A few weeks ago, a trusted friend, who enjoys research of the psychological, informed me that happiness is 50 percent genetic, 10 percent circumstantial, and 40 percent intentional. Initially, I thought I was screwed, doomed to a life of heavy-eyelidded, slow-motion existence, the kind where wallowing in bed takes up a good portion of one's day. Look. My dad suffered all his life from Major Depressive Disorder, a genetic hand-me-down that he got from his dad, possibly his mother, and then passed on to me, which I then passed on to my son. (Sorry, kid.)
Fifty percent, huh?
No wonder life seems harder for me than many (most?) people in my inner circle. Whereas they seem to just wake up happy, I have to consciously decide to 1) wake up at all; and 2) attempt to go about my day without dragging other people down with me.
For people who consider me Happy-Go-Lucky and have no idea that I have carried the heavy blanket of depression All My Life --and it's a damn heavy covering -- reading this post will come as a surprise. I come across all Smile-y and Optimistic, don't I? Let me tell you: it's work. It is intentional. That's the 40 percent that keeps me lugging my dark-cloud blankie around, that keeps me around at all.
So.
So this morning I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and got the coffee pot brewing. Put on yesterday's dog-walking clothes. Logged on to Realtor.com and perused new listings --these days I am JONESING to live in a high-rise condo near the Country Club Plaza. Drank a cup of not-hot-enough coffee. Cursed my cheap coffee pot. Buzzed my cup in the microwave for 45 seconds. Settled in for residential fantasies. Gave myself twenty minutes. Intentionally walked away from my laptop.
Headed outside. Beckoned my cocker spaniel and mounted my bicycle. Millie and I did some laps around the cul de sac. Exercise is good for depression, don't you know.
Back to the house. It's 9:10 a.m. and I'm on my second cup of coffee. I got out of bed today.
It's something.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Sunday, February 24, 2013
I got out of bed
I didn't want to. It was already 10:45 a.m. A Sunday, my husband in the kitchen rattling pans. Frying up bacon. The cocker, up and down on the bed, standing on my chest, her tongue hanging: Get up, Mom. I have a ball, right here, on Dad's pillow, and if you get up, you can throw it, and I can chase it and we can start our day.
I pushed her away, rolled over. Checked my iPhone. Checked facebook. Other people, up and moving around. Already back from church, back from Costco, back from the grocery.
Me, still in bed and not wanting to get out of it.
Me, depressed. Bad breath and greasy hair and a creeping anxiety, already. Not even standing and there's the anxiety. The pain in the center of my chest that makes me think a heart attack is forthcoming.
Trying to laugh at myself, make light of the situation, think something else, anything else.
Ordering myself: Get your ass out of bed, Kathleen. Take a friggin' shower. Put on powder and deodorant. Brush your teeth. When you're done, you can get a cup of coffee.
So I did. I listened to myself and headed to the shower. Turned on NPR while the water heated. Oscar talk. Oh yeah, tonight's the Oscars. That's something to live for.
Inside the shower, I perk up: there's a bar of Zum, patchouli. The water relaxes shoulders that have already tensed. Awake twenty minutes and tight there, like I've been at the laptop for ten hours. Patchouli relaxes, a hippy scent that tells me I need to chill.
Downstairs, there's my son. It's his birthday. Oh my god, it's his birthday! There's something to live for. He's twenty-five today. Born in 1988, my post-partum depression so severe that I would call my parents, ask them to please come over, for just a bit. Me, taking long showers, driving around in my Monte Carlo, Fleetwood Mac blasting. Getting medicated, knowing that I needed it. Loving every inch of that sweet baby boy, nurturing him, nurturing myself.
My adult life, then, all of it, lived with depression lurking, anxiety hovering. It's a damn heavy cross to bear, I'll tell you that.
What helps: talking to people, eating oranges, drinking coffee, listening to music, driving aimlessly, windows down, air wooshing in, cuddling with my dogs, hugging on my husband, my children (all adults now), teaching, connecting with others, reading, writing, blogging, shopping at Walgreen's for cheesy you-can-only-get-this-as-a-special-television-offer items.
And getting out of bed. That's where it starts. Pulling back the covers and standing up.
I pushed her away, rolled over. Checked my iPhone. Checked facebook. Other people, up and moving around. Already back from church, back from Costco, back from the grocery.
Me, still in bed and not wanting to get out of it.
Me, depressed. Bad breath and greasy hair and a creeping anxiety, already. Not even standing and there's the anxiety. The pain in the center of my chest that makes me think a heart attack is forthcoming.
Trying to laugh at myself, make light of the situation, think something else, anything else.
Ordering myself: Get your ass out of bed, Kathleen. Take a friggin' shower. Put on powder and deodorant. Brush your teeth. When you're done, you can get a cup of coffee.
So I did. I listened to myself and headed to the shower. Turned on NPR while the water heated. Oscar talk. Oh yeah, tonight's the Oscars. That's something to live for.
Inside the shower, I perk up: there's a bar of Zum, patchouli. The water relaxes shoulders that have already tensed. Awake twenty minutes and tight there, like I've been at the laptop for ten hours. Patchouli relaxes, a hippy scent that tells me I need to chill.
