I have something to say.

Earlier this evening, George asked me for a list of Dos and Don'ts because he felt at a loss for how to deal with me right now (we had a major discussion this morning about all of my frustrations with him). I was frustrated by the task at first (I even had one of my inner tantrums….maybe I'll explain those later), but after putting Alex to bed and thinking a little (and also by some miracle), my heart opened up, and here's what came out. Some of it applies to anyone in my life, but for the most part, I thought I'd post it here because it is part of my truth for right now:

Everyday, tell me you love me. And mean it. Don't wait until you are leaving the house or on the phone. I know it's awful, but I automatically assume no one loves me.

Everyday, make an attempt to touch me. Hold my hand or give me a hug, or pat my back or stroke my arm- whatever. Don't expect it to lead to sex.

Everyday, remind me why I love you.

Everyday, tell me a joke, or try to make me laugh. I love that about you.

Every now and then, kiss me (not just a peck on the cheek). Don't expect it to lead to sex.

Every now and then, show me that you're glad I'm your wife. You will probably do this by telling me you love me and touching me, but there are other things, like saying you're glad I'm your wife or smiling at me, or reminding me that I'm more than your son's mother.

Every now and then, remind me why we're together. Help me remember the awesome things about our past and encourage me to think about the good things in our future. Make it clear that you believe there's going to be a future no matter what because I often can't even think about tomorrow.

Every now and then, acknowledge that you are working a lot, but that you would rather be home with me or with Alex.

Call if you're going to be late. For whatever reason, whenever you go anywhere. (So you need to have an idea of when you're going to be home.) But if you go out (either by yourself or with friends), after work, call me at least once so I know you're okay. I don't care when, and if I don't answer, leave a voicemail telling me where you are and when you think you'll be home. And please try to call before you start drinking, or while you're drinking, but before you get too drunk. I'm sorry I'm so demanding about this, but there have been too many times I've woken up and freaked out.

Every now and then, talk with me about the plans you have for us, or the thoughts you have about us. This will show me you actually think about us on your own without my prompting or my questions.

**I will make an effort to do these things more too. But some days, just breathing is a little overwhelming. So please keep doing them, even if I'm not doing my fair share. I am grateful in advance.**

On a more depression-specific note:

Please do not ask me what's wrong. I often don't know and the question ends up frustrating me because I feel like I should know. If you want to know something, try asking a specific question, like "Are you upset about _________?"

Please do not point out that things around the house are bad. I know the dishes haven't been done and the laundry hasn't been folded, and I feel terrible about it. Instead of saying anything, or announcing that you will take care of it (which makes me feel worse because I know I'm causing you extra work), encourage me to help you take care of things.

Please do not expect me to cook. Or make jokes about it. Same goes for exercising and eating and my weight and my hair…pretty much anything about my physical appearance. You can still encourage me to do these things, though.

Please be explicitly clear about how you feel, no matter how good or bad it is. Otherwise my very negative imagination will make things worse than they are. I'm probably going to cry, whether you say something bad or not. But that doesn't mean I'm going to fall apart or that you hurt me. If you feel like it, just sit with me or give me a hug until I stop crying. I usually hate that I cry so much. You are not a bad husband and it is often not your fault that I cry.

Please do not let me sleep too much. Be kind about getting me out of bed, though. Please don't suggest that I'm lazy. I already think I am.

Please understand that I will take care of Alex, but that some of the ways I go about it are completely unconventional. For instance, when I don't feel that I can fight with him, I let him stay up with me until he falls asleep on the couch or on our bed. Or he may not take a real bath every night because I'm so exhausted. But I tell him I love him every chance I get and I hold/cuddle him as much as he'll let me. And I do try to play/read with him several times a day. If you don't feel like Alex is getting something he needs, please don't get mad if I'm not doing it the way you would- but feel free to do it yourself. Please believe that I will never let him go hungry or get hurt (if I can help it, of course). Please trust me with our son, because when I feel that you don't trust me, it only proves my theory that he would be better off without me.

Please do not ever give up on me. I want desperately to feel better, but if you don't think I'll feel better, I'll believe you.

If I call you because I'm anxious or frustrated, please do not ask me what I want you to do. I don't have a clue; I called you because I thought you might help me feel better. Definitely never tell me there's nothing you can do to help me. Remind me that everything will be okay. I always believe you when you tell me, even if I don't seem like it right then.

**I know I'm asking a lot, and as I have said before, if you can't handle it, I will understand. I love you, and I believe that you are the most important person to help me feel better. You can't fix me, but you can help me fix myself.**

Love,
Darna

Ask and you shall receive; knock and it shall be opened unto you...

