My Son's Depression

Mental illness runs deep in my family for many generations.  And these are only the diagnosed cases.  I saw psychological issues my entire life, though initially I didn't have a name for the craziness.  I saw families torn a part, insane behavior and people left to be a shell of themselves.  I was scared it would happen to me and even more fearful it would happen to my children.

I tell people my aunt died at 51 of mental illness.  It's an easy explanation and rarely does anyone question me further.  We don't really know how she died; there was alcohol, pills and also the possibility she was killed (crazy side story).  But making a blanket mental illness statement is easiest.  She was an artist and used her art as therapy a lot to process what had happened to her.  Horrifying paintings depicting self hatred and abuse. She had a lifetime of pain and it's hard not to believe that maybe her death was the best thing that could have happened to her tortured heart.

When I got pregnant I wanted a boy.  I hoped, prayed, begged and rubbed my belly every day saying, "Boy Boy Boy" as if I could will the Y chromosome in me.  I was terrified of having a girl.  In my head all the women in the family had mental illness so if I could just have a boy then he'd be safe.  I later learned of the male suicides and had male family members get taken down by it.  I also felt that a girl would be destroyed by my father and having a boy he'd have a chance.  Once my son was born I had my tubes tied so there would be no chance of a baby girl coming from me.

My son's depression seemed to come on after a break up with a horribly abusive ex-girlfriend, though I expect it was happening before then and this is actually what enabled her to keep him.  I tried talking to him, got him a therapist (who he thankfully loves and is still with to this day), made some medication attempts that ended horribly.  A lot of ups and downs but then it felt like it all got very dark for him. If I didn't hear from him at a certain time my first fear was that he'd killed himself.  I'd go into a panic texting, calling, texting my ex-husband, Facebook messages, Twitter messages, Instagram messages and once even charging into the house screaming his name until I found him sleeping in bed.

I don't know how to help my son anymore.  I encourage, check in, offer guidance, pay for therapy but it never feels like enough.  And I do understand this; I know all of these things never got me out of my deepest depression...I wanted it and did it myself.  (Side note: this in no way takes away from therapy, medication and self care.  Hard stop.)  I wanted so much better for him.  I'm mad at it all but nowhere to direct it; mad at my genes, at life, at the universe and at the unknown.

A Big Hard Birthday

I have a difficult birthday coming up in four days.  I'm turning 50.  Yes, it's a time for celebration, and my friends have gone over the top with making sure I feel loved, cared for and not alone.  Yet that number.  That fucking number.  When I hit other age milestones I didn't care that much.  At 30 my son was still a baby and I was so caught up in him that I have no memory of that birthday at all.  40 was a little daunting, and I didn't appreciate my age being written on my calf in marker as I did a triathlon the next day.  Though turning 50 isn't what it's used to be, it clearly signifies your youth is over.

I'm scared to say this, as I've spent a lifetime cutting myself down to beat you to the punch, but I look the best I've ever looked in my life.  I can actually look at some pictures and not cringe and cry as I would before.  I went to a check up with my doctor and she kept looking back at her computer screen, then to me, and back at the screen before she laughed a little.  I said, "Something wrong?".  She said, "No, not at all.  I just have to keep reminding myself you're not in your 30's.  I'm getting notices of all the baselines checks and tests we should be doing for you turning 50 soon and yet there is nothing about you that presents this way.  You are the youngest 49 year old I've ever treated."  How can I look younger but not look like I'm trying to look younger is my daily battle.

We don't get much of a break as women in this area.  It feels like we're not allowed to talk about the reality of what we're facing as it comes back as something to be made fun of, or worse yet something to be used against us.  Either you've let yourself go or if you present as too sexy then you're a cougar on the prowl.  I'm none of these things.  I walk a line between feeling powerful, owning my strength and being proud of my wisdom that age has given me, while on the other side there is shame, fear and regrets that I push aside as they are too painful and nothing I'm able to change.  I go back and forth between insecurity "Do I look OK?  Do I look old? Am I enough?" and "Fuck your opinions".  It's a tiring way to live.

