dearest daughters & son

mental health helpers: rest, recharge, reframe

Dearest Daughters,

It’s been awhile since I last wrote to you about some serious stuff.

The seasons have changed, as they do. And so too: my mental health. I’ve begun to expect (or accept) that there will always be ebbs and flows in my life.

In March after a whirlwind of activities, I went on vacation with your daddy. And just when I was supposed to unwind, I started having recurring panic attacks.

There are small tells that give away the condition of my mental health—things I should pay better attention to—but panic attacks are my big tell, my end-of-the-rope-can-no-longer-cope-on-the-path-to-dysfunction tell.

And in the midst of all that, we proceeded with packing up and moving out of our house to put it on the market. I’ll spare you the details of all of this, which we are still sorting through while we live with Lola and Lolopop. Suffice it to say, it’s not been an easy Spring.

I didn’t write about all this at the time, because it’s become the same old story: mania, depression, panic—all forcing me to finally (however late) take care of myself as I should have been doing all along. Reminding me that I have to HAVE TO have to put on my oxygen mask first or else I end up barricaded in my parents’ guest bedroom unable to care for myself or for you kiddos.

Always, new awareness emerges, equipping me to better deal with it next time. And I’m accepting that there will always be a next time—not because I’m complacent or because I’m fatalistic (which I am) but because I’m a perfectionist and until now I wanted so badly to be “cured,” to be done with all that Stuff, to be Fine once again.

But I’m finding that loving and caring for myself is a daily process. I have to wake up every morning and do it all over again or else the tomorrows just get worse and worse (see above: huddling mass in the guest bedroom).

Here are three things I’ve been working on:

Rest
Sometimes you just have to give yourself permission (and girl, am I working on this) to rest. Not just at night when you sleep, but as much as you need and however you need. This is no small task for someone like me who is always running my body or my mouth. In my mind, I would rise with the sun and spend the first moments of my day in peaceful meditation. But for me right now, this has involved a lot of HGTV watching. It helps my body and brain to hold still at the very least.

Recharge
I’ve been keeping a small daily journal where I list in one column the things that have depleted my energies. In the other column I list things that renew my energy. I start my list the night before, looking to the day ahead and what To Do sorts of things are on my agenda. Then I try to plan for something that will recharge me: watching TV, talking a bath, taking a run or a walk. I revisit this list at the end of the day. I add or cross things out based on how the day actually panned out. Did I stick to my plan? Usually not—usually I’ve skimped on the self-care side of the list. And I make a little note about my mood that day. So, I know going into my next day how much recharging I should do and how much draining stuff I shouldn’t do going forward. Sometimes this means the groceries won't get bought, but that's why they make packaged ramen.

Reframe
My list-making in my little journal helps me to look back on my day and think carefully about the moments in my day that brought me joy, comfort or even just pause—when Danielle forced me to cuddle, but it was so pleasant after all; when I went shopping with my mom which was a taxing activity, but when we reminisced about my crazy grandma, a smile spread across my face. Reframing, I begin to think about what I am grateful for—which always helps one to put one's life into perspective. Making a gratitude list won’t cure my bipolar disorder. I’m always going to be sensitive, a deep-thinker and mostly negative in nature, but this practice helps me to notice the fulfilling parts of my day that I wouldn’t have otherwise acknowledged. Typically, as your daddy gets home from work, I note that “nothing” happened today, even though a million and a half good and bad and neutral things crossed my path.

Am I better? No.

Am I better than last week? Yes.

Will things stay the same? Do they ever?

Do I love you no matter what? Yes!

On the Occasion of Being Sick, In Pain or Generally Miserable

Dearest Daughters,

I brought Babybel to the doctor this morning where he confirmed double ear and sinus infections.

My stoic babe, I wish I could have taken away your suffering sooner.

When Danjo, my “less healthy” and—let’s face it—whinier child emits even the smallest of whimpers, I rush her to the doctor, one-hundred-percent certain she has an ear infection. Multiply that by about a million times and you’ll know what the past three years have felt like.

All the while, sweet girl, your germs were festering. And I only put two and two together when you woke in the middle of the night with your head throbbing, crying because you needed help falling asleep. You’re such a sound sleeper and haven’t needed help falling asleep since you were an infant.

I’m not writing this letter to rake myself over the coals.

