My Bipolar Self

I don't know where my baseline is.

I want to be as close to stable as possible.  But what's the real me?

Is the real me on the lower, more calm part of the spectrum?  If so, is every up day an anomaly that isn't really me and something I shouldn't be chasing?

Are the up days me, and should I fight the down days to swim my way back up?

How up can I get and still be normal before I'm into hypomania?  Or is that very up state that I see as hypomania where I am meant to be and I need to strive to be there?

If I find a medication that takes me to that higher state, should I find a way to incorporate it into my daily life?  If not, because the fact that it requires medication is a sign of a false high, what does that say about the mood stabilizer I take each day to keep me out of the pits?

And if they are all the real me, as I sense they are, how do I ever find balance?

How do I know what to strive for?  When to reach for the more up place?  When to settle in to what is in the moment?

How do I find peace in who I am when who I am is always in such a state of flux?

How Am I Doing On My New Medication?

I was diagnosed with Bipolar II on October 30, 2014.  Within a week I was on a mood stabilizer.  My primary reason for this post is to examine how that's working for me. 

However, that's not the only major change recently, so I offer this background on my health and meds.  While I have no way of knowing for sure what treatment caused what effect, my gut tells me.  So I will tell you what my gut says (knowing I could be completely incorrect).

Each morning I take:

• A multivitamin for women over fifty - even though I am forty-five, because the complete hysterectomy and oophorectomy I had last year put me into instant menopause
• Vitamin D - because I don't get nearly enough sunshine and it can help with depression, especially during the winter (which it feels like we didn't even have here in Utah, oh well)
• Estrogen - because I am in menopause an estimated ten years early and my doctor wants to protect my bones and I don't like the idea of breaking a hip when I fall
• Gabapentin - which is often prescribed for anxiety, but that's not why I take it; sometimes my skin hurts for no reason, and gabapentin can help with neuropathic pain; I've been on it since April of 2014, I think;  does it work?  I'm not sure; my skin was hurting a lot over the last week; it feels like a first degree burn, but there is no discoloration and I haven't been burned; I'm going to talk to the doctor about getting off this one at my next physical
• Lamictal - the mood stabilizer I've been on since the first week of November, 2014; the reason for this post

Each afternoon I take:

• Gabapentin
• Vitamin D
• Omeprazole - a proton pump inhibitor that I take for gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD); otherwise I often have stomach acid that comes up my throat and makes it so I have a chronic cough, chronic sore throat, chronic hoarse voice, and so I can't sleep; without this medication it will often wake me with a burning in my throat that can't be soothed

Each evening I take:

• Gabapentin
• Melatonin - because I don't sleep well, like at all; I need all the help I can get, but everything else I've tried leaves me super groggy the next day; and melatonin is what our bodies naturally produce to induce sleep
• Armour Thyroid - which is pig thyroid glands "dried and powdered for therapeutic use" (according to Wikipedia); I take this because I have hypothyroidism, which means my thyroid doesn't do it's job very well anymore; I used to take a synthetic thyroid medication but never felt better on it; I found out about this through a thyroid health group on facebook; I had to fight my doctor for it because it isn't as consistent a dose as synthetic, but I have felt better on it; I started this in April of 2014

(I also have Xanax that I take for occasional anxiety and Meclizine that I take for occasional dizziness and nausea associated with my headaches.)

So as you can see, I have gone through many health changes over the last year.  How would I compare where I am now to where I was a year ago?  I am better.  Much better.

I do not have the constant, intense pelvic pain I had before my hysterectomy.  I have more energy on the new thyroid meds, although still subpar for sure; I can get out of bed and do things more often than before.  I don't go through intense PMDD/PMS every month; my moods are more in flow with what's actually happening in my life instead of attacking me out of nowhere.

But, most significantly, I haven't had any episodes of severe depression since I started the mood stabilizer.  I was initially put on it to control the hypomanic episodes that can come because of Bipolar II.  Those were hard to give up.  They were days of extra energy, lots of extra energy, when I didn't need sleep and could get lots done - all the stuff I didn't have the energy to do most days.  When I first met with my psychiatrist I asked her why I would want to give those up when they're so great.  She told me they cause brain damage.  Oh.  Okay.  I'll give them up.

As I researched Lamictal I read that it can often have the side effect of also helping depression.  I held a tiny spark of hope that this would happen, but not much.  I've tried so many meds for depression over the years and had so much therapy, but none of it took away the depression for good.  The meds didn't work at all or made me suicidal.  And the therapy could sometimes get me through a tough moment if my appointment happened to hit during an episode.  But usually the black dog (as depression is referred to by those who suffer) would just come out of nowhere and pin me to the ground.  And I just tried to survive until he let me up again.  I couldn't fight him off.  I just had to wait until he was done with me and moved on.

Since I have been on the Lamictal I have not been pinned to the ground by the black dog.  Not once.  He's chewed on my leg on several occasions, but I haven't gone completely dark at all.  There was one time when I'd say he knocked me to the ground pretty hard, but that was situational, and I recovered from it much more quickly than I normally would have.

So here's the deal.  And I hate to say it for fear of jinxing it.  But I believe the Lamictal is helping with my depression.  For real.  And it's kind of amazing.

Just as my psychiatrist said it should work, I have ups and downs, but they aren't as high or as deep as they were before.

And there's still a part of me waiting for it to come back and hit me in the head.  I've sometimes gone through long periods without depression before, only to be dragged down again; what if this is just one of those?  Depression has been a part of my life since I was a teenager.  The idea that it could finally be under control is something that's difficult for me to wrap my brain around.  I feel like it's an "I feel better so far, but we'll see how it plays out" thing.

And there's a part of me that doesn't want it to completely work.  Depression is part of my self-definition.  It's part of who I am.  If it works, I will have to learn to be me all over again.

Monotasking - Oh my gosh, it's so hard!

I was once talking to a woman who said she admired my ability to multitask so well.  She just didn't work this way.  She was only able to work on one thing at a time, focus on one thing at a time.

Many thoughts went through my mind as she said this:
 - What would it be like to just work on/think about one thing at a time? 
 - I wish I could think about just one thing at a time and shut my brain up a bit. 
 - I bet she could multitask if she worked at it; it's a skill just like anything else and can be learned.
 - How can she get anything done by working on just one thing at a time?

See?  Even in that second that followed her comment my brain was jumping around.

According to my Buddhist meditation DVD, that's called the monkey mind.  It's part of our nature.  And the way to peace is to learn to calm it.

So why is it so hard to focus on just one thing at a time?

I think a big part of it is that our society rewards multitasking.  Many of us struggle with I'm-busier-than-you syndrome.  I know I've bought into this way of thinking.  Busy is good.  Busy is productive.  Busy is something to be proud of and wave around like a flag of accomplishment.

How many times have you written a Facebook post that says "I have to do this and this and this" - which is partly complaining and partly bragging?  How many times have you been talking to someone and done the same thing?  How many times have you heard someone rattle off their list (in the same feigned griping way) and felt like you had to match or top it by complaining of your day?  Or felt like you couldn't talk about your day because you only did one thing or didn't have anything really to do that day?

Seriously, when did having a light schedule come to mean you were lazy?  When did a day of peaceful rest or strolling through the park or reading for hours become something to be ashamed of?  When did doing one thing instead of five things come to mean you were a slacker?  Why is chewing gum and walking considered more intelligent than just walking?

