Alison's Favorite Things: Springtime Edition

So I've been posting some heavy posts lately, and while topics about mental health and my kiddos growing up way too fast (sob) are certainly a big part of my life lately, so are some other things. Some might even call these things trivial or frivolous, but phooey on those people. I say the art of happiness is finding small treats for yourself on a regular basis.

I love Donna Meagle and Tom Haverford!

So here are some things I'm treating myself to/enjoying lately.

1.  The perfect jeans (for me). Y'all. You have NO IDEA how much I hate jeans shopping (probably the same amount that you hate jeans shopping.) I've bought so many pairs that "fit OK" only to end up hating them within a week. I'd obsessively read any article titled "Your Perfect Jeans" only to apathetically forget to shop for them. They didn't seem perfect, anyway.

The problem is the Gap. No, not the elusive Thigh Gap or the clothing store. I have a smaller waist-to-hip ratio than average, I guess. Pants that fit my hips often don't fit my waist. (Although aging is thickening my waist. Thanks, perimenopause!) Anybody know why even skirts with a zipper aren't as problematic? It probably has to do with rise over run or something. (I know that's a math thing, not a pants thing. I was trying to be funny. Be kind.)

Old Navy rockstar skinnies are good for me--although I had to size up to a number I'd never been before--as are any skinnies with stretch, so that trend has been nice. But I found the BEST everyday jeans that are more comfy than the Old Navy ones: Denizen from Levi's, found at Target.

Target! How do they manage to find the best things for us middle-aged moms at a great price point? It's a mystery.

I get the Curvy Skinny jeans. (I need these darker ones for dressier outfits; mine are more of a faded wash.) They don't stretch out over multiple wearings and the waistband never gaps. They have a Short for shrimps like me and a Long for you tall gals. I got the boot cut ones too, and they're a little more like a flare than a subtle boot cut, plus I need a slight heel with them, so I'm not gonna wear them as often.


But if you have the Gap (or even if you don't--they have a Modern Skinny fit for less curvy women) check them out. At 29.99, they can't be beaten!

2. Man, I'm gonna have to shorten my rave reviews or this post will take forever. Another thing I'm enjoying: tinted lip balm. When I see myself in pictures I always think my face is so "blah"...unless I have a little lip color on. And this winter I needed lip balm constantly, so it made sense to try a tinted one. I had one by NYX that was fine, but I wanted a smaller tube that was easier to apply without a mirror, so I went with the tried-and-true Burt's Bees and I love it.

I got the Lip Shimmer. It provides sheer yet noticeable color that stays put for a good amount of time and has a nice minty tingly feeling on my lips. It's definitely my everyday go-to now. I'm also going to try their gloss and maybe even (gasp!) their lipstick in the hopes that they will be more moisturizing than the ones I've tried.


3. Yoga. I've found my favorite exercise for life. No, yoga isn't just stretching with a nap at the end (though the relaxation benefits are significant for a stressball like me.) The research undeniably shows that a regular yoga practice is as effective as medication for treating anxiety and depression. (So is cardio, so I [reluctantly] alternate that into the mix.) Unlike other exercise, I actually look forward to doing yoga. I haven't done a class yet, but am planning to try one at our gym that meets mid-morning a couple of days a week. (I'm not doing anything at 5 a.m.)

I would have been intimidated to start with a class, so I'm glad I started where I did--free YouTube videos. I love Sara Beth of SaraBeth Yoga--her voice is soothing as is her background music (although she has some music-free videos as well--and she is excellent at explaining exactly what to do. I rarely even have to peek at the screen. Plus, she's not overly chatty like some of the yoga teachers on YouTube.

Even if I only have 15 minutes at the end of the day, I know I'll end up feeling more relaxed and refreshed after I do my yoga routine, and therefore I willingly do it...every day. I've never been able to say that about any other exercise routine.

Along those lines, I'm reading Yoga and the Pursuit of Happiness by Sam Chase, which I picked up on a whim at the library. Turns out it delves into why a yoga practice works, using both ancient Eastern wisdom and modern Western science, which is right up in my wheelhouse. I'm taking notes on it (which I do with nonfiction books I really want to learn from) and doing the "Inquiries" in my journal. I actually meditated for 15 minutes this morning--a new personal best!

Now it's time for me to stop going on about my favorites. What are you loving these days?

Brave

Yesterday in church the worship team was singing the song that goes like this:

      You make me brave
      You make me brave
      You call me out beyond the shore into the waves
      You make me brave
      You make me brave
      No fear can hinder now the promises you've made

Now what is a person who suffers with anxiety supposed to do with lines like that?

So many times I've mentally beaten myself up because I don't feel brave at ALL. The last line of this stanza is based on 1 John 4:18, which reads, "But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love" (NIV).

This verse made me feel awful whenever I was having an episode,* because I felt frozen with fear. It may sound absurd, but every weekend, I dreaded making a grocery list and going to the store...I think because it involved so many minor decisions that I felt overwhelmed. So when I was afraid to buy food for my family, I knew I wasn't "made perfect in love." I DEFINITELY wasn't brave. If He was "calling me out beyond the shore into the waves," I hadn't made it off the beach.

And surely that was my fault.

Setting aside the theological angle, here is what I realized in a flash yesterday while the song was being sung (and I believe it applies to everyone, regardless of whether you are a person who participates in a religious faith or not).

First, many thinkers have clarified that courage is not absence of fear. If it were, there wouldn't be anything particularly admirable about actions we define as courageous.

Think about it. If one cannot experience fear--and a few rare souls have this condition--then they are not knowingly choosing to be brave. They're just naively trusting as they go along. For me, courage is choosing to act according to one's values without regard to the danger to oneself. When I Googled "definition of courage," an even more succinct phrase came up: "the ability to do something that frightens one."

This is why my counselor gently asked me while I was struggling with the grocery store thing, "If a person has something that she's really afraid of (like going to the grocery store), and she does it anyway, does that make her a weak person or a strong person?"

Another mistake we make: we equate bravery only with physical courage. No one would deny that a firefighter who goes into a burning building to save someone is courageous. Since the will to survive is hardwired into human nature, that kind of bravery goes against all our instincts. It takes enormous willpower and a lot of adrenaline (I'm guessing) to overcome that kind of pre-programming.

