Category Archives: about me

September 22, 2021 · 12:35 PM

The Joy (And Art) Of Not Caring

I had an epiphany this past year. I don’t know if it was just matter of age and maturity, or if it was a product of good old fashioned self-reflective work (I listened to mental health podcasts like it was my job during quarantine). Regardless of the impetus, I was finally able to do something that had alluded me for 47 years.

I stopped caring what other people think.

And sure, I’d reached that point in certain areas of my life a long time ago. It’s been at least a decade since I’ve been bothered by anyone’s negative opinions about how I parent, or my decision to homeschool. I’m confident in those decisions, and other people’s thoughts on the matter are not even a blip on the radar.

But.

That confidence sadly didn’t carry over to the rest of my life. Oh I could say I didn’t care with the best of them. But I cared. I cared a lot. I even see it in black and white in my past blog posts. People would say things and it would upset me to the point of triggering depression. Or anxiety. Or rage (which was always sent inward instead of outward because that’s the way I’m wired.) With all of my being, I cared. I cared when people disagreed, I cared when people made ignorant comments, I cared when people were snotty.

And now I just… don’t. I really and truly don’t. And I honestly don’t think anything has made me feel so free.

Want to judge me for taking psychotropic drugs? Don’t care.

Want to judge me for eating a PopTart on occasion? Don’t care.

Want to judge me for my political views, or how I feel about religion, or the things I share on Facebook? Don’t care.

And the great irony is that it always seemed So. Hard. Someone’s being mean; how could I possibly not care?! But once I got it, once it really clicked, it became the easiest thing I’d ever done. People are the weather. I can’t control them. They’re free to think, say, and do as they’d like. They’re in charge of their own little bubble and I’m in charge of mine. They can’t affect me, can’t even touch me, unless I let them.

Their journey is not my journey.

TWO BIG CAVEATS:

First, not all things are equal. We should care about words and behaviors that are racist, sexist, homophobic, or otherwise discriminatory. This sort of thing should be called out and acitively worked against, not swept under a rug of, “I don’t care.”

Second, I’m still human. I can’t rightfully sit here and say, “Nothing can ever hurt my feelings again! I’m immune!” People are gloriously flawed, and I am sensitive. Someone will eventually – deliberately or inadvertently – say something that hits. The difference between now and two years ago is that I realize I’m not powerless to what that hurt does after it lands. I can take it in and snuggle up with it and make it my friend, letting it derail me for days or weeks or months; or I can address it, whether that means a reconciliatory conversation, or simply accepting it so I can then let it go.

Getting older is a mixed bag. My body hurts more than it used to, sleep is but a vague memory, and everything that’s supposed to be up is down. I’ll be 50 in two and a half years, and I’m still digesting the phrase, “middle aged.” But. Getting to a place where I can honestly say I no longer care what other people think, a place where I no longer live for anyone’s expectations but my own, a place where the only person who holds the remote for how I feel about myself is me?

Priceless.

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November 23, 2018 · 1:27 PM

I Wish That I Could Be Like The Cool Kids

Now that the song’s in your head…

I saw this meme come through my Facebook newsfeed this morning. What’s interesting is that I had to do a double-take. The person who posted it was someone who I indeed consider a “cool mom.” Someone funnier and smarter and more liked than myself. Someone who I could never fit in with, because I was too much of an outcast. Too boring. Too dorky. Too weird. Too…. something. Too anything.

I’m just not a cool kid.

I am the odd man out in every group I’m ever part of, even if it’s my own group!

I’ve done this thing. Every year, for the past five years, I’ve hosted a conference. Every year 300 to 400 people gather together to play, to learn about unschooling and gentle parenting, to make new friends, and to just generally enjoy each other’s company. Nothing ever makes me feel like less of a cool kid. There’s always at least one moment (usually there are several) where I stop and look around. I’m by myself, because I’m usually by myself. And I look around, look at all the happy socializing and I go:

Nope, wouldn’t fit in with that group.

Wouldn’t fit in with that group either.

That group wouldn’t even let me sit with them.

Wow, I’m the most lonely, uncool person at my own party.

And on the one hand, I’m okay with it. I am. I’m NOT like everyone else. I’m an awkward, dorky, unique little weirdo, and I like it that way. I like me. But, oh, on the other… what must it feel like to fit in, just once? To not be the outcast? To not be the black sheep? To not come from a social gathering berating myself for every awkward thing I said, or thought, or did, but instead feel…. confident, like I’d behaved like I actually belonged?

And then these memes come along, and my poor little outcast brain goes, “Wait. What? IT’S NOT JUST ME?!”

I think the cool kids are just a mirage.

We’re all a bunch of misfits. I think what we all have in common is that we all feel like the outcast, at least from time to time. We all suffer from impostor syndrome. We all have to fake it sometimes.

I mean, granted, some fake it better than others, but they fake it nonetheless.

And if I think about it, really stop and think about it, would I even WANT to be one of the cool kids? Well, no. Not if it meant compromising who I am. Not if it meant squeezing my square pegged self into a round shaped hole. Not if it meant doing or saying or going along with anything that wasn’t 100% authentically me.

All I can do is do me. And if I do happen to approach your group, know that it took a lot for me to do so. Know that my self-consciousness is second to none. And know that I really DO genuinely want to be your friend…. and that if you can handle someone who trips over air, awkwardly stumbles through long stories that have no point, and chokes on her own spit…. We’ll all get along just fine.

I Take A Pill

Every day, I take a pill

Actually I take a few different pills, but for the sake of brevity….