Studies have shown that monotasking is more efficient (but since I can't reference any of them I'm not going to talk about that anymore).

I'm going to talk about the value I see in doing one thing at a time.  Seriously think about it for a minute.  Just.  One.  Thing.

Now, if you're a reader you might do this already.  I know I can't do anything else while I read.  Except laundry.  Or the dishes.  Or run errands and then come back to it.  Each of these interruptions makes our reading less efficient.  It takes us a few minutes to get back into what we're reading.  We lose the cohesiveness of the content.  And if it's a story, we pull ourselves out of the moment the characters are having.  In my mind, that's a less enjoyable story.

All this is to say I believe monotasking is more efficient and more accurate (okay, so I'm going to talk about its efficiency a bit).  If we jump around from thing to thing to thing the power of focus on just that one thing is lost.  There's a rev up factor to most tasks.  If we have to rev up again and again because we did something else in between, it takes that much longer. 

And if we're giving something our full attention it will be more accurate.  Do you think your taxes will be more accurate if you're concentrating on that task alone or if you're having a conversation while you're working on them?  Is your driving safer when you concentrate on that task alone or when you're also texting or talking on the phone or arguing with someone in the car?  Would you like your surgeon to focus just on his task at hand while operating on you or would you like him to also be consulting on another case with another doctor as he cuts into your body?

I believe monotasking allows us to enjoy the full flavor of a moment.  If you glance at the sunset as you drive to the store and note how pretty it is, that's nice.  But if you pull over and take a few moments to just examine the sunset, the multiple shades of multiple colors, the wonder of the earth, the feeling it gives you, isn't that a different experience?  A better experience?  Imagine how this would change your experience at church.  At the temple.  With your spouse.

And that brings me to my next point.  Imagine what it does for the person you're with when you pay full attention to them.  When you're not also playing on whatever device is at hand.  When you're not checking text messages.  When you're not answering calls.  How do they feel when you are just with them, completely?

Imagine the stillness it can bring.  Not just physical stillness, although I would argue some of us need a bit more of that.  But the mental stillness.  The emotional stillness.  The spiritual stillness.  To just be in that moment.

I heard a podcast many years ago that has stuck with me.  It was a Quaker woman.  She talked about how the Quakers strive to devote each action to God.  When they are sweeping, they are only sweeping.  And they are doing it for God.

Maybe you have no intention of sweeping for God, but what if all you did was sweep?  What if your brain weren't running all over the place trying to solve the problems of your life?  What if you focused on that moment instead of just rushing through to get to the next chore?  What if you focused on the sound of the broom on the floor?  The feeling of the muscles in your arms and hands maneuvering the broom?  The sight of the cleanliness that emerges as you sweep?  What if you just swept in stillness?

I think even sweeping could be rejuvenating that way.

And that brings me to my final point.  I believe monotasking can be rejuvenating.  I believe it relieves our minds and bodies of the constant back and forth that is so draining.  I believe it lets our muscles relax a bit, both mental and physical.  I believe it's good for us.

And, yes, this was a long way to describe mindfulness.  A powerful way to live life (even just moments).  A way to soothe depression, anxiety, stress, high blood pressure, and many other struggles.  A way to feel more peace.

Because couldn't we all use a little more peace?

But just because I believe it's good for us doesn't mean I'm good at it.  I'm working on it.  I'm still often uncomfortable doing just one thing at a time.  I still find myself listening to an audiobook while cleaning the house.  I still find myself playing solitaire while watching something on Netflix.  I still have trouble calming my monkey mind.  But I'm trying.

What Depression Looks Like

Earlier this year a friend of mine asked if she could take my picture.  She's spending the year focusing on the importance of the people in her life, A Year of Faces.  I was one of many she'd asked and declined at first.  It was a very dark time in my life.  Not a time I would look my best.  I explained to her where I was emotionally and asked if I could participate later, when I felt better.

She said she understood and, of course, we could wait if I wanted to.  But if I was willing, she'd like to capture where I was right then.  The darkness.

And I knew it was right.  I needed this to happen.  Even though it wouldn't be pretty and even though it was difficult, it was also so important.  I agreed to do it.

She sent me some pictures she'd found on the internet of depression.  Some were very stylized, very artsy.  Some were blank stares.  Some were silhouettes.  I understood why people associated these with depression.  And these might represent depression for some people, or even me at some times.

But not this time.  None of these came close this time.

This was my darkest time, at least the darkest I can remember.  This was the most painful depression I've ever had.  And the most unrelenting.  Months and months of pain and numbness and isolation and fear and loneliness and sadness and confusion and anxiety and guilt and exhaustion.

The day she came I was wearing the same pajamas I'd been wearing for three or four days straight.  My hair was dirty because I just didn't have the energy or will to shower.  She was the first person I'd invited into my home in weeks.

She asked me to tell her about my current struggle as she took photos.  She was gentle and kind.  She listened and asked questions.  It was an important moment.

She used one photo for her project.  I've been saving the others for the right time.  Today is the right time.

These photos are difficult for me to look at.  They hurt.  But people need to understand what depression is and I believe these will help.

Thank you, Karen, for capturing a hidden moment that needs to be seen.

My fingertips are pressing on the spot where I've had a headache for nine years.  When I cry, I tend to furrow my brow; this makes my head hurt worse.  I press on that spot to try to get the muscles to release and relieve the pain.  It helps a little.

Depression makes me feel incredibly vulnerable.  I have no emotional energy to protect myself.  That's part of why I isolate.  So often, when I am with other people, I feel the need to defend or explain myself.  When I am in a depression I just have nothing in me to do that.  I have no strength or will to draw boundaries and defend them.  It's easier to just be alone than to feel like a rag doll at the whim of those around me.  I often find myself in the fetal position in an attempt to seal myself off from the world and keep myself safe.

Sometimes my depressions are emotionless.  I feel nothing.  Most of the time it was like that.  Dull.  Blank.  Empty.  Nothing.  Other moments were like this.  Gut-wrenching.  Crying from the deepest parts of myself.  Falling to the ground sobbing.  Unable to stop shaking from the shredding of my soul. 

And this is how I felt so much of the time.  For months and months and months.  Like an empty shell.  Depleted.  Like everything that made me who I was had been taken away.  Worthless.  Like I had nothing to offer the world.  Without hope.  Without purpose.  Gone.  Lost.  Alone.

This is what depression looks like.  It's not a bad day.  It's not when things go wrong.  It's when the world is pulled out from under me and I am plunging to my death and I just don't even care.

When God Isn't There

All my life I've felt God's presence near.  From the time I was a small child, as young as I can remember, I knew He was there.  As clearly as I can feel it when someone is standing behind my chair, I knew God was with me.  I knew He had my back.

I didn't do anything to seek Him out or work to have Him near.  It was just a gift.  It was a part of me.  Just the way I was made, like my green eyes.  Just who I am.

I think sometimes when we have gifts (of spirituality or intellect or athletic ability or whatever) we have difficulty understanding why those things are harder for other people.  Sometimes to the point of arrogance.  "They could do this, too, if they really tried."  Something like that.

I can admit I sometimes had that problem with my gift.

It was like I could see something standing right before both of us but you couldn't see it and I thought you just weren't looking hard enough.