Corrie ten Boom, author of The Hiding Place

I would never want to diminish the incredible difficulty of this kind of unselfish courage. In fact, I'll come back to it in a minute. But now I'd like to point out another kind of courage, a quieter kind. I've heard it described as moral courage. It can involve taking a stand against evil publicly or behind the scenes. Sometimes it too involves risking one's life; an example is the people who hid Jews during the Holocaust. In that case, secretly defying the Nazis' evil was more valuable than open defiance, since if you are alive you can save more people than if you're dead. Still, no one would disagree that Corrie ten Boom and Oskar Schindler were every bit as brave as the firefighters on 9/11...and many of those who hid Jewish people paid for their disobedience with their lives, showing that it's possible to exhibit both kinds of courage at the same time.

I'm coming to understand that a person can be brave even when lives aren't literally at stake. It seems absolutely absurd to think of myself as "bravely going to the grocery store" when people all over the world are facing unimaginable horrors.

Yet I think the message I got yesterday was that bravery isn't defined by the immediacy of the risk; what makes someone brave is that they acted according to their values despite their feelings of fear. 

I know many heroic single parents. Most of them probably have felt fear and even despair when faced with the task of raising children on their own. Yet they get up every morning and do the right thing all over again. That's courage.

If you think about it, the soldier who saves his fellow soldier in the middle of a firefight or the person who wakes up every day and refuses to let mental illness win are similar. Both of them choose to disbelieve the overwhelming information their brain is screaming at them and the huge chemical dump that makes their bodies shake, their hearts race, their throats close and their chests tighten. Both of them choose to act according to their belief about what is right. The soldier thinks, "It wouldn't be right to leave my buddy to be blown up." The person in the grip of clinical depression thinks, "It wouldn't be right to leave my family grieving for me."

I could go on to explain how the brain of an anxious person is giving the same signals as a person in physical danger--aka the fight or flight syndrome. But my posts tend to be too long already, so I won't. Another time.

Friend, if you find yourself stuck between the rock of your principles and the hard place life has driven you into, may I encourage you to cling to the rock? Choose to act according to your beliefs, even if it seems impossibly painful to do so. When I was in the middle of my most recent episode, I couldn't imagine living the next forty years in that kind of mental anguish...and I felt certain that I would always feel that awful. Yet I knew that love was my greatest value; therefore, love for my family--and God--made me choose, over and over again, not to give up. And now I have a new doctor, a new treatment plan, and new hope. I'm SO glad I was brave enough to keep going.

And that, I realized yesterday, is how perfect love drives out fear. Like so many things on my journey to healing, I'm learning that healing is a process. Perfect love WILL drive out all fear...if I give it time. It may take longer than I always thought that meant...but then eternal time is not the same as human time.

After all, the verse never said I am supposed to make myself perfect in love, only that "the one who fears is not made perfect in love." My job is to let myself surrender to the "love that made a way," as the song says.  All those who make the choice to "show strength in the face of pain or grief"** are courageous in my book.



*I choose to call my recurrences of my depression and anxiety "episodes" instead of relapses or anything that implies going backward or getting worse.  In a TV series, each episode has its own plot that is solved by the end but it also fits into a larger dramatic arc of the season and the series as a whole. Finally--and most important to me--episodes are temporary. Once you finish an episode, there is another, different one to experience.

**Google's #2 definition of courage.

Letter to My Future Self

Dear Future Alison,

If you are reading this, it means you have hit some turbulence. The oxygen masks haven't fallen down from the ceiling, metaphorically speaking, but the captain has definitely turned on the Fasten Safety Belts sign and your brain is gearing up with anxiety. I don't know what the anxiety is about, but I'm almost certain it's getting worse by the hour as you try not to panic about panicking.


The first thing I want to say to you is: Remember that you love your life (mostly). (Yes, you stole that line from Glennon Melton of Momastery, but it's true for you, too.) You love cuddling with your husband in the mornings and then seeing your son wrapped in blankets on the living room couch and feeling his warm little arms wrap around your neck. You love the conversations you have with your daughter on the way to her school. You love the flexibility of working for your own company so you can bring lunch on birthdays and chaperone field trips. You love your tradition of Saturday morning breakfasts at your family's favorite restaurant. You love helping with homework and bedtime prayers. It's a good life, and it's the real-life embodiment of the life you used to try to imagine before you met your husband.

Not only do you have a good life, you also have a purpose. You are the best person to love the people who come into your life--the ones who will be in your life forever AND the ones you will only know for a moment. The world would be different without you--it would be poorer, the same way it would be poorer if any of the people around you didn't exist. Try to remember that and treat people with kindness. There are no ordinary people.

Remember not to make yourself feel bad about feeling bad. It's not helpful, and (your brain needs to hear this) it isn't justified. It's not your fault that you struggle with depression and anxiety. See, along with the good things you inherited from your family, like your dad's empathy and your grandmother's eyebrows, you also inherited the tendency toward mental illness. Many of your family members have struggled with the same thing you deal with. You're not a bad person for feeling this way. Yes, it sucks that you got those particular genes, but remember to be grateful that you didn't also get an abusive family, one who really strives to make you feel worse about yourself.

Instead, you were born into a loving family who did their best to nurture and support you--which they have done every step of your journey thus far. You also made a smart decision to marry an amazing guy who promised "till death do us part" and he apparently means it.

Finally, remember that your track record for getting through bad days is 100%. You've survived bad days, weeks, months, and one long difficult year. Maybe your emotions are screaming at you that this is it, the one time you can't make it out of despair...but remember that depression lies.

Hang on, take care of yourself as best you can, and wait for the turbulence to end.

Love,
One Who Knows

What to do after the end of the world

I'm writing this on Monday evening. Until now, I've had no trouble thinking of topics to write about. I still have a few ideas, but I'm tired and sad because the world is awful and it took almost no time at all to politicize a tragedy. So the best I can do is share the words of the amazing writer Anne Lamott, which she posted on her Facebook page soon after the news of the attacks on Paris. (This was a time when FB was NOT "of the devil," as I like to joke.) She offers no pat answers but some comfort and hope.

For now, I can hold on to these small glimmers of hope. And I'm making an apple crisp for dessert--
which I almost never do--that we can eat with ice cream because sometimes comfort food is in order.

I wish there was a website we could turn to called, "What it means, What is True, and What to do." Lots of very tense religious people are going to insist that their Scripture answers all these questions.

That's nice.

Lots of them will try to hustle us into joining them in Vengeance World. As that had just been so helpful before, right?

So where do we even begin today? What do we do when it feels like we are all doomed, and the future will only be worse, and we can't remember anything that ever helped us come through? From high school philosophy, I remember that Francis Bacon wrote, "'What is Truth?' asked jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer." It seemed the ultimate truth, at sixteen years old.

