dearest daughters

When Down Days Persist So Must I

Dearest Daughters,

The more aware I become of my moods, my mild dips into and out of both depression and mania, the more I realize how absurd my life was before my diagnosis.

The ups and downs that I struggled through or—more accurately—that I ignored, tried to push down, attempted to normalize, neutralize, hide, pass off as nothing, no big deal.

Wow. Just wow.

I’m only now realizing, with assurance from a supportive, affirming therapist, how resilient I am. That I am, as cheesy as it sounds, a Survivor. I went through so many years and into the worst year of my life, un-medicated, unaware. There were so many horrible things I could have done to hurt myself, vices or addictions I could have picked up, relationships I could have utterly destroyed. But, for the most part, I didn’t.

I plugged away until I couldn’t ignore and hide the moods, the pain, the highs, the crazy, the demons, the brain chemicals; I couldn’t ignore myself anymore.

If you’re an acquaintance or even my family or close friends, it may look like nothing to you. Maybe you see me at church or a party and think to yourself how fine Lauren seems? Maybe you look back on the years we’ve spent together or look at my life now and think to yourself how okay Lauren seems? Maybe the diagnosis isn’t accurate? Maybe Lauren’s hyperbolizing? (Maybe Lauren’s projecting now?)

Before my diagnosis, it was my full time job to put on a good display of A-OK-ness. And I still do it. Auntie Ninang Katherine visited recently and I’d say we had a good visit—I mean, she brought me goat milk caramels. What more could I ask for? Besides an actual goat. But, for a few days before her visit I had an inkling that I was in a “funk.” I tried to put it on pause for Easter and her visit, but when she left I let the mood take over again.

Over the past couple weeks, through and after a visit to my Grandmother, I’ve been in and out of this funk, flatness, depression.

As I’ve shared before, my brand of depression doesn’t delve into deep despair, with the exception of my psychological break a year ago. I feel flat, numb, distant, disconnected, unmotivated and tired, exhausted, even after ten hours of sleep.

It’s taken all of my whispy strands of motivation to wake up at a decent hour; to take care of my Dearest Daughters instead of letting them watch PBS all morning while I languish in bed. I’ve made myself go on runs and do a chore here and there. I’ve tried to fight the cold and distance I put up, like a wall, towards your father, you and general humanity. But, all I truly feel like doing is getting back into bed.

Now that I would generally describe myself as “Better”—the persistent, daily, hourly anxiety and panic have subsided, I can travel here and there, I can take care of my family, I am functional—I can work myself into a bit of denial about my moods. I’m back into the habit of putting on my Okay Face. Because the meds have worked, I’m in therapy, I have coping mechanisms to rely on—God damn it—I’m supposed to Better. I’m supposed to be equipped, able to handle ALL THIS. THIS shouldn’t happen anymore. Yet, the moods still come and go. The Crazy takes over, The Doing. Then, the Darkenss, the Blues and Grays take their turns.

But, some days, some weeks, I’m not Okay. It’s what I tell people, because it’s what they want to hear. When someone asks how you are, they don’t really want to hear the sad truth of it. In fact, I don’t want to hear the sad truth of it.

I want to talk about our new baby chicks or the weather or my new favorite reality show (Preacher’s Daughters on Lifetime). I want to feel normal. I want to feel Fine.

But, you guys, I don’t. I don’t always feel Fine.

And I’m learning that it’s okay. That feeling Less-Than-Happy is okay in and of itself. It’s part of who I am, my story, my lot in life. Something I will always have to deal with, work around, walk through.

(This, of course, doesn’t mean that I should ignore my mood fluctuations or stop taking my medicine. This doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t ask for help when I need it or when I need more of it.)

On Facebook I re-posted a list of 21 ways to not self sabotage yourself when you have depression. And a Dearest Reader summarized the articles sentiment well in a Facebook comment recently: “you can live a meaningful and worthwhile life with depression. That is such a more realistic goal to have then the theory that depressed people just need to get over it or snap out of it.”

I’ll see my psychiatrist in a few days for my regular appointment and we’ll see what she can do for my current brain chemistry.

In the meantime, I try to think positively, to maintain mindfulness, to congratulate myself for my small victories (like making pancakes this morning and at least considering changing out of my pajamas), to not let the self-deprecating thoughts of my worthlessness or obsolescence take over, to instead recognize happiness when it peeks out its little head in a giggle or a hug or Danjo’s funny “underpants” jokes, to grasp love and light and sit in its warmth for as long as possible.

Love you no matter what,

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With my commitment to taking care of myself and my mental health--in addition to (or in conjunction with!) taking care of my family--I'm not able to post here as regularly as I would like or as much as I did in the past.

Lucky you! I'm pretty active on the Dearest Daughters Facebook page. So, make sure you like DD by heading on over to our page or clicking the Facebook button on our sidebar (over to the right). And you'll keep getting all the Dearest Daughters' latest and greatest!

Know Thyself

Dearest Daughters,

I love my new therapist. She makes me work. She stops me. She challenges me. She cuts through my bullshit, my intellect, my technicalities, logic and loopholes. She hears what I say and what I don’t say. She’s in my corner.

The thing is: I’m not in my own corner.

And while my bipolar diagnosis, in part, explains my do-this-then-that-go-here-then-there-and-check-this-off-my-list behavior, there is a part of me that is simply running from something—from feeling, from fear of the unknown, from myself.

Bam. #epiphany

She tasked me with planning a day wholly, entirely, fully for myself.

This may be the single most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do—childbirth included.

Looking back on my life I can’t sort out what Lauren loved to do from what Lauren was expected to do from what Lauren thought she was expected to do.

Do I have a garden because I genuinely like gardening or do I have a garden because it’s good for the earth, our tummies, and my Dearest Daughters’ understanding of the world?

Do I truly like cooking or am I trying to live up to the my California foodie reputation?

Did I learn to crochet because learning something new and challenging is fulfilling, or was it because I wanted to make a hipster infinity scarf?

