Depression Update

In a continuing examination of my mental illness, I periodically try to make sense of my experience. It's my goal to share with others who might be experiencing similar things in order to support and comfort them. I am not interested in drawing attention to myself, except as just one of a million stories of mental illness. 

In case you need to catch up, here's my life in brief: I have had severe depression since my teens, if not before. It manifested in rage and anger, so I seemed to many who dealt with me to be an arrogant, snotty, angry, rebellious teenager. Mostly I just hated myself. Back in the 70s, in a small midwestern town, getting mental health care was fraught with stigma, and I wouldn't have known to ask for it anyway. In the 80s, I got married and started working. I was a mess inside, but trying super hard to hold it together on the outside, not always successfully. In 1989 I had my first child. 

Motherhood is hard enough, but so much harder when you have a mental illness. I had no time to focus on myself and my needs. Two  more children came along. The thing that saved me during this time was breastfeeding. As odd as that may sound, the hormones released when you nurse a child are calming and create feelings of well-being. I am convinced that if I had not breastfed my kids, I would have probably gone to a mental hospital. I was not at my best during those years, but the hormones helped. 

However, that didn't last forever. I reverted to my tactics of presenting a good mask to the world, while inside I was dying. Rage and anger were frequent. 

Finally, I reached a breaking point. I was in a deep, dark hole that only got deeper and darker. I was never going to get out. My husband, who was one of the few people who knew the true me and who never wavered in his support, suggested I seek out help and medication. (Until this point, I had a strong bias against the medical world, and a very strong bias against meds.) I started antidepressants and therapy. It was a rocky road, but it helped. 

That was about 15 years ago. Since then, I have been on meds continuously, went through years of therapy with a very kind and wonderful counselsor. I have an excellent psych nurse who has monitored me and guided me through this medical maze. If you are so inclined, you can read about those years in other posts on this blog. 

So here I am now. My psych nurse last year informed me that I am her most stable patient and she only needed to see me every six months. At one appointment she brought up the idea of potentially weaning off meds to see how I would do. I immediately squelched that idea. The mere thought returning to my darkness scared the shit out of me. 

Since then, I have taken a good hard look at where I am. In these 15 years, I have learned a lot about self care. I have learned where my limitations are and when I need to step off the runaway train of modern life to take a breath. I have supplemented with nutrients that help support my mental health and observed how much I need constant outdoor exposure to be well. In short, I have been able to put my own needs first. This is a hard thing. 

I realized recently that I have made friends with my depression. Sounds weird, but it's true. Depression has given me a lot of personal insight and growth. It's helped me have compassion for others, to have compassion for myself. It's strengthened me like nothing else. I have had to learn to accept things about myself. It's connected me with others. And, although I'm still working on this, depression has taught me how to strip off the mask and be authentic with everyone, especially myself. 

So I am ready for this step I'm now taking. With my psych nurse's blessing, I am weaning off my meds. It's scary to say. It's only been a few days. I don't know what lies ahead. It may not work for me. I have often said during these 15 years that if I have to take meds forever, I will. And I stand by that. However, in taking care of myself, I have a sense that now is the time for me to work with my mental illness in a different way, a way of not being in crisis, but in cohesion. I have no doubt that there will be ups and downs. I am stronger now and I hope I will be able to weather the downs. I have better support now, and the stigma in society is less than it was 40 years ago. 

I am not suggesting that anyone else should try this. I can't speak for others. And if you want to try, make sure to do it with medical supervision. I am not going cold turkey. I am going extremely slowly, so it may take more than a year before I am off entirely. (I was on such a high dose that I can cut by tens or twenties of milligrams and still be on a super high dose, so it will take time.) 

Why, you might ask, would someone do this when they are finally stable and in a really good place? My mental illness is stable, but my physical health is facing some risks that I believe might be exacerbated by my long-term, high dose of antidepressants. I feel like I am in a place now where taking care of my physical health needs to balance with my mental health. And I am ready to try to do that. I have spent nearly my whole life dealing with my mental state--either trying to hide it, live through it, or treat it--that my physical wellness has taken a back seat. That's not good for me any more than living with an untreated mental illness. So, before I get to some sort of physical crisis, I am going to see if I can find a balance to my physical and mental health so that I can live into old age with good health. 

