Unraveling

When someone suffers a tragedy, if it’s something we experienced, we sometimes re-suffer it with them. This is especially true if you are an emotional empath as I am. When my dear friend lost her dad, I relived the experience with her. My dad died five years ago, but around the anniversary—February 28^th—I tend to think about him more, ponder his life, remember the good times and the bad, the patches of my life’s quilt I stitched with him.

I do a lot of stitching because my life periodically unravels. Once when I was 16, and my brother died of a drug overdose. Again at 24, when another brother took his own life. Most recently, three weeks after my 38^thbirthday, when my dad peacefully sauntered into eternal life, with no illness to blame. He simply said he was, “old and tired.” At 94, that was acceptable.

And for four months after, I told myself that it was acceptable. He was old. He was tired. He died very peacefully. No suffering. No sickness. He was ready. My mom was dealing with it. My brothers seemed to be doing fine. My sister seemed okay. It was just how I’d prayed he would go: quietly and peacefully. Everything was fine.

Except I didn’t really feel fine. I spent a half hour sobbing in the shower every morning. I was unable to smile. I felt unraveled.

For the first month, being sad was acceptable. People still called to check on me. My husband didn’t ask why I was crying every night, he simply pulled me close to him.

The second month was a little harder. No one called anymore. I didn’t get any cards in the mail. And my kids wondered why I was crying when we said prayers at night.

The third month I relegated my sobbing to 15 minutes in the shower, and then I tried to smile and take an interest in life again.

The fourth month, I gave up on everything I tried to do in the third month and sought a quick fix. A pharmaceutical intervention.

I never go to the doctor so to go to the doctor solely for some feel-better medication was a stretch. I have mild bi-polar tendencies, which I realized that the assessment would reveal if I answered honestly. But, my manic episodes focus mostly on cleaning and home improvement rather than reckless sex or spending, so I kind of welcome them. The depressive episodes usually last only a day and are bearable.

This particular malaise seemed to really drag on though.

After assuring the doctor that I was not suicidal, but normally a happily functioning person really wanting to function as a normally and happily again, the doctor prescribed a mood-stabilizing anti-depressant to help get me “over the hump.” That was her description of my malaise—the hump.

After a few weeks on the medicine, I felt…even. I was no longer sad, mad or depressed. I also wasn’t happy, excited, or passionate. I gained 20 pounds and didn’t care. In fact, I didn’t really care about anything. Not in a hopeless way …  just in a blissfully apathetic way.

It was in the midst of this blissful apathy that I ran across an article in Prevention that talked about depression being a God-given emotion to help us deal with times of sadness. Since we don’t feel like doing anything during a depression, we can often work through our pain, feelings of loss, or whatever is causing our sadness. Obviously this isn’t true for people whose depression is cued by chemical imbalances rather than sad events, but it was true for me.

I decided, after reading this article that I did not need a quick fix. What I did need was to stop telling myself that everything was okay and just be sad and miss my dad for awhile.

So, I did. And it got pretty dark. My husband, who had gotten used to and rather liked the easygoing-if-numb version of medicated me, didn’t think it was a good idea for me to stop. He thought it was an even worse idea when I started to cry all the time. But in a few months, after I walked through the depths of my sadness and out the other side, he agreed that it had been the right choice.

Years ago in graduate school, I took a group therapy class. Once, when I was reluctant to talk about something, the facilitator questioned my fear: “What do you think will happen if you talk about it?”

“I’ll cry.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never stop crying?”

“And…you will get dehydrated from all the crying and shrivel up like a raisin or what?”

It’s irrational to think you’ll never stop crying, but before that day, I’d never taken a moment to be present in my own fear. I’d never asked, “What am I really afraid of?” I’d spent so much time telling myself all the reasons I had to be happy—and there are so many—that I hadn’t allowed myself to be sad. It’s okay to be sad. Losing someone you love is heartbreaking.