I take a pill

The pill is not a happy pill, nor is it a magic pill

It’s not an “easy out”

It’s not a substitute for taking care of myself

Or for eating well, or getting enough rest, or getting out into the sun

It’s not (no matter how much others try to make you believe otherwise) a sign of my ignorance, or my lack of research

It’s not (no matter how much others try to make you believe otherwise) about blind faith in a flawed and corrupt system

Are pills over-prescribed? Yes

Do pills come with risks? Yes!

But still I take a pill

I take a pill because I value my life

I value the quality of my life

I take a pill because without it my life was the very last thing I valued

I take a pill because for some reason (or two reasons or a hundred reasons) my brain just doesn’t quite work like yours

And it’s okay! This weird, different, twisty brain of mine is okay

But not when it’s lying to me

Not when it’s telling me I’m not enough

Not worth the space I take up

Not when it’s overcome with darkness, or mania, or anxiety

So I take a pill

And the pill doesn’t fix me

But it allows me to fix myself

It allows me to function

It allows me to enjoy instead of just exist

It allows me to see colors where there was once only black and white

It allows me to move when I was once immobilized

I take a pill

I take a pill for me, but also for ALL the people who are shamed away from seeking help

Shamed away from saying it out loud

Shamed away from pills

Or doctors

Or therapists

Shamed away from putting a label on something that is NOT shameful or bad or ugly…. but just different

I take a pill because I need the help

I take a pill because all the fresh air and exercise and essential oils and kale in the world did not fix the broken

And I’ll say it again..

The pill doesn’t fix the broken either

But it allows me to fix the broken

It allows me to believe that the broken is fixable in the first place

It allows me to believe that the broken is WORTH fixing

So despite the voices

The voices from family, from friends, from strangers

Dear Lord the constant voices

The voices that yell DO NOT TAKE THE PILL

Every day, I take a pill

And every day I’m thankful for it.

There is no shame in doing what you need to do to stay well.

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Filed under about me, anxiety, bipolar, depression, mania, mental health

July 3, 2018 · 11:36 AM

packing. moving. healing.

A start

So if you follow me on any of my social media accounts (handy-dandy buttons are right over there on your right if you don’t), or if you know me in 3D life, you know we’re in the middle of moving.

Moving. Is. Exhausting. The kind of exhausting that you feel in every pore of your body.

But I’ll get back to that.

This move is one that’s been a long time coming. For those who don’t want the story, and want the quick little primer: We bought this house in 2006 as an investment. It was never meant to be a long term home, or really a home at all. We were going to completely remodel it (which we did), live in it temporarily (temporarily is such a relative term!), and then flip it. But… because this is life, and because we’re us, this is when the market completely tanked, home values dropped into the toilet, and we went upside down in our mortgage almost overnight. Now, in 2018, we’re finally able to sell. Our little short term investment lasted us 12 years.

Now, I’m convinced that there’s never actually a good time to move. It’s a massively huge, stressful undertaking, no matter when you do it. But doing it right now?? While it was a good time when it came to the real estate market, it was decidedly NOT a good time otherwise. We’re in the final stages of planning our conference, which has had far more than its normal share of hiccups; I just finished another semester of school last week; I’m dealing with the changes and side effects that come with adjusting 27 medications (Not really 27. But it might as well be) Oh. And. We’re leaving on an 11 day road trip TOMORROW, less than one month before we close… just because Mike happened to have a work thing, and we happened to think it’d be a good idea to tag along and see the sights. All the stress, all the emotions, all the fatigue, wrapped in a neatly labeled banker’s box and tied with a bow.

And let me just say right here, before I go any further? There is a reason that moving consistently shows up on top five lists of most stressful life events. Right up there with losing a job, getting a divorce, and even having a death in the family. It’s no joke.

Because here’s the thing. Packing up a house you’ve lived in for 12 years is really, really hard. It’s hard in the sense that it’s physically demanding, gross, sweaty, dusty work (which I realize does not reflect well on our house-keeping skills), but even more than that, it’s emotionally hard. It’s mentally hard. It’s like…. it’s like therapy, on speed, in Disneyland, on the fourth of July. It hurts down to the center of your bones. It’s conflicting work too, because at the same time that you’re having to tell yourself that it’s all just unnecessary “stuff” – and let it be known that we threw out dozens, DOZENS, of bags of old junk – you’re also brutally reminded that it’s not just stuff. It’s memories. It’s nostalgia. It’s happiness. It’s sadness. It’s regret. It’s touching these little pieces of your past that brings you back to the time at the place with the person with a visceral energy that’s so real it almost makes it hard to breathe. Over. And over. And over again. It hurts. Moving hurts.

It’s about healing. And it’s about finally letting go. It’s about forcing yourself to finally let it go.

It’s painful. The gifts from the people you’re no longer friends with. The photos of the relatives that are no longer on this earth.

It’s puzzling. WHY do I still have this coupon for Honey Bunches of Oats from 2007?

It’s exhausting. It’s bittersweet. The tiny shoes. The baby blankets. The little hats. The photos. The early drawings. The handmade Mothers’ Day cards.

It hurts.

Every single thing you lay your hands on, whether it gets lovingly packed, passed on to someone else, or is destined for the land fill… it’s all part of your story. Every single bit of it. For better or worse it all went into the elaborate tapestry that is today. It all had meaning, no matter how vague, no matter how obscure. Yes, it’s just stuff. But it’s stuff with a history. A rich one. One that you must revisit, bit by bit by bit.

We had a big box that was tucked away in one of our lower kitchen cabinets. It was affectionately referred to as… well, “the box”. Whenever we had unexpected company coming, or otherwise had to pick up in a hurry, any sort of paperwork, mail, etc, got tossed in the box. I don’t know how long it was there, but it was long enough to be falling apart. One whole side had fallen away under the weight of its contents, the entire thing was sagging, and it had somehow expanded to include the space inside the box, as well as all the area surrounding it.

