How Not to Survive (Under)Graduate School

I am three weeks into my program and wondering, what the hell was I thinking?  To make it easier for me and my fellow (under)graduate students, I've composed a list of 10 ways to ensure one doesn't survive school.

1. Have kids.  Lots of 'em. And, if possible, make sure you're pregnant WITH kids.

2. Start out poor.  Extra stress from financial burdens is extremely important to (non)success.

3. Stay home full-time with your kids, finding baby-sitters *only* when you have class.  This way you and your children will experience (under)graduate school together!

4. Move FAR away from family.  When you need help with little things, like an emergency baby-sitter, you will learn patience by taking your kids with you to appointments and classes!

5. Include your partner/spouse in the school/life/mother/spouse balance by sending them away for a few weeks.  You'll never appreciate them more than when they are gone and return.

6. Ensure that you live on the third floor of an apartment complex without a washer and dryer.  This will make you appreciate your ancestors as you lug your kids (who refuse to walk), the laundry, the laundry supplies, and your pregnant body up and down the stairs to the laundromat.

7. Live in a *small* apartment.  Nothing like enclosed spaces to improve familial relationships!

8. If you have a mental illness, don't take your medicine - for physical or whatever reasons - to improve your chances at (non)success.

9. Ensure that your toddler and preschooler are sufficiently independent and busy enough to cause all types of chaos while you attempt to work on a paper.

10. Don't sleep.  Blame it on pregnancy-induced insomnia, anxiety-induced insomnia, or just insomnia in general.  That way, by the end of the week, you are hysterical with overwhelming stress and exhaustion.  A perfect recipe for (non)success.

If you can, try to combine one or more of these and I promise you the (under)graduate experience of your life!

 

Brooke Shields Had Me At Postpartum Depression

While visiting to library to pay $40+ in damaged library book fines, I picked up Brooke Shields's book, "Down Came the Rain."  Some of the chapters were interesting, a few I found a bit dull (no offense, Brooke), but the chapters where she went into deep detail about her Postpartum depression glued me.

She describes her ambivalence toward her infant, feelings of wanting to disappear, and crazy thoughts of wanting to hurt her child or herself.  It was an intense read.  Her experience was something I could painfully relate to.

When Emily was born, I couldn't understand why I didn't feel close to her.  I tried; however, the only time I felt anything was when she breastfed--and that wasn't a positive experience.

It is heartbreaking to read all these wonderful experiences of having a baby and not feeling them.  It makes you question your very identity and whether you should have become a mother.

I still have many of these feelings, especially when my hormones increase and I must adjust my medication (under a doctor's guidance, of course).  Thankfully, I feel very comfortable that I may pop pills until the day I die.

It is refreshing to read another mother's account and realize that your experience was not unique, but something many women experience.  It also empowers me to continue in sharing my story.

A Pregnant Sky

I watch as the clouds turn from a pleasant grey to a dark, heavy, and threatening charcoal grey.

Winter is peering over the hills, casting a long shadow over our small town. Daylight Savings Time has fooled us; no longer does the sky stay bright as the time clock ticks, nearing Closing Time.

The clouds, the darkness, and the expectations weigh heavily in the air as I wait for my family to pick me up.  Looming above me is the potential for a powerful storm.  I hold my breath, hoping it waits.

*****

Inside, the clouds of a different storm wait.  They twist and turn, growing heavier and darker by the day, consuming my mind with different thoughts.  I am not sure when this storm will hit--or, if it will blessedly pass me over.  Hope, excitement, and other positive emotions are squeezed out by nervousness, pain, and fear. Disappointment dots my landscape.  I push through, though, certain I can work the bad thoughts away.

*****

I am home with the kids and husband, lying in bed when the clouds release a torrential outpouring of rain.  It isn't the gentle pitter patter I had wanted; instead, the water slaps my windows, walls, and roof over and over again, jerking me awake as I listen to the sounds and hope our walls and windows keep us warm and safe.

*****

The storm inside is more complicated, silently waiting until I have relaxed to fully engage my mind, releasing a torrential outpouring of happy and sad, exhaustion and elation.  My insides shake as I am slapped consistently by a barrage of these competing emotions, attempting to decide which ones to focus on.

*****

I hide under my covers as the storms outside and inside converge, metaphorically, in a thunderous roar above my head.  The walls shake and I cower even further under the protection of warm blankets.  I tremble, not wanting to know the truth.  Or worse, to confront my fears.