But I think we can do better than that. We have shards of truth, and we can gather them up, bits of broken mosaic tile that shine.

We know that this is a very dangerous place, that we are an extremely vulnerable species, that Cain is still killing Abel.

We know that "Why" is not a useful question; and "Figure it out" is not a good slogan.

We know that the poor, the innocent, babies and the very old, always bear the brunt.

So where do we find grace and light? If you mean right now, the answer is Nowhere. It's like after a child dies. Grace always does bat last, and the light always overcomes the darkness--always, historically. But not necessarily later the same day, or tomorrow, after lunch. Wendell Berry told me 25 years ago, in Advent, the darkest shortest days of winter, "It gets darker and darker and darker, and then Jesus is born." But it is only November 13! It gets even darker.

What is the answer? Gandhi is almost always the answer. Jesus's love for the poor and refugees is the answer. Adding a bit of light and warmth to these cold dark days doesn't hurt. Candles are beautiful and bring a soupçon of solace to our souls. People living on the streets could really use your old blankets and jackets.

Grace will always show up in the helpers, as Mr. Rogers' mother used to tell him in times of tragedy. But today, right now, if you have a nice bumper sticker that explains or makes sense of what happens in Paris, it's probably best if you keep that to yourself. It is definitely best that you not share it with me. It will cause me to get a tic in my eye and will guarantee that the next time I see you, I will run for my cute little life. Everyone in his or her right mind will. So how do we even know truth, in the midst of b.s. and lies?

What is true for me is that the shootings at Sandy Hook were the actual end of the world, evil or at least the most extreme mental illness made visible. There were no answers that day, the next day, the day after that. Well, you could go to certain web sites and Twitter posts, and I will not name names, and be told how stupid you were not to see that there was only one appreciate truth. Reload! But again, that was not helpful. What was helpful was that we stuck together in our horror, grief, anxiety and cluelessness. We grieved, we feared, we despaired, and raged, prayed; we reached out for any help at all; and these were appropriate responses. I am going to recommend that we do that today, and tomorrow. Wounds and trauma revealed were healed; eventually. Some of us couldn't eat at all, someone of us binged, some of us couldn't turn off the TV, some of us couldn't turn it on. Those were all appropriate. We felt like shit, and let some time pass, talked and stuck together. And day by day, we came through.

Talking and sticking together was the answer. It honest to God was. We were gentler, more patient and kind with each other. If people are patient and kind, that's a lot. It means something of the spirit is at work. For me, that is grace made visible. It doesn't come immediately, and it doesn't come naturally. What comes naturally is, Shoot the mo-fos. So when we could, after Sandy Hook, we paused, breathed, sighed, gasped at the rising numbers. Nothing changed legally, not one word, but we came through. Hearts were healed, imperfectly. People walked, lived fully, and even danced again, after bad psychic fractures that did not heal quite right, and that still hurt some days.

We will again, but it takes time. I so hate this! Hate this, hate this, hate this, and do not agree to this, but have no alternative, because it is Truth: it will take time. Today, we try to keep the patient comfortable--ourselves, our beloved, the poor.

We're at the beginning of human and personal evolution. Whole parts of the world don't even think women are people.

So after an appropriate time of being stunned, in despair, we show up. Maybe we ask God for help. We do the next right thing. We buy or cook a bunch of food for the local homeless. We return phone calls, library books, smiles. We make eye contact with others, and we go to the market and flirt with old or scary unusual people who seem lonely. This is a blessed sacrament. Tom Weston taught me decades ago that in the face of human tragedy, we go around the neighborhood and pick up litter, even though there will be more tomorrow. It is another blessed sacraments. We take the action and the insight will follow: that we are basically powerless, but we are not helpless.

I have no answers but know one last thing that is true: More will be revealed. And that what is true is that all is change. Things are much wilder, weirder, richer, and more profound than I am comfortable with. The paradox is that in the reality of this, we discover that in the smallest moments of amazement, at our own crabby stamina, at kindness, to lonely people who worry us, and attention, at weeping willow turning from green to gold to red, and amazement, we will be saved.

P.S. The apple crisp was delicious and it made my family happy. And I bought extra nonperishables to donate to the food drive at L's school. And I contacted a friend who's grieving a death and made plans to get together.

One small gesture at a time to combat despair. One candle at a time to light the darkness. 

7 Tips for Keeping a Gratitude Journal

Wow, I was surprised and humbled to see that several women commented on Facebook about yesterday's blog post that they felt inspired to start their own gratitude journal. I was thinking about that this morning while I ate breakfast and got the idea to share a few quick tips that have been helping me keep up with my gratitude journal. 

1. Write in something that makes you happy. That way, the first thing you can write down is your journal itself! I wrote about how a cute, but relatively inexpensive, notebook from Target is good for me. For you it might be a Moleskine notebook (rumored to be used by Hemingway himself and beloved by reporters) or a 1-subject spiral with an adorable kitten on it. You don't have to spend much money on it. Just make sure it's a dedicated notebook used only for these entries. The point I'm getting to: if your journal makes you happy, you're more likely to write in it! 

2. That being said, don't put off starting until you find the "perfect" notebook. The book doesn't matter nearly as much as your words do.

3. Keep a writing instrument with it at all times. I use a pencil because I'm a grammar freak who hates to cross out when I make corrections, but a pen is fine. Hide it if you need to, if the "pen fairies" visit your house and steal all your pens, the way they do at mine. I tend to write in my journal right before bedtime or if I get a minute during the day. If I have to spend ten minutes looking for something to write with and probably getting distracted while I'm looking, the moment may be lost. If you have a pen handy, you're more likely to write in your journal!

4. Don't be overly concerned with "correctness." This journal is for YOU. It doesn't matter if you spell every word correctly (just ignore what I said up there about making corrections. I'm a freak and you shouldn't follow my example. Plus it's quick and easy for me to make quick edits.) I don't even use complete sentences most of the time (gasp!) I use a bulleted list like this:

• I had more energy today & I felt so much happier. Thankful.
• Went through the school uniforms . Also decluttered closets, which inspired Justin to get a bunch of his clothes ready to donate.
• Fun conversations playing 94% [an iPhone trivia app] and just talking with L.

 5. I like my entries to be as specific as possible. In the example above, obviously the first entry was pretty general. The second two, though, named specific activities and help me remember exactly what went on that made me happy. The great part about this is that your gratitude journal helps capture little moments of this stage in your life that you might otherwise have missed! The third bullet reminds me that my son loved playing this game with me and how it started lots of fun conversations.

