Energy Level: High

It's been an amazing two months--amazing because I've actually felt like myself more than I have since, well, since my daughter was born almost five years ago. Things with my husband are great. My daughter is just wow. She's reading and mathing, and her jokes are hilarious (only to me and my husband).

I've started focusing on my career, which has been oddly affirming. I've spent so much time writing query letters that cover letters were a simple task. Constructing my curriculum vitae reminded me what I like about myself. Things I'd forgotten--like getting a fellowship, being awarded grants, and being asked to present at a STEM conference--were little pieces of myself I'd overlooked this past year. Now that they're remembered, it's stemmed me to do even more.

I've enrolled in two online classes at MIT, one on data analysis and the other on teaching and technology. I've begun looking at grad schools so I can get a second Master's degree or so I can (this is my favorite) get a PhD. Have I ever mentioned how much I want to pursue a PhD? Well, I do. It's nothing new, and it looks like I might be able to manage it with as little as one course a semester.

My energy level is high, so so high. Last time I posted, I was waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. It was supposed to drop, truly it was. MDD is the shadow, and you're the ant. Inevitably, you get crushed. But the last two months have been so different. I feel like I can breathe again, like I don't have to worry as much, and just having that threat removed (although, not completely) has been liberating.

I still have troubles dealing with loud noises. Sudden ones still send an electrical current through my body, and that instinctive fear, the one that makes me want to hide, is still present. Long bouts of loud noises (re: spending three hours at Chuck E Cheese for a birthday party) still leave me feeling drained beyond belief (it took me two whole days before I recouped from that party). And nightmares--of human trafficking, rape, fire, terrorism, global ecological catastrophe, mutilated kittens--why must the kittens be mutilated?--still plague my dreams. But it's okay. The day after these dreams I'm tired, but I still have energy.

I'm not drained of all that's good in my life.

Part of Me

Six days. That's how long it's been. Six. Good. Days. In a row, even!

I mention it because, well, six good days is quite the accomplishment. It's a reminder that six days could become seven could become eight. It's winter in New England, we haven't seen the sun in over a week, it's -4 fahrenheit out there (which is--what?--negative 20 C), and I'm not really into hard candies, so it's not as if I'm not expecting everything to be all sunshine and lollipops. Life isn't like that anyway. But it gives me a glimpse of hope that someday I might live a mostly normal life again.

Let's face it. I'm always going to have depression and anxiety. Twelve-thousand days ago, give or take, a sperm met an egg and genetically sealed my fate. Sure, childhood probably played some role in my makeup, and having a kid did scramble my hormones, but the fact remains. Depression and anxiety are part of me.

Other things are also part of me. For example, I'm highly intelligent and good at my work. I know my way around a kitchen and a garden, and yes, I can probably come close to plumbing a house. Numbers don't come easily, but I'm pretty good at mathematics. I'm well-read and articulate. And I have a four-year-old who loves Downton Abbey and Star Trek.

I'm also a writer, as in a real writer. I'm not someone who wishes I were I writer. I'm not an aspiring writer (aspiring novelist, on the other hand...). I am a writer. The bad days can't change that. The good days empower it.

I say this because I want you to know it's part of me. It's not something I pretend. If it makes me arrogant or conceited, so be it. I'm learning to accept myself, both the good and the bad. You should know. I've got what it takes.

Here I am

Radio silence here, which—now that I think of it—is very much like the publishing world. Anyhow, let’s get down to an update. Yesterday, I read over my last post. The optimism and cheerfulness struck me. September Me was full of hope. She was ready for normalcy, ready to put her hospitalization experience behind her. She expected a modicum of routine to return, and with it, she thought she had finally beat depression.

September Me was naïve.

To be completely honest, I’m floundering here. I’m a great big fish with a sideways head, stranded on a beach. The tide runs water over me with enough regularity to keep me alive, but that’s about it. Last week was a particularly difficult week. Monday my therapist dumped me. Or more correctly, her parents forced the break-up. We’d been seeing each other since September; these were a few frolicking months of fields and flowers and butterflies. I bared my soul to her, and as is true in all good relationships, she listened very well.

Then her parents got involved. The office she works for was bought by another company, and when the new company took over, they decided the office wouldn’t accept commercial insurance anymore. Now I am without therapy and without med management.

Enter my crazy. When I say I feel like I got dumped, I really feel that way. Why had this happened to me? What did I do wrong? My therapist was wrong. It wasn’t an insurance thing. I said something wrong. It was that time I told her I liked knowing death was an option. No, that wasn’t it. It was that time I said hurting myself was pleasurable. It’s a game I like to play. I know it’s wrong, but flagellant priests used to do it as a sign of devotion and unworthiness, and it was okay for them. I scared her. And it’s not like it hasn’t happened before. My first therapist was scared; she’s the one who sent me to the hospital. She’s not even a therapist anymore. I broke her. Now it’s happening again. Telling me it’s an insurance problem is a convenient excuse.