It’s that, in this moment, I see myself in you. I see my inner five year old. And I want to tell her so many things.

Maybe it is my stoicism that helped me mask my mortal weaknesses like illness or depression or the simple ups and downs of life. Or maybe it was those things that lead to my stoicism.

Either way, I see the same thing happening in you. You act so strong and so brave; and I want to tell you that you don’t have to act that way. That you just are, even in your weakness, because of your weakness. We are born strong, reslient. You have nothing to prove.

No sooner had the doctor written out your prescription than you fell apart. I shouldn’t say you fell apart so much as you finally had permission or allowed yourself to be the sick five-year-old you have been the past few days. You suddenly felt sad and worried and just plain crummy.

And that feeling resonated with me—the floodgates opening after so many days, months, years of holding them shut.

As I held you in my lap while waiting at the pharmacy, cradling your barely-cradle-able body, you shivered, your body fighting back germs, and you fighting back tears.

All I wanted to do was to tell you that I’m here, that you’ll be just fine, that there’s no reason to cry. But, the truth is: I won’t always be here, that sometimes you won’t be fine and that you have all the reason in the world to cry.

(Dearest Readers, if you’re burnt out on my mindfulness and emotional coaching lectures, then you can stop reading three paragraphs ago.)

One of the hardest things to do as a parent, is to sit with you in your pain, to let you cry and feel sad, worried and crappy. To let the tears flow. To tell you that it is so, so, so okay to feel everything you are feeling even if it means more tears and even a little bit of hysterical vomit.

So, we let your tears flow some more, let them mingle with my own, reminding myself it’s okay to cry too (in our second week of illness)—let the people in the pharmacy line tilt their heads at us, wondering if they should call a relative, an authority, an emergency responder or some combination thereof.

And when I’m (mostly) done crying, I know it’s my job to coach you through those crappy feelings—as I have done so many times for myself.

I sat there, praying to God that the pharmacist would call our name already, wanting to go home too, wondering what I could possibly do—not to make you stop crying, but to help you through your pain to the other side, as I like to think of it.

And I imagined my most helpful ally in times of anxiety and panic: water—from whence we come, quenching thirst, the first medicine, the ocean, tears and sweat and baptism.

I told you a story about the waves. I asked you to imagine yourself floating in the water peacefully, maybe in a boat or on a blowup alligator. And you looked at me like the crazy, crunchy momma I am. And I told you that feeling sad and yucky is like a storm. The waves are really rough right now, but the storm will pass, you just have to breathe.

I’ll pause the mumbo jumbo melodrama for a second to say that breathing, prayer or reciting mantra will no more cure you of your sinus infection than they did my depression. But, it sure does help you make it through the storm.

You have to know that a storm can’t last forever. That you can ride the waves, let them wash over you. That soon the pain-reliever and antibiotics (thank you for modern medicine) will start working. That your fever will subside. That your pain will diminish. That you will find comfort and relief (in your lovey, netflix and mommy’s hugs). That your strong and wonderful body will do the work it needs to do to heal. That popsicles and crackers will sustain you.

That you can trust in all of this and in the knowledge that you are safe and secure. That you can let go of trying to feel better, let go of the yuckiness and finally rest (literally, please, go to sleep).

And in this small instance when you wake, the storm will have subsided. And, it is my hope, that you will have learned a little bit about how to weather life’s storms no matter how small they are or how big they feel.

Love you no matter what,

P.S. By the time I published this, you woke up, your fever was gone, you ate some jello, kept down your antibiotics. You were back to your healthy self, thoughtfully asking your sister about what you missed at school and whether you could eat the Valentine's candy she brought home for you. That is to say, you survived the storm, more importantly, Mommy did too!

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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!

A Running Epiphany

Dearest Daughters,

When I began running over a year ago, I didn’t realize what a therapeutic and transformative effect it would have on my life.

I started running for my mental health, listening to affirmations because I couldn’t bear my own thoughts or the pulsing rhythms of music, releasing pent up anxiety, getting out of the house when my agoraphobia was at its worst. So, I should have had an inkling how much it would help me on my emotional journey.

But, over the past year, I’ve seen running as just that and little more: running. For my mental health, with benefits for my physical health. And, sure, a reason to get better shoes and cute running clothes.

