Sticking it Out (The Difference 48 hours can make when the crazies strike!)

Tuesday afternoon I was moving from busy to frantic. Only a week earlier we had record snowfall in my area and it had broken tree limbs all over the city and put thousands out of power. We were slated for another big storm and I felt like I had a lot to do to get ready. The DH had been out of town before the big storm and had been pretty upset by the damage to our trees. He wasn't angry at me but I always take it personally--internalize it and make myself nuts trying to find ways to make it so he will never be angry again. Which is why I was going into frantic-crazy mode Tuesday afternoon.

I spent hours that day (probably 5 or 6) cleaning up the yard, mulching the garden, shaking remaining leaves off our trees, and taking the trampoline down. The first couple hours I was really proud of myself for all the hard work and the progress I was making. I was even humming, "Have I Done Any Good in the World Today?" as I cleaned some leaves out of my widowed neighbor's window wells. But the more tired I got and the more the kiddos got in my way, the more I started to second guess myself. My brain started up telling me that I wasn't doing a good enough job and that the DH was going to come home and be mad because I didn't do things his way--which is sort of a Pure O obsession for me, these hypothetical arguments in my head and the conviction that my DH is going to hate me forever (which is really all in my head; the DH and his attitude/actions have very little to do with it). The DH and I had a short phone conversation that afternoon which I misinterpreted and used as a fodder for the crazy. I began to be afraid of what was going to happen when he got home and started getting more and more frantic in my efforts to make it so he wouldn't--couldn't--be angry at me. (Hm? What's that you say? I should call my therapist and address this issue? Yeah. I know. I should.)

I had also babysat for a friend all day while she went to the temple. Not to mention it was the day after Halloween and we were all fried from the previous evening's festivities. I was tired.

The big kids came home from school and I had to get Princess N off to Activity Days. I got everyone in the car and made it down to the Church and then zoomed home to finish up the backyard work,do some cleaning inside, and make dinner. Then I remembered there was a writing deadline that I needed to submit something for. And then I realized it was raining, the temperature was dropping, and half the trampoline stuff was strewn all over the backyard.

We got home and I started working as fast as I could. But things just kept going wrong. The trampoline parts were stuck together and when I tried to stack them in the garage they crashed all over and made a huge mess where the DH usually parks his car. I had too many dirty dishes to do before I could cook dinner. The file I needed to submit wasn't on the computer I thought it was and my hands were shaking from anxiety. The kids spilled jelly all over the floor and stickiness on the floor is a pet peeve of the DH and I started to lose it. If I'd been frantic before by the time I had to go back to the Church to pick up Princess N I was in complete panic mode.

Driving home Mr. J started yelling at Supergirl E for "thinking a bad word but not actually saying it" and Supergirl E and Princess N started screaming back. I knew that the DH was home staring at the jelly on the floor and my heart was racing. Traffic was heavy and the kids kept getting louder and louder in the car. My hands were still shaking and my heart was racing. I was convinced we were going to end up in an accident. So I started yelling at the kids. A lot. And then felt very bad and started apologizing.

We got home and the DH was cleaning the jelly off the floor and I was a complete wreck. I demanded he come outside and started yelling at him for being so angry with me. He replied that he wasn't angry and I went into how angry he would have been if I hadn't accused him of being angry. Things spiraled from there as the kids watched from the window.

And then, I kid you not, the Relief Society president pulled up in my driveway. (Hi, Coffinberry!)

Low point, anyone??

She's actually a friend of mine and I appreciate her advice and perspective, but it was still pretty embarrassing. Nobody likes being caught at their worst, even when the people catching you love you.

She helped me calm down enough so that I could stop freaking out and make some dinner. But I spent the rest of the evening fight the crazy in my brain. After yelling at the DH the crazy talk in my brain changed from "the DH will be mad at you and your life will be ruined" to "You don't deserve to live. You are a failure and a waste of space. You need to be punished. A lot. You deserve to suffer and be in pain for the kind of person you are." It was terrible. I was trying not to cry too much, but the urge to punish and harm myself was very strong. I can only think of a handful of times it has been stronger. Of course, the worst part of it is that I could see all of it in my head. Technicolor visions of suicide and self-mutilation. Blech.

I knew I needed to get out of my head. Fast. I focused on dinner and turned on some music, repeating the lyrics in my head while singing them out loud. Anything to put the brakes on the hamster wheel of insanity in my brain. I ended up listening to a Mumford and Sons songs over and over. A couple lines from "The Cave" worked as a sort of mantra, "But I will hold on hope/And I won't let you choke/On the noose around your neck./And I'll find strength in pain./And I will change my ways./I'll know my name as it's called again." The lines were soothing and repeatable and, inexplicably, I associated it with baptism and taking on the name of Christ and I started to calm down.

I got through dinner and bedtime but the urge to punish myself was unrelenting. I had a huge headache but didn't want to take any medicine. I was exhausted but refused to go to bed. I didn't really want to hurt myself but I wanted to do something to make the punishing thoughts go away so I ate Halloween candy until I was sick to my stomach. And I drowned my sorrows in a couple episodes of Friday Night Lights. Another lovely low point to my day.

My sleep that night was troubled and the kids were up several times. Around 3:40 am, I gave up on sleep and decided I could take some medicine, even self-punishment was still heavy on my mind. So I went to the kitchen and took some ibuprofen. Then I stumbled across the Conference issue of the Ensign. I thumbed through it and finally came to Elder Utchdorf's talk, "Forget Me Not." (I keep trying to insert a link here to the actual talk but it's not working; sorry.) My head was still muddled enough that it was hard to feel the Spirit but I knew I needed to read the talk anyway. I think I read it in a frenzied manner several times but the only part that made sense to me was this:

Dear sisters, many of you are endlessly compassionate and patient with the weaknesses of others. Please remember also to be compassionate and patient with yourself. . . Sisters, wherever you are, whatever your circumstances may be, you are not forgotten. No matter how dark your days may seem, no matter how insignificant you may feel, no matter how overshadowed you think you may be, your Heavenly Father has not forgotten you. In fact, He loves you with an infinite love.

It had been a dark day. Overshadowed seemed a good descriptor for my mental state. Patience and compassion with myself sounded foreign but good. I told myself to wait this current bout of crazy out. Give it a day or two and see where things were.

So yesterday was a couple days later. A quick rundown: the wonderful neighbor who usually watches the baby when I have to go help out in kindergarten couldn't watch the baby, the DH forgot he was supposed to drive Mr. J to preschool, I lost my car keys, and a dog peed on my daughter's backpack at the bus stop. Later that day, I got to work on the allergen-free desserts I was supposed to be bringing to our school's Harvest Festival and burned two entire batches. After making an extra trip to the store, I got all the kids in bed and was then up until 11:00 at night finishing up the treats. It was a terrible day. I mean, since when do dogs randomly come up and pee on people's backpacks?? The fact is, though, it all worked out. I didn't lose my temper. I didn't want to hurt myself. I didn't hate myself. I didn't even panic. My family was okay. I was okay. The terrible day was okay. 48 hours after the crazy had reared it's ugly head, I was all right.

I'm still a little emotionally hung over from everything; I'm feeling a little tender and my fuse is short. But it passed. So, I guess I just wanted to pass that on to any of you who read this and might be struggling. No matter how many good days you have, your mood disorder will strike again. BUT, be patient with yourself and remember that God loves you. Wait it out, seek help, and be glad when the RS president shows up during your worst moment. Don't do anything you're going to regret because things will get better! I promise. I've been there and I promise.

*hugs*

Laura

p.s. A big thanks to those of you who stop by and tell me that my blog has been helpful to you. Those kinds of comments mean the world to me. I'm not alone--you aren't alone--we are in this together.

The Gift and Path of Testimony (Part Two)

Here's the second part of my recent sacrament meeting talk on testimony. This is the part where I talk, over the pulpit, about what's it's like to be depressed. It was only a brief part of my talk, but I was really scared to say it out loud in front of people. But I saw several heads nod when I described my experience and then I was glad I had taken the risk. To read Part One go here.




Quite often the desire for the gift of testimony leads to an experience of testimony. These experiences are as numerous and varied as there are members of the Church because the Holy Spirit will work in each of us in an individual way. Nephi had a vision. Joseph Smith saw Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Of course for most of us the witness of the Spirit will not come in an epic manner. The experience might be a simple feeling of peace after family prayer. It might be the rush of coming out of the waters of baptism. It might be a depth of feeling that comes when pondering the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. It might be the strength we feel after hearing someone else testify. Testimony, for most, is an accumulation of experience. The experiences come “line upon line and precept on precept, here a little and there a little” (Isaiah 28:10) but they come. This is how it has been for me. I cannot point to one big, dramatic experience. Rather, testimony has entered my heart bit by bit, surreptitiously. It is only when I think back to years past that I realize how my testimony has grown.

