When "Happy" People Battle Depression

Someone this disgustingly happy can't be depressed...
Or, can she?

Photo by Mary Brownlee

This is, I know, not going to be an easy post to write. For many, it won't be an easy post to read. However, it needs to be written, because it's going to force all of us to look deeper into the issue of depression, and change our ideas of how it "looks."

At least, I hope.

Most people in my world view me as a relatively happy, if not over-zealous at times, fierce mama who kicks ass, takes names, and works hard on making an impact on the world around me. I mean, just check out my Facebook feed! All sorts of rah-rah advocacy, sunny posts, occasional outrage, and "you can do it!" encouragement lives there, on a regular basis.

What you don't see is how I've battled depression since adolescence. You don't see how, after a tumultuous series of medication changes several years ago, I had a psychotic break. You don't see how, at times, I feel hopeless, ineffective, and like maybe -- just maybe -- life is too hard to live.

To many people out there, I'm among the least likely to be battling depression, either publicly or privately.

 In spite of that assumption, I told my husband this week, "I don't want to live anymore." What I meant was, I don't want to live like THIS anymore.

I told him, "Our children deserve a better mother than I can be." What I meant was, My children may not be getting the best care and advocacy I can provide, because an invisible illness is stealing me away from my family, and myself.

I told him, "I feel like I am falling apart, and I don't know how to put myself back together." What I meant was exactly that.

And then, I yelled at him for saying he felt "neglected." What I imagine he meant was, I miss you... Where are you? I need you, and I don't know how to help.

Really, I can't blame him for not knowing what's going on in my head, especially when I struggle to understand it, myself.

We might think depression looks like someone who suddenly isn't interested in their usual activities; who withdraws from the people she cares about (I know men suffer depression, as well, but women are more likely than men to do so); who maybe spends her days in bed, lethargic, and unable to accomplish the most simple self-care or other tasks; or perhaps is overly emotional, and commits a great deal of her time to crying.

Here's what depression looks like for me:

• Ensuring my kids get to (currently) six therapy appointments per week, but dropping the ball on at-home therapy supplements
• Having my home and office look like a demilitarized zone, but not having the energy to care
• Dragging myself out of bed most days to do a lot of nothing, because the things which are most necessary, and bring the greatest return, seem unmanageable 
• Neglecting my business, clients, and team, but somehow, by grace and luck, receiving awards for my "achievements" during my most massive bouts of depression
• Mentally "rallying" before answering the phone, so I can have a conversation with someone which focuses on them, and deflects attention away from myself
• Always answering, "Great! How are YOU?" when someone asks how I am, because I would much rather hear about and worry about someone else, rather than myself
• Appearing and feeling numb most of the time when I'm alone or with my husband (because even tears require too much energy), but really knocking it out of the park as a "social butterfly" in public or at work
• Ignoring deadlines for things I really do want to accomplish, because meeting that deadline will mean new, different labor or work, which I can't even begin to think about right now
• Failing to dial the phone, but always hoping it will ring, and someone, anyone, will notice things just aren't right with me... and then assuring them I'm "fine... great, even!" when they ask
• Feeling constantly overwhelmed, and at the same time, being unable to feel good about the things I actually am doing well ("You navigated that IEP meeting like a boss today!" is met with, "Yeah, but I didn't cure world hunger, so... what's the point of even trying?")

But here's what you probably see:

• A super-active mom, who advocates for her kids daily, and tries to make the world a better place by spreading awareness
• A creative genius, or someone too busy for housework? Actually, no... you'll still see a demilitarized zone. I'm not even going to try to kid myself.
• A woman who enjoys her "free time," because she's designed her life to provide "self care" and "downtime"
• A small business owner who is killing it!
• Someone who greets each social interaction with enthusiasm and positive energy
• The "social butterfly" you are meant to see
• Someone who has a lot on her plate, because her talents are so varied... Surely, it's reasonable that some deadlines will need to be adjusted?
• Someone who simply doesn't give herself enough credit for all the awesome she brings into the world
• A woman who is -- depending on how much you like me -- either adorably or annoyingly distracted

Some days, I see that, too.

Some days, it's not so bad. Some days, I am the warrior woman, on a mission, and I succeed in conquering a lot of villainous things, and rescuing a lot of people -- metaphorically, of course. SOME days, I really am "fine... great, even!"

