November 6 and leavin' on a jet plane.........

Tomorrow (very early), Mountain Man and I leave on a week-long trip. I wish I could say it was to Hawaii or Europe or someplace exotic, but, no, it's to Pennsylvania. You see, Mountain Man, during the day, masquerades as a manager of facilities compliance for a biotech company. He will be attending a conference on calibration and maintenance management near Penn State. Doesn't that sound exotic and exciting? He attended this conference last year and really enjoyed it. They even interviewed him for their promotional video and he had a cameo in it. Last year, he realized he was very near many historic locations, and being a history and Civil War buff, he crafted a plan to work some sightseeing into this year's trip. AND, to make it more fun, me to come along!

Now, I'm not one to turn down a trip, but our agenda sounds like a long school field trip. We'll be visiting the states of Maryland, Pennsylvania, West Virginia and Virginia. Possibly also Washington, DC, but that's up in the air. We fly into Baltimore, spend the first night in York, PA, the second night in Harpers Ferry, WV, then three nights in State College, PA. Then, we'll finish the week with two nights in Alexandria, VA where we'll visit my cousin. We'll see Gettysburg, Antietam battlefield, the campus of Penn State University, and the Del Ray neighborhood in Alexandria. Jeff will get his Civil War fix and I'll take tons of pictures. While he's at his conference for three days, I'll explore downtown State College, shop, drink coffee, upload pictures, and blog. That part sounds pretty amazing to me.

I'm already packed (a miracle) and so now I'm going through mental checklists to ensure I haven't forgotten anything. Of course, that includes worrying about the house, the kids, the pets, and pretty much everything else. I always leave a list of things for the kids not to forget while I'm gone: let the dog out, check the mail, lock the doors. I've now added "don't text and drive" because as the kids have grown older, there are new dangers. I used to stock the fridge, send detailed agendas to the neighbors, make tedious lists.....I can't help it, I'm a mom. I worry incessantly about all the awful things that might happen. Plane crashes, car crashes, sudden illness, pistol-whipping bandits......am I the only mom to catastrophize when I'm leaving town? (P.S. that's a word. I looked it up).

My anxiety is such that I talk myself out of things often. For years, I wouldn't fly on a plane. I was fine before I had kids and then suddenly I developed a terrifying fear of airplane travel. I'd been on dozens of plane trips before then, why all of a sudden did the thought of taking a vacation make my blood run cold? I could only attribute it to a primal fear and need to protect my young. Avoiding dangerous (or potentially dangerous) things ensured nothing bad could happen. Never mind I drove them all over the damn place in a car all day. And that my chances of being in a car crash far outweighed my chances of being in a plane crash. But no logic could assauge my fears. I simply would not do it.

In the past three years or so, I've been on numerous plane trips. I barely even give it a passing thought now. I can only attribute this change to excellent anti-anxiety drugs. And while I no longer worry (much) about flying, my heart still races during turbulence and I have a hard time sitting still on long flights. Tomorrow's flight will be about five hours (direct, no stops to break it up). I'll be stir-crazy, and I'll need distractions. I've uploaded dozens of books on my Kindle, purchased a few magazines on my tablet and loaded multiple games and distractions to keep me busy. I love traveling to other places, but the getting there makes me nuts. I have no idea how I'm ever going to handle international travel but I WILL do it. Someday.

In the meantime, I really need to read up on all these historical stops we're going to make. I'm embarrassed that I remember very little about them from my brief grade-school education. As I type this, Mountain Man is watching a documentary on the Civil War. I should probably pay better attention. I do know the casualties were staggering. It all seems very depressing to me. Visiting a battlefield where thousands died is not my first choice for a vacation spot. But I know my husband will enjoy it and I'm always up for an adventure with him.

I just hope the kids cook some real food, keep the house clean, stay out of trouble, and let the dog out while I'm gone. And empty the cat box. And lock the doors. And vacuum once or twice. It's exhausting leaving town. The "kids" are nearly adults now, so I've relaxed slightly. I know they can feed themselves, take care of minor inconveniences and sign permission slips for younger siblings. So, why is it that just before every trip, I have a sudden desire to hunker down at home and keep my family close? I love adventure. I love travel (and I'm loving it more and more as I get older). But I also love home. It's great to escape the every day now and then and do something completely different. I've thoroughly enjoyed my solitary explorations of the various cities in which my husband has had a business trip. I've walked for miles in San Francisco, done a city-wide geocache in Fort Worth, and spent entire days in San Diego on my own. These little slices of solitude have been rare treats in my 22 years of raising four kids. With no schedules to juggle, no dishes or laundry to do, no job weighing on my mind, I'm left with just getting to know myself. It's both scary and delightful. I'm getting outside my city, my comfort zone and myself just by boarding a jet plane. I can't wait to go and I can't wait to get home again.