Elder Richard G. Scott put it this way, “Your testimony may begin from the acknowledgment that the teachings of the Lord seem reasonable. But it must grow from practicing those laws. Then your own experience will attest to their validity and yield the results promised. That confirmation will not come all at once. . . It requires faith, time, consistent obedience, and a willingness to sacrifice.”

It is precisely because the process requires faith, time, consistent obedience, and sacrifice that testimony is also very often a memory. We live in a fallen world and are beset by the turmoil of mortality. We get sick, people hurt us, natural disasters occur, we fail or fall short. Difficulties of every shape, size and flavor arise. But God expects us to keep our testimonies intact, even when we are faced with the most frustrating and daunting events. This is when memory becomes important. Perhaps in the midst of a trial you may not feel particularly comforted or blessed, but the memory of your testimony and experiences will be there to hold you up and until the trial has passed.

This too has been true in my life. I have depression. Usually this is a well-managed condition and doesn’t put too big a damper on my life. It’s something I’ve come to understand about myself and I’ve learned to live with it. Occasionally, though, the dark times come and I temporarily lose my perspective. It is very difficult for me to feel the Spirit then. I believe my mood disorder prevents it. It is easy for me to forget the blessings Heavenly Father sends. It is easy for me to overlook His guidance in my life. It is easy for me to get bogged down in my emotions and lose my way. During those dark and sometimes desperate moments I remind myself that I know Heavenly Father loves me, that I know I am His child, that I know Jesus Christ is my Savior and Redeemer, that I know He suffered for me and because of his sacrifice I will be okay. I remind myself that I know that Heavenly Father has a plan for my life and that His plan compensates for whatever struggle I am having. Even if I can’t feel the Spirit in that moment, I can remember occasions where I have felt it and it is enough.

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President Henry B. Eyring told a story once about how he came home late from work one evening to see his father-in-law doing some home repair work for him. While thinking of what a nice thing this was a voice spoke to President Eyring and said, “I’m not giving you these experiences for yourself. Write them down.” So President Eyring did. In fact, he wrote each day about how he had seen the Lord’s hand in his life in a journal that he later shared with his children. Of this effort he said, “Testimony grew. I became ever more certain that our Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. I felt more gratitude for the softening of heart and refining that come because of the Atonement of the Savior Jesus Christ. And I grew more confident that the Holy Ghost can bring all things to our remembrance—even things we did not notice or pay attention to when they happened.” Our memories play a key role in defining and sustaining our testimonies.

Feeling like #$%@

This is totally what I feel like today. Absolutely ludicrous. Although, the good news is looking at this pic really makes me want to laugh at myself.

So, this morning marks the end of eleven days of family and fun. Starting back on June 25th we had family in town for a reunion and my oldest daughter's baptism.

It was awesome. I enjoyed the time with all of the grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I loved seeing my kids connect with the relatives. I loved seeing all the little quirks we have in common and all the ways we are different.

But. . .

(You knew there was one of those coming, right?)

The build-up to all the fun just about killed me. And then the fun itself exhausted me. (To see some pics of the fun, check out my sister's blog posts for this day and this day.)And today I feel like &$!#. (Feel free to fill in your favorite expletive or string of expletives. Whatever you're feeling this morning.) I just want to crawl into a corner and cry myself to sleep. Never mind the fact that my house is a complete disaster and my children would probably give way to their most base impulses and the law of the jungle would be king.

If I'm being honest with myself, signs of burnout kicked in right about the time family started to show up. I had a couple distressing episodes of hyper-emotionality during the reunion. I tried to handle it as best I could, but the fact is I'm embarrassed and mad at myself for letting other people see me at my worst.

This is not uncommon for me. Last year we avoided any family reunion type stuff because it is usually followed by a depressive episode and with the new baby it just seemed like a bad idea. Seriously, the day after all the people go home and the hubby goes back to work and I am alone with the kids trying to impose some sort of routine. . . well, it sucks. Big time. My brain falls into all of it's old destructive thought patterns. I'm snappy with the kids. I get stuck in my mind and can't just let things go and cycle and cycle around inside the crazy which only adds to the stress.

I think I'm not alone in this. My sister-in-law just ran the Ragnar relay in Utah (for which I have to say she is completely, completely awesome!!!) but she fessed up on Facebook to feeling completely depressed since then. My sister usually has a pretty crappy couple days post-reunion also, although I'm not sure if she would characterize it as a mental/emotional downturn. Come to think of it, I usually have this after the holidays too.

I'm going to just grit my teeth today and bear it. I'm going to let go of some of the chores and clean-up until tomorrow. I'm probably going to let the kids watch a movie this afternoon so I can nap. I'm going to remember that I am not Superwoman, that I don't have to be Superwoman, and that I am not a failure--not matter how much my brain is telling me that I suck and I'm fat and ugly and will never be successful at anything and I should just give up now and die. As crazy as this sounds, I'm going to let the depressed thoughts come, I'm going to acknowledge them for what they are ("Wow, that one was a big batch of crazy!") and I'm going to let them go. No obsessing allowed. No further guilting allowed.

Wish me luck.

Anyway, I'm wondering how many of you experience this post-big-awesome-fun-event fallout? What do you do about it?

Mental Malaise (I'm so Blue-ue-ue-ue-ue!)

These days, I have to admit, I am a very blue berry. I had several days in a row last week that were the epitome of ennui and a couple evenings that bordered on downright depressed. It was amazing to me how quickly my mind and emotions fell into old depressed habits. I fought with my husband. I cried for no reason. I yelled at my kids. And the thoughts were back. Over and over, "You're a failure. Nothing you do will ever matter or make difference. Everybody thinks you're stupid. They're laughing at you all the time. You can't fix any of it. It's pointless. You might as well give up. Suicide is always an option . . ."

Grrr.

I was fitful and restless and moody. I hated it.

Sunday morning I purposefully said to myself, "You can go either way here. You can choose to figure out what's bringing you down and change it. Or you can choose to deteriorate. What are you going to do?" It was a strange moment of clarity in which I was either channeling my therapist or the Spirit. Or both.

My sister and my husband had both asked me earlier in the week what my problem was. I always responded I didn't know. But as I thought about it there were quite a few things that were probably contributing to my mental malaise. I've been on my SSRI for almost a year and they tend to poop out on me around the prescription anniversary. The Little Cannoli was cutting back on her nursing which was precipitating a drop in my oxytocin levels--less contented hormone = a less contented mommy. The kids were sick and waking up more at night so I was getting less sleep. I'm stymied with my writing; nothing I have written to this point in my life has been what I wanted it to be and I don't know how to fix it. I hadn't been reading my scriptures or praying. I'd just finished a month of Primary Sharing Times and Cub Scout Pack meeting. Really, there were a lot of reasons and it was probably a combination of things that was pulling me down.

So Sunday, I decided to take it slow. Give it my best effort to tune in to the Spirit and let everything else go. I also decided to go back to napping in the afternoon for a week or so.

I feel better. I am not in that blissful state of mental health that I previously was, but, you know what, I'm not doing too bad either. This is my life and it's okay. My problems haven't changed--I certainly haven't solved them--but just being able to name them and observe them was helpful. My therapist used to tell me that I need to be the journalist of my own life. I needed to observe my life and emotions, figure out the story, and report it. I didn't need to solve. I just needed to note it. It's amazing how much that can help.

Well, that and napping.

What do you do when you feel yourself slipping? What helps you right yourself?

Depression is like. . . asthma?

Drowning.
A roller coaster.
Being thirteen again, but in a bad way.

There are lots and lots of ways people describe depression. Usually we use these similes to explain what feels like a unique experience to people who have just never been there. Most often we use them to explain why the illness we have needs treatment or how the treatment we're using is working for us. Most often the comparison we use is, "Hey if I had diabetes or heart disease I would have to take a pill everyday and people would tell me it's a good thing. Why is it any different for depression?"

Now, this isn't a bad argument to make. But lately I've been mulling this one over and for me it doesn't really do the issue justice. Here's why:

1) There is an element of preventability (I think I just made that word up) with both diabetes and heart disease. Yes, there is Type I diabetes that just strikes, but I think for the average individual when they hear diabetes they equate it with Type II diabetes, which our most often spun as a lifestyle disease by our current media. The same thing goes for heart disease. If people would just eat better and exercise more they wouldn't have those problems. Unfortunately, the same kind of thinking bleeds over into how we think about depression. But depression isn't usually preventable. Life circumstances, some of which we have control over (how much we exercise, if we abuse drugs or alcohol) and some of which we don't (genetic predispositions and postpartum hormone swings). For me, comparing depression to preventable diseases makes accepting the things I can't control that much harder.

