Loosening and untying

Hi.

It's been awhile, I know. And I'm not sure why.

Normally, I feel like I have things I want to write about - things I'm thinking about, things I'm experiencing. I have done this for almost 11 years. It has been an emotional outlet and a connection with the world - the readers I know about and those that I don't.

But for the past few months, I have felt paralyzed, communicationally-speaking. There are so many areas of my life that I'm trying to sort out from a psychological perspective that the various strands have become entangled and knotted, like necklaces carelessly tossed into a box. Writing about them seems impossible, both because I'm still sorting them out in my head, but also because it feels too personal.

I feel those knots physically. My chest is always slightly tight, my breathing isn't as deep as it should be. I'm perpetually anxious. My heart feels like it's beating too close to the surface of my skin.

Exercise helps. I find that when I wake up in the morning feeling like I'm two steps away from being in the throes of a full-blown anxiety/panic attack - and I feel this way almost every day - the exertion from a super strenuous workout can push the anxiety in my chest to the side. It doesn't go away altogether, but it's abated somewhat.

If I have to be anxious and nervous all the time, at least I'll be in shape.

It's not like I'm particularly unhappy. The kids are great. It's summer, so we've got our annual Outer Banks beach trip coming up in a few weeks. The mountains beckon with beautiful hiking trails. The neighborhood pool opens this weekend. I've got tickets to Red Rocks shows.

But I have an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about where I am in my life, and where I want to be. I know I'll figure it out, but it's a hard process.

Crossroads

Nine years ago tonight, I was walking the halls of Kapi'olani Medical Center, trying to power my way through what would end up a 25 hour effort to get my cervix dilated to 10 centimeters so that I could meet my son - a big, strong, healthy boy who just about broke me in two.

I was living in a strange place where I didn't really know many people at all. My family and friends were halfway around the world and I felt very isolated and alone. I worked from home and didn't have a chance to interact with other people much, outside of some of the neighbors, none of whom I felt any particular kinship with.  Hawaii is a beautiful place, but without any family or real friends or sense of community, I found it to be very provincial and an unpleasant place to live. I honestly don't have any desire to ever go back.

Now I am in Denver, on the eve of my wonderful son's 9th birthday. And as much I truly enjoy living here - as much as Denver, as a place, is the best place I've ever lived - I'm once again finding myself feeling very isolated and alone.

I've mentioned in the past how extremely compartmentalized my life feels. Half the time, I am a single mother, with everything that that entails. My children are vibrant and beautiful and energetic and busy and difficult and all-consuming. We fill our days. I try to establish routines but also to infuse them with as much of my essence and love as I can before they have to leave and be without me again. I often feel like I am failing and flailing. I do the best that I can, but deep down, I don't believe that it's enough.

I see them struggle emotionally sometimes, especially Zeke. I wonder if it's just them being them, dealing with the trials of growing up as they normally would. Or maybe the divorce messed them up - maybe I messed them up. I feel guilty, like I have failed them. Like I am unworthy of them and of no good to them. (Add to this all the other reasons I regularly feel like I'm an abject failure at life, and you've got a real recipe for me in a laugh-a-minute mood).

And then they're gone for a time, and my life utterly changes. I don't have lunches to make in the morning, I don't have to get them up and out the door and to school. I can leave work late and go get a massage or meet friends out.

But mostly I'm alone.

I have friends and a little bit of family here.  But people are busy with their own lives and families, and trying to coordinate everyone's schedules to get together means we're having to plan weeks or even months out. My mom and I talk and lament that if we were closer, we'd see each other all the time. But we don't, and we can't.

Thought it doesn't often seem like it, I am self-conscious and naturally a bit introverted, so I feel awkward and unwelcome trying to include myself into other peoples' lives and events. It's easier to be alone because the emotional effort it takes to not be alone is so exhausting.

And sometimes I don't mind being alone. But lately, I've felt crushingly lonely.

The birthday month - the month including and in between the kids' birthdays (which fall exactly a month apart) - has been hard.  Both weekends, the kids have been with their dad and had birthday parties there that I have not been allowed to attend.

It has been overwhelmingly hurtful to me, far more than I could have anticipated. Partly because it's so hurtful to them - they repeatedly told me they wanted me there and asked why I wouldn't be, and all I could say was, "because I'm not invited." But it's also hurtful to me. And it's bewildering, because it's a course of action that I would never take in a million years.

It's just two days out of the year. People try to comfort me and tell me that I have to let it go. That I shouldn't let it bother me. That there's nothing I can do about it, so I need to get over it.

I know that they are right. That everything they are saying is true. That if I let it get to me, I will be allowing myself to be consumed by something that I can't control.

But the pain has been intense. I thought that as time went on and the reality of the divorce and the split custody situation became the norm, that I would get more used to it. But rather than getting easier to deal with, it has gotten harder, particularly on their birthdays. My birth days.

I try to think and reason and write my way out of it. Or go on long, grueling hikes like the one I did yesterday (I got lost and ended up tacking on an extra mile and a half, so by the time I got home I was toast).  The exertion pushes the bad feeling away, if only for a little while.

But then the feeling comes back. And I realize that the advice people try to give - don't let it get to you, don't take it personally - isn't what I need. I don't need to be told to let it go, at least not initially. I need to allow myself to feel shitty until I don't feel so shitty anymore.  I need someone I trust to envelop me in a hug or just hold my hand and say, "I know you feel awful, and I'm so sorry that you do. It sucks."

I will write Zeke his birthday post tomorrow, celebrating all of the reasons he continues to delight me and fill me with love and pride. For now, I will allow myself to feel hurt, because I am.

Here comes the rain again

It's been a long time since I've written about depression, or about being someone with a diagnosis of depression.  When it's been so well managed for so long, it falls off the radar.  You take medication that works. You exercise regularly. You feel good.

Horrible things might happen - and they are horrible - but the shock and sadness don't feel like depression.  They feel like shock and sadness. In other words, like they're supposed to.

So when you have a monstrously shitty weekend, for reasons that don't even really matter, you're prepared to feel monstrously shitty. But you're not prepared to have it feel like depression used to feel.

