Lucy

I just received an email that sparked this memory. It was about a local shopping mall being infused with muggers that target young moms. Whether or not it was true, I'm not sure and so with most forwarded emails, I checked it out on snopes.com - it's one of my favorite websites. There I found numerous stories about would be criminals and their deceitful tactics to victimize innocent folks. It reminded me of an incident that occurred almost 10 years ago.

It was a sunny but cold morning in March of 1999. Aslan was barely 9 weeks old and we lived in a rented home in a very quiet neighborhood outside of Pittsburgh. We owned a dog, her name was Lucy. That seems like such a benign name for a dog of her stature. She was half lab, half St. Bernard. One of the most beautiful dogs I've ever seen. She was fawn colored with a black mask and four perfect white "socks". She had a lab snout and she didn't slobber like a St. Bernard, but she was extremely tall. She was exceptionally bright and very, very intuitive. She knew I was pregnant before I did! She never jumped on people, but I would stand and command her "up, up!" as I patted my chest. We would "hug" at she met my height at the shoulders. One day, she mysteriously disobeyed the command. I didn't know why. For several days, she refused to do this, and later that week, I found out I was expecting our first child. I seriously believe that she knew. Lucy was our first 'baby' and she took Aslan's addition to our family in stride. She was such a good dog.

I had trained her not to take food from anyone unless commanded "okay". I could remove anything from her mouth, even a soup bone, with a "give" command. {This was obviously before I had children!} Like I said, she was very well trained.

Never did I suspect that the time and effort put into her training would pay off in such a way. Forrest left for work late that morning. He worked second shift and had a bit of a commute. Within less than two minutes of Forrest leaving, the door bell rang. It was a municipal water authority worker. He needed to read the meter which was in the house. He had a navy blue uniform and a badge, but his white van was unmarked. This made me a bit suspicious. The timing of his visit made me suspicious, as if he knew Forrest had just left. Usually my landlord gave me a heads up when the utility companies needed to read meters. I called him, but got no answer. The white, middle-aged, balding man asked to come in the house. I refused. I said that my baby was sleeping and I would allow him in through the cellar door where the meter was. He seemed slightly annoyed. I made sure Aslan was safe in his crib and took Lucy down to the basement with me. I opened the cellar door and showed him the meter right next to it. Usually utility men work in one area and get in and out as quickly as possible. This guy, conveniently, had a dog biscuit in his shirt pocket. That's when I internally started to freak out. He leaned over to give it to Lucy and she looked at me. I said "NO" and she stoically stood by my side, lunging her head forward a bit, narrowing her eyes, as if to say "We don't like you!" The conversation continued:
Him: "You don't let her have treats?"
Me: "No, I just don't let her take food from strangers"
Him: "And she listens?!"
Me: "Yes! And she will do whatever I tell her to!

At this point, Lucy is staring this guy down, her ridge is spiked and she is more like a large cat than dog, ready to pounce. He glances at the meter and scurries out. I lock the door behind him and race upstairs to the baby. He drives away. Later that night I get a call from my landlord telling me that he didn't think the meter was due to be read. Three weeks later, another utility man knocks on my door, this time he is in a marked van, same uniform and has a manifest with him. He informed me that our property had not been scheduled for a meter read at any time that month. Needless to say, I learned my lesson to go with my gut. But I will be forever grateful to Lucy for saving me from harm.

A Day of Thanks

So, I was side tracked by a stomach flu this week. It stopped a planned trip to visit family in Michigan for me and Trinity. Then it didn't make sense for Parker to go, so he stayed with me as well. My husband took the two oldest children with him and my mother in law took Jack and Evie. By mid-morning, Evie came back since she was sick. I was disappointed to be "alone" on the holiday to say the least. That was, until, I decided to have "guests" over.

I hadn't shopped for groceries, but my husband was kind enough to pick up a few things before he left. The rest was up to me. Since I was having company, I needed to clean the house. I started first thing in the morning and watched the Parade while trying to catch up on a few days of no maintenance in the house. I scrubbed the floors, dusted and vacuumed. Then when that was finished, I made the turkey and side dishes. I set the table, baked the rolls and put the pie in to heat up. As the turkey was "resting" I ran upstairs, slipped into my best Ann Taylor dress, doubled up on the perfume so I didn't smell like eau d'gravy and put on some lipstick. I lit the candles just as my guests "arrived". They had been looking forward to a nice, traditional Thanksgiving dinner and I did not want to disappoint.

We sat down and they were gracious enough to pray for our meal. It was a great time to spend together. We had a wonderful evening and I was reminded that I was not alone. So often we treat strangers better than our own family. Once in a while, polish the silver for them.

DirtyLaundry Cont.

