Your Crazy is Driving Me Crazy!

I am not a fan of the word "crazy." I am guilty of using it now and then (I have tried to substitute "wonky" and people look at me like I am, well, crazy) but I don't like all the misconceptions it connotates. That is more of a disclaimer though than an actual topic...

Yesterday I talked about being "sick" and the perception others have of mental illness and of me. That led me to think about what it is like to have someone in your life who does have major depressive disorder or anxiety or any other mental illness.

I imagine loving me isn't easy, not as a friend, a parent, a child, a partner, or even sometimes an employee. I do believe I am worth it, I know that I am. I am fiercely loyal, and pretty witty. I am fairly intelligent and am well-read enough to be able to make small talk at cocktail parties and to know some Jeopardy answers. I am kind and empathetic and generous, traits I admire in others and strive to maintain.

Those who care for and love me do struggle at times. I am sure when Max was 6 and my depression was at it's worst, all he wanted was a "normal" Mommy who didn't do everything from her bed. I know I have caused my parents worry and concern; from middle school hospitalizations to current day romantic trouble, they vigilantly watch my behavior so they can help, intervene before all hell breaks loose. My wonderful best friend who has marched by my side for 32 years MUST be exhausted by me at times, but she has never given up on me. I am a good girlfriend, a good partner, but a highly emotional one. It has to be hard to hold a sobbing girlfriend who can't even explain what is wrong, she just says "don't let go." It can't be easy to have dinner reservations or plans to attend a party and then have them derailed at the last minute because she "just can't." And no matter how understanding an employer is, they need to know I'll be there and I'll get the work done.

I have weeks, months, even a couple years under my belt of normal. I go to work and pay my bills and laugh with friends and love my boyfriend. My hygiene is good (which, while depressed, isn't always the case), I remember birthdays, and show up with a smile even when I don't think I can. I think those periods are the ones that sustain those who love me. Those are the times that I bank so when I am feeling lost and in need of direction I have proven myself worthy of help.

Thank you to everyone who loves me, supports me, hangs in there with me. I recognize it isn't easy but am so very glad I am worth it to you.

A Disease By Any Other Name... is Still a Disease

Sometimes, I wonder what other people say when their mental illness rears its ugly head. I refer to myself as sick but that isn't right, not exactly. I don't have a fever or a cough. But I do have stomach pain. And my head hurts so horribly I wish I could decapitate myself. I am tired, too. More tired than the beginning of pregnancy tired. Tired to rival Sisyphus rolling the boulder uphill for eternity tired. Tired in a way that makes my bones ache and my eyelids feel weighted. But none of those things are technically sick.

I wonder, too, about the people that suggest taking deep breaths when I am in the midst of a panic attack. I try to be gracious, to educate, but I really want to say "You have no idea what it is like to have your heart galloping faster than a race horse and your blood feel like ice." And no idea what it is like to not know what you are afraid of, just that you are terrified. 

Mostly, I wonder about the people that suggest taking a walk and breathing deeply and counting my blessings as anecdotes for the crippling depression I feel. I am all for beautiful days and centered, cleansing breaths. I absolutely know that I am lucky, blessed beyond measure, that my problems are first world problems. But I also know that when my symptoms are at their worst it hurts to breathe. Getting out of bed to shower, brush my teeth, even use the bathroom takes forethought and planning - nevermind taking a walk to enjoy the changing leaves or blooming trees or a crisp winter day. And minimizing my disease as being "all in my head" only creates shame and limits my ability to ask for help.

When I am healthy - physically, emotionally, mentally - I am constantly aware of how I am feeling. I do self checks to see what hurts? Am I really tired or is this sleepy feeling something that needs extra attention? I am hyper vigilant about taking my medicine, in touch with close friends, and I do make time to feel the sunshine and deeply breathe the fresh air. Those are all things that maintain wellness, not things that "cure" depression. 

There is no cure. Not one. No amount of exercise, healthy eating, fresh air, meditation, yoga, or wishful thinking will make this go away. What does help those with depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, personality disorders, and/or another mental illness is compassion. Education. Reduction of stigma. Understanding. Those all help, each one makes a difference. A difference I, and the many others who get "sick," will appreciate beyond measure.

The Power of I Love You

You might think, after 23 years, that celebrating my older son's birthday would be easier. That it would be a happy blip on February 20th that involved a little singing and a special dessert. You might think that and have every reason to believe it is true. But it is never easy. It is never just a "blip," never involves singing, never involves dessert. It is bittersweet, not just happy.

When Benjamin was born, at 12:30 a.m. after 32 hours of labor and, ultimately, a caesarean section, I was freezing. I had never been nor would I ever be, so cold. While I was exhausted from being in labor and tired of being pregnant (he was 18 days late), I was not ready to relinquish him. My body tried to hold onto him as long as it could.

Ben was adopted. He grew up in a home where he was loved and adored and cherished. He wasn't very far from me geographically. His parents provided me with detailed letters about his life and included photographs so I could see his smile and the cicada on his nose and how many people around him were beaming at him. Through these letters I learned about the technology being used to combat his hearing loss and that he loved batman and skateboarding and playing the drums. But I didn't know what his voice sounded like or what his favorite food was or if his hands still looked like my mother's.

I am lucky that I am able to communicate with Ben. We send text messages to one another and, recently, photographs. He sent one yesterday with his mother and thanked me for being gracious in receiving it and asking about his family. I tried to explain that it was gratitude, not grace, that fueled my interest. I shared with him a bit about my first interactions with his parents, that they had a "baby" phone and that he often had the hiccups while I was pregnant. And I thanked him for sending a recent photo that included his hand because one of the things I wondered was if I would recognize them. His response was one of the greatest gifts I could receive; he not only said "I love you" but he showed me. And his hands still look like my mother's.