Thursday, July 21, 2016

Worthy of an Eye Roll

This is what depression looks like.

A lady rolled her eyes at me today.

Normally, I'm too busy to notice this kind of thing. Normally, I'm too secure in myself to care.

Not today.

How do I know she was rolling her eyes at me and not some unrelated situation? Well, let me set the scene. I was at the library. It was a failed attempt at story time.

What's a failed attempt at story time, you ask? Well, it looks something like this:

I take my nearly 3 year old to our closest library for an 11:15am story time. When we get there, there's a massive gas leak, with 3 fire trucks on sight to let me know just how terrifying the situation is. When I suggest to my son that maybe we should go to a playground instead, he cries hysterically.

"But Mommy! I need a story time! I need da LIBERRY!"

Sure, I could use this as a teachable moment, show my little man that life doesn't always go as planned, that you have to roll with the punches.

But good God is it hot and humid outside. I wanted to go to the LIBERRY, too.

So I drive us across town to another, more popular story time. We're about 15 minutes late, and when we walk in - it's packed. Wall to wall toddlers and women. The air thick with sweat and milk and organic snacks. Writhing limbs like a mass of maggots on a rotting steak. All with a "Wheels on the Bus" soundtrack pounding shrilly.

I am ready to tough it out, to hurdle over little bodies and find a 1'x1' square in which to squeeze myself, but Sam sternly says, "NO, MOMMY. DAT'S TOO LOUD!"

So we go to the kids library to peruse books and play with communal toys instead.

And it was fine, it really was. Sam was happy pulling books off the shelves and playing with ratty toys and plopping in my lap periodically to give me sloppy and delicious kisses. Then he found the computer - the damned computer they put at the kids' level so then the kids beg to use a computer the whole time instead of looking at analog books - WHICH IS THE WHOLE REASON YOU BRING YOUR KID TO THE LIBRARY. And the threenager emerged.

I didn't bring my card, so I couldn't log him on. I'm also still drowning in a sea of depression, so I can't do things like muster up the gumption to go ask a librarian to look up my library card number for me. I just wanted him to drop it, to move on. But toddlers are not know for their ability to just go with the flow and accept change.

So, the tantrum began. He threw himself all over the place, and even banged his little leg on a chair. I was calm. I didn't take it personally. I didn't get angry at him. If anything, I felt bad for the poor guy. He wanted to go on the computer but his sad mom couldn't help him with that.

So I let him get it out, and then I opened my arms. "Need a hug, Sam?"

He did. He crawled into my arms and bawled. He clung to me and shook with the anger and frustration and misery that come with being a toddler.

And as I snuggled my nose into his soft, sweet blond hair, I felt eyes on me.

I looked up. She was tall, thin. Had on a nice dress and full makeup. Her tiny daughter clung passively to her skirt hem. She held a stack of age-appropriate picture books in her well-manicured hands and she rolled her eyes at me. Like, literally at me. Like a stone she was hurling. There was no mistaking that the rolling of her eyes was directed at me. And it stung.

I guess it's easy to roll your eyes at me right now. First, I have a toddler throwing a full-on tantrum on the floor of the library - the place that insists on quiet. And if you didn't know my sweet little guy, he might look like a brat. A little tyrant who screams when he doesn't get his way.

She has no way of knowing what an extraordinary little boy he is. How easy he's been in so many ways. How he hugged me and said, "Mommy, I love you so much" when I started crying at breakfast this morning. How he's coping not just with adapting to this crazy planet I brought him into, but doing so with a mom who lately has next to no energy yet a surplus of emotions.

Also, there's my appearance. Yoga pants, t-shirt, flip flops, hair in a messy bun (and by "messy bun" I mean unkempt and oily, not sassy and sexy like the celebrities). I look like a lady who does't give a crap about anything - not my appearance, not my kid's behavior, certainly not the regular use of shampoo. I'm a caricature of the exhausted mom who's given up.

I almost felt like standing up, linking arms with her, and saying, "Yep, I'm a slob and crappy mom, aren't I? I'm inclined to agree with you."

But I didn't. I sat there and thought about all the things she couldn't see. The fact that her one and only child is mellow - hasn't yet hit a difficult patch. That she may feel pretty secure in her parenting skills at this moment, but all it would take is another kid or the terrible two's to knock her confidence down a peg.

That my outward appearance is a mirror of the inner sadness and stagnation I feel. That I've struggled with depression all summer. That my personal life is about as messy and complicated as it's ever been, and I don't know what to do about it. That dragging myself and my son here today was a huge accomplishment, and I'm frankly mad nobody threw a ticker tape parade for me.

I just closed my eyes and reminded myself, for the hundredth time today, that this is temporary. That things will get better. That I'll figure it out. That just because this woman thinks I deserve an eye roll doesn't mean she's right.

And, of course, I have no idea what she's going through, either. She looks so put together, so with it. But she may be struggling, too. She may go home today with her placid little tot and cry into her coffee over a thousand problems nobody can see.

