This Is Not A Fad

I’m going to come right out and say it- I am butt hurt about the people who call the rise of women telling their sexual harassment/abuse stories as a “trend” or a “fad”. That implies that it started out of the blue, and will disappear just as quickly. Sure, the hashtag #MeToo may stop being shared or used, but that doesn’t mean that the events that happened in women’s lives just disappeared and the world is going to go back to the place where men’s behavior is rarely questioned, and women are always seen as liars and attention seekers.

I didn’t choose to share my stories with the hasthag because at the time, I was never physically assaulted. But oh boy, do I have stories about harassment and just outright sexism. And it’s not just in my teen years. So let’s take a walk down memory lane and I’ll show you how these stories have impacted me- because these instances didn’t happen in a vacuum. Some of these stories still impact my daily life.

Elementary School

My first encounter that I can recall of sexism I was sitting in my new small town 5^th grade class. I am one of three girls in a class of twelve. Not only that, I am the new kid, so I throw all these kids for a loop. 

We’re doing our U.S. History and Government unit and discussing rights. The example of equal pay comes up and I kid you not, my male classmates turned to me and said, “Women don’t need to be paid the same as men, right?”

The group of four guys didn’t like my outright “Heck yes they do!” response. It boggled my mind that they thought I would just sit there and agree with them.

Another instance, 6^th grade at the same school. I’m sitting on a bench during recess with a friend. Up walks two boys from the other sixth grade class. One proceeds to get down on one knee, and says in the sweetest voice, “Daria, I just wanted to let you know,” making sure he has my full attention before he jumps up to his feet and getting right in my face to shout, “I f&$king hate your guts.” He and his friend then burst into laughter and walk off as though telling me this was by far the best joke ever told. I remember just sitting on that bench with my friend. Both of us speechless. I don’t remember doing anything in particular to either of these boys, let alone doing anything that would warrant an excuse to be told that. Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a complete angel in 6^th grade, but when was the last time a stranger walked up to you and told you that they hated you?

6^th grade really was just full of crap from boys. Letters telling me I was the ugliest person on the planet, that I should go die in a hole. All of which  were signed with a loving “from your ugly butt.” Because preteen boys are so creative at their insults. 

I had snowballs with rocks in them thrown at me. I was tripped into a huge puddle of mud by a boy I knew didn’t particularly like me. 

One guy thought it would be funny to follow me around and terrorize both me, my sister (who was in 3^rd grade) and her friends. 

During a dance I had a handful of guys come up and tell me that “Victor” wanted to dance with me, but I just couldn’t believe them at this point- because I knew that I was going to be the butt of yet another joke. 

I remember being dragged to school because I hated going to school- because as much as I had good friends, it was still a nice little slice of hell. I even got to sit in front of the Principal and was asked by him why I didn’t want to be at school. But I knew he wouldn’t believe me if I told him. He was there at a school bowling activity when I slipped and sprained my ankle and thought it was an April Fool’s Day joke- because every kid wants to skip school and then sit there while everyone else has fun.

Would you want to go to school where you felt singled out by a male population that was 3 boys for every girl?

Middle School

Oh boy middle school.  My 7^th grade locker neighbors were boys that thought it was funny to spray my stuff with their Axe body spray and close my locker while I was still rummaging through it. My good guy friend was friends with a guy who constantly told sexist jokes, and was just generally menacing. Greatest feature of this guy was him telling me every day on the walk home from school that my boobs needed to be bigger- because my young teenage body was there for him to appreciate, obviously.

High School  

Thankfully my later teenage years were much better, at least at school. But I will never forget the summer before my Senior Year. 

I was talking a rather long walk home from a Church Carnival. I’m about halfway home when this white car slows down and seems to try to keep pace with me. I glace at the car to see if it’s someone I know, maybe if they were a friend messing with me. But I don’t recognize these guys. Both are skinny, wearing white wife beaters and staring at me like I am the juiciest steak they’ve ever seen. I quickly look forward and keep walking. Somehow that ticked them off so they speed up, and go around the block- and I’m hoping that they will be going off to where ever they were heading.

I cross the street and I see something white out of the corner of my eye, and it’s the white car again. The guys roll down their windows and are just staring at me. One starts talking but I am so terrified I’m having a hard time catching what he’s saying. I just shake my head and pick up my pace, terrified because at any moment, the one in the passenger seat could reach out and grab me. I was terrified of reaching the end of the block because they could have turned and blocked me from crossing the street toward home. But I guess they got frustrated with me and sped off, swearing loudly at me and calling me very unpleasant names.