But deep inside, as the storm rages on, I feel the shield of strength.  An umbrella emerging to protect my face and arms from the worst of the barrage as I confront my issues.  I take deep breaths and run through the storm, reaching my destination.  First one place, then the other, quickly making my rounds.   I finish, exhausted, but feeling Full.

The darkness and desperation have fled.  Yes, they might come back; but, this time I will be ready.  Fist clenched tightly around my medications: my relief and hope from the dangerous storm of mental illness.

*****I am linking up with Heather today, for her wonderful Just Write series.

Closing Shop and Other Housekeeping Items

After I went public with my disaffection/break/discontent (whatever you want to call it) from the Mormon church--the church of my upbringing--I have had conflicting feelings.  On the one hand, I want to talk about my experiences because it shaped me as a child and continues shaping me as I grow older.  (My entire mindset is Mormon--I see things from a Mormon worldview; I view religion-related things from a Mormon perspective; and many of my friends are/were Mormon.)  On the other hand, I do not want to isolate those who continue to believe in the tenets of Mormonism and, in my mind, religion in all its forms.  It isn't that I am trying to convince people to join me in my agnosticism/atheism, it's that I am working through my past beliefs in order to integrate them into the person I am now and the person I am becoming.

I don't feel I am being anti-Mormon, but understand the Mormon mindset which makes certain topics uncomfortable.   But, to be frank, it isn't just Mormonism that I have issues with.  It is God, Jesus Christ, the scriptures, and the history of all Judeo-Christian religions.  I am open to exploring different religions and am also open to opinions that are different from my own. Heck, if you have an experience that is or was similar to mine, and you stayed faithful to whatever religion you currently are, tell me about it!

However, you are formally warned that I will be sharing my religious experiences and why I feel the way I do now.  It will be thoughtful and may also be hard to read.  So if you are uncomfortable with that and wish to say something that is not conducive to respectful conversation, do so at your own risk.  That is to say, I will not respond to hurtful comments.  In fact, I will delete your words forever.  At the same time, I have a forgiving heart.  Just be respectful to me and my views (and, by all means, disagree with me!) and I will be respectful to you.

All this is a lengthy explanation for my new Facebook rules.  I will be trimming down my current friends to those who are close friends and/or relatives.  I will not be talking about my religious angst, my political opinions, or anything that might be controversial on that account.  Instead, I have opened a new account that is dedicated to all the above plus a few other things that I will discuss a little later in this post.  You are welcome to friend me.  I am not picky and will accept everyone, who is not crazy and/or a friend whore, who asks.  I might seek you out because I am interested in what you have to say.  Again, you can find that new account here.   If you are not into that sort of thing, you are also welcome to "like" my blog.  It won't be nearly as fun as my new account, but will apprise you of new blog posts.

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My second piece of business is more momma-related.  Y'all know that I struggle with intense mental illness, right?  (If you don't, where have you been?) (Kidding.)  As I am figuring out how to handle it (yes, my medication does not make it all better, I must do other things to keep me level), I realize that most of my current stress comes from being a mom.  To two toddlers.  To help me see the bright side of some crazy days, I will be posting quotes and/or experiences from the day to my new Facebook account's wall.  So if you are annoyed by that kind of thing, be warned.  It is something I realize helps me see things in a less hazy way.  I love my kids.  Oh I love them.  But mental illness often clouds my perspective and I need a metaphorical Windex-like product to wipe my windows clean.  And this is the idea that came to me.  So I'm going to try it.

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Numero three.  I am revamping my weekly supporting parents write-up.  Look for more details soon.

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And finally, I am taking a short break to recuperate and tackle this enormous to-do list I have.  I will most likely continue reading your blogs but need some time to gather my own thoughts before returning to writing. This whole exploration of my new feminist/religious/philosophical self is exhausting.  Literally, I pass out every day quickly because my mind is teeming with information, comments, ideas, etc.  Also, my to-do list is full of things with actual deadlines.  Deadlines that are coming up real fast.  Yikes.  So I must dedicate more time to completing these tasks (which include some exciting new adventures, I'll keep you posted) before the end of the month.  I will continue with the Supporting Parents posts because I really do believe in my original idea and because it helps me look over my parenting with an objective magnifying glass.

If you are still reading this long post, kudos to you.