Not prepared for the feeling of hopelessness. Of worthlessness. Of being unloved and unlovable. Of rejection and isolation. Betrayal. Confusion. Humiliation. Loneliness. One bad feeling engendering another, like a snowball.  

It's been so long since you've had those feelings, it knocks you on your ass. And wears you out. The exhaustion is overwhelming. Emotional exhaustion. Exhaustion from feeling like you're once again back on your heels and playing defense in a battle that you thought was over. Exhausted from feeling awful, and by the prospect of waking up tomorrow and continuing to feel like this.

All you want to do is go to sleep and not wake up for a long, long time.

Of course, that's not an option. There is work to do, employees to supervise, a house to maintain, children to raise. You know that you have to get up in the morning and attend to responsibilities.  And most likely, and with any luck, you'll wake up in the morning and things won't feel so grim. Everything will be OK.  A good night's sleep, and some perspective, can do that.

But right now, it sucks. It's astounding how much it sucks.

The final straw

So many cards were stacked against her.

Depression ran in her family, and it affected her.  While she was bubbly and funny and interesting on her best days, other days were a struggle.

I have been lucky in my battle against depression.  It took me a long time to understand the symptoms and to know how to deal with them, but I've gotten there.  Between that, regular exercise, and medication, it's managed. Now when I'm sad, it's because I have something to be sad about. But I don't get that amorphous, free-floating sense of anxiety for which I am unable to pin-point a cause.  I don't remember the last time I had that feeling of a heavy, cold metal ball lodged in my chest when it wasn't tied to an actual event.

She wasn't so fortunate.

And then tragedy struck.  First her daughter was in a terrible accident that almost killed her. And she - the mother - suffered tremendously.  She was traumatized and haunted by the accident, which she witnessed.  Day to day life was difficult.

And then, a few years later, at the point when she and the rest of her family finally felt like they could put the accident behind them - when they could finally relax and exhale and feel like they weren't constantly in the clutches of fear and anxiety of something bad happening - tragedy struck again.  Her daughter - the same daughter who had been in the awful accident - was killed in a car crash.

She never recovered.  She was incapacitated by grief, and her physical health suffered as well.

As an added twist, she was abandoned by her own mother.

Her father lived with his new family 6 hours away, and they were rarely in contact.  And her mother, also depressed but one whose disease manifested itself in an incomprehensible cruelty, turned on her.  When her mother wasn't ignoring her, she was accusing her of causing the daughter's accident and then her death.  And the accusations weren't oblique or simply implied - they were expressed and deliberate.

"It's your fault."  "She's dead because of you." "You must have done something to the car she was driving."

These are actual words her mother said.

I can't imagine anything more callous, hateful, or cold-blooded. To be treated that way by one of my parents would wreck me.

Rightfully so, her husband barred her mother from their house and their family.

In the end, the weight of all of the tragedy, trauma, and parental neglect crushed her.  In the end, the thing she needed as much as anything else - the thing that could have helped her deal with everything - was the love and support of her parents. And when she couldn't get it, it sealed her fate.

In the weeks after her funeral, her mother reached out to her husband.

"Can you forgive me?"

I guess that the feelings that would be familiar to most decent human beings started to nag at her. She felt guilty.  As well she should have.

But it was too late.  The answer was "no."

We're gonna have a good day, and all my homies gonna ride today, and all these mommies look fly today, and all we wanna do is get by today

Stress and depression and physical malaise are like a self-fulfilling prophesy.  You feel down and you lose motivation to do anything so you stop doing anything and then you feel lethargic and shitty and soft and that makes you feel worse and you continue to do nothing and it just builds upon itself and it totally sucks.

And you've been down the road a million goddamn times.  Through the troughs and the valleys, and the attendant characterizations of each.  You know that part of pulling yourself out of the abyss is to simply decide to do it, and then taking steps to move your body and eat decent food and get outside and look up at the sky.  You know that just as the descent builds on itself, so does the ascent - you feel a little better so that makes you want to keep doing the good things that are helping, which makes you feel better, and you continue to gain momentum, and on and on.

But even with that experience and knowledge - the ability to have that intellectual conversation with yourself in which you tell yourself that you KNOW that these are the things you need to do, so why don't you just DO them -- when you're down in that hole, it's hard to hear anything but the voices that tell you you're worthless and a loser and ugly and gross, so why bother?

And yet.

At a certain point, you start to claw your way out because the alternative is unacceptable.  And the progress is of the stop-and-start variety, because there are still stressors in your life causing little hiccups and keeping your cortisol levels elevated.  But you respond well to structure and routine, so you stick to your program, checking days off the calendar, one by one.

Then, at some point, there's a discernible shift.  

You realize that you're surviving the seemingly unsurvivable.  And the other woman in your children's lives recognizes that maybe she didn't make things so easy early on, and she apologizes and is gracious and now you're almost friends. And you put on pants that you bought for work a few months ago and realize they're hanging off of you, because you've stuck to exercising and eating well, and now it shows.  You feel pretty, which makes other people think so too. You walk around smiling, and people smile back.

You bound out of bed with incredible energy, and find joy in every old song that comes on the radio, and walk to work to the beat of the music, swinging your hips a little more than usual.  You wish you could bottle this feeling, because it's fucking amazing.

Watch mama open up her arms to hug me, and I ain't worried 'bout a damn thang, with unconditional love

One of my good friends from high school in India - one whom I did not get to see last weekend, unfortunately - is part of an online exercise motivation group I'm in.  Or at least, the group started as merely an exercise motivation group, in which we were all doing a particular Beachbody program and would post daily about our workouts and cheer each other on as we did so.  Over time, it has morphed into a group of good friends, some of whom know each other in real life, and many of whom who don't but feel like they do, posting about exercise, but also about our lives generally. About husbands, ex-husbands, health issues, family dynamics, struggles, celebrations and mournings. It goes well beyond fitness and exercise, at this point, and it's lovely.

It's one of the reasons I will never join the chorus of those railing against the evils and banalities of social media.  Through social media, I am able to connect on a personal, emotional level with people all over the world.  It has enriched my life immeasurably.

Anyway, this friend has been participating in my exercise challenges for years, ever since I started coaching.  She is a tremendously kind and thoughtful person, and always has something sweet and encouraging to say.

