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?
Showing posts with label Identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Identity. Show all posts
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Saturday, June 18, 2016
Transitions
Seriously, who the crap am I?
Transitions are tough. Even when the new state of being is positive. Even when the other side is wonderful. The change can be difficult.
I remember reading that transitions are especially dangerous mental health territory. Well, I already have mental health issues. And now I'm in the middle of several transitions. What a surprise I'm having a tough time.
My youngest child just graduated. I was so focused on all the pain-in-the-butt things that were going away that I didn't look much further ahead. And now I find myself on unsolid ground. Not sure of my footing. Staring at a bunch of building materials with no idea what I want to create.
My oldest will be twenty-six in a few months. For over twenty-six years (I'm including my pregnancy), my whole life has been focused on my kids. Their safety. Their happiness. How to help them be good people. That's a long time in one job.
My youngest will be eighteen in a little over a month. And as my kids have become adults over the last few years, my role has changed somewhat. They're in charge of, and in control of, more of their lives. They're responsible for their choices, whether they act responsibly or not. In a little over a month, I will not be legally responsible for anyone but myself.
And I'm having some trouble processing that.
The transition has happened slowly, in theory. One child at a time. A couple years in between each one. So why does this moment feel so shocking?
Because she's the last one.
I've been a stay-at-home mom for most of their lives. Significantly longer than I was single and childless. When I no longer have minor children at home, but still choose not to work, what am I?
And what do I want to be?
See, here's the thing. I have all the choices in the world. My husband has no desire for me to work, for both physical health and mental health reasons. Although he would support me if I chose to work. Because he supports me in pretty much anything I want to do.
And that's the key phrase. What I want to do. And I have no idea. What do I want to do?
My health is better than it's been in years, but it's still a day to day thing. There are still days I can't get out of bed. Still lots of fatigue and pain.
But there are other days. Days when I feel pretty good. Days when I feel powerful. Days when I believe I can conquer the world.
I'd love to be able to plan out my life. I'd love to live by schedule. I'd love to know how I want to spend my days. To write it all down and live by it. But with the freedom to set it aside if a friend needs me. And I'm just not sure how to balance that.
I yearn for structure. I've always been a planner. But when my health fell apart eleven years ago, I had to stop committing to things. I had to stop planning. Because it just felt so bad when I let others down, when I had to cancel at the last minute. When I couldn't do that one thing I'd so looked forward to and worked to make happen.
I'm scared to plan again. I'm not sure why. And I guess I've planned all along, just on a different level. I'm not sure why this feels so different.
Yes, I am. I don't want to waste. I don't want to use my time badly. I don't want to just pass through day after day. I don't want to look in my rearview mirror and see emptiness. Days of nothing.
Before now, even if I did nothing else all day, I still parented. I still did something productive, just by keeping people alive and on task in their lives. When that's not my job anymore, what value do I have? Especially if my days are spent just doing whatever I want.
I know I'll find my footing. I always do. And it will be great. And I will be happy. But right now I feel like I'm dancing on quicksand. In an earthquake. With a tornado approaching.
And I have to decide whether to hunker down or face the storm.
Transitions are tough. Even when the new state of being is positive. Even when the other side is wonderful. The change can be difficult.
I remember reading that transitions are especially dangerous mental health territory. Well, I already have mental health issues. And now I'm in the middle of several transitions. What a surprise I'm having a tough time.
My youngest child just graduated. I was so focused on all the pain-in-the-butt things that were going away that I didn't look much further ahead. And now I find myself on unsolid ground. Not sure of my footing. Staring at a bunch of building materials with no idea what I want to create.
My oldest will be twenty-six in a few months. For over twenty-six years (I'm including my pregnancy), my whole life has been focused on my kids. Their safety. Their happiness. How to help them be good people. That's a long time in one job.
My youngest will be eighteen in a little over a month. And as my kids have become adults over the last few years, my role has changed somewhat. They're in charge of, and in control of, more of their lives. They're responsible for their choices, whether they act responsibly or not. In a little over a month, I will not be legally responsible for anyone but myself.
And I'm having some trouble processing that.
The transition has happened slowly, in theory. One child at a time. A couple years in between each one. So why does this moment feel so shocking?
Because she's the last one.
I've been a stay-at-home mom for most of their lives. Significantly longer than I was single and childless. When I no longer have minor children at home, but still choose not to work, what am I?
And what do I want to be?
See, here's the thing. I have all the choices in the world. My husband has no desire for me to work, for both physical health and mental health reasons. Although he would support me if I chose to work. Because he supports me in pretty much anything I want to do.
And that's the key phrase. What I want to do. And I have no idea. What do I want to do?
My health is better than it's been in years, but it's still a day to day thing. There are still days I can't get out of bed. Still lots of fatigue and pain.
But there are other days. Days when I feel pretty good. Days when I feel powerful. Days when I believe I can conquer the world.
I'd love to be able to plan out my life. I'd love to live by schedule. I'd love to know how I want to spend my days. To write it all down and live by it. But with the freedom to set it aside if a friend needs me. And I'm just not sure how to balance that.
