Memories of My Dad

My dad died on September 8, 2016. I have never known a world without him, so it will take some getting used to. I want to share some of my random memories.

Let's be honest right up front. My dad had a temper, and there were many times as a child that his big booming voice combined with his six-foot height looming over me had me quaking in my shoes. Which was probably the effect he hoped for. We had a tumultuous relationship at times, both of us prone to yelling and anger, while also staunchly stubborn in our belief in our own rightness. But that's not all there was to him, and I think the delightful memories outweigh the difficult ones.

I could tell stories all day long, just like my dad, so it seems apt to tell a few stories. I'll try to be brief.

When I was a kid, I got great delight out of hiding from my dad when he came home from the office and jumping out to scare him. I'm pretty sure he always knew exactly where I was, but he played along, and we'd laugh.

On Sunday afternoons, at least when there was no football or KU sporting event on tv, we would sit cross-legged on the living room floor playing the card game War, which can tend to last for hours, especially with just two players. We had a great time as the game tilted back and forth. He never once looked at his watch.

He used to tease me with a rhyme: "There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good she was very, very good. And when she was bad, she was horrid." It's not very nice, and I don't think it ever made me behave any better. I was not an easy child, and I'm pretty sure that he recited this rhyme the way some people count to ten--as a way of calming himself down instead of lashing out, which no doubt is what he really wanted to do. (I've had those moments as a parent, so I know.) What made me most mad about that rhyme was not the truth that I was horrid when I was bad. I knew that. But it referred to a girl having a curl, and my hair has always been as straight as a pine needle. I always wanted the mess of curls my brother Mike has, and dad knew it. I always got mad and yelled that I didn't have any curls. Good times.

There were other genuinely good times, like walking into his office when I got off the school bus each day, just to say hi and have a moment with him all to myself. Weekends when we'd hop in the pickup truck and head to the ranch. He fixed up a cushioned area for me in the back of the truck and I loved sitting back there as we bounced down the back roads. When he stepped up often to drive me across state for debate tournaments. When we went to Happy Joe's in Rapid City after seeing the movie American Graffiti and we laughed and laughed. He loved to laugh, and he had a great sense of humor. My dad was at every event any of his children ever did--whether it was sports, music, theater, debate. He was so proud of everything we did.

My teenage years were particularly hard for all involved, but he didn't hold that against me. In between all the yelling and crying and slamming of doors on my part, he still showed he loved and cared for me. I remember one time when my mom was in the hospital for surgery--back in those days you stayed in the hospital for several days. As I recall, our kitchen was in the middle of being remodeled, as well. But dad and I made some lame attempts at cooking. I decided to try sweet and sour meatballs, which is not a difficult recipe for an experienced cook, but for a 15 year old who had never done much more than bake cookies, and a middle aged man who could fry an egg, it was a challenge. It would have been easy for the ordeal to turn into another fit of anger and yelling, but it didn't. It turned into one of those moments where you can only laugh at your own absurdity, and boy did we bust a gut laughing that night.

By the time I got married just after college, I was delighted to have my dad walk me down the aisle.
And later when I had my first child Melissa, I have fond memories of him holding her tiny body and singing "Oh My Darling, Clementine."
                 He and my mom stayed at our house waiting for Emily to show up (ten days after her due date), but the death of his own mother called him away, the very day she was born. That was hard and bittersweet. He had no pride when it came to playing with the grandchildren, including tea parties with Peter. My parents visited us frequently--as they did my brothers and their families as well--and gave my children their own sets of memories.


And when we visited the Black Hills, there was the inevitable trip to Flintstones.  And fishing.

We started a family tradition of gathering every five years to celebrate Mom and Dad's anniversaries and their legacy of family. These were always full of fun and laughter, some alcohol for the adults, and my dad at the head of whatever table we were at.




I loved listening to my dad's stories. About his childhood and large extended family. About his Navy days. About his park service adventures. One year for a family reunion celebrating my parents' 50th anniversary, we were in north Idaho and we visited Farragut State Park, which was my dad's naval basic training base in 1944. He walked us around, showed us where he learned to swim, and delighted as his grandchildren found his photo among the many photo albums of sailors who had trained there.

