Then and Now

A year ago, as I've mentioned in previous posts, my thinking was quite different. I've never been suicidal, but I can't say I worried too much about staying alive. It's not like I engaged in intentionally dangerous behaviors or impulses. I didn't play in traffic or jump, parachuteless out of airplanes or off buildings. I didn't play on tight ropes. In fact, besides those impulsive adolescent years and perhaps more than my fair share of risky drunken shenanigans, I've taken pretty good care of myself. I never invited death or pain, but I also didn't despair at the possibility of getting some kind of terminal illness or losing my life (painlessly?) in some sort of accident. Now, as I've previously mentioned, my perspective has changed. I have a son and he has given me new life. I love my husband and my friends and family, but there's just something different with my Critter. There's the sense that not only does he need me, and his father needs me; but there's also this shiny new sense of excitement and curiosity that comes with the overwhelming love for my child. I WANT and APPRECIATE this life. That's not to say I believe people who are depressed or otherwise struggling should put all of the emotional weight of their lives on their children! Our children are not here to save us from ourselves. That's not fair to the kid and it will only cause problems for everyone down the line. All I'm saying is that my life feels more complete. More exciting with more potential for both joy and heartbreak and adventure and so much learning. My baby boy doesn't have to carry the weight of being my life, in its entirety. He simply and beautifully enhances and brings a new light to every nook of it. He makes life luscious and full and too big to take for granted. He brings zest to passing go.

And with all that said, I got a call from my nurse midwife yesterday. My post-baby pap smear came back abnormal. Uh, what?? I tested positive for high risk (read: possible could lead to cancer) HPV. Luckily, I've already done my research, so I haven't freaked out. Most of the time, people's immune systems crush the little bugger virus before any damage is done; but then, again, there's the possibility it won't. In that case, first step is still not to freak out. HPV does not equal cancer. It just increases the likelihood that I could get cancer. So, second step is to get check for pre-cancerous (or cancerous, I suppose) cells. Pre-cancerous get scraped, I get a follow up to make sure they don't come back, and done. Poof. Worry gone. Back to routine care o' the business downstairs. I guess I'm not really worried about step three. Step three assumes steps 1 and 2 don't work, and that seems unlikely.

It does make me think in my new way about mortality. BC (Before Critter), I don't know that I would have sought treatment in the event of a necessary third step. I figured (knowing full well that I might very well change my mind given the reality of imminent death) that I might just let the cancer take me. My step 3 would have been about finding peace within my community, tying up emotional and logistical loose ends, and securing palliative care for the pain. I would have peaced-out of this joint, figuring it was just my time. But now.... I have my Critter. My little love. Now things have changed. Now I would fight it. I would get treatment. I would hold onto the very last shreds of my life to watch him along his journey for as long as possible. And that's it. Life is harder, more fulfilling, and wonderful; and I would no longer fold so easily to hand it in.... I don't know how to end this entry. So how about:

FUCK YEAH. I'm a MOM!

Dear Critter

Dear Critter,
As I'm both exhausted, because you won't sleep, and sad, because I'm at work instead of at home with you and your dad and sister, I'm just going to start this entry with some memories from your first 6 weeks of breathing air instead of sucking amniotic fluid.