6. Try to write in it regularly. I usually don't do it every day, but I still make it a habit to jot something down every 2 or 3 days at least. If I don't, I'm pretty sure I'll stop doing it. 

7. Occasionally read back over your entries and smile!

Why I'm Keeping a Gratitude Journal

Justin asked me the other day why I hadn’t been writing 750 words a day like I had been doing on a website called 750words.com, which is designed to help you write every day by giving you little checkmarks for every day you write in a row and also notifying you when you reach 750 words. It’s all private and is exactly like writing on your own computer except for the desire to keep those check marks uninterrupted and the fact that it costs $5.00 a month. For a couple of months I was meeting my goal most days. So why did I stop?

I stopped writing when my depression and anxiety overtook me a few months ago, and writing was not on my agenda at all, not even a little bit. I felt I shouldn’t spend even $5.00 a month when I wasn’t writing for the foreseeable future. In fact, at the time I felt I wouldn’t ever be able to write, or enjoy reading, or actually enjoy anything ever again, because that is the kind of lie that depression tells.

Then I saw my doctor and added a new medication. I got better, and I reveled in reading again. Every book seemed better than the last! I enjoyed the heck out of lots of things that had become meaningless while I was in the grip of the Black Dog, including shopping, eating, and social media. At first I only wrote comments on Facebook and Twitter because I still felt fragile and didn’t know what to write about, even in a private journal. A few weeks later, I decided to start and keep a gratitude journal, as the research is conclusive that keeping one does help stave off the grim demon called Depression. I’ve started several such records in the past, only to quit when things got so busy that I didn’t write anything for months. Sometimes life was good-busy and sometimes it was stressful-busy. That, I tell myself with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, is exactly when you need a gratitude journal.

This is a brain after the person has been keeping a gratitude journal. The highlighted area shows increased dopamine, which is a "reward" neurotransmitter that feels goooood.

So now I keep it on my nightstand beside my bed. A few days may go between recording something, but at least a couple of times a week I take a few minutes to count my blessings--not just general ones, like family, friends, and a roof over my head. Specific things, like this entry from July 13:

• I had more energy today & I felt so much happier. Thankful.
• Went through the school uniforms . Also decluttered closets, which inspired Justin to get a bunch of his clothes ready to donate.
• Fun conversations playing 94% [an iPhone trivia app] and just talking with L.

Probably my favorite entry so far, though, is this one from July 18:

• Great talk with L about angels (good and evil) and Minecraft. Longish car rides are perfect to get kids to open up.

[And if you are wondering what angels have to do with Minecraft--well, I am right there with you. I think there’s really no connection, except that my 9 yo son is currently incapable of talking for more than 45 seconds before he says, “Well, in Minecraft…” And that’s when I nod and say “Uh-huh” and “Wow” while he talks about things I do not understand at all. Unlike angels. This preacher’s daughter can expound on heavenly beings.]

I want to remember those little moments that are going on in my life right now, at this specific stage. I wish I had done this all through my kids’ babyhood so I wouldn’t be wondering, “Which one of them insisted that a stuffed Chihuahua Beanie Baby was a cat, and in the middle of an argument about it, I had an epiphany that it wasn’t worth arguing with a toddler about?” If I’d recorded that epiphany, I’d know.

Oh well, I can always start now. And there’s always Facebook.

As far as keeping up with the fragmented yet continuous record of our lives: it helps that the little notebook I’m writing in is small and pretty, but not so fancy that I feel my words have to live up to its binding. I love beautiful journals, but I’ve faltered about 25% of the way through so many gorgeous leather-bound blank books. This one has a cardstock cover, mint green, with Chapter 1 printed on the front in gold. It came in a pack of 3 from Target; the other two are white and pink, and (you guessed it) say Chapter 2 and Chapter 3. Cost: about $6.00 at Target. I bought them for some other reason but they are perfect for this.

For some reason the lighting in my bedroom didn't make it look green!

Besides this fragmented journaling, which admittedly seeks out the good at the expense of the very real irritations and sorrows of life (mind you, I don’t need reminding to dwell on the negative), I do intend to write at least 750 words a day. My job gives me plenty of time in which to do so, and it’s a much better use of my time than endlessly refreshing Facebook and watching cute animal videos. Even if I don’t have time at work, I no longer have to spend my evenings grading papers, and my husband and offspring often vanish after dinner to spend time with their electronic devices; I might as well do the same with mine.

All that to say, I have hope that out of 750 words a day, a few of them will be worth putting on this here blog. And that is going to be the first sentence in tonight’s gratitude journal entry.

Purpose

I'm back! Well, actually I've been back on the Internet for several weeks, but I didn't have anything I wanted to write about until this weekend. That's the way it goes when I have a bout with anxiety: first I withdraw from Pinterest, then blogs and Twitter, then Facebook, then actual books (gasp) and even my friends and family. I suppose I should view lack of interest in social media as an early warning sign.

I  want to write more about my struggle with anxiety and depression, including some encouraging information in a book I'm currently reading, but I'm still processing what I want to share. For now, I'll just say that I'm feeling much better, after going back to my doctor and saying, "I downplayed how I was feeling two weeks ago, and then things got worse. I do need to make a change." He added another antidepressant (later we will probably try to increase the dosage on this one and taper off the one I've been on, which apparently stopped being fully effective--a reasonable assumption given my symptoms and the fact that I've been on it for nine years.) 

So. Today I want to write about how my struggle with mental illness has given me a gift. 

It's really freaking hard to be thankful for anxiety and depression, because this silent illness has stolen big chunks of my life. 

This time it was a month. If that doesn't seem like a long time to you, imagine spending almost every minute wishing it would pass and that you could take your medicine and go to sleep since that means you don't have to feel your horrible feelings any more. Wishing you could tear off your own tensed-up skin and float away. Fighting away thoughts of how much you are ruining your family and how much better off they'd be without you. Constantly, for thirty days.

It sucks when you can't enjoy anything in your life, even when you know you have so much to be thankful for . No wonder that when I feel better, everything seems so much more precious and my gratitude overflows.

But I have always known that human beings can bear almost anything if they can find a purpose in their pain. I knew that others had found that purpose in helping others on the same journey. But I couldn't see how that was supposed to happen, if I couldn't see any glimmer of hope for myself, much less anyone else. 

"If you want me to help other broken people, You're going to have to hold me together a little better," I told God through floods of tears one night. "Because I'm way too broken to help anyone right now."

