Life – Page 8

Tuesday September 02, 2014Inspiration, LifeOne comment so far

Over the course of this year I have been put on three different medications, and all three of them came with the oh-so-wonderful side-effect of weight gain. Lucky me! Because of that I now weigh more than I ever have in my entire life. I am overweight. Not to the point that my weight is causing health problems, but to the point that losing some weight should be a top priority. So, exercise and eating a clean, healthy diet are at the forefront of my life, right? Wrong. I was recently diagnosed with costochondritis, a swelling of the cartilage around my sternum and lower ribs. Yes, it hurts. A lot. Wanna know what the cure is? Rest, and don’t use your ribs as much as humanly possible until the symptoms go away . . . which could take up to six months. That’s right, I’m not allowed to exercise for up to six months.

So I find myself in a year with unprecedented weight gain, unable to exercise. Crap! That means that the only hope I have of getting back into my size 10/12 clothes anywhere in the near future is to watch my diet like a hawk. No sweets, no fried foods, no grease. Sign me up for salads, lean proteins and diet shakes. Right? Wrong.

I am choosing to embrace my new size.

Instead of stressing myself out and hating the way that I look in my size 14/16 clothes, I am choosing to love my body the way that it is right now. A really strange concept for someone who lives in Los Angeles, let me tell you. But this is the first time in almost a year that I have actually felt healthy for more than a day or two in a row, and that is more important to me than fitting back into a size 10.

Do I still plan on watching what I eat and filling my diet with fruits, vegetables and lean proteins? Of course. But I’m not going to deny myself a cookie every now and then. Or a burger with fries or pizza while out with friends. I have no intention of denying myself or being miserable simply because of a number that is sewn into my clothes. That number doesn’t dictate who I am, no matter how big or how small. Do I plan on exercising as soon as I’m able? YES!!! I can’t tell you how much I would love to have my ass kicked by a Pilates instructor right now. Or how fantastic going to the gym and zoning out on a rowing machine sounds. That would be absolutely blissful! But I can’t. I’m one month post-diagnosis and walking my dogs is still too much for me.

So I am choosing to embrace my current reality. I am choosing to embrace the rest and relaxation that have been prescribed. (For all those who know me, pick your jaws up off the floor.) I am choosing to embrace my size. I am choosing to embrace the way that my body looks right now. There is time for weight-loss later. For now I am going to heal, and that’s going to happen a lot faster if I’m not miserable and stressed-out.

Thursday August 28, 2014Life, SistersLeave a comment

I was tagged on Facebook to list ten books that really made an impact on my life. Not because of grandeur or quality of writing, just books, or literature in general, that has managed to stay with me. In the instructions, you are admonished not to spend a lot of time thinking about it, just put down the ones that immediately come to mind. So I started to make my list, and I found myself thinking really hard about it. Not because I wanted to make it just right, or I wanted people to be impressed by my selections. I was struggling because I’ve never been a big reader, and I was having difficulties coming up with ten titles. In the end I wound up with five plays and five books, and of the ten only three of them were read in my youth, and one of those three was read at the age of 17.

1. The Borning Room by Paul Fleischman
2. Our Country’s Good by Timberlake Wertenbaker
3. The Giver by Lois Lowry
4. A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
5. The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
6. When Nietzsche Wept by Irvin Yalom
7. King Lear by Shakespeare
8. Henry V by Shakespeare
9. Stop Kiss by Diana Son
10. Arcadia by Tom Stoppard

You see, my sister and I were born 11 months apart. Crazy, I know. My parents always claimed that it was on purpose. Personally, I think that there isn’t much to do in a small mountain town … At any rate, we are very close in age and living in the aforementioned small mountain town we wound up sharing everything. Everything. We had the same teachers, were in all the same clubs and to a certain extent we even shared the same friends. Since we were so close in age, and the opportunities were few and far between, in many instances we had no choice in the matter. However, when my dad jokes that he raised a right brain and a left brain in two separate children, he’s not far off. My sister and I have little in common, heck we don’t even look alike.

Therefore, whenever it was possible we would do things separately and there became this unwritten code that both of us acknowledged. Some things were hers, some things were mine, and we never strayed into the other person’s “things.” Oddly, we never fought about who got what “thing” either, it just naturally happened. We had plenty of other things to fight about though. There was a time during our early teens that I affectionately refer to as WWIII.