A couple of weeks ago, we dumped the box out on the table and started sorting. We came across a Christmas card, and in it was a picture of one of the boys’ friends from what seems like a lifetime ago. I’m not sure of the exact date, but it was at least 9 or 10 years old. It’s a bittersweet picture, because we have not been friends with that family since probably very shortly after the photo was taken. I don’t know what happened. It was one of those weird life things in which we never found closure. We were friends – good friends even – and then one day they left Paxton’s birthday party without saying goodbye, and never spoke to us again. They just stopped being our friends. I wondered for a long time what had happened at that party; I wondered for a long time what could have been so egregious that she couldn’t answer an email, that we couldn’t have talked it out. But I still don’t know.

And fast forward to today, and here’s this smiling face of a little boy who is now very likely in college.

We pinned it up on my bulletin board, because we thought it would be funny, and because we wanted to see how long it would take Mike to notice it. It’s not unusual for us to pin pictures up there, though usually they’re the random headshots of people from political advertisements or real estate fliers. (Is that weird?) It amuses us, in any case. This picture though… while not painful exactly, it made me… uncomfortable. It made me think of the past. Not just of them, but of every lost friendship I’d ever had ever.

And I’m so glad we put it up there.

I’ve walked by that photo every day for weeks now, and it’s come to stand for something important. It stands for healing. It stands for letting go. It stands as a reminder that I can make it through the icky parts of life. It stands as a reminder that I can do hard things. It stands for one chapter ending, and another chapter (a good one! an exciting one!) beginning. A chapter that – no matter how very stressful it is to get there – I’m very much looking forward to.

New beginnings. It stands for new beginnings.

And for a handful of really big reasons, and about a hundred and twenty seven little ones, I really need a new beginning.

When I finally get rid of that picture… that picture of the boy that was once lovingly sent in a Christmas card… When I get rid of that picture? I’ll finally be ready.

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Filed under about me, life, memories, Uncategorized

May 26, 2018 · 8:39 AM

Faking It

So, the other day I was complaining to a friend about my statistics class. The class hadn’t even started yet now that I think about it, but I’d read the syllabus and the individual modules and learning objectives and I was…. overwhelmed. Overwhelmed before I’d even started. (This is my second go-around with Statistics, by the by. I’d taken it a hundred years ago in my first foray at college, and I ended up taking it pass/fail so it wouldn’t bring down my GPA.)

Anyway.

I complained to my friend, and she said: “You can do it!”

Me: “I’m not so sure.”

Friend: “Fake it till you make it?”

Me: ::Sigh:: “Sometimes it feels like that’s my whole life.”

Just last week, a mom I’d recently met through Tegan’s play was chatting with me while we washed our hands at the bathroom sink. “You have four kids? How do you do it? You’re so calm!”

I don’t even remember what I said in response, but what I did not say was the truth: That whatever calmness she saw was through the aid of pharmaceuticals and faking, in equal measure.

Like many depressed people I know, I’ve gotten really good at “smiling depression.” Smiling on the outside, crying on the inside. Putting on a (if I do say so myself), reasonable or even impressive display of happy. Of friendly. Of normal. I smiled a lot last week. I also went to sleep crying at least two or three nights, and woke up crying just as many.

I write so much about gentle parenting. I dismantle all the common mainstream ways of doing things, and I wax poetic about how we can do things better. I don’t write about the fact that as of late my patience and emotional reserve have been so shot that it is taking all of my energy not to snap at my kids just for … talking, or for making any sort of noise, or for being in my space. I don’t write about the fact that I’m currently so completely flummoxed about an issue I’m having with one of my children that I’m immobilized. That I haven’t the slightest CLUE how to handle it.

I’m good at faking.

Some days are hard.

Some days are really, really hard.

I am, as I write, and as I stand before you, the proverbial man behind the curtain. Pay no attention to him. Listen to my booming, confident voice! Listen to my authority! Listen to my wisdom!

And know, that sometimes, I am faking it. That I am broken. That I am scared. That I, like so many of the rest of us, struggle with not knowing what the hell I’m doing on any given day of the week. That sometimes, I feel like an impostor in my own life.

I’m good at faking.

My one consolation is in knowing that all of us, at one time or another, at least a little, have faked it. Faked the happy, the confidence, the friendliness, the conversation. Faked the fact that we were completely capable of interacting like a normal person when we really just wanted to be home, in bed, with the covers pulled over our head. Just like my friend suggested, we fake it until we make it.

Today I have things to do. I have people to see. I have to put on pants. I have to have conversations. I have to be okay. I have to smile and make the right faces and say the right things. And I’ll do it!

And I’ll be faking it.

Because between you and me, right now, in this moment? I’m tired. Deep, deep in my bones exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally spent. At the present time, I am not okay.

But you know what? Sometimes being not okay is okay too. Sometimes the answer lies not in faking it, but in raw, brutal honesty. Right now, I’m not okay.

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March 6, 2018 · 3:25 PM

Therapy Ends. Chapter Two Begins.