Downstairs, there's my son. It's his birthday. Oh my god, it's his birthday! There's something to live for. He's twenty-five today. Born in 1988, my post-partum depression so severe that I would call my parents, ask them to please come over, for just a bit. Me, taking long showers, driving around in my Monte Carlo, Fleetwood Mac blasting. Getting medicated, knowing that I needed it. Loving every inch of that sweet baby boy, nurturing him, nurturing myself.
My adult life, then, all of it, lived with depression lurking, anxiety hovering. It's a damn heavy cross to bear, I'll tell you that.
What helps: talking to people, eating oranges, drinking coffee, listening to music, driving aimlessly, windows down, air wooshing in, cuddling with my dogs, hugging on my husband, my children (all adults now), teaching, connecting with others, reading, writing, blogging, shopping at Walgreen's for cheesy you-can-only-get-this-as-a-special-television-offer items.
And getting out of bed. That's where it starts. Pulling back the covers and standing up.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Silver Linings Playbook hits close to home
Bradley Cooper is one fine-looking man, which explains my primary motivation behind going to see Silver Linings Playbook this afternoon. My husband went along, too, which was only marginally annoying. Once the movie started, I kinda forgot he was there (we had our own popcorn).
It wasn't long into the movie when Cooper's beautiful face and erratic behavior began to look eerily familiar. I grew up with a good-looking, mentally ill father (he was a dead ringer for Paul Newman). Dad's diagnosis was bi-polar disorder, although back in the 70s, the term was manic-depressive. He threw fits. He raged. He repeated himself, repeated himself, repeated himself. He used alcohol to moderate his mood swings. He was drunk a lot. When AA rolled around, a court-ordered deal, the orange vodka and cases of beer left the house, but Dad set up permanent residency. He became agoraphobic and had to physically prepare (shit, shave, and shower, as he put it) just to get the mail at the end of the driveway. He quit mowing the lawn. Was the first person to see his barber, 'cause there was no way in hell he was going to wait with other people around. He wore sun glasses most of the time. No one, under any circumstances, was to look at him as he ate his evening meal, including our dog. As a family, my parents and two sisters went nowhere together. No restaurants, no amusement parks, no vacations. Dad missed my high school graduation, my college graduation, and my wedding.
I am not bitter. I loved my father. I understood his mental illness.
Myself? I have GAD, an ugly-sounding acronym for Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which means, at its rawest definition, that I worry a lot. I perceive the world to be A Very Dangerous Place. I have ADD, but I am not medicated for that. As a writer, I need my creativity. I feel that meds for attention-deficit-disorder would be too numbing.
I have Major Depressive Disorder, along with a depressive nature, definitely a half-glass-empty gal am I, but this is in stark contrast to the way I make myself live my life, which is to focus on beauty and laughter. Whenever I start to feel the black veil of don't-give-a-shit taking over, I make myself get out of the bed. I head first to the kitchen. I brew strong caffeinated coffee, a mood lifter when I cannot seem to lift myself, and then I grab an orange, cold and perfect from the fridge. I savor it ... its shape and color and juiciness. I read somewhere ~ I think it was an Elizabeth Berg novel, where the main character cannot figure out why another character killed himself. Didn't he want one more orange? she asks.
When I don't need the immediacy of a coffee or orange mood-boost, I have back-up plans: I head to the theater and watch a funny movie, or I go and rent one. I watch funny videos on youtube. I drive to the mall, the one that's really too far away, but there's a pet store there, and I love to watch the puppies fall over themselves. I read my Bible. I surround myself with children; they bring me great joy. I listen to beautiful music, which on any given day might be Lady Gaga's mellow offering, "Brown Eyes," or Anything by Edith Piaf (I love the French language), or my favorite gospel song, "Take Me to the King," by Tamela Mann ("I don't have much to bring, my heart's torn in pieces, it's my offering ... lay me at the throne, leave me there alone, to gaze upon your glory and sing to you this song ... .").
***
There are three of us girls, but only I have sought professional help. I take a little white pill every day that keeps the panic attacks away. Until Lexapro, I died many, many times. That's how scary panic attacks are. You truly, truly think you are dying. I have awakened many mornings, surprised, that I survived the night. Because of medication and counseling, I exist in the world and I live responsibly and gloriously. I have been blessed with a long-term marriage (28 years) and three amazing children, all of whom are adults. I have many, many friends and wonderful neighbors. I taught English at the high school and middle school level. I went to work; I earned money; I vacationed with my family.
Of my three children, two have seen psychiatrists: there's ADD, ADHD, major depressive disorder, an initial diagnosis of bipolar (turned out to be wrong), OCD, and GAD. The alphabet soup in this house requires prescription medications.
***
Mental illness is a biochemical issue, as I see it. I have seen meds work wonders in my dad's life, my own life, in my own house. The Bradley Cooper character in Silver Linings didn't want to take his, and when that part of the movie played I cringed. So typical, that behavior. I have thought it myself at times. Yes, that Lexapro is responsible for some of my weight gain ("bloat," as Cooper calls it in the movie), and, yes, it is responsible for some of my fatigue, but I will swallow it down. Once a day, every day, I will take that pill. I will enjoy my life.