Because my main reason for running has been to combat my anxiety, I’ve been able to approach running from an entirely different direction than most other aspects of my life. I am a perfectionist. I’m also both literally and figuratively bipolar.

It’s been a familiar pattern in my life to suddenly have some new life-changing idea or activity into which I lunge head-first. I’m going to do spinning or yoga or start my own business or make friendship bracelets or only eat foods that begin with the letter “c.” I binge on a particular activity and then, especially if my perfectionism kicks in, I give up. I give up, as a precaution, before I fail. I am paralyzed by failure. I’ve given up on photography classes on new jobs on dozens of unfinished sewing or knitting projects; things I have enthusiastically begun, but lost the drive to finish.

I’m afraid of failing and therefore, afraid of taking risks. The years of making excuses in conversations or therapy sessions echo in my ears. No, I don’t have time for that. No, that costs money. No, I shouldn’t. No, I couldn’t. All that negativity because of the illusion, the fallacy, the unattainable expectations of my own perfectionism.

But, running has not been that way for me. I do it. Or I don’t do it. It’s not a manic impulse or a binge activity. I am gentle with myself. I am not a perfectionist about running. I listen to my body. I don’t push myself too hard or too little. If I didn’t run last week, it’s okay. I can get up and run again this week. I don’t compare myself to others. I don’t measure my worth by my miles. Running has somehow become a practice, a framework for how I ought to live out the rest of my life.

This past Sunday when I ran my fist 5K, I felt full of emotion. I felt feelings so intense and overwhelming I knew I would cry if I gave them any thought. I pushed my tears back and I ran. As I rounded (several) corners, coming into the last stretch, strangers cheered, children held hand drawn signs of encouragement and I felt my eyes begin to water.

What a feeling! Not of achievement, of success, of straight-A’s or perfection. Not of someone else's or society's or my own skewed expectations. I had an epiphany. I realized, as I crossed the finish line: I can. And not only CAN I do this, but look at all the people who believe in, love and support me.

Afterwards in the car, I choked back tears, as I told my husband: “I don’t know why I ever EVER ever doubted myself... [insert sniffles and sobs here]... when there are so many people who support and love me.”

It was a true, in my gut, in my heart, in my soul feeling. And I let myself feel it. I let the love and support wash over me. In its boundless and unconditional forms. Not just for that day and that race. Not just for running. But for all my choices. For all the things I’ve done and not done. For my life.

What a feeling! To truly let love in. Not only accepting the love of others, but also accepting my own self-love, a love that I have deprived myself of all these years. Allowing myself to feel pride in my achievements, to know—beyond a doubt—I’m doing the right thing for myself, and the right thing as a role model to my Dearest Daughters, caring for myself emotionally, intellectually, physically.

I’ve lived the past twenty-nine years feeling undeserving of attention, of praise, of love. I’ve shrugged off achievements and compliments, always second-guessing, judging and measuring myself by an imaginary, but cruel yardstick. I have blanketed myself in negativity, demeaning and negating everything from the smallest compliment on my cooking to my educational achievements, even, to my most beloved creations, my Dearest Daughters.

This 5K certainly did not cure my perfectionism or mania. I still have a yardstick that I must continually remember to blast to smithereens. It’s still my inclination to be negative, to confine myself.

But, I have experienced Yes. I have experienced Possibility. I have experienced Freedom.

Little did I know what a pivotal moment running a 5K or running at all would be.

As I prepare to turn thirty in the new year, I’ve been thinking a lot about this year; about this being a “Me Year” or a “Say Yes to Lauren Year”—what that involves I’m still working out; classes, travel, doing things I’ve always wanted to do or should have done for myself, taking risks.

Regardless, this year will be a special one.

Thank you to all who will make it so, to all those who have always supported and loved me, who have believed in me despite my refusal to see and accept such things. Thank you to my family and my husband and to those strangers at the three mile marker.

And thank you, especially, to my Dearest Daughters who have been my light in my darkest moments, my reason to keep living and who inspire me to be both a better person and, simply, the person that I am, the person they love no matter what.

I love you back no matter what,

Taking My Mental Health for Granted

Dearest Daughters,

You may have noticed lately that we’ve been busy—traveling to and fro, camping, birthday-partying, wedding-ing, family reunion-ing, visiting friends and family, even Disneyland-ing! And locally, we’ve been hitting up the playground/library/family-friendly-activity circuit more than usual over the past few months.