The beauty is I’m learning how to face my beast
Starting now to find some peace
Set myself free

Today, I don’t have to fall apart
I don’t have to be afraid
I don’t have to let the damage consume me,
My shadow see through me

Fear in itself
Will reel you in
And spit you out over and over again
Believe in yourself and you will walk

Fear in itself
Will use you up and break you down
like you were never enough

I used to fall but now I get back up

~Fear, Blue October

On May 23rd, 2016, I walked into therapy for the first time. I’d seen a doctor, been diagnosed, and started meds just a few weeks before that, but it’s that first day of therapy that I really remember. Partly because I’d spent the better part of my adult life actively hating the very idea of therapy (I thought therapy was WEIRD. I still think therapy’s weird. My mind reels at the fact that there’s this human just walking around out there knowing my deepest darkest secrets, the ugliest parts of my psyche, my biggest fears, and my greatest aspirations. All the big things, and all the little things, and everything in between.) But even more than that was just the fact that, well, I was terrified. Like, more terrified than I’d ever been of anything. Ever. The end.

I wore my “Coffee is My Spirit Animal” t-shirt that day, because it was a favorite, and it made me less nervous. I also had on pretty much every beaded bracelet I owned, for the same reason. They gave me as much confidence and courage as possible on a day when I was having trouble mustering either one. My fingernails were painted a very dark brown, a new favorite color (aptly) called Espresso.

I was scared. So, so scared.

And now, I’m remembering. Remembering it all with a detail and acuity that is making it hard to breathe. You know how people say their life flashes before their eyes right before they die? Well, it’s kind of like that, but … the opposite. I’m not about to die. I’m about to live.

Therapy obviously wasn’t my whole life, but it was a very big part of it, at least for the past 21 months.

And I hated it. I did. I hated therapy. And I don’t feel bad saying that, because I never exactly made it a secret (to anyone, but least of all to my therapist). Therapy was hard. It hurt. It brought me to my knees. I spent more time being mad at my therapist than I think I’ve ever been at anyone that I wasn’t related to in my entire life. Usually just because he was right, and said what I needed to hear but didn’t want to hear… but very occasionally for reasons that I felt were justified. I got my feelings hurt. I got my toes stepped on. I constantly feared I was doing it “wrong”… that I’d say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing, and that I’d screw up this professional relationship just as adeptly as I’d screwed up my personal relationships. I wanted to quit so badly. I wanted to quit all the time. I fantasized about just not showing up one day, and sometimes accompanied said fantasy with a scathing letter just for good measure. Some weeks, making myself drive to therapy took every single ounce of willpower in my body. And some weeks? Some weeks I had no willpower left. I had nothing left.

Because it had broken me. Make no mistake: therapy broke me.

But.

It also put me back together. It healed me. It made me stronger. It taught me things (about myself, about the people around me, about life) that no self-help book in the world ever could. And it was cyclical, in that it made me filled with gratitude – SO VERY MUCH GRATITUDE – and then frustration, and then stubbornness, and then anger, and then gratitude some more.

Last summer was my first try at leaving, but it didn’t take. The timing was …. off, I was spiraling into a deep depression even as we were trying to pick an end date, and my whole life just crashed and burned in what very nearly culminated in a hospital stay.

And I’m glad it happened.

I am. I’m glad for it, and I’m glad for the hard, and for the very very hard, sessions that followed. I just had more things to learn. And I needed that time, and I needed those lessons. It was all part of my story.

Because the thing is, I’m not afraid of the darkness anymore. Therapy taught me not to be afraid anymore (Full disclosure: Certain things do still touch on that fear. When a celebrity dies by suicide? It breaks that most tender part of my heart like none other.) But I’m stronger now. I have tools now. I know – like really, truly, deeply in my soul know – that even when the darkness comes, that I’ll eventually see the light again. That I can keep putting one foot in front of the other. That I can keep breathing. That I can keep myself grounded in the moment. That I can ignore and question and re-frame all the negative thoughts in my head. That I am NOT those thoughts…. no matter how much my brain or the world or the other people in my life try to make me believe otherwise. That those are just old stories, and that I can choose not to listen to them. I can choose not to give them power.

I’m okay now. But you know what? I’m better than okay. Because for the first time in my life, in my whole life, I accept me. I like me, warts and bruised broken bits and all. And really, those warts and bruised broken bits? They’re beautiful, because they’ve made me “me”. They’ve brought me here. They’ve made me strong.

I believe I can do the thing now. And it doesn’t even matter what the “thing” is. I believe I can do it.

I believe in me.

I believe I’m enough.

I’ve learned about the importance of self-compassion in these past 21 months. And of the importance of self-forgiveness (sweet baby Jesus, that’s a big one for me.) I’ve learned what awareness looks like, and what a huge step that is in and of itself. I’ve learned to take responsibility for me, and for MY issues, and leave everyone else to deal with their own. I’ve learned to say, “no”, and I’ve learned to stop trying to please everyone else. I’ve learned to respond with curiosity, openness, acceptance, and love (or C.O.A.L., just one of many such tidy little acronyms that I used to decry as cheesy, but now turn to again and again.) I’ve learned practical steps for panic attacks, for those negative voices that just. won’t. shut. up., and for taking care of myself even when I really really really don’t want to. I’ve learned to question the validity of what my brain is trying to tell me at any given time, I’ve learned to stop taking everything so seriously, and I’ve learned that no matter how many times my brain fights me on this: IT IS NOT ALWAYS MY FAULT.

Therapy didn’t cure me, this much is true. There’s no cure for bipolar. But there’s also no cure for… life. It’s going to have its hard moments, and it’s going to have its REALLY hard moments. It’s going to have its “No. Screw you. I’m not getting out of my bed/putting on my pants/stopping feeling sorry for myself” moments. But my God, it’s also going to have its beautiful moments! Its exquisitely perfect-in-all-their-imperfectly-gloriousness moments. I think of those moments sometimes. Of those perfectly beautiful moments of the past two years that I quite literally could have missed had I not kept going to therapy. I’m still here. I’m still here on the planet. Which is a multifaceted accomplishment to be sure, but therapy played such a big role in that puzzle. A role so big, that fills me with a gratitude so great that I almost don’t know what to do with it. What are the words? There can’t possibly be the right words, can there?