Insane in the membrane..........

Apparently, it's mental health blogging day, since May is national Mental Health Month. This is a subject near and dear to my family since every single one of us has a mental illness. Which is such an ugly word. Do people say you have a "body illness" when you have cancer? Why can't we just call it what it is? We have depression and anxiety. And it has wreaked havoc with our lives for the past several years - a whirlwind of doctors, counselors, hospitalizations, medications. But we're in a relatively calm period (I say that with caution because after what we've been through I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop!). Things have been pretty good for several months now.

Each person, even with the same diagnosis, has different manifestations of their depression and anxiety. I have anxiety, but rarely have depression. I have days in a row where I'm definitely "off" and feeling depressed, but what plagues me day to day is my anxiety.

I know I was always an anxious kid - I would have a stomach ache every first day of school and I often worked myself up to the point of canceling plans under the heavy veil of "what ifs". I had a myriad of physical symptoms, too, very real and very bothersome. I thought for years I must be suffering from an unknown illness, and surely I would die soon. But the years went by and I didn't die. Still, I had no idea what anxiety was and, apparently, neither did my doctors.

I had several panic attacks in college, and after my kids were born, things just intensified. I felt very confident as a mom, but my physical symptoms continued to plague me, and I worried I had an undiagnosed illness that would leave my children motherless. By this time, I had researched more about anxiety and thought it might be at least contributing to my symptoms, but I was VERY resistant to taking medication.

My reasons for this were, ironically enough, fueled by my anxiety. You know those commercials where they talk about a fabulous new drug and then go through all the side effects that include things like "sudden death" and worse? I worried I'd experience every single bad symptom and then what good would it do? Not only would I have anxiety but I'd also have bleeding gums and vertigo? No thanks.

Finally, after missing a school event because I was "sick" only to have my mysterious illness disappear as soon as I was off the hook, I realized it was time to bite the bullet and give in to the pharmaceutical industry. I went on my first anti-anxiety drug and it was just as I expected. It was awful. I felt terrible, and so I stopped the medication and resigned myself to feeling anxious and sick forever.

But then I did more research and realized there were a myriad of drugs out there that might work. While the first medication, Zoloft, made me have awful tummy aches and didn't seem to make a difference (because I only took it a few days, and, unfortunately, anxiety drugs often take weeks to work), the second, Prozac (fluoexitine) worked like a charm. I was finally, finally free from feeling anxious all the time. In fact, I didn't even realize how awful I felt until one day, doing a perfectly boring and normal thing - driving my kids home from school - I suddenly felt a fog lift and I felt..........hopeful, I guess. Normal. Definitely not something I'd felt in a long, long time.

I was so happy to be free from anxiety that I barely noticed the weight gain - at first. But, suddenly, I was forty pounds heavier and a whole lot happier. Sounds crazy, but the trade-off seemed worth it. I decided I'd rather be "fat and happy" than skinny and anxious. So, I was. Until my weight kept ballooning and I decided I'd better make a change.

I tried Celexa for a few weeks because my insurance insisted I do so. I had to "try and fail" two different anxiety meds before they would approve Lexapro, which my doctor thought would work best for me. That's another caveat of having a mental illness. Insurance companies playing games with your well-being by creating these stupid rules about which drugs you can be covered for. Who's crazy now?

My anxiety often makes me feel isolated, but it's a vicious cycle. I bow out of social engagements because my head is swirling with "what ifs" or I don't feel secure with the situation. Things that sound like a good idea when I commit to them can often seem like the worst thing in the world when the actual day arrives. Sometimes, it's easier to just stay home in my safe house than venture out to experience social awkwardness, or the perception that everyone else is living a better life. So, I stay home and then I feel lonely and isolated. It's a bitch.

Lexapro, as it turns out, works like a charm. I only need a small dose and I feel normal - capable, calm, no more scary mood swings, no more brittle demeanor that would crumble in tears at the slightest slight. I feel confident, secure, assertive, and able to function normally for the first time in years. Relief!

Then, one day, I decided that it was a horrible fate to have to "take drugs to be happy." I decided I would try weaning off my medication now that I clearly had things under control. The first sign that this was a mistake was the unpredictable mood swings and the irritability. We're talking such a heightened sense of irritability that someone breathing too loud could set me off. I realized quickly that this was the "crazy" talking and I went back on my meds. Two more failed attempts at weaning off my Lexapro and I decided I would just accept that I needed this medication - like a diabetic needs insulin.