It wasn't long into the movie when Cooper's beautiful face and erratic behavior began to look eerily familiar. I grew up with a good-looking, mentally ill father (he was a dead ringer for Paul Newman). Dad's diagnosis was bi-polar disorder, although back in the 70s, the term was manic-depressive. He threw fits. He raged. He repeated himself, repeated himself, repeated himself. He used alcohol to moderate his mood swings. He was drunk a lot. When AA rolled around, a court-ordered deal, the orange vodka and cases of beer left the house, but Dad set up permanent residency. He became agoraphobic and had to physically prepare (shit, shave, and shower, as he put it) just to get the mail at the end of the driveway. He quit mowing the lawn. Was the first person to see his barber, 'cause there was no way in hell he was going to wait with other people around. He wore sun glasses most of the time. No one, under any circumstances, was to look at him as he ate his evening meal, including our dog. As a family, my parents and two sisters went nowhere together. No restaurants, no amusement parks, no vacations. Dad missed my high school graduation, my college graduation, and my wedding.
I am not bitter. I loved my father. I understood his mental illness.
Myself? I have GAD, an ugly-sounding acronym for Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which means, at its rawest definition, that I worry a lot. I perceive the world to be A Very Dangerous Place. I have ADD, but I am not medicated for that. As a writer, I need my creativity. I feel that meds for attention-deficit-disorder would be too numbing.
I have Major Depressive Disorder, along with a depressive nature, definitely a half-glass-empty gal am I, but this is in stark contrast to the way I make myself live my life, which is to focus on beauty and laughter. Whenever I start to feel the black veil of don't-give-a-shit taking over, I make myself get out of the bed. I head first to the kitchen. I brew strong caffeinated coffee, a mood lifter when I cannot seem to lift myself, and then I grab an orange, cold and perfect from the fridge. I savor it ... its shape and color and juiciness. I read somewhere ~ I think it was an Elizabeth Berg novel, where the main character cannot figure out why another character killed himself. Didn't he want one more orange? she asks.
When I don't need the immediacy of a coffee or orange mood-boost, I have back-up plans: I head to the theater and watch a funny movie, or I go and rent one. I watch funny videos on youtube. I drive to the mall, the one that's really too far away, but there's a pet store there, and I love to watch the puppies fall over themselves. I read my Bible. I surround myself with children; they bring me great joy. I listen to beautiful music, which on any given day might be Lady Gaga's mellow offering, "Brown Eyes," or Anything by Edith Piaf (I love the French language), or my favorite gospel song, "Take Me to the King," by Tamela Mann ("I don't have much to bring, my heart's torn in pieces, it's my offering ... lay me at the throne, leave me there alone, to gaze upon your glory and sing to you this song ... .").
***
There are three of us girls, but only I have sought professional help. I take a little white pill every day that keeps the panic attacks away. Until Lexapro, I died many, many times. That's how scary panic attacks are. You truly, truly think you are dying. I have awakened many mornings, surprised, that I survived the night. Because of medication and counseling, I exist in the world and I live responsibly and gloriously. I have been blessed with a long-term marriage (28 years) and three amazing children, all of whom are adults. I have many, many friends and wonderful neighbors. I taught English at the high school and middle school level. I went to work; I earned money; I vacationed with my family.
Of my three children, two have seen psychiatrists: there's ADD, ADHD, major depressive disorder, an initial diagnosis of bipolar (turned out to be wrong), OCD, and GAD. The alphabet soup in this house requires prescription medications.
***
Mental illness is a biochemical issue, as I see it. I have seen meds work wonders in my dad's life, my own life, in my own house. The Bradley Cooper character in Silver Linings didn't want to take his, and when that part of the movie played I cringed. So typical, that behavior. I have thought it myself at times. Yes, that Lexapro is responsible for some of my weight gain ("bloat," as Cooper calls it in the movie), and, yes, it is responsible for some of my fatigue, but I will swallow it down. Once a day, every day, I will take that pill. I will enjoy my life.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahclunk
Depression sucks.
Sucks my energy; sucks my creativity; sucks my optimism.
It is a heavy, burdensome weight; I slog rather than walk; I move in slow motion.
Sleep, sleep, sleep: I could sleep all day. Languish on the couch, humming in low tones.
(How did it get to be 2 p.m.? I have done nothing all day but lie on the couch.)
"Your eyes look tired," my husband tells me, this evening, as we sit in the living room.
No shit, I think.
Thank you for noticing.
Sucks my energy; sucks my creativity; sucks my optimism.
It is a heavy, burdensome weight; I slog rather than walk; I move in slow motion.
Sleep, sleep, sleep: I could sleep all day. Languish on the couch, humming in low tones.
(How did it get to be 2 p.m.? I have done nothing all day but lie on the couch.)
"Your eyes look tired," my husband tells me, this evening, as we sit in the living room.
No shit, I think.
Thank you for noticing.
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