The BIG 50th Birthday Adventure, Part 2, Yosemite Valley

If I haven't mentioned it in your presence before, I was born in Yosemite Valley. I don't remember it, because we moved away when I was two years old. That was part of why I wanted to return for this momentous birthday, to see where my life began. And I had the best guides in the world: my parents and my two brothers. They filled me in on all the places they remembered.

First, though, we checked into the Ahwahnee Hotel so we could take showers and get pretty again. Three days of backpacking with no showers leaves one kind of stinky. It is a low water year in Yosemite, so even camps that normally had showers didn't allow any the week we went.

The Ahwahnee Hotel is every bit as wonderful as its reputation. It is stunningly magnificent and at the same time it blends with its surroundings so as not to claim too much notice. That's the way the architect wanted it, wisely. Here it is reflected in the pool out front.

When we got to our room, I was amazed at the views. We had a corner room on the fourth floor with windows on two sides and a balcony. Here's what we could see from our windows.

My dad had arranged for a birthday dinner in the Ahwahnee dining room, known for its fantastic high windows with views like the ones from our room. I was so in the moment, I didn't take any pictures of dinner. David, me, Wanda, Les, Mike, and Pat  were there, and we had a wonderful dinner. I told my parents that the best thing was raising us in the national parks, because I am such a nature girl, I love the outdoors so much, and I think growing up scrambling around in the mountains was the best childhood for me.

Then I got a big surprise.

Mmmmm. Yes, the six of us ate the whole thing. Well, almost. It was chocolate and raspberry with dark chocolate ribbons. Dad conspired with David to get just the right flavor. Well done.

Next Day: Where I Began

No one ever believes that someone can really be born in Yosemite. When we lived there, there was a hospital. Today it is a medical clinic, and I'm told that even without hospital accommodations, they delivered three babies there last year. You know, babies don't always arrive on schedule. But I did.

First stop on our itinerary was the hospital. Mom told me that they wouldn't let my brothers in to see me, so she held me up to the window and they came and looked at me. Dad told me he was in the coffee shop in the basement when the doctor came and told him I was a girl. Dad called up to him that my name was Neysa Carol. Doctor was a bit unsure about that at first. Aren't most people?

That's my mom, Wanda, and me outside the entrance. Up above, you'll notice the hospital nestled in the trees and a huge granite mountain behind. Normally, that's where Yosemite Falls splashes down, down, down. This year, as I mentioned, it is a dry year and the falls has stopped until more water fills the river. But this explains a lot of things about me: that I love waterfalls beyond any natural element, that I feel the rocks speak and live, and that I must have mountains. It all started right there. Wow.

Next was to visit my first house. The story has it that the family lived in a different house until I was born. While mom and I were in the hospital, the family moved into their new, larger house, with the help of my mom's Aunt Beth. (I think it was her aunt. My dad also had an Aunt Beth. Confusing.)

Again, within view, and certainly within earshot is Yosemite Falls. Most people don't realize this about national parks: the year round employees usually live in the park. The housing area in Yosemite Valley has about 40 homes, not including all the living quarters for the seasonal and DNC employees. There is a day care, a school, a post office, even a district court. My brothers went to elementary school just steps from our house. Mom told me every afternoon just as I went down for a nap, that was afternoon recess and the noise often woke me right up. My dad was the district ranger of Yosemite Valley, which meant whenever there was a crisis or a crime, he had to go. Mike, my oldest brother, tells me there were very few nights that dad got to sleep through the night.

Next on the list: Yosemite Chapel, where I was baptized. Again, looking right out at Yosemite Falls. Boy, I am one lucky girl.

The group is, from left to right: David, Pat McClanahan, Neysa, Mike McClanahan, Wanda and Les McClanahan. I had so much fun seeing all the sites with them in Yosemite Valley. They gave up their precious time to come celebrate with me.

At the chapel, a framed poem hung in the vestibule. I thought is was moving.(Not literally. Emotionally.)

