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Seasons

The south is often said to be devoid of traditional seasons. Some winters we never see a freeze. Some springs leap directly into the dreadful heat of summer. The seasons that we have come to live our lives around are different and bear unique names, as descriptors of their place in our lives. We have football season, Mardi Gras season, lent, summer, and hay ride season. In fact our seasons may be more adequately referred to as seasoning. A lil something to make life a bit tastier.

For example, we are currently in the Christmas season. In my world that involves family time, sweets, buying presents, and renewing desires to keep the sweetness of the season present all year long.

Next we will move to crawfish season and Mardi Gras season; each movement of the calendar marking something unique in each life that is touched.

My calendar, though, is currently out of whack. As the game of life has once again demonstrated, life is not always fair. I am struggling to cope with physical illness while my family also struggles to stretch scarce resources until a far away payday. Additionally we are exploring churches in my small town with hope for finding a congregation that will embrace myself and my family without condition.

It's certainly a season of discomfort. It's often been a season of pain. This is not how I planned to spend the holidays.

But there is one thing about seasons that gives me hope. Seasons come and go. Crawfish season is glorious but those bugs are not plentiful all year long. Likewise this moment of discomfort will not last forever. It is only a moment in life. We will live. Things will pan out. We may even thrive again.

Seasons change....and thank God they do.

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When running club is just too run-ny.

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The family drawing

This week, Eli was instructed to draw a picture of his family. The Therapist made several poignant observations.

First, I am obviously the authority figure in the house. Of this I am kind of proud. I've been drilling that I am the boss of the house into everybody's mind as long as I can remember. Finally it took. But how did she come to this conclusion? I am the only one in the family with arms and legs. Also, I get to wear clothes. Both are very good things.

Other notes that were made include Anita having 4 boobs. Also she and Eli are naked, but only because he doesn't know how to draw clothes on them. And everybody has very prominent belly buttons.

So there you have it. My family. All naked, even though I am perfectly capable of dressing them with my arms and giant belly button. I don't know how I feel about all this power.

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Broken records

It seems like everywhere I turn, there is a halfhearted answer. And as a mental health professional, I have heard them all. I've even said most of them. (There are a few that are so awful I refuse to share) But regardless, everybody has their 2 cents and will insist on hurling it at a person whether the advice is wanted, needed or otherwise.

I admit it. I've been guilty of this. We all have. That's why I accept the platitudes with as much grace as I can muster. But some days are easier than others.

I, for one, have internalized all the popular ones. I need to exercise more. I need to get good sleep. I need to meditate. I need to wake up at the same time every day. I need to eat all the right things. I need to be kind to myself. This will be better when I get a good job....... However "right" all that sounds does not change the fact that there are times that they contradict reality. Or each other.

The point is, friends, that we can only do our best, and that even if we do those things that are proven to fix our problem....we may still have a problem.

Things have been getting increasingly dark in my head. Since I was off work today I decided to do a yoga session...in my house. I chose a short, easy sesh. You know, to give me a boost of confidence. Y'all. It was hard. A 30 min beginners session was doggone hard! And it didn't brighten my mood at all. When it was over I still didn't want to move forward with the day or clean house or wash clothes or-anything. I was puzzled.

Thinking about this seeming contradiction got me wondering. Maybe instead of working through my demons, I'm supposed to be working with them. Maybe instead of getting rid of them I should be learning from them. Maybe I've gone about this wrong. Maybe I just need to go to sleep. I don't know. But for now I can check off exercise on the list of things that should have fixed my brokenness, but didn't.

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His best dream

We had discussed it for the entire car ride.

It's so big. Will you be scared?

Will I get motion sickness?

Will it jar her neck?

As we were standing on that top step, I knew that it was going to be fine. Eli's beautiful eyes looked into mine and with a flair of excitement and mystery shared "this is my best dream". To ride the Ferris wheel is all I have to do to make his best dream come true. Come on, boy let's go!

The Ferris Wheel has always held a bit of anxiety for me. The great height, the swinging of the seat, those tiny bolts that holds everything together to prevent the behemoth from rolling off into the darkness with me hanging on for dear life. But now it's different. Now I am not only afraid that the seat may tip me out somehow, but what on Earth will I do if my heart begins to slide from that seat? I can't hold him, y'all!

But at the top step it was different. I would not be perched atop the world on a swinging 2x4. We would all sit comfortably in a gondola. It would be okay. And in that moment of relief I heard the sweetest words.

My heart. The one that lives outside my body....he leans in...and he says, This looks like my favorite dream. He beams. I melt. I need all the tickets. I want to ride all the rides.

It's these experiences that make a childhood. At least I hope so. Because it's the best shot I've got at doing this parenting thing right.

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No soup for you!

Its been a really bad couple of months.  As I have felt like the life I have built around myself has crumbled, I have retreated into myself.  My protective shell, pulled over my head, has hidden me from the world.  If only I was as oblivious to everything around me as I have felt that the world has been as oblivious to me.  

