Category: My Story

What is Depression?

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I hate depression so much. Its presence in my life has become part of me. The eyes through which I see life. Looking back, I can remember my first episode of depression after high school. I got no help.  My parents encouraged me to pull myself up by my bootstraps, and I did that. I got on with the life they prescribed for me. Until I’m in sunny California, going to college, getting over dating a baseball player, and I had another episode. This time, my friend called my parents. A medical doctor diagnosed Anemia.

It gets harder to recover as time goes on, and though a dark cloud followed me around from time to time throughout my 20s, I didn’t really suffer again until my thirties. Postpartum, maybe, though no one talked about it. I’ve written a lot about those years elsewhere in this blog. The drinking didn’t help. I’d say that was a symptom of the illness, an attempt to make it all disappear. Not my life but my feelings about it.

Suffice it to say, I have been trying to recover from Depression for most of the rest of my adult life.

I’ve learned with this illness, that circumstances don’t matter, and though medication keeps me “stable” (not wanting to kill myself), it does not make me happy. I flatline in an average place, with few highs and fewer low, lows.

And now my life is beautiful. My family is stable. I do not have to work. Isn’t the American dream to retire and be financially comfortable? I need nothing. I don’t even have migraines anymore the whole reason for retiring. I think I should be overjoyed, pursuing my passions, reading endlessly, traveling, and volunteering. And yet I have never been so low.

I can’t raise my arms up to carry laundry, so I find myself sitting a lot. Though I can turn off my brain and wander through a thrift store, I don’t need anything. I buy books. I can’t read more than a few pages. I’ve started reading half a dozen in the last day or two. I want knowledge. Crave it. Love it. But it just sits on my skin, I can’t absorb it. I help my kids learn to drive and talk through difficult decisions, yet later, I can’t move for hours at a time. I take too much melatonin to sleep and wake up exhausted. I am frozen in time, and my life is wasting away. It feels catastrophic, and it is, sometimes.

“Depression is a disorder of mood, so mysteriously painful and elusive in the way it becomes known to self-to the mediating intellect-as to verge close to being beyond description.” William Styron, Darkness Visible:A Memoir of Madness.

The danger of depression is ignoring it. But I don’t want to make a fuss.

I’ve Just Had Therapy

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I’ve just had therapy, or as I like to say, got my head shrunk, and let me say I’m not fixed. Ha ha, no. I’ve been stumbling my way through years and years of sessions, and though I work very hard to not be a drunk, or depressed, or enraged, or disappointed with everything, I have concluded that something is broken inside me.

My therapist, bless her, is cool, edgy, cerebral, and life-affirming, and clearly admires and likes me. That’s crazy considering she knows me better than anyone in the world. I’d say her starting basis is how amazing I am, and a hope that I would believe it. I sometimes ask myself, do I pretend to be someone I’m not with her? No way. I am my most comfortable, true, articulate self.

So, WTF is wrong with me? I know why I’m messed up.  My blog is a testament to my broken childhood. My broken heart. I can’t figure out how to heal.

After Covid, I started watching a local Black led church online. I was drawn to attend in person. So eventually we did after about a year. What I wasn’t expecting was my own tears. I found week after week, at some point in the service, this person who couldn’t cry started weeping, and couldn’t stop. I tried. The more I tried, the more i became a snot-nosed, blubbering fool. Embarrassed, I frequently ran out to the lobby because I wanted to be in control.

And I am afraid. I can say that now. I don’t understand, and I’m afraid. Eventually, we left the church. Lots of reasons. We’re not Pentecostal, but for me, it was mainly fear.

I don’t cry. Tom cries at movies and shows, writing songs, normal, sad stuff, but I’m usually unmoved. I feel dead inside when I see someone crying. The last movie I remember crying at was The Killing Fields. I’ve always been broken in there, and antidepressants make it worse; like pouring cement in the desert.

It really is a conundrum.

I Hope Humanity Pays

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When my baby sister was murdered by her husband, my brother-in-law, the earth shook underneath me. I have not been able to stand upright since.

When I see people who have migrated from Palestine, I see a familiar grief, I recognize their loss, I recognize injustice. I don’t equate them, only see a similarity in our ashes.