I yearn for structure. I've always been a planner. But when my health fell apart eleven years ago, I had to stop committing to things. I had to stop planning. Because it just felt so bad when I let others down, when I had to cancel at the last minute. When I couldn't do that one thing I'd so looked forward to and worked to make happen.
I'm scared to plan again. I'm not sure why. And I guess I've planned all along, just on a different level. I'm not sure why this feels so different.
Yes, I am. I don't want to waste. I don't want to use my time badly. I don't want to just pass through day after day. I don't want to look in my rearview mirror and see emptiness. Days of nothing.
Before now, even if I did nothing else all day, I still parented. I still did something productive, just by keeping people alive and on task in their lives. When that's not my job anymore, what value do I have? Especially if my days are spent just doing whatever I want.
I know I'll find my footing. I always do. And it will be great. And I will be happy. But right now I feel like I'm dancing on quicksand. In an earthquake. With a tornado approaching.
And I have to decide whether to hunker down or face the storm.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
With Purple Hair
On December 2, 2014 my family and friends received a bit of a shock. Without telling anyone - not my husband, best friend, or children - I dyed somewhere between six and eight inches of my hair purple (actually, my amazing hairdresser did). Bright purple. Troll doll purple.
Reactions varied. My husband and my best friend both loved it. My kids had mixed reactions; mostly I think they just needed time to adjust. My son worried that it increased the chances that I would hurt myself (I had received a diagnosis of Bipolar 2 shortly before this, although I'd had symptoms for years, and have a history of self-harm). We got through that. They adjusted. Everyone adjusted. And even though people were surprised, there seemed to be a general, "Oh, that's just something Robin would do" attitude.
They asked why. I said it was just time.
The reasons are many. First let me say, I'm color-blind. I've done various things in shades of red in my hair many times in the past. It has to be very bright in order for me to see the red in my brown hair. When it fades, which it does very quickly, I can't see it anymore. Other people can and they still comment on how great it looks, but I can't. And that bothers me. I dye my hair for my own entertainment. For my own pleasure. Because I like the way it looks to me. That effect is nullified when I can't see it. And that's a lot of money to like what I see for only a few days.
Also, a part of me has always wanted to do something bold and shocking with my hair. I'm generally only rebellious in subtle ways. I'm not really a whole-head-purple or shaved-head person. I'm more of a comes-out-with-a-couple-washes purple-streak-for-Halloween person. But for some reason, it was just time.
And purple has never been a favorite color of mine. But since my daughter was diagnosed with a Chiari malformation a couple of years ago and purple is the color of Chiari awareness, it's grown on me. Purple has a special place in my heart now.
My hair has gone through many phases as it's faded. My hairdresser told me it would, but I wasn't quite prepared for it. When it lost the very intense brightness I was sad. But then I saw all the variation emerging and it became fun on a different level. It became My Little Pony purple.
Truthfully, once it got to this stage I still only saw it as purple. My husband would point out where it was purple, where it was blue, and where it was pink - but it just looked purple to me.
And, see, that's part of the point. While I couldn't see all those colors, I could see the purple. Every step of the way I could see the different color from what it used to be. That made me happy.
Then it faded more and my friend told me it looked like Meryl Streep's hair in Into the Woods.
Seriously, how can you go wrong when you're being compared to Meryl Streep? Even if it's when she's playing a witch. (By the way, that's one of my favorite semi-recent photos of myself. My hair looks good. You can't see the bags under my eyes or my double chin. It'll be my profile picture for a good, long time.)
That was about a month ago now. It's faded a lot more. There is definite white showing through. Since we had to bleach my hair in order to dye it, just letting my hair go back to its natural color isn't going to happen. Without the color my head would look like the hoof of a Clydesdale.
It's time for something new. Tomorrow I'll be getting it colored again.
So I thought today would be a good time to reflect on what I've learned in the last two and a half months.
As much as I pondered this, (and it was planned for more than two weeks before I did it) I didn't think through all the ramifications. I was prepared for the way my family, friends, parents, neighbors, and ward (parish) members might react. I wasn't prepared for the way strangers would react. They either stared or refused to look at me. Except the younger ones. The ones my kids' ages and younger would come right out and comment on it or just move past it. The ones my age and older either glared at me (seriously?) or glanced and then turned away quickly (while sneaking secret looks when they thought they were out of my field of vision).
I get it. Especially when it was bright purple it was a bit shocking. But some of the looks I got, many in fact, felt like judgments. Like me having purple hair meant I was a certain type of person who believed a certain type of things and acted in a certain type of way. And worse, like it was something to be embarrassed about. My daughter (who shaved her head almost two years ago in support of her sister who was having brain surgery) said she went through similar things. In fact, she was flat out told to hide her head more than once.
Let me tell you something, judgy-judgers, most of you would be hard pressed to find more conservative people than me and my daughter. We are both very active in our church and attend every week. Neither of us has a tattoo. Neither of us has ever done drugs or had illicit sex. Neither of us has been to jail. We both vote in every election and take that right/responsibility seriously. In fact, neither of us has even ever had a ticket. By most measurements of the world, we are quite boring. We just did something fun with our hair.