In fact, that may be why she so openly judged me in the first place. And normally, I'd have compassion for her.

But not now. Not today.


Sunday, July 10, 2016

Admitting Defeat

I surrender. I can fight no more. It's time to admit that I'm right smack in the middle of a real depression.

I've felt it coming on for a while, I've resisted it like hell. But too many external factors ate away at my resolve.

A summer that started off with a miscarriage.

Anxiety that was under control for a while now skyrocketing due to mass shootings, news stories about children in precarious/deadly situations who remind me of my adventure boy Sam, the threat that Trump could actually become president, the thinly-veiled misogyny that parades around whenever Hilary Clinton's name is spoken, the horrific deaths of black people in the news, the sniper in Dallas, the hatred spewing forth from folks who don't want to admit that America has a massive problem with institutionalized racism. My anxiety broke free of its reins and has pulled me into sleepless nights and food binges and panic attacks and too many bad moods to mention.

Stella's symptoms becoming more intense this summer, leading me to think she's further on the spectrum than I'd thought. Trying not to feel embarrassed when my tall-for-her-age 8 year old has a meltdown in public over a restaurant not serving chicken strips. Trying not to scream when she begs for sugar or screen time 100 times a day because she has an obsessive and addictive personality. Trying to show her kindness and love when I really want to curl up under the covers and cry, because I do not feel qualified to parent any kid, much less one with different needs.

Sam's preview of threenagerhood, being a sometimes violent jerk who screams his head off to keep us from having conversations and yells for 1 1.5 or 2 hours before finally going to sleep. Regressing from his potty training, relishing pooping in his diaper then sitting in it so it's harder to clean.

Combining both my kids' rough phases in one tiny hotel room on the beach, each one making the other progressively crazier, trying to enjoy the beauty of the crystal clear water and powdery sand, wanting nothing more than to parasail far away from everyone to my own private island.

Feeling like I've alienated everyone around me to the point where I have only one person I can call when I feel this bad - a geographically distant best friend who's got enough of her own crap to deal with that she can't constantly keep picking me up.

Not to mention that summer is my prime season for seasonal depression anyway. Unlike most people who get the blues when winter comes, summer reminds me of endless childhood days stuck in the house with an abuser, trapped in a small town with nothing to do, watching too much TV and eating too much junk food and thinking seriously dark thoughts, praying for fall to come so I could get my in-dire-need-of-structure butt back in a school building.

I drug myself out of bed this morning at 10am. Dave let me sleep in, and I didn't want to leave. I had to pee, I was stiff, and I didn't want to move. The thought of walking to the bathroom seemed far too strenuous to imagine.

The kids were restless. Sam wanted to go to the Science Center, Stella wanted to go to the pool. Dave suggested we split up. I wanted to say, "How can you expect to put myself in a bathing suit, much less be responsible for keeping my daughter safe?"

But this is my kids' summer, too. And I refuse to make them suffer because my mental health is crappy.

So we went. The sun was too bright, the pool was too loud. Immediately, I saw several people I knew and I wanted to hide. The thought of making small talk when all I want to do is blurt out "I'M REALLY FREAKING SAD" just seemed impossible. So I avoided almost all of them, seeming like the rudest person possible, I'm sure. These were people whose kids I taught during my stint as a preschool teacher, adorable children whom I miss, whom I'd love to hug and chat with, were I feeling normal. Instead, I clung to Stella and acted like I didn't see anybody.

It hasn't been this bad in a very long time. I hate even talking about here because well-intentioned fixers will advise me to seek medication or exercise or herbs or yoga or meditation or counseling. They won't know that I've been in therapy for over 20 years (and still go regularly), that I've tried roughly 6 different anti-depressants with no luck (because clinical depression isn't my diagnosis, by the way; occasional depression is a biproduct of PTSD and chronic anxiety), that eating well and exercising are things I do most of the time, things I'm trying to do now, things that help but do not solve.

Stella and I were playing with her mermaid Barbie when two sweet kids approached us. Between gulps of air and amidst much splashing, they said words in a foreign tongue.

One that I understood.

They were speaking French, and they were talking about Stella's doll. "C'est une sirene!"

Without even thinking about it, I replied, "Oui. Elle aime les sirenes!" (Yes, she loves mermaids.)

And we began chatting. They told me they were on vacation from France, visiting their grandmother. They love Louisville, they love America. It felt easy and natural to speak with them.

Stella hugged me close and said, "Mommy, what are you saying? It's so pretty."

And I remembered. I remembered the Randi that lived half a year in Strasbourg, France. The bilingual world traveler. The woman who also wrote and produced plays in New York City. The woman brave enough to even move to New York City by herself. The one who got her ass to a pretty great college with scholarships and financial aid and loans that she had to pay until just a couple of years ago. The woman who shares her quirky life on stage. The public middle school teacher. Middle school, I tell you.

Remembering that I've been brave, that I've overcome my limitations to succeed in life gave me the first relief I've had in a while.

It'll be OK. Not right away, but it will. But if you see me and I act like I don't see you, I'm not rude, I promise. I just have a cloud passing over me right now. Check back in a month or two.