And then, there are the other days. The days when, as my friend Anna puts it, depression is "...like the boogie man hiding around the corner, ready to kick you down if you're not on guard." These days seem to come when I least expect them -- when things are going pretty well, thank you very much, and I really do feel like I have it all together.

As it turns out, I am not alone. 

I wrote the majority of this post based upon my own experiences and feelings, but I wanted to know if anyone else had similar thoughts, or even vastly different thoughts, on depression. I tossed up a couple posts, asking for folks to tell me what they wish others knew about depression. 

Overwhelmingly, I found that a lot of people had similar knowledge about how depression can strike even the "happy" people, and the deep feelings of confusion, helplessness and fear that accompany it. People shared with me their experiences, and really helped to sum up a lot of what I didn't think to say. Take a look:

Siena: It's frustrating when people ask me why I'm depressed, and then don't understand when I say, "I don't know." 

It's not as easy as "getting on something." (medication)

Lei: I hate when people think it's as simple as being sad about something. "what do you have to be sad about?" That just makes me feel more ashamed and guilty about having depression.

Audi:  ...it is real and it happens to the best of us. Especially Post partum, which is a time where you are "supposed" to be happy, by the definition of other people.

Kristin: Depression is heavy.

(NOTE: I found this simple statement so profound, I couldn't improve upon it. So much, in those three words. It goes along with the next quote.)

Anna:  It feels like having 1000 lbs of weight crushing you from every angle. And all people can say is "why don't you just take the weight off!?" I had a Bible study leader tell me that I must not have faith in God because if I did, I wouldn't have such a problem. Because God is JOY and if I don't have that then I am not "in-Christ."

(This last part hurt my heart SO MUCH! The church needs to better understand depression and other mental health disorders, and lead those suffering to hope, not condemnation over a perceived lack of faith.)

Cera: On the outside I look like I have everything together, while on the inside I'm battling years of hidden depression and making it up as I go along. 

The monsters don't live under my bed; they live in my brain. 

No matter how much sleep I get I'm still tired, no matter how tired I am I can't sleep!

Chelsie: I wish people didn't say "it could be worse." Everyone's situation is different and it is belittling to be told that "you don't have it that bad."

Kasmira: That sometimes it presents itself as anger, not sadness. Every single person is different, but it is no less real.

A parent with an adult child who battles depression: When you repeatedly feel something is wrong with your child/loved one, speak up. Don't be afraid to ask "Do you think you might be depressed" (I was afraid to ask) If you observe upbeat, 'appropriate' emotional responses when around others but experience negative emotions or worse, lack of emotions one on one, you need to pay attention.

A friend who chose to remain anonymous: Sometimes a depressed person is the funniest, happiest and most outgoing guy or girl that you know. (DING! DING! DING! We have a winner! This is what I was trying to say, at the beginning of this piece.)

So, today, I agonize over how to tell my mother that I'm not really feeling well enough, mentally and emotionally, to get together for Thanksgiving. (Mom, if you're reading, call me to discuss. I don't seem capable of picking up the phone, lately.) 

I think about the to-do list I should write (first on the list: MAKE A LIST). 

I hope my friends, my family, my team, and my clients somehow get the telepathic message that I care about them, and love them, and to please not hesitate to connect with me -- some days, it really is the fuel that keeps me going -- because I'm not always well enough to reach out and say so.

I spend all day blogging about everything I think I should say, when, really, all I want to say to those who love me is:

I'm still here. I'm surviving. I'm a little lost, a little hopeless, and a little mixed up, but I love you, even if I can't precisely show it.

Be tender with me. Understand I am rather fragile right now.

Be tough with me. Don't let me withdraw, or retreat, even when I say it's what I need. It isn't. What I need is to know I have a wall of love and safety around me -- even if I'm not brushing against it, it will be there when I try to run.

Mostly? Please... don't give up on me.

Can you ALL help me to change the way we think depression "looks?" Reach out to someone you haven't heard from in a while. Invite a friend out to coffee. Write a letter to someone you care about. Love on your loved ones a little harder. And, of course, don't forget to share this post. Let's change the world, friends. 

"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

“Words that Sound Normal to Us, but Not to Others” - Please Help Detric!

Note: I am posting this week's Gonzo Mama column a couple days early, in order to help publicize the opportunity to help a young local cancer patient this weekend at the rodeo.