As a child I didn't know not everyone experienced it.  As children do, I assumed everyone was like me.  I was often confused at the things people chose to do and say, wondering how they could do those things when God was so near. 

As I grew, I heard people describe their search for God.  What?  Um.  He's just there.  Why do you have to search?  I really couldn't wrap my brain around it.

Then I had long, gut-wrenching conversations with people who said they'd never felt God in their lives.  They'd never felt His love for them.  And, honestly, I wondered what they were doing wrong.  What gospel truth were they missing?  What were they neglecting?  These were good people; why couldn't they feel Him?  Why didn't they know Him?

Because He's just there.  Until He isn't.

A little over a month ago, when I got slammed with whatever mental health bomb hit me, I noticed I couldn't feel Him anymore.  He wasn't there.  I couldn't connect.  I didn't understand why.  I tried to reach out.  I tried all the things that have ever brought me closer to God in the past.  Nothing.

I didn't doubt He was still there.  I've had too much evidence in my life to the contrary.  I didn't believe He had pulled away and was refusing me.  I know too much about His nature to believe that.  But for whatever reason, I could no longer connect to God.  I was alone in a way I'd never been before.

It was such an awful state to be.  It hurt.  It was scary.  It was lonely.  It was traumatic.  It made my heart ache.

At first I just thought of myself.  I floundered like someone drowning, splashing and flailing trying to stay alive.  Trying to want to stay in this world that had suddenly become so dark.

Eventually I thought of others.  I sought for what this could teach me.  I questioned all those judgments I'd made throughout my life.

I had done nothing wrong, but I couldn't connect to God.  I was doing everything possible to find Him again, but I still couldn't do it.  Maybe the same was true for the people I'd judged.  Misjudged.

That was last night.  I started letting myself feel what others have felt without being afraid of it.  Without trying to make it stop.  I wanted to let it teach me what it could.  And when I prayed before bed last night (which has been very different and much more difficult without feeling connected to God) I accepted it.  I told God I didn't know if this was an assignment or just a coincidence, but I was willing to accept it and learn what He'd have me learn from it.  I spent last night and today trying to feel what all those people feel who haven't felt God.

I can still only guess.  Even when it was all so dark, I had my past experience to rely on.  I had my testimony through experience to assure me He was there even if I couldn't feel Him.  I had my understanding of His nature to let me know He still loved me and would watch over me even if I wasn't aware of it.  And even with all of that, it was terrifying.

I can't imagine how anyone gets through this life without knowing God is there and loves them and watches over them.  I just can't process it.  But I have a glimpse.  And I am so sorry for all the times I've judged people as unworthy or unwilling to try.  I was so wrong.

I don't know why I had this experience.  It wasn't the medication because it started before I took anything.  I don't know if it was caused by the anxiety and depression or if it was the other way around.  Maybe they were triggered by the loss of God.

Tonight, as I was getting ready for bed, I thought about how lonely I've been without God.  I pondered on what I've learned.  I knew I had to write this post.

And as soon as I committed to write this post, His love came rushing back.  I was flooded with it.  Surrounded and overwhelmed.  Soon I was on my knees, sobbing, thanking Him.  Thanking Him for what I'd learned, but mostly for allowing me to be in His presence again.  To have Him with me.  He reminded me of our previous conversation, "You can't do the work I need you to do if you feel better."  I remembered accepting that assignment.  I reaffirmed my acceptance of it.  I will go through what He needs me to in order to do what He needs me to do.

I don't know if my latest mental health episode is over, but right now I feel peace.  So much peace it is almost overpowering.  And I am so grateful for it.

I know there are those of you reading this who haven't felt His love.  It makes me sad.  I don't know how you will find Him.  But I offer you my experience that maybe you can rely on it until you have your own.

God is real.  He loves you.  He is aware of you and your struggles.  He will reach out to you, in whatever way is best for you.  Watch for it.

Like a Broken Vessel

I needed this today.

This is a beautiful, powerful, and much needed message from a prophet of God about depression.  I believe there is strength and truth in this message for anyone who struggles with depression or loves someone who does, regardless of your chosen religion. 

It hurts.  And it's hard.  And sometimes you feel like a failure who should be stronger.  But having someone acknowledge how difficult it is and that it's a serious illness and not a sign of weakness or sin helps.

A Health Update of Sorts

Ugh!  I wish I could just say that and it would communicate all I need to say so I could be done.  But it doesn't.  It's taken me so long to update because things still feel so undetermined and it's so hard to do.  But it's important, so I will.

I'm still not leaving my house much.  Many people in my life are aware of what I'm going through and worried about me.  And it's so difficult to communicate in person, so I'll try to do it this way.

I'm not sure what I've told whom so I'll do a short recap.

I've been in a bad way since about the beginning of the year.  Not really depression, although that's certainly an element.  Severe anxiety, but beyond that.  Such emotional pain that it's manifesting physically.  And being with people hurts.

When I met with my therapist, we tried to find a psychological cause.  Was it connected to the trauma work we've done or something else that came up recently?  Not that we could find.  It doesn't feel that way this time.  It feels physically based.

We came up with a couple things to try.  I went home, tried those things for a week, and returned to see my therapist in just as bad a state as before.  He'd been worried about me.  We talked about what helped and what didn't.  I could tell after my recap and a few questions from him, at about twenty minutes into our session, he had no idea what else to do.  I suggested a different approach medication-wise.  He liked it.  We discussed why.  My idea was to take a lower dose of medication more often.  The idea was to retrain my body back to what it's supposed to feel like.  To calm my neurological system and hold it there for a week or two to help it find my homeostasis again.  And part of this plan was that when the medication helped and I felt better I needed to engage in healthy self-care activities.  If I felt good, I was supposed to do things that have helped me psychologically in the past.  And I needed to go to the doctor to get a different prescription in order to try this.  My therapist asked how long until my next appointment.  Two weeks.  He said if things got worse to call him; two weeks is too long this time.  I said I would, knowing that if things got much worse I wouldn't be able to.  But I would do my best.

I went to the doctor a couple days later.  I love my current Primary Care Physician.  I feel like he really listens and wants to help me feel better.  I read him the part of my blog that described what I'd been feeling (which he said he really appreciated because it helped him understand).  I told him about my visit with my therapist and what we wanted to try.  And then I asked for a lower prescription and for just seven pills.

Apparently, he doesn't often get asked for a lower dose or fewer pills.  It's usually the opposite.

He said he was willing to go that route, but there might be a better way.  He suggested a different anti-anxiety medication, one that was longer-acting.  He also suggested an anti-depressant I haven't tried before (I've tried many and none have worked, except to sometimes make me worse).  I told him I wanted to try what my therapist and I had agreed on first.  If it didn't work, I'd be willing to try the other.

One thing that both he and my therapist pointed out is that I shouldn't continue to hurt so much just because I am afraid of becoming an addict (which I am afraid of because addiction runs in my family).  They said it's their job to keep that from happening.  I need to worry about feeling better.  It's not okay for me to remain in this state.  (My therapist pointed out that not stopping the pain when I can is still a form of self-harm, which I have a history of).