I have only lost one beautiful sister, and I can’t go on. In Gaza and the West Bank, many have lost generations of family, homesteads, and the future.

People don’t return when they are murdered and we are expected to move on.

I hope not. I hope humanity pays. I hope the punishment is great.

Things I’ve Learned About Myself Along the Way

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More and more, probably because of the lull that I had in writing, hardly anyone is reading what I write.

Ironically I stopped writing around 2015 at a time when life was falling apart — our business partner imbezzled, we were bankrupt, our family was in shambles, my mom was diagnosed with dementia and I was her medical POA, and I went back to work, in the company, to help Tom.

My kids were of the age where it mattered what I said about them. I didn’t want to be the writer that regretted telling my kids stories. I couldn’t yet write about the business. Stuff with my mom was complicated. And I was busy!

I gave up my career at a local non-profit to (more closely) raise our kids. But truthfully, mainly, we were just trying to save money on daycare with three kids in diapers and one in middle school. The American dream. Although my “staying at home” was a good choice that I’m glad we made because I can see now how that time was important both to my kids and to the person that I was becoming. I was a workaholic before I quit. And long after. Those were hard years.

It was hard to be at home. This was before social media dominated people’s days.  Before cell phones were attached to us. From 2001 to 2015, I was lonely, hurting, a recovering alcoholic, a workaholic, depressed, anxious and bored.

As I have written copiously about I suffered from depression, and my husband suffered from my depression. This morning he was sharing a song with me, there’s many he’s written, about my depression from his perspective. It’s so sad. I’ve hurt him. The lyrics are beautiful. (See below.)

So I’m comfortable with a small readership, hello reader. I still don’t know what I’m writing for but I have learned a few things about myself in the last decade.

One, I have copious courage and it’s built into my DNA and I don’t fear the opinions of others. I’m more afraid of the idea of sounding stupid or ignorant than of expressing myself. I love expressing myself. Not verbally persay. I’ve gotten more introverted and anxious since retirement. I loathe it, and shall have to overcome it.

Two, I’m an empath. My heart breaks for people. Injustice hurts me, physically sometimes.  I haven’t learned how to control it or protect myself from it yet.

Three I’m generous. I’ll give away the shirt on my back if it would help. I’ll give my last $20 in my wallet. I’ll give generously to a charity as I’m moved. Not frivolously, but carefully. Not when asked directly, that makes me uncomfortable, but as people talk about the needs around me I give.

Four, I love learning. That’s saving me in my “migraine retirement.” Everything I read or listen to leads to further learning. A million more authors, topics, places, and histories. It’s endless. I have a disorganized library at home. I love saving used books the older the better.

Five, I see. The world. People. Hearts. Pain. God.  Bad. This trait has a through line to 1-4. Sometimes that includes my photography or travel. But lately, it has stalled as I’ve been working on my migraines and trying not to despair of ever traveling again. I have a dog, my husband’s dog, who is old but still with us, very anxious without one of us. Tom’s waiting till Comet dies to travel. So I read and collect travel novels. Would love suggestions for the first place to travel to. Or I may go alone.

Six, I can be wise.

I observe well, I am unafraid to express myself, I read, and I may have things to say. We’ll see.

P.S. About my accident, my face is healing with very little scarring. I’m fortunate there.  Now I’m afraid to go for a walk. It’s annoying.

IN THE MEANTIME BY TOM HANSON

In the mean time I am waiting
Through the winter without you
On this thin ice I am skating
Am I falling through?

In the desert I am crawling
In the mean time without you
Is this penance, is it stalling?
Don’t be cruel, don’t be cruel
I miss you

In the mean time I am fading
Won’t you tell me what to do?
A single word persuading
And I’ll wade through
A world of blue
And the waning moon

I know who you are
Yes I know what you are
And I know you won’t go too far
In the mean time

Now in your mean time I’ll be waiting
In these long days without you
Pray your rainclouds will be breaking
‘Cause I miss you
You know I do
I need you

My Face is Disfigured & Fascinating

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My chin is blue

And green. and black, and purple.

The pattern of my fall starting

Underneath a scab. I’m lucky not to have bitten

Straight through my bottom lip.