I love pivotal moments.  I love rituals to celebrate, to cleanse and to renew.  So I am looking at the calendar on the last days of my 40's and asking myself, "What is the life you want?  You are closer to death than ever.  You can no longer procrastinate.  All the choice is yours....what do you want?"   First, and I've said this since my divorce, is that I want happiness.  And with the exception of shoes and make up (mind your business...you have something too), I don't care at all about things. I want experiences.  I want to eat well as I laugh with friends.  I want to see amazing sunrises all over the world.  I want to be honest.  Brutally honest.  I want to say, "No".  I want my pain to mean something.  I want to have the bravery to share my most horrific experiences that I survived so someone else feels hope.  I want to release the opinions of others.  I want to make sure those around me know I love them.  

As with most of my blog posts, I don't have a special conclusion here, and I'm OK with that.  Most of life doesn't have perfect answers.  We're all broken, damaged and kicking and clawing our way to our next happy moment.  You're allowed to make mistakes.  Life is full of bad choices.  You're also allowed your own redemption and your own ways to find joy.  It will be over soon....Lets go be happy.

Your Perception

I hate weddings.  When I say hate I don't mean it in the weddings are boring, archaic and a general drag. I mean hate in terms of wanting to slit my throat with a dull knife to get out of it.  Hate them.  But I went to a wedding, or rather had an adventure, where it was magical, lovely and beautiful.  This post isn't about weddings, or my core belief I'll never find love, but about my journey to and from this wedding and the self discovery that happened.

I try to keep my blog rather anonymous so I won't name names here, but a little backstory on what brought me to the Wheel of Bliss retreat center in Hot Springs, North Carolina for a Hippie Mountain Wedding.  I met my friends who married as they were just beginning their journey together.  One was having his 30th birthday party and invited all of his thousands of Facebook friends.  I'd found him, as he was a Christian blogger, and had been following him for sometime but we'd never met.  I saw the party was in Minneapolis, realized that I'd know no one and clearly be the oldest there by a good 15+ years (I'm probably being kind to myself here)....GOING!  I knew he liked yoga so I reached out and asked if he'd like a private class for his birthday.  This morphed into renting a phenomenal space in NE Minneapolis, private candlelit class with a theme of "I am enough".  With the exceptions of the 2 classes I taught at his wedding, I still rank this as the most powerful class I've ever taught (and of no credit to me...the energy in the room was felt by all).  I've become close to these two over the years and was thrilled to be invited to be part of their day.

I also had the honor and joy of meeting another Facebook friend who is one of my biggest supporters and a dear close friend.  We talk nearly every day but had never met.  Flew in to meet her, had an amazing time and then way too soon she was dropping me off at the rental car place for me to drive to the wedding.

Renting a car scared me.  I've done it before but someone was always with me.  This felt daunting and lonely.  I was terrified they'd try to sell me extra insurance and I'd be stuck paying because they would be too persistent for me to say no.  It was easy, car rented, I was decently comfortable in it and off.

Driving in the North Carolina mountains was beautiful and terrifying for me.  My achrophobia was killing me as I went down steep inclines.  This also brought up scary memories of another time I drove a long distance alone.  I was 19 with just enough money for gas and some food and that's it.  No cellphone, no credit card, no GPS, no one to call for help.  I was driving from San Francisco to Los Angeles.  I looked at the sun rising, figured out which way was south and started driving.  My car was a total piece of shit with nothing but a gas gauge and speedometer.  I had a gallon of water and some bagels.  Panic attack the entire way.  With a brief detour in Compton, I made it.

I had to remind myself this was no longer that experience, I was no longer that person and that I would survive.  I told myself of all my resources: phone, credit cards, cash, AAA, internet, to keep myself grounded.  Yet I still had to tell myself to breathe.  Once I was deep in the mountains I lost texting and internet but my GPS kept going.  It directed me to the First Baptist Church of Hot Springs "Your destination is on the left".  The humor wasn't lost on me.  