My sister’s biggest “thing” was reading. She was, and still is, a voracious reader. Now that’s not to say that I didn’t read at all, obviously for school and summer book clubs I had to. So I would read the minimum amount required and no more, and I would make damn sure that I never read the books that Jen did. Those were hers and that was sacred territory. Likewise, she stayed away from the books that I read, keeping that world completely separate. My biggest “thing” was theater and performing and she was more than willing to stay far, far away. We had our things and it kept us sane-ish. The funny thing is that by the time we were both in high school, and the treatise had been signed to end WWIII, we realized that maybe this whole sharing thing wasn’t such a bad gig. We embraced our mutual group of friends and stopped trying to avoid each other in clubs and groups.

But the real olive branch came, when one day Jen came into my room and handed me a book. It was one of “hers.” From a series she adored, by an author she had gone to meet to get an autograph. Normally, I would not have touched that book with a ten foot pole. It was off limits, go directly to jail do not collect $200, end of story. And here she was, handing it to me and encouraging me to read it because she thought that I would really like the story. Mind blown. That is how I came to read the Redwall series, and the beginning of my sister’s and my odd reading relationship.

Now we will often read the same books and talk about them. Generally books of her choosing because she finds my taste a little too heavy and I’ll read just about anything. What cracks me up though, is that every now and then she’ll call me to ask if I told her that she wouldn’t like a specific book, or if she’s avoided it her entire life because it was one of “mine.” Funny how something that seemed so important twenty years ago, doesn’t matter at all now. It still feels a little against the grain every time that I pick up a book, but I’m getting over it. Maybe next time it won’t take me so long to come up with ten titles.

Monday August 18, 2014Life, MothersOne comment so far

My mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) when I was two. Eighteen HORRIBLE years later she died a few weeks before my 21^st birthday. The progression of her disease was swift and unrelenting. She started out with the worst possible kind (which is rare), and therefore she never had remissions. There were times that the rate of increasing damage slowed, but it never went away completely. It certainly never reversed! I learned several things with great clarity watching my mother die.

It is the quality of one’s years that matters most, not the quantity of those years.
Ignoring something bad does not make it go away. It actually makes the situation worse.
My worst nightmare is being diagnosed with MS.

I was always told that MS was not a genetic disease and therefore my odds of getting it were the same as everybody else’s. However, I have since come to learn that many doctors/scholars disagree with this belief and there is plenty of evidence that MS does indeed run in families. So my odds of having MS are a little bit higher. Then last year someone else in my family was diagnosed. That’s the beginning of a run. That’s one more blow to my odds. That means that if this were a bet in Vegas, the smart money is on me being diagnosed with MS in the next few years.

Needless to say, this has preoccupied a large part of my thinking for some time now. Then recently, my aunt asked me if I had been tested – you know like the breast cancer test that they have that shows if you have the genetic marker showing a predisposition to the disease. I of course told her that I hadn’t, because a test doesn’t exist. But this got me to thinking, maybe I was wrong. So I contacted an MS Center and asked them if there was a test. I was right, the answer is no. However, because of my family history they said that I could/should be screened by a neurologist who specializes in MS.

Silence

They could even help me find one in my area if I didn’t want to drive down to the center.

You could hear a pin drop.

Now I don’t know what all is involved in this screening and whether there would be definitive answers. I always thought that the only way that doctors could tell if you had the disease was after it was already full blown and wreaking havoc in your system. I had assumed that the only option open to me was to sit it out and let time tell. Apparently I was wrong. But now I’m left with the quandary of whether or not I get screened. The way I see it, there are only a few probable outcomes.

I don’t have MS and will never develop MS.
I don’t have MS right now, but it might develop later.
Results are inconclusive, only time will tell.
I likely have MS, but no damage is evident yet.
I have MS – worst nightmare realized.

So the question becomes will screening make me worry less or worry more? I’m not a doctor, so I realize that there are probably a lot of other possible outcomes, but since I can only work with what I know I’m going to work with these. If I get screened there is only a 1 in 5 chance that the screening will remove my worry and fear. However, there is a 3 in 5 chance that the screening will not only do nothing to allay my fears, but it might make them worse. These odds aren’t really in my favor. I know that knowledge is power and it is always better in the long run to know what you’re dealing with so you can react intelligently. But ignorance is also bliss. If I’m not going to start having symptoms for three years, will the quality of those years be better with me not knowing, or will they be better with the knowledge that there is a rain cloud on the horizon just waiting to sweep over my life?