It’s hot to the touch today, the third day, and

Scabbed, the bruise is deep.

My bottom lip is swollen, I speak oddly

Still to my ear.

And I’m fascinated by it all

Because my life is boring.

In a moment of dull routine on Saturday and in the tediousness of health maintenance, I took a walk—and now I feel old. I tripped.

My face bears the marks of a swollen lip, and bruises of purple, surrounded by pale freckles. There is something almost otherworldly about my chin.

I was assaulted by the ground, with the cement hitting my face and my chin taking most of the damage. So much blood!

I am disfigured but healing more quickly than I imagined. No broken bones or chipped teeth, and my nose is fine, surprisingly. No concussion.

What stings the most at the moment is my pride. For toddlers walking is an achievement, a rite of passage that symbolizes growing independence and confidence.

I must not lose balance and independence. Life comes full circle.

I Took A Hard Fall– Quite Literally.

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Snow globe collection.
Before my fall, I gathered up some of the decorations on the kitchen table.
The forlorn tree.
I tripped.

I tripped while walking two nights ago. I have to go tomorrow for a tetanus booster.

Honestly, if there was ever a reminder of human frailty, it is a lack of balance. Today, I hit bottom. I’m sad. My face is mincemeat. My shoulder aches.  My chin aches. The inside of my lip is the worst. I’m lucky I didn’t bite it through. I’m lucky I didn’t break my nose. I’m fortunate I didn’t snap teeth.

I was bundled up for the freezing temperature, dearly regretting my follow-through on a resolve to get more exercise. I was watching a man walking backward down the street and marveling at his temerity. The next thing I recall is slow-motion falling. I felt my face hit the cement. Of course, I looked up to see if he noticed. Tried to stand. Felt dizzy and disorientated. Touched my chin.  That hurt. I turned around after picking up my headphones and glasses, which both flew off. My phone was in my hand. My other hand was covered in blood. I looked down and blood was dripping down my coat. Rivulets of purplish red on black. Drip, drip, drip. What the hell? Long story short, called home for a ride because of all the blood. Enough to draw a lot of attention, and I felt embarrassed.

Two days later, I look a mess. My chin is warm to the touch, scabbing, and it hurts. I am in pain all over, feel exhausted, and can’t take down the Christmas decorations. No one offers to help. This depresses me more than I’d like.

I feel like women all over the world wonder if Christmas would even happen if they didn’t exist. It certainly wouldn’t be celebrated the same way. I’m tired and want to let go of many things. I desire fewer possessions and no longer want the pressure of continuing traditions and family legacies. I’m ready for the next generation to decide what’s important to them and take a journey into my painting.

I regret ending on such a down note, but I’m hurting. Until next time.

A beautiful painting that evokes memories of home, whether from the past or the future.

On Writing Now, On Childhood Then

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It would be comforting to write in a place with other writers. Much like the kitchen in the show Shrinking, where the Shrinks haphazardly gather with no purpose, no appointment. It’s unstructured time to top off coffee or fill a water bottle. Ask how are you and sit for a minute or stand.

In my life, the only persons who ask me how I am are my therapist every few weeks and my psychiatrist today. I haven’t seen her in 11 months!

My writing room is slightly musty from old books stacked on shelves and the floor. The light, dusty, dances with the fabric of my Palestinian flag hung on the window along with the shadows. The breeze flows in from four inches of open window, winter or summer. Fresh air on my skin makes me feel alive, and I have a problem of not feeling alive.  I also love to sweat in the humid air of a Wisconsin summer. But then I worry about my books.  I checked my hygrometer today worrying about the books being too dry in winter.

Candles have burned in this room. Incense too. The sweet tobacco scent, must books, trinkets from antiquing with my kids, artifacts from Papua New Guinea what little I have, feel familiar. It is home to me.

As a child, home wasn’t a place– it was my parents. Though I was born in Lae, at six, we moved to Ukarumpa, then out to the bush, to create a missionary home.  At seven my parents moved us to California. In 6th grade, we landed in Texas, not on a ranch with cowboys and horses, much to my extreme disappointment. Rather, a ranch-style house in the burbs of Duncanville. Middle and high school are spent there playing the bass clarinet and marching in the band.