A couple of years ago, when he and mom were here in Boise for a visit, we were at an exhibit on WWII. There was a big map of the Pacific, and dad proudly showed me all the places he had been during the war, answering all my questions happily.

At another anniversary reunion, their 60th, the whole group of us attempted to play Apples to Apples. What a riot that was. Most of us had had quite a few drinks in us, and my dad kept saying "This game is stupid," because he didn't really get the point of it. But he nevertheless kept playing. I hope he realized by the end that the point was to be silly and laugh a whole lot.

As I grew farther and farther into adulthood, my relationship with my dad changed and deepened. As a child, I had been afraid to stand up to him, because he belonged to the authoritarian school in which children were to obey their parents without question. (Something I never really managed to do.) But by the time I was a parent myself, I was brave enough to stand firm on a few things, and he was gracious enough to learn a new way to be my dad. There were even a few times when he humbly acknowledged that I was right and that he had actually learned something from me. The last 10-20 years of his life, my dad was a more mellow fellow, as often happens with age. Heart surgery, I think, gave him a second chance for more time with his family, and he took hold of that opportunity with an open heart.

This past summer, we came for a visit to the Black Hills for the Wind Cave reunion associated with the 100th anniversary of the National Park Service, which was my dad's career. It was so fun to reunite with old friends, and I think he especially enjoyed sharing park service stories with old colleagues. I certainly enjoyed listening to his yarns.

When he was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer and told he did not have long, we stripped away any leftover veneers and had the blessed opportunity to share final weeks with him in utter honesty and love. We had hoped for more time, a few months for final goodbyes and making arrangements for my mom. We didn't get that extra time, but we did have those two weeks of time to make sure we said what we needed to say. I can't say for sure, but I have a sneaky suspicion that, knowing he was dying anyway, he was able to let go quickly and painlessly, knowing that his children would take care of his wife and that going now would lessen our agony in experiencing a protracted ordeal with much emotional pain. He was an independent guy who didn't really like asking for help, and wouldn't have wanted his family to suffer along with him. He made a clean break of it. (Just my theory.)

Before he started chemo, he had his hair shaved off, just because it was going to fall out anyway. He texted us this last photo of himself:

He said, "I haven't had hair this short since I went to boot camp in 1944!" And he laughed. His laugh was so big, boisterous, and frequent. I'll always be able to hear it in my heart.

I can imagine him now setting up a cribbage table with his old buddies Bruce, Bill, and Doug telling stories about the war and the parks, laughing it up, maybe a beer in hand. I hope that's what heaven has in store for him.

Well done, good and faithful servant.

The Dark Hole of My Depression

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. As someone with a mental illness, I feel qualified to talk about this subject. But, as I often do, let me start with a couple of disclaimers: First, everyone's mental illness or mental health is very personal and will likely be different from one person to another. When I talk about my mental illness, I don't pretend to speak for anyone but myself. Second, I prefer to use the phrase "living with depression" rather than "suffering" or "struggling with depression." While any illness is a struggle a lot of the time, I think life in general is a struggle a lot of the time. So why pretend that my struggle is somehow more than someone else's struggle. We're all trying to live as best we can, aren't we? Maybe I'm just nitpicking at semantics, but that's where I'm at.

Depression is a hard disease to describe to others, because all of us feel depressed at times, right? But for me, depression isn't like that feeling all the time--sad about specific things. It's more like being unglued from the rest of the world. I've described it before as living in a deep, dark hole, knowing that everyone else is out there in the light and you have no way to get out of the hole. I spent most of my life clawing to get out of that hole, scrambling, screaming, leaping, but to no avail. You cannot simply paste on a smile, do some self talk about how good you have it, and magically rise from the hole.

I'm sure it is different for everyone, but for me, medications and counseling were the first step out of the dark. But only the first step. They allowed me to function in my daily life, but did not erase my disease or the hole. They just provided a foothold on the wall.

