Truth Time

I have been going through something, and as much as an open book as I pride myself on being, I’ve kept it to myself as much as possible. I’m still trying to work out why, but it felt right at the time.

It’s been a long few weeks, but this last week was the very bottom of it. And it’s because between doctors being on holidays, and me just plain procrastinating, I went two days without my meds, a week and a half ago ago.

If you’re thinking that doesn’t sound like a big deal, I was right there with you. Two little days! Two little days is all it took to remind me how fucking powerful these pills are, how fucking necessary they are FOR ME, and how fucking thankful I am for them.
It’s taken me much longer then I’d assumed to mentally come to terms with the losses our family has felt over the last few weeks, then PMS hit hard, then suddenly it was August which meant I only had a month left as a full time stay at home mom, and I felt depressed for the first time in years. Of course death and huge life changes are things that anyone would naturally pair with some degree of depression, but being off my meds took it to a very unnatural level. There was an overwhelming fatigue for a few days, my nerves just screamed for my bed while wrangling a sweaty toddler all day. And I cried, so much. And then the withdrawal kicked in.

Yes, two days is all it took for my body and my brain to start panicking and searching desperately for the one thing that has successfully kept shit in order for more then 12 years. Restless Leg Syndrome was certainly the most obvious withdrawal symptom, and when you’re not sleeping properly, depressed or not, nothing is right in the world. Every night for a week I’d lay in bed crying while I twitched and stretched my muscles, then I paced the living room for a half hour before going back to bed to cry and twitch again. I was beyond irritable, beyond unmotivated, and just felt empty. Amidst all the crying, though, (seriously, so much crying) I was also reminded of how lucky I am; not only do I have a remarkably supportive family that let me nap when I could, and friends who checked in on me, I’ve also found enough self confidence to be medicated.

So many people struggle through every day, unnecessarily, because society has convinced them that turning to a prescription is weak and that NEEDING help with their mental health makes them less-than. It hasn’t always been easy for me, of course. I started my meds in high school after an episode of Oprah made me realize That how I’d been feeling was called Depression, and told no one. A few years later someone who was a best friend told me they didn’t Want me around their child anymore, after finding out I had panic attacks and took ‘drugs’.

The stigma is a motherfucker, and I know that it robs far too many good people of a better life. Especially moms. Moms who already question every parenting decision and compare themselves to every other mother on the planet and are made to feel like they need to live up to these epic standards that no one’s ever actually seen before... ‘You have a beautiful child, how can you be depressed?’ ‘How can you take care of your kids if you have panic attacks every time you feel sick?’

It’s scary, admitting you can’t do LIFE on your own. Everyone experiences the death of loved ones, job stress, the parenting rollercoaster, breakups and divorces, car accidents and unexpected financial woes... And it’s too easy to assume that EVERYONE else just does it, they just power through and they deal. Everyone else makes it look so easy, so I shouldn’t be struggling. But I hope that someone out their takes some kind of comfort in the fact that I am not everyone else.

I am doing it, powering through and dealing, but I am also medicated. I am a wife and a really great mother, and I am also medicated.  I am a really worthy human being, who just happens to be medicated. 

I’ve been taking my meds nightly again, for 8 days, and with the help of a new RLS prescription and an Ativan, I finally slept last night. Sleep is life changing. And so are the drugs. And things are finally looking up again. When the people we love pass away, it haunts us on and off, possibly for the rest of our lives, and I am still dealing with overwhelming feelings regarding Kindergarten, but at least I’ve got a stable starting place, again.


Ps. Please know that if you are one of those people who are able to take what life throws at you and conquer it naturally, I am so happy for you, and so proud of you. But, if you are someone who’s asked for help, I bow down to you because I know it’s not the easy way out. And if you are one of those people that are stuck in the middle, hurting but thinking it’s too late to seek treatment, it isn’t. It never is. We all deserve a fair chance at facing the day, and I’ve concluded that that’s what my medication is.

This Is Where It Brought Me (#bdayblog)

It's a milestone of sorts, and milestones deserve a blog entry.  I've actually been thinking on this since before the New Year started, how best to commemorate the official end of my twenties.  I considered the top 30 most defining moments in my life, but if we're being honest half of those are too dark for a happy Birthday blog.  Then there was the 30 most influential people in my life this far, but there's way more then 30 and I don't have enough brain power to narrow that list down...the first boy I kissed while listening to Michael Jackson...the elementary school friends I dreamed of musical stardom with...the high school drama teacher I always wanted to prove wrong...the doctors who refused to take my illness seriously...(blah, blah, blah).  