And these are the easy questions; they don't include questions about my college choice, my career choices or lackthereof, marriage, motherhood, mediation, what I ate for lunch.

I know not all things are strictly black or white, here or there, this or that. But, I’ve been so so so led by figments of my imagination and diversions of my wonky brain, that I can’t tell what is true. I’ve been so led by ideas, assumptions and, sometimes, delusions of who I should be and what I should do.

Today is my twenty-ninth birthday and I can’t tell you who Lauren is. I can tell you what she’s done, where she’s been, how she got here, but I can’t tell you who she is.

(Perhaps, you can, but for the purposes of my therapy homework, I’m not allowed to ask you.)

This is a sad and honest fact that brings me to tears, makes me feel lost and hopeless.

It might sound melodramatic to you, but that is how out of touch I am and have been with myself the past couple of decades. I have sailed the seas of life, rode the rollercoaster, climbed mountains, but I have done so blindly, driven by who-knows-what, always climbing, out of habit, grasping at the next thing and the next, never in the present, always guessing, second-guessing, checking off a box on an endless To-Do list.

I've always been moving, never pausing, running and running.

I can’t sit still.

I figuratively and literally can’t stand being alone with myself. I can’t blame even a percentage of that feeling on my iPhone, but having one has certainly made my self-tolerance over the past few years worse, as I use social media and the Weather Channel app to fill the gaps, the silence, the stillness.

Life finally stopped—about eleven months ago. My body and my soul shouted: STOP! YOU CANNOT GO ON LIVING LIKE THIS!

I certainly stood at attention, took note and the past year has been about taking care of myself, about coping with depression, anxiety, panic.

I have come so far and yet here I am still.

And so, I sit here, forcing myself to focus, to sort out my truth. My truths.

Dearest Daughters, I try my best to give you opportunities to be who you are, to be authentic and true. I think that’s pretty easy when you’re two or four. I know, it’s also all too easy to mold, shape, and shut down a growing child. I pray that is not my roll in your life.

I don’t want to put you in boxes either, but I do take note of things that delight you, things that you gravitate towards, things that make you unique.

I wish that I could go back and watch myself playing when I was two, four, seven. What would I see? Who would I see? Who would I have become if I had listened to, not the voices—real or imagined—but to my heart of hearts, my mind of minds, my dream of dreams?

Who? 

Dearest Daughters, who? Who are you? What makes your heart beat? What makes your mind leap? What are your dreams?

We all struggle with these questions, some more than others, some for a moment, some for a lifetime. Some for twenty-nine years.

But, only you know the answers. Only you know your truth. Don’t let anyone write it for you. Don’t let the world, or a map, or a list dictate your life. Don’t let me or your daddy or your Facebook friends have a goddamn say. Trust yourself, tune in to every fiber of your being, and don’t let yourself think for one second that the person you are isn’t worth being known.

Love,

Not last year, not this year, but today.

Dearest Daughters,

It's a new year! Hooray!

And I am so blessed and elated to be able to spend another year with my funny, intelligent, beautiful and growing girls!

In our culture, we make these things called "New Year's Resolutions." I read somewhere on someone's (who I can't recall) social media update or another, that New Year's Resolutions are a "To-Do list for the first week of January."

People have the best of intentions, but it takes a loooong time for any given behavior to become a habit. More than the twenty-one days or whatever collective wisdom says. It take a looooooong time.

More power to you if your resolution sticks past this week!

It's not that I'm anti-resolution, in general. As a recovering perfectionist, I'm just anti-resolution for me. The most that I can hope for this year is to make sure I write the correct year on my checks.

And, that's fine with me. Taking baby steps is much more achievable and manageable than any sweeping, life-altering resolution.

And I'd like to think that I've been taking baby steps all year. And will continue to do so into 2012, doh, I mean, 2013.

I was talking with Auntine Ninang KT while she was visiting. We were discussing some recent Facebook posts we'd seen about how horrible 2012 was for people and how they were hopefully looking forward to a new year.

I was pleasantly surprised to find myself saying that 2012 wasn't a bad year for me. I conceded, that perhaps, some "bad" things had happened to me. Even so, I'd downgrade "bad" things to "unpleasant" and then, ultimately to "things that weren't so great, but I'm glad they happened."

I know more about myself and mental illness and anxiety and panic attacks and mindfulness and meditation and happiness and taking care of myself and my family now than I knew at the beginning of last year.

I probably won't ever be able to go the Los Angeles Zoo again (where I had a major panic attack in April). And the thought of airports and flying in an airplane still terrifies me.

But, I'd say I'm navigating my life better now than ever before.

That's not to say that I don't still get manic or depressed or anxious, but now I recognize my mental and physical health hurdles. Whereas, before I battled through, ignoring my mind and body.

In some ways, my day-to-day life feels worse than before, more intense, salient, because I'm more mindful, because I can identify and name my emotions, because I feel the feelings instead of pushing them down. But, I prefer it this way. In the long run, it's good for me.

I never, never, ever again want to enter the depths of the deepest depression I experienced this past year. I could not be moved. Literally. I curled up against all the pain and wished and prayed for its end. I could not care for you, let alone, myself. Everyone around me was worried and afraid and worked overtime to pick up the slack, to get me help.

I did lose a ton of weight (which I've doubly gained back)!

But, in all seriousness, on the other side, with the help of a supportive family and friends (THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU--to Lola and Lolopop, Auntie Ninang Jonelle, Auntie Dina, and everyone else who prayed, visited, brought food, but especially to my beloved husband--I know this wasn't and still isn't easy), with help from medical and psychological professionals and modern medicine, I hazard to say that I'm glad I had this life crisis--this wake up call, this alarm, this emergency.

The past is gone. The future is but a concept. All there is, is today. Call it 2013, call it Friday, call it today.

Today. I am alive. I am well. And I am on a path to wholeness, happiness and fulfillment.