When I was a kid, my mother would often drag Eara and me to funerals because attendance meant indulgences to keep us out of purgatory. We didn't always know the deceased (but I'm hoping my mom did). We participated in countless novenas and prayed the rosary together at our house and the houses of her friends. We went to mass in the mornings when we didn't have school. I can't fathom how many times I've heard the words, "…ask and you shall receive; seek and you shall find; knock and it shall be opened into you…" Let's just say I've heard them a lot, and spoken them in prayer many a time. There are some really good things that came from my mother, and the gift of God and prayer is one of them. God has answered so many of my prayers, and not answered just as many, and I'm grateful.

That said, I had a major revelation about God roughly four years ago, mostly because of the Catholic Church. It's one of the issues I deal with that makes my depression a little more…difficult. My close childhood friends can probably attest to the church time I logged in my early years; I sometimes attended two masses on Sundays because we were so early for the mass Mom wanted to attend that the previous mass was still happening. We went to church EVERY Sunday, because if I dared suggest to my mother that I didn't want to go, I was assured a seat in Hell. Now that I think about it, I feared God's and the Church's wrath and thought of myself as truly unworthy, mostly because my mother made every mistake, no matter how innocently made, seem like one that disappointed God and the Church. (That changed around the time I was 11, which also happens to be the age when I first attempted suicide. But that's not such an issue anymore because I finally dealt with the post-traumatic stress and accepted that it was something I'd done and…well, I've dealt with it and "embraced" it. It's actually a critical piece of my history and probably explains why even though I often think about suicide and ways to achieve it, I would really have to be out of my mind to do it. Life is bad sometimes and I feel such pain that I'd like it to be over, BUT there are people for whom I care so much that I don't want to be the reason for their distress.) When I met George and told my mom I thought he was the one, she asked if he was Catholic, to which I explained that his father was, but he'd converted to marry George's Mormon mother. She stared at me blankly, probably hoping it would go nowhere. When George came home and we lived together, my mother often lamented, claiming she'd failed as a mother because I was living in sin, and she was having to lie to my uncle, the Catholic priest (though I seriously doubt he would've cared too much). When I married George in a civil ceremony, she was crushed that it didn't happen in a Catholic church. And when Alex was born, she was devastated by George's and my decision to not baptize him in the Catholic church. As you have probably figured out, the Church and my mother are practically one and the same; she is still an avid novena participant who goes to mass every chance she gets and pushes for a homecoming between me (and thus, Alex) and the Catholic church.

I'm not sure if it's because I lived and breathed Catholicism for so long or if it's because I'm a natural mystic, but I believe strongly in the existence of that which cannot be explained with logic- so much so that I approach life with a heavy reliance on my intuitive and emotional feelings. I believe in magic, fate, destiny….all of those things, like religion, that aren't tangible and have little, if any, tangible proof to support their existence. And because of my childhood, I have no tolerance for knowingly allowing suffering to happen or going to great lengths to keep the suffering hidden. It's because of this (and the parade of child molesting Catholic priests) that The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown rocked my world, as I mentioned above. I realize that as a work of fiction, The DaVinci Code isn't a good reason to throw out all of your faith in your church and suffer a few years before you figure out what it is you REALLY believe in. But as a work of fiction with several compelling themes that happens to include factual items/places, the book prompted me to do research. It was what I learned through research that gave me lots of good reasons to lose faith in my church and suffer for a couple of years while I tried to decide what I believe in my heart.

There are some crazy concepts out there. But I have to point out that everyone thought Galileo and Columbus were insane for a while. That said, some people believe that because Jesus Christ was a human being, he could've been married to Mary Magdalene, or at the very least, romantically involved with her. Then there are ideas that Mary Magdalene is the Holy Grail, or she gave birth to a child who was the Holy Grail, or Mary Magdalene was the author of the 4th Gospel in the New Testament. I've read books, spoken with others, searched the Internet, and read scholarly articles- I really attacked this research project like my life depended on it. I asked and seeked and knocked. Here's what I received, found, and opened:

First, if we are all created in God's image, then who's to say that God is exclusively male? My belief is that God is an entity that cannot be humanized easily. God is me and you and the folks down the street…..each of us carries a piece of God, which is why there's power in numbers and "no man is an island." God is more than our father- God is mother and sister and brother. Since this is what I believe, I have made a conscious effort for the last couple of years to refrain from using masculine pronouns when referring to God- not always easy. I'm not saying that God cannot be a father figure- just pointing out that God is more than a human male, so when we talk about God, our speech should reflect that.

Second, I believe that Mary Magdalene is a very real part of the history of Christianity, if only because her presence provides proof that our male-dominated notions about Christianity are not necessarily true at face value, especially when we consider that through much of Western civilization's history, men have been so insecure that they have seen fit to eradicate women's contributions from the records. I do not know if Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married or involved, and it doesn't really matter to me. In fact, it's comforting to think that they were because it makes Jesus that much more human. There's a really good website that presents several perspectives on Mary Magdalene: www.magdalene.org, including a link to a well-written paper on why Mary Magdalene is in fact the author of the 4th Gospel, which is commonly attributed to John.