So I tried the approach my therapist and I agreed on.  It helped take the edge off, but didn't really calm me.  And it didn't last more than a few hours.  I tried it for four days.  It was just absolutely not working.  I called my therapist and told him what my doctor had suggested and asked how he felt about it.  He said to go ahead and try the longer-acting anti-anxiety medicine the doctor had recommended and we'd discuss the anti-depressant when I saw him again.

I contacted my doctor and asked him for the meds he'd suggested, which I got.  That was Tuesday.  Now it's Friday.  How are things going?

I wish I could say wonderful, but they're not.  Before all of this the anxiety and pain was horrendous about 80-90% of my day, with a few moments of okay.  That's reversed some.  I am settled enough to be with people about 70% of the day, even though there is still an underlying anxiety.  It's not as painful, but not really joyful.  Still a lot of worry about everything.  I still have trouble separating myself from the emotions of others.  I still cry for almost no reason.  And now I have the side effects of the medication.

I've been having nightmares recently.  I'm less mentally clear.  I get a rebound headache every evening; last night's was horrible.  I feel unsettled within my skin (yeah, sorry I can't be more clear on that).  And I still have moments with waves of anxiety that seem to come from nowhere.

I'm trying to do my part.  I'm sleeping more (lots more because of how tired the medication makes me).  I'm trying to remember to eat, although that one's gotten worse on this medication.  And I'm trying to connect with others.  But that's hard.

I went to book club last night, because I felt like that would be what my therapist would want me to do.  I enjoyed listening to the discussion, but didn't participate much.  It was kind of hard to be in a room with that many people.  And I'm sure it was hard for people to have me there.  I am usually very participatory at book club, contributing a lot to the conversation.  Not last night.  Last night I was mostly silent.  That's a big red flag to my friends that I am not okay.  Maybe I shouldn't have gone.  I feel bad that I made people worry.

My husband is checking in with me regularly because I asked him to.  Any medication with a sedative effect tends to throw me into a deep depression after a few days or weeks.  I need help recognizing that because I am usually so deep before I notice that I no longer care to do anything about it.

Right now I'm playing a wait and see game.  I'm still taking the meds my doctor prescribed.  I'm hoping some of the negative side effects will wear off as my body acclimates.  And that it will do so before I'm lost in the darkness again.  I'm trying to do things that make me happy when I can, but I'm so tired. 

I love the Olympics.  I'm hoping they help.

I know this wasn't much of an update, but it's the best I've got to offer right now.

Conversations with God About My Health

I have been hesitant to share this story, but I feel now is the right time.  Please know that it's a very tender story for me.

In the late spring/early summer of 2001 I went to bed for a year and a half.  So tired.  Barely able to care for my children.  Very difficult time for me and our family.  Over time I slowly pulled out of that darkness.  But I have been very low energy and fatigued ever since.  It's like I'm constantly running on batteries with very little juice.

Then, in July 2005, I got a severe headache that wouldn't go away.  MRIs and all kind of tests and treatments found/did nothing.  I still have the headache.  It varies in intensity, but it's always there.

So I am always exhausted and always in pain.

Most days I just roll with it.  It's my life and I've grown accustomed. Other days I get very sad and frustrated about all the things I want to do but can't.  This story starts with one of those days.

I had a friend who had gone through some similar health issues.  He'd tried many treatments and made many changes in his life.  And he felt better.  He found his way back to good health and energy.

Shortly after hearing him speak of how he changed his life/health, I sent the following email to a friend documenting my experience/feelings:

Last week I went in for my physical.  As I talked with my doctor he decided he wanted to add some extra tests to my blood work.  Basically, there were something like 5-10 additional tests he wanted to run.  Looking for the cause of my ever-dwindling energy.  This has been my primary concern.  I would gladly keep the headache if I could just feel better, more energy, like I could function.

So today my test results came back.  And there was nothing unusual in them.  They didn't show any problems.  No new direction to try a new treatment.

To say the least, I was frustrated and disappointed.  I began to get depressed.

I found myself in my room crying.  I asked why I can't seem to feel better.  Not really in prayer, just a thought.  I was answered.  "You can't do the work I need you to do if you feel better."

I'll admit I responded with, "That's stupid."

I got past that.  I was told that I can choose not to help with this work and I would be healed.  I would get better very quickly if I decided that I didn't want to do what He needed me to do.

Of course, there was no way I could do that.  I will not put my own comfort before the work He has for me.  I just couldn't do that.

I can, and should, continue working on improving my basic health.  Try to improve my habits.  I will not be healed before my role in this work is complete -- maybe never.  He has a plan for my life and I need to trust that.

There is a great deal of peace in knowing this.  I have felt an outpouring of love from Him.  I know that my doctors and I are not missing something.  We could look forever and try everything and I would not be healed.  My struggle is not about biology. 

I have also been in a state of mourning most of the day.  While I accept this and it helps to know, it is difficult to let go of what I want.

I do not see it this as a punishment or God hurting me for His purposes; I see it as a blessing, an opportunity.  It will take some time to adjust my mindset, but it will happen.

 
I am sad right now.  But I am at peace.

That was two and a half years ago.  I still get frustrated, but that conversation continues to bring me strength.

Some time after that initial conversation I found myself in a terrible depression.  I'd been working hard to take care of myself physically and emotionally.  I'd worked so hard in therapy.  I'd been depression free for a long time.  Then I was slammed back into the darkness.

And as I sobbed on my bedroom floor, curled up in emotional pain, I found my heart asking the question again, "I thought I had this beat.  Why am I here again, in this dark place?"

And I heard, quietly and lovingly, "You said yes."

I was overwhelmed with God's love and support and gratitude.  He knew it was hard.  He knew I could do the work He needed.  He also knew it was worth it.

And that was enough.  It's still enough.  I still get frustrated and sad.  But I have never regretted saying yes.  So if you hear my story and ask how I can smile and be content with my life, now you know.

Today There is Sunshine!

Actually, right this very minute there is sunshine.  It's 12:30am and completely dark outside, but there is sunshine in my heart.  There are colors in my soul.  I look around and see so much that makes me happy.

Yesterday, on Halloween of all days, my depression finally broke.  I made my bed for the first time in over a month.  And I was happy.

Oh, it's been a long spell.  While it hasn't been my most gut-wrenching or life threatening depression, it sure was an ugly one.  Month after month of darkness.  It had me pinned by the throat; I felt like it would never let go.

Nothing I tried helped.  Nothing anyone tried helped.  My friends and family worried.  I even worried a bit, as much as a person can when depressed.

Nothing brought me happiness.  Everything was heavy.  Everything was a chore.  I barely existed.

And just like that it went away.  It was like I woke up from a bad dream.  A bad, black-and-white dream.  And there are colors again.  Kind of like landing in OZ.

There is so much going on.  I have lots more to write.  But that will have to wait.

I just want to focus on this moment and this feeling.  I am happy.  And it's magical!

Keep a Happy Thought for Me?

I am still hurting.  A lot.  The depression and anxiety are still bad.  My patience is almost non-existent.

I am going to the doctor on Monday and the therapist on Thursday.  I'm really hoping for some relief and/or direction by the end of the week.  I'm kind of at the edge of what I can take.

Keep a happy thought for me?

A Little Lighter

My world is a little lighter today.

I finally got to a place that I was able to practice some self-care.  It was like trying to walk while dragging heavy weights with each leg, but I did it.  And I feel a little better.