Moment by moment, staying on that path, savoring you by my side, is all I wish for in the coming year.

Well, that, and the writing the right year on my checks thing.

Love you no matter what,

I am more than my sorrow.

{Hey there! If you’ve wandered over from the We Shield Moms contest or Facebook and you’re visiting for the first time: a big fat welcome to you! You happen to have found me at my worst. No, really: I’m a hot mess. But, feel free to scroll back, to look around and discover something happy or helpful or whatever you youngsters are into these days!}

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“Suffering is not enough. Life is both dreadful and wonderful...How can I smile when I am filled with so much sorrow? It is natural--you need to smile to your sorrow because you are more than your sorrow.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh

{source}

Dearest Daughters,

I wish I could tell you that the cloud has lifted.

I can’t say it’s worse, but neither can I say it’s better.

It just is and it sits.

Most of the time I’m feeling-less--numb, robotic, going about my day as an at-least functional, if not exuberant human being.

Down, I’d say. In a funk, I used to call it, before I had a diagnosis, a list of symptoms, a name to put to it.

Then, there are the moments. These are not good moments. They are not glimpses of hope moments. They are heavy and dark, intense. The thoughts take over. I try hard to push against them, to drown them out.

YOU ARE JUST THOUGHTS, I yell, my brain whirling.

It’s cinematic, really. Bathroom. Zoom in on my face, tears flowing, those ugly silent sobs, gasping, into the steady stream of the shower, the steam heavy in the air, muffling my cries, my pain, my prayers, my desperate pleas for help—from God, if God exists, I think, I don’t know, I can’t be sure of it right now.

And I don’t dare look in the mirror. If you’ve ever cried in a bathroom, you’ll know, from the age of two to 102, you’ll just feel more pathetic and sob ever the harder at the sight of your sorry self.

These thoughts and feeling are at once alien—not a part of me, coming upon me from some abyss—and all too familiar.

I’ve silently screamed in the shower or into my pillow for as long as I can remember. But, I never had a name for these intense periods of helplessness, self-loathing and unspeakable thoughts.

I always thought that (sometimes rightly so) I was being a dramatic teenager or college roommate or wife. I thought others felt these things too. Felt the pain and desperation that causes one to yearn for an end, for The End, to entertain thoughts of one’s escape.

We all get mad at our parents and mumble to ourselves about running away and never coming back, but I only recently realized that not everyone thinks about throwing themselves out of a moving car. And not in an action-adventure-movie-Tom-Cruise-saves-the-day kind of way.

I don’t mean to worry you, Dearest Daughters. I don’t mean for you to think that I always feel this way. And even when I am depressed, it’s only for a few intense moments over the course of several days where I can’t cope, where the feelings are bigger than me and the world is too much to handle. And I become that scene, alone in the bathroom. You know, the hot mess adult tantrum, the tears flowing, the silent screaming and all.

Now, I have a name, a reason, an explanation for these overwhelming moments.

So, when the darkness takes hold these days, I know that I can and will overcome. It will never be so bad as it was back in April where I spent hours upon hours, days, in this state.

I know I can’t outrun the pain, I can’t ignore it, I can’t deny it, but I know I’ll be able to get through it. To the other side, as they say.

I know that these are just thoughts. The thoughts, they are not me. I am not my thoughts. I repeat this over and over to myself, as many times as it will take—even though the thoughts feel so true, they seem so real, the pain is palpable—it’s all I can do and more to not give in. To not believe. To not succumb.

When I’m not battling against my mind, I’m waiting.

I wait. For the thoughts to pass. For the feelings to subside. For sleep. For the darkness to dissipate. For the cloud to lift.

I wait for the light.

It will come.

Love you no matter what,

“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh

A rough week ends in cuddles - working through a bipolar episode

Dearest Daughters,

Since I’m nominated for the We Shield Moms Contest on Facebook for my efforts to write openly about mental illness, I suppose it’s very fitting that there has been a bit of radio silence on my blog the past few weeks. And I suppose I should explain why. (By the way, hello and thanks to any visitors for stopping by!)

If you asked my psychiatrist, she’d say I have Bipolar Disorder I. If you asked my therapist, she’d say it’s complicated.

If you ask me, I’d say I’m just trying to navigate my own life. If drugs stabilize my moods, so be it. If meditation helps my anxiety and panic, so be it. If getting a full night of sleep, planning ahead and attempting to mindfully experience the present are all predictors of how my day will go, then so be it. I’ve been managing quite nicely over the past six months since my initial life crisis (manic and depressive episodes, intense anxiety and several panic attacks), my life getting better—not only in terms of mental illness, but also in terms of my overall well-being.

Except, I woke up on Monday with no desire to get out of bed.

Oh sure, people say this all the time and I don’t blame them? Beds are a) super comfy b) warm c) not the real world. But, if you’ve ever been depressed (which I pray you won’t be) not wanting to get out of bed is another ball game.

I recognized right away what this was, my body made of lead, a buzzing silence in my ears, the fetal position.

As your dad kissed me goodbye to go to work, I told him to put you girls in front of the television, I’d be up soon. But I rolled over and I wasn’t up soon.

You girls, thank God, are able to watch television without incident. And you may certainly call it negligence that you watched PBS while I wallowed in bed. Go ahead, I give you permission to judge. But, it is what it is.

Soon enough, like actors on cue, you came looking for me. Both of you climbed into bed with me, out of empathy or out of necessity--I know not. I handed you my iPad and rolled over again.

I just could not face the world.

You played nicely, snuggled up to my body. But, after Danjo’s repeated attempts to stand on my chest, balancing, then collapsing atop me in fits of laughter, I gave up any inkling of a notion of an idea of getting more sleep. So, we all got out of bed.

It was nearly 10:00am. And you hadn’t eaten breakfast yet either, poor things.

If I wasn’t so numb, I might have felt like the worst mother in the world. Instead, I just felt a little bit like a zombie, as I distracted us with one activity after another through the morning.