People who meet me for the first time are surprised when they eventually learn I live with depression, because I seem happy most of the time. And I am happy. Happy is not the opposite of the disease known as depression. I have much that makes me happy--a great family, a supportive and patient husband, kids that do me proud, talents that I enjoy and share, three silly dogs, a miraculous natural world.

Depression is that invisible. Truly. You don't see the hole where I live. When you see me, you see a person actively engaged in the world around her. The hole is my reality, but not yours. If you know me, you know about the hole because I talk about it, but you never see it or experience it. It is my own personal hell. It's not a choice. It's a part of me that is permanently attached.

It took me a long time to realize this as a permanent state. It's hard to accept. I spent so much of my life wanting it to go away--and I think that might be a reason for the high rate of suicides in mentally ill people, the wish for it to go away. There is no other way to escape it. There is only living with it.

I have found living with depression to be worth it. While painful, it's not impossible. And this is a message I try to share as often as possible.

After all these years of treating my depression with an ever-increasing arsenal of knowledge about the disease and about myself, I don't feel like I am living in the dark hole anymore. It's still there, calling for me all the time, though. It tells me that everything is useless. All my efforts don't amount to anything being better. There is no point. The darkness of the world is so immense and powerful that no matter what I do, the world is doomed. Not only that, I have personally contributed to the problems, so I am to blame--I am guilty of hatred, waste, pollution, fear, apathy, and pride. I might as well jump back into the hole, wallow there at the bottom, and waste away.

I'm nothing if not a rebel, so I resist the call. Do you know how much energy that takes? I fight it every minute of the day. Even on meds, even after years of counseling. These have given me tools, but it still requires constant effort. So I have learned to give myself plenty of rest to combat this exhaustion. I sleep a lot, more than most people anyway. Not only does it help refresh me, it is also an escape; when I am asleep, I can't hear the dark hole's call.

Another escape for me is to be outside--my back yard is fine, but even better is to be out on the trails, or even better in the mountains and trees with no other humans around. Seeing the stars light up the night is, ironically, a balm of darkness and light mixed. Listening to the roar of a river does more than just drown out the call of the dark hole; it is the voice of a better place. A hawk's screech. A campfire's crackle. Waves lapping over rocks. These are voices of a different sort that speak of peace to a troubled mind.

But there is more to living with depression that trying to escape it. I want to be part of the world outside of the dark hole, which is even more difficult to me than being in the hole. See what a battle of the mind this is? There is always a niggling sensation that I'm doing it all wrong, that I will be revealed any minute as a horrible hypocrite and fake, that life is nothing but a wobbly house of cards and it is about to crumble any minute now.

And why do I tell you all this? It's not because I want your sympathy. I don't need you to pity me, console me, or try to fix me. This is my disease and I can handle it. However, I do want your understanding. This quest for understanding is reciprocal--my wish to be understood motivates me to try to understand others, and compels me to help others, because of our shared humanity and pain. As introverted as I am, I cannot manage without this human connection. My efforts are an expression of love and peace, which, while aimed at others, also finds its way back to me. And I guess that's where this all circles back to--loving and honoring myself through this expression of my truth.

Learning Curve, Part I

I just returned from the Independent Book Publishers Association conference entitled Publishing University. I learned a lot, mostly about all the stuff I have yet to learn. Isn't that often how learning is?

It might surprise people who know me to hear that I went to this conference. My biases are usually pretty clear, and for most of my life, my bias has been in favor of the traditional NYC publishing houses. If an author can't make it there, they can't make it anywhere. In the course of my work as a freelance editor, SCBWI volunteer, and book store maniac, I have seen my fair share of not-so-great (and some really bad) self-published books, and that informed my bias. However, as I have experienced many times in my life, biases are there to be exploded so that a person can grow and prosper.

Here's how it has evolved so far for me. I've been writing young adult (YA) novels for going on two decades. The first ten years of that was learning just how to write a novel and how my art form worked. Since then, I have attended conferences, workshops, retreats, webinars, and had individual critiques with agents and editors. I've worked in mentorships with some of the best authors and editors in the kid lit world. And I have been submitting those novels that seemed ready to agents for a number of years.