I scheduled some appointments with my therapist.  I spoke with him on the phone.  We are okay.  The relief I felt after scheduling and speaking with him for just a couple of minutes was amazing.  It matters that I have him in my corner.

I've been able to avoid most of my unhealthy coping mechanisms throughout the PTSD event and the depression.  I'm proud of myself for that.

I'm finding peace within myself.  A little at a time.

The storm isn't over, but the winds have died down for now.  I'll take it.

Still Not Good, But a Different Kind of Bad

Funny thing about PTSD.  It tends to make everything else in my life seem unimportant.  That's a good thing when the problems I was having with my therapist no longer matter and I'm ready to get back to work.  It's not such a good thing when I forget about the house payment.

The PTSD is not quite as bad.  I am still cramping a lot.  I am still touch-averse.  The nerves in my system are still on hyper-alert.  But I am able to think a little more clearly.  And, as of now, it doesn't look like he will become a bigger part of my life after all.  There is less fear.

But when the PTSD lets up, all those other things start to be problems again.

The depression is still in full force.  I'm having to force myself to eat and sleep.  It takes a monumental effort to leave the house.  But I was able to perform a couple acts of service this last week.  I've been able to play my flute a bit.  And I even went to book club.  Small victories.

My body seems to be in rebellion as well.  Whatever virus it is that causes my fatigue has flared.  I could easily sleep twenty hours a day (it's a different tired than the depression tired).  Accomplishing any one thing, even just writing a blog post, saps me of all energy and sends me back to bed.  I do a load of dishes; I have to lie down.  I straighten the living room; I have to lie down.  I practice my flute; I have to lie down.  Not being able to do anything doesn't particularly help with the depression.

My headache has been awful, too.  Severe pain.  Blurry vision.  Dizziness.  Nausea.  And an inability to process thoughts or find the words (simple words) to communicate.

I haven't gone back to therapy yet.  I'm still figuring out our insurance options.  But I will soon.

I'm worried about everything:  money, each individual aspect of each of my children's futures, all the ways I've failed to prepare them, everything that needs to be done today, everything that needs to be done tomorrow, everything that should have been done yesterday, everything that should have been done last week, everything that should have been done years ago, my daughter's health, my husband's health, my health, the safety of each family member every second that they aren't with me, my friends' difficulties, my parents' difficulties, all the ways I'm failing my parents, all the ways I'm failing my friends, what I should be doing right now, how much to stay on top of my kids' school work and how much to let life teach them, and any other little thing that crosses my path.

I'm still avoiding people.  I don't want to do anything.  It's even tough for me to make myself go to my son's football games (which are my favorite things in the whole world).  Octoboween doesn't even have the same appeal as usual.

I'm trying to do things anyway.  I do enjoy the football games once I get there.  I am doing an Octoboween count down on facebook to try to psych myself up for it because I believe it can bring me joy -- eventually.  I'm trying to fake it 'til I make it.  I'm trying to convince my body and mind to get back to work.

But I just want to crawl into bed and cry and let the world go on without me.  Is that really too much to ask?

He Got a Job -- Why Am I Not Happy?

My husband lost his job two and a half months ago.  It's been a tough time.  Financially and emotionally.  I've been dealing with my emotions, my kids' emotions (they are 15-22, so very aware this time around), and my husband's emotions.  Along with all the emotions and expectations and concerns of friends and family.  And I've spent every day wondering how I was going to pay this bill or feed my family and praying no one got hurt or seriously sick because we have no insurance.

Yesterday, all my husband's hard work (and lots of prayers from friends and family) paid off.  After two and a half months of interviews and tests, someone finally offered him a job.  It's significantly less money but has some good trade offs.  And better yet, my husband feels valuable again.  Someone wants him.

I'm very grateful for that.  It eases my heart some to know that he feels better about himself.  That he feels useful.  And it eases my stress a bit to know that money will soon be coming into our house on a regular basis.

But my world is still dark.

My world has been dark for about the last week or two.  I had hoped the good news would make it better, would part the clouds and let the light back in.  But it didn't.

Because sometimes the darkness is situational -- because things around me are not going right.  And sometimes it's biochemical -- because things within my body aren't going right.

I believe this darkness is biochemical, with situational aggravators.  There are lots of things in my life that have been hard lately.  I have no doubt they've taken their toll.  But they could all go away tomorrow and my world would still be dark.

It takes time.

I will do what I can.  I will try to take care of myself.  I will eat and sleep and try to move.  I will draw nearer to God and serve others.  And over time, it will get better.

Right now I feel like a shadow walking through my own life.  Others see me and think I am whole, but I am hollow inside.

I am not okay.  But I will be.  Eventually.

I Don't Know How I'm Supposed to Feel

My friend's sixteen-year old daughter is missing.  She left a note.  She ran away.  But they suspect she was lured away by predator she met on the internet.  It's been a week.

It's such a horrific thing.  My heart is aching for my friend and her family.  I pray for her safe return multiple times a day.

And I feel guilty that I still worry about my own problems.

Big problems like my husband being out of work for a couple of months, with no real prospects on the horizon.  Little problems like my sadness that my son will probably get very little playing time this season of football.  And in between problems like the messy house and my lack of energy or motivation to do anything about it; the medical bills that just keep coming; trying to help manage my husband's depression.

Whenever I get stressed about money and trying to meet all our obligations, I remind myself that my children are safe.  When I notice the signs of depression in myself, I track each of my children in my mind and know where each of them is.  I am so grateful for this.  My children are my life.  I can't imagine the heartache my friend is feeling or how unimportant those other things would be to me if I didn't know where my child was.  What right do I have to worry about the stupid things in my life when she is going through something like this?

I know I need to do things to help myself, to care for my family.  But I find myself checking on her status several times a day to see if there's news.  Sometimes every half hour.  Sometimes I feel guilty that I am so worried about her and her family and not spending enough time worrying about my own family.  What right do I have to neglect my family and our problems by spending so much mental and emotional energy on my friend's family?

I spent years being numb.  Not feeling much of anything.  Most of that comes from a childhood where feelings were not acceptable.

I still have difficulty identifying my feelings.

And sometimes I think I'm feeling everything, like in Harry Potter when Hermione is explaining to Ron and Harry how Cho Chang is feeling.  Ron thinks no one could possibly be feeling all those things at once.  But we can.

I'm feeling sad and scared for my friend.  I'm feeling sad and scared for myself.  I'm feeling blessed.  I'm feeling irritated and disappointed.  I'm even feeling content sometimes.

But I'm judging those feelings.  I'm judging myself for feeling all of these things.  Like I am bad because I'm not feeling what I should be feeling -- whatever that is.

I know I shouldn't.  I know I should experience the feelings and try to see what they are teaching me or just acknowledge them or just let them pass by unnoticed.  I wish I could stop judging them and just feel.

I tell myself that I am not a bad person because I am worried about my own life, even simple things that won't matter in a month.  It's okay to be happy.  It's okay to cry.  It's even okay to be numb for a while.

Now that I've said it, I'm going to work on believing it.  My feelings are mine.  And they aren't right or wrong.  They just are.

Right?

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Update:  My friend's daughter has been found and is safe and back with her family.

Trusting in God's Timing

Here's the thing.  I do.  I really do.  I trust that He knows what He's doing and everything is going to work out okay.  Eventually.