As much as I wanted to crawl into bed at nap time, I couldn’t fall asleep. I thought to myself, I don’t feel like doing anything. So, I won’t do anything.

Eureka! Exactly, I’ll do nothing! And the first step I took to get back in control, to cope, was to meditate while you girls took a nap.

I’m not saying twenty minutes of silence is the entire solution for me or for anyone, but it redirected my day towards a shower, laundry and homemade dinner—neither you girls nor I any worse for the wear.

I reflected back on the past week. I had days where I can’t recall ever sitting down. I was productive and full of energy, setting up all sorts of activities for the girls, attempting to kill our wild garlic weeds, working on the girls dress up closet, vacuuming the whole house at 9:30pm, sewing an advent bunting, insisting we get a Christmas tree and lights N. O. W., baking a rainbow sprinkle cake for my niece, which was seriously awesome and thoroughly enjoyable to do; it was just time consuming, as I baked past bedtime and into the night.

Sounds about right: a week and weekend of busy-ness and then crashing. Happens to the best of us, right?

For me, having been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, the reflection cannot end there. The hypomanic and depressive episodes don’t happen in a vacuum. It’s not as if I’m just this moody person who can’t control my emotions and needs to go take a nap.

I need a fuller understanding of what triggered my hypomanic and, subsequently, depressive episodes.

This past month Lola was in the hospital—for knee surgery, nothing dramatic. But, in addition to the worry that surfaced, I also spent an hour or two visiting her in the hospital and rehab nearly every day. Sometimes I brought you girls or meals. We ate a lot of drive-thru-accessible food those weeks. Lola, on pain meds, was usually somewhat out of it, even asking me if I went to college or not. Funny, but also alarming.

At the time, I did what a good daughter does and it was so instinctual I didn’t consider any of it to be stressful.

There was also Thanksgiving that, while pleasant, was still a stressor however positive: travel with young kids, being away from the comfort and sanctuary of my own home.

It’s very difficult to recognize a manic episode when I’m in the middle of it because I feel so awesome and omnipotent. Your dad noticed, though, and he did ask me at one point if I needed to slow down or do something for myself. I told him, yes, probably, but then I didn’t, I powered through until I couldn’t any longer.

And I’m not out of the woods yet. I lack motivation to do much of anything. I’m unable to focus. Bel and I were both in tears the other night battling to put her pajamas on, as we fed off of each other’s frustration. I’ve been eating chocolate as my main form of sustenance. And I haven’t showered since Monday. Your dad has been out of town for work, so we’ve spent a lot of hours at Lola’s house, where I feel no guilt about you watching Dora all day, and where there’s another adult around, keeping us all from having major meltdowns.

At least, I’m here, writing to you now. Still in my jammy jams. You’re watching a movie, tummies full of sausage and chocolate chip pancakes.

I cannot take this day or this moment for granted, because I’ve experienced The Worst of It, I’ve experienced the suffocation when I don’t put on my oxygen mask, I’ve experienced the darkness that could have been if I did not wake up on Monday with the ability to identify my depressive symptoms and initiate my coping mechanisms, my self-care habits, and to seek support (the four P's: psychatric, psychological, personal and iPad, ha!).

It’s time to be mindfully present with my feelings and the daily routines of my Dearest Daughters, time to nurture myself with a cup of tea, maybe some knitting, perhaps a shower, and most importantly it’s time to get our cuddle on.

Love you no matter what,

Reframing, Optimism, Choosing Happiness

Dearest Daughters,

One of the most helpful concepts I've learned in therapy recently is reframing.

It helps me see my husband, your Daddy, asleep on the couch as a peaceful part of the home I've created, not reaching for a beer or some other vice at the end of his day, but comfortable and at ease falling asleep, his daughters playing nearby. Instead of seeing him as a snoring lump, not helping with dinner or child care and ignoring his daughters.

I can see this horrible event--Danjo's dog bite, getting in a car where I'm not the driver, being stuck in a seemingly endless conversation, my entire psychological life crisis--in a different light, instead of fixating on the negative, the things that can't be changed or the past. Danjo is resilient, I can enjoy the scenery, I can be a supportive listening friend, I can envision a whole new way to live.

The past and the future are concepts, right? There is only now. And how one sees now. And while one may argue that there are certain truths to each version of my husband or the dog bite or a boring conversation, the truths don't matter much when it comes to my choice about how to see these situations and the world.

And it's more than just a question of pessimism versus optimism. And I certainly wouldn't advocate any sort of Disney-esque-Princess-rose-colored-glasses-in-the-face-of-the-Beast kind of enchantment or ignorance.

Though there is evidence that optimists are:

    - More successful in school, at work, and in athletics
    - Healthier and longer lived
    - More satisfied with their marriages
    - Less likely to suffer from depression
    - Less anxious (Carter, 2010, p. 78)

I'll take an order of that.

But further, I'm speaking to my experience of being an extreme perfectionist, an over-thinking, judging and critical person, who clings to past failures and makes "logical" guesswork of a future that doesn't exist yet. I'll tell you, this serves no one.

I'll never fulfill the bubbly positive archetype. But, I'm learning to manufacture my own happiness--this is a concept put forth by (once again) my parenting guru, Christine Carter in Raising Happiness.

This does not mean suppressing negative emotions or feelings, but it means being able to bring up or draw on positive emotions when we need them. And to see negative emotions as an opportunity for growth.

You've heard it all, I'm sure: laughter is the best medicine, the thing about smiling more actually making you happy. And it's all true and scientific and stuff.

In addition, "[p]ositive emotions 'undo' the physiological response of negative ones, calming the heart rate and reducing levels of stress-related hormones in our bodies. They turn off, or tone down, our flight-or-fight response" (p. 96).

I'll take two orders of that.

And there is an actual ratio for this "undoing"--it's 3:1--three positive feelings for every one negative feeling (p. 97).

Both living with gratitude and choosing forgiveness over anger have beneficial psychological and physiological effects (p. 69, p.73).