My life tends to be one big example of irony, so now, right at the moment of the end of therapy, I’m finding myself in a bit of a downward rather than upward swing. But unlike last summer, I’m not afraid of it. I’m not. I know that I’m strong. I know that I will see the light again. And if I have to come back to that sentence a million times to remind me, I will. I’ll see the light again.

I’m excited for it.

I’m hopeful.

I’m optimistic (which, by the way, is a word that was not in my vocabulary for.. oh, 44 years)

I owe that, and so very much more, to therapy. And while I’ve consciously used the general term “therapy” rather than the more personal, and more accurate, “my therapist”, I can’t close this out without correcting that. I mainly kept things generic because I didn’t feel like crying just yet, and there was zero chance at all that I could write this without crying.

Tony. My therapist’s name is Tony. He taught me more than anyone’s ever taught me. And he taught me the most important things, because, I mean…. what’s more important than LIFE? I was a slow study sometimes too, and a stubborn one, and a… well, did you get the part about how angry I was all the time? It must be noted though, that despite all the hard work, and the frustration, and the yuck factor, that there were days I actually enjoyed. A lot of them in fact. It feels important that I note that, lest you get the idea that it was 21 months of utter misery. It wasn’t. There were days we laughed, often at ourselves. Days we bonded over silly things like Seinfeld. Days I was allowed to see little bits of Human Tony instead of just Therapist Tony (those were some of my favorites). Days we celebrated one of my small victories. Days we celebrated my really big victories. Days that I truly felt and knew and believed that he believed in me, that he believed I could do it, and that he believed that I could do it well. Not because it was his job, and not because I was paying him to be there, but because human to human, he just DID. I told him not too long ago that I wished that privacy laws didn’t preclude him from having a wall of success stories… because I really wanna see my face up there. I want him to be able to tell people (again, in a vague way because… laws): here was this girl who didn’t think she could do the thing …. BUT SHE DID.

It was a Very. Big. Deal. It was all a big deal. It was a big deal that I did it, and it is a very, very big deal that it has ended. Because the whole point has always been to get me to a place where I didn’t feel I needed therapy anymore.

And we did that. I’m there.

Today, on March 6th, 2018, I walked out of that therapy office for the last time.

And I got in my car, turned on my music (which is always on shuffle), and in one final, serendipitous, post-therapy gift from the universe, the song that started playing was, “I’m Not Broken Anymore.” I was fully prepared to cry… but all I could do was smile.

And now? Now I take what I learned – and what I worked so hard at; and will continue to work so hard at – and I move forward. Move on to the next chapter of my life, and whatever that may bring. And I’ll do it with the deepest and sincerest and most life-long gratitude to Tony, who not only helped me learn how to have a good quality of life, but who quite literally also saved it.

____________________________________________

If your mental health isn’t what it should be please know when to seek professional help

If you’re having thoughts of suicide, call the crisis helpline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

You can also text START to 741-741 if you’d rather text than speak with someone on the phone

If you’re in imminent danger to yourself, PLEASE go to the ER.

You’re loved, and you’re worth it.

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Filed under about me, anxiety, bipolar, depression, gratitude, health, mania, mental health

February 18, 2018 · 9:59 PM

The Conversation About Mental Illness

People have often asked me how I can stand writing about controversial things, and/or how I can handle the negative comments when I write something that’s widely read … especially the people who know how very sensitive I am (which is anyone who’s known me longer than about 90 seconds). The truth is, sometimes I do get my feelings a little – or a lot – hurt. And sometimes I wonder why I keep doing it. And sometimes I want to just take my ball and go home.

But in many ways, it is far easier to be brave on my blog, where it has the potential to reach many people, than it is on a smaller forum. Or than it is with people I know – even if you’re using the word “know” in the loose, Facebook-era kind of way. I like to keep my own little personal Facebook bubble generally light and happy and controversy-free. Partly because that’s just who I am when I’m not railing about my various causes, but also because I can’t handle the heat. I can’t. Every time, EVERY TIME, I think I’m brave enough to post something that’s going to garner mixed opinions … I regret it, I end up crying, or both. That’s just the way I’m wired, for better or worse. My blog is different, because even though there’s the potential for a much larger group of people to be much meaner to me, there’s also anonymity. There’s safety behind the curtain. There’s the “imagine everyone in their underwear” mind-tricks to keep things in perspective. In small groups though, there’s just so much raw vulnerability. For a person whose greatest blessing and biggest curse happens to be vulnerability, it can be a lot to handle.

Sometimes I forget, though. And sometimes I post something controversial. And then I regret it. And then I delete it.

I did that very thing tonight in fact. I posted the thing, a respectful conversation followed, and still I panicked and deleted. I felt an immediate sense of relief …. promptly followed by whatever the opposite of relief is, promptly followed by bawling in the bathtub (the kind of crying where you feel like you’re never going to stop), and texting my friend to talk me down.

The thing is, I wish I hadn’t deleted it. Because I think it’s an important conversation to be had. I think it’s one of the MOST important conversations we should have. So I’m bringing it over here where I feel brave. Where I won’t feel the need to delete.

Like all of you, I was horrified by the news of another school shooting. Like most of you, I have strong opinions on what I believe should and should not be done to hopefully help solve the problem. Like a lot of you, I’ve been saddened and frustrated and angered by many of the memes I saw floating through my Facebook feed.

For reasons that are obvious to any of my regular readers, I’ve felt particularly stung every time I saw a meme screaming, “Mental illness! MENTAL! ILLNESS!”

