Broken Crayons Still Color

I was depressed. Not sad, not blue, not going through a rough patch. I was clinically diagnosed with severe depression. Diagnostic code 296.23, to be exact. It's been so long ago that it almost seems it happened to a different person. But it was me and it makes up a significant part of who I am now.

Mental illness is complicated and talking about it makes people uncomfortable. We tend to hide the uglier side of ourselves out of fear others will think less of us or worse, abandon us. So we don't talk about it. Only a handful of people in my life know about my depression and the things that led up to it. I used to be ashamed of it. Not so much anymore. Maybe it's my age, but the truth is we are all flawed and damaged to some degree. The older I get the more I see that. I wish I knew it then.

I was about halfway through college. In an odd way, I was happier than I'd ever been. My nomadic childhood behind me, for the first time I felt I truly belonged somewhere. On the surface, things were good. What I kept hidden was that I was drowning in waves of heavy sadness, lapping at my feet at first, then eventually my head was going under. Away from home, I was starting to process some of my troubled early years. Utterly exhausted and tired of holding it together for so long, I began to slowly fall apart. I was powerless to stop it. It's surprising how easy it is to fall apart. The hard part is putting yourself back together.

My thinking began to take a dark turn. All my imperfections, real and perceived, seemed insurmountable. I saw myself as a jumble of deficiencies, weaknesses and unfixable flaws. It was overwhelming. Physically, I was barely functioning. I had trouble concentrating and staying awake in class. Secretly, in remote private cubbies where no one would see me, I wrote - memories and thoughts, attempts at making sense of how I felt. I also read a lot, searching for answers in material from my English classes, the Bible, classic novels, self help books. Anything I could find on being human and surviving it. I pored over books on psychology and mental illness. I was looking for an explanation of what was wrong with me. It took months, but finally in all that searching, I discovered I was depressed. I wasn't crazy. Although I certainly felt like it. What is crazy is how good I was at faking I was fine.

It's hard to describe to someone who has never felt it. You hurt on a subterranean level. It's an odd thing to feel pain with no outward signs of injury. It's your soul that's hurting. And your body wants to quit. It's lonely and it's scary as hell. All your energy is required to do the most basic functions. You can't cheer yourself, talk yourself, reason, drink, eat, sleep, exercise, pray, yourself out of it. I know because I tried all these things. It has to go away on it's own.

I believe depression is a combination of things. It's a perfect storm of genetics, environment, personality, experiences, and how you process all that, or can't. Some events in my childhood caused ripple effects that I feel to this day. But I can't say those things were specifically why I became depressed. It's just part of the puzzle. There are people with way worse histories than me that don't get depressed. I don't like to blame anyone or any thing for my depression. It just was.

Tired of hiding it, I admitted I needed help one summer over break. Over the course of a few years in and out of therapy, I laid down my burdens and secrets and was eventually able to step away from them with some perspective. I tried a couple of different antidepressants and finally settled on one that had the least side effects. It was work. The hardest I've ever done. I had to force myself to go. I thought of quitting every time I drove to the psychiatrist, because often it felt like it wasn't helping, it just hurt, like picking at wounds that would never really heal.

Going to therapy was a regularly terrifying job of pulling back the curtains of my past and facing my demons head on. Eventually, I was able to close some doors and walk away no longer feeling haunted by what was behind them. I began to view the world in a more realistic light. What was revealed when that finally happened was beautiful. Life was there, waiting for me. It was hard and it didn't happen overnight. I had to learn to fight dysfunctional reactions in certain situations and to think positively because negative thoughts were ingrained, second nature. I still struggle with that almost daily, but fighting it is more of a habit now.

It's different for everyone, but for me a few things were key in surviving depression. I said earlier that you can't pray it away. What I meant is that you can't pray and suddenly depression is gone. But you can cling to your faith to endure it. Which I did. I talked to God a lot - even when I felt nothing but anger. Psalm 40:2 had meaning to me and always will. Then there is simply the passage of time. Depression has to lift when it is good and ready. It doesn't happen overnight, it's more of a slow emergence. When I was crawling out of the darkness, I met someone who changed my life forever.  For the first time, someone didn't buy my "I'm fine" act. He saw me for exactly who I was, flaws and all, and not only seemed to be okay with it, but embraced it. He saw who I wanted to be but was okay with who I was at that moment. Unconditional love is a powerful thing. I am not the person I would be had he not come into my life and insisted on staying.