Thanks to social media I have been kept abreast of the looming threat of the hurricane battering the coast so close to my home.  I've not missed any report on the Trumps' ridiculous claims or poor clothing choices.  And I've felt more isolated and sad than ever. 

It seems that being so connected has given me the belief that I am really connected.  It has fueled anxiety that has overtaken my ability to function at times.  But the connection has also left me begging for something more.  It has left me aching for the love and attention that FB "advertises" to be real.  to have some real connection from friends down the road instead of a "like" or thumbs up.  Or a poke....do they still have that function?  (And what did that mean anyway?) 

This week an appeals court ruled that being "friends" with a person on Facebook does not identify a person as a "friend".  This played out by allowing a judge to rule in a case where the prosecutor was a Facebook friend...a case where the defense felt that the judge should recuse herself due to her relationship with the prosecution. But the appeals court recognized that Facebook friendship does not a friend make.  And that is a lesson that my heart needs to learn. 

You see, I tend to feel left out a lot.  I feel awkward, shy, and generally fearful that people see me as I see myself.  If you could see into my mind you would know that the way I see myself is a ridiculous distortion of reality.  Its pretty impossible that anyone could see me in that way, because the horrors of my mind do not exist on earth. 

But here's the thing.  Nobody wants to hear about my depression.  Of course, I don't necessarily want to share about my depression either.  I worry about the impact it would have on my professional life and my future job offers or opportunities for promotions.  I worry that nobody will want me to be alone with their kids for fear that I will snap and do something awful.  I worry that the shame of my inner pain will embarrass my family.  And before anybody says that I'm taking it too far, just think a minute. 

I have never been presented with a pie or casserole to 'help me through' a particularly difficult episode.  I have never seen a Meal Train started to support "our sister in Christ who just needs a little extra love right now".  Now, it may happen.  But I've been around a while.  I've taken people casseroles or soup or whatever during sickness or after a death.  I've been invited to join Meal Trains. But its always been a person with a "legitimate" need or loss.  Never has a mental illness or just emotional overload been a reason.

Perhaps this parity in kindness exists because of the shame that surrounds mental illness.  I admit, I have not been open about mine.  And we can't expect friends or anyone else to be mind readers.  But is it a legitimate fear or is the concern of losing friends a real thing?  What would happen if people knew?  I think it's a question that should be asked.  But its also an issue I'm not ready to bring up.  The shame is too strong and the stakes are too high.  So for now, "No soup for you".  Soup Nazi, circa Sinefeld era

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Panic at the disco...or anywhere

Tightness. It's almost like a tennis ball is stuck in my throat. Or a dog leash is wrapped around my neck. Swallowing doesn't help. Advil doesn't help. Nothing helps. I first saw a psychiatrist when my baby was 11 months old. I told him I must have a tumor in my throat. He gave me xanax. And the growth was healed. At some point he decided that I needed to deal with my anxiety without medication. It was on the day that the first Ebola case was identified in the US. It took a long time but my heart finally began to beat regularly again after a good hour of concentrated deep breathing. I still wonder if he thinks I am misusing the medication. That is the primary reason I am so hesitant to take it. But as the grip of my anxiety begins to tighten again, I think I will have to. I can't function with such discomfort. I can't necessarily make it go away. I don't know what to do. #anxietydisorder #panicdisorder

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Tip-tap

Tip-tap, tip-tap, yelp! She cannot bear being locked out of the room. My little Velcro dog wants to be velcroed to me 24-7. But I don't want her perched upon my gut in "legs up the wall" pose. It's supposed to "rinse" the trapped fluids and toxins from my lower extremities and give a little extra blood flow to the brain. God knows my brain is needing all the help it can get today. My goal is to get my brain to check in with the land of the living. And maybe to move some fluid off my legs so I can pee it away and maybe weigh a tiny bit less when I step on the scale. About that scale. I swear it is off by at least 15 pounds. I told the doctor that once and he laughed at me. But I digress. Exhausted. It's how I feel every day. It never seems to go away, although it sometimes fades to "just tired". Lately though it has taken on a life of its own. In recent weeks it has taken over, and my desire for life has moved to just putting one foot in front of the other and keeping up with the flow. But I'm barely keeping up. And today I just gave up the fight. I did what I said I wouldn't do and I stayed in bed, sending a poorly focused text to my coworkers. My devoted fiancée fawned over me, offering me anything and everything, but this one she can't fix. The view is different from here. The ceiling fan is pretty, with its arms whirling away...its kind of relaxing. My mind wanders to what is going on. This is not the first time my body has deceived me. Maybe the exhaustion is a cry for rest. Maybe the joint pain is a plea for me to slow down. But I look around and see so many others who do so much more than I do with more than one kid in tow. How do they manage? How are they not dead? Walt calls I'm from work to make sure I am okay. I feel guilty that I am at home. I wonder if I am making this up. My eyes close. So tired.

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This

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Confession

Sometimes I like to use vulgar language. Not because I don't have sufficient vocabulary to express myself, but because it just really feels good to drop a few F-bombs every now and then.

