dearest daughters & son

My Living List: 25 things I want you to know about Living Life

Dearest Daughters,

I'm writing this list because now is as good a time as any. That being said, I do think about what you will remember when I'm gone.

I wouldn’t say I’ve been suicidal in the clinical sense of having “a plan,” but I’ve certainly entertained the thought of death. And in my darkest moments—not just once, but still—the only reason I can think of to not run away or run my car into a ditch, the only reason I can think of to stay alive is to not hurt the people that love me. When I start to think about you growing up without a mommy, I know that I have to be in that picture. That is my “reason for living” in the most morbid and inspirational senses of the phrase.

Death is something that my mind spirals to on a daily basis surrounding me in a bizzard of What Ifs. What if I get in a car accident? What if I get cancer? What if there’s an earthquake or a tsunami or a zombie apocalypse? What if something happened to you?

In my right mind, I know that it does no good to think about death. It is a certain thing, but we, as humans, must deny this reality on a daily, hourly basis in order to focus on the Living part of Life. We cannot be paralyzed by the fear of death or bad things happening. We must Live in the present. #mindfulness

And yet, I find myself wondering whether I’m Living my best Life, whether I have any regrets or unfinished business, whether I’ve told you I love you enough?

One day—hopefully no time soon, but one day, I will pass. And there are things I want you to know—about me, about your family, about yourselves, about Living Life. Many of those things you’ll find on this blog should you one day choose to pore through it.

Until then, here is my Living List—25 things that I want you to know about Living Life:

1. Crazy is in your blood. Not just clinical crazy—which you should be aware of, but bathrobe-curlers-clashing-red-and-purple-mile-long-nails-bingo-daubber-disco-disco-gun-in-your-purse-capital-C-R-A-Z-Y. That would be thanks to your Great Grandma Marie.

2. You don’t have to grow up to be religious or believe in particular teachings, but know that I believe in a loving and gracious God. And if you choose not to, I’ll believe for you, because I see God in you—from your first steps to your missteps and everything in between.

3. You do need to grow up to be kind, thoughtful and caring—not because you are girls or because you are doormats, but because you will consider and be understanding of people, places and forces beyond yourself.

4. You will seek knowledge. The more you know, the more you’ll realize how little you know. Ignorance isn’t a lack of knowledge, it is a lack of desire to know. Let your curiosity be your guide.

5. Family is family. If it looks like a family, talks like a family, walks like a family, then it’s a family. Be family.

6. I say, we can dance if we want to / We can leave your friends behind / Because your friends don't dance / And if they don't dance / Well they're no friends of mine. (source)

7. Be close to your siblings. I mean realrealclose. See, talk and text with each other weekly if not daily. Have unwavering loyalty. Be willing to cut a b*tch. Laugh with and at each other. Make fun of your parents together. Always say yes—to watching their children, to putting out their trash, to going on vacation. When I get old or am gone, you’ll have one another to help decide my fate, to cry into each other’s arms, to take my trash tchotchkes to the dump.

8. Falling in love makes you grow Stupid Cells. You’ll fall madly, deeply in love—maybe more than once. Once the experience of falling in love has worn off, make sure your Stupid Cells didn’t grow into a tumor. If they did, get it removed immediately.

9. Trust your gut. It’s never too late to say no, to turn around, to back out.

10. Always practice safe sex. Enough said.

11. Look for integrity and respect in your partners. If you don’t know what that looks like, pay attention to how he treats his parents or how she treats your waiter.

12. Judge no one, except for assholes. Assholes are assholes.

13. Love is a choice. We all love and like to be loved differently: in words, in acts, in gifts, in time, in touch. Be aware of how you love and like to be loved. Fill others with love and allow yourself to be filled.

14. Be passionate about something. Anything.

15. Practice doesn’t make perfect. Practice makes practice. Take breaks, but never stop practicing.

16. When you’re lost, go get lost in nature.

17. Believe you are worthy. This is more than having good self-esteem or confidence. Know that you are worthy—of love, of attention, of time for yourself, of treating yourself, of pursuing your passions, of taking up space, of existing.

18. Play—music, with paint, with a ball. Play with your friends, your children, by yourself. Make-believe and make time. Laugh at silly things and wonder at the playfulness of creation.

19. You can’t wear makeup until I say you can or until you’re sixteen, whichever comes first. And you’ll wear quality makeup that accentuates your beauty. You are not a clown. No tattoos or piercings until you are eighteen and out of the house. And I shouldn’t ever see your booty or your tummy in public. Say no to drugs.

20. If you feel you can’t talk to me, talk to your aunties, uncles, ninangs and ninongs. You are loved more than you know by more people than you know.

21. Know that there are awkward things about being human—poop and farts, bras and periods, wet dreams and body odor, among other things—but there is no shame in the human body. They come in all shapes and abilities. Our bodies can do amazing things—run and jump, spin and tumble, create and transform, see color and movement, feel a soft breeze and immense pleasure, hear whispers and thunder, smell the first rain and bread baking, taste sweetness and snowflakes on the tip of your tongue.

22. Be angry. Be sad. Be outraged. Feel powerful feelings. Do not run or hide from them as they will overwhelm you.
 

23. Do not harbor resentment. Resentment comes from not speaking your truth, from not being vulnerable enough to say what you need or want and then blaming it on someone else.

24. I love you no matter what. My love is unconditional. I will love you in the depths of your pain and mistakes. I will love you in the heights of your success and happiness. I will always be your lap to sit on, your ugly place, your shelter, your sanctuary. I will not always be nice or your friend. I will be the voice that haunts you, that urges you to do better, that annoys you. You will say you hate me. You will want to run away. You will say you love me. You will come back. You will always be my babies and I will always be your mommy.