Yesterday she posted about visiting her parents, and about how, upon seeing her, her mother made harsh comments about her weight and the size of her butt.  She was, naturally, hurt and discouraged by the comment, though apparently, this is par for the course with her mother.

She remarked that instead of going to see her parents, she should come with me on my vacation to bask in the unconditional love that my family radiates.

I continue to be so eternally grateful for my family's love, comfort and support.  The past year and a half has been so hard, between the split and subsequent divorce, trying to figure out how to get my mojo back as 45-year-old woman trying to reenter the dating world, being a single parent, Emma's death, the recent custody issues.  My self esteem took a beating, I was sad and depressed and anxious, I gained weight and hated the way I looked, I felt old and ugly and undesirable.

Slowly but surely, I am pulling myself out of the mire.  Since January (when I started the online exercise group), I have worked extremely hard to get my fitness back, and I'm feeling and looking so much better - I've been lifting weights and eating properly, and I'm down two pants sizes.  I've tentatively tried to date, without much success yet, but at least I'm putting myself out there - something good will happen.  My children are happy and healthy and beautiful, and are navigating their new reality with a grace that makes me so proud.

Some of it is the natural ebb and flow of life - things are never all bad or all good all the time.  When you're faced with the worst things you can imagine (and honestly, the only thing worse than Emma dying would be one of my kids dying), you spend some time at rock bottom, but eventually things get easier if for no other reason than they can't get any worse and you learn how to deal.

And some of it is that, through it all, I always knew that no matter how often or how far I fell, my family would be there to help lift me up again, because that's what we do for each other.

There has never been a time in my life when my parents or my brothers, upon seeing me, didn't make me believe that I could do anything I set out to do.  That I was smart and strong and capable and worthy of love and happiness.

There has never been a time in my life when my mother has greeted me after a long absence with anything but, "you look wonderful."  Whether I was 10 pounds overweight, had a zit, hadn't slept regularly in weeks, whatever.

It breaks my heart to know that not everybody has that support system, because I cannot imagine living without it.

I feel like I'm on a roll.  Like I've got some momentum.  My India reunion went a long way toward replenishing some of my love and happiness reservoirs.  I'm still basking in that feeling.

And tomorrow, the kids and I are leaving for ten days on at the beach with my family.  My parents, my brothers and their wives, my nieces.  Ten days of relaxing and reading and swimming and going to the movies and just being with each other.  It's an emotional battery recharge.

It makes me believe that things can only continue to get better.  I will find love again.  My kids will continue to thrive.  I will, some day, achieve 6-pack abs.

Well, probably not that last one.  But I'll keep trying, with the help of my friends and family.

Timing is everything

It's been a weird month.

I've been battling a pervasive bout of depression for a couple of months.  I keep waiting for it to abate.  Like if I say, "OK, on Monday, things are going to be better, and I'm going to feel better and energized."  And by saying it, I can make it so.

But it's still hard.

My aunt, who is a psychologist - and also in the line of relatives from whom I inherited the crazy - suggested I ask my doctor about trying a different type of anti-depressant.  It's not an SSRI - which kind of work for me but also make me feel kind of numb - but rather something that works differently, chemically speaking.  It is usually used to treat seizure disorders, but also can be prescribed for people with bipolar disorder (which I do not have) or as a mood stabilizer for people with less severe forms of depression.

So I went to a doctor who prescribed it for me, and gave me the starter pack - it's the kind of drug that you have gradually build up in your blood stream, so I'm still in the process of ramping up the dosage.  I haven't felt huge effects yet, but for the past couple of nights, for the first time in I don't know how long, I slept soundly without lying awake from 2:30 until 4:30 in the morning.

In the meantime, my mother took me to Canyon Ranch, in Tucson, Arizona, for my birthday.

Desert gardens, with mountains in the background

For those who don't know, Canyon Ranch is considered one of the premier luxury spa resorts in the world.  A four day trip there, with one of my favorite people in the world, is seriously the nicest, most generous gifts anyone has ever given me.  It is extraordinarily beautiful, set in the desert hills behind Tuscon, full of saguaro cacti and desert flowers and javelinas rustling in the bushes.

A water feature designed to allow people to sit and reflect quietly, surrounded by beauty.

We spent our days going for walks and taking exercise classes and getting massages and facials and pedicures.  We talked and read books and enjoyed each others' company.  We ate incredible, healthy, beautifully prepared food.  We played bingo one night and I won a $140 gift certificate for spa services (which doesn't cover the cost of a single spa service, except maybe a pedicure).

The saguaro cacti are amazing looking.

Flowering prickly pear cactus

Desert musicians 

Fountains at dusk.

Barrel cactus.

Enjoying an early morning walk.

Absolutely everything about the place is top-of-the-line.  It's totally luxurious, but in an unostentatious way.

For example, no one goes around in resort wear or fancy clothes.  People wear workout clothes or jeans and flip flops, even to dinner.  There was only one lady who acted like a snobby bitch - this woman from DC who, when we were chatting in the massage waiting area and my mom said she was from "Washington D.C." but clarified it to "McLean, Virginia" when asked for specifics, said, "oh, well, that's not really D.C., but my husband is in real estate, so I know McLean is lovely - at least it's not Rockville!"  From then on, we referred to her as "the DC Madam," and anytime we were talking about different places, we would say, "but at least it's not Rockville!"  But everyone else we met or talked to was really friendly and down-to-earth.

At times it made me uncomfortable.  For example, on Sunday, after enjoying a delicious gourmet breakfast, I went to an exercise class, then had a facial, then a massage.  At one point during the facial, I was lying there as a Russian lady extolled the virtues of the hundreds of dollars worth of exfoliants and creams she was rubbing on my face ("vee only use Sisley products - they are most expensive in vorld"), and I started feeling like a spoiled asshole.  I had an overwhelming urge to go out and do charity work or volunteer in a homeless shelter.  It all felt like too much.

Part of the problem is that, particularly since the separation and being a part-time single parent, I don't have a lot of money to spare.  So the extent of the pampering - and the amount of money it cost - made me a little uncomfortable.

Another part of the problem is that I was enjoying all of this luxury in the middle of a period of reading about people suffering from injustices and deprivation in places like Russia and North Korea, and the juxtaposition of what I was reading and what I was experiencing was a bit jarring.