2) Depression isn't necessarily a life-threatening disease like diabetes and heart disease are. If you don't treat your diabetes you're going to go blind and lose your feet and die. If you don't treat your heart disease, odds are you are toast. Yes, people with depression are more likely to kill themselves and suicide is horrible, tragic, cruel and everything should be done to prevent it from happening. But I think there are a lot of folks out there with depression who would benefit from treatment that aren't necessarily in danger of killing themselves. Maybe eventually they would be, but ideally we would support these folks in getting treated well before they ever reach that point. I think a lot of the danger of depression is not just that folks might kill themselves, but rather the immediate collateral damage that's done. Damage to family relationships--especially to the children of the depressed, short term health consequences (insomnia, weight gain/loss), and long term health consequences (possible brain degeneration) are all reasons to treat depression now even though it may not threaten the individual's life. Linking depression to two clearly life-threatening illnesses implicitly implies that folks shouldn't get treated if their lives aren't in direct danger. That is wrong.

So what should we compare it to instead? Asthma.

See, recently Mr. J (my third child who is almost four years old!) has been put on a fairly aggressive asthma treatment plan. Those of you who have been reading my blog for years know that Mr. J has never slept through the night and that we've been chasing down a number of health problems with him. Since his doctors at National Jewish Health started treating him as an asthmatic his whole health has improved. His coloring is better, his energy level and appetite are more predictable, and (wonder of wonders!!) he is sleeping through the night. (Okay, to be honest, most nights he still wakes up once and comes and settles himself on my floor but he doesn't scream or have night terrors or multiple wakings anymore. At my house this is as good as sleeping through the night gets. And, in the name of full disclosure, I think it helps that we now have a good eczema plan and allergy plan in place along with the asthma.) In some ways it is like having a whole new child. Before we started treating his asthma things seemed off and he was always struggling. But we didn't know why. It wasn't something we could see (like his eczema) so we didn't think to worry about it until it landed him in urgent care multiple times.

I think this is how a lot of us look at depression. We know something is off. We know we aren't working at full capacity. But because it's something we can't see--or in the cultural at large it isn't a "sexy" illness and can't be dressed up with pink ribbons or little red dresses--we don't think to treat it. Sure Mr. J was surviving without his asthma medicine but he never could keep up with the other kids and never felt healthy. Without my depression meds, I can manage. I can white-knuckle through my days and tough it out. But something is off and I can't keep up with my life; everything is harder than it should have to be. Having emotional stability is like having enough oxygen. Sure you can get by with less, but you'll never be able to thrive.

Now, having written all this, there is still that little voice inside me that says, "If you can manage without your meds then maybe you don't really need them. Maybe you're just trying to do too much. Maybe you're just not meant to be doing all that other stuff. Maybe you just aren't supposed to be that good." This voice is hard for me to quiet. Those doubts are powerful. It takes a lot for me to remind myself that I'm not asking for too much out of life to want to do more than just survive. It's okay to want to feel pulled together. Just like it is all right to treat my son so he can breathe deeply and fully instead of just asking him to get by on limited oxygen, it's okay for me to want to experience life from a place of stability. Thriving is not just something other people should get to do.

Have I sold you yet on my new "Depression is like. . ."? If not, how come? How do you describe your mood disorder or emotional health issues?

New Year's Resolutions and Changes to the Blog

So I am aware that it is now the second week of March. It is officially too late to blog about New Year's Resolutions, but I'm going for it anyway.

(As a side note, it would be very interesting to me to go back and see how many posts I start with the word "so". It's probably nearly every one. So . . .)

Resolutions have a pretty mixed implications for those of us in the mood disordered world. On the one hand we usually know there are ways we could stand to improve our lives and (unless we're really feeling low) we'd like to change for the better. Of course, on the other hand, we are prone to guilt complexes and anxiety that can make it almost impossible to stick with goals long term. Not to mention the fact that the stuff we have to do (therapy appointment, psych evaluations, extra sleep, etc.) to stay mentally healthy take up a fair amount of extra time and energy. It seems like good mental health is my perennial goal.

Even understanding all that every year around January 1st, I spend days pondering on what I can do to make my life better without stressing myself out. This year I almost resolved not to do anything. I'm feeling pretty good these days; why mess with what works? But then I realized that my writing brain was reasserting itself and I started getting grand ideas about NaNoWriMo. For about two weeks I resolved to participate in that this year. I started trying to figure out how I was going to write 50,000 words in a single month and how many things were going to have to go and what kind of planning was needed. Somewhere along in there is when I realized that more than I needed to have another draft of some unfinished piece of writing I needed to have a finished piece of work I was proud of.

One of my biggest weaknesses as a writer is that I am horrible at seeing projects through the revision process. I love brainstorming ideas. I enjoy the rough drafting. I especially love telling people that I am working on something fabulous. But fairly often I don't seem things through. I seldom finish and polish a piece--especially long things.

I like to blame this on the cyclic nature of my mood disorder. I go through those up periods where I'm feeling great and agree to do everything under the sun and then I inevitably hit a slump and find myself begging off projects or just ignoring them altogether. To any of you readers who have been with me through this process, I sincerely apologize. Really.

My mood disorder is probably only part of the problem, though. I'd love to use it as an excuse, but you (Dear Reader) and I both know that mood disorders are not an excuse for bad behavior. Rather they are just one more thing to work with. Everybody and anybody can come up with excuses for why they can't do things. Strong people come up with reasons why they can do it anyway.

All of that finally brings me to my actual resolution: to finish the unfinished projects. That means I'm going to finally get the rest of my food storage out of my friend's basement (Sorry, Kelly!). I'm going to finish getting the garden put in. I'm going to finish that paper on Stephanie Meyer that I've started about a gagillion times. I'm going to get those half written blog posts dusted off and polished and posted. I'm going to catch up the scrapbook and my kids' journals.

Okay, well, I might not actually finish all those things, real life (and the crazies) might get in the way, but I'm certainly going to try. And I'm not going to sign on to anything else until I get those big things done.

Another part of getting the big things done is transitioning this blog a little big. I've wanted to write about a number of things here but feel like I can't. I guess in my brain I've defined this as a place where I am going to write about mental health issues and mental health issues only. I don't think that's really working for me anymore. So I'm going to widen the scope of this blog and lean a little bit more in the Mommy Blog direction. Don't worry. I'm not going to start posting things like "How to Use a Bulb Syringe" or "I made the most awesomest cupcakes ever!" or even "My kids are better than your kids because ______". It's more like I want to start blogging about my mental health in the context of my roles as a wife and mother and in the context of my church callings. Also, I need a place to organize my thoughts and post all the info I've been gathering about different things (like my son's experiences with eczema, gluten free diets, and sleep disorders and my oldest daughter's experience with hemolytic uremic syndrome). My blog seems like the most logical place to do it.

I hope the changes don't drive you away. If you skip some posts simply because they aren't interesting to you I totally understand. But it just seems like it's time for this place to evolve a little.

I'm interested, what are your New Year's Resolutions? Now that it's March how are you doing with them?

On Happiness and Other Fleeting Feelings

My sister posted a moving blog post today, Being Good Enough: How to Separate Who You Are From What You Do, and it's similar to what I've been thinking lately so I wanted to link to her. It gave me courage to post what I've been thinking lately.

Hey Char, "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours first/ Let's compare scars, I'll tell you whose is worse/Let's unwrite these pages and replace them with our own words." (source)LOVE you!!

The last five months, since my baby was born, have been months of unparalleled happiness, peace, contentment, and even joy. It's like my life of drab neutrals and spotty dark canvases had turned into Technicolor crosses between Vincent Van Gogh and Mary Cassatt. Being a mom to my four kids was like being Dorothy walking out of that trashed Kansas farmhouse and into Munchkinlad. I didn't know things could be so bright and bouncy and full of life. Sure, the squeaky little voices might get annoying and it's hard not tripping over so many people who are only as tall as your knees, but their vibrancy is astounding.

It took four kids to teach me, but I have finally embraced motherhood. As I hold it close I've discovered how glorious it is. I get what the apostles and prophets talk about it in seeming hyperbolic terms. I get how and why this is God's work and I am crazy-grateful for the opportunity to be part of it. I love it in a fierce and primal way. These children are such gifts and sometimes it almost hurts to be able to bask in their glory. Being a mother is awesome.

As I've come to know these new feelings the closeness I have felt with the Lord has been astonishing. His love for me, His Spirit, has been a bubble around me. It's protected me from sadness and hurt and anger. It's buoyed me up during tempestuous mothering moments that usually sink me. It felt like the Lord was working miracles in my life like He never has before and it made it so I could finally feel comfortable and loved.

