Mental Miranda Rights

Blog. Web log. Log of Thoughts and Happenings. Journal.

When one connects the dots, it becomes apparent that writing a blog is essentially opening wide the pages of one’s journal and allowing the world to read.

There are certain thoughts or musings I keep between the covers of my hardcopy journal, but since I’ve started blogging, I do frequent those pages fewer and farther between.

It’s interesting seeing people whom I know read my blog.

Have they read the latest post chronicling my latest neurosis? When they ask how I’m doing, do they mean, are you stable? Or have they not read and really want to know how things are going? Do I update close friends on my true status or will I be repeating myself? Do I allude to a topic I’ve covered online, thinking they already know the details? Or am I assuming a steady readership?

I usually worry that I’m baring my soul to people with whom I’d never discuss such things in a face-to-face conversation. And will they judge me for it? Will they see me in a different light now that they know the brand of crazy I am?

We all struggle. With something. At some point. There’s some crazy skeleton hanging in every person’s closet. But most people don’t write about it and then post it on-line for the world to see (if they so choose). I’ve never had a good poker face and I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve. Perhaps I am just the sort of person who would share such details publicly. But I’ve also always been the type of person who demands that you take me as I am. I may obsess about whether you will or not. And worry myself sick if you don’t, but at the end of the day, I am who I am.

So while I might wonder if that pause between words is you calling to mind my self-indicting ones, or if that quiet look is one of pity or concern, I cannot be anything other than truthful. And there’s no sense pretending to be perfect because everyone knows that’s a lie straight out the gate anyway. I’d rather be honest and flawed.

Just don’t hold it against me.

Identity, Living, May is Mental Health Month, Mental Health

Maybe

At the beginning of May, I set out on a mental health mission. May being Mental Health Month, I wanted to dedicate a daily post to a condition of, treatment for, and/or living with mental illness. While my life is influenced by my own struggle with depression, and all of my posts are therefore colored by it, I wanted these series of posts to address mental illness and health dead on. And with the exception of one day, I did it! And learned some interesting things in the process.

What a month of blogging about mental illness and health will teach you:

Focusing on your depression and what it does to you everyday makes you even more depressed
I may have exhausted not only myself, but also those around me.
Daily blogging (I had previously blogged approximately two times a week) made this ‘stay-at-home mom’ feel like I had a purpose, a vocation, a “real” job. I had set that schedule for myself and had to stick to it. I made writing – something I truly enjoy – a priority.
Daily blogging made my house look like a pit. Making my writing a priority pushed nearly everything else to the wayside.
I need to work on time management 😉
If you write it, they will come – eventually
There are a lot of super-supportive people who write incredibly thoughtful comments.
‘I feel your pain’, though overused, is not a pile of horseshit. It is extremely powerful to connect with someone who has, indeed, felt your pain.
That I over-catastrophize (yes, I may be making up words again). I missed one day in my blog-a-day-a-month challenge and a bushel basket of chopped potatoes did not come crashing down upon my head.
That given the chance to slack, I will. June 1 rolled around and I let the rest of life come rushing back in.
That, sometimes to a fault, I engage both sides of an argument, an issue, etc. I’m forever writing that big pro/con list in the sky, which may make me come across as wishy-washy, fickle, not knowing my @## from my elbow (compare the two previous points!)
That achieving balance is to continually adjust on the tightrope of life. Urgh.
That telling your deepest, darkest fears and foibles makes you incredibly vulnerable – or at least feeling that way.
That people like to know they’re not the only one feeling that way.
That one month of posts is not enough to explore all there is to know about mental health and illness.
That although I started the month of May thinking these posts would be a departure from my usual in that they directly addressed mental health and illness, there really is no separating out depression from everyday life. It’s the constant mantle on our shoulders, sometimes blowing lightly in the wind, sometimes soaking wet with rain.

So, now it’s back to operation ‘normal’, whatever the hell that is. I did miss writing about my crazy adventures and travails as a mom. I did miss writing something “positive” or life affirming (I tried during May, but felt like most of it was heavy). I’ll be glad to write something that doesn’t make you think I loathe my children and the life I lead. But I guess I won’t be giving up writing about mental health and illness; that is woven into the fiber of my being for better or worse. Maybe I’m finally learning to live with that.

anxiety, Identity, Living, May is Mental Health Month, Mental Health, postpartum depression

The Blue Chicken or the Anxiety Egg?

Which came first?

It’s the proverbial question.

Did my anxiety beget my depression? Or am I worried how things will turn out because of my depression?

Worry-wort. My own worst enemy. Always running things through my head. So sensitive. Beating a dead horse. All of these are terms used to describe me at one time or another.

I do have a tendency to perseverate. I can’t let things go. I worry them like a dog with a bone that is impervious to bite marks. It’s not productive. It’s not reassuring. It’s a form of torment actually.