I came home feeling refreshed and relaxed and lean.  But also a little guilty.

So, long story short - go to Canyon Ranch, if you have the opportunity.  It's an incredible place.  But read something mindless and frothy while you're there.

Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.

Happy New Year.

I am determined to make it so.

2014 was such a horrible year.  Truly the worst year of my life.  The death of a marriage, the death of a niece, the death of that special, rarified familial happiness we enjoyed.  Mental fog and depression, physical lethargy.  I gained 10 pounds, I was sad, I cried all the time, I felt like shit.

And then it all ended with a period of time that I dread and despise every year -- the winter holidays and break from school.  School lets out, but I still have to work, so I send the kids to Denver Public Schools' day camp that they run on dismissal days, but they don't run it on ALL the dismissal days, just some of them, so some days I have coverage and some days I don't, so I end up working 2 or 3 days per week for 2 1/2 weeks and everything is disjointed and I don't get anything done and it drives me bonkers.

Christmas isn't even my holiday, and J had the kids on New Year's Eve, so I spent both of those days and nights alone, reading and watching movies.  Which is OK, but felt kind of lonely because I had nowhere to go and no one else to spend time with.

I needed the year to be over.  Once 2014 was over and 2015 started, then in my mind, I could take definitive steps to put it all behind me.  I could start exercising and eating well again. I could come out of my depressive funk.  I could raise my inner Scarlett O'Hara: I won't think about the bad stuff.  I'll put it behind me.  Tomorrow is another day.  Scarlett may have been an asshole, but she knew how to deal with her shit and get on with her life.  I always respected her for that.

It seems so arbitrary and stupid when I think about it, this obsession with the actual date. It's a date on a calendar.  Why couldn't I just start a health program in December?  Why couldn't I mentally and emotionally try to feel better earlier?  Why does flipping the calendar page from December to January make a difference?

It just does, at least for me.  2014 felt like a monster's claws to me, holding me in a cold, awful grip. And with the turning of the clock and the calendar, there is a releasing of that grip in my mind.  It's a way of compartmentalizing and saying, OK, I got my time to wallow and be sad and unproductive, but life goes on and it's time to get busy living.

So I am.  I'm back on the fitness and health train, and am already feeling so much better.  J and I are filing divorce papers this week.  I am making an effort every day to think about something that I am grateful for in my life.  I'm still walking to work and taking pictures.

I still miss Emma, and I am still heartbroken by her death.  That will never change.  I can, however, choose to remember her in a way that doesn't utterly devastate me.

The other day when I was walking to work, I saw this older couple walking in front of me.  They looked to be in their late 70s, at least.  The lady had the kind of hair-do that one only achieves by going to the hairdresser to have it "set."  They were walking hand in hand, and it made me smile.

I don't have any particular desire to be in a romantic relationship again, or to remarry.  But it would be nice to have someone to hold hands with on a walk, or to kiss at midnight on New Year's Eve.

Here's hoping for a joyous 2015.

Felt the earth beneath my feet, sat by the river and it made me complete

These days my respite is the outdoors.

When I am inside, whether at work or at home or elsewhere, I feel caged in and agitated.  I remember when I was first diagnosed with depression, the description provided by the psychologist or whoever was of a general, "free floating" anxiety.  Like I have this aura of grayness that hovers over me, full of malignant atoms whose electrons aren't arranged correctly, or something like that.

I have no motivation to exercise, to cook, to eat anything healthy.  I need to lose at least 10 pounds, but I can't seem to stick with an exercise program, and despite my resolute declarations of "today will be the day I'm good," I give in to temptation because it fills an emotional void.

I am irked by the holiday season, not because I begrudge anyone their time celebrating whatever they want to celebrate, but because it means I have to find coverage for the kids on days that they don't have school because of vacation, and buy gifts when I already feel like my kids have so much fucking *stuff* in their lives that the idea of adding to the stuff in my house makes me want to tear my hair out.

I read books, which provides some distraction. Right now, I'm pleasantly amazed by Michael Lewis's ability to turn an account of the collapse of global financial markets in 2008 and beyond into a gripping page-turner (at least for me).  But the distraction is temporary.

Mostly I want to be outside, not thinking.

My walk to work is the best part of my day.  On the days that I can't do it, because of early meetings or whatever, I'm out of sorts and jumpy.

But even on the days that I can do it, it's too short.  I'm bummed out when I get to work, because instead of walking 2 1/2 miles, I want to keep going.  10 miles might feel like enough.  Or even more.

One of my routes to work takes me through this park.  Sometimes the urge to turn south and keep walking until I reach the top of Pikes Peak is overwhelming.

Anything to stay out of my own head.

The bright lights of Denver are shinin' like diamonds, like ten thousand jewels in the sky

Even thought we ended up here kind of by accident, as the result of a crashing economy and a desperate need to get out of Hawaii before we ended up homeless, I have come to love living in Denver beyond anything I could have anticipated.

I have lived in a lot of places in my life, and I have cherished many of them - India, Israel, Atlanta, Charlottesville.  In my mind, each is imbued with its memories of friends, romances, trips, heartbreaks, song fragments -- it is impossible for me to separate the place from the overall sense of what my life was when I was there.  I would love to go back to India, for example, but India to me is totally wrapped up with the experiences I had while I lived there - being a senior in high school and having the amazing friends that I did, the nights out at the Gunghroo, the trips to Rishikesh and Goa and Bhubaneswar, being an extra in a BBC miniseries with my friends in Allahabad, shopping on Jan Path and Saroji Nagar.  Going back now would feel so different.

But I think as a place unto itself - the combination of location and lifestyle and culture - Denver is my favorite place I've ever lived.  I love my neighborhood, right in the city.  I love how there is so much focus here on getting outside and playing in nature - hiking, biking, skiing, climbing, camping.  The mountains are so extraordinary.  They inspire action and achievement and greatness and happiness -the kind of happiness that comes from effort and exertion.  I love how friendly people tend to be.  I love that it's an amazing place to raise kids.

I've written about how the big hike I did the weekend before Emma died was sort of transformative, and awoke in me this intense desire to be outside and walk.  I've been walking as much as I can, to and from work (though with the end of daylight savings, I probably won't be walking home in the dark very much, though I might occasionally), during lunch, around the neighborhood with the kids, in the various state and federal parks that are an easy drive away.