The other thing I wasn't prepared for was how I would feel about these reactions. It's not that I care so much about how others feel about how I look, although the first time (when I was completely unprepared for it) I felt very self-conscious and couldn't wait to get back to the safety of my own home.
No, the reactions of other people served to point out how public this experience was.
Okay, so that should have been obvious before I did it, but it wasn't. I dyed my hair the way I did for me. I wanted it to be distinctly different from my natural hair. I wanted the lift it would give me in the middle of winter. I wanted the fun of that little bit of rebellion. But I was irritated by the fact that I couldn't do this fun thing - that I couldn't play - without the whole world watching.
I went to a high school basketball game a week or so after I had it done. I don't know how many people fit in our gym, maybe a couple hundred. But as I walked in and felt the eyes of so many people on me I realized I was the only person in the room with purple hair. I don't think I've ever felt so much in the spotlight as I did in that moment. And it was not something I enjoyed. I prefer to blend into the crowd. That moment kind of freaked me out.
But I've adjusted. I've acclimated to the new temperature of the waters. As I prepare for the next color, I'm ready for whatever it brings. Because I've been there before and the personal joy it brings me is well worth the cost.
 |
| Troll doll with purple hair |
 |
| Me with purple hair |
They asked why. I said it was just time.
The reasons are many. First let me say, I'm color-blind. I've done various things in shades of red in my hair many times in the past. It has to be very bright in order for me to see the red in my brown hair. When it fades, which it does very quickly, I can't see it anymore. Other people can and they still comment on how great it looks, but I can't. And that bothers me. I dye my hair for my own entertainment. For my own pleasure. Because I like the way it looks to me. That effect is nullified when I can't see it. And that's a lot of money to like what I see for only a few days.
Also, a part of me has always wanted to do something bold and shocking with my hair. I'm generally only rebellious in subtle ways. I'm not really a whole-head-purple or shaved-head person. I'm more of a comes-out-with-a-couple-washes purple-streak-for-Halloween person. But for some reason, it was just time.
And purple has never been a favorite color of mine. But since my daughter was diagnosed with a Chiari malformation a couple of years ago and purple is the color of Chiari awareness, it's grown on me. Purple has a special place in my heart now.
My hair has gone through many phases as it's faded. My hairdresser told me it would, but I wasn't quite prepared for it. When it lost the very intense brightness I was sad. But then I saw all the variation emerging and it became fun on a different level. It became My Little Pony purple.
 |
| My Little Pony with variegated purple hair |
 |
| Me with variegated purple hair |
And, see, that's part of the point. While I couldn't see all those colors, I could see the purple. Every step of the way I could see the different color from what it used to be. That made me happy.
Then it faded more and my friend told me it looked like Meryl Streep's hair in Into the Woods.
 |
| Meryl Streep |
 |
| Me |
That was about a month ago now. It's faded a lot more. There is definite white showing through. Since we had to bleach my hair in order to dye it, just letting my hair go back to its natural color isn't going to happen. Without the color my head would look like the hoof of a Clydesdale.
 |
| Clydesdale hooves |
 |
| My bleached hair before the purple |
So I thought today would be a good time to reflect on what I've learned in the last two and a half months.
As much as I pondered this, (and it was planned for more than two weeks before I did it) I didn't think through all the ramifications. I was prepared for the way my family, friends, parents, neighbors, and ward (parish) members might react. I wasn't prepared for the way strangers would react. They either stared or refused to look at me. Except the younger ones. The ones my kids' ages and younger would come right out and comment on it or just move past it. The ones my age and older either glared at me (seriously?) or glanced and then turned away quickly (while sneaking secret looks when they thought they were out of my field of vision).
I get it. Especially when it was bright purple it was a bit shocking. But some of the looks I got, many in fact, felt like judgments. Like me having purple hair meant I was a certain type of person who believed a certain type of things and acted in a certain type of way. And worse, like it was something to be embarrassed about. My daughter (who shaved her head almost two years ago in support of her sister who was having brain surgery) said she went through similar things. In fact, she was flat out told to hide her head more than once.
Let me tell you something, judgy-judgers, most of you would be hard pressed to find more conservative people than me and my daughter. We are both very active in our church and attend every week. Neither of us has a tattoo. Neither of us has ever done drugs or had illicit sex. Neither of us has been to jail. We both vote in every election and take that right/responsibility seriously. In fact, neither of us has even ever had a ticket. By most measurements of the world, we are quite boring. We just did something fun with our hair.
The other thing I wasn't prepared for was how I would feel about these reactions. It's not that I care so much about how others feel about how I look, although the first time (when I was completely unprepared for it) I felt very self-conscious and couldn't wait to get back to the safety of my own home.
No, the reactions of other people served to point out how public this experience was.
Okay, so that should have been obvious before I did it, but it wasn't. I dyed my hair the way I did for me. I wanted it to be distinctly different from my natural hair. I wanted the lift it would give me in the middle of winter. I wanted the fun of that little bit of rebellion. But I was irritated by the fact that I couldn't do this fun thing - that I couldn't play - without the whole world watching.