While reflecting though, a phrase kept coming to mind, 'this is where it brought me'.  It is a favorite quote and one I remind myself of constantly, especially when remembering or experiencing less then savory moments in life.  It's also the words I have tattooed on my foot.  So, ah ha!  A 'small' recap on the beginning 3 decades of my life as told by the ink on my skin...

1. a heart

I decided that I wanted a tattoo for my 16th Birthday, really the last Birthday I celebrated in a meaningful way.  I remember I initially drew out a butterfly and I remember how excited I was when my dad was excited to take me. Luckily, I chickened out.  I hated needles more then most things in my life, and I wanted to be so sure of the design I was getting permanently etched onto my body.  I remember passing a note between my friends asking them to vote on which design they liked best, and I remembering realizing that now I HAD to get a tattoo because I'd just told every one I was getting one.  It was nearly a year later when my dad and I finally went downtown and I laid down, humming Mariah Carey as loud as possible despite the blaring heavy metal screaming in the background.  I remember someone mentioning how cool it was that a dad was getting a tattoo when we were leaving, because at 16 I looked approximately 12 and 12 year olds don't get tattoos.  I ended up with a copy of the heart I signed my name with (not as cliché as a butterfly, but still in one of the more cliché spots to get a tattoo), and my mother screamed when we finally showed her, on a beach in Florida a few months later when I asked for sunscreen on my back.  
 

Self respect.
Self appreciation.
Self love.
A secret stamp of Self approval.

2. a star

Its a little scary that I have to go back through Facebook notes to remember which tattoo came next, and also a little scary to think I'd gotten 3 before leaving high school! 

The star in the palm of my hand might still be my favorite out of all my tattoos, that opinion likely being influenced by the fact that it's the most complimented tattoo I have.  It's the most unique skin space out of all my tattoos, many parlors don't tattoo the palms or soles of the feet because the quality can't be guaranteed.  And despite mine being done at some sketchy little joint by a shirtless guy on his smoke break, it actually looks pretty great 10 years later.  A few girlfriends wanted piercings, so we all skipped school one warm afternoon and drove to this place that was shut down soon after.  I was just there for moral support (and because I hated Math class anyways) but the guy took 10 minutes and the $40 in my wallet, and I was in love.  The words behind it were the greatest souvenir that came home with me after our grade 12 graduation trip to the Dominican.  It healed in the grossest way, and my boyfriend at the time was way less impressed then I'd hoped, but I can now ask my baby, 'where is the star?' and he opens my hands.  

No matter how far, and far apart dreams and real futures feel, no matter how far he or she is from your heart, we are all tucked in by the same stars every night. You can cry, and you can kick, or you can merely reach a little higher and realize, the stars are just as simply in the palm of your hand.

3. naked

The tattoo on the back of my neck started a personal trend, personal poetry inspiring ink.  I've found poems that I've written in journals when I was in grade 2 (the first was a very dramatic piece about a heart SMASHING into a million pieces after being stood up at the prom...) and it has served a great purpose throughout my life.  Granted (like Adele and Taylor Swift) the majority of my works are inspired my less then happy feelings and happenings, I have always been very proud of the words that come out of me.  Proud enough to tattoo them on the outside. 

Naked is a poem that was inspired by my sudden desire to be more honest with myself and about myself, while the pressure to simply fit in was as always overwhelming in high school.  I admitted certain things, and I was surprised by the backlash.  There are certainly moments where society makes it harder to be proud of who you are, and I think that's the reason this poem has remained one of my most prized.  

I also remember my best friend at the time getting mad because she already had a tattoo on the back of her neck (I'm sorry!) and it’s the only tattoo I’ve felt compelled to hide at work, as the word is often used in pervier context then a poem about self confidence.  

The clothes on my back 
on my chest 
on my wrist often overlooked, 
are just a state of mind. 
In accumulation 
I've been broken down. 
In time 
I've been able to strip down. 
Finally 
here is my raw canvas. 
Suddenly 
the world and it's colors decide to clash. 
My feet are bare 
to the glass paved busy streets 
and there is nothing left 
to protect my skin 
from Life's ever changing weather. 
I'm naked 
But I'm not the one who's cold.

