dearest daughters & son

the best worst day

Sometimes you just have one of those days. The Worst.

 

 

Yesterday, I forgot about gymnastics because I was taking a nap.

 

Today, driving down a narrow road in the rain, I knocked off someone’s driver’s side mirror and put a minor dent and scratch in our passenger side door.

 

While I found the owner at their house, I left Danielle in the car parked out front. When I got back from giving the owner my information, Danielle was hysterical--worried that the police got me [because I’ve told her before that I can’t leave her in the car alone while I go into the grocery store because the police will arrest me #doh #backfired].

 

That last one seems the worst.

 

When things like this happen, my first reflex is to beat myself up--to think about all the things I could have done differently, all the things I should not have done. I want to replay the events in my mind and cringe at my stupidity. Over and over. I want to call myself names. And apologize profusely. I am really hard on myself and I feel like I deserve the lashings.

 

But, I am trying not to be that version of Lauren anymore. It doesn’t do me service. I now recognize that I am not Wonder Woman. I am not perfect. I am not omnipotent. I am not infallible.

 

You know, I probably needed that nap more than the girls needed to go to gymnastics. And an accident is just an accident--and an extremely minor one at that--no one was hurt. And after Danielle climbed into my lap, intertwined our arms, squeezed us closer together, told me she loves me, I knew I didn’t permanently damage my child.

 

You see, the past is really just a concept--there is nothing I can do to change it. No amount of wondering--why I didn’t remember gymnastics or why my spatial awareness sucks or what if the police took me away--will change the past. I just have to acknowledge it, accept it and be in the present--the present where I’m rested, where I’m safe, where I’m loved.

 

Doesn't sound like a bad day after all.

 

Dearest Daughters, we need to be gentle with ourselves. We have to. The world will tell us when gymnastics bills are due, how much it will cost to replace a car mirror, what it takes to be a perfect mother. The world will tell us we’re not pretty enough or smart enough or strong enough. That we don’t deserve attention, time, forgiveness, love.

 

It’s going to seem like the hardest thing to do--because your brain and sometimes other people won’t let you forget--and it’s going to seem like you don’t deserve it--like you ought to stay in time out a little longer--but, listen: this is when you need it most.

 

So, be gentle. Breathe deep breaths. Hold yourself close. Whisper kind thoughts. Cloak yourself in warmth and unconditional love. Give yourself some grace. You have to.

 

Because Mommy said so.

 

Love you no matter what,

Mommy

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!

Woods, April 1, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You go to the woods to be alone.
I brought two dogs
and my unquiet mind
the bill for the new tires
the loan paperwork
the full house and the empty cardboard boxes
the question of my sanity
my stability
my ability

To climb this hill
to move a step forward
to move down the street
to move a step backward

My dogs, my thoughts and I
we climb high enough to see
the bay, the cities, the trains, the traffic
the airplanes taking off into the clouds

I hear a hummingbird chirping angrily
I watch the vultures circling
I notice the wildflowers
the aquamarine lake in the valley below

We walk higher still
above the trees
to see the approaching storm
rolling in from the west

I feel the power of the storm
The wind strengthening
rustling leaves
creaking the tall and wavering eucalyptus

The first drops

We descend
the rain cold
sheets then blankets
stinging
not comforting or picturesque
painful
and real and true

None of it is in my hands

I am not alone
not in my mind
not in the storm
not in the woods

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.

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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,

Mothering my children, mothering myself

Dearest Daughters,

Let me start by saying: I am an awesome mom.

Correction: I'm a really, really, really awesome mommy.

In our culture and in this blogosphere, we spend too much time criticizing others, ourselves, parenting philosophies, our very own children.

And I’m just here to say that I’m doing right by you.

I mentioned recently how well behaved you are; not just relatively, but truly.

You play well together and show each other the concern, compassion, respect, and understanding that I’ve encouraged.

I have a four year old with better emotional maturity and vocabulary than I have. She can tell me when I hurt her feelings. She can tell me how she feels, why she’s crying, that she doesn’t want to cry, to feel the way she’s feeling. That is more than most adults are capable of.

And I have a two year old who has never wavered in expressing her feelings; who feels so intensely that every day is a roller coaster ride. Sure, she laughs manically when, suddenly, cuddling with her turns into a bout of jiu jitsu and you tell her, “no, don’t kick me in the face” and yet the kicking continues. So there is that. But, she is in other terms: passionate, expressive and honest. She is quick to offer remorse. And slightly-less-quick to forgive, but forgiving nonetheless.

I give you both the space to feel; to use your unique voices; I affirm who you are as individuals and as a part of our family.

And I’d like to take credit for all of that. I could have done worse. And I do from time to time.

I still have trouble with intervening too soon when you are working on puzzles. And there’s that whole Danjo not hearing the word “no” in relation to physical boundaries thing. But, hey, we’re not perfect; we’re works in progress.

So, to recap: I’m this amazing parent.

I am patient. So so so patient and present. Encouraging, comforting, creative. I am silly and fun. I am serious and thoughtful. I am cuddly and smell like only a mommy can smell as you bury your faces and sorrows in my arms. I am respectful and you respect me. I have answers and, yet, no answers. I am mean, firm, fair and unfair. I braid your hair; I let it be. I tie your shoes when you want me to; I wait patiently when you don’t. I nourish your bodies, your minds, and your spirits. Sometimes I feed you Goldfish for breakfast and spoil you with surprises.

I spend a lot of time and effort being your mommy. I can’t recall what I ever did with my days and energy before there was you.

Alas, I’m so busy parenting, making organic push pops from scratch, getting kicked in the face while cuddling and engaging in various other activities, that I too often and too long ignore myself.

I know this sounds so cheeze-ball-psycho-babble, but I'm saying it anyway:

I ignore the little girl inside of me, the child; the person so deserving of kindness, nurture and love. She gets scraps, the leftovers. Some days, she gets nothing. And some days she gets the garbage, earfuls of criticism, judgment, defeat.

Why would I treat my daughters one way? With the kindness, nurture and love they deserve? And deprive myself?

What lesson am I teaching my daughters? When we talk about self-care, about taking time outs when we need them, about our amazing capacity to cry aloud, about discovering what we love, about saying N-O to what we do not need? What lesson do I teach you? When we talk about these things, but you don’t see me doing them? When I don’t live by my words?

I ought to truly, visibly and routinely mother myself the way that I mother you. I think amazing things would unfold in my life, much the way they do in your lives every day, every moment, every skinned-knee, every climbed tree, every new word, every new plan, every block tower toppled, every masterpiece created, every sparkle in your eye, every rise of your voice, every laugh, every tear, every eyelid shut at day’s end.

Wouldn’t it be awesome if my eyes sparkled? If I squealed in delight? Or if I could be so vulnerable, could allow my sorrow to be transformed by a vigorous embrace?

I am an awesome mommy.

And I will work on becoming an awesome mother to the little Lauren inside. I will listen. I will encourage. I will praise. I will be kind and forgiving with myself. I will provide her opportunities for fun, for rest, for nourishment, for growth. I will let her cry. I will let her laugh. I will let her make mistakes. And be there for her when she does. I will love her unconditionally.

No matter what. Right, Dearest Daughters?

I love you no matter what,

When Down Days Persist So Must I

Dearest Daughters,

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

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

Wow. Just wow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love you no matter what,

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

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

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,