My head knows that the prudent choice is to get screened and face whatever it is that needs to be faced head on. My heart isn’t sure that it can survive one more wrenching ache and prefers to stay ignorantly hiding from it all. I don’t know. Do I listen to my head or to my heart?

What would you do?

Thursday August 14, 2014Depression, Life, Live and LearnOne comment so far

With Monday’s announcement of the death of Robin Williams I’m sure that like me, you have been inundated with shocked reactions, tributes and more articles than you could possibly read about depression and suicide. Well, as loath as I usually am to jump on any social media trending bandwagon, this one I’m getting on board, because this is a topic that has been on my mind as of late. About a month ago I finished reading a book where the main character kills herself and I wrote a blog about the emotions that journey churned up inside of me. You can read that post here. A couple of weeks later one of my followers on Twitter asked how I would describe suicide in one word. She told me that it was for a survey. I told her short-sighted.

In my opinion, the biggest symptom of depression is short-sightedness. When you are depressed, truly, clinically depressed not just bummed out over something, you become short-sighted. You can’t see beyond the pain. You can’t see beyond the haze, the loneliness, the dejection and the failure. The burden that your heaviness places on all those that you encounter. It’s as if there is an all-encompassing fog. You can be surrounded by people, hear them, feel their presence, see them swirling the fog around you, but be completely unable to reach them. Unable to absorb their words, unable to feel their comfort, unable to process their presence. You are absolutely alone. No one can understand what you’re feeling, no one has ever felt like this before, and no one cares. So you sleep. You sleep more than anyone needs to sleep, because in sleep you escape. The pain eases and the fog lifts. You are free to just be.

The second you open your eyes, however, it all rushes back in with a whoosh and the weight of it takes your breath away. Do you get up and fight through one more day, or do you sleep some more? Eventually the lure of sleep becomes stronger and the need to fight wanes. The struggle seems insurmountable. There’s a looming giant blocking your path that takes a step closer every time you reawaken until you are finally forced with the decision; do you stand alone on the field of battle with no weapons and your reserves of energy spent to fight the goliath, or do you peacefully slip into sleep forever? In that moment, that pivotal all-encompassing moment the decision is easy. Your short-sighted depression has already told you that you won’t win against the giant. So why delay the inevitable? Why cause yourself more pain?

I have definitely seen people react to a suicide by calling the person selfish. I disagree. Suicide is not selfish. Suicide is the only logical answer in a disconnected world where sophistry rules. In a mind where all thoughts, interactions and beliefs belittle, shame and discourage the self. For those people, in the grips of that disease, suicide is the only logical answer. It not only ends the mind-numbing pain, it removes the burden placed on all those around you. Your family, friends, and co-workers will no longer have to deal with you. To a depressed mind, suicide is the cessation of a great burden and the removal of pain for everyone involved. The theme song of “M.A.S.H.” – “Suicide is Painless“ was clearly written by someone who knows the grips of true depression.

Of course, to a healthy mind, this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. And everybody has felt depressed from time to time, so they assume that they can relate. However, I think the best comparison I have ever heard is that somebody who has only been momentarily depressed (in my opinion any episode that lasts less than a year is a moment) telling someone who is clinically depressed that they know what they’re going through is like somebody telling an amputee that they can relate because they once had to get stitches. It’s just not the same. Clinical depression is a disease that affects everything you do, every day of your life.

I have been clinically depressed for 21 years. This way of life is all I know. So when I heard that Robin Williams had committed suicide, unlike all of the people around me, I was not shocked. I was saddened, but I was not shocked. In my mind it made perfect sense that this man, with a history of depression and addiction who made a living making people laugh uproariously for years, would commit suicide. You heard me right. I lumped his comedy in with his darkness. There is a reason that the majority of painted clown faces are crying. I would hazard to guess that most comedians are, or have been at some point in their lives, severely depressed. David Wong an editor at Cracked.com wrote this article about that very topic, and he hit the nail on the head. Even going as far back as the class clown in school, there is usually something lurking beneath the comedy.