None of us are perfect. We all have dark places in our hearts and minds. For some of us, the only path to real happiness involves going through that darkness and coming out on the other side. I'm no longer embarrassed or ashamed of my experience. I'm too old for that. If someone thinks less of me after reading this, that's their problem, not mine. It's a small miracle I graduated from college considering my state of mind for a good part of it. I still struggle emotionally at times and probably always will, but I've come to accept that as my normal. I'm okay with it because what I have gained is compassion, tolerance, perspective and patience - with myself and others. And a dark sense of humor that I rather like having.

I'd like to think that my experience was of value if I can put it out there and help someone going through the same hell I did. If you're depressed, you're not alone. I understand. Believe me when I say it gets better. You will get better. I promise. Fear thrives in darkness, shed some light on it and watch it wither. I know this. I've done it. Don't believe the voice that tells you you're crazy or unworthy or unfixable. It's a liar. There WILL come a day when you can see again that life is beautiful. It may be a long and rocky road but don't you quit. Don't ever give up.

I Hate Spring

Everyone seems to adore this time of year. Birds are chirping, flowers blooming, and change is in the air. It's a time of rebirth, new beginnings, organization. People are skipping about in flip flops and tank tops giddy that spring has sprung. I'm over here with my heat still on and a box of tissues. It's 60 degrees and windy as hell, people. Calm down.

Spring makes me grumpy. I feel like a hibernating bear that's been yanked out of it's cozy den and splashed with a bucket of ice water. All of a sudden, I'm aware that I must schedule pest control, carpet cleaning and lawn maintenance. The cars, the windows, the deck, the entire house needs washing. The garage is an unorganized embarrassment of sports equipment and shoes and leaves from last fall. It all gets blown about every time the garage door goes up.

Just yesterday I felt okay about myself, but today I need a new wardrobe, a pedicure, a spray tan and to lose a few pounds. I've got itchy eyes, a runny nose, a dirty house and my shorts from last summer are too tight. I just want to crawl back in bed. 

Spring makes me feel exposed, raw, unready. I hate it. Pass the Claritin, please, and close that garage door.

You Know You Live In Fairfax County When

You've said or heard the following....

Regarding Traffic:
- It took me 45 minutes to get home from Tysons.
- Ever heard of a turn signal, buddy?
- It took 10 minutes just to get from 123 to Nutley.
- My signal was on for like 5 minutes and that *bleep* still wouldn't let me get over.
- Oh. My. Lord. We aren't moving. I hate 66.

Regarding Dining Out:
- You guys want to go to Coastal Flats?
- Let's have drinks at Ozzie's first.
- Want to meet for lunch at Cheesecake Factory?
- I saw like 10 people I know at Bonefish Friday night.

Regarding Hosting Out of Town Guests:
- Are you flying into Dulles or Reagan?
- My cousin and her kids are in town. We're going to the Air and Space Museum.
- Lucky! How did you get White House tickets?
- Ugh. I have to take them all the way out to Mt. Vernon.

Regarding Kids Sports:
- He made the A team!
- He made the B team but that's good because he will get more playing time.
- He made the C team. He wants to quit.
- I put her in golf lessons, I hear there's a lot of scholarship money for women's golf.
- He plays travel, AAU and takes privates twice a week. He signed up for four AP classes next year and is organizing a charity coat drive. He wants to major in engineering, maybe go to MIT, Tech would be his fall back. What's your eighth grader up to?

Regarding School:
- When are they going to get rid of half day Mondays?
- Who's your math tutor? Can I have their number?
- We spent four weekends filling out college applications.
- Did you sign up for SAT classes? I heard they're full.
- She has a 4.3 and didn't get into UVa.

Regarding Knowing People Who Work for the CIA:
- She works for the (air quotes) State Department.
- He works at (emphasis) Langley.
- I heard he works for the (whispers) government.
- I don't know, she's a government contractor or something.

Regarding Fast Food:
- I totally need a Five Guys. Wanna go?
- Whatever happened to Roy Rogers? I heard there's one left in Springfield or something.
- Why do I always want Chik fil A on Sunday?
- Let's just drive through McDonald's.

Regarding Local Celebrities:
- Have you SEEN Yorktown High School? I heard they have a Starbucks now. Apparently, Sandra Bullock donates millions.
- Is your kid following Ryan McElveen on Twitter? I don't get it.
- Had dinner at Jackson's the other night and saw a bunch of Redskins hanging out.
- Sorry I'm late. Things came to a standstill to let he presidential motorcade pass.