In short, we can choose to be happy.

This does not mean I won't be a pessimist or I'll never have negative experiences. I do not promise that life will be easy and without obstacles or periods of, in my case, depression.

But, I will promise to model for you girls how to reframe, how to choose happiness, to call on positive emotions, to forgive, to do a happy dance.

To look at a cold, stormy day and to see an opportunity to splash, to hold an umbrella, to feel the rain on your face and the wind in your hair, to watch the worms on the ground, to see the green and growing plants and best of all, to warm up with a mug of hot chocolate and "maatch-mallows."

Love,

From Your Experienced, Thoughtful and Faithful Lolopop

Dearest Daughters,

I'm a woman, I'm a person of color, I'm biracial/bi-cultural, I'm a Californian, I'm well-educated, I've traveled the world and beheld poverty and violence and extreme wealth, I've taught it Watts, I was once a vegetarian and I believe supremely, above all else, in the Two Greatest Commandments to love God and love your neighbor (no matter what)... so you might be able to construe many things about me and my politics.

While I hope that not only my mind, but also my heart and my faith show in the letters that I write to you, I don't get too political too often.

And, yes, the election is coming up. And I will exercise my right and privilege to vote. But, I'm not posting the following because of Proposition 34 itself. Mine is not a blog to convince anyone of anything. But it is a place to share words of wisdom.

As such, here is Lolopop's letter to Auntie Merissa about an upcoming California proposition that would repeal capital punishment.

You won't be old enough to vote for 15 (and 16) years, so read this not as a voter guide, but as a letter to you from my Daddy, your Lolopop, sharing his life experience, his thoughtfulness and his faith.

 

(Me as a baby. Oh wait, I mean the wise woman and man to whom I was born.)

 

Letter to Merissa about Proposition 34 Repealing Capital Punishment [originally published here]

My niece, Merissa recently wrote to me asking my opinion on Proposition 34, which would replace capital punishment (i.e. "the death penalty) with a sentence of Life without Possibility of Parole.  With her permission, following is the response I wrote:

To Merissa, my sweet and amazing niece, who I helped raise from the day you were born:

I am flattered that you asked for my opinion on California Proposition 34, which would replace the capital punishment (i.e. "the death penalty") with a sentence of Life without Possibility of Parole. As you know, I worked as a peace officer in California Prisons for 23 years. Since I was your neighbor for 10 of those years, you probably remember that I did not wear a uniform. That is because I was not a "guard" (they actually prefer to be called Correctional Officers). I'd tell you my official title, but that wouldn't tell you much about what I did. My job was like a Parole Officer, except I worked with inmates in the prisons before they were released, rather than afterward. So I worked directly with inmates daily, often getting to know their background, substance abuse history and criminal history very well; understand their attitudes towards their crimes and their victims; and get to know them individually.

You might think because of my experience that I would support capital punishment. At first I did. Partly because I felt that, for my safety and that of other peace officers, there needs to be an ultimate penalty for killing a peace officer. If someone is already serving life in prison, what do they have to lose by killing me? Or somebody who has committed a horrible crime and is facing arrest and a lengthy term, what do they have to lose by killing the police officer who is trying to arrest them? And shouldn't it be a really bad penalty for those who commit the most heinous crimes?

But over the years my work helped change the way I looked at capital punishment. But more importantly, my work forced me to really look to my faith for answers to everyday problems I faced working in the prisons. Many people I worked with became very jaded and cynical from working with the worst of criminals who end up in prison. It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't worked in a prison or jail, but it's like the people guarding the prison see and read so much bad stuff that they lose faith in human nature. Over time they become a little like the people they guard, not criminally, but psychologically. I saw this right away in others who worked there for years before me, and I didn't want to end up like them. I had no where else to turn, but my faith, for inspiration to go to work everyday, and to make the hundreds of little decisions that would define me as either a cynical person or a person of faith. And if I relied on my faith for the little decisions, then what about the big questions? I had to ask myself, as a Christian, what do I believe about killing? Well, based on my experience with criminals AND my personal faith journey, here are five reasons I can give you for opposing capital punishment:

1)  You can't get around it, the Bible clearly says killing is wrong. It doesn't provide for any exceptions. No wiggle room there.  I think the only possible exception is if you kill someone in the defense of your life or another's life, but the Bible doesn't even give you that. And it doesn't work to ignore the issue and pretend you're not responsible because you're not the one "pulling the switch." It's like being opposed to killing animals but eating steak.  As a member of our society, if you don't oppose the death penalty then you are just as guilty of killing the condemned person as the people on the jury who imposed it, the judge who allows it, the prison staff who facilitate it and the person who "pulls the switch."  Some Christians quote the Old Testament to justify capital punishment, but it's mostly God who goes around killing people and we are not God.  The other's who kill also do a lot of other bad things, so you can't say it's okay to kill because King David did it.

2)  Contrary to arguments of some, capital punishment does NOT deter anybody from committing murder.  I have talked to hundreds of murderers in detail about their motives for committing murder, and NOT ONE of them ever said they were thinking they'd get caught, much less that they might be put to death.  They were a) Overwhelmed with anger at the victim for some reason and couldn't stop themselves; or b) They committed the murder in the course of committing another crime, like a robbery gone bad, and never thought it would come to murder; or c) They are criminally insane and either driven by their inner demons to take someones life, they are incapable of feeling any remorse for their victims, or they don't think laws apply to them.

Sure, you could argue that the ones that were deterred wouldn't be in prison.  But I am convinced that my experience says something basic about human nature:  Most of us stop short of taking someone's life, regardless of the provocation.  Then there are those who may understand murder is wrong, but in a moment of anger or in a specific situation or because they just don't care about life, they lack the self control to stop. You can debate about what caused them to be like this: Is it genetics, upbringing, childhood trauma... But  in the situation or moment, nothing would have deterred them because they weren't thinking about being caught.