The Sad Clown by jlmorris

I was not the class clown growing up. I didn’t discover the magic of laughter until later in life. Now I use it all the time. I love to make my friends laugh and I revel in that moment of power that that laughter brings me. I made them laugh. I must be worthwhile after all. But if you really look closely, you’ll notice that my particular brand of humor is self-deprecating. I tell funny stories of me doing embarrassing things. I make funny faces and noises. Sometimes I do so unintentionally and when a friend says, “say that again, “obviously making fun of me, instead of blushing at my out of place remark or reaction and fumbling forward, I repeat whatever I did or said with pride, usually exaggerated a little bit for better effect. I do so because I know that I’ll get the laugh, and there are times that that laugh is the only thing that connects me to the people around me. That laugh is the only thing that I have that says that I belong and that those people want me around. So I make them laugh again and again, and each peal is a gentle pat on the head saying “There, there. Someone wants you.”

Sounds pathetic doesn’t it? Well it feels pathetic too. And I can tell you right now, that reaction does not come from low self-confidence, or low self-esteem. It comes from my depression.

It’s a part of my disease that I recognize and acknowledge. I always have. That’s why when I was an actress and the cast was encouraged to greet the audience after the show I would drag my feet. I would take extra-long to get out of costume and make-up so that by the time I made it to the lobby there were only a few patrons left. I yearned for their praise and applause, but I knew, that like the laughter I could provoke, that praise wouldn’t penetrate to create a connection and so would leave me feeling hollow after time had passed. It would leave me seeking more and more, and it would leave me broken if I didn’t get a steady stream. So I didn’t allow myself to drink from that well. It didn’t matter if people liked my work, as long as I didn’t like myself. Somewhere in my brain or my heart or my very being I understood this. I also understood that as long as I let my depression have free reign in my head, I would never like myself. So I waged war on my depression. I took the battle to the goliath before he had a chance to get too close and overwhelm me. I didn’t go alone either. I armed myself with knowledge, therapists, pharmaceuticals, exercise, sunshine, diet, vitamin supplements, emotional-release therapies, herbal remedies and a good deal of thick-headed stubbornness.

Did I win the battle? Nope. I’m still depressed and probably will be until the day that I die. The difference is that now I know how to manage my disease, and I understand that that management is going to have to change as my disease shifts and fluxes with my life. Depression is a wily little fucker, and just when you think you have everything figured out it’ll throw you a curve ball. It keeps things interesting.

The one weapon in my arsenal that is new, is talking about my disease with more than just a therapist or a really close friend. A huge weight lifted from my shoulders the moment that I decided to throw caution to the wind, stare all of the stigmas in the face and admit to my condition. There are those in my acquaintance who do not approve of this choice. I don’t care. Having a mental illness does not mean that I am weak, and it does not mean that I have been “strong for too long.” I think we’ve all seen that meme floating around. It means that for whatever reason, physiological or environmental, my body does not produce the correct chemicals in the correct amounts. End. Of. Story. There is nothing shameful in that. Therefore, I am not ashamed to openly admit that I suffer from clinical depression and anxiety, and if that admission makes some people uncomfortable, that’s their problem not mine. I will not hide a huge part of who I am for the comfort of others, and nobody else should have to either. It is in the hiding and denial that the giant is allowed to creep ever closer.

Robin Williams has undoubtedly left a rich legacy behind him. I thank him the most for unwittingly opening up the door for a frank discussion about depression and suicide. Thank you for that. May you stand in the sunshine and finally be at peace.

Monday July 21, 2014Depression, LifeView all 2 comments

I just finished the book 13 Reasons Why, and there were some things that I liked and there were somethings that I didn’t like. The premise is that a teenage girl has committed suicide. But before her death she recorded tapes explaining the events, more precisely the people involved in each event, that snowballed her life to the point where she felt that suicide was her only option. After her death these tapes get mailed out to each and every person that has a feature part in her story. Sort of a blame game from the grave. From a psychological stand point, this book was very intriguing, and for me hit a little close to home.

I have battled depression since I was 11, and while I never wanted to end my life, I most certainly contemplated attempting suicide. Like Hannah, the girl in the book, I couldn’t understand how people didn’t see how miserable I was. And if they did know, why they didn’t do anything about it? Also, like Hannah, I reached out for help. However, this is where our stories diverge. Not because I got help, boy wouldn’t that have been nice, but because my reaction to the refusal of help was different. I reached out to three people.