It's so much fun to live with me.

Then I went to the doctor and gradually started climbing out of the pit. And I had two opportunities within three days of each other to help women who were struggling.

Interestingly, neither of them seem to suffer from a mental illness themselves. They are dealing with diagnoses their children have received and trying to do the best they can for their kids. One mom whom I'd never met before told me about how her going-into-sixth-grade son, who has ADHD and Asperger's, has been consistently bullied at school. Another mom shared her mixed feelings about medicating her six-year-old, who has just been diagnosed with ADHD and ODD (Oppositional Defiant Disorder). 

It turns out I'm a pretty good person to tell such things to, for the following reasons:

1. I'm familiar with conditions and diagnoses many people aren't conversant with. I was a psychology major, then a teacher, so I have some experience with children and parents who are dealing with such challenges. 

2. The Internets have educated me about what it's like to walk in these parents' shoes. If not for the stories I've read, I would very likely make some of the ignorant assumptions many people make (although I hope I wouldn't be as mean-spirited or selfish). Thank you, everyone who has written about your reality with painful honesty. I recently started following The Mighty, a blog written by people who deal with disabilities, either their own or their children's. It has changed the way I look at these children and their amazing parents.

3. There's some evidence that depression and anxiety affect highly sensitive people more than others. While this is a bummer when it strikes, it means that I can deeply feel others' pain and empathetically connect with them, like fellow veterans in the war with faulty brain wiring. I listened to both of these wonderful mothers, both of whom were trying with all their might (along with their husbands) to help their children. I listened, and asked questions, and empathized.

And then I did something that isn't always a good idea. I shared my opinion. 

I did it because both of them were experiencing self-doubt that they were doing the right thing for their child. Whereas I, the momentary observer they had briefly invited into their world, could immediately see that they were absolutely doing the right things for their kid. 

"I'm just not sure about the medication," the mom of the six-year-old said, "because it feels like I'm giving up on him."

I felt like an old, wise woman, even though I'm only about five years older than she is. "Oh, honey, no, you're not! You are not giving up on him at all! You've done the hardest thing and admitted to yourself that your kid needs help--and then you are getting him that help. You're not just saying, 'Medicate my kid so I don't have to deal with his issues.' You're taking him to an expert who can help y'all develop strategies that he can use later in life rather than staying on ADHD meds. But he may need to be on the medication for now just so he can get to a level playing field. But you are not giving up on him if you and your doctor decide he needs it," I declared, trying to be as convincing as I possibly could.

The other mom, whom I'd just met at a birthday party that evening, reached to hug me, her eyes filled with quick tears when I said, "I believe your son is going to be all right. The very best people I know had a hard time in middle and high school. And from what you said, he has you and his dad to talk to. Most importantly, he knows you are on his side. He doesn't have to face this alone."

I hope something I said resonated with those wonderful moms, because depression and anxiety have showed me that just feeling that you're not alone, that you will not be abandoned, that you are loved by someone who won't give up on you...is enough to keep you going for another day.

And if I can help one person feel that way...my life will not have been in vain.

A Book Review (and Possibly More than You Wanted to Know about My Crazy)

I had to read Marrit Ingman's book for the title alone. And Inconsolable: How I Threw My Mental Health Out with the Diapers is not disappointing me. Ingman is smart, funny, not afraid of four-letter words, and so honest it hurts. On every page I find myself nodding my head, thinking, "Yes, yes, yes. I remember feeling like that." The times when I wanted to punch a hole in the wall and I screamed at my children instead. Or when I fantasized about swerving the car into oncoming traffic. Just like that, and everyone's problems would be over. (Not just my problems, but the raw deal Justin and the kids got of a defective, crappy wife and mother. I'm screwing them up for life, I'd think. They'd be better off without me.) Marrit Ingman writes about those feelings, too. All the feelings mothers may have that are too ugly to admit to. SHE GETS IT. Because she's been there, and come through to the other side. And she's really good at writing about her experiences with shattering immediacy, as if they are still happening while she's writing about them and while you are reading about them. Because they are happening right now, if not to her or to you, to some mother out there.

This book is for women who are struggling with motherhood: the impossible expectations we put on ourselves, the crushing weight of inadequacy and the rising tide of anxiety that threaten to overwhelm us. It is for anyone who has ever imagined, even for one tiny second, about leaving the baby on someone's doorstep and vanishing into another identity where you are not responsible for anyone, especially anyone who screams all night. Ingman mentions that she wanted to commit suicide, but she couldn't find a babysitter. That was me. I thought about gassing myself in the car, but I couldn't think of an excuse to get someone to watch the baby. And then who would pick Miss Pink up from school? What would Justin tell her? No, I wouldn't be able to kill myself that day. Interestingly, that realization did not make me feel better.

Now, of course, I'm so grateful I wasn't crazy enough to commit suicide. Thankful beyond words for that scrap of responsibility toward my children that tied me to this earth. (I remember sobbing to myself, "I'm beyond trapped! I can't even make the most basic choice--whether or not to KILL MYSELF!" The very thing that brought me to the brink of insanity also saved my life: motherhood. I knew I couldn't let my children grow up wondering why I hadn't loved them enough to stay alive. I couldn't leave them that legacy, which would overshadow their lives and possibly poison their relationships. And so there was only one thing left to do. I had to fight like hell to get better.

I did it because I decided I didn't deserve to suffer in silence. It wasn't my fault that this illness had happened to me. I was sick of being gagged and stuffed with mother guilt. I was terrified of the drugs not working, of the doctors being condescending, of ending up in a straitjacket hollering about aliens implanting computer chips in my brain. But the alternative was worse. So I yelled for help.

None of the things I feared happened to me, or at least not for long. Some of it happened to Ingman, and she shows that sometimes you have to push back at the system and try different things, even when you are least capable of exerting yourself. It helps to have someone advocate for you, which I did--my husband called the doctor when the sleeping aids weren't working, because I was too scared to tell the doctor I needed help AGAIN. (As if it were my fault the meds weren't working on me. There's a reason they call it "going crazy" and that's because a lot of your thoughts are crazy.)

If anyone is reading this and any of this is sounding familiar, please get help. Tell someone. Tell your spouse or partner, your best friend or your parent--whoever will take you seriously rather than telling you things will get better on their own. Call your doctor--and if your primary care doctor blows you off, go to your OB-GYN. (My doctor and nurse told me they wish more women would come to them for help for PPD.) Ingman says tackle the postal carrier if you have to. Call someone you trust to keep the baby and go away and do something for yourself, but don't beat yourself up if a couple hours alone isn't enough to restore you to cheerfulness. Therapy may very well help. Drugs are not the unthinkable, especially if you can't function when you're responsible for children. Psychiatrists are not evil mad scientists who long to drug you into a dazed stupor with no evidence of your former personality behind your now-dead eyes. Give yourself permission to say, "Something in me is broken, and I would like it to be healed."