Oh my god. I’m a horrible person. I did something wrong and I wasn’t even trying to. I’m trying to be better. I’m trying. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how hard I try because I’m going to screw it up. Now she’s not going to be my therapist. The universe hates me. This is why I can’t catch a break. I can’t catch an effing break.

I’m intelligent. I’m educated. I don’t swear. I let people go first. I live by high moral standards and am accepting of others. I care. But none of it matters.

See? I told you. Crazy. But it’s how my mind works. Thoughts like these are nearly impossible to avoid. They place me—or I place myself, depending on how you want to look at it—farther and father onto the shore, but fish that I am, I can’t breathe.

And that’s where I am now, struggling to breathe the same air as everyone else. Damn it, I need a new pair of lungs.

Back to the grind...

Today was my third/first day back to work (first day with students). This is how I know I am ready, how I know I can do this:

1.) I'm more excited than anxious.
2.) My administrator peeked in on me, lending subtle support.
3.) My department head gave me a pound of honey from his bees.
4.) I'm awesome (but in a totally humble way). And I believe it.

Get that?

I believe it.

That, in itself, means something.

As you can probably guess, writing has gone on the back burner for a while. I didn't write all summer, other than to journal my way through the mess that was my brain. But I can feel the itch coming on again. Each day has been better than the previous day. I find myself zoning out, but instead of zoning out because I'm trying to use my coping skills, I'm zoning out because I'm thinking of Sarah and Bonnie. I'm thinking about how I've neglected them and their story. And I'm thinking about how I can fix the holes in their lives.

In short, I'm getting ready to write again.

Give me one, maybe two months. Then, Sarah will be mousing and Bonnie will be strutting their ways into agents' mailboxes.

This might not seem like a big thing, but it is to me. Writing has been nearly impossible for me to enjoy for the past year. When I was in hospitalization, I even told myself who was I kidding? I was never going to write another novel again. I wasn't going to revise WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL. And this isn't new. Last winter, I wrote an entire novel and haven't looked at it since. I haven't wanted to. I wasn't exhilarated when I finished it, just blank. Everything made me blank or made me anxious or made me cry. Now, I know I'm going to return to Lee, Jesse, Jake, and Matthew as soon as I'm done with Sarah and Bonnie. I'm excited about it.

This is going to work. I can feel it.

The Story of the Wicked Girl

Once upon a time, there was a wicked girl who often vacillated between Self-Hate and Sadness. She wasn't all wicked, because she understood this wasn't how she was supposed to feel. In fact, she knew an evil force cast the spell of Depression on her. So, in her attempt to free herself from the grip of Depression, she sought out three good fairies.

The first good fairy told her to travel to the Land of Medicines and seek out a remedy. The wicked girl did, and she slowly began to felt better. Alas, the remedy wasn't enough. The wicked girl soon fell harder into Self-Hate and Sadness. Unnatural Urges tickled at the sides of her brain. They told lies of knives and flame to the wicked girl, promising relief from Depression.  Not unconscious of these lies, the wicked girl sought out the second good fairy.

The second good fairy took the wicked girl to a land called Group and surrounded her with others like her. For three weeks, the wicked girl grew to understand she wasn't so wicked after all. There were many like her, people whom Depression sought and for whom Self-Hate and Sadness made the same evil promises. The second good fairy bade the not-so-wicked girl to once more venture to the Land of Medicines in search of an additional remedy the first good fairy hadn't suggested.

As time passed, the not-so-wicked girl became happy. Unnatural Urges slowly disappeared. Self-Hate and Sadness retreated. She began to picture herself once again in the world outside Group. She sensed something great was in her grasp. The second good fairy saw her desire to leave, understood it, and he deemed her well enough to leave. But then, on the eve of returning to the world outside Group, the Ringing came. Her ears filled with such sound! Her skin turned bright red and blotchy!

The second good fairy, in his attempt to make the no-longer wicked girl happy, had unknowingly given her poison. For many of the people in Group, this remedy from the Land of Medicines was not poison, but even though it banished Self-Hate and Sadness, Unnatural Urges and Depression, it was still poison to this girl. Unfortunately, the second good fairy had already released the girl from Group, so to find the antidote to this poison, the no-longer wicked girl sought the third good fairy.

Distraught, the no-longer wicked girl continued her journey. She was scared Depression, along with its promise of knives and flame, would return to her. The third good fairy gave the girl an antidote. The ringing disappeared. The blotches vanished. But the fairy told the girl she could not find what she was looking for there. She must continue to seek it elsewhere.

To this day, the girl journeys. She fears she'll forever be bound by Depression's wicked ways. Unnatural Urges threaten to appear from the shadows of her mind, so she is ever vigilant, ever careful to avoid the horrible promises of Self-Hate and Sadness. Despite the darkness that surrounds her, she feels confident--optimistic--that she will find what she needs to be happy. She refuses to be the wicked girl ever again.