I went to a high school basketball game a week or so after I had it done. I don't know how many people fit in our gym, maybe a couple hundred. But as I walked in and felt the eyes of so many people on me I realized I was the only person in the room with purple hair. I don't think I've ever felt so much in the spotlight as I did in that moment. And it was not something I enjoyed. I prefer to blend into the crowd. That moment kind of freaked me out.
But I've adjusted. I've acclimated to the new temperature of the waters. As I prepare for the next color, I'm ready for whatever it brings. Because I've been there before and the personal joy it brings me is well worth the cost.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Living in the First Person, Present Tense
2012 was the year of KINDNESS for me. It changed my life. It changed me. An entire year focused on one thing. Kindness. It was beautiful and glorious. And while I will carry kindness forward with me, I am ready to move on.
This coming year I want to SEE.
I tend to be task oriented. I get so focused on the task, the thing I am trying to accomplish, that I miss a lot. I want to see more.
I want to live in the first person, present tense. I want to be truly present in the events and moments of my life. I want to spend less time in the second person, worrying about what others do or should do. I want to spend less time in the third person, observing life happening around me. And I want to spend a lot less time in the past tense or future tense. I want to be here. Now.
Life is about moments. It's about people. It's about beauty. That's where the glory of life happens. But too often I miss it.
Instead of seeing the 360 degrees around me, I get stuck in tunnel vision. Instead of seeing the technicolor of life, it becomes a grayish blur in my peripheral vision because I can't take my eyes off what's in front of me.
I want to see the beauty of a moment. I want to rejoice longer as I watch my children enjoy each other's company. I want to mourn deeper with my friends who are struggling. I want to look more people in the eye and seek to understand. I want to see progress in myself and acknowledge it and be proud of it instead of focusing on all the things I still need to fix. I want to see purpose in the things I do by rote every day.
When I chose the word SEE to guide me in the next year, it felt so right. It makes complete sense in my mind and heart. It's about practicing mindfulness. It's about making moments mean more. It's about opening my heart wider.
I want to see with new eyes. I want to see divinely. I want to see as God sees.
I've had glimpses. I sense that there will be times when my heart is overwhelmed. I sense that I will cry more. I will admit that I am a little frightened to completely open my heart and feel fully. But I trust that this is the right next step.
And so, in faith I leap.
This coming year I want to SEE.
I tend to be task oriented. I get so focused on the task, the thing I am trying to accomplish, that I miss a lot. I want to see more.
I want to live in the first person, present tense. I want to be truly present in the events and moments of my life. I want to spend less time in the second person, worrying about what others do or should do. I want to spend less time in the third person, observing life happening around me. And I want to spend a lot less time in the past tense or future tense. I want to be here. Now.
Life is about moments. It's about people. It's about beauty. That's where the glory of life happens. But too often I miss it.
Instead of seeing the 360 degrees around me, I get stuck in tunnel vision. Instead of seeing the technicolor of life, it becomes a grayish blur in my peripheral vision because I can't take my eyes off what's in front of me.
I want to see the beauty of a moment. I want to rejoice longer as I watch my children enjoy each other's company. I want to mourn deeper with my friends who are struggling. I want to look more people in the eye and seek to understand. I want to see progress in myself and acknowledge it and be proud of it instead of focusing on all the things I still need to fix. I want to see purpose in the things I do by rote every day.
When I chose the word SEE to guide me in the next year, it felt so right. It makes complete sense in my mind and heart. It's about practicing mindfulness. It's about making moments mean more. It's about opening my heart wider.
I want to see with new eyes. I want to see divinely. I want to see as God sees.
I've had glimpses. I sense that there will be times when my heart is overwhelmed. I sense that I will cry more. I will admit that I am a little frightened to completely open my heart and feel fully. But I trust that this is the right next step.
And so, in faith I leap.
Friday, April 1, 2011
A Princess Story
Once upon a time there were three princesses: Gwendolyn, Donatella, and Genevieve. They lived in an enchanted realm, in neighboring kingdoms.
One day a new princess, Princess Bobbie, moved to the realm and brought her kingdom with her. Only she didn't know that she was a princess. You see, that's something about being a princess -- sometimes you forget.
As she was out exploring the realm, Princess Bobbie met the three princesses. (The three princesses were often together; it helped them remember that they were princesses.) She was mesmerized. These princesses glowed. And they glowed because they were magic! They weren't the ordinary kind of magic, the kind where everyone can do the same things. They each had their own special magic and it was exactly the kind of magic needed for their own kingdom.
Princesses aren't what most people think. They aren't superior and unkind. They are welcoming and inclusive, and Princess Bobbie was thrilled to be invited into their circle of friends. As she spent more and more time with them she began to remember who she was. Her magic began to return. And that was a very good thing because an evil spell had come over her kingdom; they needed her magic. So Princess Bobbie left to protect her kingdom. Things got better and she returned to find her princess friends. And they were happy together again.
But the evil spell isn't ever fully conquered, it is just cast out of a kingdom. And over time it was evident that when the spell left one kingdom it would eventually find its way to another. Sometimes it found its way to one of the other princesses' kingdoms.