There is help out there. And speaking for myself and Ingman--a sample size of two--it does get better with time, as well. But if you are at your breaking point and need help getting to the point at which you can enjoy your child(ren), do it. Do it for yourself first, then for your family.

They really need us, you know. They need us to do all the mom things like make lunches and sign permission slips and get them to bed on time (God, my husband would suck at those if he were a single dad). They need us to tuck them in at night and tell them we love them (preferably without having to apologize every night for our out-of-control behavior that day. Just some nights).

But most of all, they just need us to be there.

Marrit Ingman and I want you to stay here with us to say, "I survived. It happened to me and I lived to tell the tale." We want you to be glad you stayed.

What's Going On

Last night was Miss Pink's preschool "graduation." It was cute and she was so proud of herself. But I didn't cry--I'm just not sentimental about things like that, and besides, I'm just happy she's going to kindergarten next year. When she was a newborn, my husband and I would lie in bed after we'd gotten her to sleep, knowing she was going to wake us up again in a few hours, and say, "Well, we kept her alive another day." Back then, it seemed an impossibly long time until she'd be a kindergartener. I count it as an accomplishment that we are all still alive and happy to be here.

Anyway, it was a little sad that Miss Pink's beloved teacher couldn't be there because she had gotten really sick. We all knew that for this teacher to miss the program, she had to be REALLY sick. Seriously, she is one of the best teachers I have ever met--and I was a teacher, so I've known quite a few good ones. She has a real gift with young children. So we were sorry not to say a last goodbye and to give her our gift in person. But she is coming to a classmate's pool party in a couple of weeks, so we will get to see her then.

I had a feeling the excitement of the last day of school was going to wear off for Miss P, since she loves school so much. And sure enough, that night there were real tears: "I miss Ms. Teacher! I am so sad that I don't get to see her anymore." I held her and empathized. "I know you miss her. I'll miss her too. I'm just glad you had such a good teacher that you feel this way about her."

By bedtime she was okay and finding out about the party today made her happy. I hope she loves school for a few more years at least.

Speaking of school, the preschool where Miss P has been going for three years decided to have a 2-year-old class this year! Last year they did two 3-year-old classes instead and the 3-day one never filled up, so now they will have a 2-day for both 2 and 3 year olds. (Was that confusing enough, with all the 2s and 3s?) Anyway, I had Mr. Blue on a waiting list at another school, but I wasn't pursuing any other schools. But when the school we already know and love told me they could take him next year, I jumped at the chance. Two mornings a week, four hours at a time... where do I sign up? Plus he is familiar with the school and always wants to play on the playground or with the toys in the classes when we go in. I asked him if he wants to go to school and he said, "Yis," without any hesitation at all.

One last thing--I met with my new psychiatrist today. (I've never had a psychiatrist before, so any psychiatrist would've been my first.) I feel really good about working with her. She was very helpful and understanding. We decided to up the dosage of my antidepressant one notch and see how that goes. Basically she thinks it was just a little slip back into the anxiety part of my depression and we are not going to let it go back any farther. Good to know.

I'm glad I have had support (both from y'all in the computer and in real life) to get this kind of help. Some people are not so lucky. A friend of a friend is really suffering from panic attacks right now, and our mutual friend (who has also been through the same thing) was encouraging her to see a psychiatrist and possibly go to counseling, but she is not ready to take that step. They don't have insurance and her husband didn't want to go that route for financial reasons. At first her doctor didn't want to prescribe anything but finally she got the courage to insist, so at least she is on an antidepressant. I am praying for her because I know how it feels to be in that kind of pain, and to wonder if you are ever going to get better. If you can remember her in your thoughts and prayers, I would really appreciate it.

How It Feels To Be Me Right Now

Apprehensive but not too intensely anxious. I made an appointment with a psychiatrist and boy, let me tell you, I had worked myself into a tidy little internal knot about calling the nurse at my regular doctor’s office and asking for a recommendation since it felt like I was firing the regular doctor, who had done a good job, but I felt it was time for someone who has studied these medicines specifically for several years to be the one tinkering around with my dosage, but seriously I didn’t want the regular doctor to feel bad…It was so hard not to say all that to the nurse. “DON’T HATE ME BECAUSE I’M LEAVING YOU!” Um, yeah. If I’d done that, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have just recommended a psychiatrist, but a nice quiet stay in the nervous hospital.

The nurse was fine with my abandonment, but she didn’t have any recommendations, and I’d already found out that the doctor one of my friends sees wasn’t taking new patients. So I had to just start calling doctors who take my insurance. I decided to start with the women, in order of who’s closest to me, or maybe just if I recognized the street they’re on. The first few were either out of the office or had moved and left no new phone number even in the phone book. I found one who would schedule an appointment, pending acceptance of my insurance. Within 48 hours I’ll know if I need to renew the search. I’m pretty sure I’ll feel like a reject if they don’t want me, even though it’s pretty clear that won’t happen and even if it did, it’d be the insurance’s fault, not mine. It still feels better to have an appointment, even if it's 2 weeks away.

God, I’m a mess. I’m a lot better than I was when I first went on meds, but this last week f’ed me up royally and I feel like I might start "inappropriately sharing"with any given person, so instead I've kind of withdrawn. I wasn’t going to post this, because I’m pretty sure you don’t want to read about this. Amusing and/or heartwarming stories about the children, yes. Even quizzes and reviews of television shows. But not a play-by-play of my own personal Crazy Games.

Sometimes, like most of today, I feel fine. Sometimes, I even feel really good. No matter how I feel, I feed the children, change diapers, turn on TV shows, run errands, even clean house (which was too much, last week.) Then without warning I hunker down in my own mind and feel like something is broken inside me, the way I rehearse conversations with health professionals and have to remind myself to stop obsessing. I’m faking it, getting by on the minimums, and I want to do better, feel better. Damnit, I deserve to feel better! I don’t know if I have faith that it will happen, but I remember being worse than this and it did get better, a lot better, so maybe I will get there again. I’m trying. I’m really trying.

Hi, my name is Alison...

Some of you who haven't been reading since the beginning of this blog may not know that I have an illness.