But I didn’t know if they were going to circle around again, they’d done it once already. So before I waited for them to drive around I back tracked and took the longest and most complex route home that I knew- making the average 30 minute walk an hour. Every single white car that passed me terrified me. I remember getting home and telling my parents why I got home so late. And only my mother was sympathetic. My dad asked me why I didn’t do “this or that?” And my sister just younger than me laughed and thought I was making a mountain out of a mole hill.

While working at a theme park and riding the bus home, I remember guys giving me those similar “you are a big juicy steak” look following me off the bus.

Conclusion

So what does all this mean?

It means that I am still uncomfortable walking by myself and a white car slows down.

It means that during high school I wore pajamas and baggy shirts so nobody could see my body because if nobody could see it, then they couldn't comment on it.

It means that I grew up thinking that the only men that would ever want to marry me were either crazy or extreme perverts. Luckily that is not the case… well he’s a little crazy but not in a negative way.

It means that I rarely trusted the men around me because they either hated me for simply existing, or only saw something they wanted to play with- I wasn’t a person.

That messes with you! And it’s taken years to get over this. But I still feel like I must ask my husband whether he hates me for doing/not doing x, y, or z.

Now that I’m a mother, with both a daughter and son, I don’t want that to be the world they grow up with. I don’t want my children to think it’s acceptable to tell people how they should look, or shout rude comments to complete strangers (in person or on the web). I don’t want either of my children to think that no one will believe her when she’s facing bullying or he’s being harassed. 

My hope is that I teach my children that respect means treating every person they meet with kindness and civility.

Dear readers, I don’t tell you these stories to make you feel pity or to demonize men. (If I thought all men were evil I would NOT have gotten married, let alone had children). My point is to tell you that the women who are putting their reputations on the line and their hurt out in the open to spread awareness- that’s not a fad. That’s not a trend. That’s a cry to be heard and validated that they are humans with experiences that affected their lives. Whether or not you agree with how they handled things, doesn’t matter- they aren’t asking your opinion. They are asking you to say “I see you. I see that your experience was real.” You can have whatever opinion you want, I can’t control your mind. But I ask that you show more kindness, both to the men and women who have taken the brave step to speak out. We've all been vulnerable once, remember how you wanted to be treated.  

In the words of a good friend of mine, "Be excellent to each other." 

Mazes and Whirlpools

Living with anxiety and depression. Perhaps those who have never experienced it first or second hand know what its like. You may picture a person sitting in the same clothes for two weeks straight, laying in bed, staring at a phone or into space, with a hollow look in their eyes and are in serious need of a shower and some real food. That’s a very decent description of what it looks like on the outside. Symptoms people can easily see and respond too. But that isn’t depression- that’s how an individual reacts to their depression.

When I say that I have anxiety and depression I am trying to let you see how I interpret the world around me, and why I say or respond to situations. Let’s start with anxiety.

I have social anxiety. For me, that means I have a really hard time processing social cues, and the larger the group the more intimidated and self conscious I feel.  

Example: When in a small group of people I don’t know, I usually babble and chatter. I become extra outgoing. To others I appear to be the extrovert and comfortable in awkward situations. To me, I am babbling to prevent the people in the group from saying anything that might intimidate me, criticize me, or outright tell me I don’t belong. I want people to like me. I want people to think I’m funny. I want people to think well of me. Because my anxiety likes to tell me that I am boring, that I have nothing important to say, that I am a waste of space and everyone else wishes I just disappeared.

When the encounter is all over, I will go home and think about everything I said. I will analyze every single reaction everyone had to everything I said. And no matter how well I acted, I will be convinced that all those people will still think I’m boring, everything I said was unimportant, and probably “will this girl ever shut up?”

But that’s just one scenario. Every day feels like I’m in a maze- but I wasn’t told when I entered the maze if it was a haunted maze like the ones at Halloween or not. So I not only feel lost, I am extremely cautious about every choice I make because I don’t know if that choice will lead me into the face of some hideous monster, or just a dead end. Which makes me hyper vigilant.

I must make sure that I rehearse everything I’m going to say before I call someone I’m not well acquainted with.

If I’m not sure about which entrance we go through at an event, I make my husband go first.

If we go out to eat, I make sure to memorize everything I’m going to say so I don’t have to repeat myself or come across as a difficult customer.

If I feel like something I am doing is annoying, inconvenient, or rude, I have to triple and quadruple check that the person is okay with it.

I apologize for everything- from stating my opinion, to going off on tangents, to little things that only I would notice but bother me nonetheless.

Little things can set off my anxiety- and I am just on edge and it’s hard to relax until I am at home, sitting down and watching a familiar show.