• Soy formula is evil, but at least you're off it now. As mentioned in previous posts, you tested positive for a rare genetic disorder called galactosemia. It sounds fake, doesn't it? When I heard it over the phone I wanted to yell PRANK CALL PRANK CALL and hang up.... but it was real. Three and a half weeks later we got the good news that you are just a carrier and that you do not have a symptomatic strain of it. You get back on the boob! That said, someday, if you are planning to have your own biological children with someone, you might want to have them tested for it, just to know what you might be up against.
• Pumping sucks, but it's worth it to make sure you get at least mostly good stuff.
• Your dad almost left you thumbless (look closely at your left one) when I was too scared to trim your fingernails. It's ok. It grew back. Besides, how many thumbs would you REALLY have needed anyway? Neither one of us has attempted to trim them again since. You get mittens instead. It's a good look, kid. 
• One morning, after you slept on the couch with your dad, you smelled like an armpit. Your dad's armpit, to be clear. He'd been working out and it took 2 baths to get that smell off of your head.
• You LOVE snuggling with your dad. He plays with you and soothes you in ways that I can't, and it's adorable, melting my heart every time I see it. I guess you're not holding any grudges over the thumb thing.
• Sleep is rough. You seem to do best in the mornings, but nights are a different story. First (besides the simple fact that you're a newborn) was the soy and not being able to poop which kept you awake and screaming. Then came the gas, which we discovered was also HUNGER pain because the boob diner wasn't producing enough milk. We've fixed the hungry tummy thing, but you fart like a grown man after downing a 6 pack, and the grumble guts you get while working up to said flatulence is apparently pretty damn uncomfortable. We're hoping you'll feel better if I give up certain kinds of food like gluten and dairy.
• Have I mentioned that you sound, we can only imagine, like a pterodactyl when you're upset? You have the most blood curdling, eardrum shattering, heart breaking scream I've ever heard. And, unless you're fully in a food coma or asleep, you employ said scream with each diaper change. It seems, my little love, that you would much prefer stewing in your messed britches.
• You've pooped in my hand. You've projectile pooped on the changing table. You've pooped all over yourself and on me in public. You've pooped explosively. You've pooped pellets. You've pooped skid marks. You've pooped calking. You've pooped paste. You've pooped soup. Poop has been the most prevalent theme in your life so far. Poop and gas. And I'll admit, even having grown up with your grandmother's strict anti-bathroom-humor perspective, I maintain that your gas is HILARIOUS.... when you're not crying, that is. This will no doubt change as you get older and know better. Please don't be "that guy."
• I've had breakdowns, wishing I could do more to soothe you. I've cried with you when neither of us could sleep. Well, in all fairness, I could have slept if you'd have let me! But I hope you always know, my little love, that I will always be here to hold you through your pain. Even after I die, I hope memories will help lighten your load and ease your suffering.
• Your smiles and laughter are the most beautiful things I've ever seen and heard. You melt my heart into a messy little puddle.
• I hate leaving you to come to work. I love my job. I just hate leaving you, especially with someone other than family. No offense to Grandma Linda's Daycare. I think maybe, probably, it will never feel like there's enough time. You are my world. I wonder if I could just bring you to work with me... you could hang out in the office, getting snuggled by everyone in turn. Four days into being back at work, and I miss the hell out of you, Critter. At least someday I'll get off this night schedule and I'll be home with you and everyone in the evenings again.

I guess that's it for now. I'm so tired my eyeballs feel like they're falling out of my head, and coffee has taken on an entirely renewed appeal; but you're already getting too big too fast. I didn't give you life, little love. We've given each other life. I love passing go with you.

Love,
Mama

Soy formula vs. the Boob juice

I thought instead about entitling this entry "Soy swill vs. the grand and glorious Boob," but I decided to stay a little more neutral. Anyway, Mom said I should write everything down because I'd forget the little details that I wanted to remember before I knew it... so here I am, finally taking a priceless quiet moment to write while little man slumbers and I can't remember all I'd wanted to write. I also want to get a baby book. The convenience of doing everything online is great, but the tangibility of hard copies, of actual photos, of memories written in pen, is priceless. Those are the things you pass down the generations. Not websites and blogs. In the meantime, however, here's today's blog entry....

First off, we FINALLY got the last galactosemia results back-- a urinalysis as the last part of a "milk challenge" to see if the sugar in question was building up in him or if he was processing it-- and he's clear! Our Critter is just a carrier of the gene, but is not impacted by it in any other way, so he's back on the 24 hour booby diner!