It isn't lupus or Crohn's disease. It's not even asthma. It's a mental illness.

Just to type that phrase is scary to me, like you'll read that and think, "She's crazy! Run!"

(Yes, I am crazy, but that is not what I'm talking about here.)

I think we still have a hard time thinking of mental illness as an illness that needs to be treated. I know I do. For the past year and a half, I have been treated for anxiety and depression. I have taken my medication every day and been so, so thankful that it works. Because, you see, the mental anguish that clinical depression and anxiety brings is as awful as any physical pain I've ever had. Worse than childbirth, really, because I couldn't get an epidural for my brain. But since I've been better, I had kind of assumed that it would never come back.

The past few days have not been good for me. My major symptom is insomnia, and I've been waking up before 5 every morning, unable to go back to sleep. So I've been anxious that the worst is coming back, that all my gains have been lost, that I'll have to suffer again. All that anxiety doesn't make for a peaceful day or a sleep-filled night, so it's a vicious cycle.

I do have a plan in place. I have medication to help me calm down enough to sleep. If, as my husband thinks, this was triggered by hormones (which totally can happen), I should be better next week. If not, I'll need to consult with my doctor about changing my dosage to get me back to a good place.

It's just the waiting that's hard. I've been so happy the last 18 months, it's hard to have to fight something I thought was taken care of. However, as with any chronic illness, it can reoccur and thank goodness there are plenty of options for keeping it under control.

Wonderful Counselor

Not surprisingly, I’m tired of writing about sickness (although not as tired as you are of reading about it, I’m sure.) Justin is better—he went to work today. But Mr. Blue can’t shake the bug yet: he’s still vomiting. It’s down to once a day now, which the nurse said was normal—little ones often do this for a week or more—but that means I can’t take him anywhere he could give this wonderful gift to others. So we’ll be mostly staying home for the next few days, after a week of being housebound. You can imagine my enthusiasm at this news. I’m ready to get back to the gym, to playgroup, to normality, to Target! Our version of normal may not be perfect, but I would like to order some now, please.

Yesterday I was feeling anxious, like panicky butterflies were flapping around in my chest, getting caught in my esophagus. I couldn’t identify a reason—Mr. Blue wasn’t even acting sick, Justin was getting better, so what was wrong with me? Since I’ve been on medication to treat the anxiety, it’s become an unfamiliar feeling, so I get alarmed when it shows back up. Plus I didn’t sleep well the night before, which is what happened before the Episode occurred, and oh God what if I can’t sleep tonight and what if I get that bad again, I can’t DO that again, what if….

You can see the problem. Any anxiety causes me to feel anxious about the anxiety, which increases my anxiety level and so on. It doesn’t take long for it to spiral out of control.

Except that I WAS able to talk myself down from the mental ledge last night by reminding myself that a certain amount of anxiety is normal (true); that of course I was worried about my baby boy (I hadn’t yet talked to the nurse). I also admitted to myself that I was feeling overworked, although it was nobody’s fault because Justin had been so very sick, sicker than I’d been, and in fact had passed out in the shower while I was trying to help him get out and if it doesn’t scare you to see all the color drain from your spouse’s face while his pupils are fixed and dilated, then I don’t know what will. And then there were the endless cups of Gatorade and every time I sat down, somebody handed me a book to read. Everybody needed Mom, even when Mom didn’t have anything to give. And that’s the exactly the place I was in when I got swallowed up by the Black Hole of Anxiety and Depression. Thinking about it, the physical sensation is a lot like claustrophobia—feeling smothered, hyperventilating, yelling “Let me out”—and all of that makes sense since what was being smothered was my sense of self.

Last night, I reminded myself that it was not going to get that bad again. The virus would eventually loose its evil grip on my family. And until that day arrived, I had drugs to help me cope. Drugs my doctor gave me to get through times just like this.

So I took a pill last night to help me calm down enough to sleep, and Mr. Blue didn’t wake up until 6:30. Which was a little earlier than usual, but no sheet-changing was involved, so no complaints.

It’s not all about my medication, though. I do believe I am on the appropriate medicine for my condition. If I hadn’t been on these meds, I wouldn’t have been able to reason with myself at all. I would have just headed straight to Freak-Out City—do not pass go, do not collect $200. But reason is not enough. I read a devotion titled “Wonderful Counselor” this morning, and it reminded me that Jesus is always with me, and that he can give me wisdom; and besides that, He’s the Everlasting Father and the Prince of Peace as well—everything we need, He’s got. So I put my head down on the desk and I asked Him to breathe some peace into me, help me to remember to breathe and stop choking on invisible butterflies, and to remember that it came to pass, as my dad says, not to stay.

And He did. Wonderful Counselor.

If You Didn't Think I Was Crazy Before...

My husband is gone and I feel much better.

Wait, let me rephrase that. I feel much better than I did yesterday even though my husband has gone out of town. Yesterday and last night and this morning I was a nervous wreck.

His trip to Louisiana wasn’t really the reason I was choking on a huge wad of anxiety. No, he’s gone on trips before and I’ve handled it fine ever since I started participating in the medicating of our society. I was all, “Bye honey, come back soon!” But this newfound independence was really because nothing made me anxious. Things that once would have had me huddled in the corner hugging my knees into my chest and whispering, “I want my mommy,” after I said yes to drugs, caused me to say (and mean) things like, “It will all work out okay.” And then stop in disbelief because did that just come out of my mouth? Am I an optimistic person now?

And I liked it. I really, really liked how I felt—normal! Maybe for the first time in my life!—and as far as I was concerned, you’d have to pry my pill bottle from my cold dead hands.

So things in Casa Hairlinefracture were going along swimmingly, when my loving husband gave me the gift of permanent b!rth c*ntr0l (I’m thinking I might get spam if I spell that correctly.) So anyway, the time came for me to stop taking what I was taking, and I did…and I felt a little weird but not too bad, until this week, when—oh my God, I had sleeping problems and anxiety and buckets of tears and the desire to lock myself up in a cabin in the woods. Just like when I was first diagnosed, which terrified me. Because if I know one thing, I know I never want to go back to that bad place in my mind ever again. Never ever ever.

My doctor said he’d up my dose of Anti-D’s if things didn’t improve and until then to use the medicine that helps me calm down enough to sleep if I need to. Other than that, you’re fine! Thanks for the copay!

I didn’t feel fine. I knew what he was saying was right—he didn’t need to change anything based on one day of anxiety after months of tranquility—but I would’ve liked a little more sympathy.