Oh to be normal.

I had a rough last week.  I could give various reasons: the kids went crazy, Ben is busy with medical school, I've woken up with debilitating migraines every morning; but the truth is, the wiring in my brain is screwed up and I am terribly sensitive to hormonal changes.

To have two mental health issues that are comorbid with each other--like my anxiety and depression--means they are interconnected yet independent: you cannot address one without addressing the other; and, as the patient, it is almost impossible to pinpoint which one is the source of mental anguish.  For example, if I miss a dose of my anxiety medication, I feel tense, my thoughts begin to race, and I have trouble sleeping--and, subsequently, my depression begins to come out (even when taking medication) and my whole life goes to hell.  That's the truth.

The tricky part comes when hormonal fluctuations interact with my mental health issues.  As a woman, I am more prone to hormonal imbalances and, as myself, am especially sensitive to the regular changes (i.e. ovulation and monthly cycles).

So last week's mess could have been calmly handled if I hadn't been battling my hormones that also sent my mental health issues into a downward spiral.

There is nothing like a wake-up call to how crazy you truly are.  To make it through these hormonal swings, I must increase my medications a few times throughout the month.   The problem is recognizing when these times are and taking action immediately.  The lines become blurred when dealing with mental illness, so I will tell myself that things will get better if I clean the house, read the kids stories, stop bickering at Ben, and numerous other things that sum up to being strong and dealing with my shit like an adult.

But I know these are not solutions.  Taking control of my mental illness through medication, exercise, and healthy eating will help more than mentally belittling myself.  It's just recognizing when I need to take these actions that's hard.

Here's to hoping that next week I will not sequester myself inside the house and that my body's hormone levels will finally reach homeostasis.

Shifting From Dark to Light

While we were dating, Ben and I often went hiking on the beautiful Alaskan mountains. One particular morning found us at the top of Flattop a little after sunrise. I remember observing the gradual shift from dark to light as the sun's rays spread across the land, leaving a kaleidoscope of shadows.

These last few days I've been reflecting on that scene in connection with my newly found happiness.  For years I suffered under a cloud of despair: Seeing my future as hopeless and desolate.  Looking back through time, I can only remember brief stints of joy splattered on a canvass of bleakness--my existence.

Up until a few months ago, before I recognized the need of intervention--in the forms of therapy and medication--I would wake with a rising sense of dread.  The kids would watch hours of the Wiggles so I could sleep through the pain of severe anxiety and depression.  When they engaged in normal child activities, the screwed up wiring in my brain produced reactions of intense and irrational irritation and anger.  My husband was terrified to come home because he did not know what Amber he would find: the cheerful and supportive wife or the desperate and despairing wife.  Multiple times a week I would have meltdowns complete with tears and dreary announcements of our future.

Under the guidance of a wonderful practitioner, I received the help I needed.  After finding the right dose and mix of medications--to treat the clinical depression and anxiety--I saw a noticeable difference.  The manifestation began by waking up full of hope and excitement for the day ahead of me, followed by joyful anticipation of the transition our family will soon make when Ben begins medical school, and capped when I no longer dreaded my husband's long work week but looked forward to any time we had together.

The medication precipitated a symbolic sunrise in my life.  No longer do I dwell in darkness; rather, the shadows are carefully dispelling under the gentle caress of the sun's rays.

No longer incapacitated by mental illness, I am peeling away the layers and finding the person I have always been: Compassionate, optimistic, and happy.

Thank you all for supporting me through this painful journey.   Your patience, kindness, and friendship has meant so much to me.

Repose

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I trudge through the snow pushing the double stroller back home from the library.  The kids, bundled up in various assortments of coats, hats, and blankets, point out objects of entertainment.

"A red truck, Mommy!" squeals a delighted Emily.

"Dada, Mama, Jump!" adds Andrew.

We breathe in the delightful scents of leaves fallen off trees, the pine cones of Evergreens, and the fresh scent of fallen snow (that is to say the air is free of smoggy residue and, therefore, scentless).   The noise of passing cars is barely noticeable as I push the stroller through serene neighborhoods.

While I engage the kids with multifarious questions, I ponder my current situation.  My habit to load up the stroller when I feel my mental capacities buckling under the overwhelming (or so my mind thinks) pressures; my tendency to lose my head when a child wakes up early from a nap (or refuses to take one) or busies herself in naughty behaviours; and my inability to confront certain places (ahem, internet) without feeling fear, with a dash of dread and a heavy side of guilt, because I am convinced of my personal inadequacies and failures.