Not The End.

Progress Part 2

To relieve some of the stigma of hospitalization for mental health, I want to walk you through a typical day of therapy for me.

Check-in: We rate our moods (on a scale of 1 to 10); report how many meals we ate in the last 24 hours; report if we've taken our meds; report if we have any suicidal, homicidal, substance, or self-injury ideation; set a treatment goal for the day. We also talk about what happened to us yesterday evening and this morning.

Group1: Usually a continuation of the previous day's topic. We read literature on subjects on everything mental health: self-esteem, perfectionism, anger, health anxiety, improving perception...No one is forced to share their stories, but everyone is welcome to, and many do.

Part of an assignment during group.

Group2: Generally a different topic from Group1, but still focussed on mental health. Those people who are in the substance abuse track generally leave to attend a group specifically for substance abuse.

We had to draw what life felt like to us today, and envision what we want it to be tomorrow.
Two versions of the same scene.

Lunch: Provided and generally icky.

Group3: Usually some form of meditation or recovery session. We've done journaling, dance, yoga, zen meditation, improving perceptions, karaoke. Depending on who you are, you're sometimes allowed to leave to go to a concert or a program in another building. I am not one of those people.

Writing about myself in the third person is extraordinarily powerful.
(excuse the spelling)

Check-out: We go back to our original groups, and repeat the check-in process. This time, we have to explain how we've met our treatment goal, what we're going to do in the afternoon, name a coping skill we used or learned, and say one positive thing about ourselves.

Throughout the day, we can come and go as we please. Some group sessions might be too intense for some people, others may need to leave to see their psychiatrist or therapist. Although, if you miss too many group sessions or break any rules, you can be discharged from the program.

And where am I in all this? My stay has been extended for an additional week, to be reevaluated later. At that point, they'll determine if I need another week, if I should move on the half-days, or if I should be discharged altogether.

Progress Part 1

After a particularly bad day, one of the clinicians in the hospital said something to me. Healing from depression is like having a bruise. The only way to make a bruise better is to treat it with care and wait for time to pass and the body to mend itself. But sometimes, we're more aware of our bruise than other times. It could be that something in our lives brushes against it enough to make us notice and wince. Other times, it could be something poking the bruise outright; in which case, it would hurt. A lot. She told me my day was the latter example. That doesn't mean I'm not healing, she said. It just means I'm not fully healed. And that, like all things, takes time.

So I'm here today to update you on my treatment, should you wish to know. I went into this hospitalization thing feeling very scared, very overwhelmed. My first few days were close to horrible. I couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop getting caught up in my head. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and I had no clue if this program was going to work for me. I even told my case worker I felt like this. Because I have a case worker. And a social worker, and a therapist, and a psychiatrist.

But I decided I want to get better, so I've stayed in the program. I've made progress. I have fewer nightmares. I haven't been raped, killed, been bombed, been attacked by dogs or coyotes or bears. Once, I got attacked by a moose, but it wasn't that bad because it was so clearly a dream and I had been trying to save the moose from people who were attacking it, which was nobel and right.

I'm much more open in group sessions now. Actually, group sessions are the best part of my day. These people. They're normal, everyday people. They are people that I want to be friends with outside of group (but the program forbids it), so we are friends within the program. We talk. We read packets about issues depressed people experience. We exchange stories, both happy and sad. We know what each other likes to do outside. We share many of the same hobbies and activities. We also know which meds we're on, if substance abuse is a problem, and who's been in a coma from a suicide attempt.

And it all feels very normal. I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that it is normal. We have an illness, and we're working to overcome it. We don't like to be judged by family or friends because we're depressed or anxious. We notice when a room quiets when we enter. We notice when you stare at us, wondering if we're going to break. We notice when someone cuts off the end of a joke because the punchline has something to do with a knife and, 'Oh my god, she took a knife to her wrist, if I finish this joke I'm being insensitive.' We notice when you text our loved ones instead of us or lean in and whisper, "How *is* she *doing*?"

It's because mental health does not *feel* normal. I want it to be. This is me saying it needs to be. If you can talk about the time you were in the hospital because you had pneumonia, went through physical therapy because of a bad car accident, and if you feel comfortable answering all your friends' questions about those incidents BUT you don't feel comfortable asking me questions about my mental health, it hasn't been normalized yet. Please, help me feel normal. Ask me about my treatment. Do so in front of others. Let's make everyone see that I am--and people like me--are still intelligent functional human beings with a family, and friends, and hobbies, and careers. So I've got a mental illness. So what? You broke your arm. So what?

And my diagnosis: major depressive disorder (recurrent, severe, without psychotic features), generalized anxiety disorder, post traumatic stress disorder.