And now I feel like that bubble is popping. In small ways (long nights and lack of sleep, forgetting to refill my antidepressant) and in a few spectacular ways (one of my children getting suddenly ill and being hospitalized for two weeks and drama in my extended family) has prodded my happy bubble and it's swelling and turning and I know it's gonna burst.

I'm trying to hold it together but, really, what makes a bubble beautiful is its fragility and fleeting nature. Holding a bubble too tightly, squeezing it, is the thing that is most likely to pop it.

Back when I was in therapy my therapist, Ann, would encourage me to stay in the moment,let the past rest, avoid projecting into the future. I've tried to do that with my happiness--savor it, roll around in it, enjoy it. And I'm trying to be open to what ever is coming next because whatever it is will come and will go and I can't control it. All I can do is experience it. But anything other than the joy I've had feels like failure. Depression feels like failure. I find myself wondering what I've done wrong. Is there some sin that's popping my bubble? Is it my inherently weak and fallen nature that so offends God He can't be with me anymore? Or is it just that cursed opposition in all things coming back to roost? Likely it's some swirling, inconstant, even fleeting, combination of all those things.

But we know that God's love is constant. His desire to bless us is constant. His position as our parent is constant. So maybe even when I am less aware of Him, when my ability to feel Him is diminished, I can remember what His love felt like and it will be okay. I don't have to be anything other than I am for Him to love me.

Depression and Spirituality (more from BCC)

So I am horrendously late (in internet terms) when it comes to blogging about
this. But we've been busy (Sell house? Check! Find other house to buy? Check! Do all the mortgage junk? Check! Oh, and since Baby #4 is due in 9 weeks, see the doctor all the time? Check! Do all the normal life stuff? Check!)and now is the first chance I've had to get back to it.

They covered a lot of ground, starting with how some versions of Mormon thought promote black and white thinking patterns that exacerbate depression and then moved on to how depression has actually changed their religious lives. I hope you'll go over and read the whole post, but I wanted to touch on a few things here that I identified with.

"Depression can be a completely different animal than any other type of adversity, because it screws with your ability to access God. And you know God could break through that wall if he really wanted to, so you’re left with the conclusion that he didn’t care to."

The biggest way depression seemed to interact with the BCC-ers depression was in their connection with God. Most of them couldn't confidently assert any thing more than a tenuous connection with their Heavenly Father--and that made them feel like they were bad Mormons. This has been absolutely true in my life. When I am at worst is when God is hardest to access. Praying, fervent focused pleading, does little to no good. I don't know if it's because my brain blocks out the spirit (I firmly believe there is a link between our physical conditions and our abilities to discern spiritual matters) or because it is somehow God's will that I not feel Him, but when I am down I cannot feel His love or access Him. That's one of the most obvious signs of my own depression: sitting in testimony meeting and seeing that everyone else is feeling it and not feeling it myself. I've come to expect this spiritual loneliness now and don't take it personally, but in the beginning it was vastly disorienting for my Mormon perspective. I mean, God loves us and is supposed to be there for us when we need Him, right? But sometimes it doesn't feel like He is. Or maybe I just haven't learned to see His hand. Either way, it's lonely. And scary.

"It seems to me that we have become more comfortable in Mormon culture about talking about depression, precisely because it has been medicalized, and we can explain it in comfortingly technical terms like 'serotonin re-uptake' and 'dopamine receptors.' What we still can’t do is talk about the spiritual aspects of it–it’s ok to stand up in testimony meeting and say 'the Lord has helped me recover from postpartum depression through priesthood blessings and medical care,' but it simply isn’t ok to say 'I feel abandoned by God. When you talk about your close relationship with Him, I wonder why I can’t feel what you do, and it makes me feel terrible.'

We countenance talking about grief, depression, and anger only when they’re safely in the past tense, or when we can explain them away as a physical, brain-based phenomenon. It’s understandable, of course, because it is painful and unsettling to see someone suffering and have prayer or priesthood blessings seem not to work–'mourning with those that mourn' can be (perhaps must be) a genuine challenge to the faith and testimony of the comforter, as well as the comforted. What does it mean to bear one another’s burdens, when one of our brother’s or sister’s burdens is despair, or the absence of hope and faith?"

This is something I have struggle to articulate and one of the reasons I started this blog. Since I've been depressed, I've come to believe that as Mormons we sometimes spend too much time thinking about the end of the road and not enough about the path we take to get there. We're all about the tree of life(which isn't necessarily bad) and sometimes forget about the mists of darkness and the clinging to the iron rod part of it all. Being righteous doesn't always mean that our lives will be without trouble. We wish it did. But it doesn't. Life is going to be hard and when we forget that I think we neuter our spiritual growth because, really, you can't get to the tree of life without the long walk through the mists of darkness. I'm glad the folks over at BCC owned this and said it out loud.

A lot of the discussion also centered around how being depressed has caused people to rethink their testimonies. Several contributors said that their testimonies were smaller now--stronger but smaller. For almost all of them there came a point where they felt they might need to leave the Church, but they decided to keep working at it. This is true for me, too. I'm not comfortable saying that I know all the things everyone else in the congregation knows. I feel like my spirit has been shaken to pieces and my testimony has been rebuilt from the ground up. But the things I believe are truly mine now because I have gained them through experience.

"I’m starting to realize that one of the greatest gifts we can give another human being is to be willing to reconsider our version of reality for their sake, to make uncomfortable shifts inside ourselves in order to make room for them."

This was beautiful to me. This is the thing I think I need the most sometimes. I just need to know that other people aren't dismissing me simply because my reality makes them uncomfortable. That attitude is the heart of successful, Christlike parenting and marriages. I think it's that idea that shaped the Home Teaching and Visiting Teaching programs. The ability to "reconsider our version of reality" for someone else strikes me as one of the most loving things we can do and is what it means to be true disciples of Christ.

BCC's next question: Impact on family members

BCC's latest depression post was about depression's impact on relationships. Here's what I said over in the comments:

I feel like I'm a little late to the comments here, but as a depressed gal who worries and worries over the effect it will have on my kids and husband, I've found that being honest with them about what's going on helps.

I tell my kids that there are days that my feelings get out of control or that my mind is hurting and I need a break. They know mommy has a "feelings doctor" who helps out when "the feelings get stuck." They also know I have another doctor who is in charge of the special feelings medicine that I have to take sometimes. I hope that I am being honest with them and that my willingness to answer their questions in an age appropriate way will help them deal with my bad days a little better.

I also make a huge effort to make clear to them that it is my problem and I am responsible for it. Not them. I apologize for things that have hurt them and make honest efforts to listen when they want to complain about it. Then, if I need to, I go vent to my therapist about it.

I'm hoping that being open with them about it will not only increase their understanding but help guard them against similar troubles in their lives. I also hope I'm paving the way for them to ask for help if/when they need it.

I don't talk about what my depression does to my spouse because, well, he's a private person and might not appreciate it. And because I'm not really sure. I know the ups and downs scare him. I know they frustrate him. But, over time and through a great deal of trial and error, we are teaching each other what is and isn't helpful. There's never a clear path . . .

Depression is hard on the depressed person and on the people who surround them. But (and this a point I really had to work hard to understand) just because it's hard doesn't mean it's wrong. It just means that it's hard. And sometimes that's okay.

All right, y'all, you know this is a huge issue and you have thoughts so spill! I'm not always good at responding to comments, but I do read them and so do others. It feels good to share!

By Common Consent is taking on depression!

Hi friends!

I can't imagine that many of you out there don't already know about By Common Consent but I wanted to let you know they are doing a mini series on being LDS and depressed!

Here's the overview post by Kathryn Lynard Soper, the founder of Segullah and author of The Year My Son and I Were Born: A Story of Down Syndrome, Motherhood, and Self-Discovery.

And here's the first part Living with Depression, Part I: Recognizing Clinical Depression.

I'm glad BCC is taking this on. It's a huge topic and an important one that I really feel I haven't been doing justice to. I'm also excited because they have both women and men posting about their experiences. I hope you all will take the time to click over there and get in on the conversation!

Their first topic of discussion is how does a person realize they are depressed? I've actually answered this question in a variety of ways. One was when I filled out my own "depression profile." (Remember when I used to run those? I should get back to that sometime.) I also covered it in good detail in my Segullah essay, "That Girl".

Readers, I want to encourage you all to answer this question on your blogs. If you do leave me a link the comments. Seriously, go for it! Or if you want to be anonymous, go over to BCC and leave your story in the comments there. The more we share the stronger we are. (It's cheesy, but I believe it!)