My intense desires to be at home with my children and provide a loving, safe, and education-rich environment juxtapose with my acute longing to run away--whether to the workplace, school, or another state--from the battles being fought inside my head supposedly because of my occupation as a stay-at-home mom.

Rather than hide from these devilish thoughts, I tenuously chose to accost my enemy this last week as a knight would duel his foe. I stayed away from friends--on-line and in real life--because I knew this fight would need my full strength.

At this point it would be natural to interpose "and in the end," except that an ending doesn't exist.  With this war, the battles are waged daily--some I win, some I lose.  However, I am emerging as victor more often than as conquered.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The birds chirp, the leaves stir, and the kids continue with their endless chatter.   I open my eyes a little wider and notice the contrast between this day and the last: the pressure in my chest has lifted and I feel as light as the wind.  And though it is cold outside, I feel the warmth of this knowledge spreading through my limbs and the beginnings of a bounce to my step.

With guarded optimism, I embrace the changes and look forward to days filled with more hope and less fear.

Morning Cocoa

If we were to meet for cocoa...

I would tell you that today feels like a Monday.  Ben took a 4-day weekend and boy did we soak it up.  We went on a date and used an actual baby-sitter.  Right as we were walking out the door, Andrew fell and bit his lip.  Lots of blood, lots of tears, and a wonderful baby-sitter who calmly took charge.

Over the weekend, I saw Sue, my nurse practitioner.  After having me do a few balance tests, she decided a specialist would be the next best option to figure out this nausea.  Oh how grateful I am for Sue.

After an incredibly hard week last week, I was able to meet with a therapist and start medication for my anxiety and depression.  It takes about a month for me to notice any difference, which slightly scares me, but I am thankful for my supportive husband who helped me tremendously during his 4-day mini-vacation.

I would tell you that today is a mellow day.  I received a phone call that my grandmother died this morning.  I had mixed feelings when I heard she had passed away.  She had suffered from Parkinson's for at least ten years now.  For the last five, dementia has settled in leaving her vastly different from the grandma I grew up with.  While I am sad to say good-bye, I am grateful she has been released from her physical and mental pain.

I would share our latest exciting news: our final decision for where we will attend medical school.  Watch out Midwest, our family is headed in that direction!

I would refill your cup and tell you how wonderful a warm beverage is on these cold, winter months.  My dear husband fixed our stroller last night so the kids and I will be able to get out, but walking in the cold weather isn't exactly thrilling--not in a pleasurable manner anyway.

I would give you another hug and tell you to stay as long as you'd like.  It's nice to visit with an old and good friend.

Grab a mug of something warm (or cold for those in different parts of the world) and tell me, what would you share?

Getting In Touch With Depression, Part Two

To catch up with this two-part series, read part one.

My first diagnosis of depression came while I was in college.  It took me a while, though, before I started seeing the pattern.

A Therapist? Medication?  I'll Take Both

I called my mom today, again, crying.  It's just so hard, y'know?  I work my butt off each day and can't seem to pull the A's I so desperately want.  I suck.  Majorly.  I'm in this class where I am required to write 3 papers this semester.  Three huge papers.  I can't write--the proof is in the mark-ups of my returned papers.  I can't believe I told myself I could come here to BYU and succeed.  Everyone is smarter than I am.  Most have completed AP courses prior to attending, I most definitely did not.  I am having even more panic attacks--episodes in which my breathing shallows and I feel like I'm going to suffocate.  I can't compete anymore; I'll never win.

As a college student, my mother intervened and convinced me to make an appointment with a therapist.  I decided that I would, the next semester.  Over the course of our many meetings, my therapist explained to me the inconsistencies with my thought processes and my personal conduct.  "Obviously," she explained, "you are an excellent student who is exerting herself to the point of anxiety.  In fact, I'm sure we can look back through your personal history and see many types of anxiety attacks.  My dear, you suffer from the treatable condition of anxiety, with a touch of depression."  She helped me focus on my strengths and taught me relaxation methods to make it through classes, exams, and, most importantly, finals.  I deferred medication at that point because our sessions were so successful that it didn't seem necessary.