Which I got from my sweet friends and my husband. I tried hard to stay rational—thanking God that I was at least not curled in the fetal position with my mouth in a silent scream—and formulate a plan.

I called my OB-GYN’s office today and asked for their perspective. “So, when your patients have a really tough time when they go off the pill, what do you suggest?

“Putting you back on it,” she said.* That way I don’t have to change my other medication yet, she explained. If the sudden drop in hormones affects me badly, it’s better to be on the pill to control it. Plus she was very nice and sympathetic. Hooray for good nurses!

So there is a plan. It may not be perfect, but now I am not anxious, and that is definitely a good thing. Even with my husband out of town, I feel more like the optimistic person I’d started to become. I like that girl. I want her to stick around.

*If anyone points out to my husband that he underwent a surgery that many men fear just so I could go back on synthetic hormones, I will HUNT YOU DOWN and KILL YOU. Because happy pills or not, I would not be a good woman to live with if there was any kind of chance that I might get pregnant again. Right now the poor man just wants me to do whatever will make me feel better again.

Weirded Out

Ever wake up in a strange mood because you dreamed strange things the night before? Sort of like a stain the subconscious left in your mind when it was in charge. Clean up after yourself, subconscious--I don't like dealing with your mess!

I'm generally against telling my dreams to anyone except my husband, because no one really cares about anyone else's dream. Suffice it to say that it felt like I dreamed ALL NIGHT LONG. Some dreams weren't nightmares, but had a weird mood about them--one was about a gypsy love potion a wife buys to use on her husband, and another was about the most gigantic garage sale of clothes I have ever seen. Like, it filled a warehouse. What's wrong with THAT? I should only have been bummed that the dream wasn't real!

One dream, though, was about a serial killer being tracked by his father, a cop. He was trying to kidnap a little girl and his father was desperate to stop him (I guess I was another cop or something). Now that was a yucky dream. I sometimes have dreams like that--in which I am trying to protect an innocent person from harm. I am always very afraid that I won't succeed. I can't think about the bad things that happen to children for very long.

I'm also feeling bad for a good friend of mine. She is dealing with something that cannot be fixed overnight. I wish I could do something to help her, but all I can do is listen and care and pray. And wait with her for things to get better.

I think it was Anne Lamott who said something about we need shiny miracle tools to fix the bad things in life, and we look in our tool box and all we have are these rusty, broken-down tools like kindness and empathy and hope. And somehow it's enough.

Anyway, I went and worked out and that helped. It DOESN'T help that there's no chocolate in the house. Who didn't buy any chocolate? No one needs to be that healthy! (Oh right, it was me. Oops.)

Underwhelming Transformation

This morning I said to my husband, “I think that after 10 years of marriage, you’ve changed me more than I’ve changed you.”

And then I couldn’t immediately offer any concrete evidence, except that I now eat toast this way: bread buttered and toasted under the broiler instead of toasted in the toaster and then buttered. (There is a whole complicated process to Toastmaking Justin’s Way, which involves spreading the butter ALL THE WAY TO THE EDGE of the bread to prevent excess browning, and turning the bread over to let the back firm up just a bit so it’s perfect for holding jelly so he can fold the piece of toast in half with the buttered side outside and the jelly inside—it’s making me tired just thinking about it. So I figured if I had to make toast according to his specifications anyway, I might as well make some for myself. If you can’t beat him, join him. And it is yummy.)

But at least that was ONE thing that marriage has changed about me, whereas I couldn’t think of ANY way he’s changed to accommodate my habits. I mean, we’ve both had to change since we had kids—but just for each other? Ha! The only change I can think of was mutual, and happened even before our kids arrived: we both decided that sleep was more important than staying out late so we can feel cool. We both know we are uncool; we embrace the uncoolness and OWN it. (This will come in handy when our kids tell us we are uncool. We will just smile and agree.)

OH! I just thought of something! I make a concerted effort to close the cabinet doors after I get something out, even if I am just going to open them up again in 2 minutes, because he can’t stand seeing the cabinet doors left open. It is his profession to build beautiful cabinets, after all. So I close them. But does he remember to put the lid back on medicine bottles or re-fold the towel after washing his hands? NOOOO! (He is in deep denial about this, by the way; doesn’t even believe he forgets to do these things.)

Okay, I can see that dwelling on this issue too long could lead to marital conflict. Better move on.

Justin said he didn’t think my statement about our comparative changing was true. When challenged to name ways that I’ve changed him, he did. 1) He feels he is less harsh with Miss Pink than he would tend to be, because I have helped him see when discipline needs to be tempered with gentleness; and 2) I force him to express his emotions when he is upset and tries to bottle them up, and he is glad because then we can work things out.

After he said that, I told him that he had helped me to become less dramatic and overemotional. For the first seven years or so, he tried to do this by telling me not to have negative emotions. I think he actually said once, “Well then, just don’t feel that way.” Might as well tell me to become a guy: it was impossible. Then he learned to make me feel safe and appreciated, so I gradually didn’t feel that I had to make a big scene to get my needs met.

Thanks, honey. We might not have changed each other much, but we’ve learned to live with each other pretty darn well.

The Tagline Isn't Just a Joke

Tonight I took advantage of my pharmacy's offer of $10 in store credit for every 5 prescriptions filled. (The insurance companies limit the amount of times you can refill potentially addictive pharmaceuticals, so no one start planning to get high AND get a lot of rebate cash.) Before I got diagnosed with clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder, it would've taken me at least half a year to get my free money. Now, with two extra prescriptions a month, I'm raking it in, baby!

The last time I had pictures developed, which I was going to do anyway. Boring. Tonight I went and bought myself some makeup (L'Oreal powder blush in Precious Peach, to be exact.) I'm looking forward to the next time, when I plan to treat myself to a new lip gloss or something equally me-centric. I may be Crazy, but I can still look pretty. Right?

Hey, never let it be said that there are no perks to belonging to the Mentally Ill Club.*

*I feel compelled to add, being an earnest sort loath to offend anyone, that I don't mean to offend anyone. I'm laughing at myself, actually, because I still feel sort of odd that I need medication. I don't feel odd taking it, because basically my choices are: a) take it and feel normal, even great; or b) [want to] die. [Edited to tone down the melodrama. But seriously, it still sucked.] You don't have to tell me that depression is a serious thing. But all the more reason to joke about it, I say--from this side of the bridge that modern medicine built for me. And soon I will write a serious post about my "illness" (that seems so weird to say that).

Hey, the postcript was almost as long as the post.