I then saw there was a Welcome Center, so surely they could help me.  Walked in asking for the Wheel of Bliss retreat center and the old hippie at the desk had never heard of it.  My resources were mostly gone for getting there and I held back tears.  He looked up the website and said he loves places like this and is always looking for one.  He called some "spiritual people" he knows and one explained it was on Meadow Fork and not Meadow Lane as the website had said.  Another 30 minutes away "you're about to go on a very twisty road", "I though the road was already twisty!"...dead look.  So I started twisting and turning my way around the mountain.  It was the craziest curvy road I'd ever seen.  The motion sensor on the car, to keep you in your lane, was beeping out of control. Fighting through tears I pressed on.  When I got to my location the caretaker was there and directed me in.  It looked like I had to take a left and plummet down a huge hill.  He assured me I was fine, and though I wasn't convinced I made the turn.  I pictured the car going over a ravine where I'd surely fall to my death but not after a torturous ride down.  Again trying to regain my bearings I found the parking (up a huge hill), and not understanding how far up another hill the retreat center was, I hauled my huge suitcase up a gravel road in the mountain.  When I arrived I was trying to be cool but I'd had it.  Everyone was welcoming and kind and I softened to the moment.

The wedding was wonderful.  I was accepted and loved and truly felt happy for their joy (I typically don't feel this).  But I had to get back.  I drank and smoked a lot, as I was upset over some other things at home, but also in panic about the drive back through those mountains.  I woke up my final morning and walked back to the entrance where I was sure the steepest more harrowing incline was...and it was a little hill.  It was nothing.  Even in my fear I knew I could drive out.  I started driving down that twisting road that I'd come in on and it was actually pretty peaceful. 

I started to make my way back over the mountains, preparing myself for the panic to come back and deciding how I was going to breathe through this.  After awhile I calmed, even allowed myself to play some music and sing.  I kept wondering when the big mountains would come.  I found I was then 30 minutes from my original location and I'd already gone over the mountains.  They weren't so big after all.

I really wish I had better insights here than the tired old "perception is everything' or "change the way you look at things", but that's it.  I had blown up my fears to the point of being in physical pain.  I had decided the ride would be scary and bad...and it was scary and bad.  I smirked on the plane going back as I thought of my ride back and how it was calm and easy.  I have PTSD and my survival responses are to be on high alert.  Yet the danger wasn't real.  I wasn't alone.  I have people who care what happens to me.  

I even changed my perception on the address glitch and the old hippie at the Welcome Center...I've decided I needed to get off my path to let him know of this place, before I could continue my journey.  

We're all going to make it.  It's not the end.

My Body Pain and My Emotional Pain

I've written before about my condition, Seronegative Spondyloarthropathy, which falls under the fibromyalgia umbrella, and the continual body pain I experience.  I lead an active life, smile and laugh a lot, and most days hide the agony I'm in.  I push through where others would probably lie down in defeat.  Now I don't consider my resilience to be any great attribute of mine, but more my anger and denial that this is happening to me and there seems to be nothing I can do.  As I've said in previous posts about this, please don't give me ideas of what you think I should be doing.  I have nearly 30 years of this and I'm well-versed in possible treatments.  

I was reading an article yesterday written by Lady Gaga about her PTSD diagnosis and how it expresses in body pain.  She writes, "when I am unable to regulate my anxiety, it can result in somatization, which is pain in the body caused by an inability to express my emotional pain in words".  This resonates deeply.  