Sometimes, it takes medication. Sometimes, it takes meditation. Sometimes all it takes is a margarita or mojito or Moscow Mule—I’m here all week, friends. But whatever your solution, a good step in the right direction is listening to what your feelings want to tell you. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to cry. The only way we can ever fully heal is to feel.  

Happy birthday, Harry O.

Today’s my dad’s birthday. He would be 99. Isn’t that crazy? We would have had a big party. And he would laugh and tell inappropriate jokes and probably offend somebody. I’d offer him a drink, and he would ask for Turkey 101, which I kept a bottle of just for him. He wanted to live to be 106 to break the record of his oldest living relative because he was competitive as F$%K.

I miss him.

Some days more than others but really a lot today. He was such a character. When I was a little girl, he traveled frequently and brought me t-shirts from wherever he went. My favorite was from the Playboy Club. I had no idea what that place was or what the bunny symbolized. I doubt that my mother did either because she let me wear it every week–only once a week though–to kindergarten. I loved it so much that even after my mom bleached it until the sleeves were lavender instead of black and parts of the bunny were falling off, I still wore it. And picked at the bunny’s ears.

He also bought me Pete Rose and Johnny Bench jerseys, which I loved almost as much.

I used to get migraines when I was little–4 or 5 I think because I still slept on a cot in the hallway, since there wasn’t room for a 7th kid in our 4-bedroom house. My dad took a course in hypnosis to try to help me. He even made a tape of himself that I could listen to if I got them while he was out of town. I don’t remember if it helped, but it was so dear.

When my brother came home from his last day of 6th grade with his friends’ autographs all over his shirt, I was sad about being homeschooled and not having friends to sign my shirt. That goofball signed numerous crazy versions of Harry O. Swan on it. It wasn’t the same, and it made me mad at the time because he ruined my shirt. But now he was so desperate to make me feel better … it makes my heart ache a bit.

He used to take me to baseball games at the old Cleveland stadium when the Indians sucked, and you could sit wherever you wanted. We walked to Mollenkoph stadium to watch Harding football games, and stayed til just after halftime because the majorettes were my favorite part. But then we had to go home because my mom got nervous if we were out too late “on foot.”

When I was in 7th grade, he retired. I was still homeschooled at the time, and we started watching soap operas together…As the World Turns and Guiding Light. The next year, when I went to public school, he would tell me everything that happened with the characters. He did this for years.

I loved the band INXS, mostly the beautiful lead singer, Michael Hutchence, who died tragically young. In the early days of MTv, my dad would watch all day when I was at school, thumb poised over the remote, to record their videos for me. I probably still have a vhs tape somewhere with Need You Tonight on it.

He saw the world in an interesting way and cracked me up with his observations. Once, noting my mom’s affection for Brad, he mused, “I think your mom might like your husband more than you do.” He also gave me random advice on how to “take care” of Brad, which usually prompted me to leave the room, and Brad to squirm out of the conversation saying, “I’m good. She’s good. We’re good.” Good grief.

My dad wasn’t perfect by any means, but I think the most important thing you can do for your kids is to make them feel loved. He made a lot of mistakes, but I knew he loved me. Oprah always says we all need the same things…”Do you see me? Do you hear me? Do I matter?” I knew that I mattered to him. And he adored my kids in a way that absolutely astounded me.

I read a book recently called Lost & Found by Brooke Davis. It is a quirky, charming and bittersweet novel, but at the end was a short essay by the author, who lost her mother in a tragic accident. She writes: I am beginning to understand that grief is now, simply, a part of everything I do, everything I say, everything I write. Everything I am.

For awhile after my dad died, I was so busy being grateful for the peaceful way he died at such an old age that I didn’t let myself be sad that he was, in fact, dead. But as that author points out, when you lose someone you love, you have to kind of “relearn the world” without them in it.

I’m still doing that. I still have things to tell him. Some days, I wish that I could walk into that Porter Street house–which may or may not be a meth lab now–and roll my eyes and correct him when he called me by my sister’s name. I’d love to climb into his lap and rub my thumbs into the indentations his thumbnails wore into the wooden arm of his chair.