I finally saw one that flipped a switch in me that turned off all reason, and I posted this:

I have a mental illness. It is currently well-managed. When it is not well-managed, the only person – THE ONLY PERSON – I’ve ever thought of harming is myself.

As I said up above, what followed was a respectful conversation. No one was mean, no one called me names. The comments were, even from the people who disagreed and/or didn’t understand the point I was trying to make, pretty benign. “There are lots of different kinds of mental illness.” “Different people are affected differently.” “There are many factors at play.”

Yes. Sure. All true.

I feel like I shouldn’t have to say this, but for the sake of clarity: I am not at all suggesting that the shooter was not mentally ill. People who are of sound mind don’t typically go on shooting sprees. The fact that people are suggesting he’s mentally ill isn’t actually my problem.

My problem is that we’re perpetuating a stereotype. My problem is that we’re feeding a stigma. My problem is that we’re taking this tiny percentage of those with mental illnesses (you guys, this is a TINY percentage) and using it as a scapegoat. As a way to explain something away. As a way to make ourselves more comfortable with a situation in which there IS no comfort. “Oh, well he was MENTALLY ILL. Of course.” My problem is that we’re holding this one, extreme, violent person and saying: This. This is what mental illness looks like.

I hate to break it to you, but mental illness FAR MORE OFTEN looks like the guy sitting next to you on the bus minding his own business. Like the co-worker you’re joking with next to the water cooler. Like the person who sold you your house, or cut your hair, or did your taxes. Like the girl in the bare feet and the owl pajamas. The who falls and keeps getting back up again. The one who isn’t going to bed until she hits “publish” on her blog post.

A few fast facts about mental illness and violence:

People with mental illnesses are far more likely to be victims of crimes than perpetrators. (source)

The absolute risk of violence among the mentally ill as a group is very small. (source)

The public is largely misinformed about any links between mental illness and violence. (source)

These inaccurate beliefs lead to widespread stigma and discrimination. (source)

Someone in my since-deleted Facebook post asked me, “Are you saying that you think talking about mental illness is harmful?” And what I think is very much the opposite. I think we need to be talking about mental illness. I think we need to know what mental illness is (and is not!). I think we need to have more compassion. I think we need to harbor less judgement. I think we need to demand true information, and real awareness. I think this conversation needs to happen openly, honestly, and in an ongoing fashion. Because what’s happening in the media right now? That’s not a conversation about mental illness. It’s fear-mongering. It’s sensationalism. It’s perpetuating a stereotype, it’s increasing stigma, and it is HARMFUL.

Let me say that again: Make no mistake. What’s happening right now is harmful to those with mental illnesses, and making those who suffer even less likely to seek help when it’s needed.

I’m going to close with something I wrote on the thread on my Facebook page before I deleted. It was responses to this comment that were what eventually led me to delete the post. Because it was so, so deeply personal. And if you don’t feel heard when you write something so personal … I don’t know. I think it’s one of the most painful things we can experience. This is what I wrote, and the kernel from which this whole post was born.

There are so many people, so so many people, who’ve had or currently have suicidal ideation, who are afraid to get help for various reasons. I think the stigma is a huge one, as well as the fact that there is so much judgment attached (ie: How could anyone do something so *selfish*?, etc). But I also think that talking about it just makes people so damn uncomfortable that they’d do anything to avoid it. I get it. It’s uncomfortable. No one’s even mentioned it in this entire thread, despite my having led with it. But my life is valuable too, as is everyone’s who suffers from a mental illness. The problem is, it seems like no one wants to talk about mental illness until someone commits some horrific crime. This tiny, tiny segment of mentally ill people is literally the only exposure that people are getting. And by sensationalizing it, and using it to explain something away (something that is obviously multi-faceted) so many people are hurt. The feeling that one gets, from this side of it, is that your average, run-of-the-mill person who has a mental illness – which is SO many more people than most are aware of – is unimportant. If they take their *own* lives, oh well, as long as they’re not violent towards others. So sure, let’s have a conversation about mental illness, but that conversation needs to include the vast vast majority of people who live/work/exist without ever harboring violent tendencies. Otherwise, it’s just propagating stereotypes and increasing stigmas.

Let’s do better. Please.

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Filed under about me, bipolar, depression, headlines, mania, mental health, rant

October 8, 2017 · 9:09 AM

Making Peace With Self-Care (Again)

Last night, someone was mean to me on the internet.

And when I say someone was mean to me, what I really mean is: I got my feelings hurt. In a big way. Because they were not “mean.” Incredibly condescending, but not mean. I’ve (mostly) learned to deal with it when people actually are mean. When they swear at me, I can laugh it off. Tell me I should I die? Cool. Tell me that my kids are going to grow up to be ax murderers and drunk drivers and rapists because I don’t spank them? Whatever.

But admonish me, however politely, for not being a good enough human? To use patronizing language to call my character into question? To tell me, as a stranger, that I need to do better, to be better, no matter how well intentioned… holy hell. HOLY HELL, does that cut deep. I’m pretty sure that I have the years of damage from my fundamental Christian upbringing to thank for that. The great irony (because my life is one big example of irony) is that I was being chastised for not having enough grace for people. That I never knew what someone else was going through – which, of course, is absolutely 100% true – so I shouldn’t judge them based on one unkind and nasty snippet on the internet. What I wonder is if this person would have shown me more grace if they knew more of my story? Because yeah, I overreacted. But there was a reason. It doesn’t excuse it … but there was a reason.

I haven’t been sleeping lately.