That said, we had to keep him on soy formula for a miserable 3 weeks while I tried to keep production up by pumping, just in case his results came back clear. SOOOO glad they did (and remind me to go on a rant about doctors later). Here's the breakdown and why we're so glad to have him off of that shit:

Soy formula ingredients: "CORN SYRUP SOLIDS (39%), SOY PROTEIN ISOLATE (15%), HIGH OLEIC SAFFLOWER OIL (11%), SUGAR (10%), SOY OIL (8%), COCONUT OIL (8%);" and less than 2% of a whole bunch of other stuff. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  I'm sustaining the life of my newborn on a highly processed concoction made up primarily of SUGAR? Don't get me wrong, if the diagnosis had been legitimate, we'd have made do with it until/unless we could take advantage of other options; but still.... Awful. And I'm not just saying this because I don't like the ingredients. I've said it in a previous entry, and it rings especially true in the delicate system of babies, but what we put in our bodies IMPACTS our WELL-BEING. For 3 1/2 of the 5 weeks of Critter's life, he had blue rings under his eyes due to poor sleep, LOTS of gas, and difficulty pooping. He'd fall asleep right after he'd have a bowel movement, which was once or twice a day, and then he'd wake up screaming. So, we dubbed him our little pterodactyl, and I've thus lost probably 90% of my hearing and now carry an ear horn around in the diaper bag. By the last week of soy he COULDN'T poop without significant help from (doctor/nurse approved and dosed) prune juice and/or rectal stimulation and/or warm baths with baking soda and/or tummy massage, but the discomfort would return within a matter of hours when his body was ready to go again.* He also got a mean case of baby acne, really chapped lips, and his color seemed off. Suffice it to say, baby boy was miserable and so were we.

*For the record, we kept rectal stimulation, especially, as well as juice to an absolute minimum, wanting to mess with his little body and system as little as possible. In the event that we would have had to stay on soy, we were crossing our fingers that his body might eventually adjust. 

Now, as of a very well-received and expected phone call Wednesday afternoon, we have officially ditched the soy (and prune juice) and put Critter back where he belongs on breast milk. Even accounting for some readjustment crankiness and having to nurse pretty much constantly to build production back up (we are supplementing with saved, frozen breast milk) things are SO VERY MUCH BETTER. By Thursday morning, our tiny person was starting to poop regularly again and seemed much happier. And, as of this morning, he is sleeping better (and so are we!), his skin has already mostly cleared up, his lips are fine, and his color is back within healthy tiny human range. Amazing. Cheers to boobs and their wonderful elixir of life, and FUCK soy formula. I hope, for anyone who ever has to take their child off of milk, that better options come to light. We were told by the doctor that there was no other option, quality of life be damned.

In fact, that brings me to my rant about doctors. I appreciate and respect them (I mean, hell, my amazing and wonderful older brother is one) and all that they do and know and take on in helping save lives and maintain health and wellness; BUT, as in any profession, not all doctors are created equal or share the same strengths, knowledge, or even (maybe especially) sense of empathy or respect for their patients. Maybe we can call that interpersonal savvy and humility?

The doctors at the hospital were great. They were professional, respectful, and communicative. They didn't dismiss our opinions or concerns, and they didn't underestimate our competence as parents and patients. The first doctor we saw after getting the initial galactosemia results, however, was a different story. By all appearances, she was professional and empathetic, but I can't shake the feeling that she was negligently non-communicative and condescending. She was apologetic about the diagnosis, but dismissed any question I had with "you'll have to ask the specialist." Her tone oozed of implications of poor parenting because we chose to talk to her--fewer than 24 hours after being told to switch to soy--before jumping on the soy wagon. Granted, we were told to switch immediately, but given the arbitrary nature of clinical time frames, along with the fact that our boy was showing ZERO symptoms of anything, as well as the possibility that we got a false positive, we made an educated decision to choose to wait for confirmation. Her demeanor and tone took on a shaming vibe also when I suggested that I would swing by the store to get the mandatory soy on my way home. "Oh no," she said (at least this is how I remember it). "You don't want to take him into any really public places until he's at least 2 months old," she informed me, talking about how his immune system can't handle it.

So, of course I left that doctor's office feeling completely incompetent, dismissed, angry, sad, frightened, worried, helpless, and hopeless. I had Sunshine pick up the formula on his way home, feeling grateful that Critter didn't get hungry before that. Feeling hopeless, I almost gave back the breast pump and threw away all the storage bags. I was told, afterall, that there was no other option than soy. I was told "Get him off milk immediately."