I will continue to share my story, if only to honestly portray what one person's experience is like, if it helps someone else. 

Meditation on What Kind of World I Want to Live In

It's January, which means my Idaho legislature is in session. It's Wednesday, which means a group of us stand outside on the capitol steps in prayer--whatever form that may take for each one of us--for the people inside to have the courage to create laws that reflect our values. We are the Interfaith Equality Coalition,  an alliance of faith communities working together to bring equality, justice, and dignity for all people through our compassionate witness, education, and advocacy. 

As I stand on the steps, my prayer usually takes the form of a meditation, a focus, or a song in my head. Today, what kept popping up for me was irony. Maybe dichotomy. Maybe duality. 

I am a person of faith, yet I do not want to live in a country with a religious government. A theocracy. Is that what the term is? However, the kind of world I want to live in sort of defines what most people consider religious values--decency, compassion, love. Ironically, most of the so-called religious folks running the government don't seem to be operating under those values. But it doesn't escape my thoughts that one doesn't need to be of any faith tradition for the values of decency, compassion, and love to be your guiding ideals. 

A lot of people, including one man who encountered us today, say they don't think it's government's place to intrude on the lives of citizens by forcing everyone to pay for the things we think should be inalienable rights. I guess that issue comes down to what we see as the role of government. 

I see the role of government as protecting the citizens, not just from military or terrorist threats, but from injustice, inequality, and need. For me, it is indeed self evident that all beings are created equal, and I think it is the role of government to define and protect those rights. So instead of making laws that leave out vast swaths of humans, the laws should include everyone. In my mind, that means people from other countries, from all races and religions, from all gender identifications and sexual orientations, and all socio-economic origins. 

What that looks like in practice, for me, is that everyone pays enough in taxes so that injustices brought on by lack of healthcare can be made just with all people being provided that healthcare univserally. It means that those who have been excluded or marginalized by society in the past should be specifically named in our equal rights protections--just to make damn sure who is entitled to those rights. It means that we fund housing strategies to provide a place for everyone, that we make sure education is there for everyone. This shouldn't be lefft up to the charitable feelings of a few, but should be a mandatory part of living in our society--we ALL pay for and ALL receive the benefits of this free society. 

I find irony in the politics of people who vote for leaders who cut healthcare, cut education funding, and cut funding for veterans' or senior programs, but then tout their religious goodness of "serving" these folks. Part of serving is to hold all of society accountable for those in need. 

I find it ironic that our society sees fit to imprison people who have no homes because it is illegal to camp on the sidewalk. Shouldn't it be illegal for us a society to allow people to have nowhere but the sidewalk to sleep? We should be the ones imprisoned for neglecting our fellow humans. If a parent allowed a child to fend for themselves outside in the winter nighttime, that is what would happen. 

Because of my activism, I fortunately see hundreds and hundreds of folks, religious or not, who want to see a world where people are housed, where people's heathcare needs don't bankrupt their families, where greed on an exponential scale is reined in from destroying the earth, and where justice and equality form the basis for all our laws. Unfortunately, I don't see the leaders of the country aiming for these same goals. Quite the opposite at times, it seems. 

That is why I have made it my practice to stand on these steps and meditate every week. I hope our elected officials can come to see the wisdom of a path that values all and serves all, rather than the path in which we let people die of homelessness, insufficient healthcare, a toxic earth, and the cruel greed of the very rich.  

Imagery

I find imagery to be more powerful than other forces at times. It comes to me when words won't do, and here I am trying to use words to explain the imagery. Silly me. Maybe imagery shouldn't be dissected and explained and analyzed. Maybe it should simply be felt.

Still, words are my currency, so that's what I do.

There's been a lot of imagery in my dream life lately. And I had wanted to write about the imagery of the cairn, which has become a symbol of my entire life. I don't know where to focus. So I'll start with the cairn.

For those who need a refresher, the night I learned of my dad's death, I was at a writing retreat and we did a guided meditation to build a cairn. It was full of emotion and power for me, and I used that in my talk at my dad's memorial.