Recently, I started taking my meds less often. Every other day and now every third day. In another attempt to see if I can manage to lose weight a little easier once I'm OFF the meds, I've decided to try weaning again. And I've definitely noticed an uptick in my moodiness, my irritability, and my sadness. Nothing I can't handle but still disconcerting. So, maybe it will work and maybe it won't. I'm not opposed to staying on the meds forever. Even if it means I'm fat and happy. It's just worth so much more to me to be able to appreciate the simple joys in life, to feel secure and stable and to handle what life chucks at me instead of staying home, hiding behind my closed door and feeling lonely and alone.

Anxiety, for me, is about trade-offs. I know in my head and heart that this is a physical illness, the same as any other illness. I am not ashamed to take medication for it. I am not ashamed to talk about it. I know if more people did, we could remove the stigma of mental illness once and for all. I know more people than I realize are suffering from the same symptoms. We're all in this together. I know how scary it is to succumb to the hold mental illness can have on a person. I've watched people I love become suicidal, socially isolated and terrified to face the day even while being able to logically tell themselves "you're ok, you're ok, you're ok". Because no matter how much you talk to yourself and reassure yourself that you're not going crazy or about to die, your body controls you and you are powerless to stop it. And sometimes, you need a reset - in the form of medication, counseling, hospitalization. Whatever it takes. It's worth it.

So, while living with anxiety is a total bitch of a motherfucker (and I say that kindly) it can be done. Like anything that's worth it, it takes work and sometimes an admission of defeat or the balls to ask for help. But one thing it should never be is shameful. Anxiety is an illness. Cancer is an illness. Schizophrenia is an illness. Heart disease is an illness. People with anxiety need the same love and compassion as anyone else struggling with their health.

When my children were in the hospital, exactly two people brought meals to us. About five people reached out through a text or Facebook message. No one visited. Our family did not rally. There was no dinner sign-up sheet, no fundraisers, no one offering to help around the house. And I wonder - would that have been the same if my children had been injured in a car accident and hospitalized? Is a battered body more serious than a battered mind?

Compassion. That's all we need. Understanding. Education. For all you know, you have a family member, co-worker, friend, colleague who suffers from anxiety, depression or the myriad of other mental illnesses. You won't be able to "tell" because there won't be any outward scars (but some people with anxiety cut themselves), there will be no trailing IV pole (but some people carry meds to take at a moment's notice so they don't have a panic attack at a most inopportune time), there will likely never be a public display of manic behavior or oddness that you can pick out. People with anxiety and depression are masters at hiding it. Imagine having to hide your cancer because some people just don't get it.

Be kind. Someone is always fighting a battle, and that battle might be anxiety or depression. And if you, too, suffer, don't be afraid to open up and share. Sometimes, when your whole world is crashing down because of a chemical imbalance in your brain, just knowing you're not alone can be the one thing that keeps it all controlled. Listen. Learn. Be kind. You're ok. You're ok. You're ok.

Crossroads........

As I sit and watch a little girl - blonde-haired and wearing a pink coat, probably less than two years old - run in the sunshine and laugh while her parents gently guide her with outstretched, cautionary hands, I can't help but think "She is going to grow up and break their hearts."

I never claimed to be a perfect mother. I made - and continue to make - mistakes. I've called my kids "stupid." I didn't always want to sit on the floor and play Barbies or cars. I did love reading to them and doing art projects. I love watching them perform - singing, acting, dancing, sports. They make my heart swell with pride almost daily.........and they break it.

I remember when my own little girl was that toddler laughing and running through the grass; I, the mom who ran just behind with my hands out in front of me to catch her should she fall. My little girl - so smart, so cute, so sweet - so many compliments on her strawberry-blonde hair and her precocious nature. She was my sidekick, my constant companion. When she was sixteen months old and I lost the sibling I was carrying for her, she somehow knew and was extra-sweet to me that awful day, patting my cheek and cuddling up to me.

Now all she has for me is contempt. At nearly 20, living back at home after a year at a university, she is caught between child and woman; too young to see how her choices and actions now will affect her future and too old for the restrictions, rules and chores of her childhood home. If I ask her to clean her room, she accuses me of wanting a magazine-perfect house, or challenges me by asking "What does it matter? It's MY room, how does it affect you?" She cannot respect that it's my house, my rules. If I ask her to do dishes, she says "They aren't mine!" or sighs heavily. If I comment that she should embrace the full-time job she's been offered for the summer, she shoots back that she hates the job and "deserves" a summer break.