I read an article recently about the benefits of walking, and the author talked about how walking is one of the most fundamental, essential, and defining activities of human existence.  It's good exercise,  it allows for clearer thinking and problem solving, it improves mood, it's a mode of transportation - when you are walking, you are experiencing life as a human being on so many levels.  That idea really struck me, and I'm realizing how true it is.

I firmly believe that it has been an essential part of my grieving process, both relating to Emma's death and to the end of my marriage.  Particularly during my morning walk to work, it's solitary time to think and reflect, which is so important.  But it's solitary time to think and reflect while I am also out in the world, seeing people, looking up at the sky, noticing beautiful buildings or interesting signs.  I get to be alone in the sense that I can put in my headphones and listen to music and not talk to people if I don't want to, but I'm still out in the world, experiencing it.  I get to process my grief while my muscles are working and my blood is pumping and the crisp air puts roses in my cheeks.  It gives me a sense that life goes on, and is worth living, and that the world is an amazing, beautiful place, and that there is still plenty of joy and love and adventure to be experienced.

When I walk to work, I walk west, toward the mountains.  I start out walking through urban neighborhoods, and then more commercial areas.  So my view is this incredible combination of city life and funky architecture and the hustle and bustle of a weekday morning and the dramatic view of the Rocky Mountains suddenly rising up from the flat of the plains.  Mt. Evans directly ahead, Longs Peak to the north, and on a clear day, Pike's Peak to the south.

Like many of the old intown mansions, this grand dame is getting some much needed TLC.  I liked the way the bare trees formed a veil in front of the house, as if modesty prevents her from showing herself until she feels she's presentable again.

We could use more "thoughtful management" in the world, don't you think?

I love the way the dome on the State Capitol Building looms up over the grit of upper Colfax Avenue.

That white snowy peak in the background is Mt. Evans (one of Colorado's 53 "fourteeners'), which I climbed last summer.

I started taking pictures, and have decided to post them dailywith the hashtags #walktowork and #dailydenver (follow me on Instagram or Facebook, plus I'll post them here).  I'm hoping that they will inspire people to get out and walk, think, look around, be in the world, and live.

Many, many straws piling upon my back

About two weeks ago, I was sitting in my office talking to one of my coworkers when all of a sudden I realized I was speaking in fits and starts because for the life of me, I could not retrieve the words I wanted to say.  I stopped to gather my thoughts and then tried to speak again, but again tried to say a word, but again it was the wrong word and I stopped again.  At the same time, I had this sort of tingly feeling in my head and my upper body -- kind of like the cold flush you get when you start to feel panicky.  I kept trying to find the words, kept failing, kept stopping.  Finally, much to my (and my coworker's relief), after about 25 seconds the fog cleared and my brain started to work again.  I was a little freaked out, but otherwise felt normal.

I assumed it was dehydration or something similar.  I drank a bunch of water, and started keeping a big pitcher on my desk, so that I would be better at making sure I was having enough.  It's dry in these parts, and I often feel like I don't remember to drink as much water as I should.

Then last weekend it happened again.  It was Saturday night, and we some friends were over to eat, watch a movie, and most importantly, coordinate the purchase of our plane tickets to Nicaragua, where we're going for the kids' spring break. I was in the middle of a conversation when I felt my brain fog up, my body start to tingle, and I couldn't find the words to continue the conversation for about 25 seconds.

I worried that I was having little mini strokes.  I googled the symptoms, but I haven't had any numbness or vision issues, so I figured that was unlikely.  Then I thought about my cousin Simon, who was arguing a case in court one day and suddenly found himself unable to speak or continue making his argument.  He was dead two years later of a brain tumor.

Also, these episodes have come during a time when I constantly feel exhausted, constantly have a low grade (at least) headache, constantly feel like I can't focus or stay on task the way I'm usually able to. I had been chalked it up to a bout of depression that has been going on for almost two months -- it hasn't been severe, but it's been enough that I've felt extremely disrupted by it, particularly because it's lasted much longer than usual.

I went to the doctor on Wednesday, first to see my GP.  She gave me a neurological exam and asked me a bunch of question, and also ordered a series of blood tests, looking at everything from my folate levels to my thyroid to my blood sugar and cholesterol. 

When I got home, I developed a crushing headache, about as painful a headache as I've ever had (I've never been one to get bad headaches).  I took a bunch of ibuprofen, and while I was waiting for it to work, suddenly noticed this fuzzy cloud of grey in my peripheral vision on my right side.  I kept glancing over to my right because I had a sense that something was moving over there, but it was the grey fuzzy cloud. 

Then at one point, I went into the kitchen and put both hands on the counter in front of me, with my forearms parallel to each other.  I then focused on a midpoint about 8 inches in front of my hands.  I could see my left hand in my peripheral vision, but I couldn't see my right hand at all (I could see it if I looked directly at it, but not when I looked at the focal point).  Once it passed a line about 20 degrees off the midpoint, it just disappeared. 

a crude rendition, looking down at the top of my head,
 of how I was standing, where my hands were, and where I was looking

The fuzziness/peripheral vision weirdness continued yesterday morning.  I noticed it as I was getting the kids ready for school, and then when I was walking from the bus to my office building.  There was a man walking in front of my and slightly to my right, and when he passed the 20 degree point, he disappeared.

To top it off, my blood work came back.  Everything was fine except for my blood sugar, which was high, especially considering my lifestyle.  I have been described as "prediabetic," and told I need to go in to talk about treatment options, which is probably going to be similar to what I had to do when I was pregnant with Josie -- regular testing of my blood sugar, and a highly restrictive diet.

 I have to go in for a fasting blood draw tomorrow so they can test my cholesterol, which I fully anticipate will come back high, since it runs in my family. 

I've also had my info reviewed by the neurology department at Kaiser.  They want me to do an MRI and an EEG.

Needless to say, I'm a little freaked.

The University of Google

While I love having the universe of information at my fingertips, I know what a dangerous thing it can be.  I can't tell you how many special education planning meetings I've been in when the parents and their advocates show up with a pile of articles they'd downloaded about autism or the best ways to educate a student with dyslexia, plopped them in front of the teachers as if none of them had any training and experience, and proceeded with the meeting as if via the internet, they knew everything and the school district staff knew nothing.