Some of the falls did have a little water. We stopped by Bridalveil Fall for a look. Normally, you would get wet being this close to the falls. And all these rocks would be slippery. But they were bone dry.

Of course, we had to go see the visitor center and all the other interpretive stuff. They have a really cool exhibit there of the geological history of Yosemite. I love geology, so I ate that up. We went to the Ansel Adams Gallery. And the Museum.

Along the walkway, Dad decided to hug a tree. "That's one big ponderosa," he said.

We spent much of the rest of the day lounging around on the patio at the Ahwahnee, but not before being regular tourists and buying our fair share of souvenirs. I fell in love with this hotel, not only for its amazing setting, but also for the care and attention the builders and designers put into it. In order to make the concrete and steel look more natural, they set the concrete columns in molds of real timber and then painted it to look like wood. The interior design involves elements inspired by native American motifs. Below is the grand lounge (my apologies for the poor camera work. It is pretty dark.) We had tea here. Well, some of us had tea while others took a nap. (No, Melissa, I did not nap.)

 This tapestry was on the wall by the elevator

 Every room had a different medallion above the door.

These gorgeous stained glass ceiling tiles always made me look up when I was in the elevator.

The windows in the grand lounge each had a different stained glass design at the top.

 This mural was commissioned specifically for this position above the fireplace in the elevator alcove.

My dad told a story about when JFK (yes, THE JFK) came to Yosemite and stayed at the Ahwahnee. Dad was in charge of security that night at the hotel. They basically stayed up all night. There are many grand pianos at the hotel, and I guess one of JFK's staffers (dad will have to comment and remind me who it was) played the piano in the grand lounge all night. Cool.

For another perspective on our lovely room, here are some shots of it from outside. It was on the fourth floor, corner, with a balcony. Right up there by that giant cliff.

Here is a shot of El Capitan, like I need to tell anyone that. I couldn't get a good view of Half Dome from our hotel, because there were so many trees in the way. However, if you go back to Part 1 of my blog report, you can see Half Dome in the distance behind me as I stand on the ridge at May Lake. You've all seen hundreds of photos of it, anyway, so you don't need one from me.

For our final night in Yosemite, we ate dinner at the Mountain Room at Yosemite Falls Lodge. It was delicious. One of our waiters looked like Uncle Festus from the Adams Family. Really. The next day, it was time to leave Yosemite and start making our way home. We met up with the family again in the southern end of the park, at Wawona, for lunch. Here are Les and Wanda relaxing on the veranda.

Before we left, we needed to get a picture of the Queen on her throne.

It's hard to describe what this whole trip means to me. I am working on some poetry to try to express it. To see where I started my life is just incredible. What a wonderful way to enter this world, in the beauty of nature, massive mountains of granite, waterfalls everywhere you turn, the rush of biodiversity that appears down each path. To be with the people who were there at the start, to hear their stories and memories. To honor myself and feel connected to this place not just in abstract, but in reality. These were the things I hoped for as I planned this adventure. I challenged myself physically and did not collapse. I challenged myself emotionally by sharing with a family that has had its ups and downs. I challenged myself spiritually to find my roots and essence. It's always been with me, this place of glory. But I had never known it in person before. Now I have. And I feel fulfilled. I hope to return again and again. To explore deeper and further the trails and trees. To grow my mountain goat feet and not let that granite scare me. To see more waterfalls and dream of life as a drop of freefalling joy. This is awe.

The BIG 50th Birthday Adventure: Part 1, the High Sierra

For those of you who want to know all about my big adventure, read on. If you'd rather skim the photos, my feelings won't be hurt. If you couldn't care less, move on to another post.

So in case you don't follow me on Facebook, I have been planning this 50th birthday adventure most of this year. Actually, since I turned 40, but it became a reality this year. I was born in Yosemite National Park in 1962. My dad was district ranger for Yosemite Valley back then, and there was a hospital there where I was born. We moved away when I was two years old, and I've never been back. So I decided to make this my personal pilgrimage to the place of my birth and a celebration of my life.