It’s only been 3, 4 weeks now I think. Usually it takes a couple of months before it causes a complete mental break, which means if I can get on top of things, there’s still time to catch it before I end up where I was in July: suicidal and threatened with involuntary hospitalization.

Anyway, I haven’t been sleeping. First because of mania, then because of anxiety, then … I don’t know. And I’ve learned that nothing, nothing, unravels me faster than lack of sleep. I could eat nothing but junk food for months on end, sit on my couch like a sloth, ignore everyone and everything and still manage to function (relatively) normally. But take away my sleep? I start to slip. Like rapidly, rapidly, down-the-rabbit-hole free-fall. If I’ve learned nothing in this past year and half, it’s that I need to watch my sleep. You’d think that I would have learned that sooner, having been a chronic insomniac on and off since my early twenties, but… sometimes I’m a slow learner.

So I haven’t been sleeping, and I got my feelings hurt on the internet, and last night I found myself rather violently cleaning the kitchen at 9:00 PM, just to give myself something to do with my angst. It was the second night in a row that I’d gotten swept up (Swept up. Ha. See what I did there?) swept up in the act of rage-cleaning before bed. Second night in a row that I’d gotten into bed depressed, and anxious, and jumping out of my skin. I’d deleted the offending post and all its comments on my Facebook page, but I still felt gross about it. And I realized as I was slamming the sixth plate into the dishwasher that it was at least the fourth time this week that I’d deleted something because I’d gotten my feelings hurt. Or felt shamed, or embarrassed, or angry. Which made major alarm bells go off, because I only start doing that when I Am Not Okay. Or at a very minimum, on the verge of Not Okay.

And rather than trying to push through – which never works. Which never, ever works – today I’m sitting with my not-okay-ness. I’m admitting it; I’m saying it out loud. And I’m breathing, and I’m being gentle with myself, and I’m working out what has to change in order for me to start sleeping again, in order for me to start interacting like a reasonable human again. Letting go of my own self-care, letting myself get swallowed by the Big Black Hole, and then couching it in, “It’s not my fault; it’s the bipolar!” helps no one, least of all myself. Or my kids. Or my husband. Or anyone who has the (mis)fortune of being within a 50 foot radius when I am as jacked-up as I am right now. Whenever I feel myself starting to slip, self-care is the very first thing to go…. and the very first thing that I should turn to. I know this. I know this. And yet, here I am, once again.

It’s time to make peace with self-care. If I can’t do it for myself, I can at least do it for my kids.

And so, to the person who (rightly) reminded me of the importance of giving people grace last night: Thank you. You were right. I absolutely do need to give people more grace.

But today I have to start with myself.

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Filed under about me, anxiety, depression, mania, mental health, self care

September 26, 2017 · 5:04 PM

Conference R & R

It’s been almost a month since our fourth Free to Be Conference. I would say fourth “annual” conference, but I don’t like the word annual. Too much commitment. 🙂 It’s always been a new decision every year.

Last year, the conference was… well, it was honestly painful in a lot of ways. The program itself went well, I think. All the talks, workshops, etc pretty much went off without a hitch. But the hotel hated us and threatened to kick out our group on the very first day, there were behavior issues, and there was personal … ickiness. (Ickiness, by the way, is the technical term.) We were very certain that we weren’t going to do it again. Except:

We had to. We needed a do-over. We needed a Hail Mary. We chose a new hotel, looked at it as a fresh start, and hoped for the best.

Still, I didn’t know what to expect. I really didn’t. After 2016, I almost didn’t want to have any expectations. Registration was highly stressful this year because so many people waited till the last minute. (Was it a mistake to do it again? Was no one going to register? Were we going to end up in the poor house because of this?) And then, one month before the conference the bottom fell out of my own life, so it was all I could do to keep afloat, let alone think about anything conference related.

But then it came – funny thing about planning things like that. They come whether you’re ready or not – and it was… well, it was magic. I honestly could not have asked for a better conference. Or attendees. Or experience. Were there tiny wrinkles? Sure. Were there little issues, complaints, comparisons to other conferences? Of course. That’s all part and parcel of hosting an event for 400 people. But overall it was largely, and overwhelmingly… OVERWHELMINGLY… positive. And the amount of healing it brought? Ridiculous. It was truly a redemptive year for us.

And the thing is, we don’t do it for us. We do it for the money (KIDDING! We don’t make any money to speak of.) We do it for the attendees. We create the vision and the framework; the speakers, the funshop hosts, and the volunteers bring it to life; and then the whole thing is gifted to the attendees, to do with what they wish. This year though… this year, it was gifted back to us. And it was beautiful and it was healing, and it was honestly one of the most positive and empowering feelings I’ve ever experienced.

People keep asking if we’re all recovered. People have actually been asking since a few days after it ended. And by all means, I feel good, and I feel peaceful. But recovered? Well, no, I’m not. Mike, being the more logical, business-minded of the two of us, says that he’s back to normal. A couple weeks back to work and he was good to go. But me… I invest way too much emotionally to be recovered in a couple of weeks. Plus, it was a year’s worth of blood, sweat, and tears. You don’t just get over that in a couple of weeks. Especially when life doesn’t stop in order for you to do so… when you have to get right back to school, and life, and appointments, and running kids around.

I know that just attending the conference is exhausting and requires its own recovery. For real. We’ve been on that end of it, too. A four day event is no joke, no matter how smooth it is. You’re running around like crazy, you’re sleep deprived, you’re not eating right. But it’s still not quite the same thing as planning, executing, and running said event. (Um, on that note, my apologies to those I may or may not have grumbled to – I hope good natured-ly – when they complained to me about how tired they were. Do you know about the ring theory of venting? Ever since I learned about it, my venting mantra is “Never vent IN”. I miss the mark sometimes I’m sure. But I try. Really really hard.)