One of my e-friends, Mindi Finch, posted this tweet on Twitter: “Words that sound normal to us, but not others: ‘Go ahead and unhook yourself.’” She was referring to her son’s Gastric Tube (G-Tube).

Four-year-old Gregory Bibb is battling Juvenile Myelomonocytic Leukemia (JMML), and his mom, Mindi, is chronicling his journey at http://thegreginator.livejournal.com. In addition to caring for Gregory’s extensive medical needs, Mindi makes time each day to connect with and advocate for families facing childhood cancer.

I thank the Lord that the most unusual phrases heard in our home are “Stop licking the dog” and “The toilet plunger is not a toy,” but I remember the changes my family went through when my brother was diagnosed with Erythroleukemia at age 17.

Massive doses of iron prepared my body for the donation of bone marrow to replace my brother’s. Post-transplant, the annual Christmas tree was replaced with an artificial stand-in and fresh fruits and vegetables were banned from dinner plates due to bacterial concerns. Salt was eradicated from the kitchen because of adverse effects of immunosuppressant medications. No one with even a sniffle was allowed within fifty feet.

Here in the Wright household, we’ve had our fill of “-ists.” We’ve seen neurologists, speech therapists, physical therapists, occupational therapists, sensory therapists and cognitive therapists… and those were just for Curlytop! At times, I only knew what day of the week it was by the office we walked into. Add in Snugglebug’s asthma and dietary issues, Pockets’s allergies, the collective broken bones of GirlWonder, Pepper and The Dude, and we’ve collected more -ists than I can shake a stick at.

To be clear, shaking a stick at the -ist du jour is considered poor form, no matter how frazzling the week has been. Trust me on this.

I am grateful for the absence of “oncologist” from the list above, and my heart is broken by the fact that for so many, “pediatric” must precede the title. As Mindi Finch says, I hate, hate, HATE childhood cancer. It steals away childhoods. It pushes parents to the breaking point. It frightens and frustrates siblings, who need care and attention, even though they’re well. It financially devastates families.

Warriors and advocates like Mindi give me hope. My brother’s 14-year post-transplant recovery gives me hope. Imagining a world without childhood cancer gives me hope.

Seeing the courage of kids like our valley’s own Detric Hernandez gives me hope.

Seven-year-old Detric has been diagnosed with Stage Four Lymphoma and Leukemia. You can help Detric and his family with his brave fight by donating at a local business, purchasing a Rodeo Lake Chelan t-shirt at the rodeo this weekend (all proceeds go to support Detric’s family) or by volunteering your time and talent.

Call Detric’s benefit campaign coordinator, Karyl Oules, at 509-682-9155 or email karyl.o@verizon.net to find out how you can make a difference. Visit http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/DetricHernandez to leave words of encouragement online for Detric and his family.

Above all, please pray. Pray for complete recoveries for Gregory, Detric, and children like them. Pray for the families who have lost children to childhood cancer.

Please, pray for a cure.

Photo from Detric's Caring Bridge photo page.

Someday, I Won't Be Here To...

Dear Mr. Wright and kids:

In the event of my untimely demise or incapacitation, I am leaving the following list of instructions. Put them in a safe place - you'll need them.

1. The toilet paper roll is held in place by a spindle. When one roll is empty, you may replace it with a full roll by firmly grasping one end of the spring-loaded spindle between your thumb and forefinger, then pulling toward the center of the spindle. Once free, remove empty toilet paper roll, then replace with full roll. To put spindle back in place, follow above directions in reverse.

2. The stovetop may and should be cleaned. To accomplish this mysterious task, allow cooktop to cool (this is important, lest you burn your fingers and have to look for the aloe vera gel - and we all know Mom is the only one who can find it). Then, use a damp sponge to wipe away spills and food particles. Repeat as necessary.

3. To clear cutting board of bread crumbs, use a clean sponge, a paper towel, a washcloth, or even your hand. The important thing is that you do it.

4. Bread will dry out if the bag is not closed properly. For this reason, bags of bread are sold with a handy closing device called a twist-tie. The twist-tie doesn't cost extra; it's thrown in as a free accessory. USE IT.