Throughout this time, I have continued to hone my art, revised countless times, and tried to keep the rejection from discouraging me. After all, anyone who spends some time in the publishing crowd knows that rejection is just part of the job. Many rejections came with glowing words about the quality of my writing, the love of the characters, and even sometimes referrals to others who might want to represent me, but no offers of representation. Because of my bias toward traditional publishing, I vehemently avoided any suggestion or contact with self-publishing as a viable alternative.

But sometime last year, my year of expansion, I started to wonder if I was closing myself off to a valid avenue of publishing my books. I'm not getting any younger, and the traditional publishers aren't inclined to be more open to submissions--quite the opposite it seems most of the time.

Still, my bias against self-publishing was strong. On top of that, the idea of doing all the work on my own does not appeal to me. I want to be able to spend most of my effort focused on writing good stuff. An idea took root and blossomed: what about starting a publishing company made of up entirely of its own authors, and those authors work for and with each other? A blend of self-publishing with many of the collaborative benefits of traditional publishing. Authors would have creative authority while also getting editorial, design, distribution, and publicity from a team.

That's what drew me to attend this conference, and my bias has been dashed into the dust. I used to think that anyone who couldn't make it in the Big 5 just wasn't worthy or professional. I had an image that authors who took a non-traditional path were amateurs, intent on putting their book out despite bad writing and no editing. That may be the case for some, but the folks at this conference were amazing. They are committed to great books, from good writing to good design and good production. Contrary to what I had assumed, most of those present were not authors publishing their own material. Most companies started out of frustration at the myopic approach of traditional publishing who wanted to be more creative.

Some of these publishers (like Little Pickle Press) are breaking ground in producing books using green/environmentally friendly materials such as recycled papers and soy inks. Some are offering publication based on how many readers you can get to vote on your project based on samples you provide (like Inkshares). Some are truly niche markets. Some want to promote high literary quality that sometimes doesn't get noticed in trade publishing. Some are corporate publishers, using their expertise to produce books that promote what they are doing corporately (like Patagonia Books). It was astounding, really, to see all the variety of niches and approaches. And diversity of ages, ethnicity, gender, and subject matter.

Kwame Alexander gave a keynote about his years before winning the Newberry in which he self-published his own poetry as well as books by other authors. I attended sessions where I learned about dozens of apps a publisher can use, personal branding, hiring support services, and, possibly my favorite session, hybrid publishing.

I spent two days pondering how I want to structure my cooperative publishing venture and whether it might be better to try going with one of these many small presses that are already in business. I keep coming back to my original idea: a group of authors who contract to work together to help one another publish our books with the highest standards of writing, design, and book production that we can. Not to avoid the hard and difficult process of editing, marketing, etc, but to avoid the many years of submitting to indifferent others and instead using those years to do the work. Because I know already that my writing is good and my stories are good. I don't need affirmation. I, of course, want my book edited and revised over and over until it is great. And I also want the same for other authors like me who are doing great writing but not getting anywhere in the maze that is traditional publishing. I'd rather seek out a life beyond the maze, one that it more of a mountain range with summits to explore and heights to reach instead of prescribed turns and dead ends. Instead of trying so hard to do it "right" by someone else's definition and worrying that I'm not doing it right, I am drawn to this idea that there are many ways to create wonderful books, and no editor or agent has any more knowledge about it than I and my fellow authors do. (I have worked and played in the publishing world in various ways for 30 years; I might even know things these 25 year old editors just out of school don't know.)

Part II of this blog will describe my idea for anyone who might be interested. And here's to all your biases exploding in your face.

I Don't Do New Year's Resolutions

So now that January is coming to an end, I can talk about my goals for the year. Last year a friend of mine asked people to select a word that would be their intention for the year. I chose "Expand."

And 2015 was a great year to expand my horizons, physically and emotionally. I traveled to new places within Idaho, which was lovely. I traveled to Wales, very lovely. I took a camping trip with Melissa and we saw some new parts of Washington and Oregon together. I tried a few new things, like sea kayaking, and took a jet boat ride on the Snake River. I got arrested for civil disobedience for a cause I am passionate about. I made some new friends.