Because part of the adventure I planned included three days of backpacking in the back country, I trained all year, doing longer and more frequent hikes in order to get ready for this physical challenge. So, here begins the adventure.

Our first day, last Sunday, Sept. 9, we left Boise and camped along the shore of Lake Tahoe. We arrived at around 10 p.m. and could hardly see what we were doing, but morning rewarded us with a beautiful view of the lake. Then we proceeded to spend two hours in a local coffee shop while David did some work. This is typical of our travels with David, which is partly the reason I chose to go to the back country--no internet.

Finally, we left Tahoe and drove to the Tioga Pass entrance to Yosemite. Where, as you can see, the elevation is close to 10,000 feet.

So we spent our first night at Tuolomne  Meadows, the sort of base camp for all the High Sierra Camps in Yosemite. We had fun sorting our stuff into the bear boxes, where you have to keep everything that might attract a bear, even toothpaste or shampoo, not to mention food, dish washing soap, etc. Then we got our packs ready for the hike, beginning the next day. We took a short hike on a portion of the John Muir trail, which is not the trail we would be hiking on, but which David wanted to be able to say he had been on. That's me on the rocks in the Tuolomne River.

Day One: Tuolomne Meadows to Glen Aulin

So, on day one, we started out fresh: First day's hike was 5.5 miles along mostly flat-ish trail. Lots of peaks and granite in sight. We lunched along the Tuolomne River.

A huge sheet of granite demonstrated the mighty power of former glaciers, leaving a few huge boulders in its wake.

We had to scramble over so much granite that I literally began to hope for a soft dirt trail. More on that later. We had to climb up over piles of this stuff. I commented that I had not been told I needed to be part mountain goat to do this hike. Here was the top:

After this point, the trail went steadily down for about two miles. Because this is where the river started falling down the canyon, creating one fabulous waterfall after another:

So, while I was thrilled with all this waterfalling--I LOVE waterfalls--I was so tired of climbing down, down, down, usually over large rocks, trying to stay upright and balanced, and my knees getting pounded on each step. Ouch. And then, we finally arrived at camp, and saw the lovely Glen Aulin Falls.

I loved this spot. We took off our socks and boots and soaked our feet. Some more adventurous hikers got in the water all the way. Then we ate dinner with the other 26 campers. We shared our tent that night with a nice couple from Prior Lake, MN. You meet a lot of people on "the loop," the big network of trails connecting the High Sierra Camps. You can compare notes on the trails, the tough spots, and share complaints about how much your knees hurt.

Day Two: Glen Aulin to May Lake

I had heard the hike on this day was a tough one. For starters it was 8.1 miles and it gained 1,500 feet in elevation from start to finish. As we started out, I tried to be positive. Going up was at least easier on the knees, for sure. So there was that. And much of the trail meandered through forests, with soft dirt and pine needle paths. Oh, dirt, I love you. That became my refrain. Nice, smooth, flat dirt, which didn't require too much effort--just one foot in front of the other. Trees roots and large rocky paths make a trail so much more difficult to navigate. Lots.

Then, it got hard. The ground turned mostly to sheets of granite interrupted by trails of rocks, climbing in constant switchbacks up the side of the mountain. I described it as a cliff. David claimed it was not a cliff. You decide:

Here's another portion:

I have to give David credit for keeping my spirits up during this really hard part of the hike. He cracked jokes. He lied about how we were almost there. He'd say things like, "You just have to get up to that ridge. Then the lake should be there."

Well, we got to the ridge, and then had to go down. Talk about depressing! I didn't want to go down after I'd done all that work to get up! But we had a brief reprieve at this sweet, small lake before our final ascent.