They frequently traveled together my parents. Friends took care of us.  I remember the strange family friend, a man who wore a togalike skirt around our house, much to our dismay. Probably something cultural from Australia, but quite shocking for four girls living in Texas ranging in age from elementary to high school. We made sure to quickly inform our mom what a weirdo their friend was in our opinion.

For my mom, I think, traveling with my father was better for her than staying home with us four girls. He was on his best behavior at work. And dealing with Dad when he arrived back weeks later, tired, cranky, critical, and correcting every decision she made while he was gone, well, that was hard on all of us.

I don’t remember talking to my parents as a child. Only when forced. Those conversing were multiplied in difficulty because he wanted a certain respect and responses that suited him. Sometimes I just didn’t want to say what he wanted to hear. But typically, it was easier to concede whatever it was.

I think parents need to interrogate their kids only in the sense that we’re amazed by their brains and awestruck at their creativity. Tell me more! What are you thinking about these days? I love talking to my kids.

I always felt my parents were annoyed they had children. Especially when I displeased my father. That was a surefire way to get the wrong kind of attention; I started to do poorly in school; I was bored. But I read all the time and have a quizzical mind.  Just not in school. There I languished.

More to come.

Hello, I’m Spinning

I’m not ok. It’s taken a long time to admit to myself. Holly has been gone seven years.

It makes sense to admit it here. Where the wind howls around the dust-filled corners of this blog from lack of new words. Perhaps no one will read this. Do people even have blogs anymore? I don’t care. I’ve always written for myself.

I’m spinning. I have no coping mechanisms. I’ve been “saving” old books or buying depending on your perspective. But I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. No recreational drugs– too risky for me. I don’t drive my car recklessly or gamble. I guess maybe I’ve been overeating, that was my mother’s thing. But it’s more like the sedentary life is killing me. 

I don’t have “faith.” To me, I mean that I no longer live my life as if I need or believe in God. I’ve always been exceptionally hard on myself but this truth seems especially important to admit for some reason: My life is secular. I have not entered a church in more than a year before that it was before Covid. I have no relationship with discipleship. That’s just a church word for mentoring done by someone spiritually wise with someone who is less so but yearns to be worthy.

Unless you count my bookshelves and the authors who speak loudly and profoundly. The same goes for the influence of friends. Na da. Even my lovely partner is silent with me. I’m fairly convinced he loathes me, for I have felt angry, sullen, and isolated. I’m so judgemental that my adult son pointed it out to me more than once; I’ve embarrassed him. That humiliated me but in the best way. In the way that your heart knows already and wants to do better.   I tried a rubber band to stop my mouth, at least so that he wouldn’t hear what a terrible person I’d become.  This was hard to stick with. That snap hurts! Plus, what do I do with my head which won’t stop criticizing me? I lost my sister (a different sister than Holly) because she couldn’t hear my sarcasm, anger, and meanness any longer. She walked out of my life. I probably deserved it. It’s my penance for turning into my dad when I’m around her. I can’t say her name because her final straw was my talking about us on Facebook.

The last time I saw Holly, was in February 2018 in Couer d’Alene, ID
My mother and I de-boning the Thanksgiving turkey.
My kids.

I miss my parents. I never realized I’d miss them when they were dead. I think I hated my parents my whole life. There were many reasons, simplified it was for the control. And the neglect. “Emotional whiplash for breakfast, honey?” Lack of trust to make decisions, any decisions, from what to wear to what or if I’d attend college, to whether I could date a Black friend, have a lesbian roommate, or move overseas. I was not to: Be unique. Or be original.  Because there was a ” right way” to think,  to be, to believe, to live. 

Pick, pick, pick. Criticism. Correction. Outrage. Disappointment.  I’m fairly certain the only thing my father was proud of me for was the Urbana job. For my mother, it was marrying Tom. He’s “A good man” by which she meant not a controlling, angry, abusive bastard like my father. And I was a good mother, she thought.  But I was an alcoholic and workaholic, and I barely remember when my kids were little because of it– like her and my father.  I’ll never forgive myself.

So why do I miss them I wonder? Because childhood would bring Holly back to life. And I would protect her this time.

This is year six.