What They Don't Tell You

Nobody tells you how hard being a parent is going to be. I suspect it's to keep the human race from expiring. I know I might have reconsidered had I known some of what was coming. Whatever the reason, they don't tell you.

They don't tell you that your newborn, contrary to those peacefully snoozing you've seen only in formula commercials, could have colic. What is colic, you ask? Ask a pediatrician and they'll tell you they don't know. We can cure erectile dysfunction and hunt down and kill Osama Bin Laden but THEY DON'T KNOW what colic is. I'll tell you what it is. It's when your baby screams bloody murder for hours at a stretch and you're powerless to help. Mercifully, it's temporary. You can't do much to help your wailing little boo except love him. But you can take survival measures. I recommend expensive noise canceling earphones, long walks while someone else takes over, and Hostess cakes. Any variety. As many as it takes. 

They don't tell you that your cuddly two year old could one day morph into a terrifying dictator that would make Kim Jung Il look like Gerald Ford. No amount of patience, positive attitude or bribery with Dora the Explorer fruit snacks will make them budge once they've made up their mind to do, or not do, something. Ever try to cram a huffy toddler hell-bent on walking into a stroller? With other parents in the mall agape in quiet judgement? You chase after your kid, who's clearly intent on conquering the mall with or without your tiresome ass. Once captured, he goes wet noodle on you, slipping through your hold and flopping onto the floor. Mustering all the cheery authority you can, you scoop him up again. He then transforms from lifeless heap to ninja octopus. Outraged by this subordinate attempt to thwart his freedom, he kicks the stroller and it goes skittering, spilling fruit snacks and sippy cup, towards two elderly mall walkers. They just smile at each other and look back at you with pity.

They also don't tell you that sometimes during the elementary school years, you'll lose patience and yell and say things you wish you hadn't. Like when your child starts a project at 8:00 p.m. That's due the next day. And involves clay and dowel rods you don't currently possess. They don't tell you that when they're in middle school your heart will break as your formerly snuggly kid no longer wants to be hugged. That during their high school years you will lose sleep worrying about whether they'll get into college or end up in your basement playing XBox for all eternity, surrounded by empty gatorade bottles and Frito bags.

My niece is pregnant with her first child. Do I tell her these things? I don't know. I do know that with time, fussy infants grow into delightful babies. Stubborn toddlers grow into independent and determined young men. And boys that didn't want to be hugged in middle school will come back around as the time approaches for them to leave for college. If she asks for my advice over the next few years, I will tell her that colic is temporary, to let the toddler walk and to give the teenager some space.

She will learn on her own, as we all do, that her love for them will be strong enough to survive colic, mall tantrums and college applications. Nobody can quite accurately tell you about that certain magical, yet very ordinary, kind of love. Which is as it should be. It's best discovered along the way.

Dixieland Calling

Every year, about this time, I get homesick for the south. More than any other time of year, fall makes me miss the place where my roots began and my heart belongs. Nothing really cures it and that's fine by me.  Like most southerners, I take a certain pleasure in nursing these things and looking back with longing.

Maybe it's football. Those that know me know I don't really love the game itself. But I do love the sound and feel of it and the memories it brings. I've attended dozens of games, great ones, but never really been captured by the sport. But the event of it, well, that's quite different.  It began with my grandfather's radio perched on the rail of his back porch. We'd listen to Auburn play, just two hours away down a stretch of west Georgia blacktop, through sleepy towns and past cotton fields and sugar cane. Listening to the game, we'd shuck corn for my grandmother or I'd play with his dogs, Tiger and Beau, while he tinkered with a pocket knife, cigar clamped in his mouth and a faraway look in his eye. 

Later, as an Auburn student, game day was the highlight of my week. We'd be packed shoulder to shoulder, girls in sundresses and boys in their khakis and colorful ties, secretly pouring bourbon into our stadium cups, grinning and singing the fight song at the tops of our lungs, squinting into the blue and copper autumn sky as our eagle soared high in a circle and the jets from Montgomery thundered above us, leaving a vibration in our chests and a lump in our throats.