She spends most of her time on the internet, scrolling through Tumblr or Skyping with friends. When I tell her she needs to focus more on face-to-face relationships, she becomes angry and defensive, saying I am insulting her friends or that she "hates people." She's a cynic, a self-proclaimed atheist who can't stand anything remotely conservative; a staunch Democrat with a basic distrust for people. She is angry and bitter and prefers to be alone. She is anxious and depressed, on meds and in therapy.

And she blames me.

"It's not a coincidence," she states, "that all four of your kids, one of them not even biological, are all in therapy. You're the common denominator - because you're so condescending and mean."

I rack my brain and try to figure out how a request to clean her room leads to this - words that slice and dice my heart into little pieces. I can't un-hear those words.

There is a saying, "People might forget what you did for them, but they will never forget how you made them feel." Did I make her feel unloved? Not good enough? Not smart enough or pretty enough or accomplished enough or nice enough? Can she not un-hear my words when I called her a slob for having a messy room or an ungrateful bitch because she says living in my house is like living in a "hell hole?"

I've given her permission to leave. Told her she could go live with her dad. Welcomed her to grow up instantly, get a place of her own, pay her own bills. But she is not motivated to be on her own. It's too easy - this free life where there is always a good wifi connection and food.

Is it really too much to expect her to do her part? To not eat in the family room and leave dishes all over? To rinse out and toss the tuna can after she makes a tuna fish sandwich instead of leaving it on the counter overnight to dry out and attract flies? To run a load of dishes without being asked or wash a load of towels so we don't run out? To keep her room picked up, take care of her own laundry, not throw clothes on her floor? To pick up after she's used the common bathroom, not leave her contact wrappers on the counter right next to the garbage can?

When I was her age, I lived on my own. Paid my own bills. Worked, and went to college. She says not to compare; she is not me. But I did those things because I was motivated by wanting independence, by what I felt was society's expectation of someone my age, to please my parents. It was a struggle at times, not always fun, but I would have felt foolish being my parents' child when I was an adult and could take care of myself. She wants independence with no responsibility.

And yet.....she accuses me of only hearing the negative. I accuse her right back. I know in my heart that she, my firstborn, is the reason I stayed home to raise my babies. It was such a privilege to be a mother, to be given that gift by my first child. It's the only job I've ever loved and felt I was really good at. Until now. Now, I question my wisdom - did putting my kids first send the wrong message? She seems angry me all the time if I am not singing her praises. But who gets sunshine blown up their ass all the time? No one. Every day we are beaten down by the world and it's our own self-worth that keeps us getting back up. The little voice that says, "I'm ok. I'm a good person. I am worthy." No one has their own personal cheerleader. We take the good with the bad and keep on going.

My parents didn't sing my praises all the time. Sure, they celebrated my accomplishments but they also yelled at me, spanked me, screamed at me when my room was messy (which was all the time). I knew to listen to them, to do what I was told. But I also grew up knowing that they busted their asses to raise four kids in sometimes trying times. They had my back and supported me in whatever I wanted to do. They encouraged me and helped me reach my goals, and, yes, we had some big fights along the way. I don't blame them for my shortcomings or bad decisions I've made. It's not their fault I got divorced, have had financial difficulties, lost friends, or made bad decisions. Those are all on me.

So, is my daughter's hatred of me a result of being raised in the "me first!" generation? Where everyone "wins," and everything is equitable and praise is handed out so often it becomes meaningless? So that any ounce of criticism is seen as an insult or a means to beat her down and make her feel terrible about herself? Eleanor Roosevelt said no one can make you feel inferior without your permission. And while I know words can sting - and I'm still reeling from hers - can she make me feel inferior about my role as a mother? I never promised to do a perfect job. I knew I would do a good job and make some mistakes. Are we destined, as parents, do be hated by our young eventually? Is it a necessary rite of passage to fully enter the world of being an adult?

And do I even have a fighting chance of defending myself in her one-sided therapy sessions where she can create a fictional world that no therapist could ever see through? It certainly seems like a lost cause. Is it fair that I should fee like I'm fighting a battle in my own house - that asking her to contribute in the most basic human ways - to pick up after herrself, put things back, keep her own space clean - is often so much emotional strain that I find myself not saying anything at all? But when I do, I ask nicely, only to be met with the eye roll, "I'm busy," "I'm relaxing," or "It's not my job!" Is it any wonder with that reception I might get the least bit angry or lose my fucking mind? Especially since I'm almost always overwhelmed with a job, four often difficult kids, a big house to take care of and clean, all of the errands, grocery shopping, calendar-keeping and juggling.