And I can gladly say that all of our activity (my activity) is not rooted in mania; just in the enjoyment of life. I am even more elated to say that I feel mentally healthy—more than I ever have in my life.

Once upon a time I hurried through life, operating on Shoulds and Have Tos, unaware of my feelings and the stress I heaped upon myself, suppressed, fighting through life, against myself. I’d say part of the difficult and desperate life I lived was due to my bipolar diagnosis—the chemical imbalances, the moods, the high and low extremes I worked so long, alone and helplessly to moderate.

The other explanation for the life I led is that I was just so damn hard on myself. I had unrealistic expectations of myself, of my life. Perfectionist expectations I could never live up to—that kept me from ever being happy, from ever accepting myself as I am, from ever feeling I was or had enough, from ever experiencing my own life.

And then there was a time when it all crashed down upon me. I felt hopeless. And I know I’ve told this story before, but looking back on the past year, reflecting on the darkness, it all feels like yesterday.

When I think about the pain I felt, my lack of desire to live, my inability to care for you, let alone myself—those feelings all come rushing back. I’m transported to those days of panic and depression, those days I rocked myself back and forth, unable to leave my parents’ guest bedroom, hardly able to watch anything but Storage Wars because anything else reminded me of the life Outside—a life I felt undeserving of and unable to live anymore.

And then there was the time when little by little the panic and anxiety dissipated. I took my medication and I worked SO SO SO SO FREAKIN' hard in talk therapy.

And now here I am. And mostly, those dark days and thoughts never cross my mind. There are days when I leave the house, when I go visit friends or family, when I plan and execute and celebrate a grand third birthday party without any thought of anxiety, without any worry.

I ask for help when I need it. I navigate stress better. I’ve learned to say “no” when needed. I’ve learned to plan better. I’ve learned how to identify and work through manic or depressive episodes. I’ve learned to accept my reality, to stop comparing my life to the lives of others.

I’ve learned to accept that my self-worth is in no way connected to the undone dishes, to the amount of TV you watch, to my education, to my employment, to how much I sleep, to how much I do or what I get done. I know now that I am enough—enough Mommy, enough wife, enough daughter, enough Lauren.

And that revelation is such relief. I feel lighter. I feel free.

So now, most days I leave home without my Emergency Just-In-Case Supply of Xanax. That may not sound like a big deal if you’ve never dealt with anxiety and I don’t mean to sound like I have or ever did have a pharmaceutical dependency, but for the last year I have made sure to never leave home without my medical equivalent of a blankie: teeth brushed? Wallet? Cell phone? Drugs? Check, check, check, check!

Whether or not I used or needed Xanax, every morning for over a year, the possibility of panic crossed my mind. And no matter how far in the past my last panic attack was, I was compelled to think that it could happen again at any moment. Even as days turned into weeks and months and over a year, a pall was cast over every day. I lived, if not in constant dread and fear of panic, at least under its shadow.

But now, I feel like things are not only “normal” once again, but also better than ever. I am better equipped to handle stress, to handle feelings, to handle crowds and panic triggers, to handle my own life.

These days, I take my mental health for granted the way that I imagine most people do every day of their lives when they wake up and make their coffee and welcome the day ahead.

And it feels great.

Love,

A Celebration of Life

Dearest Daughters,

I don’t remember when it all happened exactly. It’s not like I was keeping a detailed calendar of events.

But, it’s been about a year since my life crisis, my psychological break, what have you. It’s been a year since shit got real. Real Real.

Instead of rehashing all things anxiety/panic, depression, bipolar that I’ve already documented here on this blog, I want to celebrate! Put on your party hats!

I want to celebrate the fact that I’m still alive, that I made it through, that I’m functional again, that I’ve come so far, that I can live most days and survive most situations without Xanax, that I’m becoming aware of how stress affects me, that I’m learning to let go of what no longer serves me, that I’m getting to know myself better now than ever before, that I’m exploring new things, that I’m finding what brings me joy and fulfillment.

I want to celebrate the people who have supported me: my husband, my parents, my best friend, my sisters and brothers, my aunties, uncles, network of extended family and, even, my Dearest Daughters who knew and sensed what I needed when I needed it most. And, seriously: for Lapu, my parents’ Golden Retriever who offered me the unconditional love and nonjudgmental presence I needed in my darkest moments.