Then, I came to my senses, and remembered that disorders generally fall somewhere on a spectrum of severity. Maybe, just maybe, given his distinct lack of symptoms, he only had a mild case and we could reintroduce breast milk at some point in some quantity. This is where I have the biggest beef with that doctor. How difficult would it have been to advise me to go cold turkey and give the kid soy only, but to also keep pumping just in case the specialist cleared us? If I had taken that doctor's word --and unwillingness or maybe inability to inform me of possibilities-- as gospel, we'd be screwed into formula as our only option right now.

All is well that ends well, though. I've taken a break from ranting, and I've lost my steam for it. I'd rather marvel at my tiny person and thank my lucky stars for giving me life. Passing go is good. Life is good.

This is life, seriously

He's here! That little wad of Critter baby that I'd been cooking finally arrived, at 41 weeks, exactly, on August 9, 2013. Weighing in 7 lbs, 6 oz, THE CRITTER met the challenge of birth and fought me for a good 11 plus hours from our arrival at the birthing center, but contractions actually started about 6 hours before that.... But rather than repeat myself here, I'll just paste the email I sent to family (with some edits and additions) after labor was all said and done and the next challenges had set in.

Hi all,

Please forgive the mass email, as it just makes the update easier.

To start, baby boy Critter has, by all outward appearances, been thriving. He was born at the hospital soon after we got transferred from the birthing center, where we'd initially planned for a completely natural birth. Yup, due to decelerations in his heart rate at the end of each contraction, we ended up one of those rare cases that was too risky to stay the course without hospital monitoring. Turns out, his cord was wrapped around his neck, so kudos to the midwives for making that call! Admittedly, at the mention of the need for hospital transfer while I was in what seemed to be an eternal transition period (PAIN), my thinking was split (much like my body was feeling): "What?? Huh?? Really?? But..." (read into this as worry, concern, anxiety, and most definitely panic). Simultaneously, the other half of my thinking was "Yes, DRUGS!"

So I got my first ride in an ambulance, complete with oxygen to address hyperventilation that I couldn't, for the life of me, get a hold of on my own. Deep breathing and zen, my ass. I was shaking uncontrollably and losing it. Cheeks and hands were numb, and talking myself down seemed a whole lot more possible in the imaginary, fictional easy birth realm. All the while, the poor paramedic, just trying to do his job kept asking me impossible questions: "When's your birthday? What's your social? What's your address?" In that moment, he might as well have been asking for the precise number of hairs on my head or to recite lines from obscure Shakespeare. Somehow, I must've spat out the needed information though, because he did let me out into the capable hands of the hospital upon our arrival. He did not give up and chuck me out the back of the vehicle for being difficult.

From there, I was wheeled to my first very own hospital bed where my water FINALLY broke as soon as they got me on it. There, they told me it was probably "only a couple more hours." No. Body was trying to push, staff was telling me not to. Impossible not to push, but nothing was happening except, you know, pain. "Um, just so... (ouch) you... (wheeze) all know, I'm no longer... (grunt) opposed... (OOOOOUCH) to drugs. What are... (whimper) my options?" A lifetime later (probably more like 20-30 minutes), I received an epidural. It didn't take long for the clock to no longer feel like it was submerged in thick molasses. Time was back to normal, I couldn't feel my butt or anything else for that matter, and within literal minutes (rather than the hours the staff was quoting) our little pink, slimy, slippery baby boy finally made his debut into the world and into my arms. Seven pounds, six ounces. Nineteen and a half inches long. RED hair! Our perfect little boy, of course, melted both Sunshine's heart and mine. He, by the way, was amazing the whole way through. Augustus and I are very lucky to have him.

A little about my wonderful husband through the process: He stayed up with me from 2:30 am, on, timing my contractions and contacting the birthing center when my contractions started piling up on each other. He was the only person I wanted with me, other than the midwives (and what turned out to be a whole team of hospital staff). He held my hair when I puked. He offered to help me go to the bathroom (somehow my modesty remained partially in tact when it came to attempting to poop on the toilet!). He patiently held my IV bag while I slowly dosey doed endless circles around him in the birthing room. He tried to make me laugh to take my mind off the pain. He whispered sweet, encouraging words. He held me. He dealt with staff. He kept me warm. He tended to my mother, and held the ground for me that no one else--including her--would be permitted in the labor room and in the hospital. And, not once then nor since then has he made a single comment about the multitude of hideous faces, noises, smells, leakages, crying, and panic he experienced while holding the world together for me. And then, as our sweet boy was nestled into my arms, I got to look up and see the most beautiful tears in his eyes as he looked down at what we'd just brought into the world.