I said I wanted to just stay there. Of course, at night, in the cold, with no hot food or drink didn't sound very enticing. But we rested and I got myself psyched up for the final climb. I was so exhausted at this point I felt like I was on a survivor show. I didn't care that everything ached or that I didn't think I could make it. I didn't care that at 9,400 feet I had to stop about every 20 feet and catch my breath. I just wanted to get there. So after another two hours of shuffling along climbing higher and higher, we finally arrived at May Lake, just in time to eat dinner. I didn't care how long it had taken, we made it.

May Lake was beautiful. The lake was calm and quiet. The stars were brilliant. That night we shared a tent with some folks we ate dinner with the night before at Glen Aulin. They were from the San Diego area. Here's what the camp tents look like:

Here's what they look like on the inside. There are four beds like this:

The view of the lake from our tent was awesome. We were practically on the water.

Day Three: May Lake to Tioga Road, 2.7 miles

So on my birthday, Thursday, September 13, we woke bright and early to see the sunrise on the lake. I am not an early riser by nature, so this is a rare occurrence for me. I couldn't ask for a better way to start my birthday.

That's Mt. Hoffman on the other side of the lake, at above 10,000 feet. It's the geographical center of Yosemite National Park. I chose not to hike up there.

From the May Lake Camp, you could see down to Yosemite  Valley. I wished for a nice balloon to carry me down. I was not thrilled about hiking more after the previous day's agony.

But, hike I must. This day was so easy compared to the first two days. We had to go down the whole way, which is indeed hard on the knees, but breathing at this elevation is so much easier when you are going downhill. Our pace was faster than the first two days. I almost wished I didn't have to return to civilization, and as we neared the highway, I felt the bittersweet ache of having achieved my goal and it being over.

From here we caught the shuttle back to our car and prepared for our trip down to Yosemite Valley. That's part 2.

Let me just add here that the food prepared for us by the High Sierra Camps was so wonderful. We had huge breakfasts and dinners, freshly made and delicious as anything you could ever want. At Glen Aulin we had homemade ravioli, salad, soup, bread, and even dessert. They have "hot drinks" for half and hour before the meal so you can get warmed up and have time to chat with other campers. At May Lake, we hate tomato basil soup, fresh ocean salmon, salad, bread, rice, roasted vegetables, and spice cake. The breakfasts we equally lovely with hot cereal and condiments, eggs, sausages, pancakes, and lots of hot drinks. We got a sack lunch the first day, but it was almost too much food. We had prepared plenty of our own trail food, including Cave Bread from our Jewel Cave days, so we didn't request lunches for the other two days. They certainly make sure you don't suffer from lack of fuel!

On Two Topics Near and Dear to My Heart

Topic #1: Education and the election of 2012.

First of all, I think it is abhorrent that education and politics are linked. I mean, really, do we want our education in the hands of political game playing? I am both a proponent and a critic of public education. It's not a perfect system, but I will say this: the teachers my children have had are dedicated, lovely, hard working souls who should be paid Romney's wages.

In Idaho, we've had the trying situation of our superintendent of public schools, Tom Luna, creating what he seems to think are solutions by requiring students to take a certain number of their credits online, while he is beholden to the very companies that write the curricula for online courses. Nothing fishy there. Of course, teachers who are more active in the arena of politics tell me that this was just his ruse for passing legislation that weakened the union. I am not surprised. Now, Luna has been tapped by the Romney campaign as one of his education experts. Scary.

Then it was recently announced that the Idaho Education Association (teacher's union) voted to endorse Mike Simpson in the coming congressional election--when his opponent, Nicole LeFavour, is a much more ardent supporter of public education, teachers, and students, not to mention a tireless advocate for other marginalized groups, like those with disabilities, the poor, the uninsured, and the bullied. I was livid when I saw this news, and I asked a few teacher friends what was up with that. Here's what they told me: basically it comes down to political game playing.