For those with good sleuthing skills, you may have noticed some things that also resemble depression- the negative self talk for one.

My metaphor for depression is called “The Whirlpool of Suck”.  You don’t always realize just how caught up you are at first. But you start to notice that you’re going in a circle- because depression is a self feeding cycle. You find yourself not eating, not sleeping very well, avoiding social situations- which in turn makes you feel physically and emotionally awful. Which then makes you continue not to eat well, sleep well, and being around people just sounds like too much work. See how it works?

So as you withdraw more and more into yourself, that’s when those pesky negative thoughts arise “what am I doing?” “I am a waste of space” “Life just sucks”. Which feeds into the already unpleasant physical symptoms. The more I feel like this, the more it feels like I’m getting dragged underwater and can barely keep afloat.

With the Whirlpool of suck, it is easy to grab a life line and get pulled out of the circular current. Friends drop by and make you eat, take you out, remind you of things you like to do. You find a video of cute animals that brighten your day. Not every day is spent in the whirlpool. Sometimes, you really are just happy and content. And sometimes one negative thought or encounter can pull you quickly into the current and you get close to the center where you feel stuck and about to go under at any second. That’s where the suicidal thoughts arise. That’s where self harm arises. That’s where finding any outlet be it mindlessly playing video games, watching television or drug and alcohol abuse take place. Because it’s that thin barrier between wanting to escape the pain permanently or temporarily. That’s when the depressed individual stares into the abyss and fights with themselves, debating on whether or not to prepare for the inevitable or keep trying to stay alive, even if it destroys them.

I am living with depression and anxiety- sometimes I’m in the maze. Sometimes I’m in the whirlpool. Sometimes the maze leads me into the whirlpool or vice versa. And on some blessed days I am a normal person who can handle what the world throws at me, who easily tells the negative thoughts to go to the hell where they belong, and can smile and truly enjoy each and every happy moment.

Everyone’s battle with mental illness is unique to their own struggles, but the symptoms are the same. 

Every day is not spent in the Whirlpool of Suck or the Maze of Anxiety. That’s why when the people 

you know are having a good day, celebrate it with them. That’s why if the next day they are having a crummy day, give them love and support- because they enjoy being in their maze or whirlpool as much as you enjoy seeing them there.

I don’t know if these metaphors improved your understanding of what life is like living with mental illnesses, but I hope that you can show more compassion to those that struggle. We are doing the best we can even when we look like the very picture of depression or a Norman Rockwell cartoon. We are all human after all, and struggles are what makes life, life.  

The Truth about Baking

Generally, you can tell I am avoiding something when I am baking simply for the sake of baking. Sounds silly I know. But Let me explain. Baking bread weekly (because I like sandwiches and having toast for breakfast), whipping up cakes for birthdays, or making soft pretzels for the holidays, or I want homemade tortilla chips to go with my homemade salsa, or fresh naan bread to go with curry night- those are all normal reasons to be turning up the oven and rolling my hands in dough. It’s the days when out of the blue I am making big complicated recipes like cinnamon rolls, or starting three different types of cookies in the middle of the day that people should be addressing me with “Put down the spoon, and tell me what’s wrong.”

Honestly, I didn’t know that baking was my warning bell, air raid sirens blaring, red flag waving tell that I was avoiding something until my very first semester of college. Every time there was an exam I didn’t feel ready for, a deadline for a paper, or simply just a lot of homework all due at the same time- you’d find me baking banana bars with cinnamon cream cheese frosting, cinnamon rolls, or snickerdoodles (I have a thing for cinnamon). After I realized that I used up all of my studying time to take goodies to all of the neighbors that I liked in the dorm, it hit me that as nice as I was being to others I was avoiding studying.

For the past two weeks, all I’ve wanted to do is bake. Not just bread, not just the occasional brownie because I’m craving it. I mean I’m scouring pinterest for specialty dessert breads, scones, cookies, muffins, cupcakes, pies, cakes- if it goes in the oven it is now on my baking board.

“But Daria,” you are probably asking, “you’re not in school right now, what could you possibly be avoiding?”

Vague and evasive me would first say “the inevitable.” But honest and blunt me will just say “motherhood.”

Now I know that there are plenty of questions that arise with “How can you avoid being a mother? You talk about your toddler and your pregnancy all the time.”

Well, I’ve wanted to write up a piece about the struggles of having depression while pregnant, but every time I started my thoughts weren’t cohesive enough to be anything worth reading. But today I feel a balance with my emotional rational and my logical rational that I think I can put my thoughts into place.