And now it’s been a month, and I’m still working on re-entry. A weekend at my cabin would be lovely, but … real life beckons. And so, rest and recovery is happening in the pauses. In the quiet mornings on the days when I don’t have anyplace to be. With my happy playlist, and a venti cup of coffee in the car. With a good book and a long bath. In the stolen meditative moments of chopping vegetables for dinner, or washing my hands longer than necessary in the bathroom. In the smiles brought by a rapid text exchange with a trusted friend. In the hibernating.

In the breathing. Always in the breathing.

I will rest, and I will breathe, and then I’ll be ready to do it again for 2018. In the meantime, I will watch this. And I’ll remember. xo

What 24 Years Of Marriage Are REALLY Like

Last week, Mike and I celebrated 24 years of marriage.

We’ve never been ones to really jump on the train of public declarations that start with things like, “24 years ago, I married my best friend”… in equal parts because it’s just not us; because it seems somewhat strange and.. insecure, maybe?… to paint a public, rosy, perfect picture about something that is private (and also, if anyone’s been honest, not at all rosy or perfect); and because we find it all sort of nauseating. Nauseating too strong? Annoying. We find it a little annoying.

Still, it’s been 24 years – which is twice as long as 12, and just one shy of 25 – so I thought it deserved a little more than a passing mention. Not of the, “I married my best friend” ilk, but the real-life variety: where people fart and pets die and you live through a wheel flying off your car at 75 mph on the highway.

Here’s just a small, uncensored sample of what 24 years of marriage has really looked liked (one for each year of wedded bliss, plus one more for good measure):

1. Working a combined 3, 4 and at times even 5 jobs to put food on the table and keep the lights on

2. Spending a summer living in a camper (with a toddler) at a long-term campground so you could save up enough money to buy a house. Living with no running water for 9 long months at said house, because your well runs dry and you can’t afford to have a new one drilled.

3. A dog that got into so many non-edible “foods”, and caused so much trouble, that you could fill a book with her vomit stories alone. And… crying together in the vet’s parking lot after you had to have said dog put to sleep.

4. And speaking of pets: gently and compassionately and respectfully dealing with your wife’s cat’s body (a cat you hated with a passion) after it died in her arms

5. Staying up all night with crying kids and puking kids and middle-of-the-night sheet changes

6. Dealing with cancer scares, and shoulder surgeries, and kidney stents and 5 day hospital stays (when you have a newborn baby, no less.)

7. Sometimes going to bed angry, because despite the oft-touted rule of marriage that says, “Never go to bed angry”, sometimes in the real world… you just go to bed angry.

8. Occasionally justified and often ridiculous fighting about pets, and about politics, and about asparagus. Getting to practice, again and again, the art of “I’m sorry.”

9. Wading through four pregnancies…. two fairly text book, one with hyperemesis gravidarum (and its accompanying 9 months of vomiting and weight loss), and one with a self-destructive gall bladder and too many ER visits to count.

10. Camping trips and upscale vacations to beautiful places like Bryce Canyon and Pagosa Springs, Colorado… that are mostly spent indoors because all four of your kids come down with stomach bugs. Can I just stop right here and note the fact that 4 of the first nine points had to do with vomit??

11. Hurting when your kids hurt, and wishing you could do anything – anything – to take away their pain

12. Navigating the tricky path, and the highs and the lows and the really really low lows, that comes with a spouse with mental illness.

13. Broken appliances, broken cars, and leaky roofs… sometimes all in the same week.

14. Middle-of-the-work-day phone calls to tell you that your spouse has heroically saved a stray dog from certain danger, and that he’d stay just long enough to find his owner, and that, oh, by-the-by, his owner still wouldn’t be found three years later.

15. Getting talked into getting a cat (and while you hate most pets, you particularly hate cats), and dogs and chickens and rats and snakes and fish and mice and hedgehogs…..

16. Not realizing until after you’re married that you’re pretty much polar opposites… in politics, in personality (a very strong thinker, and a very strong feeler), in strengths and weaknesses (numbers and words, puzzles and ideas, practicality and creativity). And yeah, have I mentioned the pet thing?

17. Dealing with an extended family who thinks you’re utterly crazy for making the decision to homeschool, at which point you realize that your differences, those strengths and weaknesses, actually work very well together, and fit together like pieces of a puzzle … a sensible, creative, beautiful mess of a puzzle.

18. Making the even crazier decision to uproot your family and move across the country, only to find that despite the ups and downs, hard days and really hard days, that Phoenix makes you happier than any other place you’ve ever lived, by a factor of a hundred.

19. Making yet another crazy decision to start a homeschooling conference together, and again being pleasantly surprised at the ease of which you collaborate together, even four years in.

20. The red wine and Fireball incident.

21. Living through car accidents, rip tides, getting straight-up-lost in the middle of a mountain hiking trip, and the aforementioned red wine and Fireball incident.

22. Spending your anniversary at home, eating take-out, because one spouse just wasn’t up to going out… and being okay with it.

23. 24 Christmases, and 24 Thanksgivings (there was some vomit involved there, too), and 24 years of birthdays … 24 years of regular days and quiet days and boring days … 24 years of vacations and road trips and sporting events and rock concerts and movies … 20 years of celebrating and enjoying and rooting for your kids … 20 years of scouts and football and t-ball and basketball and gymnastics and dance and theater….

24. 20 years of collectively raising and watching and loving four gorgeous humans so much that it actually physically hurts.

25. Knowing, in your heart of hearts, in the deepest part of your soul… that you wouldn’t change a thing.

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