4. this is where it brought me

High school was over, my physical illness hadn't quite taken control of things yet, but I was proud of how well if overcome/ learned to deal with my depression.  I found myself inside a new circle of friends thanks to a new and out of town boyfriend.  I was terrified and embarrassed when I first attempted to explain parts of my last to the new guy (the way he reacted was actually a red flag that I chose to ignore, oh hindsight), but afterwards I had a revelation.  A surprising number of shitty, shitty things happened to me and around me in the 4.5 years I attended high school but all of those shitty things added up to the wonderful thing that I felt I was after escaping that place.  The things I endured had created he most remarkable empathy within me, a trait I hold dearly.  Those shitty things solidified some of my strongest beliefs, and they made me a worthy fighter.  

Considering how great my star still looks, the words on my foot look terrible.  In my opinion!  The phrase arching with my natural arch was a pretty brilliant move (again, my opinion) but that skin apparently did not want to be tattooed.  I actually had the words redone a few years later, and the exact same spots refused to hold any ink while healing.  My husband says the worn look is fitting, considering the sentiment.  

Alone
and beneath
beneath and barely humming
kissed with eyes chocking shut
denial over heart.
Vows kindled some forest fire
while I was simply swimming in waves
upon waves
upon posture
upon waves
where fire doesn’t exist no matter how hard you doused 
upon waves 
in that gasoline.
Hope catapulted one million
doses
away
a passport stamped by creeps
Saturn
my creator and back.
Washed
rinsed
echoed
pretendingly sufficient smiles.
Corrosion 
and murder
to death
to dust floating in the brightest sunshine
gracefully tanning the strongest brow
worth every bleeding penny 
in an overflowing pocket.
This is where it brought me
and I am home in this. 

5. the light at the end of a tunnel

The tattoo on my left wrist is something I drew inspired by a poem that was (embarrassingly enough) inspired by the breakup of my post-high school relationship.  I was sad, and admittedly I crave tattoos when I'm feeling big feelings.  To be honest, I remember half joking, 'I want that pain, but a tattoo would be far more socially acceptable then cutting myself.'  This boyfriend was in no way worth hurting myself over, but it was the first time in a long time that I craved that I'd even thought about that kind of physical release.  Ironically by that point in my life the scars on my wrist were finally starting to fade and I realized I wanted to commemorate them.   

I was on my college bestie's couch in the middle of the night when I sketched this little box on the back of something in my binder. 

From here to there
seems one million miles away
Here is hollow
and lonely in bed
and thinking about the life and dreams that come true there
There is hope
It's a straight line 
from here to there
but the lights are off
and Love erased all street signs
so don't judge me for not running
I know there is where I finish
I know there
is there
I have mustered the fire
to take the first step
the light is that much closer
and we will collide
one sunrise
just like that

6. breathe and love

When Endometriosis Really kicked in I struggled with many things.  Being so physically ill made my anxiety unbearable and not knowing why I was so physically ill was suffocating.  There was a lot of 'why me' and 'why bother'. There was a lot of guilt and embarrassment.  I questioned everything and everyone, and one day I came across the only real answers I'd ever need.  

We come across situations that boil down to big questions. Big questions that we assume require big answers. But the answers are simple, even in, especially in the midst of an attack. Breathe, and love. They are the answers to all our biggest ponders. No matter how much easier it may be not to, we need to choose to breathe. No matter how much smarter it may be not to, we need to choose to love. At the end of the day, at the end of it all, we are blessed with the ability to breath, and the opportunity to love. It’s what humans have in common. Love makes it easier to breathe, and breathing makes it possible to love. No matter how frustrating, or dangerous, or terrifying, or painful it may be, breathe and love. Always breathe, and always love. 

7. hold on

The tattoo on my right wrist took a while to get.  While I'd finally received my diagnosis, and I'd found ways to cope with my anxiety, I still spent most of my time sick and alone in the bathroom.  With my arms wrapped around my middle (my right wrist the most visible) I'd always remind myself to hold on.  And then usually end up singing that epic Mr. Big tune, 'hold on little girl, show me what he's done to you, stand up little girl, a broken heart can't be that bad...' My heart has reserved a very special spot for that song ever since I first heard it on my last day of Kindergarten.  I figured it was a reminder worthy of being permanent. 

Hold on

because

you are her,

the brave

the beautiful

leader

of a lonely army.

You know you can

and you need to,

I know

you want to

so

hold on.

8. dreams do

After getting just about a tattoo a year, it was a long time before my (currently) last tattoo came to be.  I've compiled ideas, images and words that I'd love but realized I was running out of unique and fairly discreet skin to etch them on, and u knew that I'd want a tattoo to commemorate my baby(ies) whenever that might happen.  