The beginning is when I wanted to end. For the second time I had just gotten out of the Behavioral Health Unit- or as I lovingly call it, the loony bin. I had learned a lot of coping mechanisms and received med changes so that I could step back into my life without wanting to run away from it. I didn’t care that I had missed Christmas with my family. I was just happy to be holding onto my husband and I was filled with hope and determination to face my post-partum depression, social anxiety, and premenstrual dysphoric disorder head on. Instead of getting the opportunity to see myself overcome the monthly mental challenges, I instead got the wonderful news that I was pregnant for the second time.

Calling your mental health doctor who you talked to only a couple weeks ago about putting off having kids and informing him that you’re pregnant is not pleasant. Nor is the excited congratulations from his secretary. That week, when I was informing people who needed to know that I was on medications and figuring out what was safe for me and the tiny little fetus that decided to take up residence, I wanted to scream at people “this is not something to be happy about! What is wrong with you people?” 

Pregnancy, for me, sucks. I hate it. It is my literal Hell. Now true, on average, I haven’t been nearly as aggressive or snide, but I’ve also had more low periods that are hard to get out of. But the dread of another bout of months of sleepless nights, trying to take care of a tiny dictator who will never say thank you (not that my toddler, who can speak, says thank you either) on top of caring for my other tiny dictator and myself- well wouldn’t any sane person want to avoid that? Wouldn’t any sane person want to avoid feeling like a slave to two unforgiving, unrelenting, selfish tyrants? But apparently I’m the crazy one and I should be excited for having two “miracles” in my life.

Now I admit, growing up I wanted kids. But I never wanted to be a stay at home mom. I need social interactions. I need to feel like I am contributing to society and making the world a better place. That’s why I want to teach. Depression and feeling like I can barely take care of myself, let alone keep two tiny humans alive, doesn’t exactly make me feel like I am accomplishing much of anything.

That’s why I’m jealous my husband gets to go to work and do something that has absolutely nothing to do with repeating “We don’t throw hard things,” or “I will give you more once you’ve finished what’s on your tray” all day long. That’s why I’m jealous that even though we’re both parents- he’s the one with the degree. He has all the doors open to him- grad school, job opportunities, etc. While I feel chained to a job I didn’t want, but can’t leave.

To put it simply, to me, everyone is a demigod on their heroic epic journey filled with monsters and triumphs- and I am the cursed titan Sisyphus who gets to roll a giant rock up the hill, only for it to fall back to the base again for all eternity.  

Right now, I’m miserable enough with this pregnancy but I’m not looking forward to having a newborn, so my first instinct is to just avoid thinking about it at all and thus bake until all the flour and sugar is gone. But baking doesn’t remove the baby from my uterus, or whisk away the monotony of caring for a toddler. Baking, though satisfying, sadly, does not do anything more than having something for me to snack on while I sit here and panic and desperately wish to run away and start life somewhere else. A life where I can be free, without kids and without the expectations to just “suck it up” and face the consequences of being a female with efficient reproductive organs.

I’ve been living with the guilt of not having better birth control since I took the pregnancy test. I live with the guilt of bringing my first tiny human into the world only for me and him to be burden because my mind decided that it doesn’t know how to cope anymore. I am ashamed that I don’t have the energy or the will to be the kind of mom I wanted to be and instead am a mom who does the bare minimum because that’s all I can do.

But sadly, I can’t run away. One, I’d stick out because I am still unabashedly pregnant. And two, I know that leaving isn’t the answer, no matter what my emotional logic says. As a wise baboon once said, “yes the past can hurt. But you can either run from it, or learn from it.” I will be completely honest and tell you I have no idea what good I’ve learned from two miserable pregnancies and facing the realities of depression. My first thoughts are all along the lines of “Don’t have kids, ever”, “set aside money for a really great nanny if the first lesson didn’t stick”, and “be prepared for isolation unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.”

I don’t really have a positive note to end on, mostly because I don’t know how this chapter in my story ends. I don’t know if having a baby will switch my hormones and what's wrong will be fixed. I don’t know if I’ll sink lower and have another stay in the loony bin. I don’t know if I’ll find joy or if all of my fears will come true. Whatever happens, I’m still doing my best to avoid it because I still can’t shake this gut instinct to bake every single recipe on my Pinterest board. I guess the one positive is that baking isn't usually a cause of concern for those with mental health issues.  

When Suicide Makes Sense

Where is that light at the end of the tunnel that everyone talks about?

I don’t believe it exists.

Every day I wake up wondering why I’m even here. 

I know people love me. I know people care.

 But the fact is that I don’t care.