Person #1 – I went to a teacher that I trusted and had a relationship with. I told this teacher that I was horribly depressed, that I hated my life and that I wanted to get help. I wanted to find a therapist, but I didn’t know how. This teacher’s reaction – “But you function so well, you don’t want to get involved with a therapist. They usually screw you up worse.” There was a suggestion of journaling and meditation. End of conversation.

Person #2 – Another adult, outside of school. Again, I told this person that I was horribly depressed, that I hated my life and that I needed help. I needed to talk to a therapist. Are you ready for this person’s reaction? “But it’s such a small community and there’s only one therapist. Everybody would know. Are you sure?” No suggestion of something else that might help, I was told to think about it whether it would be worth it.

At this point I was at my wits end. I didn’t want my life to end, but I was seriously starting to think that the only way that I could get someone to help me, is if I tried to commit suicide. If I attempted suicide then people would finally believe me that I needed help. Then people would understand that I didn’t give a crap who knew. I wanted to feel better. I wanted life to not suck so much. So I started to devise ways to kill myself that were guaranteed to fail. The main problem, I had always been an overachiever. I needed it to look like a genuine attempt or people wouldn’t believe me, so I was afraid that I would accidentally succeed. So enter:

Person #3 – I was fed up with adults by this point, so I went to someone my own age. I told this person that I was horribly depressed, I hated life and was thinking about killing myself. Then I asked if I could stay with them for a bit, so that I wouldn’t. This person’s reaction? They yelled at me. Why was I coming to them with this? What were they supposed to do? Why did I say that?

My reaction? I left. I have a feeling that most people in my situation would have then gone on to carry out their plan. After all, how much more validation that nobody gives a crap does one person need? That is not what I did, and I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because I have a stubborn streak the size of the Mississippi River. Maybe it’s because I knew deep down that I wanted to keep living. Or maybe it’s because I finally realized that in this instance, as in almost every other thing in my life, I was on my own. If I needed something, I had to get it for myself. So instead of being crushed, I was furious. I had point blank, no beating around the bush asked for help three times and on each occasion that person couldn’t see beyond their own feelings or stigmas to help me. So fuck all of them! Fuck everybody! I was going to live and I was going to get my own help just to spite them. (Remember that stubborn streak I mentioned?)

When I went off to college, I did just that. I found myself a therapist. And when she didn’t work out, I found a different therapist. I did this until I found one that clicked with me and then I stuck with her until the clicking was gone. Then I found a new one. I did it on my own, but I shouldn’t have had to do it on my own. I was a teenager who worked up the nerve to tell people that I needed help, and I was denied that help. Until the end of my days, I will never understand that. I will never understand how someone can ignore a person standing right in front of them asking for help. Asking for help, especially for mental health issues, is one of the hardest things anybody can do. Looking back at my own experience and after reading this book I can understand why some people feel that suicide is the only answer. When no one is willing to help you, that seems like the only option to make the pain stop.

So if someone stands in front of you and asks for help, HELP them! If you don’t have the skills personally, help them find someone who does have the skills. If you think that they’re just looking for attention, you’re right. They are screaming out for someone, anyone to pay attention to them. To prove to them that they are worthwhile, that their life is precious and worth saving. Help those who ask for it, and even if they don’t ask for it outright, if you see the signs show them that you care and that they matter. Sometimes all it takes is one person, one smile, one shared can of soda and a moment or two of truly listening.

I was watching “The West Wing” one day and one of the characters told a story. That story affected me so much I re-watched it several times before continuing on with the episode. In that story a man falls down a hole and can’t get out. He’s screaming for help, but no one seems to hear him. Until finally a doctor peers down into the hole. The man pleads with him to help him out, but not seeing an easy way to help, the doctor writes a prescription, throws it down into the hole and goes on his way. Again the man starts screaming for help. This time a priest stops and peers down. The man pleads with him to help him out. Again, not seeing an easy way out, the priest writes down a prayer for the man and throws it down into the hole. Frustrated and with two worthless scraps of paper, the man starts screaming for help again. This time a friend of the man peers down the hole. Upon realizing the predicament, the friend jumps down into the hole. The man is incensed with his friend. Why did he jump into the hole? Now both of them were stuck! But the friend smiles and shakes his head. Clasping his hand on the man’s shoulder the friend says, “Never fear, I’ve been down in this hole before, and I know the way out.”