We could sit for a long time and not say anything. Then he would gasp as if he had the most important news in the world and say, “You know what happens?!?”

“Shit,” I would respond.

“You got it,” he would chuckle.

Happy birthday, Dad. I wish we could have a room temperature beer and watch The Price is Right, but Chloe and I will drink mojitos in your honor. I love you and miss you. Every. Damn. Day.

You Can Count on Me

I started counting recently. Sometimes counting. Sometimes timing. Just keeping track of the time. For instance, six seconds seems like much longer when you’re rushing out the door. Really? Only six seconds to put your shoes on. When I count, I don’t scream at Lily to HURRY UP. What is six seconds in the grand scheme of this journey?

Now, I haven’t always been a counter. In fact the concept of counting to ten before verbally decapitating someone has always been foreign to me. I scream, feel immediate guilt, apologize and then carry the shame around for…well, I’m working on it.

Anyway, I started counting at the elementary school. At morning drop-off, people zip in and out of that parking lot as if they are rushing a hemorrhaging gunshot victim to the ER. If someone stops, holding up traffic to let the buses exit, said person gets unfriendly hand gestures. People. Lose. Their. Minds: throwing their hands in the air, flipping you off, pounding their steering wheels, etc. Now, I remember what it was like to have to rush to a job, so, one morning, I took out my phone and timed the buses leaving. It took 35 seconds.

Perhaps if you do have a gunshot victim in your backseat, that 35 seconds would be the difference between life and death. If not…1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10…calm down.

I counted to 10 so I didn’t say calm the f#$k down. This counting business WORKS. Let’s take it on the road!

Today, I took my mom grocery shopping. She has been home now for a few weeks and doing much better. Still, I don’t want to just set her loose on the road after our recent scares. She is still moving pretty slowly. Lots of people move slowly at Walmart and not always because they’re 83 and recovering from a hospital stay. Sometimes they are inconsiderate and rude and don’t even realize that they’re standing in the middle of the aisle blocking everyone’s progress while they decide which cereal to buy. 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8. Not so bad.

In the past, I scooted my mom through the store, apologizing repeatedly to everyone whose hurried progress we impeded. Today, I helped her navigate through uncrowded aisles and gently pulled her cart out of the middle of the aisle.

We made it through without incident.

I guided her to a non-crowded checkout line with a cashier I know–because I’m at Wal-Mart all. the. time–is very sweet and patient. My mom always writes a check, and it takes longer than it takes to swipe a card. Normally, I rush her through this process, “Mom, you can just give your check to the cashier; you don’t have to fill it out.” But today I realized that at 83 having lost her husband of more than 50 years, two sons, most of her hearing, many friends, a lot of her independence, and nearly her life a month ago, she could write a check if she wanted.

Then I counted. 1.2.3.4.5…the woman behind us rolled her eyes. 6.7.8.9.10…she sighed loudly and looked at the person behind her for commiseration. I stared at her and felt my blood pressure rising and angry words catching in my throat. 11.12.13.14.15. the guy in the next line lobbied for my agreement on something, “Isn’t that right, Blondie?” Shut. The. F#$k. Up. Start again: 1.2.3. Oh she’s done.

It took her 18 seconds to write a check. I apologize to the woman behind us in line if she was 18 seconds late for her next important appointment, or if the gunshot victim in her car died during those 18 seconds or the subsequent 6 it took my mom to produce her id. I met her glare with a smile.

I can’t tell you how many times I’m surprised that what seems to be taking so long is often just a few seconds. It’s often something Lily or my mom is doing. I’m trying really hard not to rush them anymore. I feel like I’ve been hurrying Lily since she was born–even before she was born–and the other day I watched her swinging effortlessly across the monkey bars. She no longer needed me to walk beside her or catch her when she jumped down or just “be there.” A big old lump rose up in my throat as I thought…Oh no…I rushed it all away.

So, I’m counting instead rushing today. Because sometimes those seconds seem so long, until you’re on the other side looking back and wishing you had just a few more.