I don’t see a hope in the years or even months to come- what is there?  I mean people ask what they can do to help. But what does helping do, really? It just prolongs the torture of living another day, just filling it with distractions- but they don’t turn off the thoughts in my head. I can’t sleep unless I stare at a screen until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.

So I ask- why is it at all worth it?

….

I wrote that on November 28th, in an attempt to write a blog post all about when suicide makes sense to someone with a mental illness. However, I found that writing these words were too scary for me to share with the world. I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want to try because I felt overwhelmed, isolated, and I couldn’t see any light or any hope of a future where there wasn’t anything but unbearable pain.

I told Richard this. I cried when I told him I had started looking up ways to end my life. I told him about how tempting it was to jump off the nearest bridge or step in front of a speeding bus. Anything that would be quick and fast, and, hopefully, painless because I was already drowning in indescribable mental pain.

I was sleeping during the day. I would go to bed at 4 am and woke up around 4 pm only to sit and play the same four phone games over and over again, distracting myself from feeling anything. If I did something like made dinner, or bake, it was a rare and mostly out of obligation because I said I would. I hardly interacted with my son and for a while I didn’t want him to feel the pain I did and felt that taking him out of this miserable existence that’s called life would be far kinder than letting him live with a broken mother.

This, my friends, is all emotional logic. When someone is in this state, they really are a danger to themselves, and in my case, a danger to others. I was too tired of trying and yet I was spending all of what little energy I had to find a way end my life. No, suicide isn’t rationally logical. It appears selfish, cruel, throwing all the love and support that our friends and family give us back in their face. 

 Because we are so stuck in our own heads and hurt so much that all we can see is the shadows of pain.

I did talk to my psychiatrist and I did agree that the best thing for me was to go to the emergency room.

So the next morning I went. I didn’t actually make it to the behavioral health unit until late afternoon, but I was there. The first group therapy meeting was all about optimism. And oh my gosh was that hard. Everything he was saying about staying optimistic, just letting things slide off you, find the happy. And it all just sounded so stupid. I didn’t want to listen, and yet a part of me really wanted to believe that what he was saying was true. I knew I was sitting on the emotional fence of do I give into the depression, or do I fight it. I admit it, I cried. Full on sobs, trying not to look at anyone in the eyes as I balled my eyes out. Of course I made the therapist in charge of the group think that he offended me in some way. He didn’t of course, it was just the conversation in my head of admitting whether or not I wanted to be stuck in a place where my hair matched the teal hospital scrubs they gave me.

I was anxious and scared and it was hard to fall asleep. I did sleep, for a little bit, maybe an hour or so, before I was wide awake all over again.

As I sat there, I realized I had no phone to distract me from the pain and the feelings I usually shove away and hide until they overwhelm me. I didn’t have a computer or a television or ipad to offer me an alternate universe where I could just hide. So I stared wide awake at my dim lights on my hospital ceiling and thought about why I was even there.

And then I felt it. Just a small tiny flicker of hope. Hope that I could get better. Hope that I wasn’t completely forgotten by my Heavenly Father, or what others may call the force of the universe. And I felt overwhelmed, but this time it was overwhelming gratitude. Gratitude that there was a safe place for me to go. Gratitude that I live in a time where mental illness is treated with understanding and respect by doctors, and not like an act of demonic possession. I was grateful for my husband and his understanding, support, and strength as he held my hand and brought me books to read while I worked on the icky that has been plaguing me for so long.

I now dub it my 3 AM epiphany. It was that moment in time where it felt like the weight of the world finally slipped off my shoulders and I could breathe light again. I could see that even though I was a mom who struggled with blaming my son for my mental condition (logically untrue, but still felt totally emotionally true), even though I tried to spend as little time as possible with him, he still smiled. He still made eye contact and crawled and pulls himself up and explores. He is a healthy and happy child despite my lack of being a “good” mother.

The phrase, “make your own definition of success” came to my mind and I thought about how the definition of perfect is always changing. But as a linguist and history major in training I remembered that in Hebrew the word perfect means complete. A complete person doesn’t have to look or talk, walk, dress, think, or act like another person. A complete person does the best they can, the best way they know how, and when they make mistakes they learn from them. That night I took the teeny tiny pencils they allowed us to have and wrote in big capital letters- FAIL and made this small sign that was proudly displayed in my room for the rest of my stay.

Fresh

Attempt

In

Learning

It was then I could finally go back to sleep. For the rest of the days I was in there we talked about the hard things, I made friends with everyone in the unit- nurses, techs, therapists, psychiatrists, and most of all my fellow patients. I just wanted to hug them all and tell them that they were loved and important- but it was hard to tell that and accept that myself.