Those games were an event like no other. It began when the alums arrived on campus in an endless caravan of motor homes on Thursday afternoon. We'd exchange "heys" and "War Eagles" as we walked past their elaborate campouts on our way home from classes. We knew we were always welcome at somebody's Aunt Lucy or great Uncle Jimmy 's makeshift table for homemade fried chicken and tales of our school from generations past. We weren't just fellow fans of a great football team to them, we were somebody's children and they treated us like family. Friday came at last with a huge pep rally, maybe a parade or bonfire, theme parties to dress up for and ended with bus rides to the Supper Club on the edge of town and dancing until the wee hours. Saturday began waking up to the sound of the marching band's drum section echoing over campus and hair dryers and telephones ringing in the sorority house, to the boom and sway of the massive crowd in the stands, cheers and fight songs sung by thousands in unison, all the way to the final band standing in a fraternity's back yard belting out their last song. It came drifting through our open windows, muted and mingled with distant laughter, sending us off to sleep. Sweet Home Alabama. To us it was and always will be.

Now, my boys text back and forth with their grandmother during Auburn games, typing things like "did you see that??" and "War Eagle!!" with little football emoticons. I can hear them shouting at the t.v. and analyzing plays. I don't need to watch every game. Hearing the sounds of it is enough for me.

So when the days grow shorter, the nights cooler and the sky turns copper, my mind goes back to that place. Past tall pines, huge live oaks, slow moving rivers and towns long forgotten, down a lonely stretch of interstate and into the welcoming arms of the loveliest village on the plains.

Apron String Theory

I read an article on motherhood recently. The author wrote "to be a mother is to wish with all your might that it be you instead who breaks the arm, who bleeds, whose heart is crushed." She also wrote "Don't let any harm come, in any form, on my watch. The vigilance is without end."

Uh. Okay, but no thanks. I'll pass on the fear mongering and constant "vigilance." There's enough fear running around loose in the world, mine doesn't need to join it. The last thing I want is for my boys to be bubble-wrapped, Purell'd and unprepared to navigate our crazy, beautiful world. I'm of the belief that painful experiences, physical and emotional, are a huge part of learning to be a decent human being. So I refuse to hover. Besides, I'm a bit lazy and trying to control every little thing is just too much trouble.

My own Mom  encouraged exploration and adventure. I was a tomboy and a bit of a hyper handful so she probably just wanted me out of her hair. I spent a lot of time playing outside unsupervised. I have a scar or two and some great stories to prove it. Once I begged my older sister to let me ride on the handlebars of her new banana seat bike. We hit a curb and crashed spectacularly and I ended up in the hospital with a concussion. I don't remember being scared at all, it was quite a blast really until I hit pavement. What I do remember is feeling a little too wild and free and knowing something more powerful than me was at work. In this case: gravity. I discovered that elusive boundary between wild abandon and the need for common sense. I was learning first hand a little bit of how the world operated and gaining healthy respect for things beyond my control. My mom wasn't lecturing me about it or making me read it from a book. I'll always want my boys to go out there and explore, get a little dirty and banged up, and to come home and tell me about it. And if I'm lucky and they do, I can tend to the wound, offer some comfort, help put things in perspective and hopefully we can find something about it worth laughing at.

I remember what it was like to get my heart broken by a boy I loved. I also remember what it was like to be the new kid sitting alone in the lunchroom. Would I go back and spare myself the pain of a break up? Had my mom sit with me in the lunch room the first week of school? NO. Because I learned from those experiences what rejection and loneliness feel like and now I can spot it in others. The most compassionate people are those that have been through some pain. The quickest to pick up the fallen are those that remember what it felt like to fall.

So when I read parenting treacle like that article, aimed at me and designed to make me feel part of an elite and smug sisterhood of protective mommies, I can't help but barf a little.  Don't you, too? Motherhood doesn't give us the right to be martyrs of constant worry. It means, by some sheer miracle, I've been given the incredible honor of helping two young souls navigate their way through the world for a brief time on this earth. It will not serve them well to have me clutching the helm out of fear, even though there is plenty to fear besides  broken bones and broken hearts. Of course I want to protect and nurture my boys, my love for them is bigger than I ever could have imagined before I had them, but my ultimate responsibility is to prepare them to belong to something bigger and much more important than themselves. To do that I have to allow them to live, knowing living is sometimes messy, scary and painful.

I know a lot of really great mothers. One of the greatest blessings in my life is their friendships. The ones I admire the most keep the apron strings loose as best they can, despite their fear and worries. They lead their kids by example and live a full life, laughing and learning from mistakes they make along the way. They focusing on the joy of the ride, not all the things that could go wrong. They bravely put their faith in the greatest Protector there is, knowing full well their sons and daughters have always truly belonged to Him anyway.