If you think about it, what does it mean when you say someone can be deterred from committing murder by any form of punishment?  Do we think murder is like jaywalking...if we think the police aren't looking it is OK? What kind of person thinks "Gee, I'm thinking I need to murder my wife, but I don't know...if I get caught I might be killed!  I guess I better not do that!"  If one believes people are like this, then I will pray for them because they have a really nihilistic view of people and the world.  My experience with criminals is that 90% are not violent.  They may sell drugs or steal your car stereo to support their drug habit, but if faced with getting caught and sent to prison, they submit to arrest rather than try to kill the officer to escape.  For them, it is like when we jaywalk, except their line of acceptable behavior is a little more extreme.

3) There is absolutely no question that capital punishment wastes tax dollars.  There is something called "Life without Possibility of Parole" which means that they will NEVER be released from prison under any circumstances.  We could house every inmate on "death row" in a normal maximum security prison for the rest of their natural lives for less than it costs to house inmates on death row, especially when you add in all the costs of handling the numerous appeals filed on behalf of death row inmates.  Some people argue that if we limited their appeals and killed them faster, it would save money.  But when you consider the number of inmates who have been sentenced to death and subsequently acquitted, if we are going to have capital punishment we MUST allow exhaustive appeals for every death row inmate to minimize the chance that an innocent person is executed.  Anyway, it is the nature of our justice system that the convicted have the right to appeal.  The alternative is a Russian style justice system where guilt is usually determined BEFORE the trial.

4)  Speaking of innocent people being found guilty of murder and sentenced to death:  There are proven cases where, despite the appellate system, innocent people have been executed.  There was a man in Texas last year whose innocence was clearly proven after his trial but, never-the-less, he was executed after the Supreme Court refused to permit any more appeals and the Governor refused to grant a pardon.  What is the moral cost to us, the stain on our souls, if we allow EVEN ONE innocent person to be executed on our behalf?  Life without Parole can be reversed if the person is subsequently acquitted.  Death cannot be reversed.

5)  Even if none of the above are persuasive, consider this:  THE JUSTICE SYSTEM IS RACIST!!!  I've seen the result first hand. Blacks and Latinos are far more likely to be arrested, receive a stiffer plea-bargain offers, go to prison, and yes, to receive capital punishment than are whites.  People of color receive far greater sentences than white people who commit the same crime under the same circumstances.  The causes are many.  Among them:  Inner-city predominantly Black and Latino people usually do not have the resources to hire a good private attorney to represent them; instead they are stuck with an overworked and often younger, inexperienced public defender.  Judges and juries are predominantly white, even in big cities.  Some of the judges and juries could be unconsciously biased, or just plain racist? (Ya think!) Inner-city youth  often grow up in situations that seem hopeless - raised by a single parent who has to work two jobs just to survive, high unemployment, few good role models, dilapidated schools with burned-out teachers who are past caring, gangs, pervasive drug culture - they can easily fall into a pattern of increasingly destructive and illegal behavior.  It is hard to blame a kid entirely when they see no one in their neighborhood succeed, except the local drug dealers who drive nice cars and wear expensive clothes.

Bottom line, we live in a society where racism still exists.  Sometimes there are bigoted people.  More often it is just a social structure that favors people with more money, which roughly correlates with less skin color; what I have always called "institutional racism."  Until we can GUARANTEE that every accused person receives absolutely fair and impartial treatment in the judicial system, I think it is morally bankrupt...no, it is OUTRIGHT SINFUL, to continue executing more people of color than whites.

These are my thoughts, but not necessarily the only way to look at the issue.  I hope it is helpful, but however you vote on this issue, I know you will vote your heart, because I know you have a good heart.

Love you,

Uncle Joel [Lolopop]

Alternative Anxiety Aids

Dearest Daughters,

If you’re anything like me, you may one day come to struggle with anxiety.

Anxiety is not merely worry. It’s not even elevated or uncontrolled worry. It is another animal altogether.

In my experience, anxiety is what comes from an inability to process and handle stressors; it is what happens when you repress feelings and emotions; it’s a modern malady stemming from your body’s evolutionary fight or flight response that still fancies itself being chased by lions and acts accordingly, undiscerning of first world versus real world problems; it is your body’s way of telling you that shit ain’t right, lady, and you have to step back, take it down a notch and get back to basics.

At first, I felt I needed to combat anxiety, but the truth is, one needs more than anything, to accept it—both as a human condition and in the moment.

Before I was able to see a psychiatrist to get the help I dearly needed (in the form of pscyh meds, of course), I was so desperate. I was in the midst of despair and inner turmoil and willing to try anything to make my pain go away.

The saying goes: desperate times call for desperate measures.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: mindfulness and meditation (via Jon Kabat-Zinn’s Full Catastrophe Living) truly saved my life. It guided and supported me through depression and anxiety, through some very intense feelings, including suicidal thoughts.

In retrospect, it was stupid not to go directly to the emergency room and receive some form of drug that would have quieted my mind and staid me until my appointment with a psychiatrist. (Though, if I recall correctly, I was unwilling and practically unable to unfurl myself from a fetal position, shut into my room. My family would have had to drag me into a hospital at that point. And I would have been confident that the car ride, alone, would kill me.)(I was, using mindfulness techniques, eventually able to quiet my own mind enough to make the walk to my parents house, the fifteen minute drive to the psychiatrist—though I was still a big, hot, trembling, sobbing mess.)

But, on the other hand, without that pervasive sense of desperation, I might not have been willing to try some of the different, sometimes strange, out-there, unconventional ways to address anxiety.

If life isn’t so bad for you (or you don’t think so), the things I recommend, below, may make you chuckle, feel uncomfortable or make you shout out: “that crazy, crystal-toting hippie!” But, trust me, if you are in so deep, like I was, or are just a naturally open person, you’ll know it doesn’t hurt to try something new and different to help oneself.