To be honest, I filled most of my time with coloring, reading, therapy, and making paper cranes. I gave them to everyone reminding them that the crane was a symbol of good luck and made the analogy that sometimes we feel like a beat up piece of paper. We get folded and bent into awkward shapes, and sometimes pressed really hard, but then we find out that all those folds and presses were what made us into a beautiful crane.

I pray for those lovely people every day. I wish that I could heal the scars on their arms, still their anxious bodies so they can sleep, help them see the strength and power that they have to pull themselves out of their horrible living conditions. But I don’t have the mental health wand, sadly. So instead I told jokes, complimented them, and asked them to tell me stories- especially when I knew it brought out their brightest smiles.

Like one of the therapists said, “It’s kind of ironic for a person like me to be in there.”  But it’s not. Sometimes the people who are really good at making others feel good, don’t feel like they have a person like themselves that will help carry their burdens, help make them laugh, help them when they don’t believe that there is even a light in this stupid dark tunnel. So I got to read “The Gift of Imperfection” by Brene Brown.

So I happily did all my paperwork, ate my meals, socialized, went to all the group therapy sessions, and took my meds and four days later I came home.

But that’s not where the story ends.

See, day one of being back, I was good. I got a lot done. I made lunch and dinner. I took care of Corbin. I went and talked about my experience at the BHU and told him all about my 3 AM epiphany. I told him all of the things I was going to do to help keep me out of the rut I got stuck in.

But it’s now been a week since I’ve got home. Things have not gone according to plan. I still try 

every day, I find a whole lot more joy in things than I did two weeks ago, but oh man it is hard admitting that I’m still human.

I wanted to be fixed. I wanted to go back to my pre marriage life where I was in perfect condition for finishing school and going on to doing important things like teaching students, as well as being a good mom and wife. Yet as the week went on I found that though I have hope, I don’t know what I have hope in.

I didn’t answer these questions: “How will I feel like a successful person (not just a mom)?” “What am I supposed to do when I’m home alone with my son while Richard finds a job and finishes school?” “What is it exactly that I look forward to when I wake up every morning?”

In the BHU it’s easy to answer those questions because I saw it as a personal vacation to really reflect and recharge. So how will I feel like a success? My psychiatrist will tell me when it’s time to go home. What am I going to do when I get home? Love my son and husband. What do I look forward to every morning? Seeing my husband during visiting hours.

See? Easy.

But now that I am home and dealing with the reality that I felt way too overconfident in my capabilities of calling someone every day, doing chores around the house, taking care of my son, or address the icky yucky feelings and anxiety that weren’t really resolved.

So I sit. And I write. And I try to think through how I’m feeling and working on allowing myself to feel the icky without it needing to stick to me forever because other icky things might come by and be even ickier.

I would apologize that I didn’t have a happier note to end on. I wish that I could say that because of my 3 AM epiphany I finally was able to feel healed and move on. But that’s not how things work, at least not for me. It’s still taking life one day at a time, and some moments one hour at a time. 

Parenting and Depression

When you blame your child for your mental state, it’s really hard to talk about parenthood.

I know that my son is not at fault for the change in my hormones, my lack of interest in anything, my inability to concentrate, my lack of appetite, or my feelings of worthlessness. Those are all just symptoms of a much bigger issue that was triggered by pregnancy, not by the human that was created.

However, that still doesn’t stop the demons in my head telling me that if I had never been pregnant or had a baby, then I wouldn’t be so messed up.  It doesn’t stop me from hating myself for getting pregnant in the first place and hating my body for being so functionally feminine.

But you know what it does, it makes it really hard for me to really bond with my son. Sure, I play with him, feed him, sing him silly songs, read him stories- but I’d do that with any child. It’s the lack of concern I feel when I’m far away from him. It’s the frustration that I am just “the bringer of food” (since I don’t breastfeed anymore) to him. It’s the thought that if I had the option to just leave him and all his stuff on someone’s doorstep without any consequences, I totally would.

When I was asked by my doctor if I could take something off my plate, what would it be?

My answer was Motherhood.

I am not the individual that at the end of the day just knows without a doubt that they love their child/children. I am not the woman who thinks that my child “is my whole world” and “couldn’t think of what I’d ever do without him”. Trust me. I can totally think of all the things I would be doing without my son. And I am still convinced that I would be a lot healthier and happier if he didn’t exist.