To those who are at the end of their rope contemplating suicide, don’t give up. As hard as it is to believe, there is someone who would miss your smile, or the particular color of your eyes. There is someone who wishes that they could get to know you better. There is someone whose life will be irreparably damaged if you’re not in it. You are not alone. I’ve been there before, many of us have been there before and we know the way out. There is always someone who has stood exactly where you are right now. Their reasons for being there are probably different, but it doesn’t change the fact that they have stood in that same hole, and they now know the way out. They know what it is to feel so alone that the very thoughts in their head echo like a canyon. They know what it is to feel so beaten down, abused and misused that even the thought of moving is exhausting. The very act of breathing hurts. There are people who understand and know full well that some exercise, St. John’s Wart and a better attitude are bullshit. And even better, they know that life doesn’t have to be so hard. They know that there is a way out of the hole, you just have to keep screaming for help until that person arrives.

So hold on. It doesn’t matter if it’s a life line that someone has thrown to you, or the tiniest, most delicate thread of hope or faith that things have got to get better. Find something, anything to hold onto and never let go. This world needs you.

For help 24/7 in the United States call this number – 1-800-273-TALK. Click here for help worldwide.

Monday June 23, 2014Life, Live and LearnOne comment so far

I had a conversation this weekend about when it’s appropriate to call it quits on a relationship with someone. At what point do you decide that a person causes more grief and drama in your life and you gracefully cut them loose. I find that I have a three strikes and you’re out policy. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, I’m done. To my thinking, life is too short to spend it with people who repeatedly hurt you, continually criticize you or expect you to be somebody that you aren’t. Quite frankly, if you can’t accept me for who I am and show me the same respect that I show you, then I don’t feel the need to spend my time or energy on you.

On the one hand, I wonder if this attitude means that I miss out on good things because certain people are no longer actively in my life like they used to be. But on the other hand, I spent a good portion of my life forgiving any and all trespasses against me, and all it got me was repeated heartache and the belief that embracing who I am was wrong and inappropriate. I don’t know that the former has enough draw to make up for the latter. So does that make me an emotionally stunted, unforgiving person, or does that make me an emotionally healthy person with enough respect for myself to set clear boundaries? I’d like to believe that it’s the second, but sometimes I really don’t know.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve come to realize that I don’t enjoy drama. On the stage or in a book it’s great, but I don’t like it in my everyday life. I don’t need to have some sort of crisis to solve or problem to figure out to make my days exciting. Quite the contrary, I prefer things to run smoothly and easily. Now that’s not to say that I’m afraid of or avoid conflict. I’m one of the most bull-headed people I know and will step up to a fight and argue a point until even a two-year-old would back down. I’m stubborn and I like to win, but I don’t thrive on the conflict. I don’t need it to feel good about myself. So spending my time with people who continually bring that part of me out is exhausting and vexatious. What do you think? When is enough, enough?

Thursday June 05, 2014#100HappyDaysHappiness, Life, Live and LearnOne comment so far

I recently came across the hashtag #100HappyDays and was intrigued. So I investigated. I enjoy a good motivational article or program, so I figured, let’s see what this one is all about. Turns out that it’s this initiative for people to sign up, and every day for 100 days you’re supposed to take a picture of something that makes you happy and then post it on social media tagged with #100HappyDays, or some other personal variation that you come up with if you don’t want it easily searchable by the masses. What a fantastic idea! Focus on the positive. Even on a bad day, you have to come up with something that makes you happy. They had me hook, line and sinker. I signed up. May 1^st I was going to start my 100 days of happy. I didn’t make it. In fact I don’t even think I made it three weeks before I gave up completely. On the Happy website it stated that the #1 reason that people quit was because they claimed that they didn’t have the time. This was not my reason for quitting. It also was not because I had a lack of happy things to photograph and post. I quit, because I realized that it had become work. I had plenty of things that were making me happy, the trouble came from the fact that I wasn’t interrupting my happiness to document them. I enjoyed the things that made me happy and then I moved on with my day. Which meant that at the end of the day I was stuck manufacturing some photo for the project. I had actually begun to plan out my photos in advance. Staged happiness. Which seemed a little counter intuitive. I realized that I didn’t need the reminder that there is something to be happy for every day, because I was happy every day. In reality #100HappyDays was a success for me, just not in the way that they would measure success. It helped me to realize that my life is full of everyday things that make me happy, so anything above and beyond is icing on the cake. I realized that my furry babies give me endless amounts of happiness. The endless funny things that they do. The way Bubba will “talk” to you if you’re not giving him the attention he thinks he deserves. The way Zoey will crawl into my arms in the middle of the night because she needs a snuggle. They make me happy.