What if I had pursued a career, hired a nanny to raise the kids, a housekeeper to clean the house, and fed my kids fast food every night before I spent a couple of hours with them until bedtime? Would I be happier? Have more "me time?" Feel more fulfilled as an individual? I'll never know. I like to think I made the right decision, because I never imagined any other life for myself. But sometimes parenting seems so futile. Like, no matter what you do, you're bound to fuck up and give your kids a million reasons to trash you in therapy, in public, or in a tell-all book.

I feel like things will come full circle. Like one day, she will come back to me and realize that we're a lot more alike than we are different. Maybe when she has her own daughter on the cusp of adulthood. Maybe when she goes through a divorce of her own. Or maybe the first time the novelty of being alone in her apartment wears off and it's too quiet, and she longs for the noise and laughter and chaos that was once her home.

But what if it doesn't? I've been around long enough to know that sometimes the mother-daughter relationship doesn't work out. What then? What if she doesn't want me to be a part of her life when she lives separate from me? Can it really come to that over an argument that started with "I want you to clean your room" and ended with "You're the reason I'm in therapy!"

As I sit in the car, alone at the beach, hearing the rumble of passing trains and watching the people around me, I see moms and kids, dads and kids, grandparents and kids, and I wonder how many other broken hearts are all around me and if this is just the beginning.

Get mommy a Valium.....

When I wrote the title to this blog, I got a correction for not capitalizing "Valium". HAHA! I guess when mommy's little helper is such a big help, it's gotta be capitalized. (Disclaimer: I have never taken Valium. Lorazepam, yes, but never Valium!)

It's been a long couple of weeks. The two demons we battle in our household, depression and anxiety, both reared their ugly heads and threw everything off balance, as they are inclined to do. These two monsters can really throw everyone and everything for a loop, and, worse, they are difficult to get under control. Sure, there are myriad medications to treat both afflictions, but unlike many other illnesses, these also benefit from the help of a great counselor. One would think getting help would be easy, especially in progressive Seattle, but what I've learned in the past week has not only shocked me, but made me realize how little we, as a society, are doing to help those who suffer from mental illness.

Now, let me say, I HATE that term. Mental illness. Mostly because it conjures up images of a homeless old bag lady feeding pigeons in a park. She must be mentally ill......but the truth is, one in four adults and one in ten children have some form of mental illness (National Alliance on Mental Illness). There's a funny saying "Mental illness affects one in four adults...look at your three best friends. If they seem fine, it's you!" But the truth is, that's a LOT of people. And that includes a lot of disorders, not just depression and anxiety, but bipolar disorder, ADHD, eating disorders, OCD, schizophrenia and more. Scared yet? You should be, because it's a bigger problem than most realize. And you shouldn't be because, with the right care, many mental illnesses are treatable and most people seem "normal". I hate that term, too. Normal. What is normal?

I can tell you, as someone who suffers from anxiety, normal is when you feel "balanced" every day. When, through a combination of diet, medications, exercise, counseling, or whatever works for you, you feel steady and even-keeled every day and can handle what life throws at you without falling apart, that's your normal. Looking back, I realize I've suffered from anxiety from as long as I can remember. I can't count the number of "stomach aches" I've had that prevented me from partaking in an activity, trying something new, or having an otherwise fun experience. I moved a lot growing up and every first day of school was fraught with anxiety, tummy aches and tears. I vividly remember fifth grade, starting another new school, when I became acutely aware that it would not be "cool" to cry in front of my new class. I held it together and from that point on, I managed to get through it, but that first day of school was always the hardest.

In high school one memory that stands out for me was a planned trip to a theme park with my friends. I got ready, was picked up by my friend who was driving, and we swung around the block to pick up another friend. In that amount of time, I had sealed my fate....the stomach ache was starting, my heart was racing, and I asked her to please take me back home because I was "sick". I ended up missing a really fun day and I was kicking myself before they even pulled out of the driveway after dropping me off, but I was also relieved and "safe".

As an adult, I once was invited on a hike with several women friends. I didn't know most of them well, and I had the usual anxieties about being in a group of people I didn't know, but the thing that made me cancel the trip at the last minute was the irrational fear that I would not be able to "keep up" with them on the hike and what might they think?

A lot of things changed after I had my first child. Suddenly I was the mother bear protecting my cub, so many of my usual daily anxieties were replaced by caring for my baby, and the general busy-ness of being a mother.  I felt a lot more secure, and a lot more outgoing, as I formed a group of friends with new babies. Things seemed to be going along swimmingly until.....

I had my second child. And somehow, having two children seemed a lot "harder" for me than for my friends. Everything just seemed to take so much effort and I was exhausted all the time. Some days, I would hand the baby off to her dad for no other reason than that my arms were so tired, I thought I'd drop her. I knew something was wrong and so I went to the doctor. And thus my medical nightmare began.