If it attacked a kingdom while the princess knew who she was, she was able to defeat it. But if she was a little unsure of herself, if she couldn't see her own magic anymore, the evil could overwhelm her.
And one of the laws of magic and spells was that each princess had to defeat the evil in her own kingdom. The other princesses couldn't do it for her. All they could do was cheer for her. And try to remind her of who she was and to help her find her magic again.
But the evil tried to keep the princesses apart. The evil knew that the princesses were stronger when they were together, that their magic grew as they spent more time with each other.
The evil also knew that being a princess is hard. It can be a very lonely thing. Especially when a princess forgets who she is. That's why the evil worked to make each princess feel like she didn't belong or wasn't good enough to be with the other princesses.
But the princesses love each other. And they are strong. And they will keep fighting their battles and strengthening each other. And although one may get lost every now and then, the glow from the others will always lead her back to them. And the princesses will welcome her back where she belongs and help her remember who she is and the power she has. Because that is what princesses do.
One day a new princess, Princess Bobbie, moved to the realm and brought her kingdom with her. Only she didn't know that she was a princess. You see, that's something about being a princess -- sometimes you forget.
As she was out exploring the realm, Princess Bobbie met the three princesses. (The three princesses were often together; it helped them remember that they were princesses.) She was mesmerized. These princesses glowed. And they glowed because they were magic! They weren't the ordinary kind of magic, the kind where everyone can do the same things. They each had their own special magic and it was exactly the kind of magic needed for their own kingdom.
Princesses aren't what most people think. They aren't superior and unkind. They are welcoming and inclusive, and Princess Bobbie was thrilled to be invited into their circle of friends. As she spent more and more time with them she began to remember who she was. Her magic began to return. And that was a very good thing because an evil spell had come over her kingdom; they needed her magic. So Princess Bobbie left to protect her kingdom. Things got better and she returned to find her princess friends. And they were happy together again.
But the evil spell isn't ever fully conquered, it is just cast out of a kingdom. And over time it was evident that when the spell left one kingdom it would eventually find its way to another. Sometimes it found its way to one of the other princesses' kingdoms.
If it attacked a kingdom while the princess knew who she was, she was able to defeat it. But if she was a little unsure of herself, if she couldn't see her own magic anymore, the evil could overwhelm her.
And one of the laws of magic and spells was that each princess had to defeat the evil in her own kingdom. The other princesses couldn't do it for her. All they could do was cheer for her. And try to remind her of who she was and to help her find her magic again.
But the evil tried to keep the princesses apart. The evil knew that the princesses were stronger when they were together, that their magic grew as they spent more time with each other.
The evil also knew that being a princess is hard. It can be a very lonely thing. Especially when a princess forgets who she is. That's why the evil worked to make each princess feel like she didn't belong or wasn't good enough to be with the other princesses.
But the princesses love each other. And they are strong. And they will keep fighting their battles and strengthening each other. And although one may get lost every now and then, the glow from the others will always lead her back to them. And the princesses will welcome her back where she belongs and help her remember who she is and the power she has. Because that is what princesses do.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Depression as a Part of the Family
Sometimes it feels like Depression is another member of our family. I've seen him walk with various other members. He has been around for so long, he doesn't seem like a visitor anymore.
At times he will hang out in the background, examining things, taking it all in. Other times he will invade our lives like a child having a tantrum.
It's tough to be sad about it. It's part of who we are. To wish it away would be to wish away all we've learned from our walks with him. It would mean we weren't as strong or understanding. It would mean we were a little more hollow.
I mention this because today I re-read a post my daughter wrote about it last year, while at college (which you should go read). It is such a part of her as well. Kind of a travelling companion. Like taking a friend with you wherever you go.
I know it sounds strange when I describe depression this way. Like a friend. Like a family member. But if you've experienced it then it probably makes total sense. It can be a comfort. It can help you understand who you are. It can give you strength when you have none. And like friends and family, it can be very trying.
Learning to understand Depression for the part he plays in our family helps. It's part of why we understand each other, enjoy each other, even while we kind of freak other people out.
Just think of Depression as the crazy cousin who got drunk and passed out on the couch. Yes, he's tough to deal with but he's still family.
At times he will hang out in the background, examining things, taking it all in. Other times he will invade our lives like a child having a tantrum.
It's tough to be sad about it. It's part of who we are. To wish it away would be to wish away all we've learned from our walks with him. It would mean we weren't as strong or understanding. It would mean we were a little more hollow.
I mention this because today I re-read a post my daughter wrote about it last year, while at college (which you should go read). It is such a part of her as well. Kind of a travelling companion. Like taking a friend with you wherever you go.
I know it sounds strange when I describe depression this way. Like a friend. Like a family member. But if you've experienced it then it probably makes total sense. It can be a comfort. It can help you understand who you are. It can give you strength when you have none. And like friends and family, it can be very trying.
Learning to understand Depression for the part he plays in our family helps. It's part of why we understand each other, enjoy each other, even while we kind of freak other people out.