Their reasoning was that if they don't endorse Mike Simpson, and he wins, then he will stop supporting the teachers. But if they do endorse him, he will keep doing what they want. Whereas, they are pretty sure that if Nicole LeFavour wins, she will do what's right for education whether or not they endorse her. So in other words, she loses the endorsement because she is a candidate of integrity and honor? That sucks. Here's a radical idea: VOTE FOR NICOLE LEFAVOUR BECAUSE SHE WILL DO WHAT'S RIGHT FOR EDUCATION. Show Mike Simpson that union endorsements don't mean he gets the seat. Our kids' education should not be in the hands of those who make it a function of political endorsements.

Topic #2: The Boy Scouts

The Boy Scouts of America (BSA) recently voted (this was the national leadership as I understand it, which means nobody on a local level is involved) to keep their policy of not admitting gay kids into scouting. This has always been their policy. I will acknowledge right here before I go any further that this is a STUPID policy. However, I think in practical terms, it is somewhat meaningless. For two reasons. But before I get to those reasons, let me state my own personal involvement with scouting.

My husband was a boy scout, and now my son is a boy scout. Both of them are happy to include anyone who wants to participate in any activity, regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation, ability, or any other reason. Boy scouts has been a wonderful influence in their lives. My son has learned a lot of leadership skills, confidence, made super friends, and learned things his father and I would never have taught him on our own--like how to shoot a rifle. And scouting has not made him feel animosity toward his gay peers. If anything, quite the opposite.

So I am biased in favor of scouts. I am also biased in favor of including gays. How can I be both? I don't see the world as black and white. I live in the gray areas. Two things make me optimistic about the boy scouts and the issue of admitting gays. First, the policy is mostly approved by old white men who will soon be gone and then the BSA organizational leadership will pass to more progressive people who will see the folly of their policy and rescind it. Second, most local troops allow whomever they choose, and the BSA doesn't tell them not to. So in reality, it's really a policy with no meaning. That said, it's still a stupid and hurtful policy and should be changed.

This is where I am triply optimistic. There are currently gay scouts within the organization who are working to change the policy and the perception of gay kids and scouting in general. That is awesome. Scouting has given them the skills to advocate for these changes, and they can use these skills to make the organization a kinder, more inclusive place.

My perception is that many troops, especially those sponsored by more progressive churches, are admitting gay kids with no concern for the BSA policy. But we should all advocate for a more human friendly policies in all organizations.

Education and Scouting are important to me, and I hate the things I see happening. That's why I write--so I can express these thoughts and I hope get other folks thinking about the issues and doing something. You can be the change you wish to see in the world.

Love and Marriage

On June 20, tomorrow as I write this, David and I will be married 28 years. Add to that the six years we were together before that, and you have two aging people who have spent most of our lives together. I always feel amazed when I add up the years. It doesn't feel like 34 years. But that's really just this crazy thing time does as you get older--it speeds up and warps your memory.

Honestly though, I feel honored and humbled to be married to a really great guy. I won't laud him overmuch here, as I have several other blog posts declaring his wonderfulness. I guess part of the reason I feel so abundantly blessed is that many people I know have been recently divorced. Every time I find out that someone is divorcing, I am extra thankful that it's not me. I'm not saying I'm any better than them, or that my marriage is somehow more right. I realize that some marriages just don't last, and I'm not judging. Just saying how thankful I am that it's not me. (David and I have a morbid joke that if we ever did get to the point where we thought we should get divorced, it would never happen because of our own inertia and procrastination.)

I really shouldn't be amazed that we are still married, though. Because we both look at marriage and love the same way. (And no, they are not the same thing.) For us, marriage isn't necessarily about being in love. Notice that phrase--"being in love." To me, that is the initial bloom of love, before it's been tested and tried and yanked around a whole bunch. It's easy to "be in love" because nothing has happened yet. You see only the best in each other and ignore the worst. This is often where many people decide to get married. That might be a reason for the divorce rate. Because "being in love" is not real, hard love. A lot of people break up when this initial bloom wears off, because they aren't "in love" anymore. If the relationship makes it past being in love, it has a chance to grow into real love.