It's the eventually thing that sucks.

Why can't it be now?  Why do I have to watch week after week as my husband goes through interview after interview and disappointment after disappointment? 

When my husband was laid off I wasn't worried.  Really.  Not worried at all.  In our twenty-three years of marriage he's been laid off eleven times.  He's good at finding a job.  He's highly employable.  He's a hard worker and a loyal employee. 

But it's been nearly two months now and my relaxed attitude is pretty much gone.

I love him and it's so hard on him to be rejected over and over.  He wonders what he's doing wrong.  He struggles with depression and feelings of low self-worth.  He tries to stay positive and keep his hopes up, but then those same hopes crash every time he's passed over for a position.

It breaks my heart.

I try to help him fight the depression.  I believe in him and tell him so.  I value him whether he's employed or not.  But that only helps so much.  He still questions his worth when he can't support his family.

And I've been really struggling with depression, too.

I feel so powerless.  I wish I could get a job and help out, but my health just won't allow it.  I really can't do anything to help him interview better or find better job opportunities.  All I can do is support him and try to manage our home.

And the stress of trying to keep our home afloat makes me feel like throwing up a great deal of the time.

We are receiving unemployment, which is less than half of what we were earning before.  We have cut every expense we can.  We have thousands of dollars in medical bills, some of which have gone to collections.  We have had to ask our daughter to help with some costs.  We've had to ask my dad for money.  And we've had to go to our church for food and help with the bills.

I am grateful that these things are available, but don't let anyone kid you.  It sucks to have to ask for help.  A lot.  Being an adult and not being able to pay your own way is a pretty major kick in the emotional teeth.

If I could just see down the road a bit, see when it's going to get better.  Then maybe I could focus on other things instead of obsessing about how I'm going to keep the lights on and the medical debtors at bay.

God's smart.  He knows what He's doing.  But I want what I want and I want it now!  I want my husband to get a job.  Now!  I want him to feel valued and productive again.  Now!  I want him to be proud of himself again.  Now!  And I want us to be able to pay our own way again.  Now!

And yet, when I pray tonight, when I converse with God and express my gratitude and ask for what I want, I will still include, "If it be thy will."

Because I do trust Him.  Even if I feel like throwing up while waiting.

Standing in Holy Places in Difficult Times

This will be a long post.  Please feel free to skip it without fear of offending me.  Also, it's a religious post.  It's taken from a talk I gave in church a couple of weeks ago.  It contains scriptures from The Book of Mormon in addition to scriptures from The Holy Bible.  It's based on a scripture from The Doctrine and Covenants (another book of scripture in the Mormon church):  D&C 87:8 "Stand ye in holy places, and be not moved."

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As we’ve discussed standing in holy places this year, we’ve talked about many important places.  We’ve discussed the temple and church.  We’ve talked about dedicated sites and memorials.  We’ve also talked about how we can make any place a holy place if we are striving to keep ourselves holy. 

I’d like to expand on that a little bit.  Sometimes a holy place is an actual place.  Sometimes it’s a state of mind.  And sometimes it’s a lot of work to find a holy place within myself during a difficult time.

To me, a holy place is anywhere I am physically or emotionally that allows me to connect with God.  A place that I can understand His will and strive to do it.

2 Nephi 2:25 says, “Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy.”

This life, this experience, is supposed to bring us joy.  God’s will is that we have joy.

Many people read this and see it as an excuse to play more.  Others read this and see it as a reason to not worry so much.  Still others read it and want to get into the ever-ongoing debate between happiness and joy to prove that “wickedness never was happiness.”

Sometimes when I read it, I take it as an assignment.  One that I have a tough time with.

I struggle with clinical depression and PTSD.  I have for most of my life.  And sometimes when I read that scripture – “men are that they might have joy” – I feel like a failure.

I believe this is because I’ve bought into four powerful lies Satan uses:

1.      It’s my fault.
2.      It’s beyond my control.
3.      I have to do it alone.
4.      I should be happy all the time.

The first one, it’s my fault.  I spent many years thinking I wasn’t trying hard enough.  If I were more righteous I would be happier.  I should be able to choose happiness (because everyone says happiness is a choice).  If I were only stronger or more positive, I could force myself to choose happiness.  I could have peace in my heart all the time.  I would no longer find myself trapped in the darkness.  I believed it was my fault when I went into a depression because I wasn’t a better, stronger person.

Please let me say, I do believe happiness is a choice.  Most of the time.  But I also know that our bodies are complicated things.  Chemistry is powerful.  And genetics matter.  Clinical depression and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder aren’t my fault any more than multiple sclerosis is someone’s fault.  It’s not a sign that I’m not righteous enough.  It’s not because I’m a bad person.  It’s not because I don’t have enough willpower to snap out of it.  Those are thoughts and beliefs from fifty years ago that just aren’t true.  It’s biochemical.  It’s physical.  It’s environmental.  Much of it is beyond my control.

But not all of it.  And that brings me to the second lie, it’s beyond my control.

I often don’t see it coming.  I am good one day and the next I am so completely not.  My heart is overtaken by a darkness so deep it seems to swallow me whole.  Or I am fine one minute and the next I am filled with fear and have no idea why.  I want to hide, even from the people I love.  Even from the people in my life I know are safe.   It is so intense, so powerful when it overcomes me.  No matter what I’ve tried, it keeps happening.  I believed the only choice I had was to surrender and wait for it to pass.  I spent years thinking it was beyond my control because I didn’t know how to stop it.

But the fact that I didn’t have any answers didn’t mean there were no answers to be had.  I still can’t stop it entirely, but sometimes I can make it less powerful.  I can do things to protect myself.  Let me tell you what I’ve learned.

·       The most important thing I need to do is plan.  I need to write out a plan when I am well.  Because when I am not, it’s too late.  I can’t think clearly enough in those moments to choose well.  But if I have a written plan of healthy coping strategies, I have something to direct me, to help me make better choices.  Choices that will help me heal, not make me feel better for a moment but ultimately drive me deeper within the darkness.

·       I also need to take care of my soul.  D&C 88:15 says, “And the spirit and the body are the soul of man.”  I need to take care of my body.  I need to eat healthy foods.  I need to get enough sleep – for real.  I need to stay hydrated.  And I need to exercise.  It’s easy to think that these things are less important than working on what’s in my mind, but depression and PTSD affect the whole soul.  I can’t neglect half of it and expect to be well.  I also need to take care of my spirit.  This means reading scriptures, praying, attending church, fulfilling my calling.  The basics.  It’s easy to think that working on therapeutic things are all I need to do to feel better.  But my spirit is part of my soul.  If I am not taking proper care of it, I will not be strong enough to continue the fight.  And I will not be close enough to my Heavenly Father to receive the help I need.

And that leads me to the third lie I bought into, I have to do it alone.

We live in a society that glorifies independence.  And I’m not just talking about the world.  We in the church sometimes get this wrong.  We teach self-reliance and think that means we shouldn’t have to ask for help.  If we’re doing everything right, we shouldn’t ever have to ask for help.  We help others.  We give.  We serve.  But so often we are ashamed if we ever have to receive.