1. Mindfulness/Yoga/Meditation – there’s the book I recommended, above, by the guru of mindfulness. He has written others. All based in scientific methods and research. See this video for a primer and short practice of mindfulness.

2. Affirmations – the first time I listened to an affirmation it was one about weight-loss that my therapist accidentally sent me. The funny thing is that it didn’t matter. Maybe I didn’t need to repeat after the weight-specific parts, but it’s clear that we all, at base, have the same issues—around loving and caring for oneself, confidence, fear of rejection, perfectionism, etc.—and it was truly an affirming experience that validated many of the thoughts and feelings I never knew I had.

Moreover, listening to affirmations, once you get over your own uncomfortable self-consciousness, can be very relaxing. Not only the soothing voice, but over time, just hearing the music and voice triggers relaxation. Our minds and bodies are undoubtedly connected and there are guided imagery (which I don’t like, but maybe you will) and affirmation programs for almost any condition. Here’s programs for a variety of health concerns from Kaiser-Permanente I like.

3. Rescue Remedy Spray – recommended to my future-sister-in-law by a good friend of hers and then the very next day, my therapist recommended it to me, this herbal mouth spray (and there are a few other kinds and brands at Whole Foods) engages the sense of taste and smell to trigger relaxation. While mindfulness is find and dandy for someone so cerebral like me, often sight, sound and taste work faster, in terms of communicating to your brain to calm the heck down.

My therapist points out, something like this isn’t going to make you feel better three hours from now, but it stops you in the moment, does it’s brain-communication thing, refocuses you. (I’m trying to use this to replace or in conjunction with my urge to take Xanax—you cruel mistress, you—in stressful situations.)

4. Aromatherapy – similar to how the spray, above, works, except it’s all nostril and no tongue. I use the scent of lavender during the day to trigger a sense of calm (like above: redirection, refocusing) and chamomile to trigger sleepy-time relaxation at night. I like The Body Shop’s line, but you can find aromatherapy supplies other places and at Whole Foods or online.

5. Gum – this was a real nervous energy buster when I first started driving again. It was just something to do to keep my mind in the present and off of negative, spiraling thoughts. Sort of a mindfulness technique I guess.

6. Running – I’ve written about that before as another way to release anxious energy before it takes over my brain.

7. Keeping it Real – related to all of the above: mindfulness and affirmations and taking action for oneself, I find that the emotional coaching that I and Bel have been doing together has really helped me to “get over” or ride my waves of anxiety until I, recently, find them to be non-existent.

At my first pang of anxiety or wave of adrenaline, I don’t run in fear. We, both, are learning to observe the feeling, name it, determine its root cause and, perhaps, think of a solution. I find, sometimes, that what I thought I was anxious about really wasn’t what I was anxious about. Sometimes, I’m just dehydrated or have a headache. Sometimes, it was something beadle said or something I did.

In addition, learning to let go helps a lot too. Letting go of control, perfection, performance, appearance and sometimes civility. And just saying to myself, “this is me and this is all I am and nothing more” eliminates the pressure and stress that feeds anxiety. Research shows, self-compassion can go a long way.

What, why and how some of these approaches work is beyond me and isn’t really my concern, so long as they keep working!

With all of the above suggestions, what remains super-important, is that you’re taking action to DO something for yourself. Even some studies show that doing something (even in the absence of positive thinking, even if you know or believe it’s a placebo treatment) is better than doing nothing at all.

So, go do something for yourself!

Love,

I've tasted life and it happens to taste like chocolate ice cream

Dearest Daughters,

There's nothing like a knock-down-drag-out fight with an ordinarily agreeable 3-year-old; when your husband's out of town; when your little brother, a mere sixteen months your minor and closer than close, moved across the country--wait, there's more--when you suddenly have two jobs where once you had none; when your therapist has been out of town the past three weeks; when your newly-minted two year old has diarrhea and has also managed to un-sleep-train-herself, climbing, unnoticed, into your bed in the middle of the night while you're on heavy sleep-inducing drugs; when you haven't gone for a run or done yoga in longer than you'd like to admit--all to make you feel, as the three year old is screaming and throwing pajamas at you thirty minutes past bedtime, like you just might be the worst mother in the world.

And then, you calmly, as calmly as you can, hold back the tears of frustration and rejection-by-your-beloved-child, resist the urge to collapse on the floor next to your babies and the dog you're dog-sitting that's, btw, having a doggy panic attack. You put everyone, including yourself, in a separate room until we can all calm down. You take a breath. Maybe a hundred.

You tell the two year old to get back into bed. Once. Maybe a hundred times.

You tell the three year old, as her hysteria subsides, that she did not win this bout. That she can be as mad and sad and frustrated as she wants about not having the right jammies, but it is NOT OKAY to scream or throw things at Mommy.

And Daddy will happen to call in the middle of it all. He'll hear both sides of the story. And run interference--and unknowingly set a melancholy upon the house, his absence palpable.

And you'll hug your three-year-old with her unruly curls, sitting in her Hello Kitty panties at the end of her bed. And she'll tell you "sorry for yelling and throwing."

And you'll reply, "sorry for not listening about your pajamas," but edging in again, for good moral measure, "it is okay to be mad, but it is not okay to scream and throw things."

"I'm sorry we had a fight," you'll say, as you brush her hair out of her face and give her a kiss on her sweaty, tired forehead.

"I love you no matter what," you'll add.

"And I love you too," she'll say.

"And, Danielle, GET BACK INTO BED!" you'll both remind the acrobatic two-year-old, reeking again of liquid poop.

And when all is said and done, when the diaper's been changed, the prayers prayed, the lullaby crooned, it's an hour after bed time when you turn off the lights, shut the door and decide it's time for The Chocolate Ice Cream.

And it will seem so trivial. And melodramatic, the thick dark chocolate coating your tongue. And like you have no right to complain when there are people without health care or clean water or any family at all.

Nevertheless, you'll remind yourself, the feelings must be felt for life to move on.