Puggle Sandwich

I realized that my friends give me endless amounts of happiness. Whether we’re being goofy or serious, doing something planned or impromptu, their presence is comforting. They make me happy. I realized that crossing things off my to-do list, fresh produce, a glass of wine, a good book, a cool shower on a hot day, watching water lap up on the shore, good theater, finding something on sale, and abandoning all of my plans getting a pizza and staying in to watch a movie all make me happy. I realized that it wasn’t complicated, it wasn’t some grand mystical thing that is always out of reach. Happiness is easy. It’s a choice to focus on the good things instead of letting yourself get bogged down by the bad. I realized that I don’t need 100 pictures to remind myself to be happy. I am happy.

Friday May 30, 2014#YesAllWomenDating, Life, Right vs Wrong, WomenView all 2 comments

I have always considered myself a strong woman both mentally and physically. I keep my cool in emergencies and I am usually one of the first people to act. I’m 5’9”, I have a broad frame and I pack on muscle just by looking at a set of weights. I am larger and stronger than the average woman and because of years of stage combat and self-defense training I would fare much better than the average woman in a fight. Yet the UCSB attack and the emergence of the #YesAllWomen campaign has really made me think. I am very fortunate in the fact that I have never been in a verbally or physically abusive relationship with a man. I am also very fortunate that I have never been sexually abused or assaulted. Sadly, this puts me in a minority group. I have lost track of how many of my friends have been raped. When I really stop and think about it, the number is mind boggling. It breaks my heart that I have friends that have to differentiate between when they forcibly lost their virginity and when they chose to lose their virginity. I can’t even begin to imagine the horrors that exist in their past.

Then I realize, that to a certain degree I can, because like them, I live every day in fear. I have never had any of these atrocities acted upon my body, yet there is an ever present warning light in the back of my mind reminding me that my turn could be just around the corner. I am not a victim, yet. All of the strength and training that I possess may not be enough to stop the inevitable. That’s right, the inevitable. I think every young woman, if she’s honest with herself, expects to be harmed by a man at some point in her lifetime. And that’s not right. There are a lot of really great men in this world, but they aren’t the ones that we’re taught about. So we’re afraid. I am afraid . . .

Because admitting that I’ve never been raped will eventually be met with the quip, “Challenge accepted!” and no one will be there to shame the man that says it.

Because I was taught to scream ‘fire’ or ‘fight’ instead of ‘rape’ or ‘help’ because the former will draw attention and the latter will not.

Because I was trained to carry my purse so that I can swing it at an attacker in a moment’s notice.

Because I was taught that you never open the door to an unknown man after dark, because obviously he is there to rape and kill you.

Because I’ve said yes to sex, even when I didn’t want to, because I was afraid of what might happen if I said no even though the man had shown no signs of aggression. Better to have the semblance of a choice, then have the choice removed completely.

Because I was given a “rape whistle” at my college orientation, and I knew girls that needed it for that purpose.

Because in college my friends and my reaction to men sticking their hands up our skirts at a dance club was either to avoid clubs completely, or make sure that we always wore pants.

Because I automatically start going over my self-defense training whenever I’m alone at night and see a man.

Because I sleep with a dagger by my bed, and nobody questions why it’s there.

Because I live my life with this insidious fear I have the tiniest glimpse into what life must be like for the women who are less fortunate than me. That makes my heart ache and my very soul cry. We should not have to live like this. #YesAllWomen deserve equality, but more importantly we deserve to be safe.

Monday May 19, 2014Anti-Depressants, Mental Illness, StigmaDepression, Happiness, Life, Live and LearnView all 2 comments

I recently made the decision to put my dogs on Prozac. They’ve always been high-strung, especially Zoey who has had separation anxiety since she was a puppy. Because of this I have a very set routine for when I leave and when I come home. I’ve done thunder shirts, calming phermones, blanket over the crate, blanket that I slept with in the crate. You name it, I’ve tried it and kept the things that worked to maintain our precarious balance of momma being able to leave without the puggles freaking out.