We are meant to be with others.  We need each other.  We are supposed to.  How selfish it is to only serve and give but to never open our hearts and lives to others and let them serve us.  How prideful to only show the wonderful things in our lives to the world and to never let on that we have weaknesses, too.  What a loving thing it is to occasionally show the dysfunction in our lives so others know they are not alone.

Thinking we have to do it alone is one of the most dangerous lies we can believe.  It is a lie Satan uses to keep us from leaning on our Savior and partaking of the atonement.  John 14:6 reads, “Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”

Without the atonement we are lost.  We would all remain in a fallen state.  Always separated from our Heavenly Father.  Satan pushes the idea of independence on us so that we will not turn to God or to one another.  How dangerous it is to think we can do it alone.  How grateful I am for the struggles that have shown me this is a lie.

We are not meant to be independent.  We are meant to be interdependent.  To do all we can for ourselves and then turn to God and to each other.  We are told to "gather together oft" (Alma 6:6).  We are constantly asked to strengthen each other, to lift each other up. 

·       Mosiah 2:18 “Behold, ye have called me your king; and if I, whom ye call your king, do labor to serve you, then ought not ye to labor to serve one another?”

·       D&C 88:118 “And as all have not faith, seek ye diligently and teach one another”

Would we be told to serve and lift each other if God wanted everyone to “pull themselves up by their own boot straps?”

We are frequently prompted to turn to God, to ask for help.

·       Proverbs 3:5 “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”

·       JST, Matthew 7:12 “Ask of God; ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

Would God tell us these things if He wanted us to become fully independent of Him?

We are meant to turn to each other and to God.  In my case, turning to God brought me further wisdom and more resources.  I was directed to therapy.  And to my bishop.  And to trusted friends.  Sometimes we don’t know the answer, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.  Asking God doesn’t always mean He will give us the answer.  Sometimes He will direct us to the person who knows the answer.

And sometimes, even after all of this, I am still not happy.  Sometimes all of this still isn’t enough to fend off the darkness.

That brings me to lie number four, I should be happy all the time.

This is a world of sorrow.  Sad things happen.  Grief is important.  And sometimes biochemistry takes over.  Being sad in a moment, or for a few days, doesn’t mean I am doing something wrong.  It doesn’t mean I’m choosing poorly.  It might just mean this is my time to be sad.

The beautiful chapter of Ecclesiastes 3 (vs. 1) says there is a “time to every purpose under the heaven.”  Even, “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”  There are times to be sad.

And sadness has led me to some of the most holy times of my life.  Sadness drew me to my Heavenly Father when my heart was breaking and I didn’t know how to go on.  Sadness drew me to the Savior and to partake of the Atonement as I learned to forgive others and myself.  And those times when I am able to visit with someone whose heart is breaking, who thinks their life is over, who sees no light through their dark world – those are some of the most holy times of all.  Sitting with a friend on my healing porch as her soul aches is a very sad time.  But it is also a very holy time.

Because sometimes it’s time to be sad.

I am not trying to discourage anyone from seeking happiness.  I am encouraging you to forgive yourself for being sad sometimes.

This is a tough world.  But it is also a holy place.  This world has a divine purpose and we have a divine purpose in it.

I am a happy person.  I have a wonderful life.  And even in those moments of darkness, there is peace because I know God is there.  I know He has a plan for me.  I know He loves me.  I know He knows me well enough to send exactly the right trials to strengthen me, to make me who I am meant to be.  I am grateful for depression and PTSD in my life.  They have taught me important lessons I wouldn’t have learned otherwise.  They have kept me connected to God.  And that is a holy place.

Your trials might not be the same as mine.  But you will have trials.  And I hope that no matter what they are, you will find a holy place within yourself to help you through them.  I hope they will bring you to God.  I hope you will allow them to change you and strengthen you.

And please remember verse five of the thirteenth psalm, “Joy cometh in the morning.”  The joy will come.

Trying to Be Brave

I don't feel brave.  Not at all.  I feel scared.

People tell me I'm brave for writing about my therapeutic journey.  Sometimes it's not hard.  Those days I guess I do feel kind of strong.  But days like today, times like now, I'm just a scared little girl.  I'm afraid someone who knows me and knows my parents will read this and tell them about it.  I'm afraid of getting in trouble with my dad.  I'm afraid of hurting my mom.  I'm so, so afraid.

But I do it anyway.  Not because I'm brave.  Just because I'm so desperate to heal.

I'm fighting that deep, dark place again.  Because of my seventy-year old parents and my own co-dependence.

Eight months ago I wrote about my mom and her struggles.  I'd been out of touch and when I checked back in I'd found her much worse off than I was prepared for.  I thought it was horrible.  I thought it was unbelievable.  I thought it was as bad as it could get.

I was wrong.

She is much worse than she was when I wrote that.  And my life has gotten so much harder.

Things are really ugly between her and my dad.  I've listened to both of them tell my why so many times I don't even listen anymore.  At this point I don't care.  They can't seem to stand each other.  Which would be fine if they could just go their separate ways and be okay.  But they can't.  Because she's deteriorating.  And he's trying to take care of her (I admire him for that).  And she only wants him to do what she wants and leave her alone, whether it's good for her or not.  Whether it's a rational request or not.  Mostly, give me money and go away.  And since she wants nothing to do with him, I've found myself in the middle again.

She doesn't have her driver's license anymore.  It expired.  She didn't know.  Now she has to take the written and driving tests to get it back.  Could she pass them?  Maybe on her best day.  Maybe.  But she doesn't have many best days.  So she can't drive.  But she also can't stay home.

She was practically living out of her car before she lost her license.  She had been for years.  And without her license, the car wasn't going anywhere.  But she refused to stay home.  So before long, her car was parked in front of my house.  Every morning she would walk a mile to my house, get into her car and do her makeup or sleep or whatever, and leave for the day.  She's learned to ride the bus.  She's learned that we actually do have taxis in our area.  And she's done a lot of walking.

But she also gets stranded a lot.  She finds herself two or three towns over after the buses have stopped running or she's run out of money.  And then she calls me to come rescue her.  And spends the next two or three hours complaining to me and holding my life hostage.  This was probably happening three or four times a week.

Which was a hard enough situation to deal with, but it gets worse.

Memorial Day my phone rang.  It was my dad.  He asked if I'd seen or heard from my mom recently.  I told him I hadn't for a couple of days.  He said she'd left in a huff on Saturday saying she would never come back to that house, and he hadn't heard from her since.  He said he was ready to call the police.  I asked him to give me a few minutes to try to contact her.  I called her phone; straight to voicemail.  I sent her a text; no response.  I let my dad know.  About fifteen minutes later she sent me a text.  She was in the next town over and said I better come and get her.  I let my dad know and left to pick her up.

Once in the car, she started in on how awful my dad is and that she won't go back there and if he would just move her small motor home somewhere else she'd have somewhere to stay until they move this weekend.  I really thought my patience and my nerves were completely depleted before this episode.  I really thought I had nothing left.  Apparently there were reserves, but they were very shallow.  I had no idea what to do.  I was not in a strong place.  And I needed her to have somewhere to be other than my front porch -- talking non-stop about her horrible life and how awful my dad is.  Still.  So I did the only thing I could think of.  I told my dad he could park her little motor home at my house until the weekend.