It did happen, and it took me almost a year to decide on words from a poem that I'd written while he was still in my tummy.  It's in the crook of my arm where his head continues to fall asleep nearly every single night, and I had it done while we wandered New York City as a perfect little family.  It is by far the warmest, and fullest, and happiest sentiment as far as tattoo inspirations go.  Which I suppose sums up where it has all taken me, in 3 decades.  I'm still sick, I still have anxious days, parenting is tough and I hate winter, but I am entering my 30s as a warm, and full, and happy woman. 

dreams do

come fiercely true

through love

and sex

and magic

pure magic

shiny

fairytale magic

growing

swimming

and all mine

under a beating heart

dreams

realized

waiting to be born

for to be born

is to come true

in a world

far more beautiful

then when we fell asleep

Mental Illness Awareness Week

Now is the time, annually, that we take a slightly deeper interest in mental health. A girlfriend's well-worded blog post on the subject (http://liveitactive.wordpress.com/2013/02/12/lets-talk-about-mental-illness/) reminded me that I had to type too. 

Every year since I began suffering with a mental illness (a good 11 years now), I do feel and believe that the situation as a whole has gotten better. I do feel and believe that the world as a whole has grown more excepting, at least more tolerant of mental illness, and more aware of the importance of mental health. But mental illness is a tough thing to label, describe, and be empathetic about, so there is still so much progress that can be made. So much potential. 

Like my friend, I believe the best thing we can do for this disease, is let the world know about it. We have hundreds of drugs, and specialists, and treatment options, but not awareness. Like so many perfectly normal things in this world, mental illness still comes off as being taboo, an embarrassing handicap. This mindset leads us to denial, and by the time we start rounding 30 years old..we should all have had some experience with where denial really gets us!

Besides sever eating disorder cases, a mental illness is an invisible illness, which makes it understandably harder for outsiders to understand, or recognize. When high school friends are shocked to learn that I was diagnosed with depression in my early teens, or when coworkers are shocked to discover that I still fight daily with my anxiety, it is the greatest testament to my likely Oscar-worthy acting skills! (Thank you very much!). No one knows (knew) what I was dealing with because I'm good at hiding it (often the hiding is subconscious, and just happens naturally). When I show up to work with bags under my eyes, it's assumed I was working late, or partying late...not up all night with a gut-wrenching panic attack. Panic attacks aren't nearly as every-day normal as getting shitfaced and dancing until 3am on a Wednesday...so why would anyone assume correctly? We notice a friend is extra moody today, and we assume she must have had a fight with her on again-off again boyfriend, again, not that she's actually suffering from clinical depression and hasn't quite found a medication that works well enough for her. 

I've had the luxury of being surrounded by good, accepting people, and being raised to be confident, so it's easier for me to be an open book, where I am in my life now. Panic attacks happen, I see my pharmacist once a month, I cry like a fucking baby sometimes, and Ativan is a gift from god. Those are simple facts to me, but not to everyone. And I understand that side of things as well. 

When I first started dealing with my anxiety (because clinical depression wasn't enough for one little woman to deal with..not to mention the overwhelming physical illness..), I was never in denial, but I was embarrassed. I was 25 and while friends were entering careers and getting married and buying homes and making babies, I was living at home, forced to be unemployed, and feeling utterly pathetic. I got very good, for a while, at avoiding that stupid 'what have you been up to?' conversation when running into an old friend randomly. Then I realized just how different my life would be, had I felt comfortable enough to tell my friends and family about my depression when I was in high school. I realized how much it would have helped, if I could have been my real, honest self, and still felt normal and cool. That's when this blog started! I decided it was perfectly ok for me to type, and discuss, and joke about my personal mental illness(es), all the while hoping that it may help others feel perfectly ok to do so too. Because it should be. 

One day, depression (and anxiety, bipolar, Aspergers, agoraphobia, manic depression, OCD, etc.) will be seen the way cancer is seen. Scary, sometimes ugly, but REAL and important. Worthy of the worlds attention, and fundraising, and empathy. Until then, I appreciate the baby steps that society is taking. I appreciate professionals (like my friend) taking the time to speak out. I appreciate celebrities (Brooke Shields, Ellen's BABE of a girlfriend, Zach Braff, Cameron Diaz, Howie Mandel, etc) who are unafraid of being honest with their fans, despite their haters. I appreciate brands like Bell, who use their power to raise funds and awareness for the cause. And I appreciate those who continue to love and adore me, despite my nuts-ness ;)