It took two years to get properly diagnosed with a thyroid disorder. In that time, I had 25 different appointments, numerous procedures, and a lot of worry and stress. Once I was diagnosed and properly treated, I started to feel better but still "off". As that "off" feeling dragged on, I realized it might be something more but I didn't know enough about anxiety to realize that might be my problem. Also, all I ever heard about was "depression and anxiety" as the two often go hand-in-hand. And I didn't feel depressed at all!

After a couple of especially bad episodes of anxiety, I ended up in the ER one night. I couldn't breathe, my arms and legs were numb and I felt like my chest might explode. After checking my heart and vital signs, the doctors said I was "fine" and brought in a social worker to talk to me. She asked if I had a good support system at home and discussed postpartum depression (which we both agreed was not the issue, even though it likely could have been since my baby was just several weeks old). I laughed at the "support" comment, because, at the time, I was teaching parent/baby classes at the same hospital, and providing support to groups of 50 or more moms every week. I could stand confidently in front of a crowd and facilitate discussions about diapering and sleep problems, but I still could not recognize anxiety in myself.

Ironically, I left with a prescription for Lorazepam, which I loved more than life itself. But I also knew it was an addictive drug, so I took it so sparingly, and would even break the tiny tablets in half, which resulted in a pile of dust in my palm that I would gobble up in the vain hope that a few crumbs of anti-anxiety drug would get me through a particularly rough patch. At one of my annual physical exams, my nurse listened patiently as I explained my relationship with my beloved Lorazepam, and she suggested that I take one whole pill a day for a week. ONE WHOLE PILL? Not a tiny pile of pill dust? Well, ok, then. I'm not embarrassed to say it was the best week of my life, as far as my physical self felt. I actually felt "normal" for the first time in YEARS. I remember this tiny feeling of hope creeping back; optimism, enthusiasm, excitement for life. Addicting drug? Bring it on!

But of course my pragmatic nature prevented me from continuing to take it every day, because it was bad enough I was Anxious Mommy, I didn't also want to be Rehab Mommy. So, I went back to the pill dust once in a blue moon and prayed for my stupid anxiety to just END already.

And so things went along "normally" punctuated by episodes of anxiety, which I was often certain were medical emergencies, yet nothing ever panned out. My labs were normal, I had great blood pressure, I was healthy and "normal". But I wasn't.

Finally, after realizing how much of life I was missing due to all the physical symptoms I was having, I decided to see my doctor (again!). By this time I had learned a lot more about mental illness and knew I was probably suffering from anxiety. And I was DONE with it. Taking medication, which I was resistant to for YEARS seemed like the most sensible option, although, ironically, my anxiety about side effects was what prevented me from embracing this option. Swallowing that first pill was, for me, a huge victory, because I was taking a CHANCE on something without knowing the outcome. And the heavens parted and choirs of angels began to sing....ok, maybe it wasn't THAT dramatic of a change, but, then again, it WAS!

I could finally just "be". I still looked like the normal mommy I had been pretending to be (except, maybe, for the 40 plus pounds I gained on the first medication I took. Which totally sucks. But honestly, the trade off was worth it.) Most of my friends had no idea the extent to which I suffered every day with the heavy cloak of anxiety that dragged me down while I struggled to maintain the appearances of "normal". So, perhaps my transformation wasn't as life-changing to them as it was to me (duh) but I have never second-guessed my decision.

Ok, that's a lie. I decided after a couple of years on meds that I could try to wean off. My doctor agreed so I started the gradual wean. At first I noticed I was more irritable than normal. As in, my child's breathing irritated me. And if they interrupted me to bring me an "I love you" picture they had drawn while I was doing something else, I might explode in a rage. In fact, I often raged at my kids while knowing in my head the offense did not warrant the punishment. And yet, I couldn't make my body stop overreacting, stop feeling irritable, stop.....everything. I would lay in bed at night and actually FEEL my adrenaline, as though a slight vibration was coursing through my veins (I once described this to a doctor as my body "buzzing like there's a motor running"). In short, I felt horrible, so I went back on the meds.

Another time I tried to wean off my meds, it was only a matter of days when I felt that old familiar irritability creeping over me, and one day I just felt completely hopeless. I remember having a good long talk (and a cry) with my husband. He encouraged me to just keep taking the meds - as long as I needed to, and maybe forever. I cried "You mean I have to take a pill to be nice? I have to take drugs so I'm not a bitch?"