In college, after my roommate had left for the weekend, I would lie on my top bunk and stare out the window, wondering why I couldn’t go out and round up new friends as easily as everyone else seemed to be doing. I would watch the sun set, thinking how alone I was.

As August neared its end one year, I bought a thin volume entitled, Why Are You Worrying? As the cashier plugged my purchase into the register, he asked, “Are you a teacher?’ He said he’d bought the same book at the start of a school year once too. While he may have bought the book for the same reasons I did, no self-help book could help me turn off the worry. I triangulated every possible scenario in the classroom; how I would put out fires, cut off conflicts at the knees before they stood up, squash rebellion before it started. But you can’t plan for every permutation. The very nature of education is the X factor.

And this nervous nature – is that what plunged me into depression when life became so overwhelming as a mother of three? I couldn’t control anything, didn’t understand and couldn’t fix the feelings I was having, and felt really crappy as a result.

Or is it viewing life through the dark glasses of depression that makes me see the shadows of worry in every corner?

It’s all tumbled together in the dryer at the highest setting anyway.

The only ‘good’ thing about all of it is that what I thought was a flaw on my part, a weakness, an inability to achieve, connect, push myself, believe in myself, is really anxiety. I’m not this wimpy, pathetic, sad sack. I have an excuse! A reason, a rationalization, a disease. Good for me!

So chicken or egg – it’s all part of the cycle of life. All I can do is try not to get scrambled.

Identity, Living, Spirituality

Loosen the Straps of Your Sandals

It all started with sandals.

The weather is warming up and my feet are already revolting against socks. I pulled on my new pair with jeans this morning as I scrambled to get the kids to the bus stop on time. There was a cool breeze and dew on the grass, but as the youngest and I drove home from the grocery store an hour or so later, the weather was ripe enough to open the sunroof and windows.

I wiggled my toes and was reminded of another pair of sandals I had long ago that walked the streets of Rome with me.

And I thought, it was these same feet that trod those distant roads. The same feet that kicked in my mother’s womb; that padded the extra weight of my own babies around. That hiked mountains and sunk in the sand of the ocean. That have worn grooves in the floors of my house; climbed into airplanes and sailed around the world; walked into friends’ homes and down church aisles all over for all manner of reasons.

The world suddenly felt so accessible and so expansive all at the same time.

In an age when air travel and online communications make it possible to journey to distant lands in the virtual blink of an eye, it’s easy to think that we humans have seen it all, done it all, orchestrate it all. And these technologies do make the interconnectedness of the world ever more possible and ever more valued.

But when I think how these lowly feet of mine are what carried me all those miles, yet left only dusty footprints to be blown away in the wind, I realize I cannot let the world revolve around me.

Image from The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Maybe it’s our strong predisposition to self-preservation, but we humans tend to think each one of us is the center of the universe. Indeed, our experience is based in this ever-changing, evolving, highly sensory vessel called the human body. Only inhabiting the one, it makes sense that the one serves as command central. But we’re not the only one.

Today I was able to get out of my own head. I was able to see the globe as it turned and all the distinct individuals on it. I was able to get up above it and not be buried in my own little corner of it.

I can’t walk in anyone else’s shoes, but I can try to remember that I do not journey alone. And the steps of today are only part of the journey. Of mine, of the whole universe’s.

Things much bigger than me are at work. I only need wiggle my toes to remember.

Identity, Living, May is Mental Health Month, Mental Health, parenting

Christine Koh: Minimalist You: Self-Care Is Not Selfish

Christine Koh: Minimalist You: Self-Care Is Not Selfish.

My last post is a perfect segue to this, no? Ha!

Simply put, I suck at self-care. Obviously (if you read yesterday’s post!).

But I can’t function without it – which is why I struggle with mothering a lot.

Does that make me a failure as a mother or a person because I need it?

Last month, my youngest was sick. While her two older sisters were at school, she slept in bed. I wrote the whole time. I felt so alive, so rejuvenated. I had time to formulate thoughts, solutions, ideas for my writing, to move beyond the small task at hand. How excited I got and how invigorated I felt to face life and motherhood after that.

But that was tempered with a guilt. Why couldn’t I find joy in my children even without such creative time?

How do we care for ourselves when we don’t feel worthy of it?

Or when we don’t even have the energy for it? When depression drags you down so much that even getting out of bed takes too much energy, let alone getting dolled up and entering the world.

It truly is a vicious cycle.

But read this article and follow some or all of its tips. Self-care is worth it, whether we believe it – or in ourselves – or not. And if we don’t, it’s been proven that faking a smile actually lifts one’s spirits so fake that you enjoy that yoga class and maybe one day you will. (Quoth the reverend who needs to review the Ten Commandments 😉 )

Identity, motherhood, parenting

Contradiction in Terms

For all the bitching I do about taking care of my children, I stood listless on my porch this afternoon as I watched them drive away with their grandparents.