I've been drinking a lot lately.  Self-medicating.  After writing my previous post about watching a friend blow up her life by being with an abuser she married the fucker.  And blocked me.  I'll just leave that there as there is nothing I can do at this point.  I found after writing that post, and witnessing her horrific choices, that I was sobbing on a daily basis.  At first I thought it was hormonal as I do have PMDD (yes, a life of medical acronyms is quite a treat), but it kept going on much longer than it should.  And while normally I can put on a brave face in front of others I was uncontrollably breaking down.  The pain in my body became horrendous which resulted in me trying to numb it more.  I told a few close friends about the crying but not the pain, as being in agony is part of my daily existence.

So though I see a direct correlation between a PTSD trigger and pain, I don't know what to do about it.  As with most things in life, I keep trying new ideas, take what works and leave the rest.  Though some days nothing works.  There are many times the answer is feel the pain.  Feel the emotional pain, feel the body pain and feel the anguish of not being able to do anything else.  All this pisses me off to no end.  Yet it's my reality.  

So I'll wipe my tears, rub some CBD oil on my neck, take a deep breath and face the day.  Failing isn't an option for me.

Witnessing another's self-destruction

Though I do still process my trauma from my past, all in all I'm pretty far along in my healing journey.  Triggers still happen but they don't immobilize me as they used to.  The horrific events no longer overshadow today.  Yet what can bring it all rushing back in vivid color and terror is watching it happen to another person with no way to stop it.  

I currently have two friends dealing with abusive relationships.  One of the two just got out, and though struggling, she's waking up each morning to do the work to get to the other side.  The other is in deep and won't admit to what is right in front of her face.  I've expended way too much energy on this, as she has made it clear she's staying and doesn't want help, yet I can't look away.

My best friend told me "You are allowed to walk away from this.  You do not have to be her savior.  You are allowed to save yourself first."  I agreed, and thanked her for the reminder, but added that when I talk openly about what happened to me, when I share my truth, and the few times I help someone get out, it heals me just a little more.  It's all a delicate balance that I need to observe and stay aware of when I'm helping another or when I'm hurting myself.

I'm well versed in what abuse looks like both from my personal experience as well as hearing the stories of others, helping get protection orders, calling the police and pleading with friends to leave before they are killed.  Abuse is tricky as it's not simply a matter of being punched in the face and walking away forever.  Abuse cycles are well known yet you excuse it away when you are in it as you don't want to believe this could happen to you.

When you watch someone in an abusive relationship it can be maddening to see them ignore this monster's actions.  Though it can manifest in many different ways, in my experience it always starts like this: the victim meets someone and instantly feels they are everything they've ever wanted, claim to be in love before getting to know them, fast relationship status (which sometimes means marriage) and very shortly after the first incident happens.  The first time they are abused they tend to be a bit dumbfounded.  There is cognitive dissonance because this person was supposed to be the soul mate they've always wanted yet their behavior switched on them.  While still in shock, and maybe even ending it briefly, the abuser comes back with words of love, apology, gifts and promises.  The victim wants to believe those things, and not look at the reality of the situation, and goes back once again.  This pattern continues and only intensifies and gets worse with each incident.  The victim needs to hit a rock bottom before getting out....and hopefully rock bottom isn't their death.  

I'm getting flashes of the stories I've heard and what I've seen in my lifetime.  Watching my mother's body fly across the porch as her abuser beat her, hearing a friend tell of having her hand broken by a shovel and while hiding in her bedroom being told, "I'll kill you and dance on your grave.  I'll fuck your mother up the ass.", seeing my coworker come in with more makeup daily to hide the bruises.  In every one of these situations this wasn't the first time, as they all had domestic violence records a mile long.  

To my friend: I wish I'd had the perfect words to convey to you that he's a piece of shit.  I wish you saw your worth and weren't swayed by his lies.  I know you are mad, or at least annoyed, that I'm not falling for his bullshit and continue to call it out.  I know he's isolating you more and more from anyone that poses a threat to him.  I'm terrified for you.  But know this; you aren't alone and I am ready and waiting to help when you finally see that he's an abusive predator.  I hope it's not too late.

To myself: you did the best you could.  When you ultimately hit rock bottom you scratched and clawed your way out.  You've done amazing inner work and should be proud, as so many give up and never try.  You did it.