I'm always tempted to ask them why the teachers bother going to school to get master's degrees in special education, if all they really needed to do was troll the internet and download a couple of articles.

But honestly, I know where they're coming from.  I'm guilty of it myself.

Last week, remember how I thought that Josie had an ear infection?  She spiked a fever on Tuesday morning, so I took her to the doctor, they thought her ear looked a little pink, and prescribed some antibiotics.

But I couldn't get the fever down for almost 4 days, which struck me as odd.  Zeke used to have ear infections as a baby, and he never got bad fevers, and certainly after a day or two on the medicine, he would be fine.  But Josie kept spiking these super-high fevers.  And the medicine tasted disgusting, so after 4 days she refused to swallow it, and when we tried to force it, she puked all over Jason (nice aim, honey!).

Her fever broke on Friday, and then Saturday she woke up with a rash all over her torso and neck.

We were all, what the fuck?, so I busted out the computer and started looking up her symptoms on WebMD and Mayoclinic.com and a couple of other sites.  Here's what I found on askdrsears.com:

WHAT DOES ROSEOLA LOOK LIKE?

This virus generally causes 3 days of high fever (often over 103). The fever then subsides, and the child breaks out in a flat or bumpy red rash, usually starting around the neck, back and chest, then spreading out. The rash lasts a few days to a couple weeks.

Dr. Sears Clue: Roseola is about the only virus in which the rash appears after the fever breaks.

Eureka!  Those were her symptoms exactly.  So I stopped making her take the medicine (it wasn't helping anyway, plus she had basically given us the finger on that course of action), gave her some lukewarm baths with corn starch to help with any itching, and let the virus run its course.  Which it did.  Another symptom is irritability, and she was a total crankypants for 3 days, but then yesterday she was finally back to her old chipper self.

Jason wanted to take her to the doctor, but the websites all said that for most rashes, and particularly roseola, there's nothing a doctor can do, so don't bother.  Who needs a doctor, with all their years of training and experience, right?

The magic of the internet has even worked on me, via this very blog.  A few months ago, a close friend of mine who is a regular reader sent me an email.  She had noticed that I had been writing quite a bit about being irritable and grouchy and stressed out, and posited that maybe it was the hormones being emitted by my IUD that were the problem.

And I thought, hey, maybe she's right.  Plus, during my pregnancy with Josie I had been on a different antidepressant than the ones I used to take, and was feeling generally like my meds needed some adjusting.  So, it took me a while, but I finally got organized and went to see a psychiatrist.  She put me back on my old medicine, adjusted the dosage to compensate for hormonal changes, and also gave me a new sleep medication that also functions as an antidepressant/antianxiety medication as well.

And you know what?  I feel great these days.  I'm sleeping, I'm not getting stressed out by the normal ins and outs of daily life, I'm nice to my husband and my kids.

I love the idea of my blog as a diagnostic tool.  God bless the internet.

Better living through chemistry, or, Fuck you, Tom Cruise.

Since I started this blog, a couple of friends have remarked (positively) on my willingness to write so openly about suffering from depression. I don't do it as a badge of honor, to provide a PSA, or as part of championing a cause or anything like that. But it's part of me and when it creeps up on me, it's what I'm thinking about. And as a result, what I'm writing about.

I'm not embarrassed or ashamed of it. Like all fucked-up adults, I just blame my parents.*

But being unexpectedly hit with post-partum depression brought on a great deal of shame on my part. I didn't have PPD with Zeke, and managed to last almost 2 months after Josie before it reared its ugly head. I think going back to work, with all of the stresses that brought, finally put me over the edge.

And what a horrifying, unnerving edge it was. Because for a couple of days, I was convinced I was a monster who had no love - or any regard, truthfully - for my newborn daughter. Or anyone in my immediate family, for that matter.

As it always does, the onset of depression brought crushing insomnia with it. So many nights last week, I would lie in bed, wide awake for hours during the dead of night, cursing my husband and my children. Wishing I was single and childless again. Resenting them for heaping upon me the responsibilities of maintaining a household and tending to them, and for robbing me of any shred of free time.

But really, it was even worse than that. Resentment and exhaustion are to be expected. But in those dark, bleak stretches of sleeplessness, I found myself wishing them ill. Going through "what-ifs" too horrible to contemplate in the light of day. Fatal accidents. SIDS. Awful events that would liberate me.

It pains me to admit these things.

It passed, of course. Things are somehow never as grim in the morning. Still, I was shaken. I sat at my desk last Friday, weeping and feeling evil. My mother and Kathleen both helped talk me off the ledge, as did Jason and my Facebook buddies.

But really, they only reinforced what I already knew. I was not well, and I needed to do something about it.

I will say this for myself: I may be crazy, but I also am keenly aware of when the craziness is coming on. I've dealt with depression for so long, and am blessed (or perhaps cursed) with such an overdeveloped sense of self-awareness, that I can feel the spiral almost the minute it starts to pitch rapidly downward.

Luckily, I had a Zoloft prescription that I had neglected to fill for a couple of months, so all I had to do was call Walgreen's. As ever, the act of taking a step toward feeling better was as much of a remedy as the pills themselves.

It's been about 4 days now, and I feel fine. I look at Josie and marvel at how pretty she's getting. I coo at her and talk to her and feel the love that I know was there all along.

But Jesus, I frightened myself for a while there.


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*I kid, I kid. Though it is definitely inherited from my dad and our long line of bat-shit lunatic ancestors.

Crazy part of my brain, please STFU. Thank you.

Let me start out by saying that I think I'm a good mother.*  I really do.  I try very hard to be loving and fun and to instill in Zeke a sense of playfulness and adventure.  I encourage him to try to do things on his own, but give him a little boost when he needs it.  I encourage him to play hard and get dirty.  I read to him constantly, I get down on the floor with him and zoom trucks around, I take him to the zoo and the park and the pool.  I don't freak out about little things, but I do try to enforce a certain level of discipline, with consistency and patience, as best as I can.  I'm not always as patient and consistent as I'd like to be, but most of the time I think I do OK.