But that's when I really took to heart what my doctor said: if you had diabetes or cancer or any other life-threatening illness, you wouldn't hesitate to take medication to treat it. And yet, we resist medication for mental illness because it seems "weak". Well, I take medication and I am anything but weak. I'm stronger than anyone or anything. Because I faced my illness head-on and I'm fighting it.

I tell this story to illustrate how common and prevalent this problem is. Everyone in my family experiences some form of depression and/or anxiety and we all fight it in different ways. Sometimes, it requires a total and complete break from the regular routines of daily life to step back and figure out a new way. Other times, it might be a few months of counseling. We talk about it a lot, and nothing is taboo. I truly believe that one of the biggest reasons we still have a stigma about mental illness in our society is because we don't talk about it enough. When I recently attempted to find a group for adolescents experiencing depression, I came up empty. Not ONE group in this whole state that isn't focused on drug and alcohol issues as well. Which isn't surprising since nearly everyone who suffers from depression and/or anxiety will eventually self-medicate - if not with drugs or alcohol, with self-harm or destructive behaviors. When you hurt inside, you will do anything to stop it.

But how wonderful would it be if we talked about mental illness in parenting classes, and in schools where parents could become educated to see the signs early and intervene? My kids and I watched a show on TV last night about bipolar children. It was eye-opening for sure - and heartbreaking. No one wants to deal with mental illness, just like no one wants to get cancer. It just happens and it sucks. When your child suffers, you feel some guilt about "passing on the gene". What if someone told you that if you have a diagnosed mental illness, your child has a higher percentage of having one too? For instance, if a parent has bipolar disorder, the chances that their child might inherit the disorder can be up to 30%. If both parents have it, the chances increase to up to 75%. And if you have one child with bipolar disorder, chances are up to 25% that your subsequent child will have it, too (McGuffin, P. et al, Arch. Gen. Psychiatry).

If someone told you these statistics before you had children, would you choose not to give birth knowing you might pass mental illness on to your children? Likely not, but if someone told you your child had a 75% chance of having cystic fibrosis because you and your husband both carried a recessive gene, would you choose to have children? My point is, mental illness is a serious disease and though there are treatments, there is no cure. If you think mental illness is not as "dangerous" as other diseases, think of this: intentional self-harm (suicide) is in the top ten causes of death in the world (Centers for Disease Control, based on data from 2009). So, which scares you more - heart disease or suicide?

I truly wish there were support groups in EVERY single middle and high school where kids could go to get help for depression and anxiety. But there are two big problems with that: one, most kids don't understand or recognize their pain as mental illness and most parents don't want to accept it as a possible explanation for their child's problems. And sadly, some parents are just too busy to see the signs. Even the most diligent and connected parents can miss the signs. Adolescents are not just mini-adults and depression can manifest very differently in them. Unlike adults, teens can often seemingly go "in" and "out" of depressive episodes. Adults tend to become depressed and stay there, sinking deeper and deeper if they are not seeking help. Teens can waver back and forth. They might complain of lots of physical symptoms ("my stomach hurts," "I have a headache"), sleep a lot, and lose interest in anything. Their grades might slip, but that's not always the hallmark of teen depression. And a child with anxiety might act out, have tantrums, and develop repetitive behaviors that are self-soothing. Because children go through "stages", parents often chalk these changes up to something that will pass in time.

I work in a special education classroom, and it's heartbreaking to see a child who suffers from ADHD who simply cannot control his body. I remember a particular boy I worked with once who was rude and belligerent to me. I did not like working with this boy and would "pass" him off to the other teachers whenever possible. The following year, I worked with him again and he was completely different. Polite, funny, sweet. The difference? He went back on ADHD meds after being off for a year. It was like night and day. His "real" self seemed to emerge and he was a creative, smart and kind person.

There is another side to meds, of course. Many children are being diagnosed way too quickly and easily and doctors are dispensing ADHD meds like candy. As a parent, I have to decide whether or not to medicate my child. When my kids were babies, I didn't even give them infant Tylenol unless they were running a fever. Give Benadryl on a plane trip so the baby can sleep? You might as well have asked me to give them crack. No way was I going to drug my child. My son was once prescribed infant antacid medication for reflux. When I opened the bottle, it smelled like alcohol and when I read on the label that it did contain a high percentage of alcohol, I freaked out and refused to give it to him. I was very anti-meds and it wasn't until I accepted them for myself that I could even consider giving them to my kids. I once read an article that said if we'd had meds years ago there never would have been the paintings of Picasso, or the prose of Shakespeare, but I don't believe mental illness is a precursor to genius. I also don't think taking meds changes the soul of a being and we are who we are meant to be, regardless of our medications. My kids are creative, smart, funny, thoughtful, beautiful souls, who take medicine for an illness.