And this…

I have a lot of stuff rumbling around in my head, so if you’re here, be warned: My mind is a crazy place. I often share too much, but in my family of origin no one talked about anything unpleasant. Everyone pretended everything was fine. You know how effed up fine is, right? Well, then people did drugs and killed themselves and manifested that bad stuff they didn’t talk about in worse ways. So…I talk about stuff. Awkward, painful, personal stuff. Really, I write about it because I can barely speak a coherent sentence.

That brings me to a point I’ve been ruminating on for oh, um, a few days. I realize that in sharing this a lot of you may think that I need mental help. True story: I just read two books about people who are far less crazy than I am spending time in mental institutions. Given that knowledge, I’m pretty sure on any given day, I would be a perfect candidate for commitment, but I digress. The main reason I’m sharing my neurosis is that I think (or hope) others suffer this malady and don’t want to tell anyone. Therefore, I’m going to tell you how crazy I am so you can feel less crazy. Ready? Here we go.

Whenever I have a conversation with someone, I spend a lot of time after analyzing (or criticizing mercilessly) everything I said. It sounds a lot like this: “Wow, that was so stupid. Why did you say that? Why did you talk so much when you should have been listening? What on earth made you tell that story? Really? Why would you divulge THAT in a five minute exchange of pleasantries? You’re an idiot.”

I feel as if I should keep a stack of cards in my purse for such occasions when I have to interact further than, “Hi, how are you?” with people. Then, rather than trip over my tongue and then spend the next week beating myself up over all the things I said or didn’t say or should have said differently, I could hand each person a card wherein they would find my sentiments expressed in thoughtful and genuine, if unimpressive, prose.

Would that be weird? Because I really think I’m going to go with that.

My next point has very little to do with the first point, except to further solidify my kook status. I do not like to be touched when I am sad. In fact, I feel violated when people touch me when I’m sad. I don’t want to be hugged, cuddled, coddled, or patted sympathetically. Normally, I’m a big fan of physical affection, so this is difficult for some people (my husband) to understand.

When I am sad, I go to a different place, by myself, wrap up in the awful yet awfully familiar feelings until I process them. But it is my place, and I don’t take guests there. I will talk to you until my voice expires about my feelings when I’m ready, but please don’t touch me. And if I tell you that I’m okay, just accept that; I’ll tell you how I really am when I’m ready. Now this makes me think of my non-touching friends and how I try to be mindful of their personal space but still invade it sometimes because I love them so much and want to hug them. I’m sorry. And it reminds me of so many times I’ve tried to take my friends deeper rather than just letting them pretend they were okay. It’s a fine line, and I have terrible balance. I’m sorry.

And then this: On Sunday, I got to see my daughter for about 6 hours, and then I had to say goodbye to her again. Last time for two weeks, this time for a month. Yes, these are the opportunities of a lifetime. Yes, she is so blessed. Yes, we are amazingly proud of her. Yes, yes, yes. Except what some people don’t get is this: It feels just as bad to say goodbye to your grown kid as it does to drop your baby off at day care.

It doesn’t get easier. Your kid doesn’t stop being your kid because she grows up and goes to college. You don’t wake up one day and no longer worry about what he’s eating, how she is sleeping, if he is safe, if she is scared. It still rips your heart out when your 20-year-old is homesick as when your toddler cries and reaches for you. When she is sad, I ache. I don’t imagine that is ever going to change.

Now that this is all out there, I would like to apologize if I said anything stupid to you, hugged you when you didn’t want to be touched, revealed inappropriately personal information during an impersonal conversation or pushed you to tell me that you aren’t really okay when you just wanted to pretend you’re okay. I am a work in progress. For those of you who love me anyway, I am outrageously and eternally grateful.

25 years

Today is February 5th. I hate today. I’ve hated it for 25 years. Five years and one week longer than my daughter has been alive. I have lived so many lives in those 25 years. All of them mine but all of them different. I’ve been angry, jealous, bitter, sad, in love, loved, depressed, hopeless, hopeful, dreamy, flighty, stupid, and happy.