Although, I think he's still adjusting to the shock that our perfect little guy is a ginger. We're thinking, if he maintains the red, we'll get to give him his granduncle's (grandfather's brother?) nickname: BRICK!

Fast forward to today, and we're all a little worn out after an emergency appointment with the pediatrician yesterday. He's been eating well, he's growing like a weed (already up to 8 lb 1 oz, 20 inches) no jaundice, and seemingly normal everything else too. But, his enzyme and DNA tests came back positive for a rare genetic disorder called galactosemia, so... well... we're trying not to freak out. Adjusting our hopes and dreams and expectations to account for possible developmental delays and health issues has hit us pretty hard, but we're hopeful that little man, given the distinct lack of symptoms, has a mild version and can therefore be spared the more severe potential lifelong challenges and effects related to it. We've been doing our own research online (for better or worse), but we'll also be calling the specialist on Monday to make an appointment to learn more about what we might realistically expect for now as well as in the long run.

In the meantime, we have been well informed that the only "treatment" for him is soy formula. No milk of any kind from any source. Needless to say, with as much as he was eating before, Augustus and I are both pretty torn apart with the shutting down of the 24 hour boob diner. We're adjusting though. He roots. I cry and attempt words of encouragement for both of us. I give him his bottle of soy swill. He scowls, spits it out, and wears more of it than he drinks. Then we're crying together. Yeah, mother-son solidarity! I will say, though, he sleeps really well when he finishes crying, and my skin has that special, puffy glow only achieved through excessive weeping. So there's a silver lining? And then, of course, there's Rand. He's just as worried as I am, and still just as wonderful as ever. I think his silver lining is that now he doesn't have to give up holding his son just 'cause he can't offer him a nourishing boobie when he's hungry. He can feed Augustus just as... ahem... easily as I can.

So, that's it in a large nutshell. We'll keep you posted on little man's prognosis. In the meantime, the pediatrician we saw was NO help at all, as she just responded to my questions with "you'll have to ask the specialist," and the specialist was probably going to take at least weeks to see! So, I'm still pumping to keep milk production up, just in case his condition is mild enough to continue with some breastfeeding. I mean, not to be too uptight or anything, but what would have been so hard about informing me that it COULD be mild and I should keep milk production up, just in case? I had to decide to keep it up, based on my own research because I'd rather keep pumping and have to dump it all than stop only to find out that I could've still fed him a little. 

Anyhow, perhaps this email is filled with TMI, but it's where we find ourselves right now. Hunkering down and holding it together 'til we find our footing and effectively adjust our expectations.

Thank you all for your well wishes and support, we hope everyone is doing great; and, Wedgie, I want to drive out to see you first chance I get!

Lots of love and gratitude,
hatchetface

P.S. Here's one of the websites with some good info:

http://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/condition/galactosemia

Current update: I'm going to do my best not to see that particular doctor again. Nincompoopery! As it turns out his condition IS mild. As in, super mild. As in, he's ONLY A CARRIER and they don't think he has the active form of the disorder. I'm SO grateful to the specialist's office for being so prompt in analyzing his test results and getting back to me. I talked to his scheduler and told her I'm still pumping, and it seems she immediately jumped on top of getting me the info I needed. I haven't even seen the specialist she works for yet, but they've got me back on partial breastfeeding to test his system before going full boob again. The way things are looking, we probably won't even NEED to see him. Hooray! 24 hour boob diner is back in business!


And then there's this pic with Grandma. A picture can speak a thousand words, right? We're pretty sure this is more or less how Critter was positioned most of his time in the womb. What you can't see is the other knee sticking up; and he usually has both hands up at his face, one of which I frequently felt graze, tickle, and even seemingly squeeze the hell out of my bladder.