Psychological Tweezing (and other thoughts on emotional honesty)

I've meaning to blog lately. Catch up on life and explain a little. Because I'm trying something new and it feels significant. But it also feels painful. Very painful. And personal. So it's hard to put it down here.

How's this for a really vague start? Some stuff happened a while ago that shouldn't have and the consequences just keep raining down.

An odd thing: every time I go off my antidepressants I have these same impressions about the "stuff that happened a while ago"--not like testimony meeting impressions--but like strong, emotional messages that require some sort of action. In the past the only action that has made sense is self-harming options. Like I used to get frenetically and abstractly suicidal. Or I would have visions of carving my arms and stomach up, like I was a surgeon cutting out some sort of contagion. Or like I was too full inside and if I could just bleed a little there would be some relief to the emotional congestion. At the other end of the violence was always the possibility for someone else to take over, for escape, for rest.

I never acted on that stuff, it was just always presenting itself as the answer. But, probably thanks to all my friends who tried to kill themselves in high school and my sister who got her undergraduate work in psychology and because my grandma tried to kill herself but went to a sanitarium instead and was open about it, I knew there was another option--a good option: medication and therapy.

And it was good. It was helpful. But it didn't make the impressions go away (which always disturbed me a little). The medication made the impressions quieter so that I could start to examine the pieces that didn't overwhelm me. Therapy gave me the tools I needed to figure out how to examine them. (The tools I use most often are self-observation techniques and self-questioning processes, in case you were wondering.)

So now I'm here and something clicked and I'm taking on those impressions. I'm looking those emotional messages square in the face and unraveling the facts from the fiction. Well, that's the ultimate goal. Right now I would say I'm just allowing the impressions their space. I'm hearing them. I'm accepting them. I'm letting them say all the things they've been trying to tell me for years--all the hurt, anger, frustration, desperation, and confusion. And, the hardest part, I'm relaying the messages to the other people who need to hear it.

That last paragraph makes me sound nuttier than a fruit cake, but I don't know how else to describe it. For the first time in a long time I know I'm not crazy. I saw my psychiatrist, just to be sure. And she agreed. She said, "You're not depressed. You're not overly anxious. You just have some huge things facing you. But you are handling them as well as any person could." I don't feel cosmically out of control or overwhelmed. I'm surprised by the intensity of the emotional torrents playing out but they feel honest and, surprisingly, empowering. Not in the moment of it all. But later.

This whole process reminds me of that aphorism, "Depression is just anger turned inward." That reductionist aphorism gets a lot play and I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about it until recently. I think I was afraid of certain situations in my life and of their consequences--emotional and spiritual and physical--and so I had to protect myself and my family. The only way I could protect us all was to hide the reactions and feelings and the only place to hide them was inside myself. I would never say depression is just any one thing, but we do put ourselves at risk when we inappropriately limit how we are allowed to express ourselves.

But you know, I was scared and alone and I think I did what I had to do at the time. And I'm doing what I have to do now.

What comes later, after the emotional swells and storms, is a cleaner feeling. A lighter feeling. The only way I can pin it down is to say it feels like honesty. I never thought such a simple idea would be so powerful in my life but I've come to realize that honesty is a big deal because it--our willingness to be honest with ourselves and the people around us, our integrity--is a large part of what keeps our agency in tact. Now that I'm being honest with myself and the people closest to me (which at this point is, like, two people) about what is really going on, I have so much more freedom. My choices are no longer limited to repression or desperation. Things like hope, forgiveness, change, and soul-restoring rest are finally, truly on the table.

When I was kid we had those Standing Tall tapes and there was this story that is pretty cliche but has stuck with me. I'm sure you've all heard it before, but I'm reiterating it because it has taken on new meaning for me.

This girl fell and got a splinter but instead of pulling the splinter out, she just put a band-aid on it and tried to tell herself she was better. But the splinter was still in there and her body was trying to push it out so the wound kept swelling up and filling with pus and aching. No matter how many times she replaced the band-aid the wound couldn't heal because of the splinter. She had to pull the splinter out--even if it was going to hurt a lot--because it was going to save her pain in the long run. It was the only way her wound would ever go away.

(This is similar to President Monson's talk about Hidden Wedges. Tangential, perhaps, but worth thinking about.)

I think this is how a lot of us function emotionally. We have emotional splinters that we keep trying to cover up, but the wounds will keep producing pus and swelling until we yank those nasty, infection-riddled suckers out. To be clear, medication and therapy are not the band-aids. The band-aids are our unhealthy coping mechanisms like anger, addictions, avoidance, overeating, overexercising, or dishonesty. Medication and therapy are the tweezers, the tools, that we use to extract the offending shard. They pave the way for healing.

There's still a long way for me to go and I'm still struggling with some very fundamental questions and I do still doubt my emotional stamina to see this process through, BUT there's a little hope out there now for me. I don't feel like I'll be stuck in the never ending spiral of depression. My wounds can maybe, hopefully, finally close. Counseling and medication may still be necessary for the long haul (my psychiatrist wants me back in a month), but they are no longer stop gaps for the suicidal eventualities.

And that feels good.

Not So Happy Holidays

I hate to be a downer, but, well, I am depressed so it's to be expected.

The holidays have not been so happy thus far. I've been trying really hard to take all the awesome advice you guys gave me following my post Thanksgiving crash. Most of the stuff you guys mentioned (like waiting to put up the tree and making my DH do all the clean-up) will have to wait until next year to be implemented, but the big thing I've held onto is this: Do less stuff.

My mood cycles have been getting deeper and faster; I feel like my good days are fewer and farther between and my bad days are much, much more intense. I forgot how consuming and exhausting it actually is to be depressed. The other night I found myself crying helplessly while reading my kids their bedtime stories. My voice was fine, but my mind was lost and tears were rolling down my cheeks. It was so strange and awful and, um, depressing.

So it was a good thing I scaled back about a week ago. And I mean seriously scaled back. In the name of doing less I bailed on planning my first grader's "Holiday Fiesta", the ward choir, a Sunday School lesson, visiting teaching, and two family gift exchanges (I really am sorry guys!!), I gave up working on my calling, and we decided to draw names as a family to cut down on all the shopping. When I had finished the last email and the final phone call to let people know I was opting out I sobbed with relief. (Note to self: most people were very understanding and polite. They won't hate you if you back out of something!) With all that stuff out of my brain I remembered how to get dressed, how to feed my family, and how to start cleaning my house. I know it sounds stupid, but when I am on a downturn even the simplest tasks are like trying to solve a Rubik's cube. Adding all the craziness of the holidays is like trying to work that *%^$# cube with my toes.

I did hold on to a few things, though. They were things that I felt like embodied the spirit of Christmas best. We still picked names off the angel tree and shopped for families in need. We still sent out Christmas cards because family connections are too important to let go of (I only sent out 20 and it still took two hours to get everything packaged and sent). We still made treats to share with the neighbors--although I did make a lot fewer than usual; we gave out 6 half loaves of pumpkin bread--because (besides Halloween) it is the only time of year we talk to them. And I think I'm taking my kids caroling next week. Those things feel good when I do them and they have a long term purpose behind them so they're keepers.

There are still some ways I need to scale back for next year. The ward Christmas party is up in the air for me. I don't do well with lots of noise and big crowds. And it always makes my kids stay up too late. The same goes for the Relief Society party. There's just so much pressure with that kind of stuff when I'm feeling low. It doesn't lift my spirit. It just reminds me of how far down I've gone. Hmmm. . . any ideas for a small group party that was more service-instead-socializing-oriented that can be implemented on a ward level? (I do better with a task. Just sitting and talking with people I barely know is soooo hard.)

Anyway, if you all are feeling the pain this holiday I hope you know you're not alone and it's not wrong. It's just the way we depressives react to stress and it's okay. I came across this video by Therese Bochard at Beyond Blue that was really meaningful to me. She has some good idea about how to take care of yourself during the holidays (SEE--sleep, eat right, and exercise!), but mostly it's just good to know that other people have been there and are making it work.

Oh, and yeah, I do have an appointment to see the psychiatrist. The supplements just don't cut it and I don't like teetering on the brink. I mean, the other day I was actually thinking getting hospitalized might be a nice break. That's not a good sign. Especially not when there's a little person trying to grow and thrive inside me.

*sigh* 'Tis the season.

_Ecology of a Cracker Childhood_( a reader response review)

Ecology of a Cracker Childhood by Janisse Ray

I am having an extremely intense reaction right now.