Today, like every February 5th since 1989, I will relive that awful morning. Hearing my mom’s voice. Knowing something was wrong. The huge pit in my stomach. I wonder why, but I don’t dwell on it. I remember his smile, his smirk, his strong arms hugging me so tight I thought he’d break my ribs. I will cry but just a little bit.

When my brother died, my life took a sharp turn. I was no longer loved, cherished, protected…safe. I felt alone. Nothing could go wrong when he was here. But now, everything could go wrong. And lots of stuff did. And then stuff went right. And then wrong. And more right. Hills and valleys.

Brene Brown talks about foreboding joy–the fearful sense that joy is fleeting. Something bad will happen. Don’t get too comfortable being happy because it won’t last. That’s how I lived a lot of my life. Brad asked me, “Why do you always go to the worst case scenario?” Because the worst case scenario had played out in my life. A couple times. I wanted to be prepared.

But preparing for the worst doesn’t stop it.

Instead of preparing, I’ve learned to heal, love, and let myself be happy without waiting for the bottom to drop out.

After my brother died, I heard him called lots of things. A junkie, a drug dealer, a liar, a thief. But to me, he was amazing. What a gift that I could carry that person who loved me wholeheartedly around forever, letting his memory fill in the broken places in my heart. Maybe if he’d lived longer, I would have been forced to see him as some of those other things.

I try to be real, honest, and transparent, but there are people who don’t like me. I spent a good part of my life doing cartwheels, saying the right thing, doing the right thing, but always for the wrong reasons. If people would just see me, love me, understand me, then…I don’t know what. Then it would be okay? What would be okay? Life? I would be safe? I wouldn’t be alone? I don’t know.

Looking back at 25 years of changes, I realize I like who I’ve become. I don’t always like the number on the scale or the color of my hair or the waddle under my chin (seriously, I really dislike that freaking waddle), but that’s not the point.

Today, I worry less about what people think of me and more about how I treat them. I don’t care if people judge me, but I try not to judge them. I don’t need to tell everyone my story, but I sure love to hear theirs. I don’t need people to think I’m a good person; I want them to know they can count on me. I don’t memorize scriptures to preach to people; I help them feel Jesus’ love in how I treat them.

Twenty-five years later, I still think my brother hung the moon and rocked the world, and I will love him forever.

This Is Not My Home.

After my dad died, I cried every morning in the shower. It is safe to cry in the shower. No one hears you. You’re wet everywhere so no little hands reach up to wipe tears. The tears mix in with the rest of the water. Your eyes are red because you got shampoo in them. So careless. I could cry without anyone trying to care for me, feel sorry for me, pity me, fix me.

My morning routine started by slathering Preparation H around my eyes to conceal the shower crying. Friends, here’s an awesome beauty tip: Hemorrhoid cream does wonders for eyes puffy from crying, not sleeping, drinking, allergies…whatever. For real.

I have been through tragedies, but this time, I had three people who were relying on me not to fall apart. When my first brother died, I completely fell apart. I could. I was 16. No one relied on me. The people around me held me and worried about me and picked me up. Unexpectedly losing someone you think is invincible makes you feel really small and vulnerable.

When my good friend died of cancer, it wasn’t as bad. I am not minimizing her death, but I had months to get used to the idea that she was going to die. I could say goodbye. I told her I loved her a million times. We talked about how bad it sucked and how unfair life could be sometimes. And we cried and we laughed, but we prepared.

When my second brother died, it was the worst. Suicide is the worst. No preparation. No conspiracy theories. Nothing left but a big pile of regret and guilt and questions. People said that I would be mad at him. How could I be mad at him for being in so much pain? I was mad at lots of people, but he wasn’t one of them.

For a long time, I felt a sense of safety in pain. Well, at least it can’t get any worse. But don’t say that or think that or God forbid allow yourself to believe that because it can. It can get worse. It couldn’t get any worse than my brother dying unexpectedly until my other brother chose to die. Well, it couldn’t get any worse than…Yes. Yes, it could.