A few weeks before Critter was born, Sunshine asked me for a candid response, once little man arrived, to a question about love. Even though he already has a daughter with his ex wife, he wanted to know if, in fact, the love for partner (him) really does diminish when compared to the new, overwhelming love of a child. I've heard from other women before that the partner/husband essentially becomes chopped liver once the baby arrives, but, honestly, I think there's probably something amiss in those relationships. Critter has, in fact, given new light and a never before experienced overwhelming love to my world, but it has in no way negatively impacted my feelings for my husband. Rather, it has intensified my feelings toward him. Before Critter (can we call this BC?), I feel like I fell a little more in love with Sunshine every day; and now that Critter is here, the rate at which my love and gratitude grow seems to have an exponential acceleration.


That's not to say I haven't been dive bombed by insecurity birds or had the irrational, fearful hobgoblins scratching around chaotically in my mind, especially when dead tired. It doesn't mean we won't have our challenges and disagreements.


It DOES mean I miss him when one or the other of us can't come to bed because we're tending to our son. It means we're navigating a major shift in family dynamics. It also means I adore and respect him for being my partner in this amazing, and sometimes challenging, journey.


With the exception of the momentary terror that my son might be sick, and all that would have gone with that possibility, I have to say it's not a bad way to pass go these days.

Work, Life, Death

In my new(ish) job, the workplace dynamics are interesting, to say the least. You've got your typical office politics, cliques, and gripes combined with an atypical population served in an under-funded, under-staffed, frequently abused system. And, the word liability keeps floating to the forefront of my thinking. What a mess.

That being said, and acknowledging the big, beautiful hearts of all the people I'm getting to work with (personality differences, clashes in professional opinions, and compassion fatigue aside), there are two people, in particular, I want to praise and acknowledge. They happen to also be my shift-mates, so maybe I'm a little biased, but I don't think so. Just working a shift with someone doesn't mean you ENJOY working that shift with them. These ladies, though, really inspire me.

Both are long-timers with the organization where we work. They've worked in other departments as well as the one we're all with now, it would seem they've seen it all in their years of experience, and yet their compassion, understanding, humility, and patience continues to flow in abundance. That's not to say they don't get tired, annoyed, or grumpy just like anyone else. And, that's not to say they ALWAYS have all the answers. It means, at least to me, based on what I've seen, they try to avoid unnecessary workplace drama and they bring both their heart AND their appropriate boundaries and intentions into the work they do. So, if (more like when) I catch myself rolling my eyes or making annoyed assumptions about someone, these ladies inspire me to catch myself and take a step back for a fresh helping of humble pie. The perspective may or may not change the resources I can offer someone, but it can make a giant impact in how I work with them. It creates a perspective of empowerment and faith in the person, rather than one of resentment.

It's tricky though. People can be complete pricks, so it helps to remember something an instructor once said to a class I took:

"Hey, you guys only have to put up with me for 90 minutes, but I have to deal with myself 24/7!"

Good point. My frustration in working with people who are acting entitled, whiny, abusive, etc. is probably nothing compared to the pain, frustration, and anxiety they feel within their own skin. I mean, think about it:

How would YOU handle abuse, days without sleep, abandonment, homelessness, being sick without a cure, marginalization, stigma, judgement, hearing voices and seeing things, paranoia, no real friends or family, etc? My guess is that you wouldn't handle it very well. Most of us get grumpy and whiny and pissy and moany with a simple sinus infection. So, next time you meet an addict or see a homeless person on the street, just remember this bite of humble pie. You don't have to try to fix anyone or DO or give anything. All I'm saying is this: just don't judge people, not with anger nor disgust nor pity.

Seven Ways to Slog Through

Probably one of my favorite blogs in all the land is this one: http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/.

It's funny. It's entertaining. It's insightful. It's so very human and honest, and it inspires me to be a better writer. Well, I'm not a writer. I just like to share thoughts with the random internet folks; but she still inspires me, and recently this inspiration comes in the form of describing experience with depression. Robert Sapolsky of Stanford University also addresses it beautifully: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOAgplgTxfc.