The base of the cairn in my meditation was a large granite rock, rounded and eroded from eons of time. Granite symbolizes strength, abundance, and balance. A great foundation for the entire tower, for the entirety of life, for almost everything. There is strength is something as simple as breath and as motionless as a rock. There is strength in the roaring of water and the creation of a star. Abundance to many means material abundance, lots of stuff and money. I am fortunate to have material abundance--at least enough for me and many others. I find abundance to be far more than mere stuff, though. It can mean knowledge, memories, gratitude, love. I think of abundance as a positive word. Balance is the third essence of granite. Balance feels safe. Centered. In tune with the world. At rest, at peace. When I think of strength, abundance, and balance, it reminds me of mountain pose in yoga, which is also foundational.

Now I'll mention the imagery of my recent dreams. One dream indicated a person on a gurney being rolled into an operating theater. The next one was just the image of a drill, such as one you might use to drill a hole in a wall. This one had a huge drill bit. And the third dream was kind of scary. It was a dream of myself dying, knowing it was coming, trying to hold on to life, and then the moment of death itself, everything simply stopped and turned dark. But consciousness was still there. In the dream, I thought, "so this is the afterlife? okay."

Dream imagery is something I love to delve into. You all know it's metaphor, right? I'm not actually dying (well, in a way, we all are dying, but I digress). These three dreams all deal with themes of leaving behind the past in some fashion, ready to start a new phase, drilling down deep, removing old patterns and ways. It's actually really positive stuff, even though the imagery in the dreams is sort of scary. But is it positive? Change is big, it's scary, it's not always something we hope for. Change can be marriage, birth, new jobs, new friends, new work. It can also mean endings, death, things being ripped apart. Change is often uncomfortable, even painful. Even good change.

So this is where strength, abundance, and balance come in. Whatever change, death/rebirth, removal of past patterns or habits, and drilling down that is coming my way, I face it with the foundation of strength, abundance, and balance.

Intersectional

At the Women's March weekend and in several other settings involving activism, I have been hearing this word "intersectional." It seems to be a sort of buzz word of late. At first, I let it just slide past in my hearing, not really thinking about its meaning. But each time I hear it, I think a little harder about what it means, and more specifically what it means to me.

I realized after much thought that the word is so much a part of my way of being in the world, that it never occurred to me that it needed to be called something or defined. But now that I have begun thinking about it, I understand that not everybody thinks of the world this way, and while that's foreign to me, I get that other people go through life differently than I do.

So, I did what I always do--I turned to words, my friends. I think intersectionality is what John Donne meant in his poem:

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; 
It tolls for thee. 


Now, I'm no John Donne, and my poetic attempts may not be so eloquent, but after the march, I wrote this poem to try to express the word, the point of the march, the way I view the world in this respect. 

It's called: 

Intersectional 


As in, our lives intersect so much so that whatever happens to anyone, happens to me;

As in, women's rights are human rights, are LGBT rights, are refugee rights, are immigrants' rights, are black rights, are rights;

As in, violence toward one begets more violence to all;

As in, geographical, political boundaries are myths that cannot divide us; 

As in, we either rise together or we fall together;

As in, we have all been strangers in a strange land, all in need of welcome;

As in, the water in North Dakota, and Flint, and flooding homes, and pushed by tsunamis is all the same water;

As in, we exist as only a tiny part of an enormous ecosytem, but we are soiling our own bed--even dogs know better; 

As in, art and music and literature are how we understand our connectedness; 

As in, educating your child is just as important to me as the education mine already received; 

As in, all religions teach us to love one another, a concept so fundamental that even those with no religion intuitively know this;

As in, social justice for one does not take away anything from another, but expands justice for all; 

As in, there is enough for all when greed gives way to generosity and power gives way to humility; 

As in, we are all dreamers, whether we are laid off coal workers, struggling farmers, loggers, DACA children, corporate giants, or writers; 

As in, we are all formed from the same stardust, and we will all return to it; 

As in, the whisper you start in your heart becomes the rousing roar of the earth; 

As in, if we bring forth what is within us it will save us, and if we do not bring forth what is within us, it will destroy us; 

As in, we exist in an infinite spiral around each other and we can reach out to hug, help, heal, and house the whole world; 

As in, tug on one thread and the whole piece/peace unravels.

All Things Being Connected

I'm not one for making New Year's resolutions, and it is getting well past New Year's anyway. I do like to use these moments in the year to look back over the past year and look to the time in front of me. I like to observe the symbolism of things and how they all come back around.

Last year was a weird one, marked in a very personal way for me by the death of my dad, and in a very public way by the election of a person whose name I refuse to type.