As I type my chin is chattering uncontrollably. My teeth are rattling in my head like muted machine guns. My back is tightening in small spasms, up and down and at random, and I keep rolling my shoulders and stretching my neck to offset the tremors. If I try to hold my back and shoulders still I tic and twitch like someone with Tourette's. My breath is ragged between my teeth and I sound like I am freezing to death. Unless I clench my jaw. Then I can drag my breath through my nose. But it won't come fast enough and it makes me shake my head which makes me nauseous.

My body is out of control but my mind is not. I've been here before and I know what it is. I am panicking. In a severe way. I haven't had one like this in quite a while. I did this once after orienting a new Primary teacher to her class, after having a argument with a friend, before singing for Enrichment (which I enjoyed doing anyway; I hope they ask me again some time),after a New Year's Eve party, and while giving birth to my second child. Usually, I curl up in the fetal position or try to find a yoga pose that calms my body and just let it shake out. Because there is no controlling this. It's like a roller coaster; once you're on the ride you have to keep your arms and hands in the car and remain seated until the ride has come to a complete stop.

So what brought this on tonight? A book. Actually, a paragraph. The written word, when wielded with thought and effort, is powerful. The book is Ecology of a Cracker Childhood and the paragraph goes like this:

Daddy [who was genetically predisposed to manic episodes/bipolar disorder] said that after lunch he began to feel unusual sensations. He felt shaky, his insides turning to gelatin, then shakier, as if he operated a noiseless and invisible jackhammer. He couldn't calm down. His heart sped up, beating like a crazed vulture inside his chest. By the time [his friend] delivered him to his door, he no longer controlled much of his body, the mind chopped from it the way you'd chop a chicken's neck, leaving the carcass to go dancing off in it manic convolutions of nerve endings. He had begun to hallucinate (p 92).

Yep. It's like that. Postpartum depression is like that. Uncontrolled anxiety disorder is like that. My body remembers it. My muscles, my nerves, my bones, they know it. They've memorized it. It is second nature to them.

Ecology is a memoir of the best kind: honest and soul searching. For Ray, who can list relative after relative who suffered from mania and whose own father took three years to recover from his nervous breakdown, mental illness is a specter that looms in every shadowy corner and every unuttered word. Ray takes to the woods, the almost extinct longleaf pines, which her parents say bore her, for her salvation. She looks to her ecology to ease the pain of her genealogy.

I haven't finished the book yet, but I find myself wanting to tell the author that her ecology will never solve her genealogy. Our environments shape us, but our parents made us. The answers are in them and in loving them--maybe even accepting them.

When, as an adult, Ray questioned her father about his nervous breakdown he wrote her this letter:

Mental illness, or nervous breakdown as some call it, is nothing to be afraid of, or to put it in better perspective, nothing to live in fear of [. . .] Thirty years ago I had what people call mental illness. I call it one of the greatest experiences of my life. I would not erase it from my past even if I could. I would not sell it for a million dollars. Its value to me cannot be measured. I can only assume that God allowed it to happen and was with me all the way through it--one in the Church said mental illness is of the devil, which I do not agree with.

It taught me: 1) greater love for people. 2) greater love for the earth, the trees, the hills, the valley, the streams, the soil, the animals. 3)the future is everything. 4) My wife is me. 5) to love my family. 6)the true value of my sanity, my health, my well-being. 7) to respect our Creator. I will not list the minuses because everybody knows what it would be like to be called crazy [. . .]

In closing, I would like to remind you of what our Creator said many times. Fear not.

Perspectives like his are almost as scarce as the longleaf pine and, I daresay, have as big a need for nuturing.

*Some* Pictures Are Worth a Thousand Words

J is having a bad night and I have no words for a post, but I did find some pictures.

Usually the media uses this kind of pics to define depression:



But here are some more interesting ones I came across:







Like I said, some pictures are worth a thousand words. Too bad the ones that have the words don't get the air time.

Vulnerable today

Yesterday the weather was beautiful. 70 degrees with a blue sky and slight breeze. We went with friends to the park so the kids could ride their bikes and play on the toys. They smiled and screamed and laughed. We watched the birds on the pond--the usual ducks and Canadian geese and an unusual blue heron--as they listed about and ate and finally flew away. I was energetic and happy. I didn't need a nap. We played and read books and I looked them in the eyes and told them how much I loved them.

Today it is 38 degrees and cloudy. Even though you can't see the rain it is falling--a fine mist that you don't even realize is veiling your sight until you look down and see the ground is wet and you are wet and everything is cold. It will be snowing by noon. The spring snow is going to kill the blossoms on the fruit trees and maybe even the lilacs. This is spring in Colorado.

The weather has put me in a funk. Since the clouds hid the sunrise my body doesn't realize it's supposed to be awake. It makes me feel like a ghost. I am lonely and missing everyone today--especially and inexplicably my little sisters, the one who lives in Wisconsin and the one who died. It made me cry when I dropped my oldest off at kindergarten, although I smiled until I was alone outside the building so she wouldn't know. I feel like I'm in limbo. Like I have to will myself into reality. But I'm not sure that I want to.

Or maybe I feel like a jelly donut. Like I can't contain my being. Like there's too much going on inside me, my emotions are stuffed too tight. Whenever I look at my three year old or listen to my 1.5 year old talk my heart swells with love and I can't breathe and it feels good but it hurts too. I'm all soft and squishy with my insides oozing out of places they aren't supposed to be. It makes me a feel a little sick.

Or maybe I'm a turtle who's lost her shell. I am smaller than I ever realized I was and I'm unprotected and no matter where I go or what I do I won't ever be at home. May Swenson called this "Living Tenderly." Going without a shell is like wearing my skin inside out so the nerve endings are sticking out where the hair should be and I am reeling with the sensations.

That's what today is like. I'm gritting my teeth and taking it slow. I'm taking deep breaths and chanting my mantra (I can go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence. Yes, it's the first line of the Desiderata. My therapist said I was the first patient she ever had who quoted poetry to her while meditating. I think she should have paid me for that visit.) I'm trying to find reasons to smile. I'm trying to find places to store my emotions, so they can cool and condense and soak back into the water table of my heart, instead of letting them boil off into the ether. That way I'll have them when I need them.

What me and what's my medicine?

The most frustrating thing about having depression is that you can never get a straight answer to any question. Even the simple questions like, "Am I actually depressed?" or "How long have you been depressed?" can take entire therapy sessions to answer. The hard questions, ones like, "What are we going to do to treat this illness" take years.

This dearth of straight answers regarding mood disorders and mental illness exists for several reasons: psychology and psychiatry are sort-of soft sciences and therefore are constantly evolving, thanks to new technology our understanding of the brain is increasing and changing methodology, people are being more honest and that changes things too. The biggest reason, though, in my mind, is a hard truth: the answers are never straightforward because, well, there are no answers.

When it comes to the hard questions--the one that has been plaguing me most recently is "how am I supposed to deal with this for the rest of my life?"--there are no answers. At least not any that anyone knows. Not your therapist, not your doctor, not even you.

Case in point: this last weekend.

I took the last pill in my cymbalta bottle early Saturday morning. I was on my way to the temple--we always try to go in the morning so that we can get into a session without having to wait--and had to drop my kids off at the sitter so I didn't even notice it was my last. The next day was Sunday and it was then that I realized I needed a refill. I figured I was doing well enough that missing one day wouldn't hurt. Then came Monday morning with all its usual busy-ness and some lovely warm weather. I was completely energized by the sunshine and set about deep cleaning my kitchen. I cleaned all morning, skipped my nap and got some work done, and played with the kids the rest of the afternoon. I didn't realize I'd missed another pill until after Family Night. Tuesday morning (yesterday morning) I called the pharmacy first thing and picked up my refill as I left for storytime with my kids. I swallowed the cymbalta as I drove and prided myself on managing my life so well.

That good feeling disappeared about thirty minutes after I took my pill. As I loaded my kiddos back into the car after storytime I found myself swooning. While driving I felt like my eyes were disconnected from my hands and I wondered if it was actually me controlling the car. The disconnected feeling deepened as I picked up my oldest from school and got us all home. I tried to feed the kids lunch but I couldn't focus. My mind felt like a scratched DVD, skipping from scene to scene. I was sweating furiously and nauseous. I ate a third of a container of ice cream and felt a little better. I could focus enough to get everyone fed and settled down for quiet time. Then I crashed.

My oldest woke me up when her movie was done. My brain felt more stable and smooth but my limbs felt too heavy to lift. There was a lot of housework to be done but all I could manage was sitting outside while my kids played. After an hour or so I got up and made a little dinner. Then I mustered my energy and headed off to Enrichment.

After Enrichment I crashed again, but this time it wasn't my body it was my mood. I was so depressed. I felt awful. Every time my husband tried to talk to me it took a lot of effort to avoid crying or yelling. Finally I just went to bed cursing the medicine and cursing the mood disorder that makes the medicine necessary.