Do you remember when I last saw Holly? It was around this time, six years ago, in late February 2018, and despite the challenges she was going through, she was determined to keep her kids’ lives as normal as possible. She drove over to Couer d’Alene,  ID, from Washington with her kids. We had about half a day, so we ate breakfast, let the kids swim in the resort’s pool, and hung out. It was inspiring to witness her strength, but I recall she was pretty depleted from all the adversity she faced with the divorce. Although I was feeling drained from our social commitments and meetings, I remain grateful for the last memories and Tom and I having had the opportunity to be there for her during such a difficult time.

I have been struggling with migraines for the past three years, which has been quite discouraging. Despite receiving countless recommendations from various individuals, I have tried many remedies with some success. However, my life has been heavily impacted and many activities have become difficult to manage with migraines, including travel, communication, productivity, reading, writing, creativity, work (both personal and professional), shopping, cleaning, caring for others, and taking care of my own well-being. According to my neurologist/headache specialist, the headaches I’ve been experiencing are likely a result of the chronic stress I’ve been under for the past decade.

I “retired” to tackle migraines head-on, not to mention it had become impossible to work. By now, I presumed I would be better at spending my time doing something fun and creative, but that didn’t happen, and I have a chronic illness because otherwise. I find myself once again nosediving straight into a mental health crisis. If you know my story, you comprehend how frightened I am.

Yesterday, I acknowledged to myself that I need a non-negotiable daily routine. I began with walking. Cleaned my study for the first time since Christmas.

I’m thinking, for self-care:

Sleep hygiene by setting a bedtime and wake time, getting sunlight first thing, movement, nutrition, eating breakfast, getting dressed for the day, limiting the people and things in my life that vex me, spending time in nature a couple of times a week, and stress management.

How do you manage self-care? What are your daily non-negotiables?

Melody

We are Blood.

I am sitting in my car waiting. As I have sat inside and outside of schools, doctors’ offices, and in cars, all these years.

Always sitting with my sorrow, I wait.

I wish my mother was here, I find myself saying out loud, welcome tears spring to my eyes. Also, I am still surprised by them.

My health feels like a constant betrayal, as if. Am I owed good health, not headaches, not body aches, not a loose stomach, not fatigue, not depression, not anxiety, not sleeplessness? How is it that I of all people “deserve” good health? I know that I don’t. But my mother would have had wisdom about it. I am lost.

The sky is as gloomy and dismal as my mood. It follows the grief of Palestine that is ringing in my ears, my heart, and my mind; abuzz with adrenaline from witnessing genocide. Don’t we remember Rwanda?

So many families, generations lost. I think.

How do I preserve mine? We’re fractured. My sister doesn’t speak to me, specifically. My parents are dead. Holly is dead. Our children are many including Holly’s and those that have joined ours. We are all a legacy.

We each and all matter.

Even though I feel lost, unmoored, untethered, and without roots, I feel my family lineage breaking in my body; I know that it is now my responsibility to be the strength that holds the generations together. Even though my sister has chosen not to be with me, we are vital. We are a link to the next generation. We are blood.

the hellfire of the mind

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“Grief and despair, heartache and humiliation, rage and regret — this is the hellfire of the mind, hot as a nova, all-consuming as a black hole. And yet, if we are courageous enough and awake enough to walk through it, in it we are annealed, forged stronger, reborn.” Maria Popova, The Marginalian

She’s not wrong but I couldn’t be reborn. I wasn’t enough. It has consumed me.

Grief is like a hard fall, to smash head-first into the cement repeatedly. Bruised and bleeding, utterly destroyed, but still getting up and on with life.

But what is there to get on to?

I made a grave mistake in the “getting on,” an amateur foolish error, believing I should be strong…

For the children, for the company, for my mother, for my sisters, and more children.

All these minutes, hours, days, months, years, and decades, I’ve been devoted (beyond what’s humanly possible) to those who needed me. I thought that was a good thing. I thought I was superhuman. I was lauded. I was built up as “amazing.” I had no boundaries. And I believed being superhuman was achievable.

But I’ve paid a price. I’ve traded for strength and lost my soul—as tragedy, suffering, and heartache collided inside me. And I’m left Empty. Hurting.