Although there is much more to say on this topic, I am growing weary. It's difficult to write about depression when one is in the midst of an 'episode'. I don't feel well and therefore the last thing I want to do is enlighten people on my theories of the root of depression. In an earlier post, I wrote that the last way I would describe the act of suicide is 'selfish'. I still agree with this although I am realizing how egocentric I become when depressed. My thoughts are consumed with how much pain I am in and how everything around me sabotages my mental state. Nothing goes my way and there is no positive outcome to any situation. I cannot be broken from the cycle of swirling despair because I need to feel it. As miserable as I am, I will not give in to the Pollyanna that lies within. She is to be denied access to this dark world.

I cannot let go of the anger, pain, sadness. If I do,I may be hurt on an even deeper level. A place where optimism and naivety reign. That, I feel, is a place I would not heal from. So, I wear my depression as a suit of armor. It is heavy and awkward. But like an Elvin cloak, it hides me from unfriendly eyes.

Dirty Laundry Part 3

This series,although hardly yet a series,is bothering me. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is not the same motivation I had when I started. With the recent election results, I feel a release of angst. I think the tension of being in a battle ground state actually added to my depression. It sounds strange to allow television ads and pundits control one's mood, but I internalize things so deeply. If I get upset about something one of the hotheaded women say on "The View", I'll mull it over for days. It's ridiculous and it is a character flaw I am not proud of.

I wish things could roll off my back, but they don't. That is why I am so prone to depression. The sadness, anger and tension of the world around me is absorbed in an unusual way. It is only heightened because I stay at home. When TV and Yahoo news are your only connection to adult issues and connection, the world can become a very dark place. I am not outgoing socially. Because I do internalize things and tend to take them way too personally, I have been unable to form deep meaningful relationships with those around me. I will not be vulnerable to other women.


Growing up in a household of 7 females including myself, I know full well the impact that the female relationship has on me. I am the youngest of my family by almost a decade therefore I had 5 additional 'mothers' at various times. My birth order has played a HUGE role in my life. I'm a big believer in the birth order philosophy. I have a unique situation because I have the tendencies of a first born [because when there is more than 5 years between siblings, you start birth order over again]and yet all the tendencies of a baby of the family. This is why so many times I thought I suffered from bi polar or borderline personality disorder. Really it is just my temperament that varies so drastically.

I will probably expand on this more as I explore my reasons for the epidemic of depression in young moms. Not all of us have the same birth order of course, but it shapes who we are and it is worth examination.


This might be a fun thing to check out:

http://www.blogthings.com/birthorderpredictorquiz/

In the Beginning......Dirty Laundry Part Deux

OK - to quote one of my favorite films of all time: "let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start...."
On Saturday, I was driving home from the grocery store and Jack was arguing with Evie about some random act of nature that "not even God could stop". I can't tell you exactly what their conversation entailed because half the time, I am oblivious to their banter. But I heard that part and it piqued my interest, and Aslan's as well. Aslan and I both responded. "He can do anything Jack, He's God." "Nah-uh!" Jack quipped - this ought to be good I thought - "God cannot kill himself." What? WOW. He was right.

So then my children debated the issue of whether or not God could indeed kill Himself and of course we came to the conclusion that since He is not human, or created, He cannot die. Then we got into the whole incarnation and although Jesus died He rose again....ad infinitum.

This is not typical 'going home from the grocery store' conversation mind you. I don't want readers to think that my children are perpetual philosophers. But at the same time, these kind of conversations are not special - they are....natural.
So the conversation shifted. It went to a dark place. Suicide. The children made light of it, but I had to do something I had never done before. Tell them that not everyone that commits suicide would go to heaven. (Because Jack said that if you kill yourself you will be in heaven with God forever and I didn't want them to accept that) This puzzled them because death to them equals eternity in heaven. I could not allow them to continue the conversation in a light hearted way simply because it is too painful a subject.


I've lived with suicidal tendencies since I was about 4 or 5 years old.


For the first time in my life, I admitted that suicide CAN be sinful. I said it to my children and therefore the words are like coming from the mouth of God himself to them. I am overly cautious about influencing them on conscience formation. I try to not be black and white on many issues. I try to teach them to look at things from a global perspective and find the root of a problem they are having. I believe in de-briding all wounds in our household. I am probably on overkill most of the time, but I care deeply about their mental health; not unlike a wealthy person who was desperately poor as a child lavishes their own offspring with excessive material goods. But there is reason behind this attitude. And for someone who has battled the desire and even attempted suicide, it was hard to admit it might be wrong. It's my security blanket. It is the hidden bottle of vodka for the alcoholic to me. The "just in case" resolution if things get to hard to handle. To say out loud that one should not commit suicide was HUGE for me. I have deep deep empathy for those who take their lives and I am incapable of making any judgment on whether it was sinful on their part, because I am convinced that mental illness does not allow them to think rationally. And sometimes the pain is so unbearable.

I despise it when people use the term "i'm going to blow my brains out" or "if such and such happens, (or doesn't happen)I'll kill myself!" I don't think it's funny. And if I hear the old adage "that [suicide] is so selfish", I cringe with rage. The last time I checked, people who are selfish really care about, well, themselves. Self-love is a common definition. How much must you hate someone to kill them? It's not selfishness, it's hating yourself so much that you don't want anyone you DO love to have to put up with you. It's hopeless, yes, but please, not selfish.