This morning I took my pill and my body feels fine but my mood is still struggling. It's like PMS except I'm not on that part of my cycle. My house is a wreck because I just don't feel up to tackling it.The little work I've done on the dishes and taking out the trash pretty much wiped me out. It's not that my body can't handle it. It's my heart and my mind. It's too much to wrap my brain around.

I was blaming the medicine until I realized that the last week has been textbook cyclothymic disorder. What if it isn't the medicine? What if it's me? What if I hadn't missed those two days of pills, would I have been more even-keeled these last few days? Or what if this is like my lexapro last summer and my body is suddenly interacting wrong with the cymbalta? What is really going on with me?

Unfortunately, those are the hard questions--the ones I'll probably never get answers to.

Depression Profile: Sue at Um, Thanks for Sharing

One of the best things about blogs is the discovery that you are not alone. My latest find: Sue! Sue is a warrior mommy--she's conquered perinatal and postpartum depression along with some generalized anxiety--with three kids and some truly insightful posts.

Confessions of an Anxiety Ridden Mother could have been my own story. I know what it's like to punch walls and yell at infants even when I know I shouldn't. I loved her honesty about how difficult it is to be a mom, a supportive wife, and a person in your own right. Be sure to look through the comments, too. Her post struck a nerve with several people. Here was one comment that really caught my eye:

Antidpressive meds were designed for the modern LDS woman! First of all, we all attempt to accomplish too much... and if you attend relief society on a regular basis, you try even harder. Calm down and realize that you are a wonderful person who is greatly loved and respected for all the tasks you accomplish.

I know Relief Society isn't meant to work this way, but sometimes it does. My personal solution? Just start admitting your flaws--the real ones, not just the cute quirky ones--when you make a comment. When one person gets real the rest seem to follow. I have to say, though, I'm not the first woman in our ward to do this. There are a couple sisters out there who really open themselves up and put themselves out there and I love it. (Nancy, Verna, De--you are ladies I so admire!) It is only when we are real with each other that I come close to understanding what the concept of Zion is all about.

Another post by Sue, If the Problem Gets Solved, Does it Really Matter How You Solved it?, is the story of how a nice girl with some solid biological issues ends up deciding to she needs medicine. It's a tough decision but Sue makes it deliberately and wisely.

One part I really appreciated was the description of her supportive husband:

I often think about how blessed I am to be married to Dan specifically because of his understanding and support about my treatment for depression. Not only does he have the scientific knowledge of depression, but he has also seen first-hand, from the time he was a little child, the effects of depression. And he knows that the meds work and that they are beneficial. When I started taking anti-depressants, I used them for about a year or so, then went off them during my pregnancy with Lily (not because they're unsafe, but because I was feeling pretty good and didn't think I needed them.) Then when she was about eight months old, I went through a bad time and Dan pointed out that he had watched the same cycle throughout our marriage, that I would fight and try to be positive for six or eight months, then I'd have a drawn out episode of depression that lasted for a couple months. It really caught my attention to hear him say there was a pattern to my behavior.

I was still feeling a little bit like I was weak for needing to take anti-depressants, that now that I was aware of my tendency for getting depressed, I should be able to combat it on my own with behavior modification, attitude adjustment, and lots of prayer. I worked with a counselor for 8 or 9 months and learned so much about my thought processes and emotional tendencies. But even with this knowledge, I still couldn't conquer the beast. I went on and off the meds two more times while Lily was a toddler. After hearing Dan tell me over and over that taking meds wasn't a sign of weakness, it was the same as a diabetic taking their insulin, I started accepting that for me, taking an anti-depressant wasn't a temporary solution to help me kick-start my system. It was something that my brain chemistry required regularly to stay balanced. I was a lifer.

Every depressed person needs someone like this in their life. Someone with knowledge and compassion. Someone who may not be living it but wants to be with you while you do. Someone who can reassure you when your resolve wavers. Sue is extremely lucky that this person is her husband. For me, that support has come through different people at different times. My sister has been there for me (thanks to our cell phones that we use more like walky-talkies!). My husband pulls me out of some sad, icky places when my mind is holding me hostage. Mommy friends,oh!, of course the mommy friends! Having someone to sit in the park/ice cream shop/coffee (except we only ever order steamers and sometimes a pastry) shop with and kvetch about the bad times, well, that's priceless. And, when I'm too afraid to tell anyone else how nuts I really feel, my therapist is there. She isn't fazed by anything.

Thanks, Sue, for your example and your courage. Telling your story is definitely blessing other people's lives. All us other But Not Unhappy Mommies are sending good vibes your way!

Defining Recovery

I ought to clarify. In my post, That's It! I Quit!, I talked about possibly quitting my meds. Several of you were sweet enough to worry about me and I wanted to thank you. I appreciate all the support I get from my readers. It means a lot to me to know I'm not alone. So I wanted you to know: I didn't quit my medicine. I'm still popping my pill each morning. I figure I should wait until we are in a more settled place or until I have a real medical reason to stop or until I'm better.

Which brings me to my most recent quandary: what does it mean to be better? When talking about a possibly chronic mood disorder, is there a point where the sufferer knows that they are through the worst and will reach a full recovery?

I honestly don't know.

For me, this whole depression "adventure" has been a series of ups and downs. It's not that I'm manic or anything like that, it's just that whenever the good times are rolling there's a part of me that wonders how long it will be before I get a stick in my wheels.

Maybe I feel that way because my depression really took off as postpartum depression (I had anxiously depressed phases in high school but nothing I really perceived as chronic until the third trimester of my first pregnancy). Feeling bad and crazy is hopelessly entangled with mothering because the two happened together. It takes a lot of effort for me to tease apart what is the depression and what are my instincts as a mother and, as an Latter-day Saint, what is inspiration from God. Maybe as long as I'm mommy-ing I'll struggle with this.

Or maybe I feel like my depression is always lurking because I had three babies in four years. That's a lot of stress--a lot of ups and downs--even for normal women. There are a lot of benefits to having kids close together (they are such good buddies!), but there's no doubt that it is also hard.

Or maybe the ups and downs are just the nature of the illness.

The first time I started antidepressants, when my oldest was four months old, I thought that my antidepressant was basically like a supplement. You know, my body didn't produce a certain substance so I would take a pill that would give my body more of that substance. Eventually, I thought, my body would take over and start producing the correct amounts on its own.

Turns out antidepressants aren't that straightforward. Nobody is exactly sure how they work. All the stuff about serotonin (or any other neurotransmitter) being more available in the brain is true, but no one knows exactly what the brain does with the extra stuff. And nobody really knows why some brains don't produce the correct amounts in the first place. We know there's a relationship between hormones and neurotransmitters and we know there's a relationship between general health and mental health, but we don't know the exact nature of those relationships.

It's popular to compare the use of medicine to treat mood disorders to using insulin to treat diabetes. I like the comparison a lot and use it myself when talking with others but a recent conversation with a clinically depressed friend made that comparison even clearer to me. When I told her I wanted to quit my meds she said she'd been there too but she figured it was like diabetes. "A diabetic can't just wake up one morning and decide their to quit taking insulin," she said. "It's not like their diabetes is going to go away just because they learned to manage it. It's an illness and it's chronic. Depression is the same thing."

That was quite a blow for me. I had always looked at this depression thing as something I was going to overcome. I guess it was ridiculous but I really thought that maybe one morning I could wake up and know that I would never have to deal with the crazies again. But it's not like that. You don't get better from clinical depression. All my therapy, all my medicine, all my thinking and writing, is only managing the symptoms. None of it is fighting the illness at it's source because we don't know the source. Or maybe we do. The source is me. It's who I am. It is my life. It is my existence--my body, my soul, my mind, my everything--that feeds my depression.

So what does all that mean for recovery? When you have a cold you wait it out and eventually the symptoms pass. You wake up one morning and know you're not going to be blowing your way through a whole box of Kleenex. Not so with depression. The symptoms will always be cycling around. How do you recover from something like that? What does it mean to "get better"?

Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all.

That's it! I quit!

(I posted last Friday but it looks like it got stuck back in December of 08 when I first started drafting it. For those of you who missed it you can read part three of my series on Support Where You Need it the Most.)

No, no, no, I'm not quitting blogging. I'm quitting my medicine. Well, maybe.

For those of you who have been reading for a long time now, you'll remember that last summer I had a Prozac poop-out. (I was on Lexapro, so technically it was a Lexapro poop-out, but you can't link to that term so what's a blogger supposed to do!) I met with a friend-of-the-family psychiatrist out in Utah during our family reunion. It was awkward but free so I went for it. She explained the Prozac poop-out phenomenon to me and recommended I switch to Cymbalta. She said it would do a better job at nipping my intrusive thoughts in the bud. I had reached the point where I was nervous to be alone with the kids so when I got home I dialed up our family practice doctor and she wrote me a prescription.

