equal gravity and humor. She is working on a book about growing up with suicide.

What do you think?

I need to know by tomorrow. But preferably right now, like, this minute.

Thank you.

Brian Cuban in DC February 25

My dear friend Mark Bennett asked me to share this information with you, and since I'd do pretty much anything for him, and the topics resonate with me and might with you as well, here we are.

Interestingly, Mark is the one who gave me my favorite pair of jeans in high school. The Levis he'd grown out of, and the ones that became my benchmark for being thin enough through years and years of weight struggles. Of starving and exercising too much and getting depressed and gaining weight and getting it all under control and getting skinny again.

When I'd get skinny enough to fit into those jeans, I was thin enough. Which meant I was pretty enough and good enough. (Pretty enough? Good enough? For what?) And then I'd gain weight, which meant...the opposite, right?

If you haven't heard of Brian Cuban—and I hadn't—he's a lawyer, an advocate, and an inspirational speaker. He talks about his personal experiences with eating disorders, drug addiction, depression, and attempted suicide. He'll be in DC speaking at GW on the evening of February 25. Details are on this poster.

You know I am a sucker for the super-personal tales of struggle. Eating disorders and mental illness? That's like an evening at the movies for me. Plus, Mark says he's an awesome speaker.

So if I can swing it, I'll be in the audience.

PSA: And we live in a beautiful world, yeah we do, yeah we do...

There is one thing that really, really bugs me, and I'd like to get it off my chest.

The time has just changed, and days are noticeably shorter. Night falls early, and it feels intense. As we march inexorably forward into the long dark of winter, I see people start to struggle. It affects different people to different degrees, but let's be candid: lack of light does nobody any favors.

Except vampires. They do very well, as I understand it. And maybe it doesn't matter for zombies. I can't think about zombies (very high on Fear List) so I don't know much about them.

But the long dark, it is not kind to most humans among us.

So this is a good time to say the following: if you think you are depressed, odds are, you are. You know it, and I know it.

People don't, in my experience, think they're depressed unless they are.

And you should do something about it. At the very least, talk to your primary care doctor. I'm 100% certain they see lots and lots of depression. It is everywhere.

Sometimes depression is due to a particular situation. Say, for example, you get divorced or a loved one dies, and you go through a very hard period. Does this mean you need medication? Maybe, maybe not. I'm not a doctor; I just like to play one in my medicine cabinet.

Counseling can always help. Who among us is innately equipped to deal with grief and loss?  In fact, counseling can help with so many things. We all have crap from our childhoods that govern who we are as adults. It's a relief to have help sorting that out.

But I digress.

Say, on the other hand, your behavior shifts for no discernible reason. Maybe you start crying a lot. Or you become constantly angry. Maybe you're tired all the time. Maybe you feel worthless, insecure. Your friends are doing things you usually think are fun, but you just can't be bothered. Because getting dressed and going out seems too hard.

These are all symptoms of depression.

And if you are depressed, you might not even recognize it. But if you think you might be, you probably are. So do something about it.

Now, I know the DOING of things when you're depressed is so hard. Because everything is hard. Smiling is hard. Picking up the phone to make an appointment sounds exhausting. It's like you have to get up and get dressed while fighting through marshmallow fluff. The world wants you to stay in bed because it's easier.

But it's not ultimately easier. It is a much, much more difficult way to live. And it doesn't have to be this way.

Why, you may wonder, am I getting all soapboxy now?

From up on my box perch, I will tell you.

Being so open about my dad and depression and the effect of his suicide on our family, I get into lots of conversations with people about these things. And I regularly receive messages about depression.

Sometimes they are from strangers, and sometimes from people I know, to varying degrees. I get asked questions, for recommendations for therapists, for thoughts on situations, for resources.

(Once in a while, a friend will write to tell me about a suicide to ask for help understanding. Sometimes I think you just need to reach out to someone who can understand how bad you feel.)

Here is when I get frustrated, though: when someone thinks they are depressed, but then won't do anything about it.

Sometimes I give an opinion, or offer up resources, and they contend they don't feel that bad. Not bad enough to see a doctor. Or they know they don't need medication - it's not like that. Or they don't really see what a therapist might do for them. I mean, they know what their problem is, and they have friends to talk to, so why pay someone to talk about it?

Yah. So why ask me? Nobody needs to convince me of how not in need of help they are.

So to these people I say, things don't have to be so hard. You don't have to struggle. You can get help and life can be easier.

Me, I've lived through some terrible things, and I'm still working hard to heal and move forward. I'm just living life the best I can. I take a pill every day because it makes life better for me and for my family. In the scheme, it seems a small thing to do, really.

And that's all I have to say about that.