I have dealt with the pain and the questions and the stages of grief more times than I can count. Grief, pain, tragedy have become like my hometown. I don’t live there anymore, but I visit from time to time. I remember the streets and can still find my way around. Lots of things look the same. Some places have changed. Some people have moved away, but some still live there.

It’s a choice. It’s my choice. It’s your choice. You can stay in your hometown. You can give in to grief. You can let abuse or neglect or grief that you suffered stunt your growth and keep you mired in shame, regret, and self-pity. Or you can move. It doesn’t mean you forget. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It just means that you are choosing not to let what happened to you dictate who you become.

I have a big family. People are gonna die. My mom is 82–today. I’m gonna have to visit that place many more times. But I’m not moving back home.

Trouble in this World

The weeks surrounding my 40th birthday are memories I will cherish forever. I received the most wonderful, thoughtful gifts and sentiments from my family and friends, a surprise trip to Florida that became a surprise trip to the Keys, and massive and overwhelming amounts of love. In fact, I’ve never felt so loved.

When things started to return to normal, I remained enamored with a magic new age that held so much promise and basked in the afterglow of all the love. Last week, I crashed. Although, I’ve never used cocaine, I’ve heard you experience a super elated feeling and when the drug wears off, that feeling is replaced by intense despondency.

Well, I was high on love and adoration, and when things went back to normal, I let my guard down, the anniversary of my dad’s death crept up on me, and before I could grab a lifeline, depression had me in its unrelenting grip. Granted, I’ve dealt with bipolar-ish disorder for most of my life, I self-diagnosed it in grad school, and then a doctor confirmed a few years ago. I say, bipolar-ish because I have depressive episodes and manic episodes but they are not usually long enough to meet the diagnostic criteria.

One time I actually had to be medicated out of it. Technically that was too close to my dad’s death to be a major depressive episode. Since it doesn’t happen that often, I mostly just deal with it.

I explained, again, to my darling husband that depression is different than sadness or the blues. He has witnessed these episodes many times over 22 years and encourages and hugs and walks on eggshells around me reminding me to pray and count my blessings. For me, it’s as if someone throws a wet, black, blanket over my head, which I can’t lift no matter how hard I try. So, I quit struggling and just give in to the darkness. I pray so much. I am overwhelmingly grateful for my blessings. No amount of prayer and blessing counting changes it.

Last week brought a really discouraging realization. I honestly felt that as I drew nearer to God, as I made myself smaller so that He could be bigger, as I focused on using the gifts He gave me for His purpose and His good, I never questioned that I would suffer, but I didn’t think it would be from depression.

I was blindsided. Why is this happening again? Am I not following You? Am I not doing Your will? Have I not fasted and prayed and sacrificed as You wanted? I didn’t feel as if God had left me, but I did feel confused. In the past I viewed my depression as caused by emptiness, and I thought that once I was filled with God’s love, filled with the Holy Spirit, I wouldn’t suffer from it anymore. I was wrong. I thought my depression was situational. I was wrong about that too.

It just happens. Sometimes bad things happen, and we can’t understand why. God wasn’t punishing me or using this to show me that I was on the wrong path, I fully believe that now.  In John 16:33, Jesus reminds us, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

Fortunately, I don’t have to have to figure out or overcome this world because Jesus all ready did. Fortunately, I am surrounded by amazing people–many of them mental health professionals, go figure that. Fortunately, I recognize the symptoms and the onset even though I am powerless to control them. Fortunately, this time, it lasted only days rather than months. Fortunately, I was rewarded with a day of manic cleaning energy to make up for the days that I wandered around in a stupor managing only to work and nothing else.

I am not a mental health professional just someone who has dealt with this for many years. If you suffer or have suffered from depression: You aren’t alone. You aren’t crazy. You aren’t being punished. If people tell you to cheer up and get over it, they might be trying to help, but they aren’t the right people to help. Find a doctor, counselor, friend, pastor or someone with knowledge about depression. Don’t suffer alone.