And it worked. It was a little rocky at first but it worked. I still get nauseous if I go too long without eating and I still nap 3 out of 5 days and since it's still winter I don't worry too much about my increased sweatiness--I just go without a coat--but most of the time I'm not depressed. That feels good.

Except for when it doesn't.

I have to admit those little blue and white pills are starting to annoy me. I hate having to remember them every morning. I hate having to call in for the refill. I hate how much they cost. I fantasize about how much I could get done if I didn't have to nap. I'd love to be able to lose my muffin top but the urge to snack is too strong. And, well, it's still winter now but it will be spring and summer soon enough and I don't want to have to carry around a pack of tissues just to soak up my extra perspiration. It's gross!

Of course, the real reason I want to quit my antidepressant is well, I want to quit being depressed. I want to quit having a mood disorder. I want to quit feeling less than normal because I have to take medicine every morning. I want to know if who I am now is who I really am. I think it is but how can I be sure when I'm popping this pill all the time? I'm just tired of being that girl.

I've gone off my meds before. I wean off them before getting pregnant. I tried to quit my Lexapro last summer (before it quit me. If I could argue with my medicine we'd totally have one of those "You can't fire me, I quit!" conversations). It's always ugly. My patience disappears and my anger comes back and then the guilt sets in. My intrusive thoughts get all noisy. I have to pray myself out of bed in the morning.

But this time is different. The first time I quit my meds I'd only been on an inadequate dose of Lexapro for three months--which research shows is too short a time and actually leads to worse depression. (I can't find a link to cite that last bit, but I know it's true. Ask your doctor!) The second time I weaned off was after eight months and a lot of the environmental factors of my depression hadn't changed.

So how is this time different? Well, I've been pursuing treatment that includes off-and-on therapy (the insurance only covers twenty visits a year so I've got to use them wisely) and SSRI/SNRI for over 18 months. I've actually been working with my therapist for over two years. Come to think of it, I should have sent her flowers for our anniversary last November!

I guess the big thing that hasn't changed is the environmental stresses. I still have three little ones, who are bizarrely unable to sleep through the night, and my husband is still in grad. school and working full time. He graduates in May so maybe I should hold on to those little pills until then.

It is such a wearying truce to strike. I'm so sick of having to act like I'm sick just to prevent the sickness, you know? It doesn't make sense to keep taking Nyquil just to make sure you don't get a cold. But depression isn't a cold. It's not something I can just get over. My body doesn't have a response system for this. Depression is a disorder that I will have to be aware of and manage for the rest of my life. That's what that pill means. And that's why I hate taking it.

A Letter to M

Hi Friends. In the comments on last week's Ensign post a commenter named "M" said that she/he was formerly LDS and had depression and that she/he did not find relief from her/his symptoms until she/he left the Church (sorry for all the she/he stuff. M's profile is private). "M" then went on to say that, "It's unfortunate that you are unable to see that biggest reason for your depression is your inability to live the teachings of your church. But don't feel bad, nobody can. You will never be a good enough wife or mother as long as you are LDS." That's a loaded comment and a common misconception, so I wanted to share my feelings in regards to what "M" said.

Dear M,

Thank you for stopping by my blog and taking the time to share your thoughts with me. I appreciate your experience and that you were courteous in your comment. I hope you will understand that, even though I disagree with you, I am trying to be courteous as well. Please understand that I am not trying to change your experience or disrespect you; your experience is yours and you have made the choice that you feel is best for you. This letter is just me explaining and clarifying my own experiences.

To be honest, after the birth of my oldest, when I was in the throes of untreated postpartum depression (some of the scariest moments of my life), I think I would have agreed with you. Going to Church was the hardest thing for me. I hated seeing all those other people who had it so together and seemed so perfect. Some strange comments and insensitive interactions with people made me feel like some of the members thought they were better than me. Church did feel like one long fashion show with all the models trying to one-up each other with their cars and the fancy clothes on their kids and how much they scrapbooked and who knew the scriptures the best. I would skip class and wander the halls thinking, "Why the hell am I here?" I wasn't really sure. Looking back, I'm not sure why I kept going. Probably because it was easier than not going and explaining to my family how I felt.

Well, that and I still kind of believed it. While not every area of my testimony was solid, I still knew that Christ had atoned for me and my sins and troubles. I still knew that I was a child of God, even though I was pretty angry at Him. And I still hoped to have an eternal family. Even though becoming a mother had been a miserable experience for me I hoped that somehow God could find a way to make us right. I also thought about my covenants and what it meant to break them. I wasn't ready to do that yet.

Eventually I did get treatment for my PPD and I got my head above water. I was still really bitter about some of the other ward members and I was still angry at God about a number of things but I was able to see how my Church membership benefited me and my family. One of the chief benefits from my membership at that time was my calling.

When my oldest was around a year old I got called into the Primary presidency and got to work with some truly spectacular people. The woman who was president over me was a humble, efficient, Christ-like person and I learned a lot from her example. She had a loving and peaceful spirit and she trusted me enough to let me make mistakes and learn from them. I benefited a lot from my association with her. Her attitude about mistakes and how we all learn was unique in my Church experience up to that point. Before then callings were always about impressing people and showing off your own abilities--pretty prideful stuff. Working with this woman was about leaning on Christ and trying to share His love with others. I hope if I am ever in a leadership position I will be able to recreate that atmosphere.

The other thing that was really helpful about serving in Primary was the focus on core doctrines. There wasn't a single Sunday where we "forgot" to include Christ in our lessons. Heavenly Father and his love for ALL His children was central to everything we did. We never strayed into so-called "deep doctrines". We stuck to the basics and the Spirit flourished--at least that's how it felt to me. I was grateful for the refresher course in core doctrines that Primary was. It changed my perspective and approach to the Church. I think that's one reason why I still love Primary and always say yes when someone asks me to substitute.

Another thing that changed during that time was my involvement in the arts. I started writing every day when my oldest was about ten months old and it brought a lot of relief and order to my troubled mind. Writing became an opportunity to sort through myself and experiences and decide how I really felt about them--even when I was writing fiction. It calmed me. Eventually, this led to more involvement in the LDS arts community where I discovered how varied the LDS experience really is. Sometimes in our wards we look around and think that everyone is the same and that we have to conform to fit in. But that isn't true. Lurking, and eventually becoming a contributor at A Motley Vision, opened my eyes to how differently LDS people could think and feel and still be faithful.

Hanging out at Blog Segullah also helped me realize that being a mother is a multi-faceted experience. It isn't sunflowers and roses all the time for anyone. I wasn't failing; I was normal. Hearing their stories was/is good for me because it highlights the process of becoming a Latter-day Saint. I think part of my problem with the Church before was that I thought I had to be everything to everyone all the time and hearing the struggles and victories over at Segullah helped me understand how wrong that idea was. So did M. Russel Ballard's talk "Daughters of God".

There are still things that are hard for me about Church. But another important realization I've come to is that I can take it slow. I don't have to do it all or be it all right now. When my depression was untreated I think I spent a lot of time comparing myself to others and thinking that they were better than me. They were perfect and I was not and it hurt a lot to think that I could be trying so hard and be failing so tremendously. But I often remembered a quotation from Jeffrey R. Holland. He said,

"I testify that no one of us is less treasured or cherished of God than another. I testify that He loves each of us—insecurities, anxieties, self-image, and all. He doesn’t measure our talents or our looks; He doesn’t measure our professions or our possessions. He cheers on every runner, calling out that the race is against sin, not against each other. I know that if we will be faithful, there is a perfectly tailored robe of righteousness ready and waiting for everyone, 'robes … made … white in the blood of the Lamb'"

('The Other Prodigal", Liahona July 2002).

Also, I think that there were a lot of principles I misunderstood. Things like the role of self-reliance in spirituality, perfection and eternal progress, grace and works (for more on this idea see Katie's blog. She's like the All Grace and Works All the Time channel. Very insightful!). I'm sure there are more. Increasing gospel understanding through service in Primary and through my own efforts really helped. Us Latter-day Saints are good-hearted people, but sometimes when we give and/or listen to talks or lessons we miss. It helped to find truly authoritative sources and meditate on those.

On rough days, I still struggle. There are times that I hate being at Church. At time like that I try to remind myself that Church is about recommitting myself to Christ. It is about me reaching out to catch the hand my Savior is stretching out. When I remember that it isn't so hard.

Good luck, M. I hope you'll still stop by and that we can all work together to help each other through our darkest days!