Anyhow, just like any other experience or feeling or ailment, depression happens for each individual somewhere within a spectrum and with varying levels of severity, insight, capacity to cope, and (for that matter) willingness to just keep trying, to just keep looking for those momentary flickers of happiness that might eventually piece together to form a more complete whole, and to just keep passing go as best you can when everything--even the things from which you previously derived great enjoyment-- seems pressured, stagnant, flat, grey, numb, and stale. When you can't, despite your best efforts, looking in every corner, crevice, and shadow, find your real giddy anywhere. It's just gone-- GONE-- along with the fresh air in your lungs and the blood in your veins. All that's left coursing through you is sand and you think to yourself that it wouldn't be so bad if you just didn't wake up one day. Giddy is gone, and it seems like nobody gets it. People are uncomfortable with 2D you, and maybe rightfully so. You've shut down and most days you're just going through the motions, at best, and most people don't know what to do with that.

But, maybe my place here isn't to describe anymore at length what it feels like to be depressed. It's been done so so well already and I would only be continuing to give you my personal version of it. Maybe my place is to talk about how to slog through it. Well, how I have slogged through it, at least.

Maybe this is where that ever-so-popular-this-is-how-you-get-reposted-bullet-point blogging style comes in handy: 5 SURE FIRE WAYS TO FIX A HANG NAIL or THE 3 BIGGEST SOCIAL FAUX PAS YOU NEVER KNEW YOU COMMITTED or 97 REASONS YOU SHOULD do this that or the other....

Where do I begin, though? There are infinite coping tools to get through it that I have both professionally urged and personally utilized, but I will say this: it all starts and ends with Finding Nemo: "Just keep swimming." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmyUkm2qlhA

Or, as I like to say: Just keep passing go.

At any rate, here goes nothing.

Number One: Look at your interpersonal inventory

which reminds me of another great quote....


As I was saying, take inventory, and not just of the assholes. Take a close look to find the assholes, the energy suckers, the perpetual victims, the liars, the deceivers, the manipulators, the abusers, and the wet blankets, etc. It's not necessarily easy to do, but figuring out who's toxic and oppressive in your life and setting up the dynamic--and your boundaries!-- so that those people won't have an acute impact on your well being is immensely helpful. Keep in mind, it doesn't mean give all your friends and family the boot--maybe some, but not all. It might just mean redefining the dynamic, but I'm personally well aware that's easier said than done. I've had friendships go down in flames because I stopped feeding into bullshit and manipulation. I've also had friendships that just simply moved quietly to the periphery. Some of those dropped friendships were no doubt because my friend decided I wasn't good in their life, and that's ok too. I'd venture to say we've all burned a few bridges at some point by being some version of a flaming douchebag. The important thing is to try to figure out how to be a better friend and not set those fires anymore. Then again, sometimes it's not a matter of douchebaggery on either side. Sometimes a friendship is just not a good match.

 Number Two: Get some exercise and make a conscious effort to eat better and do positive things.
In short, make the difficult decisions to do things that don't make your situation even worse. At the very least try to keep it neutral! I think a lot of people (myself definitely included) tend to go into self-destruct mode when something hits us sideways and knocks us into a deeper depression. We start seeking quick and easy emotional fixes. Cupcakes, french fries, booze, drugs, isolation, cutting, lethargy, etc. seem to be the duct tape, bubble gum, and safety pins of shoddy and unstable emotional handiwork. So, put the Cheesy Poofs down and go for a walk or learn to hula hoop or take up yoga or gardening or tree climbing or weight lifting. Just DO something that moves your body. 

• Another thing to keep in mind, nutritionally: If you're eating crappy to celebrate when things are good AND you're eating crappy to self soothe when things are bad, how often are you really eating well, for sustainable emotional and physical wellness??

Number Three: Help someone else
Get out of your own head. Quit fixating and obsessing about your own situation. Smile at someone else. Open a door. Be nice. Maybe even get involved in some kind of volunteer activity. People won't always return the kindness, but who cares? Just like it's your choice to be kind, it's theirs to be grouchy (or worse). I'd rather choose to be kind because it makes me feel good, regardless of how it makes others feel. If it helps them have a better day too, that's just icing on some already damn good cake, and I'm a huge fan of icing.
 