When you take away the main reason for my modus operandi, where does that leave me?

A skiff adrift, a compass needle with no magnetic pull, a mother with empty arms and a quiet mind.

I stood there for a moment, thinking I should literally be jumping for joy as I face down a weekend alone with my husband. But I couldn’t get past the immediate feeling of ache. A dull feeling somewhere around my solar plexus as I watch my babies leave.

They waved, and beeped, and yelled goodbye out the window.

And then I thought, okay, now what do I do with these hands, now idle, but so out of practice. The hands and mind forget what it’s like to do something other than the constant care of children.

But once I allowed the thought in, my mind raced with possibilities. I can write on the deck under the umbrella! I can read in the sun. I can put my feet up and have a nice cool drink.

What did I do?

I finished the laundry I’d started before they left. I unpacked the schoolbags they’d forgotten about in their rush out the door. I swept the crumbs they’d left under the table at dinner last night.

Giving me time off is an exercise in futility, no?

No.

Remember when your child was an infant and that hour during which they slept and the floor clear of squeak toys and random detritus was like heaven? And then they woke up and flung everything from its cute little basket and all over the floor all over again?

Now imagine a larger child. Now multiple that by three. Now multiple that cute little basket into one huge mess of stuff. All over the house.

This weekend is like that nap. If I can clear all the stuff away now as soon as possible after their departure, I can enjoy a house free of gak for that much longer. And I rushed around and did it as quickly as I could so I could still get to my laptop and get some writing in before my husband came home.

Time with the hubby is sublime. But it’s also nice to feed our own soul.

What do we go to first? How do we prioritize when every item on the list is important? Dabble in a little of each so we can appreciate each in its contrast? I don’t rightly know. Hell, the one time I clean the house is when I should be eating freakin’ bon-bons while soaking in the bathtub.

I miss myself when the kids are here. I miss my babies when they’re gone. I miss quiet conversations (I’d even go for simply uninterrupted) with my husband. I miss doing whatever the hell I want because no one is demanding anything of me.

I am a contradiction in terms. And I have a whole weekend off to celebrate it.

Identity, Living, May is Mental Health Month, Mental Health

A Lilac Reflected

The smell of lilacs brings me back.

To times when I awaited its coming bloom as the harbinger of spring; the pregnant buds popping with possibility.

The full bush that marked the property line at my parents’ house, silhouetted by the setting sun, a gorgeous reminder of breaking bonds as it arched toward the ground in riotous bloom.

The fragrance itself traditional and old-fashioned, yet fresh with new life.

Its smell transports me to an airy evening when I wore a gown of the same color and played princess for the night, full of promise and youthful oblivion.

Now it makes me sad. Longing for the childhood home I left and the life I left behind.

While the memories may be sweet, they make me long for a simpler time and mourn what I’ve lost in attaining this more difficult one. There are most certainly huge gains I’ve made in this new life; experiences and people I wouldn’t trade for the world.

But I feel fractured.

I don’t know where the split occurred, at what exact point, or if it’s something that can be stitched together. It boggles me how I can be one thing and another at the same time.

The medicine cabinet above our sink has three mirrored doors, that open in segments, but close to make one “continuous” mirror – except it doesn’t work. The seams are clearly visible, a disturbance of the image, a change of light seeping through. If the doors are even slightly ajar, the image is distorted. My shape changes, my countenance warped.

Is depression not such a mirror?

I can no longer see myself except through this lens. It filters everything in my life. The longing for carefree days. The resentment of the daily obligations of today. The beauty and joy of life in its many forms.

In some ways, depression has given me a clarity of view I never had. In others, it has clouded my perception like the fog on a bathroom mirror after a scalding hot shower.

Perhaps one day, I will be able to enjoy the smell of lilacs without a wistful feeling. Perhaps one day, I can look in the mirror and see a cohesive image reflected.

Identity, Living, May is Mental Health Month, Mental Health, Spirituality

Where Is My God When It Hurts?

Another great post from Cate Redell at Infinite Sadness . . . or Hope?

Her thoughts are what runs through many a tormented mind, I think, trying to figure out why its owner is suffering.

In the darkest days of my postpartum depression, I peered into every corner, lifted every heavy layer up, searching for some reason why this was happening to me; some redeeming seed I took take forward and grow into something useful.

God is not vengeful. I don’t think this was put upon me as punishment. I don’t think I deserve this.

But are there some lessons I can take from it?

I work extremely hard at controlling things, often to my own detriment. I am horrible at admitting I need or asking for help, much to my misery. I am a perfectionist, punishing myself with an impossible ideal.