I want to celebrate life, and love and you, my Dearest Readers for reading through my epiphanies and drivel alike, walking with me on this journey, riding the waves with me, affirming and supporting me. I wish I could give everyone a big hug or, at least, a high five.

Instead, I offer some words that capture better than I ever could what a Gift this Life is:

“Living well is an art that can be developed: a love of life and ability to take great pleasure from small offerings and assurance that the world owes you nothing and that every gift is exactly that, a gift. ”
― Maya Angelou, Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now

“Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are gifted for something and that this thing must be attained.”
― Marie Curie

“Live. And Live Well.

BREATHE. Breathe in and Breathe deeply.

Be PRESENT. Do
not be past. Do not be future. Be now.

On a crystal clear, breezy 70 degree day,
roll down the windows and

FEEL the wind against your skin. Feel the warmth of
the sun.

If you run, then allow those first few breaths on a cool Autumn day to

FREEZE your lungs and do not just be alarmed, be ALIVE.

Get knee-deep in a novel
and LOSE track of time.

If you bike, pedal HARDER and if you crash then crash
well.

Feel the SATISFACTION of a job well done-a paper well-written, a project
thoroughly completed, a play well-performed.

If you must wipe the snot from your
3-year old's nose, don't be disgusted if the Kleenex didn't catch it all

because soon he'll be wiping his own.

If you've recently experienced loss, then
GRIEVE. And Grieve well.

At the table with friends and family, LAUGH.

If you're
eating and laughing at the same time, then might as well laugh until you puke.

And if you eat, then SMELL.

The aromas are not impediments to your day. Steak on
the grill, coffee beans freshly ground, cookies in the oven.

And TASTE.

Taste every ounce of flavor.

Taste every ounce of friendship.

Taste every ounce of Life.

Because-it-is-most-definitely-a-Gift.”
― Kyle Lake

Love,

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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,

Separation and Snow

Dearest Daughters,

I have separation anxiety.

Not from you so much (ha!), but from my own parents.

This is something that my ex-therapist readily and frequently pointed out to me. This is also one of the reasons she is my ex-therapist.

The thing is: I'm okay with the way I was raised, with the Filipino influenced culture I come from, with my dependence (and interdependence) on my parents and other family members. I recognize it as a true and rare gift how close I am to my parents, emotionally and physically.

It is true: I live literally around the corner from Lola and Lolopop. And even when I lived fifteen minutes away, it's a rare thing to go more than two days without seeing one or the other of my parents.

It's also true: that I went to college on the other side of the country (and was the only of my siblings to do so). And during my first year of college I came home every other month, perhaps worsening the homesickness, but it's also the only way I made it through.

By Western standards (or so I hear from the aforementioned therapist) I never developmentally separated from my parents, I am too dependent on them, I never left the proverbial nest and, supposedly, this affects my ability to function.

I will own up to the fact that I am more anxious when I do things on my own, or take trips with only my "own" nuclear family. I will accept that I have experienced separation anxiety. And that I need to work on trusting myself more.

But, I wouldn't have it any other way. I wouldn't go back and do anything differently.

I don't believe that my emotional or physical proximity or my dependence interfere with the life that I am meant to live. Those things enrich my life and your lives too.

If I have the option of bringing Lola with me to help me explore Paris with a four month old and two year old, why would I not?

If I'm having a crappy day and can drag myself and two children around the corner to an already-made dinner and the sanctuary of Lola's TV-playroom, why would I not?

If you girls can spend even a minute of your day with your Lola and Lolopop, why would I deprive you (or them) of that time?

For sure, when my parents die, I'll have some serious shit to deal with. But, until then, I'll spend as much time with my parents as I can. I'll make them dinner. I'll get manicures with Lola and run errands with Lolopop. I'll allow them to provide as much support as they want in raising my Dearest Daughters.

Maybe I'm more sensitive than the average person, maybe I'm weaker?

Or maybe I'm just lucky?

[Setting an entire childhood aside--that's too obvious] I wouldn't have survived college, this past year or our recent trip to the snow without Lola and Lolopop. (And, pup pup Lapu!)

Dear Lord, help me when and if my Dearest Daughters leave my side! That's a whole 'nother separation anxiety ball game!

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!

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,

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,