Real love, as I see it, is not necessarily about feelings. It is about honoring and respecting every single last irritating thing about that other person, and still finding those loving feelings in the bottom of the bucket. It's about partnering together in all things. No longer seeing things as yours and mine. No longer keeping separate scores--how many times did he wash the dishes or change the diapers? It's about wanting the best for that other person so much that you are willing to support him or her in whatever way you need to. Sometimes that might mean making sacrifices of your own time, career goals, or personal desires. And one assumes that kind of support will be reciprocated. Real love understands that you might not always feel lovey in a given moment, but that the love is so deep, one moment is not a true accounting of the measure of love. And, cliche as it is to say, real love is completely unconditional.

I remember my oldest brother, Mike's, wedding to his wonderful wife Laura. (It was a hippy wedding in 1976--and by the way, they are still married.) The minister asked them if they would still love each other when they were old, fat, gray, and so on. That is unconditional. It means love doesn't depend on looks, money, success, talent, or any other outward situation. It is there no matter what. 

Being in a relationship with this kind of love is very freeing and empowering, You know that you will screw up, but the other person will still love you. You know that he or she will screw up and you will have to rise to the occasion and keep loving them.

Now, marriage is a whole other level to that love. Marriage requires not just unconditional love, but the willingness to forge through a whole host of problems and issues that have nothing to do with love. Marriage is about partnership. More than that, it is about understanding that sometimes you are going to feel not in love, but that you will still be married. That maybe sounds like I'm advocating staying in a loveless marriage, but I'm not. I'm just saying that sometimes, marriage is really, really hard. And sometimes that means you might--for a temporary moment--not feel so loving. Marriage is not always romantic, as most of you know. Sometimes it is incredibly romantic, however you might define that. But a lot of the time, it isn't. So if you are hoping to get married and live every day in wedded bliss--uh, talk to me in 30 years and let me know how that goes.

Of course, I guess the term "wedded bliss" could be interpreted many ways. I mean, most of my youthful dreams have not been realized in the way I expected. We are not rich, although we are comfortably well off. We don't live in a dream house, unless your dream consists of constant repairs and breakdowns. We don't drive nice cars, but at least we have cars. We don't have perfect lives in any way. But we are happy, content. We like our life together. So I guess that might qualify as wedded bliss. But that doesn't mean we spend every moment together looking lovingly into each other's eyes. We would probably break out into hysterical laughter if we tried that.

I think, to quote James Taylor, the "secret of life is enjoying the passage of time." And I have certainly enjoyed my 34 years with David. I hope to enjoy at least that many more. We like each other, which I think is probably more important than love, in the big picture. If I weren't married to David, I would be his friend anyway, because he is my very best friend. He is funny and fun to be with. He is smart and---oops I said I wouldn't laud him, didn't I? You get the picture. He's the kind of person I would choose for a friend because of all his many good qualities. One of them being that he likes me too! And he loves me.

With 28 years of marital experience under our belts, we are both looking forward to what life brings us in the coming decades. We have dreams of traveling the country in a VW camper. Drinking wine and seeing movies to our hearts' content. Hiking every trail in the foothills and beyond. Fixing that fence in the back yard. Getting to see how our kids' lives pan out. Maybe one day holding grandchildren. (No rush.) And spending many hours just hanging out together. Watching TV on the couch. Sitting by a warm fire. Reading aloud together.

Happy Anniversary to the Best Husband in the World. You make every day something. Sometimes a funny something. Sometimes frustrating. Sometimes exhausting. But I would never trade all our something for someone else's everything.

Sweet Rose

On this Memorial Day, I am remembering my mother in law. She died 19 years ago this month. It seems like hardly any time has passed, and that a lifetime has passed.

Mary Margaret Cook Jensen was her name. She died way before her time of breast cancer, too soon to see her grandchildren grow up, too soon to see her oldest son married, or to live out her golden years with her husband.