And so I sit here. And I be the “best” parent I can be with the way my brain allows me to function right now. I take it one day at a time and lately one hour at a time. Because it wouldn’t be socially acceptable for me to leave him on a doorstep and just walk away. Because my family would probably hate me if one day my son was no longer there for them to coo at and play with. Because the world keeps reminding me that my son is supposed to be my “calling”, “blessing”, or “greatest joy that life can bring” (I hate all of those “inspirational” posts. They just make me angry). I won’t even go into the expectations of giving my son siblings (which if you’re going to poke your nose, the answer is: I didn’t know my sex life was any of your business.)

 So what is parenthood like when you can’t bring yourself to love your child? The demons in my head tell me that loving my child is admitting that I like being miserable. By loving my child I accept that my only role in life is being a successful statistic of female reproduction.

What parenthood looks like on the outside is just doing the basics- feed, change, put down for a nap, and repeat. On good days, there may be some songs and reading time. But on average he gets the basics and plays in his walker because I haven’t had the energy to baby proof the apartment. Perhaps one day we’ll have a good relationship. Until then, I do what I can so we both survive.

The hardest part is asking for help, because someone may have offered on a good mental day for me, but on the bad days, I just feel guilty- because the weight of responsibility is on my shoulders and I should be better than this. It’s hard asking for help because I don’t want to be so dependent on others that they feel like I take advantage of them. It’s hard because I don’t need people judging how bad of a mom I am, because I am already well aware of that, thank you. It’s so much easier to just let my son sit and scream in the other room (when he’s inconsolable after a changing, feeding, cuddling, and pain meds if he’s teething) while I blast my favorite music on headphones.

Perhaps one day we’ll have a good relationship. Until then, I do what I can so we both survive.

Mental Health Day

Today isn’t a good day, but it’s not necessarily a bad day either. It’s a day I’ve decided to treat as a mental health day because I didn’t want to have a panic attack on campus.

So what does that look like? What exactly do I mean?

It means that the illogical thoughts and feelings feel like truth to me.

Yesterday I had a son who just cried and cried and cried after being fed and changed and snuggled- hours of this mind you- not just 20 minutes. The crying agitated my anxiety of “I’m an inadequate mother.”  I didn’t get homework done – which agitated my anxiety of “oh no I’m going to get behind”. Combine that with asking for help so I can make dinner and receiving “ugh, I don’t want to but I’ll do it if you’re going to give me that look”- which agitated my anxiety of “I’m an inadequate wife”.

So what did I do when my son finally calmed down and slept?  I slept too. I was too frustrated and anxious that homework and housework just wasn’t important anymore.

So husband comes home, I’m not tired at all, and I have the chance to finally start on some homework- the anxiety that “I’m lazy and won’t wake up on time” pops up. So I choose to just snuggle with him and sleep instead.

So what happened this morning? I slept in- I don’t even remember turning off my alarms. I still didn’t have any homework done for a class that is kind of important to graduating- that I can’t just retake. I thought of all the things I could e-mail my professor to explain why I missed class today- but they were all lies- somehow just saying “I’m trying to avoid having a panic attack” didn’t sound legitimate either. So I decided that hiding in bed and just missing a whole day of classes was better than trying not to cry or having a panic attack in front of a million judgmental faces or professors.

That’s what it looks like. So I’m sitting at home writing this up instead of being on campus because I need to remember that missing one day of homework is not the end of the world- even though my brain is telling me that it is. But I do need to make sure that I don’t get behind, so I don’t let myself get into this situation again.

It’s these kinds of situations that make life feel overwhelming and like I’ve completely failed as a human being. Dramatic, I know. But I’ve realized that one of my core beliefs is that I am a failure. I’ve had this for years. You say that it’s not true, and I know that because you are not in my head and seeing me the way I see myself. A lot of the successful things I do are to try and combat this core belief. I don’t want to be a failure, but that notion is there and that’s why on the good days I work as hard as I do.

This core belief, my therapist told me, is common among those with depression. It’s not that hard to imagine why. I can tell you that this core belief is sometimes what keeps me from asking for help “cause I’ve failed”, or listening to people telling me how I can improve myself “cause I’ve obviously failed”, or even do a simple task like going to class unprepared “because I’ve already failed.” We with depression already know our failings- it’s something we hardly ever stop thinking about. We apologize for every little thing, we do our escape techniques- like reading, gaming, binge watching television, eating, etc.- all to try and hide from our failures.

That’s why telling someone who is depressed “to just cheer up” doesn’t work. We’ve tried that already, and we have failed. It’s a hard thing to let go when that’s what you base your entire self-image upon. Underneath the smiles, the hopes, the dreams and the “go get ‘em” attitude we sometimes display, we are trying to hide that no matter what we do or say our efforts will never be enough to simply be “adequate”. 