Which is why it's driving me nuts that I'm having massive anxiety attacks about my parenting abilities, particularly where a second child is concerned.

I've had a shitty time sleeping this pregnancy.  If I don't take something to help me sleep, I'll fall asleep for an hour or two and then wake up with my heart pounding and a panic attack in full swing.  You know that cold flush that spreads over your chest and neck when something is really scary?  I'll feel that way for 3 hours before I finally settle down and am able to go back to sleep.

So I guess the moral of the story is, "don't forget to take your meds, moron."  

Roger that.  Loud and clear.

But now, I think the nervousness I'm feeling about managing a second child and being a good parent to both Zeke and the Joey is starting to overwhelm my psyche, because I sleep, but I'm having nightmares, all involving an inability to care for my (or other peoples') children.

Saturday when Zeke went down for his afternoon nap, I decided to take advantage of the situation and get a nap in myself.  And promptly fell into a dream in which Zeke was fussing and I was feeling impatient with him, and so I slapped him hard across the face.  Even in the dream itself, I had the decency to be horrified by my own behavior, but I was completely freaking out when I woke up.  I burst into hysterical tears and had to call my mother to be talked off the ledge.

Last night I dreamed that a friend of mine had gone out of town and asked me to look after her 2 year old daughter.  I agreed, but decided to go out early in the morning to try out some new bicycle that my dad had.  But the bike was really hard to ride and the gears wouldn't shift properly, so after getting down a big hill, I realized I wouldn't be able to get back up in time to get the children up or get them to daycare or anything.  Then I got lost.  So I abandoned the bike and tried to take a bus back to where I was supposed to go, but the bus stop where I got off was a good mile from where I lived, plus I didn't have any money to pay the fare, and I was panicking because it was pushing 11 in the morning and the children were undoubtedly awake and HOLY SHIT, WHO IS GOING TO TAKE CARE OF THEM AND WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME????

I think alot of it is our current situation in which Jason is in Vail 4 days a week and then home for 3 days.  And I'm handling it OK, but during those 4 days, I'm very tired and my belly is getting huge and I feel very cumbersome and physically incapable of running around with Zeke as much as I'd like.  So the thought of that arrangement with Zeke plus a newborn is terrifying.

The logical part of my brain keeps telling me that I'm a capable human being and that I'll handle it.  People have cared for children in far more difficult situations than mine.  

But the crazy part of my brain isn't listening.

______________________________________

*I don't take all the credit.  Jason is an amazing father, and I believe that Zeke gets a huge portion of his sweet and happy disposition from his daddy.

Better living through chemistry

I've written in the past about my family's penchant for pharmaceutical solutions to whatever ails you.  On a recent trip to Israel, my mother was delighted by this exchange with a pharmacist (delighted both with the attitude of the pharmacist, which was so quintessentially Israeli, and also with the substance of the discussion):

Mom:  I'm interested in getting some Ambien, some Retin-A, and a few other things.  Do I need a prescription?

Pharmacist:  Yes.

Mom:  What if I don't have one?

Pharmacist:  We'll give it to you anyway.

I tell this little story to provide some context vis-a-vis where I'm coming from, even as a pregnant person.  I have no compunctions about taking medications, even while pregnant, if it will make me more comfortable and the doctor says it's OK for the baby.

I get the sense that pregnant women these days tend to be a little nutso about every little thing they ingest, be it soft cheeses or caffeine or sushi or whatever.  They're all jacked up about natural childbirth and eating super-foods and blah blah blah.  

I think most of this is bullshit.  My philosophy is everything in moderation, and you'll be fine.  I don't smoke or do drugs, but I'll have a sip of Jason's beer or Kathleen's margarita, I'll have a bite of brie, I'll eat sushi if it's from a reputable place, and I'll definitely have my two cups of coffee in the morning.  I have no problem with getting an epidural (obviously) or doing whatever needs to be done to get the baby out safely, whether its by C-section or with suction or whatever.  Just get it done.

My feeling is that my OB is not used to this.  Because every time she suggests something that could be construed as even remotely aggressive or off the natural childbirth path, she tiptoes around the subject as if she's afraid of offending me.

Like early on, when I first started seeing her, she noted that I had a really long and difficult labor with Zeke, mostly because he was so big, and wanted to suggest monitoring the Joey's size late in the pregnancy and possibly inducing if it looked like she was getting too big.  But instead of just saying that, she hemmed and hawed and said, "well, there are things we can do, if you wouldn't be opposed to taking steps to...you know... move the process along...if that's not a problem for you?"

I said, "what, you mean like inducing early?"

"Um...yes."

And I was all, "yeah, no problem.  Whatever."

She sighed, visibly relieved.  "OK, good.  Because that way we can make sure you're more comfortable and that you don't have such a difficult experience like last time."

"Right,"  I said.  "Plus, if we induce early, the baby will definitely make the October 1 school registration cut-off.  It would suck to have to pay for an extra year of daycare."

She just laughed.  But I was very deliberate in trying to explain that I am the opposite of a natural-childbirth Nazi.  I flat-out told her, "whatever you think is best is fine with me.  I have no problems with drugs, epidurals, a C-section if it's required, whatever.  I trust you.  I just want a healthy baby.  I don't care how I get it out of me."

But I guess it's been a couple of months since we had that conversation, because yesterday, I was in her office for my regular check-up, and mentioned that I had been having a terrible time sleeping.  And that in all likelihood, in addition to the normal discomfort and difficulty sleeping that many women have during pregnancy, my problems were compounded by my history of depression.  I've been feeling fine and off the medication for over a year, but the one symptom I've never truly been able to shake is insomnia.

And the OB said, "now, I don't want you to think I'm trying to be a drug pusher, but would you be opposed to maybe going back on some antidepressants?"  She sort of backed up, as if she was afraid of a negative reaction.

I chuckled at her caution and said, "not at all.  What do you suggest?"

And so we talked about it and decided that I would try Zoloft.

"Do you want something to help you sleep as well?" she asked.

"Sure.  I would love a short-term Ambien prescription, just to get me back on track.  But I thought Ambien wasn't good to take during pregnancy."

"Oh, no, it's fine.  I'll write you a scrip for it.  It's only for 20, but if you want more I'm happy to refill it."