Last week my mom asked me why I had been through so much therapy.

It was the first time in my life that my mother showed an interest in my mental health. It was to say the least, surreal.


I'm so hard wired that suicide both disgusts and fascinates me. In the sixth grade,I did a science project on the subject of teenage suicide and depression. My teachers saw a red flag and suggested counseling. My parents disagreed and bought me a puppy instead. She [the dog] became my confidant when I felt no one else would listen. I LOVED that dog. Four years later my parents took that dog away from me without warning or a goodbye because my mom couldn't deal with the dog having a bladder infection. These types of situations were so cyclical in my life that I never really could heal from one before the rug was pulled out from under me again.

Wait....what was my point? Oh Yeah, WHY DID I NEED THERAPY???? GEE MOM, I DON'T KNOW!

Then I explained a few things to my mom about why I had needed therapy and my distrust of loved ones for fear of being hurt {psychobabble, blah blah blah}


I've had a fundamental change in my life. That's why I can write about all this ugliness. At the beginning of the month, I went to a well known faith healer. He is a modest man who travels the Eastern part of the country - I believe with all of my heart that God used this man to close some gaping, putrid wounds in my psyche.

There is healing, there is hope.

But, my favorite therapist told me once that healing from depression is a journey that takes the rough, painful path. Not the easy one that skirts issues. You need to wade and wallow in your pain sometimes so that you can know it, and recognize it when it rears its ugly head.

I've been knee deep in my own lake of despair for long enough. I have made the decision not to go under. I walk out now and admire the beauty that the pain gave me. Wisdom was what Solomon wanted more than any other earthly possession. Now I know why; it's priceless. My children will not ever have to feel disconnected the way I did. I know how to stop it. I know the signs and I know pain. That to me, is a muse for living life.







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Dirty Laundry - Part one

I have been in contemplative thought for a few weeks now. Is it coincidental that homecomings are held in October and many people feel nostalgic this time of year? I usually get very reflective near New Year's as I prepare to set goals for the coming year and reprise which ones I've accomplished or "re-routed" {i will not say 'failed to meet' for self deprecation is no longer a part of my lifestyle} In all seriousness, I have decided to blog a series on the subject of depression. Recently a statistic I read stated that the growing number of suicide is among white, middle aged women.

http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/10/081021093938.html


As sobering as the information was, it relieved me. It made me feel as though I'm not the only one that battles with these demons. Depression is a subject I have exhausted over the last 20 years through thought, work, research and reading. My diagnosis has ranged from clinical depression to dysthimia to post traumatic stress disorder, major depression, double depression, seasonal affective disorder and post partum depression. I've tried everything for treatment: therapy, anti-depressants, reiki, guided imagery, detoxing, prayer & meditation, hospitalization, NET therapy, faith healing, vitamins and supplements, hormonal therapy and just trying to 'get over it.' All treatments play a role in the whole picture of recovery. I am a big believer in "leave no stone unturned". Have I found the 'cure all'? Sadly, no.

I've gained something more precious: experience. I am now willing to share that through this medium. My journey has at times been ugly, very ugly. But one cannot begin to explore depression through rose colored glasses. Part of the reason that so many women in particular are depressed is because we fail to admit the inequities of our souls. We are screaming and miserable inside and cannot find our voice. I want to break the radio silence. It's my dirty laundry and it's time to air it.

Little Women

I previously posted about Evie being beyond her years. She has a tendency to sound so adult in her cadence, it's at times, annoying. I think the reason that it gets on my nerves so much is because I know, deep down, she is parroting me. She'll casually mention that she has the hiccups, then about one minute later, she'll say: "Mom? Why aren't you getting me peanut butter?" (which my DH has convinced the children is the cure all for hiccups) She questions my abilities constantly and incessantly interrogates intentions. I know she has picked this up from hearing me always ask rhetorical questions in an annoyed tone. If I'm not johnny on the spot for her, I'll hear about it. She is bossy but bright. Very bright.
She reminds us of Gab at her age. Gabby could carry on a conversation with you when she was 18 months old. Not exaggerating here! We often had to remind ourselves how old she actually was. When we think back to that time in our lives, we have many regrets on how harshly we treated her. Her verbal acuity did not match her cognitive ability and so we often expected too much from her. I learned my lesson and so I apply it now to Evie. I slip up sometimes, and feel badly. But I could learn a lesson from Gabby once again. Recently she wrote something in her journal that she shared with me:


You can hear my heart sing out loud, but you can also hear
my soul quiet down. Sometimes they laugh at me cause I make mistakes but it's okay because everybody makes mistakes.



I would like to take the credit for teaching her that it's ok to make mistakes. But my perfectionistic manner cannot claim such lovingkindness. I thank the Lord that somehow, my children are learning forgiveness, somewhere.