Just think of Depression as the crazy cousin who got drunk and passed out on the couch. Yes, he's tough to deal with but he's still family.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
My NOT to Do List
SITS activity number 2: write a list post in 10 minutes.
**********
I am fairly certain that everyone reading this has made a To Do list at one time or another. Whether you've lived up to it or not is a different thing entirely. Some people like to keep a running list, prioritized, with whatever is unfinished at the end of the day rolling over to the next day's list. Not me. I like to finish everything on my list; I'm kind of maniacal about it.
Since I've been unwell, I have had to alter my To Do lists. Sometimes there is just one thing on it for a day. And I get so frustrated by my inability to complete a real list.
So today, to honor myself and all others who may be struggling to check off their entire lists, I offer a Do Not list. Some of these will be a little tricky to accomplish, but I have faith in myself. And in you. Please accept the challenge to check off everything on this list.
Do NOT:
* Turn stupid, irritating people into frogs. No, none of them.
* Throw rocks at your children's heads no matter how much eye rolling they give you.
* Shoot, eviscerate, and roast on a spit the neighbor's eternally barking dog.
* Use mind control on people to get what you want; it's just not nice.
* Accept the nomination for President of the United States (or any other country).
* Spike your family's food with a sedative so that you can get more sleep.
* Walk on the ceiling just to prove that you are stronger than the earth's gravity.
* Stage a military coup to overthrow the government.
* Use a fire hose to clean your house by blowing it all out the back door.
* Burn the house down as an alternative to cleaning it.
* Travel to Mars just to prove that Martians are not green. (They are red, duh.)
* Reveal your secret identity.
* Follow the rainbow and steal the Leprechaun's gold; again, not nice.
* Create a clone of yourself so that you can rest while she works.
* Take over the world. (That will have to wait for another day, Pinky.)
**********
I am fairly certain that everyone reading this has made a To Do list at one time or another. Whether you've lived up to it or not is a different thing entirely. Some people like to keep a running list, prioritized, with whatever is unfinished at the end of the day rolling over to the next day's list. Not me. I like to finish everything on my list; I'm kind of maniacal about it.
Since I've been unwell, I have had to alter my To Do lists. Sometimes there is just one thing on it for a day. And I get so frustrated by my inability to complete a real list.
So today, to honor myself and all others who may be struggling to check off their entire lists, I offer a Do Not list. Some of these will be a little tricky to accomplish, but I have faith in myself. And in you. Please accept the challenge to check off everything on this list.
Do NOT:
* Turn stupid, irritating people into frogs. No, none of them.
* Throw rocks at your children's heads no matter how much eye rolling they give you.
* Shoot, eviscerate, and roast on a spit the neighbor's eternally barking dog.
* Use mind control on people to get what you want; it's just not nice.
* Accept the nomination for President of the United States (or any other country).
* Spike your family's food with a sedative so that you can get more sleep.
* Walk on the ceiling just to prove that you are stronger than the earth's gravity.
* Stage a military coup to overthrow the government.
* Use a fire hose to clean your house by blowing it all out the back door.
* Burn the house down as an alternative to cleaning it.
* Travel to Mars just to prove that Martians are not green. (They are red, duh.)
* Reveal your secret identity.
* Follow the rainbow and steal the Leprechaun's gold; again, not nice.
* Create a clone of yourself so that you can rest while she works.
* Take over the world. (That will have to wait for another day, Pinky.)
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The Person
Everyone has one. That pivotal person. The one who changed your life. The one who helped define you. The one without whom you wouldn't be who you are. Hopefully, the one who taught you to believe in yourself.
For me, that was my grandma. And today would be her 100th birthday. I miss her.
For me, that was my grandma. And today would be her 100th birthday. I miss her.
Friday, October 15, 2010
I'm Not Who You Think I Am
I spent most of my life letting others define me. They told me what to be and that's what I became. Or they told me what I was and I believed them.
I was so many different people, depending on who I was with.
And this was such a part of my life that I really had no idea who I was. And sometimes I still slip up. Sometimes I still believe what others think of me. Or I know it's not true but it still makes me question myself.
It's so easy to look to others for our value. It's easier to believe what others tell us about ourselves than to decide on our own.
Some people like me. They think I'm kind. They think I'm honest. They think I am strong and dedicated.
Others aren't so fond of me. They think I'm a snob. They think I'm selfish. They think I'm judgemental.
Still others claim to like me but constantly tell me what is wrong with me, how I don't measure up.
I'm an angel. I'm a witch. I'm self-centered. I'm compassionate.
All, some, or none of those things may be true. There is probably someone out there to vote for each trait, who would assign it to me.
But no matter how others perceive me, no matter who they say I am, I know what is in my heart.
I am a person. A small person in a big world. A person with a purpose who is just trying her best.
I am okay with that. And that's all that really matters.
I was so many different people, depending on who I was with.
And this was such a part of my life that I really had no idea who I was. And sometimes I still slip up. Sometimes I still believe what others think of me. Or I know it's not true but it still makes me question myself.
It's so easy to look to others for our value. It's easier to believe what others tell us about ourselves than to decide on our own.