"Sweet."

So last night, for the first time in I don't remember how long, I went to sleep and stayed asleep and woke up feeling refreshed.  I don't feel groggy or drugged out, like Tylenol PM or over the counter stuff makes me feel.  I just feel rested.  It's an amazing feeling.

Suicide is not painless

I had all kinds of things percolating in my head for a post today.

I could have written about how nice it was to go out for some grownup time on Friday night with Rich and Kathleen.  We left the kids with a sitter at their house, and walked down to a local music store to see Steve Earle do an in-store performance promoting his new album, Townes.*  We went out for a nice Italian dinner, and when we got back to Kathleen's house, Zeke was asleep, cuddled up in bed with Kathleen's 5-year-old daughter, who had an arm protectively draped over him.  It was seriously one of the cutest things I've ever seen.

Or I could have written about how much fun we had participating with some friends in a kids' pick-up soccer league at the local city park.  Pablo brought a big bag of soccer balls and some little collapsible goals, and showed the kids how to kick and pass.  When they scored a goal, there was the obligatory running around the field, arms held out like an airplane, yelling "GOOOOOOOOOAALL!!"  (Pablo is Argentine, after all).  The kids played and had fun and wore themselves out, and we made some new friends, and it was a beautiful day.  Afterwards we went to this awesome little Mexican dive of a restaurant to get tacos, served with the most delicious homemade tortilla chips I have ever eaten in my life.

I could have also written about how lovely it was to play Magical Present Fairy to my son yesterday.  We had been at the park, and he was salivating over another little kid's wagon.  The kid's dad let him play with it, and Zeke was entertaining himself opening the door, stepping in, sitting down, standing up, opening the door, stepping out, closing the door.  Rinse, lather, repeat.  When it was time for the kid and his wagon to go home, Zeke seriously lost his shit.  Partly because he really wanted to continue playing with the wagon, and partly because it was nap-time and he was exhausted.  So we got him home and got him to sleep, and while he napped, I found the identical wagon on Craigslist, called the owner, went and picked it up, and brought it home, all before Zeke woke up from his nap.  We had been planning on getting one anyway -- they're so handy for going to the park with balls and snacks and water bottles, so it seemed like an opportune time.  When he woke up and saw the wagon, he was ecstatic.  We took a walk around the neighborhood, with Zeke riding in the wagon with a huge smile of joy on his face, stopping every 10 feet or so for Zeke to open the door, step out, close the door, open the door, step in, and sit down again.

I could have written about any of those things.  But instead, I feel compelled to focus on something else, something that is really none of my business and I probably shouldn't be writing about, at least not yet, but I can't help it.  I can't stop thinking about it.  

This past weekend, the father of a friend of mine committed suicide.  He's suffered from crushing depression for a long time and has made a number of suicide attempts over the past few years, including as recently as a month ago.  This time, he was successful.  And in addition to dealing with the general agony of losing a parent, my friend has to deal with the fact that her dad left willingly.   

To top it all off, she's 6 months pregnant.  

Dealing with suicide is so much different from dealing with other kinds of death.  When a person dies of disease, or in a car accident or something, there's shock and sadness and dismay and a terrible feeling of loss.  A reminder of the fragility of life, and the need to live to the fullest, to the extent that the mundane details of every day life allow you to do so.  But with suicide, there's the added knowledge that the person wanted to leave, that they couldn't stand to be in the world anymore.  And that maybe you could have done something to help them.

I remember when my friend Kristin killed herself a couple of years ago, how sad but also how betrayed and angry I and so many of our friends felt.  She was about to be married to a guy who adored her, and was developing a close relationship with her 8-year-old stepson-to-be.  She had friends and parents and siblings that loved and cared about her.  

And she gave it all up because she fucked something up at work and couldn't deal with the shame.  I'm still a little bit bitter about it, as are a number of my friends.

But Kristin wasn't my parent or my sister.  That just takes things to a whole new level.  With my friend's dad, the reality is, he was desperately unhappy for a long, long time, and so maybe now he's found the peace he so obviously needed and couldn't find on this earth.  And I know she doesn't feel any sense of responsibility, like there was something she could have done -- as she herself has said, if there was ever a situation in which someone could be kept alive by the sheer force of other peoples' will, this was it -- she and her mother have done their damndest to try to help him.  But when someone is determined to go, they will find a way.  

And the survivors are left to pick up the pieces and somehow go on with their lives.

Years ago, my mom's college roommate went out into her backyard, crawled under a bush, and blew her brains out with a gun.  She had been in an unhappy marriage, but she also had young children.  I was only about 9 or so at the time, but I remember my mom remarking at what an aggressive act it was.  How clearly, this was directed at the husband and was a giant "fuck you" that would stick with him for the rest of his life.  But all I could think about were the kids.  How do you deal with the fact that your mommy can't stand to stick around for you?

At least my friend is older and has the maturity and perspective to recognize that her dad wasn't trying to abandon her or the rest of his family.  Her dad loved her, I know she believes that.  But still.  How do you deal?

I tend to view most suicides with a jaundiced eye.  It's an act of supreme selfishness.  How dare they do that to their loved ones?  But I don't feel as harshly about my friend's dad.  He was obviously in so much pain.  I don't condone what he did, but I understand it just a little bit.

I've suffered from clinical depression.  In the depths of it, I've felt that cold heaviness in my gut, that physical manifestation that depression takes, when you feel pulled down into the depths of despair. When the idea of getting up and going through life feels so incredibly exhausting that the alternative -- that unspoken alternative -- seems so tempting.  I've been at the precipice and stared down into the abyss.  But thank goodness, something always pulled me back.  And I've been healthy and off the medication for over a year, and all is well.  But the knowledge that I could start another downward spiral is always in the back of my mind, so I'm incredibly vigilant in taking stock of my mental and emotional state, ready to head off to a doctor at the first sign of that sinking feeling.

I'm rambling, I know.  I don't know what point I'm trying to make.  But this is what's on my mind.  

I'm just so sad for my friend.

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*I love Steve Earle.  I was playing a lot of bluegrass in Atlanta around the time he released The Mountain, his bluegrass collaboration with The Del McCoury Band, and it's an album I still find captivating -- in my opinion, a bluegrass masterpiece.