Fast forward to 2 years later.  I was pregnant with Andrew and having the same symptoms.  My husband convinced me to talk with my doctor about my evident depression; I concurred.  The next appointment I brought it up and my doctor immediately prescribed medication.  I resisted taking it, though I had it filled immediately, thinking that if only I were a stronger person I could do without it.  Once again, a loved one intervened--my husband--and encouraged me to try the medicine.  I did.  The difference was amazing.  At this point, we couldn't afford a therapist so I stuck with the medication and felt much more...sane.

After trying both, I believe that therapy and medication are optimal for me as I have the benefits of the SSRI's increasing seratonin levels, and a therapist teaching me different coping methods.  I have also found alternative forms of medicine--changing my diet and exercising--to be beneficial.

An Ongoing Conclusion

I feel more level lately.  My moods aren't nearly as severe and I am laughing so much more than I have in the past year.  Ben has noticed the difference as well.  I no longer freak out when he's home, because I'm scared of him leaving, and have started cooking dinners regularly and exercising again.  However, I am scared.  Afraid of seeking into those depressive depths again.  I wonder if I'll be able to get out the next time.

Contrary to popular belief, depression isn't constant.  It usually kicks in during times of great stress and change,  but if left untreated it can result in very long episodes.   I didn't learn this until recently, when I became more self-aware.

After years of debilitating anxiety and untimely bouts with depression, I can look back and differentiate between what was real and what was imagined.  In my teens, I have vivid memories of severe panic attacks accompanied by draining depression.  My parents supposed my symptoms were related to my obsessive perfectionism.  What I thought was pregnancy related depression with Andrew in reality was my anxiety kicking into over-drive and bringing depression along for the ride.  The same thing with my supposed Postpartum depression.

In November (last month), with the guidance of my husband, I came to the conclusion that I was once again experiencing severe anxiety and depression.   The ruthless nature of this mental illness has kept me down.  Really down.

Unfortunately, our finances cannot allow a doctor's visit this month.  This has forced me to review the sessions with my therapist I had as a college student and figure out ways to at least control the symptoms.  I have incorporated a good fitness routine into my day and this really has made a slight, but important difference.

I am lucky to have a marvelous and in-tune husband as well as supportive friends.  (Including all of you.) Depression and anxiety are hard to live with.  But we are lucky to live in a time of modern medicine and excellent therapists. For that I am grateful.

Getting In Touch With Depression

Depression is an oft used noun in today's vernacular.   It is also commonly misunderstood.  To better comprehend the complexity and seriousness of depression, I am going to describe the mental illness and provide excerpts from my personal journal to frame understanding.

Lost and Hopeless

I wish I were somewhere else.  I can't be a good wife or parent.  Ben, and the kids, would be better off without me. I feel like I'm living life in a fog--the only happiness I feel is filtered through the murky vapor of sadness...or whatever it is.  I know it's my fault I feel this way.  I need to be stronger, should be stronger, but it's hard when hope feels so far away.  I can't even see it on the horizon.

Some common symptoms of depression include overwhelming "hopelessness, helplessness, inappropriate guilt or regret, and self-hatred."  Depressed people exhibit a constant low mood and often lose their ability to experience happiness with activities that they used to enjoy. (Source: Wikipedia.)

I have never contemplated suicide, but I have had a few periods in my life--as a teenager, a sophomore in college, and after this miscarriage--that I convinced myself the world, and my family, would be better off without me.

I Am Grateful, Dang It!

I have so many blessings in my life:  Beautiful children, an amazing husband, warm shelter, delicious food, and supportive family members.  Yet I know that I'm not worthy of them.  The negativity that surrounds my thoughts is proof of what an ungrateful wretch I have become.  I can hardly say a kind word to my husband, let alone give him a compliment; my eyes are constantly flashing with anger over the little things my kids do that are a normal part of their development; I avoid my friends because I am sure they notice how deficient I am in so many areas.

A common misconception is that a clinically depressed person can snap out of it if they try to develop a more grateful attitude, pray more, or have more faith.  This is false.  A depressed person is already hard on themselves.  They recognize how great everything is around them, but they cannot bring their mood up. It's a brain thing.

I remember looking at myself, as if from above, and shaking my head.  Obviously, I told myself, I am unfaithful.  Worthless.  With these phrases incessantly going through my mind, I had trouble sleeping, eating, and facing the world.  I would wake up and cry knowing that I had to parent my kids that day; me, an awful mother, would be alone with them.  A miserable place, indeed...*

*After I finished writing this post, I saw how much I had written** and deemed it necessary to break it up into two more manageable posts.  I will post part two sometime next week.