I had to expand my life by letting go of the youngest child of mine as he started out on his journey beyond home. It makes life at home a lot different, but also gives me a chance to focus on other things besides what the kids are doing.

I expanded the number of dogs in our home by one cute little golden retriever, Gryff.

So what about 2016? I am choosing the word "DREAM." I have a couple of dreams I'd like to work on this year.

It's always a little scary to talk about dreams, because sometimes they sound silly to others, or unrealistic, or just plain ridiculous. But I guess that's the nature of dreams.

So my two primary personal dreams of this year are:

1. Start a publishing company that will be an authors' cooperative, owned and operated by its authors. I'm just in the beginning stages of dreaming this dream, so there are not a ton of specifics to spell out just yet. Suffice it to say that I hope to gather several other children's authors who want to publish really great, high quality books together in our own endeavor on our own terms. If it gets off the ground, it's going to be a big adventure, a risk, and a lot of work. But no more risky than sending off endless queries to agents/editors who don't reply and no more work than researching and writing the books.

2. Help create a tiny house village to house Boise's unhoused. There are some groups already working on this, and I aim to add my dreams to theirs and see what we can do to help some motivated people create a new kind of housing situation for themselves. It won't end homelessness, I am well aware of that. But for a certain portion of people, it might be the stepping stone to transition out of living on streets or in shelters and work toward having a permanent home. Serving the homeless has been a passion of mine my entire adult life. Recently, however, I began to feel that it's not enough to offer meals and shelters. I am moved and called to help people find true homes and get help as they make their own dreams come true.

I am sure these dreams might not be everyone's dreams. But here I go, chasing them in my head-on way. People are fond of telling dreamers all the reasons their dreams are not possible, and I know there are many obstacles. But I also know that problems can be overcome. Obstacles can be knocked down. Some of the events I experienced in the expansive living of 2015 have helped me to dare to dream these dreams for 2016. Thank you to those who inspire the dreaming and encourage the journey.

What are your dreams? Why are you not pursuing them? Let's do it.

A Rosh Hashanah Birthday

I'm not Jewish, so the title of this post might seem a little odd. Many years ago, when I first learned some the basic beliefs and rituals of Judaism, and when I discovered that Rosh Hashanah was usually close to my birthday, I began to use my birthday as an opportunity to reflect on the past year and consider where I'm heading now.

Today, my birthday and Rosh Hashanah coincide. (Please don't accuse me of  appropriating another culture, because my own religious tradition was begun by a Jewish teacher, so I feel perfectly comfortable observing what has meaning to me. In fact, I find a lot of beauty in religious holidays and observances of many faiths, and my own faith tells me that we are all on a path to the holy, by whatever path we use. So my path may take a lot of side paths and weave around the hillside a lot. I'm okay with it.)

So here I am, reflecting on the year I've had and what might be in store.

Last year, I was struggling to live abundantly with my depression. I've been pretty forthright about this struggle, and fortunately I have a great support network in place. So I was able to talk to my healthcare providers and get on top of it. We discovered I had extremely low vitamin D levels, which impacts mood quite a bit, and with supplementation, I feel a lot better. No one will ever have to convince me that vitamin D is an essential nutrient. I'm converted.

This applies to my general health outlook as well. I have been working closely with my doctor, nutritionist, and nurse practitioner to get my cholesterol, blood sugar, thyroid, and other important levels normalized. This has been the result of more than a decade of working on some of these health concerns, including the always scary and awkward process of finding a new doctor when necessary. And I am finally realizing that my own commitment, dedication, and mindfulness plays a big role in this process. (So I'm a slow learner.)

Nothing motivates like progress, so I am really motivated. And new research has some promising ideas on how to further improve my health, including my depression, so the doc and I will be exploring some of those ideas in this new year.

A year ago, I was actively involved as the regional advisor for the SCBWI and doing a lot of volunteering with my son's band and choir activities.