I’m done crying out to God who is all-powerful. Got it. YOU ARE GOD. I don’t disagree. But fuck it. Help already?

I tried the Church and a few people to tell my story.

And I found no one cared.

Where was a container wide or deep enough for the ocean of tears and heartache? No one could receive my fury, my destruction.

I have found comfort only in solitude and in the great cavern of nothingness.

My body, the vessel of nerve endings, hurts. My brain holds an ache. Calling it a headache is too benign. My brain was broken by pain. I can no longer think rationally. I told my shrink I won’t kill myself. And I won’t, I don’t (think I) want to, but sometimes I want to be there, with them, less alone. 

I live in the void where sorrow lives, where life has no purpose.

When others try to understand, reaching for me, I cringe and pity them. I am defeated.

One can’t get to me because I am gone. This physical vessel that you see with your eyes and touch with your hands, she is empty.

I am no longer courageous. I am no longer strong.

The void is surrounding me and those who know seem too frightened by my weakness. They leave me be. And I am grateful because my body, heart, soul, and mind are destroyed. It’s too late.

I was strong. It broke me. Now I am vapor.

Survivor’s Guilt and Finding Some Joy

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We want in fact not so much a father in heaven as a grandfather in heaven—a senile benevolence who liked to see us enjoying ourselves. And whose plan for the universe was simply that it might be truly said at the end of each day, “a good time was had by all.”

page 40 The Problem of Pain, CS Lewis

This is by far not the most profound CS Lewis thought, but it hit me today hard between the eyes. My thinking has been a bit convoluted so bear with me and I will try to come to the point.

I have been living the last five years in a coping mode, sheer survival really; and not “having a good time” not even close. Life has been hard. And it hit me after all this time I still have survivor’s guilt.

Holly deserved to live and by contrast I am less worthy of my life. She was so amazing! I’m a depressive, a recovering alcoholic, sarcastic, some (okay, one sister) would say mean, introverted, easily persuaded that life sucks to be honest, completely a cup half empty person and all the rest.  Whereas Holly took hold of her life like a storm, she ran toward life’s opportunities with joy and verve. She was about to go for her PhD for fuck’s sake. I have done nothing with my life by comparison.

She should be alive. Me perhaps not so much.

So, I’ve had this idea of getting all these chicks flying out of our nest and then fade into the proverbial sunset. Be the rock, be the strong one, be what everyone needs from me, until they’re off. And then, what does it even matter?

In my new church, the Black led one, I have found that I cannot stop weeping. I’ve got some deep, deep grief I suppose and well, having decided it didn’t matter what happened to me, a sadness, and a spirit of having given up or just surviving. One Sunday, not long into attending, the usher put us in the middle of the sanctuary – the 50–yard line. There was no hiding, and so I just sat there with tears streaming down my cheeks trying to stop or be invisible. A small, elder Black woman came over, and started praying with “a word for me, did I mind?” There was a word for me today in the sermon. She prayed a powerful, amazing, incredible amount. I don’t remember it all in my mind, but I am sure my spirit remembers. And I did hear something in the sermon – that God doesn’t want me to simply survive these hard years, he wants me to thrive! I heard it and I wanted to believe it. But it has been months and as I have slowly been weeping my way through services, I am starting to understand and believe.

I don’t know what next week, next year or the next several decades holds but I am not going quietly.

I haven’t been having a good time, back to the Lewis quote. I kind of felt that I was owed a good time in life, I have been quite entitled to be frank. But that’s ignorant shit too. This life is hard. People die. People are broke. Companies fail. People foreclose on homes. People can’t afford homes. People lose their jobs. People get divorced. People are murdered.

The problem of pain is that life is full of it.

And there is joy.

There is joy and that’s okay too! I know that it will be okay to grow a garden, gardens are hope. It will be okay to go on a trip. To celebrate 30 years of marriage. To build a study. To buy a camera, to see beauty again. Because even though I can’t promise myself that things won’t go wrong, as someone said to me recently, it might be great! I might find joy.

Thou has created all things and for thy pleasure they are and were created. That’s my core truth. Not my pleasure, God’s. And as I experience joy along the way that makes the creator joy filled too.