Some people like me. They think I'm kind. They think I'm honest. They think I am strong and dedicated.
Others aren't so fond of me. They think I'm a snob. They think I'm selfish. They think I'm judgemental.
Still others claim to like me but constantly tell me what is wrong with me, how I don't measure up.
I'm an angel. I'm a witch. I'm self-centered. I'm compassionate.
All, some, or none of those things may be true. There is probably someone out there to vote for each trait, who would assign it to me.
But no matter how others perceive me, no matter who they say I am, I know what is in my heart.
I am a person. A small person in a big world. A person with a purpose who is just trying her best.
I am okay with that. And that's all that really matters.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
I Wanted to be a Cowgirl
It's safe to say that there were parts of my childhood that sucked. No doubt about it.
But there were also parts that were idyllic. One of those was my life on the farm.
I don't know if every family has this, but growing up our family had another family that were our best friends. Our parents were friends and there was a child to be a friend for each of us. We spent lots and lots of time together. And they had a farm.
I spent a lot of time on this farm. As much time as possible. And it truly was a heaven on earth.
Whether I was playing hide and seek in the old chicken coop, climbing on top of or in the silo, climbing the giant apricot tree, or sitting and reading in the white birch tree I was happy. It felt like a step back in time. I felt like I was living Little House on the Prairie.
I got to have all the perks with very little work. My brothers hauled hay and moved sprinklers. They helped drive the cattle and brand all sorts of animals. Not optional. Anything I did was because I wanted to, because I was a girl. One time when a sexist mentality served me well.
Between this farm and our house with the pasture I spent a lot of time with animals, animals my kids haven't really gotten to know. Horses, cows, mules, ponies, chickens, ducks, turkeys, sheep, pigs, and lots of work dogs (blue healers for the cattle and German shorthairs for hunting).
Just thinking about this place makes me happy. It was a different pace there. Relaxed. Accepting. Valuing.
Cowboys, and I mean real cowboys not just guys who try to look the part, are different. They are hard workers. They don't feel the need to impress people. They are not easily impressed. Nor are they likely to be judgmental. Everyone is accepted. I loved my time with cowboys.
And I wanted to be a cowgirl. I wanted it desperately. But I always felt a step away. Like a visitor.
I knew how to saddle, bridle, and ride a horse, but I never shoed one. I watched calves and colts being born, but never assisted. I played in the alfalfa fields, but I never participated in the harvesting. Little things like that. I felt like I fell short as a cowgirl because I didn't live on the farm and do all those things. I didn't have horse toys (the expensive kind) or the little John Deere tractors. I didn't know the names of all the different horse breeds. And I wore tennis shoes when I rode a horse.
I recently took my family to the rodeo. It was so much fun. I felt like I was reliving a part of my childhood, a good part.
As I mentioned the rodeo to others, I found that many of my friends have only ridden a horse once or twice -- some not at all. They really didn't know much about horses, cows, or tractors. It got me thinking.
So I reevaluated.
I have ridden horses more times than I can count. On the mountains, in the fields, through the town. I spent most of my childhood in a pickup truck instead of a car, sometimes in the cab but more often in the bed. I crossed many dirt roads, very bumpy dirt roads, on a regular basis. I had to get out to open the gate. And close the gate. I bottle fed lambs and a calf. I herded sheep. I fed horses. I've seen, touched, and tasted a salt-lick. I've been to many, many rodeos. I know the proper way to shape and store a cowboy hat. I've helped butcher elk. I know how tall horses are and how long they live. And I spent many Saturday mornings and afternoons at the auction, in awe of the auctioneer and the entire bidding process. Watching as men nodded or tipped their hats to buy this lot of cattle, this horse, or that saddle.
I had so many experiences that others didn't. Incredible experiences. Joyful and miraculous experiences. That I didn't appreciate at the time.
But all things are relative. And looking back I can see that, compared to most, I was a cowgirl.
But there were also parts that were idyllic. One of those was my life on the farm.
I don't know if every family has this, but growing up our family had another family that were our best friends. Our parents were friends and there was a child to be a friend for each of us. We spent lots and lots of time together. And they had a farm.
I spent a lot of time on this farm. As much time as possible. And it truly was a heaven on earth.
Whether I was playing hide and seek in the old chicken coop, climbing on top of or in the silo, climbing the giant apricot tree, or sitting and reading in the white birch tree I was happy. It felt like a step back in time. I felt like I was living Little House on the Prairie.
I got to have all the perks with very little work. My brothers hauled hay and moved sprinklers. They helped drive the cattle and brand all sorts of animals. Not optional. Anything I did was because I wanted to, because I was a girl. One time when a sexist mentality served me well.
Between this farm and our house with the pasture I spent a lot of time with animals, animals my kids haven't really gotten to know. Horses, cows, mules, ponies, chickens, ducks, turkeys, sheep, pigs, and lots of work dogs (blue healers for the cattle and German shorthairs for hunting).
Just thinking about this place makes me happy. It was a different pace there. Relaxed. Accepting. Valuing.