And here's a dirty little secret.....if you're still reading this and think "thank goodness I don't have to deal with THOSE problems," know that prescriptions for antidepressants have more than doubled in the past decade. Most of my adult female friends are on an antidepressant. Many people are taking them without a diagnosis of depression or anxiety, and there are risks and side effects that should be carefully weighed, especially before taking these drugs without a diagnosis (and trying other methods for treating symptoms). But if you are truly experiencing symptoms of depression and anxiety, the healthy thing to do is to see a qualified doctor, and make a careful decision about taking medications. And count your blessings - we have evolved enough as a society that we can now freely talk to our doctors about mental illness without the taboo that used to prevail, though we still have a long way to go. Before antidepressants, alcohol and drugs were often self-prescribed "medications".

So, when my child wants to find a group of people to talk to who are "just like me", and I know they are all around her, but there's no organized group, it makes ME sad that I can't provide that for her. And maybe by talking about the prevalence of depression and anxiety (and other mental illness) we will open up more to the option of having more support groups and more education and more help for people who are SICK, not crazy. But not talking about it? Not being comfortable, wishing it would just "go away", or thinking it's a problem that affects someone else? THAT'S crazy.

(Footnote: If you are having feelings of prevailing sadness, worthlessness, hopelessness, feeling constantly "on edge", being overwhelmed, having unexplained physical symptoms, acting out in ways you never have before, feel scared or alone, PLEASE talk to your doctor and get help. There IS help and there IS hope.)

Anxious morning.....

Poor Hannah. This morning she was so nervous, she decided to go to school and skip the choir field trip because she's worried there's something wrong with her heart. She's been having dizzy/fainting spells and her hands and feet have been turning blueish/grayish at times. We've been to three doctors (her regular doc, her arthritis doc, and her adolescent medicine doc) and they are all mystified. So, we're heading to the pediatric cardiologist to see if it's a heart issue. My guess is it's not, but better safe than sorry. However, with all the weird palpitations she's been getting, she's having more and more anxiety and was fearful today that she might faint during the choir field trip, or worse, on stage tonight during the concert. So, it appears she's not going to either. Which is both a disappointment and a worry that it will affect her grade. And who knows how long it will take to get into the cardio? I'm hoping it's sooner rather than later so she can put her fears to rest.

The good news is she did go to school. And Hayley has a test schedule at school which means she doesn't have to be there until 9:30. So, we're headed to Starbucks for a little mommy/daughter date before school and then I'll drop her off. After that I'm headed to Wal-Mart for a mini shopping spree (hopefully) for my San Francisco trip - new jeans, maybe a few tops, and a bag/purse big enough to carry my camera and all the other essentials I'll need while walking and exploring the city. We leave this weekend and I'm so excited! A little nervous about leaving the kids, but excited too.

Oh, and I have to rant about one thing. My ex-husband is a jerk! Not that anyone who reads this doesn't know that already, but last night he was too lazy to pick up Harrison for their Monday night "24" date (they watch the show together on Mondays, due to my total generosity in allowing him an extra day with the boy). So, he expected me to do it. I had about a million things to do, plus needed to help Arlie with a paper for school so I said no, he had to come get him (I mean, seriously? What ELSE is he doing?). So, he did, and was a total ass when he got here. I mentioned Hannah's concert tonight and he did his typical, toddler-like behavior of playing the "I can't hear you" game. Then, when I mentioned I needed his help (because Jeff has a Toastmaster's contest tonight and I'm only one person needing to take two kids to gymnastics, trampoline class, and the concert), he said "nope, I'm working" (this means he's sitting on his ass at a site of new homes, where absolutely no one to maybe a couple of people will stop by). He then said "it's YOUR night, you deal with it" so I said "does that mean you're not coming?" and he said "I don't know". So, I reminded him he's a parent ALL the time, not just on the days he has the kids. Oh, and then he turned around and said "You know what? You can pick Arlie up this Friday" (referring to the fact that every other week he picks up both Arlie and Harrison at choir practice after school, which he would have to do ANYWAY and he drives RIGHT BY the house on the way home). I said "what does Arlie have to do with this?" but he didn't answer because he knows he's an immature asshole. Then, he took Harrison with him and Harrison texted me and then called me and said he wasn't sure he wanted to stay there, because the thought "daddy might hurt me"! OMG! I said I would come and get him right away, but he kept being undecisive about leaving. I know the only reason he didn't leave is because he feared the wrath of his dad and the guilt if he left. Doug is really out of control and need to get his attitude in check. His immature behavior and petty attitude is just unbelievable for a "man" of his age. This is the shit I have to deal with..........ugh.........