It took him about two hours to bring it down.  We sat on the porch and she talked to me the entire time.  There is no way for me to express what it's like having her talk to me in a way that you can understand, unless you've dealt with someone in the middle of a breakdown.  It's like a bad, non-productive therapy session that just goes on and on.  Like I am her therapist.  And she never runs out of things to talk about.  And it doesn't matter if I'm listening or not.  She just keeps going and going.  It's emotionally exhausting.

She eventually walked to the nearby grocery store to get something to eat so she wouldn't be there when he brought it down.  It's now parked in my driveway, plugged into an outlet in my carport.  She hasn't been much trouble out there, although she has called me from various other locations to pick her up a couple of times since.  And to bring her home.  To my house.

And I am struggling.  A lot.  Having to deal with him and his rants about her and her and her rants about him while trying to help and be kind to both of them has me at my absolute limit.  I've broken down in tears multiple times these last few days.  It's all so ridiculous and pathetic and sad.  And I feel so selfish for not being happy to help.  I feel so selfish for worrying more about how she's interfering with my life than worrying about her well-being.

But today was therapy.  My therapy.  With my therapist.  A real therapist that I pay to help me.  Not some friend or family member who feels trapped and helpless and taken advantage of.  My therapist.

It was a good session, even though it was incredibly hard for me.  We discussed lots of options.  I can laugh it off and just keep going.  I can do nothing and keep complaining.  I can tell them both the hard truth (which isn't going to happen yet in any way, shape, or form).  Or I can do what I need to for my own protection:  I can learn to lie and fake helplessness.  (Let me just say, those two things are so completely not a part of my personality -- which might have something to do with why I always find myself taken advantage of.)  Little white lies like, "I'm sorry.  I can't come right now.  My daughter who just had brain surgery needs me" -- even when she doesn't.  Fake helplessness like, "I'm sorry, dad, I just don't know what to do" -- instead of doing everything possible to solve their problems for them.  I'm supposed to be less available and more helpless than my dad.  So he has to start taking care of things again.  One way or another.

Because this isn't taking care of my parents.  This is enabling.  This is prolonging an unhealthy situation.  This is hurting them more in the long run than confronting them would now.  Even though my heart is struggling with it. 

My dad doesn't know what to do.  But that doesn't mean it isn't his job to figure it out.  My therapist thinks it will take a crisis for him to find his way.  It might take a ride home for my mom in a police car.  From a stranded situation I didn't rescue her from.  And when she tells them to bring her to my house, which she will, I need to be ready to tell them she can't stay and they need to take her back to her house.  Whether she wants to go there or not.  This was about the time in the session when I completely lost it and started sobbing just thinking about her face when I tell her she can't stay and how her heart would be breaking.  I'm letting this idea simmer for a while.  I'm not capable of doing this today.  I don't know if I ever will be or if it will come to this.  But I'm letting the idea simmer because in my therapeutic heart it feels like truth, even if in my tender co-dependent heart it feels like the worst thing I could ever do to her.

For now, I am going to be less available.  And I'm going to work on differentiating between routine care, urgent care, and emergency care.  If it's not an emergency, I am going to work very hard to make myself put it back on my dad.  Because this is his job.  Not mine.

And, come heck or high water, that motor home is leaving my driveway this weekend!

A Dark and Difficult Place

It can be tough to admit when I am not okay.  Right now I am not okay.  I am in a dark and difficult place and have been for quite some time.

So I am asking this from my heart.  If you read this and are a religious person, would you please offer a prayer in my behalf?  If you're not religious, maybe send some happy thoughts my way.  It would mean a lot to me.

When I Couldn't Do Laundry

I did some whites today.  It was kind of urgent; I haven't had clean underwear in a few days.  Tired on top of sick on top of tired led to me having no clean underwear.  As I loaded the washing machine I thought of how nice it would be to have clean underwear.  And this led me to a sad memory of a dark time.

I've never been a clean freak, or a neat freak, but I always made sure people were clean and had clean clothes.  For years.  And then I went off the deep end.

I've mentioned it before, the year and a half I spent in bed.  I haven't fully written about it for a couple of reasons.  First, my memories from that time aren't really clear.  And second, I'm ashamed of my life from that time.

Maybe ashamed isn't the right word.  I did the best I could.  But I am embarrassed about it.

I still don't really know what started it, why I could no longer function.  I was eventually diagnosed with major depression and we tried some meds, but nothing really helped.  I just had to wait it out and adjust my life.

The reason doing laundry today reminded me of that dark time is because of a moment.  It was the moment I'd worked up the drive and determination to get out of bed long enough to do a load of laundry and my ten-year old daughter was super excited because she was going to have clean underwear.  I went to my room and cried.

No child should ever go without clean underwear long enough to be grateful when they finally get some.

I knew the laundry situation was dire.  I knew they were wearing the same clothes day after day, or cycling through them without them having been washed.  I knew it.  I was sad about it.  It bothered me.  But I couldn't do anything about it.

I had a child come home and tell me no one would sit by them because they said my child smelled bad.  I wanted to write it off as lack of bathing because then it was only partially my fault.  They could mostly all bathe themselves by then.  But that wasn't what it was.  It was wearing dirty clothes over and over.  Including underwear.

It killed me.  But I couldn't do anything about it.  I don't know how to explain the paralysis.  I was able to get them up and off to school (most days).  I was able to feed them (most meals).  I did my best to keep the kitchen clean enough that it didn't smell bad.  And then I crawled back into my bed.

I was barely functional.  I often went a week without bathing.  Days without brushing my teeth.  Unless I had to leave the house.  Then I got cleaned up enough that no one would know.  Because that's what we do.  We kill ourselves to make sure no one knows we are having a hard time.

I missed a lot of appointments.  I missed my turn helping in my children's classes.  I dropped the ball and left people hanging.  I cared.  I was humiliated.  But I couldn't do anything to change it.

I had five kids, 2 years to 10 years, and it was all I could do to keep them alive.

My husband did what he could.  He was working a lot.  Before that I had done everything around the house.  Then I almost completely withdrew from life.  So far that I couldn't even help him see what needed to be done or how to do it.  I don't know how awful it was for him, how powerless he felt.  He wanted to take me to a doctor long before I let him.  I wouldn't let him tell family or friends.  I don't know how he feels about that time because we haven't talked about it.  I tried once or twice, but I don't think he wants to go back there -- even in thought.

I was with a group of women a while back who were talking about helping to clean out a house when someone in the neighborhood moved.  They talked about how dirty it was and how certain areas had probably not been cleaned the whole time they'd lived there.  They ridiculed and judged, asking how a person could live like that.  I said there must have been more going on in their lives that led to the house being that way.  I tried to get them to look at it a little differently.  But I didn't want to speak up too much for fear that it would draw attention to my life and my home.

I'm not a good housekeeper.  I never have been.  But it's gotten so much harder and so much worse since my health fell apart.  It's not that I don't see it.  It's not that I like it this way.  It's just that I'm doing the best I can do.  I'm meeting the responsibilities that have to be met and letting the others slide.  Which often means my kitchen floor doesn't get mopped and the toilets don't get scrubbed.  For a very long time.

So, please, the next time you see someone whose house is a mess, whose yard is overgrown, or who might be wearing dirty clothes, don't judge.  People don't choose to be dirty and messy unless something is wrong in their lives.

We're all just doing the best we can.  And we're grateful when we have clean underwear.