Now, I have officially retired from raising children. Not being a mom, since I will be that forever, and as many of you know, parenting adults is a difficult mine field to navigate. But the children are raised. I also retired from the regional advisor position. So it's time to move on from old roles and on to new stuff. I always feel a sense of revitalization and energy when longtime volunteer work or paid work ends and I can look forward to the newness of something else.

This means I am doing some different volunteer stuff. So far, with the Idaho Humane Society where I can play with dogs, who love the attention and never complain. And I can do more with the social justice causes that mean so much to me, especially Add the Words.

Speaking of which, at the beginning of this calendar year, a friend of mine asked us to select a word that would set the intention we had for the year. I chose "expand," with the express intention of expanding my world, my experiences, and my impact. I've been active with the Add the Words efforts for a few years now, and this year, I expanded that participation to civil disobedience that resulted in my arrest. I am proud of this arrest, and I would do it again. It has helped me realize how far I am willing to go in an effort to make the world a more just place.

Other ways I have expanded myself are by seeing new places, particularly in my own state. I'm sure I'm not the only one who forgets to explore my own backyard. I have gone to several places in Idaho where I had not been before. And some new places in other states as well. This week, I will visit a new country, as David and I take our son, Peter, to Wales where he'll attend Cardiff University.

The best way I have expanded my impact, life, and experience has been to make sure I speak the truth as I know it. For much of my life, I tried to be perfect, tried to be portray myself as a person who needed no help, and tried to not make other people uncomfortable by bringing up negative stuff. But the older I get, the less I feel like sparing the feelings of others at my own expense. (I care about the feelings of others, but not to my own detriment.) And an amazing thing has happened: whenever I speak my truth, the response has been entirely positive and constructive. It has helped me improve personal relationships, become a better writer, improve situations that were feeling stagnant, and opened me up to other people. If I'm lucky, maybe it's also helped some other people find their own truth. When I speak the truth of my experience, I find that others often feel the same. This is empowering, as where I once perceived dissent, I now perceive consensus. Where I have often felt separated from others, I now feel connected.

Of course, not everyone is comfortable with truth telling. I have been called bullying, intimidating, harsh, and other select adjectives. (Hey, on my my high school debate team, they named the Witchy/Snippy/Snide award after me. So I'm used to this.) I have found, though, that the people who have a problem with me are not having so much a problem with me as a problem with themselves. In more than one instance, others involved in the situation have privately thanked me for my candid comments, acknowledging that the people in charge are not interested in truth, but in the status quo. When this has been the case, I have been able to let go of the group, person, situation and move on. In the best circumstances, however, I have been heard and changes have been made for everyone's benefit.

As a part of opening myself up this way, I have also been able to see and accept traits in others that previously might have annoyed me. I have recently come to the conclusion that each of us has at least one quirk that means we need different coping mechanisms, and that's okay. For example, I have one friend who has anxiety to such an extent that almost every situation causes her some level of anxiety. But she doesn't expect the world to change for her, nor does she limit her own life because of this. Instead, she forges ahead, learning ways to deal with her emotions. She handles it. I find this not only impressive, but also refreshing how open she is about it. Another friend has a hard time understanding others who don't see things the same way she does. She holds so tightly to her convictions that she can't see how others don't find her point of view obvious. This gets her into arguments, but she tries really hard to listen well. She often has to apologize later for not hearing the other person, and she handles it. Someone else I know has to play through in her mind all the possible horrifying scenarios that might happen. Once she's done that at length, she is usually okay with it.

What this has helped me see is that each of us has some issue, some problem, something that disables us--but we can manage those. We can cope, work through, start over, try again, and most of all, be authentically ourselves without apology and hope that the world will  understand and accept us as we are. It makes me more accepting, and it makes me comfortable being authentic and expecting to be understood and accepted for who I am.

I am really looking forward to this year ahead. I have so many ideas and inspirations, which bring new energy and that builds on itself. There is possibility, dreams to reach for. May we all be written down for a good year.

L'shanah tovah

After Another Shooting

Dear America,

I am so tired and angry today, as I know a lot of you are. Why, why, does this keep happening? I am not going to get used to mass shootings, or any shootings, occurring every day. The President is right—no other advanced nation in the world has this problem.