Margaret Jensen as a young woman

Margaret, as I knew her, made family her top priority. With four children, she must have been crazy busy. She volunteered a lot in her community, her church, and at school. She had a fantastic sense of humor, often smirking quietly at the things she found humorous. (Those of us who have married into the Jensen clan might know why.)

The things I remember most about her are her love of books and of music, which is her legacy to her children and grandchildren. All of Margaret's grandchildren are musical and voracious readers. She would love that.

She was fond of Masterpiece Theater, travel, movies, and classical music. She was also a really good cook, and we still make many of David's favorite recipes from his childhood.

I remember her when I look at the man she raised, whom I married. He reflects all the best parts of her. He has a vast sense of humor, an integrity not often seen in people these days, a loyalty to his family, honor, intelligence, thoughtfulness, a generous and caring spirit. He works hard, doesn't complain about his lot in life, and pushes on no matter what.

I remember her when I look at her grandchildren, who are kind, smart, funny, and musical. They all love to read, and I know she would be proud of them. Peter never met her, Emily was still an infant when Margaret died, and Melissa was very young. She might not remember her Granny much, but she carries those genes around with her.

Margaret's memory has been carried on in many different ways: a memorial children's reading room in the Hot Springs Library, yellow roses at family gatherings, visits to her grave when we are there. But mostly her memory is carried around in the people still living who were part of her life. I am pretty sure she would laugh, smile, and be inwardly so proud if she could see them all now.

The Story of My Depression

I was going to write some sappy piece about Mother's Day, but you know what? I want to write about depression. Now, hold on, don't get me wrong. I don't associate Mother's Day with depression. Motherhood does not equal depression. But I have been feeling this tug lately to share what depression has been like for me, mostly because I think a lot of people don't really understand it as a disease and don't really accept it as a disease. The only connection it has with being a mother, for me, is that I wish I had gotten help sooner, because I would have been a better mother in my children's early years. I think I did pretty well anyway, mostly because I gave every single ounce of myself to the job, and because I am a supremely strong human being who was able, miraculously, to do what I needed to do for my children despite my disease.

Let me start by saying that I have had depression for about as long as I can remember. It wasn't too severe until I became an adult. I guess everyone assumes teenagers are going to be full of angst anyway, so maybe it wasn't really apparent then. I don't know. Even so, I was able to function okay. I suffered severe migraines for many years, and sometimes I wonder if they weren't partly from hanging on so tightly and trying to be so strong.  Who knows? As a young adult, I knew I felt horrible, and I wanted to seek counseling, but it seemed like an expense we couldn't afford. So I just kept  hanging in there.

When my children were very young, I honestly believe breastfeeding kept me going. You may not realize this, but breastfeeding releases hormones, the same feel good hormones that are released during orgasm. Not to get too graphic here, but these hormones are relaxing and very helpful when you have depression. So it was probably a good thing I made the choice to breastfeed. Even so, the depression was there all the time. It manifested mostly as anger. And I was angry a lot. I threw things. I yelled and screamed. It was as if I knew I couldn't just collapse and fall into the dark abyss of my soul, so I got mad about it instead. At least I functioned, that was my thinking. A lot of people I love had to bear witness to this anger. My husband and children, my parents. I know I did things that hurt them all. I hope they all see that it was the disease and not me. Or that they at least forgive me.

I LOVED being a mom. Still love being a mom. But as we all know, it's incredibly difficult in the best of times. It's really hard when you suffer from a debilitating disease. I'm sure I messed up a lot with my children, but I also feel really fortunate that they are pretty okay. Not perfect, but better than I was at their ages. And I think my depression helped me understand things that helped me be a better mother. I think it helped me see what my children needed in a very deep way.

I am a really, really strong person. That also helped keep me going. I knew how strong I was, particularly after delivering the very large baby that is Peter. He was 10 lb., 10 oz at birth, and I felt incredibly empowered to have delivered him at home with no drugs. I think that kept me going for a while, too.