My Story Is Not My Own

Though I have a draw, dare I say a calling, to talk about things I don't actually want to talk about, I'm still hesitant.  I've been bold, I've revealed secrets, I've been raw, but I'm holding back.  You see my story isn't my own.  My story, all of our stories, have other characters.  I'm facing that to speak my truth means talking about experiences others don't want shared.  This story isn't only about me.  

I'm the villain in other people's stories.  Though if they said the awful thing I did, I can fully justify it (to myself) that I had good reason for my actions.  But to tell about the bad people in my life, or at least poor responses and actions, means opening it up for them to speak about me. It's fair.  Am I prepared for the ramifications of sharing the stories where it's not all about me?

I hate confrontation.  I despise conflict.  No, I don't want to talk about it.  Though the real bottom line is I don't want to hurt anyone.  With the exceptions of a few evil monsters along the way, I'm not looking for retaliation.  What I say may bring embarrassment to others.  Would you want your worst mistakes told out loud?  

Now though all this is the complete truth there is one big thing I'm not saying: I fear critique.  The internet is a hard core place where people can hide behind a computer or phone and rip you to shreds.  I fully own I'm too insecure to face that kind of ridicule. Or worse...laughter.  

So just don't say anything, right?  But it's eating me up.  I'm no savior but I know I have important, and awful, experiences that someone needs to hear.  I have what...30-40 years left at best?  I don't believe in an after life, so why do I care?  Perhaps only the writers, creatives and empaths will understand....I need to say it.  

Scarcity

I realized a made a big financial mistake today.  The short version is I thought I was contributing to an HSA but it was an FSA (use it or lose it) and I missed the deadline and lost quite a bit of money.  OK, no one died, I'm fine but my fears of not having enough, not making it and survival are spinning out of control. Lesson learned, and it won't matter in the end, but it was my mistake.  My Mistake.  My Fault.  My Screw Up.  If you've read even a few of my posts you'll know that I'll get near ill at anything I don't do perfectly (which is pretty much everything).  

I won't say I grew up poor; we had food, clothing and vacations, but there was a scarcity mentality.  My father acted like we could be desolate at any moment and frequently said so.  There was never a comforting, "You don't need to worry because your parents will take care of you."  Money was something to be worried about and feared.  Once my parents divorced when I was 15 we were flat out poor  No new school clothes and cream of chicken soup with noodles every night for dinner.  I once stole a bra from JC Penneys because I knew my mother didn't have the money to get me a new one.  I came home sobbing and begging forgiveness to Jesus saying "What else could I do???". 

From then on life was about hustle.  I knew no one was going to take care of me and I was on my own.  I can't recall the last time I worked only 1 job.  My near constant thought was "What will happen to me if I don't have enough?"  And enough of what?  Money?  Food?  Clothes?  Shelter?  Any of it, all of it, even the unseen and unknown.  What bad thing might happen to me and would I be prepared to handle it?  

This lead to a life of a scarcity mindset.  I remember once trying to choose between a pretty sweater I loved and some cheap t-shirts on clearance.  I had the concern that if there was a war that I would need t-shirts to work in a machine shop and the beautiful sweater would be of no use.  Was a fucking war eminent?  NO!  Yet somehow I was in terror that I might not be properly attired to be Rosie the Riveter.  Anxiety doesn't always make sense.  I bought the cheap t-shirts.

I've had the overwhelming desire to get rid of all the shit I don't use.  Marie Kondo the hell out of my place.  Now while being a big task this is much more about the petrifying fear it will bring.  The shame of all the things I purchased and never used.  The breath stopping panic that I might get rid of something I'll need later and then won't have the means to get another.  

Back to my mistake.  Again, I'm fine but it was a doozie.  I'm livid at myself.  Not allowing myself any grace here.  But maybe, in going with my commitment to allow hope for a year, just maybe I can be OK.