When my world spun out of control, these were all things that were impossible to maintain.

And from my earliest days, God instilled in me a desire to help others. If even one person could learn from my suffering, would that be the reason for it? My ability to not lose faith and turn my trials into something positive?

In the end, it’s all about perspective and how we choose to react to what’s given us.

Cate’s post gets to the heart of that. Enjoy!

Infinite Sadness... or hope?

Last week I wrote about struggling to find hope in the midst of the chronic pain and fatigue of fibromyalgia (see Fatigued Hope). I admit I’m still battling this one. I don’t think there is a simple answer, yet I am frustrated by having previously written about hope, but not being able to find it to apply in this situation.

A number of people commented, in relation to that post, that I should perhaps look to my spiritual beliefs. Hence my question: where is my God when it hurts? The question is phrased as it is because I believe that spirituality is an individual thing, and as such where your God is when I hurt is not actually of much significance to me. It is in terms of how you might find comfort in your trials, but for me personally, it only about my perception of who my God…

View original post 1,215 more words

Identity, Uncategorized, Writing

Fresh (fresh), Exciting

Just call me Kool and the Gang!

WordPress editors deemed my latest post ‘press-worthy’; that is, good enough to be featured on the ‘Freshly Pressed’ page. Woo Hoo!

Insert video of Wayne and Garth bowing in unworthiness here.

I am so pleased and honored and grateful to the folks at WordPress for sharing my work. And to all of you who came to read it and hang on for the ride! A thousand thank yous!

Identity, motherhood, parenting

The Sound of Shutters

My kids are hams. Crack out a camera and they strike a pose. As soon as the shutter closes, they spring forward, hovering above my shoulder to see the image on the digital display.

Please understand – I have not conditioned them to this. In fact, I quite discourage it. I am from the camp of ‘candid is king’. Plus, I don’t want them anywhere near the most expensive camera we’ve ever owned, albeit several years behind the times by now.

I don’t want them obsessed with their perceived image. I don’t want them so invested in the perfect snapshot that they don’t live in the present moment. I don’t want the canned smiles and stiff expressions.

I want to capture the true essence of who they are and the moment we’re experiencing.

Then the camera turns on me.

There’s always one member of the family who is nearly nonexistent in the family albums, isn’t there? Growing up, that was my dad. The family’s official photographer, we have countless photos of holiday dinner tables laden with full plates, anxiously awaited by full chairs, except the one he’d vacated to take the shot. The next frame might include him switched out by one of my aunts, but never the whole set unless he’d packed the tripod that day.

Now, most of the time, that’s me.

When my husband mans the camera, I’m usually focused on the children in some manner of loving gaze (and if not that, some manner of goofy face) – probably because I’ve forgotten how to pose. I can’t smile on demand. It’s too taxing, too fake. I know I’m not at my best and don’t want to capture that on film or digital download.

For all the lessons I want my children to soak up, I haven’t had a single picture of me as my profile pic on Facebook for years. There have been family portraits, my daughter unleashing a primal scream at a particularly low point, a flower I stenciled onto my wall above my writing desk – never me by myself. I honestly couldn’t find one I liked enough. Is it because I hadn’t been candid enough to capture my true essence? Or because I’d been too candid and didn’t like what I saw?

Last week, as we exited the trailhead of a hike we’d made in the White Mountains, my husband called to me and snapped a pic as I turned. I threw my arms up and bugged my eyes out and grimaced(?) – I don’t know what that was. The next frame, I smiled. When we returned home, as I reviewed the pictures, I deemed that second one as close to a true capture of me as I’d had in a long time. Was it because I was in my long-abandoned hiking garb? Because I was partaking of an activity that long ago defined me and my beliefs and was long ago abandoned? Was it because I’m sick of a caricature of myself and ready for authenticity – or acceptance – or a new perspective?

In any event, I uploaded it to Facebook as a new profile pic. It was as the comments rolled in asking if I was summoning the forces of nature or singing ‘The Sound of Music’ that I realized I’d uploaded the grimace shot and not the smile. The most-telling comment, I think, was one that said, “The perfect representation of motherhood.” I laughed out loud, all too knowingly. Whether it was the ‘come on, guys’ attitude one person suggested or the stress of packing a family of five up for a road trip or the persistent frustration of getting little people to tow the line, the look on my face pretty much is the perfect representation of motherhood for me right now. And another reason why I don’t want my picture taken anymore.

Maybe because it’s not about me and pictures just remind me of that.

But even though I crown myself the ‘Queen of Candids’, I can still artfully edit the pics I chose to focus on. I can focus on the smiles and the fun and the love instead of the grimaces and struggle and pain.

Or I can try anyway . . . until the shutter rotates open to let in more light.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: Identity