Admitting Defeat

I surrender. I can fight no more. It's time to admit that I'm right smack in the middle of a real depression.

I've felt it coming on for a while, I've resisted it like hell. But too many external factors ate away at my resolve.

A summer that started off with a miscarriage.

Anxiety that was under control for a while now skyrocketing due to mass shootings, news stories about children in precarious/deadly situations who remind me of my adventure boy Sam, the threat that Trump could actually become president, the thinly-veiled misogyny that parades around whenever Hilary Clinton's name is spoken, the horrific deaths of black people in the news, the sniper in Dallas, the hatred spewing forth from folks who don't want to admit that America has a massive problem with institutionalized racism. My anxiety broke free of its reins and has pulled me into sleepless nights and food binges and panic attacks and too many bad moods to mention.

Stella's symptoms becoming more intense this summer, leading me to think she's further on the spectrum than I'd thought. Trying not to feel embarrassed when my tall-for-her-age 8 year old has a meltdown in public over a restaurant not serving chicken strips. Trying not to scream when she begs for sugar or screen time 100 times a day because she has an obsessive and addictive personality. Trying to show her kindness and love when I really want to curl up under the covers and cry, because I do not feel qualified to parent any kid, much less one with different needs.

Sam's preview of threenagerhood, being a sometimes violent jerk who screams his head off to keep us from having conversations and yells for 1 1.5 or 2 hours before finally going to sleep. Regressing from his potty training, relishing pooping in his diaper then sitting in it so it's harder to clean.

Combining both my kids' rough phases in one tiny hotel room on the beach, each one making the other progressively crazier, trying to enjoy the beauty of the crystal clear water and powdery sand, wanting nothing more than to parasail far away from everyone to my own private island.

Feeling like I've alienated everyone around me to the point where I have only one person I can call when I feel this bad - a geographically distant best friend who's got enough of her own crap to deal with that she can't constantly keep picking me up.

Not to mention that summer is my prime season for seasonal depression anyway. Unlike most people who get the blues when winter comes, summer reminds me of endless childhood days stuck in the house with an abuser, trapped in a small town with nothing to do, watching too much TV and eating too much junk food and thinking seriously dark thoughts, praying for fall to come so I could get my in-dire-need-of-structure butt back in a school building.

I drug myself out of bed this morning at 10am. Dave let me sleep in, and I didn't want to leave. I had to pee, I was stiff, and I didn't want to move. The thought of walking to the bathroom seemed far too strenuous to imagine.

The kids were restless. Sam wanted to go to the Science Center, Stella wanted to go to the pool. Dave suggested we split up. I wanted to say, "How can you expect to put myself in a bathing suit, much less be responsible for keeping my daughter safe?"

But this is my kids' summer, too. And I refuse to make them suffer because my mental health is crappy.

So we went. The sun was too bright, the pool was too loud. Immediately, I saw several people I knew and I wanted to hide. The thought of making small talk when all I want to do is blurt out "I'M REALLY FREAKING SAD" just seemed impossible. So I avoided almost all of them, seeming like the rudest person possible, I'm sure. These were people whose kids I taught during my stint as a preschool teacher, adorable children whom I miss, whom I'd love to hug and chat with, were I feeling normal. Instead, I clung to Stella and acted like I didn't see anybody.

It hasn't been this bad in a very long time. I hate even talking about here because well-intentioned fixers will advise me to seek medication or exercise or herbs or yoga or meditation or counseling. They won't know that I've been in therapy for over 20 years (and still go regularly), that I've tried roughly 6 different anti-depressants with no luck (because clinical depression isn't my diagnosis, by the way; occasional depression is a biproduct of PTSD and chronic anxiety), that eating well and exercising are things I do most of the time, things I'm trying to do now, things that help but do not solve.

Stella and I were playing with her mermaid Barbie when two sweet kids approached us. Between gulps of air and amidst much splashing, they said words in a foreign tongue.

One that I understood.

They were speaking French, and they were talking about Stella's doll. "C'est une sirene!"

Without even thinking about it, I replied, "Oui. Elle aime les sirenes!" (Yes, she loves mermaids.)

And we began chatting. They told me they were on vacation from France, visiting their grandmother. They love Louisville, they love America. It felt easy and natural to speak with them.

Stella hugged me close and said, "Mommy, what are you saying? It's so pretty."

And I remembered. I remembered the Randi that lived half a year in Strasbourg, France. The bilingual world traveler. That woman, also wrote and produced plays in New York City. The woman brave enough to move to New York City by herself. The one who got her ass to a pretty great college with scholarships and financial aid and loans that she had to pay until just a couple of years ago. The woman who shares her quirky life on stage. The public middle school teacher.

Remembering that I've been brave, that I've overcome my limitations to succeed in life gave me the first relief I've had in a while.

It'll be OK. Not right away, but it will. But if you see me and I act like I don't see you, I'm not rude, I promise. I just have a cloud passing over me right now. Check back in a month or two.