But as my kids have noted, there were some really lovely things about the year. For me, finishing the first draft of my current book was a big one. This is a work of the heart and one I am increasingly proud of. As I started out the year, my plan was to create my own publishing cooperative with other interested authors. But as I explored that it became clear to me the enormity of the time involved to publish books. I chose instead to put all of that time and energy into my work and craft. I opened myself up to learning more--and I did. A lot, actually. I think that focus has made my writing so much stronger and deeper. So I am continuing on this path of making the writing the focus. I have let go of the urgency to be published and find the urgency in the writing. That is an awesome feeling.

The death of my dad was huge for our family. And as these things tend to, it brought us closer together, and for me personally forged my life plan for the foreseeable future. When he died, I was at a writing retreat, and that night we did a guided meditation in which we built a cairn in our minds. This was a powerful meditation for me, and in fact, when we had dad's memorial service, I used that meditation as my memorial talk for him. (I don't remember if I posted it on this blog, but I know I posted it on my facebook page, so if you're curious, feel free to go back and read it.)

The cairn has become a strong symbol for me in so many ways. Cairns have been used since ancient times to mark a path or stand as a memorial. As I wrote the poem after the guided meditation that I later used at dad's service, some things began to click in my consciousness. Utmost of the notions that resounded there for me was the concept of HOME. The cairn marks a path toward home. My dad was the strong presence of home in our family. My dad gave us a home in the national parks, a very special and meaningful foundation for all that I am. So, the cairn, essentially, shows us the way toward home.

When I came home to Boise after the service, I built several cairns in my yard as memorials to dad. As reminders that I have that strong foundation of home. A childhood home. And an adult home. A home--whether it's a place, a family, a person, a thought, a belief system--is foundational to life.

I have always felt a deep connection and desire to help those who are homeless, a passion that grows deeper with time. Last year, I expanded my commitment to work harder to end homelessness in my community. Not just to serve meals or provide temporary shelter--although these are continuing and pressing needs, worthy of our time and valuable to those who have no homes. I spent the year exploring, acting, and learning as much as I could about ways I can help create homes and housing affordability here where I live. And this work will be something I keep on with for the rest of my life. Home, a way there, a foundation for a life.

It is no coincidence that most of my novels have strong themes involving home--what it means, who is there, and how to find it. My latest novel's working title is Show Me the Way to Go Home. The cairn's purpose. It's set at Tule Lake internment camp during WWII, with eerily similar echoes to the racism and nationalism we've seen more and more of since the election of 2016.

I, like millions of others, have dedicated myself to greater engagement in whatever is necessary to prevent this coming presidency from destroying our freedoms, our earth, and our fellow humans. I have become a monthly donor to the Sierra Club, the Southern Poverty Law Center, and to ACLU Idaho and joined in to volunteer specifically with the ACLU and Planned Parenthood, as well as increased dedication to the work I've already been doing toward ending homelessness, working with the Idaho Humane Society, and trying to get four important words ("sexual orientation" and "gender identity") added to Idaho's anti-discrimination laws.

It can be discouraging, the amount of work there is to do politically, environmentally, locally and globally. I choose to focus on the actual things I can DO right where I am. Here at home.

I don't mention this activity to point out how great I am or get kudos. I mention it because for me, it all comes back around to the cairn, to home, to my dad. It's a multi-dimensional spiral that I can't fully comprehend or explain. How everything is so connected and important. How what has meaning in one realm of my life bleeds over into all the other areas of my life. How my life really isn't divided into compartments, but rather is one continuum of expression. How powerfully one simple meditation at a writer's retreat can become a symbol for my whole existence.

I will write more on the power of the cairn, because it warrants more in-depth exploration. For now, as my new year's present to myself, I wear a necklace of a cairn as a symbol of this coming year for me.

Voting and Things

November 8, election day 2016, also marks a full 2 months since my dad died. Is it really only such a short span of time? It seems at once to be forever ago and also impossible that it ever happened.

I so wish my dad was still here so he could cast his vote this election. He was a lifelong Republican, the old-school kind of conservative. But this year, he had planned to vote for Hillary. He and my mom both.