Twitter is crowded with opinions. Racism. No, mental illness. No, terrorism. No, gun control laws.

I call bullshit. It’s all of the above, but it’s all part of a much bigger problem. Apathy.

We live in a crazy-producing society, unique to the U.S. We seem to accept that corporations with billions of dollars get to do whatever they want; that the government won’t, can’t, and shouldn’t protect its citizens; that no matter what we do, we have no power.

We are content to go buy our cheap merchandise at Walmart without thinking about the fact that this company and the family who owns it are raking in our money while refusing to give their employees even the tiniest benefits. That they and other corporate greed mongers refuse to pay employees a fair living wage. We continue to balk at paying taxes in order that folks with legitimate mental illness can get the care and treatment they need. We allow the government to dictate what will be taught in schools based on test scores, rather than paying teachers what they’re worth and trusting them to do their jobs.

All the while, we talk, and talk, and talk about how awful this latest mass shooting is and wring our hands and pray.

I’m sick of it. We are the problem. All of us. I admit, I enjoy a life of white privilege. But I hope I don’t allow that to lessen my humanity and my desire to continue fighting until all people have the same privilege.

When will we as a society put aside our short-sighted, narrow-minded, self-serving attitudes, get off our asses, and get to WORK? I mean the kind of work that can counteract hatred and violence. The kind of work that involves risk, pain, sacrifice. The kind of work that is uncomfortable.

It could be any kind of work. There’s so much of it to be done. It could involve actually going to vote on election day, even educating yourself about the candidates and what they stand for. Don’t have time for that? Do you have time to hang out on Twitter and debate whether this latest shooting is about hatred or gun control? It could be actually helping out on a campaign for a candidate who wants to fight for a higher minimum wage or the rights of LGBT folks to be included in our human rights laws.

It doesn’t have to be politics. It could be building homes for Habitat for Humanity. Or feeding homeless people a meal. It could be volunteering on a suicide hotline. It could be prison ministry. Or environmental activism. It could be neighborhood community building. The list is never ending.

If, instead, we are content to sit on our butts watching reality TV, complaining about big government, and holding onto our fear, then we will continue seeing more of the same.

I’m sick of it. It would be so easy to flee to the mountains and ignore the pain. It’s my first inclination. But we need more of us to stay here and do the work. Get out of our little houses made of ticky tacky and really start caring for each other. Stop debating what needs to be done. It ALL needs to be done. Just go do it. Every shot fired, every day, should propel us to work harder, care more, fight longer. This is OUR country. WE are the ones who are responsible. 

Dammit, Not Again

For about a week now, I've been plagued with the feeling of "who cares?" Otherwise known as "FTW." Or "I give up." These are not good feelings. At first I chalked it up to the truly depressing election results. But then, yesterday happened. But first, why am I telling you this anyway? Because--people need to understand that mental illness is indeed a disease. Not something I make up. Not some drama queen thing I do for attention. Not something I want. I hate it. I hate it so bad. So come and take a walk in my shoes for a day and see what it feels like.

Yesterday started out like the rest of the days this past week--not caring, going through the motions, hanging in there, hoping that things were going to improve. But the day just got worse and worse. As I've said before, nothing specific happened. Nobody said anything or did anything that made my day tumble down a dark tunnel. It just did. Depression took me there without my consent.

In the middle of doing simple, normal things, I could not fight the urge to burst into tears. I struggled all day long to keep going, but it didn't work. Eventually, I flung myself on the bed and cried. Sometimes crying is a cathartic release to people. Maybe it helped in a way, but it didn't feel cathartic. It felt scary. I have nothing to cry about.

As I lay there, all I could think was I hope I'm not going down the dark hole again. I don't want to go there. It's the most awful place ever. You can't dig yourself out of it. It's deep and lonely and fearful. Monsters lurk in tiny pockets all around. Monsters that want you to give in, give up. Monsters that bite and feed off the panic in your heart. Monsters that try to convince you that you are nothing. That it would be best for all if you just fade into the walls and become one of them.