Number Four: Practice gratitude and quit saying "can't" and "but"
Can't and but won't get you anywhere but stuck. They are the stickiest kind of sludge, and it's easy to get neck deep in it if you don't make a conscious effort to think in more empowering ways. There will always be limitations, a reason not to do something, or an excuse for yourself. If you want to move forward, you're going to have to cut that shit out. It's your choice: keep stuck in the muck of your limitations, or start taking genuine inventory of what your other options are. Another way to look at it is this: you can focus on the manure (it's just shit, right?), or you can focus on the garden it can grow. You might end up growing roses instead of petunias, or carrots instead of lettuce, but you're still growing things. Figure out what works for YOU. 

Number Four: Forgive
Forgive yourself. Forgive others. That doesn't mean forget your mistakes, or hand your new wallet to the person who stole your other one last week. You still have to protect yourself by learning from mistakes (see #1) and keeping a positive inventory, but it doesn't do any good to let those mistakes or those hits hold you back. 

Number Five: Journal
And here I'm not saying you need to write 8,000 pages of your deepest darkest. Maybe writing isn't your thing, but there are plenty of other ways:

• daily, weekly, monthly, or sporadic photos or magazine collages that represent your life 
• sketches
• bullet lists of successes and challenges (and I've found successes and challenges to be inextricably related, by the way) and how you're going to address them differently
• accountability journal-- taking responsibility for your mistakes AND your strengths
• letter writing: whether or not you choose to mail the letters or notes, sometimes it helps to imagine yourself talking to someone in particular. I've also found this one helps tremendously when I'm grieving the loss of someone.
• voice recorder or video: maybe you're better at talking than I am
• any combination of these and more 

Number Six: Practice honesty and courage
Figure out what integrity means to you and practice it. Who do you lie to? Why do you lie? What kind of lying? What kind of deceit? Are you deceiving yourself? Honesty doesn't mean you have to tell everyone exactly what you think at all times-- tact and humility are practicable and important skills in themselves, so try not to be the asshole that mouths off and then justifies it under the guise of "just being honest." That's a load of bullshit. This honesty is about insight, courage, integrity, accountability, and humility. And, I also think it's important to remember that your particular truth may not be someone else's truth, and it nothing you do or say will necessarily change that. Perspective is a powerful moderator along those lines, so, again, let's not forget our humility.


Number Seven: Make your own list like this one
There are plenty more tips for slogging through and out of depression. Find your own ways to keep passing go. 

look out! it's the waaaaaaaambulance!

It's funny to me how many things get piled up in my mind about which to write, but the motivation eludes me: the intensity of my job, office place politics and dynamics, lonely but productive schedule, crappy eating, weeks away from official motherhood, family dynamics, and dark thoughts. The dark thoughts were taking up the most space the other day, after a particularly interesting, uncomfortable, intense and kind of scary night at work. But today my brain is more preoccupied with interpersonal dynamics and my role in conflict. Finding the balance between being a rigid, self righteous, irritable (maybe irritating), overbearing asshole and being a doormat is a challenge, to say the least. Fact is, some people get right under my skin. It's not that I hate them, or even that I don't like them. For each of the people I'm thinking about right now, I can think of various positive attributes for them. It's just that I have a hard time being around them, and I think we can be fairly certain they have a hard time being around me too. It's the people who, for whatever reason, seem to suck the air right out of the room that get to me. The people who seem to smother, and fret and hover over everything. The people who won't seem to just let you be in time and space--the people who are obsessed with what YOU SHOULD be doing, without necessarily looking at their own behavior. It's the people who breathe your air and step all over your toes and invade or dismiss your emotional space, then get mad at YOU for reacting to the invasion, self-righteously boasting their good intentions and shaming your defenses. The people who can't separate their reality from yours and either insist or adamantly suggest that YOUR reality is wrong. People who can't contain their own anxiety and needs, so they dust everyone around them with it.

Or maybe these are the characteristics I fear and loathe most in myself.

I could write more, but I won't. Too personal. So, instead, I'll finish off the day sitting on the couch with a movie playing, wishing my dog would stop farting when I pet him. I'll lounge here watching my Critter roll around in my belly, right alongside all the homemade cinnamon rolls and shitty pizza and cheesy bread. If I weren't pregnant, tonight would be a night for a glass of scotch too.