My parents took/take voting seriously. They never missed any election, even if it was a tiny county seat or school board position. And this is saying a lot, because during the years we lived at Wind Cave, they had to drive about 45 minutes to their polling place--one way. And if you remember the years before climate change took hold, it was often snowy and blustery this time of year. Not to mention that about half the trip was on a dirt road.

They set a great example of the importance of each person's vote. Ever since I have been old enough to vote, I, too, have never missed an opportunity to exercise my voice. I have it lucky--my polling place is the elementary school my kids attended, just a few blocks from my house. The lines are never long, it's easy to get to, and everyone is friendly and often people I know.

So this year, I'm dedicating my vote to my dad. He and I never agreed on politics, until this presidential election. (I can't say we really even agree on politics, but we do agree that Trump is a "jackass" and as my mom says, "I wouldn't vote for him for dog catcher.") And to my mom, whose entire life has changed by virtue of her husband of 67 years dying, her move to an entirely new place, and adjusting to living in an apartment building with other old people and having some of her freedoms and independence disappear. Still, on this election, she plans to board the assisted living shuttle that will take her to her new polling place and cast her vote for Hillary.

I hope everyone will vote. I live in Idaho, where my liberal democratic vote will never make a difference in the outcome of a national election. We are one of the reddest states in the nation. But who knows? Things change. We did once upon a time have a democrat for governor. I am proud to live in a state legislative district that is quite liberal. And Boise did have the largest democratic caucus on record this year. But I vote because my voice is important, even if it won't change the fact of Idaho's politics. I don't take it lightly, because every outcome is important.

No excuses, people. Honor the giants who have gone before us to secure our rights to choose our own government.

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.

Insights into Depression

So I went to church today. Not an unusual event for a Sunday morning; I'm a fairly regular church attender. But the fact that I went today is kind of big. Because I am in the middle of a "flare up" in my depression. That sounds weird, I know. Flare ups are what people with MS or fibromyalgia have, right? Autoimmune disorder type of a thing. But people with chronic illness of any kind, including depression and other mental illnesses, can have them too. Or maybe I should call them flare downs. Or low energy.

I've dedicated myself to being open to talking about my depression, not because I feel so special or anything, but because I want others out there to know they are not alone, that what they are feeling is part of a disease. Sometimes knowing that makes a lot of difference. I don't pretend to speak for a people with mental illness or even all people with depression. I think it's a bit different for everyone.

I've written on this blog several times about depression, so if you want to know more, feel free to read those posts. But what compels me to write today is the realization--for the umpteenth time--that clinical depression, for me anyway, never goes away. It is here 24 hours a day, every day. Even though I take meds, try to eat healthy, try to exercise moderately, get lots of sleep, and try to keep the stress to a minimum, I will never be free of this disease. Sure, the meds keep me functional and temper the depression so it doesn't overwhelm me. And all those other things help. Talking helps. Crying sometimes helps. What helps most is for me to allow it to be what it is and not wish for it to be something different. And to be in nature.

What I want the world to know is this: I am happy, despite my depression. I'm not depressed because I'm not happy. It's not that life has given me a raw deal and it makes me depressed. Nothing bad--seriously bad--is happening to me that is causing my depression. It's just as much a part of me as my green eyes or which toes are longer. During my flare downs, I want to withdraw from the world. Maybe it's a self-protection thing, like if I don't interact with others, you won't be able to notice that I'm not quite myself. Or maybe it's just a desire to be within my own self and not have to explain stuff to others. For sure, there is a hefty dose of feelings of unworthiness and self-deprecation. Even self-loathing. When I am in a downturn, I tend to be grouchy with everyone, and I know it, and I hate that. I don't really want to be that person around others.

Which is why going to church today was a big deal. I wanted to be curled up in my bed, away from the world, separate in myself. One of the scriptures today said that God sees each of us as her masterpiece. That's a feel good thing. I believe it. I feel it. But does it make the depression go away? No. Therefore, the only conclusion I can come to is that I am a masterpiece, and part of that masterpiece is my depression. My dear, long-suffering, patient husband affirms that he loves me, all of me, depression and all. That is certainly comforting. I know love is unconditional. And I'm even pretty good at loving myself unconditionally--most of the time.