Self talk does nothing at this point. Reminding myself that people care about me does not help. Knowing that others out there suffer too, probably more than I do, doesn't help. Thinking that maybe I'm just having an off day, like any normal person, doesn't help. Because nothing can get me to stand up and go back to what I was doing. I kept lying there, zoned in on visual details next to me--the ridges in the pile of clean clothes stacked on the bed, the pores on my hands, the tiny ripples on the end of my sleeve. They all seem so much bigger than I am. I am so small, so insignificant. Nothing.

Dammit. Why is this happening to me? Again. Why do I have to put up with this? Why does my family have to suffer along with me? The depression monsters dig in their heels, telling me I should relieve my family of this burden. Stop participating. Go away. The pain in my gut makes me want to scratch my face off with my fingernails. I worry I will have to go to a pysch hospital. I worry that I will fall down the dark hole and never emerge. I suddenly understand why cutters do it, because somehow the idea of slicing myself seems like it might be a relief, a distraction from this even worse pain in my own head. It's very real. No wonder people jump off buildings. That seems like no pain at all. I imagine the quiet relief of going for a walk that never ends. A walk into the mountains with my dogs--except I don't want my dogs to suffer either--where I just go and go and go until I have to stop. Then I can just lie down to rest. Forever. Yeah, this is what thoughts of suicide sound like. I hate that they are pestering me, because I WILL NOT give in to them. Yet they sound so enticing.

Fighting this much just to make those thoughts go away is exhausting. Sitting at the bottom of the hole is easier than fighting to climb out. I don't want to be there. I want to get out. But I can't fight anymore. That's why someone would do it--kill themselves. Because they are just so tired of fighting between the desire to get out of the hole and the need to rest.

So by now the damn monsters are making me think that I'm in really deep now, deeper than ever before. I am sincerely scared. I wonder if we will have to change meds again. Or maybe there are not meds strong enough. I am already taking the maximum dose. I imagine being hospitalized. Infantilized.

Here in the dark hole, I am capable of nothing. I am as useless as an infant. I can do nothing but stay here, letting the monsters eat away at me. I hate it. Bloody hate it. Could someone just make the pain end?

All of these thoughts run through my brain like a locomotive in a loop, repeating and repeating. Even a religious person who knows that there is a god and a spirit--in that moment, nothing can reach you.

And then, in walked my one true love, my husband, who said, "Are you okay?"

"No."

He stayed with me while I got up the will to speak, listened to me while I shared my fear, knew what to say and do in the moment. I had worried he might have me admitted right then. But instead he offered me dinner, cajoled me into getting on my feet, hugged me, and didn't push. Didn't prod. Just offered me a hand to hold so that I might climb upward, yet again. Those marriage vows, the part about in sickness and health--this is what that looks like. He reminded me that we can handle it. We have doctors. We have help. We don't have do it alone.

So I got up and ate dinner and finished the evening. But I felt physically sick. Oh, I'm not depressed, I'm just coming down with something. No. I have something. I have an illness. Don't minimize it. Don't wave it off. Pay attention. That commercial that says depression hurts--it's true. That feeling that I've just been kicked in the kidneys, that's where it hurts right then. When I first started facing my depression, I read somewhere that ancient cultures believed the kidneys were the center of our being, kind of the way we talk about our hearts now. So it's no surprise that my kidneys scream at me. They are my center, telling me to take notice.

Okay, mind/body/spirit,  you got my attention. I'm here. Paying attention. I will fight.

Is this too honest for you? Would you rather not see what it's like for people like me? Or are you serious when you say, after yet another celebrity suicide, that we need to do something to improve our mental health system? Are  you willing to hold someone's hand while they attempt to climb out of the dark hole? I don't want to burden you with my illness. But I absolutely cannot fight it by myself.

I am still here today. Writing this down in the hope that someone will hear. I'll see how tomorrow goes. It's probable that I will give my psych nurse a call this week. I don't want to. Because I might have to deal with changing or adding meds. Or worse. Or worse. But I will.

For now, it is sunny outside, a slightly blustery fall day. I think I will take the dogs for a walk. But not a forever walk. A healing walk. One I come back from.