5. Dumping clean clothes on the floor tends to make them dirty much more quickly. Some genius, way back in history, created a wondrous device called a "dresser." It has miraculous little things inside it called "drawers." You will find that clothes stay cleaner much longer when placed inside these strange "drawers." To use: Firmly grasp knob on outside of drawer. Pull knob toward you, thus opening drawer. Place folded clothes (see Appendix A for instructions on how to fold clothes) inside drawer. Gently push drawer closed. Slamming drawers has never been proven to help them stay shut.

6. A stick of margarine will, by its very nature, collect bread crumbs. May I suggest using a butter knife to slice off the amount of margarine needed, instead of stabbing or scraping at random parts of the stick, smearing on toast, and going in for another scrape, leaving crumbs embedded in the cube?

7. Getting dirty dishes to the kitchen may sound like an insurmountable task, but I will try to explain it in elementary steps. First, grasp plate, bowl or glass in hand. Next, lift the item. That's right - just pick it up. Good! Now, turn your body in the direction of the kitchen, and begin walking. Continue until you reach the kitchen (see map, attached). Finally, place dishes in sink. For the advanced, an attempt at rinsing dishes may be made.

8. You're just going to have to accept that when I'm gone, there will be no one to stay up all night baking cookies for the bake sale you forgot to tell me about until bedtime. There's just no way around that. I have, however, drawn a map to the nearest bakery (attached).

9. Go ahead and pour those last few drops of milk out of the jug and put "milk" on the shopping list. No one is going to yell at you.

10. Using a snowshovel and rake to shove everything from your bedroom floor into the closet is not the same as cleaning your room. Along the same line, cramming every available space in the house full of stuff is not the same as being organized. Find a place for everything, and keep it there.

I know it will be hard to go on without me, dear husband and children, but rest assured that I am in a much, MUCH better place.

Love,

Mom


Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/urbanwoodswalker/ / CC BY-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/designpackaging/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/indieman/ / CC BY 2.0

Bad Gratitude Monday (Gratitude from the Road)

I'm on the road today, posting from the passenger seat of my very full Expedition. We're headed to Washington State University for Princess's orientation. See the pic of my full car? It's tough to think that our car will never will this full again. *sniffle*

What am I grateful for? Let's see...

1. One of Mr. Wright's assailants, Tattooed Necklace Guy, was arrested. The detective says that he's asking the prosecutor to pursue this case as a hate crime, which would make it a felony in Washington state. Hopefully, with the pressure of a felony hanging over his head, Tattooed Necklace Guy will be inspired to plea bargain his way to fingering his accomplices.

2. The adoptions for Curlytop and Snugglebug are almost done! Our attorney should be receiving the last packet of information and preparing the decree of adoption and other documents needed to secure a court date for finalization this week. We got word from the adoptive family of the girls' brother, Omri, that his adoption has finalized. Soon, all three of the kids will be "official!"

3. After two solid weeks of battling infections and general crud, I'm feeling much better and almost 100% back to my good old snarky self.

What are YOU grateful for?

Is This an Intervention?

I had twenty-five days in which to apply for a forty-five day special occasion permit from the Washington State Liquor Control Board. No problem.

Two days before the Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between) event, I didn't have a bartender. The morning of the event, I still didn't know if one of my acts was even going to show up. No... problem.

Twenty minutes before the show, my sound guy hadn't shown up yet, the fencing materials for the wine garden had gone mysteriously missing, one of the acts asked to combine her two performances, and gusting 98-degree winds threatened to cancel my sword dancer's act, since the looming hurricane would seriously impede her ability to balance a sword on her head. No... prob... lem?

We started exactly thirteen minutes late, but things rolled right along. Our first act, a trio of divalicious singers, wowed the crowd with their show tune extravaganza. Then, it was time to read my first piece, "The Curse of the Mothers." My mother, sadly, was unable to make the show but, I suggested, maybe it was for the best, since I didn't know how she'd feel about me sharing the family secret.

"I'M GONNA TELL HER!" came the heckler's cry. Thanks, Dad.

We had some singing. We had some reader's theater. We had Mommy-Muse Christy belly dancing. We had Mr. Wright reading "Frederick's of Halloween," from Gonzo Parenting's Text-osterone issue. We had roller dancing. I read "Good Fences Make Good Voyeurs."

So far, so good.

At some point, Riot Mama told me that her second piece was missing from her printouts. "No problem," I said. It had become my mantra. "You can read the piece I printed in the last issue of Gonzo Parenting." I handed her a copy of the zine.