**Seriously, this took quite a bit out of me so you had better appreciate it.  Frankly, if I don't get like 1000 comments I will probably never write again.

Image courtesy of FreeImages.

I Have Emerged From A Very Long Journey Out of the Depths of Depression

A few weeks ago, a friend and I were discussing the similarities in our pregnancies.  We both experienced hg and pretty severe Postpartum depression (PPD).  I've been thinking about that discussion frequently since then, reflecting on my struggle with PPD.  Not once, but four times.

PPD #1

I remember waking up some mornings wanting so badly to sleep some more.  Hearing Emily wail, I often wondered why I ever decided to become a mom.  I would call my mom, constantly on the  verge of tears, and tell her how difficult everything was.  She would console me and tell me how great I was doing.  I would listen, agree, and promptly forget as soon as I got off the phone.

I lived in a constant haze of pessimism.  I blamed it on being a first time mother and still finishing my own degree.  On Ben being busy with classes, Emily not sleeping through the night, Emily's colic, the darkness of winter, the never ending homework, and the list goes on and on.   My usually optimistic self would write posts on our family blog that mirrored my old self, but it was a lie.  I wasn't optimistic; I could hardly string two positive thoughts together on a good day.  But I was a good liar.

Poor Ben handled my listlessness and random crying bouts very well.  He would come home and take Emily from me, ordering me to rest.  I believe he carried us through those very dark days.

And then one day it went away.  I thought it was because I had successfully changed my attitude.  I mean, it was all my fault anyway.

Pregnancy Depression

When I was 6 months pregnant with Andrew, the depression came back.  We were living with Ben's mom for the summer while Ben finished an internship, and I was miserable.  She was a marvelous host, who did her best to make all of us comfortable; unfortunately, I couldn't find any positives in our situation.  I was alone during the day in an unfamiliar home with an active baby.   I was without a car and feeling very deserted. I thought once we moved back to our own apartment those feelings would disappear.

They didn't.  So we moved.  The move was a good decision, as we needed a bigger place, but I still could not change my attitude.  I prayed and prayed and nothing changed.  I went to the temple, studied my scriptures, and blamed my silly weaknesses for the cloud of darkness that had enveloped me.

It was at this time that I started blogging more frequently.  Some of you might remember me during those days.  I was a miserable person.  Finally, Ben suggested that I talk to my doctor about possible depression.  I was put on medication and finally felt somewhat normal.

PPD #2

After having Andrew, I thought my old self had returned.  At my six week appointment, I asked to be taken off my medication.  I thought I was ready.

But, in my haste I  had not considered that my PPD would return after that 6-week mark.  Which it did.  I blamed it on everything: Ben's work and school schedule, Andrew's colic, my job, the messy house, a busy toddler.  I tried to change but couldn't.  One would think that I would recognize the symptoms; however, I am quite dense when it comes to simple solutions.

I finally emerged shortly after Andrew's colic relented.

PPD #3

And then I got pregnant and had my first miscarriage.  Once again I was on that roller coaster ride that seemed to only point down, with small hills sporadically placed here and there.  I expected grief, but I did not expect depression.  Severe depression.

PPD #4

If you notice the pattern, then I'm sure you can guess what happened after I had the second miscarriage.

I remember one evening in particular while walking with Ben to a mission reunion.  I remember wanting so badly to be at home in bed, having no desire to see people and feeling a sense of hopelessness.  The kind of hopelessness I have only felt when suffering through PPD. Ben was unnerved.  He asked me what he could do, I couldn't give him any definitive answers.  I blamed this and that.  Until it hit me: PPD.  Again.  Luckily,  the depression eased a couple weeks later and I have come to my old self for the longest time this year.

Lesson Learned?

I don't know if you've sensed the change in my writing.  I know I have felt it vividly.  I no longer feel that dread when I wake up in the morning; I am not terrified when I think about Ben working two jobs; I finally feel hope, optimistic, joyful.  When I write, I can poke fun at my self and laugh at my silly kids.

I can also see clearly.  I know what I want and don't feel guilty if I can't accomplish something.

I feel free.