Sexual Casualties

Samantha on Sex and the City started it. I don't think she meant to and she totally made it look like a ton of fun, but she opened up a whole Pandora's box of unrealistic expectations for young women. She made it look like a good idea to, and I quote,"f*** like a man." Without emotion, is how she put it. She did whatever felt good to her at the moment without considering the repercussions. Sounds liberating and glamorous, but I think in the long run it just sucks. Living like that has consequences that I don't think are worth it. The disasters that are the lives of the characters on Girls should be proof enough.

I see a trend on TV and in real life among young women. They're disappointed with the guys in their lives yet unable to quite figure out why.  They lament that guys are not interested in relationships, only casual sex. Newsflash, there will always be guys like that. So aim higher. Perhaps these girls need to take a look at themselves for a clue to why they are attracting such low-quality boys. Yes, I meant to say girls and boys (not women and men) because talking boldly about sex and and having a bunch of it isn't the same as being a grown up.  As for Samantha, I think it's pretty simplistic and insulting to say men are unemotional about sex. Maybe just the ones she found herself surrounded by?

Whether you're a man or a woman, as a general rule, you can't be sexually irresponsible and selfish and expect true intimacy and a relationship above your navel when it becomes convenient for you. If you're a woman, you can't consistently dress, talk and behave like a 'ho and expect to be treated like a lady. I realize this is wildly unfair, because men can be total sluts and the consequences are never as bad for them. Infuriating, unjust, but true. For now, at least. All I am saying is in my 44 years of living I have observed that when a woman has a healthy respect for herself, she tends to attract men that are worthy of her. Isn't that really the kind of man most women want to be with versus the shallow man slut? You'll get a concussion diving in his pool.

I realize I'm old-fashioned, but I am genuinely sad for this generation that seems to have lost the concept of romance. Recently a few young women told me it's rare to get asked out on a date. Guys just aren't taking them out and making an effort to get to know them. They meet in bars and hook up.  I'm all for bars, God knows, but wow is it lazy if a guy is interested but can't get off his ass and create a little fun. It's as if they've traded in the mystery and excitement of courtship that, yes, takes effort on both sides, in favor of the ease and feebleness of trash like friends with benefits and sexting. I just can't fathom sleeping with a friend, or a stranger (!?!?) then looking him in the face the next morning and feeling like what happened was no more special than splitting a pizza. It would be dumbing down and diminishing a pretty amazing and powerful thing.  To be clear, my love life was NOT all rainbows and butterflies in my youth, actually it was a highly comical mess, but I don't have any awful regrets and I always felt there was respect and genuine affection between me and the guys I dated. Maybe all they really wanted was to make out, I don't know, but at least they were nice about it and showed me a good time first.

In the sixties a very good thing happened that has been slightly distorted and definitely taken for granted of late. The "women's lib" revolution gave us females a shot at living life as previously enjoyed only by men. Slowly and painfully, thanks to those brave enough to pave the way, opportunities for women opened up in careers once dominated by males. We became more equal to men in the eyes of society. Our thoughts and ideas began to be considered just as legitimate and valued.  The rights and freedoms women enjoy now were once only a dream. I wonder if today's young women know just how much of a struggle it was for women like my mom, who grew up in the deep south and whose options were really limited, to build herself a career and earn the respect of men in her field. She didn't do it so you could f*** like a man, ladies. She did it for self-respect and in hopes that her daughters, girls like you, could be taken seriously and have a few choices in life.

I've heard the business phrase "spilling your candy" and think it applies here.  It means giving away too much, too soon. Ladies, don't spill your candy. If a guy isn't worthy of what you have to offer, hold it a little closer to your chest and move on. I speak from experience here. My advice would be to find things about yourself physically and mentally that you love and make it a point to nurture them. Surround yourself with the girlfriends that you can totally be yourself with and who won't let you take yourself too seriously. Find a place where you are needed, where you help those less fortunate than you. This makes you less of a selfish jerk and harder to feel sorry for your self. Realize that when a guy does ask you out, it probably took a lot of courage. Show a little appreciation for that. And know that a bike ride in a park or a visit to a museum is sometimes a lot more conducive to real conversation than a stuffy upscale restaurant with $16 cocktails he may not be able to afford at the moment. Focus on these things and I bet there will be less space in your life for the boys that only want to hook up in bars and more for the men you really want.