Eventually, though, I used up all my energy, all my stores of strength, all my resources by being so strong. And then I wasn't strong at all. I fell apart. I sensed myself drowning, madly trying to tread water but barely staying afloat.I got physically very sick, unable to really get well. I felt like I was at the bottom of the darkest hole, alone, unable to climb out. I couldn't, wouldn't, think about suicide, because I couldn't do that to my children. But I didn't know how much longer I could hang on.

That's when my husband saved me. He reached in, pulled me out of the hole, and sent me to counseling. My counselor helped me decide to try anti-depressants, and I turned to my doctor, who prescribed something. It seemed to help a little, but not too much. She upped the dosage, which made me really sick.

My counselor helped me find a psychiatrist who specializes in depression and anti-depressant meds. They helped me find the right meds and dose for me. It took a while, but I started to feel like a human being.

The only problem was that once I got the depression under control I discovered that I had pretty much depleted my physical body of all its strength in order to fight through each day. I had depleted my thyroid, my adrenals, my iron stores. I am still working on repairing those aspects of my health. But the depression is under control.

I cannot emphasize enough how important it was for me to find a medication that helped me without harming me, and I did.

Here's the thing. I don't think most people really understand depression. Especially since our culture seems to prescribe anti-depressants for all kinds of things. Some people don't need meds for a long while. Some just need them to "get over a hump." How I wish I was one of those people. I don't like taking drugs, which is probably why it took me so long to get to the point where I had no choice. In fact, with my psychiatrist's help, I have attempted to barely even lower my dose several times. It doesn't work. Even a tiny reduction sends me falling down the black hole again.

So I had to accept that this is my life. I have depression. I always will. It is not a personal failing. It is not because I'm weak that I have to take these meds. I KNOW I am stronger than most people. I made it through 20 years of depression without help. How I did that, I still have no real idea, but I know it was because I was strong.

I don't talk about my depression very often, because I feel a bit ostracized. I think our society views it as weak. It's also immensely personal. It's hard to bare that to other people. But I am doing so now because I want people to understand it better. To know how it feels to live in this skin.

I think what prompted this whole opening up was a friend's question about why I have to see the psychiatrist every four months. I told her that they want to make sure I'm still doing okay with this med at this dose. And that some people struggle for years to find the right med. And that some people have bad experiences with meds, like feeling they want to commit suicide. She's a nurse, and this was news to her. So if she didn't know, then probably most people don't know.

You see those ads on TV that say "depression hurts" and all those things. Yes it does. It does hurt physically. It also hurts deep down in your innermost being. I am not a sad person. Depression isn't about being sad. It's not an emotional thing. It a brain chemical thing. It's physical. I am a happy, generous, active person, but depression made me feel like a wreck, a failure, a monster. That wasn't me. The meds simply (actually it's quite complicated) override that brain chemistry and allow me to be the true me.

So I guess the whole point of my writing this is to tell everyone who feels those things that there is help for you. You are not weak to need help. Do we tell a person with diabetes that they are weak for needing insulin? Of course not. You can live a great life if you want to. Depression does not have to drown you. Find someone in your life who will reach in and pull you out and help you find the treatment you need. It's hard, I know. It's embarrassing to admit that you are no longer strong enough to manage. That you have used up yourself. Like being eaten alive from the inside. Hang on. Ask for help. It is out there. And if you don't get the right meds on the first try, don't give up. Go to an expert. Not a family doctor. (Nothing against family doctors, mind you.)

If anything, depression has made me stronger than I was before. It has made me a better mother, because it gives me insight to see things in my children that might not appear on the surface. It gives me a heart of compassion for all beings who suffer. It makes me full of gratitude for my husband who loved me enough to hang in there with me. It makes me see more truly what is important. So that's the sappy part.

And Happy Mother's Day.