Believe me, if it were possible to intellectualize oneself out of this disease, I would have done that by now. I can perform all manner of self-talk and other methods to lift myself up. But it doesn't make the depression go away. I know most of those who spend time around me see a smiling, laughing person who loves being with my friends and family. Which is true. That doesn't mean the depression has left. It just means I'm having a good day. And, thankfully, I often have more good days than down days.

On down days, it takes every ounce of strength, courage, and sheer stubbornness to do something as routine as get dressed and go to church. Even though I know I will be lifted up. Even though I know love will surround me. Even though the music and words soothe my soul.

Is there a point here? I don't know. I don't want pity. I don't want sympathy, even. I want acceptance and understanding. I want people to see mental illness as a disease that is managed to greater or lesser degrees, but a disease nonetheless. A disease that cannot be fought and overcome, but must be accepted and lived with each and every day. And I want people with this disease to know that  it can be part of a happy and productive life, that the struggle is worth it, that even a down day, our existence is still a masterpiece.

Candida and Me

Okay, so candida. Kind of an icky topic. I won't go into a lot of depth here, because you can google it. Basically, it's an overgrowth of the natural yeast that we all have in our guts. Supposedly, I have it. I didn't make this up--it was tested by my doctor and a lab, via. . . how to put this delicately: that stuff that comes out of your gut, your poop.

That's quite enough of that. What I really wanted to write about was the ensuing month of special diet I have had to consume, along with a smorgasbord of supplements, to try to heal my gut. I'm 3/4 of the way done with my four weeks of treatment. I can't wait for it to be over. But I have learned a few things about myself through the process.

Let me just say that I was given the option to approach this now or later. The wonderful staff at my new doctor's office are well aware that this is a difficult regimen to undergo, and they said I should only do it if I could stick to it. So I decided to go ahead, and I decided to pursue it with conviction and concentration. (I have actually been treated for this in the past by other practitioners, but I didn't approach it with the degree of effort I have this time. And I have much more support and information from my practitioner this time.)

Sometimes, I find it useful to prove to myself I can do something hard. A couple of years ago, it was backpacking in Yosemite. Birthing a 10 lb 10 oz baby was enough of a challenge nearly 18 years ago that I didn't need to prove anything for a very long time. This seemed like a good opportunity to prove to myself that I could focus on food as merely food and not entertainment. That I could live without my favorite vices.

The regimen I have been following is kind of scary. I am not allowed to eat any of the following: dairy, sugar or other sweeteners except for stevia, alcohol, grains of any kind, starchy vegetables, anything fermented or made with vinegar, or fruit except an occasional few berries in a protein smoothie. If you know me, you know that I love dairy AND bread AND fruit. So I knew this would be an extreme challenge. Basically, I can eat meat, beans, eggs, non-starchy vegetables (of course, all my favorite vegetables are of the starchy variety), nuts and seeds, and healthy fats.

Being the rebel and the self-directed person I am, I did a little of my own research and discovered that there are many variations in what is considered allowable on the candida diet. For example, raw honey is allowed by some. And as I have developed a distinct hatred for stevia, I decided a teeny bit of raw honey would be okay. I also have developed a gag reflex when drinking a protein smoothie, so I decided berries were acceptable if eaten with other types of protein, like meat.

My doctor had already okayed one cup of coffee per day, but no sugar. I started by using stevia, but I really don't like its flavor, and I had already been reducing my intake of sugar, so I now drink my coffee with no sweetener. Just cream. (I was allowed that tiny bit of dairy in my coffee, since they viewed that as better than opting for fake creamers.) So one thing I learned is that coffee really is not bad without sweetener. Who knew?

Here are a few other things I've learned:

Attitude is everything. I'm 51, and I should know this by now. But I kind of need a kick in the pants every once in a while. I went into this process with a positive attitude that it would be a chance to explore new foods, try out some other options I'd been wanting to try out anyway, and see if it really was possible to live without anything made out of wheat or any other grain (including oats) for a month--I thought missing grains would be the hardest part. The attitude has helped immensely. Duh. Hey, I gave up alcohol for three pregnancies. I gave up cheese while nursing Peter because it seemed to make him miserable. I can do almost anything for just one month.