25. Make good choices.

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!

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,

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,

--------

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,

I am more than my sorrow.

“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 feelings 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 [2012] 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,

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,

The Non-Runner’s, Undisciplined-Person’s Guide to Running or [insert form of exercise here]

Dearest Daughters, 

When my therapist suggested I started running, I laughed in her face. I heard her out and humored her with a: sure, yeah, right, Sparky.

But, then I thought about what she said and figured: what the heck? And I tried it.

I’ve been running for about a month now. And I aim to do it 4-5 days per week. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t.

Here are four things that helped me, a very undisciplined, non-runner, non-athlete, sedentary-lifestyle-activist:  

1. Authentic Motivation and Reframing

It sounds simple, trite, even, but you have to tap into your unique motivation for running. If you’re running [or insert any form of exercise here] because you think you should, because someone else thinks you should, because that’s what healthy people do, etc. then you won’t be running for long.

Maybe you have had some life-altering experience and you truly are a convert to exercise for the sake of your heart or your waist-line or for the feel of the wind in your hair? Perfect. More power to you. You’ll probably stick to it.

But, every time I’ve attempted exercise out of a vague concern for my “health” or to get rid of that (second) baby fat or to get ready for that Hawaiian vacation, I’ve given up before I’ve even started.

What worked for me was reframing running altogether, not as something I have to do and hate doing, but as something I choose to do for a couple of very simple reasons.

One: I get time to myself, dedicated to myself and not a damn other soul.

And two: because I have anxious energy to burn.

While those reason certainly have to do with my mental health, they don’t have anything to do with my physical health. While physical health is certainly important, it isn’t a HUGE concern for me. I’m not overweight. I don’t have any health issues. I don’t really care how I look in a bathing suit.

What I’m trying to say is that in order to have any stick-to-it-ness, I had to reframe and find what was truly my own, singular and authentic motivation: my mental health.  

2. Small Steps

I’m a perfectionist. You probably aren’t. But for me, where I failed before in running or any other temporary athletic pursuit I’ve had (spinning, yoga, eliptical-ing, weight lifting, aerobics-video-ing) was in thinking I had to run the whole mile, hold the downward facing dog the longest, lift the maximum weight. I was in a competition against myself. Or, okay, maybe everyone else in the room, because I self-consciously imagined they cared or noticed what I was doing.

But, I’m not perfect. (Ding, ding, ding!)

It’s not a race and I can stop whenever my body tells me to. And I actually listen to what my body, not my mind tells me.

So, I don’t run for miles. Only blocks. I don’t run for hours. I don’t have time for that. I roll out of bed, taking advantage of the time beadle spends with the Dearest Daughters in the morning before he leaves for work. I walk for five minutes, run for ten minutes and walk for another five. There’s some stretching in there too somewhere.

And while I’ve pushed myself a little over the past month, it was ever-so-slowly. Again, only an extra block or two at a time. More out of curiosity about the houses and landscaping in the 1400 block, than out of any personal determination. (Note to self: further motivation can be found in home and landscaping snooping.)

And if I don’t feel like taking the longer loop, because I went hiking over the weekend and my legs are sore or because I haven’t been running in a few days, I don’t, dang it.

Only yesterday, I finally downloaded an app to tell me the distance I’ve been running. I’ve been doing the same mile and a half all month. And I’m not at all disappointed. Or concocting plans to out-do myself, despite what the running app yells at me!

3. The Cool Stuff

Okay, so maybe I only run a mile and a half. And when sales people ask me if I’m a runner, I tell them “not really.”

Nevertheless, I buy the cool running iPhone armband from them. And the moisture-wicking, light as a feather running apparel. And the comfy socks. Maybe because I’m consumeristic? Or maybe because it makes something totally unpleasant feel special and fun. And, again, just for me!

Source: fashion.onlineline.net via Onlineline on Pinterest

 

And sure, it cost my day’s wages and my Dearest Daughters will have to eat meat-less spaghetti, but, dang, Mama be lookin’ goooood running down our street.

Source: store.apple.com via AppStorm on Pinterest

 

And Americans eat too much meat anyway.

4. Grace

This kind of goes back to #2, above, but now that I don’t see running (or exercise) as a Should Do, a Have To or a Goal, I’m less extreme about it.

Before, it was either I Am Someone Who Exercises or I Am Not Someone Who Exercises.

If I don’t run for a week, because I feel shitty, it’s okay. As soon as I can pull myself together, I can hit the pavement again. If I want. And because I’m not such a Self-Dictator anymore, I probably will want to, of my own volition (see #1, above).

I’m not boldly declaring myself a Runner here, to you, to everyone I meet, setting myself up for failure, disappointment or embarrassment when and if I “stop” running.

If next month is a crappy disaster and I can’t find time or motivation for running, I’m not gonna be like: um, yeah, about that, I don’t do THAT anymore.

I know there is grace and I can always take a “pause,” and get back on my feet again, walking, running, skipping or jumping—however the heck I want to spend my fifteen minutes to myself.

----------

So, am I a runner? No.

Am I an expert? Far from it.

Am I an athletic evangelist? By no means.

But, I’ve learned this much about myself over the past month and I hope that it’s helpful to you, my Dearest Daughters (one of whom, at least, is bound to take after me) and to, you, my Dearest Readers, any of whom may deal with anxiety or other mental health issues or physical health issues. Or, who like me have followed the general policy of "Exercise? You can get hurt doing that!"

Love,