I assume her first reading went well, but I can't be sure, since I was stripping in the public bathroom at the top of the hill, furiously tugging my belly dance costume over my sweat-soaked body. "I hope I wrote enough extra plugging and stalling into the emcee script," I whispered to my instructor/dance partner as we tied on our coin scarves and ran down the hill to the amphitheater, winded but ready to dance. For once, I didn't miss a single step or turn, but the heat was beginning to make me dizzy and the migraine that had started the day before was steadily increasing.

Hydrate. Electrolytes. Hydrate. Wine.

We had a reading by the other Mommy-Muse co-founder, Linda. Her mic died halfway through and had to be switched out. No problem. We had more reader's theater.

Mommy-Muse Christy read from The Belly Dance Prescription and belly danced some more. Riot Mama read her second (substitute) piece.

By this time, my head was really beginning to give me trouble. Some horrible, invisible, sadistic creature was tightening a tourniquet around my skull, and it didn't feel nice. Not one bit.

The sun was setting and it was finally cooling off. I pressed my head into the cool grass and watched the sword dancer miraculously keep the weapon balanced on her head...

As the emcee announced my third piece, I reluctantly pulled myself to my feet... and felt the vomit coming. I know this migraine symptom well; my least favorite of the "migraine attack" phase. I frantically began waving my hands at the emcee, wordlessly begging him to stall, and ran behind the boathouse to puke my innards up. N-uh-uh-uh-o p-p-p-pro-uh-uh-bleeeeghm!

Wiping my mouth, I took the stage and, somehow, shakily, read "Forget Gitmo." I was seriously beginning to wonder if I was going to make it through the rest of the show. My insides were churning, my head was preparing to implode, and I just wanted to go home, thank you very much.

More reading, more reading... My last piece, "I Hope Jesus has a Sense of Humor," was read so quickly and manically, I'm sure no one caught a word - which, considering the subject matter, might have been a good thing.

Mr. Wright finished with an awesome drum solo, Christy did closing comments, and it was finally, blessedly over! I sank back into the grass, closing my eyes. We'd pulled it off! People came! They enjoyed themselves! No one got booed off the stage! I didn't pass out!

My mental celebration was interrupted by a woman's voice. I cracked an eye open. There she was, standing over me, looking earnestly at me. I sat up.

"Hi," she said. "Great show! Listen, I coordinate resources for women in crisis. I wanted you to have my card..."

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/25802865@N08/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

The Center for Disease… whatever.

I am pleased to inform you that my family has survived the wretched Flu Epidemic of 2008.

Hmm? What’s that? You say you didn’t hear there was an epidemic?

Did you miss it on CNN? I’ll recap:

• Monday AM – Two year-old, Snugglebug, begins projectile vomiting.
• Monday PM – Three year-old, Curlytop, joins her sister. They projectile vomit in assorted colors.
• Tuesday AM – Ten year-old, GirlWonder, repaints her bedroom in stylish “vomit” scheme. Doesn’t go to school. Babies are feeling much better and celebrate by opening front door and running down block in just diapers while Mom is in shower. Mom panics and runs through neighborhood in towel.
• Tuesday PM – Fourteen and fifteen year-old sons, Pockets and The Dude, return from school. They vomit. Twelve year-old daughter, Pepper, vomits. Mom posts sign on front door: “DANGER! High-Speed Vomit!”
• Wednesday AM - Mom takes babies to appointment, since they are “fine” now. Walks into doctor’s office and two year-old vomits on wall, floor and Mom. Mom apologizes profusely to receptionist, changes two year-old into clean clothes. Two and three year-old girls synchronize filling of their pants with diarrhea, which runs down their legs. Mom grabs a baby under each arm and runs, without rescheduling. Pepper and boys still puking.
• Wednesday PM - Dad pukes… and pukes. Babies puke. Mom says she can’t stand any more puking and is running away from home. Gets to driveway and pukes.
• Thursday AM – Eighteen year-old, Princess, says she feels like puking but isn’t going to, because she’s running for ASB President and doesn’t have time. Family disowns her.

Can we even count on the Center for Disease Control to publicize these large-scale outbreaks anymore?

Eight out of nine members of my household were afflicted with this horrible virus… That’s 88.9% of the population!

I’d call that an epidemic, wouldn’t you?