Not to sound all new-agy and stuff, I have become more mindful about eating. Of course, that was sort of a by-product. I've had to think about literally every single thing. Mustard and ketchup? No, those have vinegar. What to have for breakfast when almost all of my prior breakfast choices have been grain-based? Eggs. Love eggs. Have not yet grown to despise eggs. But every morning? Today I drank the dang protein smoothie just for a change of pace. But I've discovered the wonders of almond flour and coconut flour and how you can make edible pancakes and muffins and even substitute hamburger buns out of them. On this diet, it is impossible to step into the kitchen and grab a snack without thinking, so yeah, mindfulness. Maybe more mindfulness than I would like. How delightful it will be to go grab some fruit for a snack without having to come up with something involving meat or veggies (not that I have anything against those food groups in particular).

Tastes I really, really like. I have become a big fan of the multiple uses of lemon juice. (I can have that where vinegar might be the norm, say in salad dressing and stuff.) I love lemon flavor. And it can be used in almost any kind of dish to add zing. Also avocados.  I've always loved the smooth and creamy texture of avocados. This month, I have been putting avocados on and in everything. Guacamole is my new love. I loved it before, but now I'm planning on eating is as often as possible. Coconut everything: flour, oil, butter, milk.

Perfection is impossible. Already knew this, but a nice reminder is useful. There have been one two occasions where I did use mustard or fruit or something more than I was supposed to. I have been allowed to have a very small amount of extremely dark chocolate, which I may have eaten slightly more than the allotted amount. But hey, I'm a writer, and writers can't write without chocolate.

On the other hand, I am made of stronger stuff than I anticipated. I never, ever thought I could survive without some sort of grains. I could go without wheat, if that's all it was. But rice? Oats? Yes, I can live without those as well. It's been a nice surprise that I am able to do this thing that I thought would be next to impossible. I have walked past tables of sugary treats without blinking, or even feeling tempted. I have eaten out with my family and not even cared that they were eating my favorite things, while I was stuck with more chicken and green salad. (Okay, I might have cared a bit. I have done my fair share of whining and complaining.)

It hasn't been all joy and wonder. Not at all. It has been a pain in the butt, to be honest. For starters, I'm not the kind of person who likes a regimented lifestyle. I was told I had to eat three meals and two snacks and they had to be 2-3 hours apart and at certain prescribed times. That has not happened. I knew it wouldn't. I eat when I'm hungry, and I'm still asleep at 7:00 a.m. so I'm not going to be eating breakfast between 7-9. I figured that was optional. I have tried to make sure I have some food every few hours, and I call that good.

And while I really do love a wide array of vegetables, not being able to eat fruit is practically killing me, especially at this time of the year, when all the fruit is ready to eat. That's why I've always been glad that the food pyramid or plate or whatever has combined fruits and vegetables into one category. Thank goodness I am allowed a few measly berries a day. I think fruit might be the first thing I eat when I'm done.

I really haven't missed dairy all that much, as I typically don't consume tons of dairy products anyway. But I was just falling in love with raw milk, so I will be glad to have that back. And cheese--like on sandwiches and pizza, and with bread and wine.

I don't really miss sugar that much, but I was already cutting way back on that and using low glycemic choices for sweeteners. So that will be something I can carry forward. I'm sure I will eat sugar--I must have some ice cream soon--but I think I can pick only the truly special treats that really mean something and leave most of the rest of the sugary stuff in the past.

I hope this kills the candida. Because if not, I might have to do it again, and I would not enjoy that at all. However, I wasn't having many of the symptoms of candida to begin with, and I don't feel any better or worse after the first 3 weeks. I have had some headaches and been very tired, but isn't different than before. I don't feel less brain foggy. I don't have more energy. My digestion doesn't seem any different. So aside from being grouchy whenever I pass Fanci Freez, I don't really feel different at all.

Therefore, when my month is up--coincidentally on the exact date of my 30th wedding anniversary--I will not feel at all guilty about enjoying myself with some wine, cheese and bread, and strawberries with whipped cream. No meat or vegetables in sight. I have proven to myself that I could do it, and it has definitely been interesting. But it's not the way I want eating to be for the long term. So if at the end of this the doctor tells me I can never eat grains again, I might be okay. But is she tells me no fruit, there might some extreme negotiations to work out. And lots of screaming.

My two most important take-aways are things I was trying to work on anyway: eliminating or significantly reducing my sugar intake and eating less or no processed food. I have done both of those things, and I think they are definitely habits I can continue.

It's been a journey, with some illuminating new insights. But  mostly I can't wait to be done.