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The trenches

My first job was the Vietnam of Social Work. When Huey P Long began the charity hospital system and slapped a facility smack in the middle of the state, he created a hotbed of need. To be fair the hospital served a population that would be hard pressed to find services elsewhere. Prisoners? Yep. We had them. Uninsured? Come on, there is a place for you. What about the homeless, mentally ill and substance abusers? You guys will fit right in. I sat with first time moms who were handcuffed to their hospital beds as they spent the only precious few hours they would ever spend with their newborn babies. I sat with others handcuffed to their beds in the last hours of their lives. The only soul besides those wearing bullet proof vests allowed in the room. I guided the poor toward affordable services and life saving medications. I felt like I was making a difference. Every day there was a new crisis and the hospital staff called upon myself and my coworker to put out the fire and create a solution where there was none. It was 11 pm on a Thursday night that I received the worst call of my life. The ambulance was on its way. The child was already dead. I lived close enough that I beat the ambulance there. He was seven. There was a holiday party. He was eating a corndog. It has horrified me since that night to think that so many people think of hot dogs as the perfect child’s food when really it is a death trap. It is the perfect size to lodge in a child’s windpipe. The family applied first aid in a futile attempt to dislodge the food but to no avail. I explained to his grandparents that there would be tubes. That he would not look like himself. No preparation in the world could have helped them with the tragedy of seeing that cold, blue resemblance of their pride and joy lying on the stretcher. I lost some innocence that night. The innocence that one loses by warming the body of an infant to prepare him for the mothers very last kiss. The deep sadness of holding the hand of a girl too young to be recognized as an adult as she succumbed to the AIDS virus that had been forcibly gifted to her by her stepfather. These experiences shaped me. They imbedded a deep sense of gratitude for what i had. They educated me about the frailty of life. I became oh so aware of how fortunate I was in a very ugly, very unkind world.

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Fairy Tales

Things got easier after that first year…or two. I worked two or sometimes three jobs in addition to my studies. I did not come from a wealthy family and it was always understood that it would be essential for me to work in order to attend college. Work-study provided a little relief but the bulk of my spending money came from babysitting and flipping burgers at the school’s greasy spoon. Looking back I believe that this kept me active enough that I was not totally isolated in a cocoon of depression and self loathing. I made a few friends. I mastered the art of going to class. I even enjoyed some of the classes I took. I found that I had talent in the arts and in writing. I flourished. And yet from time to time I would once again find myself paralyzed in the grip of the demon. Miraculously I finished. I changed my major 5 times (seriously), but after a mere four years in the undergraduate program I completed my bachelor’s degree. I went on to spend another year in the prestigious LSU and completed my masters studies with a 4.0 GPA. It was during that year that I began to have panic attacks. I still don’t really know how I passed that final, all encompassing, exam of all exams. But I did. And before final grades were calculated, before diplomas were even printed, I was employed in my field. I was successful. I was drawing a salary and living independently and paying my own bills, free from the chains that had held me so tightly. I enjoyed the feeling of success for a spell. I bought my first car, a little Mazda 3 that I thought was as cute as could be. More importantly I was another step in the direction of freedom from my past. All was well. Until it wasn't. The thing about depression is that it can be hidden for a season, but when it is ready it will return. Regardless of what its victim does it will always make its way back unless it is treated. So, like a wood frame house in the humid air of Louisiana, the destructive infestation took over as I tried to carry on my little fairy tale life. I was one of the lucky ones. I was able to get help before my foundation was destroyed.

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Sleep

My darling.

I woo you with my most gracious gifts. I plead with you to return to me and hold me through the night. My soul cries out, “Don’t leave!” As if my beckoning could draw you near for one more moment. I taste your kiss upon my lips, and yet you refuse to grace me with your presence upon my pillow.

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The beginning

I guess I was 17 when it started. Prior to that there were periods of sadness or angst or frustration as is normal for a teenager, but I was never impaired by them. No, it was definitely in college when I began to be overtaken by the illness. But at that time I didn’t know what it was. I only knew that getting out of bed was absolutely, impossibly painful. I only knew that my roommate ditched me after the first semester because she could not handle the misery emanating from my side of the room. I suffered in silence. I suffered in fear. I suffered in shame. I still look back and wonder how my life would be different if I had actually walked to Cavanaugh Hall and focused and absorbed all of the wisdom and knowledge offered to me by the great Dr Black. I wonder how I would have fared if I had the ability at the time to really understand the concepts presented to me in those classrooms in Alexandria Hall. How would my life be different if I had been able to have a relationship, nay, a conversation with my peers? Instead another journey began. A journey of sadness and regret. A journey of longing. A journey of learning very difficult lessons at a very tender age. Looking back I can see how depression incapacitated me in so many ways. I can see how it stole so many opportunities. But despite all of that I also see the journey that began so early in my adult life. Like a river that changes course as its banks both crumble and build, I was transformed by the very defect that plagued my young mind. This is my story.

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Committing thoughts to words is so final. Once they are out there I will never get them back. And yet they often feel as if they are taking over my brain. Much like the excessive music and photo collection on my phone.