Cowboys, and I mean real cowboys not just guys who try to look the part, are different. They are hard workers. They don't feel the need to impress people. They are not easily impressed. Nor are they likely to be judgmental. Everyone is accepted. I loved my time with cowboys.
And I wanted to be a cowgirl. I wanted it desperately. But I always felt a step away. Like a visitor.
I knew how to saddle, bridle, and ride a horse, but I never shoed one. I watched calves and colts being born, but never assisted. I played in the alfalfa fields, but I never participated in the harvesting. Little things like that. I felt like I fell short as a cowgirl because I didn't live on the farm and do all those things. I didn't have horse toys (the expensive kind) or the little John Deere tractors. I didn't know the names of all the different horse breeds. And I wore tennis shoes when I rode a horse.
I recently took my family to the rodeo. It was so much fun. I felt like I was reliving a part of my childhood, a good part.
As I mentioned the rodeo to others, I found that many of my friends have only ridden a horse once or twice -- some not at all. They really didn't know much about horses, cows, or tractors. It got me thinking.
So I reevaluated.
I have ridden horses more times than I can count. On the mountains, in the fields, through the town. I spent most of my childhood in a pickup truck instead of a car, sometimes in the cab but more often in the bed. I crossed many dirt roads, very bumpy dirt roads, on a regular basis. I had to get out to open the gate. And close the gate. I bottle fed lambs and a calf. I herded sheep. I fed horses. I've seen, touched, and tasted a salt-lick. I've been to many, many rodeos. I know the proper way to shape and store a cowboy hat. I've helped butcher elk. I know how tall horses are and how long they live. And I spent many Saturday mornings and afternoons at the auction, in awe of the auctioneer and the entire bidding process. Watching as men nodded or tipped their hats to buy this lot of cattle, this horse, or that saddle.
I had so many experiences that others didn't. Incredible experiences. Joyful and miraculous experiences. That I didn't appreciate at the time.
But all things are relative. And looking back I can see that, compared to most, I was a cowgirl.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
What Makes a Writer?
My brother is a doctor. He went to school for about 70 years so I could say that (okay probably not quite that long, but his wife claims it's close).
I am a mother. I had sex and gave birth.
Some titles are easier to qualify for than others.
What about writer? What is necessary to qualify for that title? Who gets to decide when you can rightfully wear it?
I've asked myself that question a lot lately. I write a lot. Other people read my stuff. Does that make me a writer?
I'm not published (no, I haven't tried). My daughter is, so I guess she's a writer.
Is there a difference between being a writer and being an author?
I think it's tough. Some people claim that title for themselves rather easily even though I wouldn't give it to them (yes, I'm talking about Stephanie Meyer again -- I know, I've got issues).
And there are many published authors out there making a lot of money on serial novels that are very formulaic, no originality, no thinking (no, I don't feel this way about all of them; don't send me hate comments; I'm sure the ones you read are awesome).
The real question here is if I am a writer. No, I'm not asking you. I know that you can easily answer in the comments, but that won't do it for me. Unfortunately, no amount of telling me something positive about myself will convince me. Not from the outside.
I need to feel it from the inside. That's the only way to convince myself, to wear the title.
I have received many wonderful compliments on my writing (thank you, all you wonderful people -- you rock!). I have had people tell me that I've helped them through a difficult time. I've had people tell me that I made them laugh or made them think. These things are very cool.
But I think what finally convinced me is that I enjoy it so much. It feels right. It feels like I am exercising a muscle, stretching and growing, progressing. It fits me.
It's part of me, part of who I am. Writing.
So I guess that makes me . . . *gulp* . . . a writer. Identity crisis averted. For now.
I am a mother. I had sex and gave birth.
Some titles are easier to qualify for than others.
What about writer? What is necessary to qualify for that title? Who gets to decide when you can rightfully wear it?
I've asked myself that question a lot lately. I write a lot. Other people read my stuff. Does that make me a writer?
I'm not published (no, I haven't tried). My daughter is, so I guess she's a writer.
Is there a difference between being a writer and being an author?
I think it's tough. Some people claim that title for themselves rather easily even though I wouldn't give it to them (yes, I'm talking about Stephanie Meyer again -- I know, I've got issues).
And there are many published authors out there making a lot of money on serial novels that are very formulaic, no originality, no thinking (no, I don't feel this way about all of them; don't send me hate comments; I'm sure the ones you read are awesome).
The real question here is if I am a writer. No, I'm not asking you. I know that you can easily answer in the comments, but that won't do it for me. Unfortunately, no amount of telling me something positive about myself will convince me. Not from the outside.
I need to feel it from the inside. That's the only way to convince myself, to wear the title.
I have received many wonderful compliments on my writing (thank you, all you wonderful people -- you rock!). I have had people tell me that I've helped them through a difficult time. I've had people tell me that I made them laugh or made them think. These things are very cool.
But I think what finally convinced me is that I enjoy it so much. It feels right. It feels like I am exercising a muscle, stretching and growing, progressing. It fits me.
It's part of me, part of who I am. Writing.
So I guess that makes me . . . *gulp* . . . a writer. Identity crisis averted. For now.
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