However, back in December, for no specific reason that my roommate or I can come up with, they started to howl and cry every morning when I would leave for work. For a while my roommate would come out tell them to knock it off, give them a treat and they would settle. But after a while that didn’t work, and on days when she wasn’t home they would cry for hours annoying all of our neighbors. Sorry! I took them to the vet, clean bill of health. I tried to identify something that was causing the upset, no luck. I tried all of my old tricks and read a bunch of new articles that gave advice to do all of the things that I was already doing. I tried everything that I could think of to avoid putting them on medication, but nothing worked. They were miserable and strung out and so was I.

Then one day it occurred to me. Why was I okay medicating myself so that I felt better and could function normally, but I was hesitating to do the same thing for my dogs? Before this realization if you would have asked me about the stigma of anti-depressants I would have told you that I’ve gotten over it. After all, I now openly admit and talk about the fact that I take them and that I have no shame about that. That wasn’t always the case. For a very long time I felt ashamed about taking them or admitting that I have clinical depression. Because of that I wasted years feeling horrible because I felt like I was less of a person if I succumbed to my depression and took meds to lift my mood. I had this asinine belief that I was strong enough to do it by myself. That I was fine. That somehow having clinical depression made me weak and I had to fight against that. Talk about expending your energy in the wrong direction!

It wasn’t until I looked at my depression from a different angle that I was able to get over this belief. If I was diagnosed as diabetic, I would try everything in my power to control my blood sugar through diet changes, exercise, etc. However, after trying that, if my doctor told me that it wasn’t enough and that I needed insulin, I would take the insulin. I wouldn’t need to think twice about it, and it wouldn’t make me feel like I was weak or less of a person. It would mean that I had a disease and thankfully there were drugs out there that could help me function normally. So why would I treat a diabetes diagnosis different than a depression diagnosis? They’re both diseases that have meds to help diminish the effects and symptoms so that your body can function normally, so what’s the difference?

That’s when it occurred to me, that a stigma was keeping me from feeling good. The stigma against mental illness and all that that entails was preventing me from living my life to the fullest. How stupid is that? So I got over myself, said screw what anybody else thinks, I’m going to feel good and be happy. Four tries later my doctor and I landed on the right cocktail of meds and I no longer spend my free time curled up in bed hiding from life. It has made a HUGE difference – both my happiness and my productivity. Being depressed is really time consuming! I’ve come to accept that I will probably be on meds for the rest of my life, and I’m okay with that. It’s what is best for me.

So if it’s good enough for me, why did I hesitate with my dogs? The incredulous look that I got from one of my neighbors when I told her about my choice reminded me why. She acted like I was giving up on them and committing them to a looney bin because I didn’t want to deal with them anymore. There it was, the mental illness stigma rearing it’s ugly head, and if she reacted that way about giving prozac to dogs, I can’t imagine what she would have said about me taking meds! Needless to say I ignored her and made the same choice for my dogs as I did for myself, and good lord I wish I would have made that choice a long time ago! My dogs are still their crazy, hyper lovable selves, but the nervous energy is gone. They can actually lay down and fall asleep without waking up and freaking out about every noise they hear. They can meet and say hi to other dogs without getting really anxious. I can leave the house without them acting like the world is coming to an end. It’s amazing, and the best part is that they seem to be happier. So stigma be damned, we’re all a bunch of nuts in my house and I’ve got the meds to prove it!

Thursday May 15, 2014Move Forward, Poetry, TrustLife, PoetryLeave a comment

That moment when everything seems to be coming and going all at once and no matter how hard you try you can’t grab hold. Can’t get in, can’t slow down, can’t make sense.

That moment when responsibilities and commitments and desires turn huge and looming and threaten to crash in all around on top of you. Holding you back, holding you down, holding you from peace.

That moment when you realize that words are lost, thoughts are lost, all that is left is feeling. A feeling that you can’t express. Can’t quantify, can’t qualify, can’t decipher.

That moment when you give up and just be, letting the world sing on around you watching it swirl indecipherably by. Give up control, give up your plans, give up

That moment when you realize that you’ve been pushing and striving in the wrong direction for the wrong things. Which is why you can’t breathe, can’t scream, can’t cry for help.

That moment when you finally breathe deep and shed the bonds of should have, would have, need to. Breathe deeply to stop the swirling, stop the chaos, stop the world.

That moment when slowly gingerly you take hold once more. Find your grasp, find your footing, find your path.

That moment when you realize that that path leads straight up. Out of the milieu, out of the stress, out of the noise.

That moment when you find yourself above.