Depression Is Not Logical

I write this post to educate people about depression.

Depression isn’t logical.

Let that sink in.

I’ll repeat it. Depression is NOT logical. The clinical and professionally diagnosed depression is not something that can be combated by logic.

When a rational person thinks about depression, saying things like “just think positive” sounds like a good way to combat the sadness. If someone depressed just prayed more, believed more, or just thought about all the good things then the depression would surely go away, right?

Sadly, that’s not how it works. Depression is far more complicated than that. Let me illustrate it with a story.

A while ago I ran out of medication and had forgotten to get it refilled. However, I went two days without it and I was fine. Then three days and I was fine. Even though I still knew that it should be refilled, I felt hope that maybe I really didn’t need it anymore.  Maybe all the progress I had made actually did help change me. Four days, five days, six days and I was fine!  Day seven rolls around and things started to go downhill. I became more irritated over little things that when I am “normal” I can brush off, like a dirty dish left out on the table, or Corbin fussing in his sleep while he rolls over, or Richard not responding to every request as soon as he hears it.

Day eight rolled around and I’m panicking over everything. The house is a mess and we’re going to be gone for almost a week. Nothing’s packed. Everyone besides me doesn’t feel good. I’m supposed to lead the music in church tomorrow and I have no idea what the songs are. I tried to combat my anxiety as logically as I could- I made a list that put everything in order of importance and just tried to do what I could while I let my sister suffering from heat exhaustion rest and let my husband who had a long day at work sleep. We were all stressed, I knew that, and yet my heart couldn’t stop beating fast and every new little thing that wasn’t getting done felt like the end of the world.

I went to bed that night and I was panicking. I tried all the techniques to pull myself out of the negative cycle and yet the demons in my mind twisted all the good into something negative. I tried to sleep but the fear of the unknown of tomorrow, the feeling of hopelessness because no one seemed to notice the mess that I saw, the hopelessness that the things I had been doing to help myself function and make my little apartment feel like home weren’t important to anyone but myself, the terrifying fear that the next cry from my son would drive me to hurt him or myself simply because I was too shaken up by these negative thoughts in my head.

So I did what I’d always planned to do when the demons in my head were louder than any of my rational or positive thoughts- I pulled on warm clothes and my good walking shoes determined to walk myself to the emergency room. Richard noticed and joined me on my walk.

Now we talked. I told him everything that was driving me crazy as we walked down the hill past the new Maverick Stadium whose jumbotron was still lit at 2:00AM – a good waste of my tuition money if you ask me. But at that point I was like a puppet, but I wasn’t controlling the strings. Even though I was basically telling Richard that it was all his fault that I was feeling x,y, and z I was screaming on the inside that it wasn’t true, I knew that everything that felt overwhelming was the depression talking- and yet I couldn’t stop the demons.

We walked through three sets of church parking lots and there it was, less than half a block away I could see the glowing red Emergency sign of the hospital. I had come this far, but Richard was here with me. He didn’t plan for this long a walk. He had goosebumps, when I had a jacket. He had sandals, while I had tennis shoes. He had come all this way to make sure that I wouldn’t harm myself. I wouldn’t have, because I had never really planned to. I came all this way seeking help.

The good news is that the walking and the talking finally helped the rational part of me break through the demon’s wall and I cried and I apologized. We walked back home. We went online and ordered a refill. I snuggled with my husband who held me close and repeated to me several times he loved me until we both fell asleep at around 4:00 AM.

I tell this story to show just how hard it is sometimes to pull your-self out of the clutches of negative and “irrational” thoughts. Those of us that face depression don’t want to face these demons. We don’t feel glamorous or successful when we inform others of our plight. We don’t want to drag others down with us. We wouldn’t wish our predicament on anyone. That is why we so often DON’T let people know what’s going on- because we would rather fight our demons alone, than risk losing our friends or family to a battle they cannot win.

So what can you do to help?

When your friend or family member who battles with depression is having a good day, ask what their safety plan is. Ask them what they need when they fear that a negative cycle is going to begin. I’ve already set one up- I post that “I am having a BAD DAY” on my facebook and the friends that choose to help that day will post funny pictures, give me words of love and encouragement, family members shoot me a text or call me, and sometimes they even knock on my door and spend time with me.

Maybe your friend needs to just sit on your couch and draw while you go about your day.

Maybe your family member just needs you to say that you’re praying for them.

Everyone is different, and there are as many ways for people to combat depression as there are people who battle with it. To those who fight it, know that I’m fighting alongside you. To those who have to watch, continue to share your love and support- your encouragement is always appreciated, even if we don’t thank you for it.