And you'll search for some wisdom, for something bigger than yourself. This is also known as: looking up quotes on goodreads.com and putting them on your blog.

“to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”
― Ellen Bass

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.”
― Lao Tzu

“For after all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“Feelings come and go like clouds in a windy sky. Conscious breathing is my anchor.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh, Stepping into Freedom: Rules of Monastic Practice for Novices

“Feelings, whether of compassion or irritation, should be welcomed, recognized, and treated on an absolutely equal basis; because both are ourselves. The tangerine I am eating is me. The mustard greens I am planting are me. I plant with all my heart and mind. I clean this teapot with the kind of attention I would have were I giving the baby Buddha or Jesus a bath. Nothing should be treated more carefully than anything else. In mindfulness, compassion, irritation, mustard green plant, and teapot are all sacred.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh, The Miracle of Mindfulness

“You might be tempted to avoid the messiness of daily living for the tranquility of stillness and peacefulness. This of course would be an attachment to stillness, and like any strong attachment, it leads to delusion. It arrests development and short-circuits the cultivation of wisdom.”
― Jon Kabat-Zinn, Wherever You Go, There You Are

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”

― Jim Morrison

 

“Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.”
― Søren Kierkegaard

 

“If you've never eaten while crying you don't know what life tastes like.”
― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

And, with that, your spoon scrapes the bottom of the re-purposed salsa container, holding your homemade chocolate zinfandel ice cream.

And, I guess you could say, you've tasted life.

It was a little salty, but mostly sweet, bitter and pungent, sticky and cold, mind-numbing and velvety, rich and thick, hard to chew, but easy to swallow.

Love,

Manic Monday: reframing, trying to be thoughtless and stockpiling for the zombie apocalypse

Dearest Daughters,

We've now made it through a couple of weeks of child care and mommy care.

When your dad left for about a week on business travel, it forced the issue of me returning to my role as your daily care provider. With some mental and medicinal preparation, some scaffolding (e.g. Lolo and Lola hanging out while I put you to bed on my own) and planning, I've been able to spend a lot of time alone with both of you.

And I'm also enjoying (instead of feeling guilty about) my time without you.

My current life task involves a lot of re-framing. Teaching my mind to look at things differently. Less negatively, harshly, judgmentally.

To see your days at childcare as an exciting developmental stage in your life instead of a place I was forced to send you because I went bat-shit crazy.

To see my hours alone as my new "job" of sorts; a time for me to work on finding out about myself and being me. To spend it doing many of the things that bring me joy: baking, cooking, knitting, reading, catching up on Whale Wars. And to come to believe that I am enough. That the life I lead is enough. Instead of seeing my days as insurmountable to-do lists that never get done. Or as a series of meaningless tasks to fill a void. Or as a life as "just" a stay-at-home-mom.

I've realized that I've been carrying around a lot of insecurity about being a SAHM. Because I'm young. Because I went to Wellesley College. Because I'm driven. I never felt that I was doing enough. So I did too much. Instead of either 1) accepting and embracing the life I live or 2) accepting and embracing that I need to do something else with the life I live.

The jury's still out on that one, but as I feel unable at this time to secure and keep a job outside of the home, for now I'm working on the former.

Some days while you're away, I get "a lot" done--not in a to-do list sort of way, but in a way where I feel fulfilled by the rhythms of my day. Not fulfilled by my list of accomplishments at the end of the day, but fulfilled by the actual almost meditative, mindful motions of my day--while I'm doing them--the folding of laundry, the chopping of vegetables, the kneading of pizza dough, the click-clacking of knitting needles.

And while I may "do" as much or even more than I was doing before, it doesn't feel that way. My days feel as they should, easy. At ease. In ease. Because I don't feel exhausted at the end of the day. I don't feel like I didn't get "enough" done. I don't feel like anything or anyone was neglected, including myself and you. Because I'm doing more to nourish myself than I ever even allowed myself to consider doing before this breakdown.

So, when you get home from a fun and love-filled day at childcare, I have the energy and focus to spend on you. Because I've already put on my own oxygen mask.

 

from Raising Happiness by Christine Carter, Ph.D.

 

The mood stabilizers work, so does the Xanax, the meditation and affirmations that are becoming ingrained in my mind.

The affirmation that comes to my mind most often is this one: "The blueprint of myself that I hold in my mind's eye is one of me vital, healthy and doing what I want to do without a thought."

Seems simple enough, right?

NOT!

Not for me, at least. Most of my thoughts are followed by second thoughts. I can't even watch the Travel Channel or think about public transit without my stomach turning. Transitions and sudden changes are hard. And can send me spiraling into panic.

But, day by day my confidence to face the world is growing. I still have panic attacks. But, I'm learning how to get through them to the other side. Accepting that the paralyzing and debilitating feeling of my imminent death will, indeed, pass. If I can just breath, get to the Xanax in time, tell my body that I'm safe, tell my adrenaline and my heart rate to subside, that I'm not being chased by lions. That I and my Dearest Daughters are safe and sound.

I've been having these flickers of glimpses of moments where I think to myself "I'd like to do that!" To drive again. To pick you girls up from childcare, to see your smiling faces and embrace the blow of you bodies as you barrel into my arms. To go to Target. To go to a movie, even.

But, then I think. And worry. And the anxiety returns.

But, not all the time.

Not when I re-frame and prepare myself. Not when I actually find myself wanting to leave my house.

Look what I did this morning, with Lola by my side, of course:

And you can bet I stocked up. We won't need toilet paper or laundry detergent or Goldfish crackers for at least two months. But, then I thought, as I rolled my cart to our car (which I also successfully drove home!): Hey, Lauren! You just did that! BOOYAH! Take that, anxiety! Take that, panic attacks! You could probably do it again, right Lauren? So, maybe that fourth box of fruit snacks was a bit excessive?

Then again, you never know when the zombie apocalypse will hit. And you'll need those stockpiled granola bars!

I got you covered, baby girls!

Love,

 

 

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