I would like to say that I've learned my lesson, but I have a feeling that it won't be that simple if it comes back again.  I just hope I can read this post again and quickly find the help I need.

Football and Spirituality

My team is not doing so hot this year.  In all my years of fanhood (something like 6), I have not witnessed such an awful season.  I believe I tempted fate by agreeing to cable, thinking it would be fun to watch our team trounce other teams.  Needless to say,  I am not having fun.

But I continue to watch their games each week.  I cheer them on, despite knowing there is only a -1% chance that they will win.  When they are losing, I stress their strengths, point out the improvements, and hope that next year these things will produce a winning season.

In many ways, I feel like my football team.  This year has been a hard one.  Colic, postpartum depression, miscarriage, loneliness, and another miscarriage have left me desperately dry.  So much so that I turned to Ben the other day and expressed, "I feel like a part of myself is missing.  The person I worked so hard to become--a loving and patient mother, a supportive and caring wife--has disappeared.  Anger, resentment, and depression have overridden my once happy existence.  I feel lost, alone, and confused."

My faith is still strong, but my self-worth has diminished.  Sure Heavenly Father will take care of His children, I tell myself, just not me.  Because I am unworthy.

I make countless mistakes during the day.  I pray, ask for forgiveness, and make the same mistakes again.  I ignore guidance while feeling increasingly sorry for myself.  During the hard times, I fail to recognize the blessings I have been given.

My record is a losing one.

Yet,  God has not given up on me.  He cheers me on even when He knows I might lose that game.  He reminds me of my strengths, points out my improvements, and remains on the side lines chanting my name.

He is my biggest fan.

I had to make some tough choices this week that placed people in hard positions.  Choices that were necessary, and felt right, for my health.  It was hard.  As I followed this prompting, I felt a small piece of myself return.  Ben being home more to help me is a big blessing,  yet it is much more than that.  My Spirit is transforming.  Back to the woman I was and so much more.  My mind is alive and my fingers are tingling as I reclaim my passion in writing.

I have much to improve on, of course, but the process doesn't seem so overwhelming.

See?  Football really is more than just a game.  (Wink, wink.)

How Do You Define Depression?

Depression.  I have survived.  I am here to tell you it is horrible,  something that leaves your spirit bare.

This past week I have been feeling down.  Down and angry.  I have expressed rage that I cannot understand.  In the midst of these temper tantrums  (I guess we never really move away from tantrums, do we?), I will begin to cry uncontrollably.

What is wrong with me? I often asked myself.  Why am I so crazy?

I thought and thought,  and finally realized: depression.

Before I went and confessed all to my doctor,  I decided to wait a few more days.  I am  glad I did.

After a couple days and a big blow-up,  my husband sat me down for a talk.  In the course of his talk he made me realize how much I was hurting him.  He and I are both working extra hard.  He at school, me at home.  There really is no inequity in the diversification of our roles.  However,  I was sitting in a cess pool of pity.  My anger and hurt were eating away all the compassion I once felt.  He, on the other hand, was struggling to maintain a healthy balance between family and work in order to keep our family thriving.

I decided that I need to take a moment for myself.  The next day I went to the temple.  After some much needed alone time,  I recognized my problem:  I was not depressed,  I was hormonal.

Have you ever been around a lady who goes crazy during "that time of the month?"  Well, I am that lady.  When my hormones are imbalanced in any way,  I become a, well something that rhymes with "witch."

What scares me about this whole scenario is that if I had gone to my doctor he would have inevitably prescribed some form of SSRI.   I would have started taking medication that would only solve part of the problem.

Bruce recently wrote a provocative piece about this very topic.  He references an interview in which an author suggests that,

"mental illness is culturally determined, and that big drug companies have systematically worked to change the way other cultures view melancholy, for example, in order to sell them anti-depressant medications."

While, as Bruce infers, this viewpoint may be a bit extreme, it does make me wonder:  how much do doctors consider a holistic approach to depression and other mental health issues?

My dear Mr. B is considering becoming a Psychiatrist.  He and I have had many discourses about the importance of holistic medicine, an approach that looks at a person's life style to determine if any changes could alter the depression.

In my case,  the form of birth control I chose has altered my emotional state.  I should have recognized it immediately but I was so focused on depression that I failed to look at other options.

Believe me, I understand depression.  I have had my dose of that debilitating mental disease.  This time, though, I am lucky:  I only need to change my birth control.