Third, it makes total sense to me that the Catholic Church would make every effort to cut Mary Magdalene (or any other woman) out of its dogma. Mary, the mother of God, is revered, but mostly because Catholics feel she will put a good word in for us with her son and his father (and honestly, when the Church was pushing the Magdalene-as-prostitute agenda, it created a striking contrast to the purity of the Virgin Mary, emphasizing "purity" all the more). The Church is now notorious for keeping things hush-hush (how anyone could willingly keep the actions of child molesters secret is BEYOND me!), and I personally have witnessed suffering because of the Church's law. That's nothing compared to the grand-scale suffering the Church has caused historically- think Spanish Inquisition, etc. The Catholic religion came at a time when a way to control the masses was necessary for empires to be successful- and also, I might add, at a time when a common Greco-Roman belief was that pure love could only exist between men, since women were just for breeding. As a result, I'm pretty wary of any organized religion, though I find myself missing the predictable flow of a Catholic mass every now and then. I just don't think it's a good idea to sit in mass angry and think angry thoughts.

All of this makes my depression more difficult because I'm a heretic, essentially, and that feels a bit isolating given my background. I sometimes wonder if God is mad at me for not staying true to my Catholic faith, and that's why I suffer from time to time. And most significantly, if I can realize that the Catholic Church isn't for me, can I do that with my mother? I'm asking, but I don't necessarily want to receive. All I know is that the idea of disappointing God, the Catholic Church AND my mother is a huge pill to swallow (and I have a strong gag reflex).

Rating: 5 (sooooooooo tired today)

Amazing Grace....and Nicole and Teresa and Lyndsey and Loretta and Eara and........

I've felt good the past two days- definitely an 8 yesterday (except for a few minutes when I was upset and couldn't get over it easily), and more of a 7 today. Something is going on with my hormones because I've noticed a major change in my ability to fall asleep and I'm breaking out more than usual- so I attribute the feeling well to that, since I have my hormones to thank for my bad days. It's only fair….

Anyway, this particular entry is written to send heartfelt gratitude to my friends, and especially my friends who I didn't realize were such good friends until now, when it really matters (interestingly, I have also learned that some people really do not care about other people's well-being and they don't ever consider that someone's "problem" could be helped by a kind word or two….reminds me of another quote I've read somewhere- something to the effect of being kind to everyone you meet because he or she could be fighting a major battle).  It is an endless source of comfort to know that there are people in the world who care about me- and it makes it impossible to say that no one would notice if I wasn't around.

I've made it out of my maze before and seen the light, so I know I can do this. And when I forget, I thank you for reminding me.

An Analogy

It has not been a good day. But I came up with one way to help people understand what I'm going through. Visualize as you read:

You've been placed in a poorly lit maze- a labyrinth, if you will. You've been given simple instructions to follow the arrows, as they tell you exactly where to go, and they will lead you out of the darkness. No one mentioned how long the maze is, but they made it sound like it should be easy and take no time. But you are tired, and the walking makes you more tired, so you have to stop to sit a lot. You're wearing the wrong shoes and your clothes don't fit well. You forgot a flashlight and sometimes your glasses fall off, so you can't always see clearly. Even when you do walk and follow the arrows, sometimes you misunderstand the arrows (even though they're simple) or they seem to disappear, and you end up off the right path. The tangent paths are sometimes very short, or they can be long and it takes a while to find your way back, so you get frustrated easily. Sometimes you seem to know exactly where you're going and you can even see the light at the end of the maze, but that clarity doesn't always last. There are arrows and you should be able to follow them, but you can't always, and it makes you feel dumb and inept. You sometimes lose hope of ever making it out to the end, and you sometimes think it would be better to just quit walking.

As you walk in the maze, a soundtrack of people saying things to you and/or about you plays on loudspeakers. Oddly, everything nice or encouraging is said very quietly, and it seems like those pleasant thoughts aren't played as often as the put-downs and discouraging thoughts that blare constantly. Even when you go on a tangent path, you can hear the loudspeakers clearly. You strain to hear the positive words and when they're gone, you try really hard to remember what they are and to believe that they are true, but the bad words and ideas are so much louder and constant, and they're mostly in your own voice, so you get tired of trying to remember. Sometimes you just can't remember, or the loud, mean messages are all you can concentrate on- and you really start to believe that maybe they're the loudest because they're true.  You'd like some quiet so you can think, but it never comes, so you're jumpy and anxious. Every now and then, there are mirrors on the walls. Sometimes you stop to take a look, but mostly you shut your eyes as you pass them. You don't want to see how tired or frustrated you are, and even when you do look, you don't recognize what you see. You marvel at how someone who looks perfectly fine on the outside can be suffering so much on the inside. But then you focus on your eyes, and you see the sadness and the anger and the confusion.

You wish you didn't feel so alone in the maze. You really want someone to hold your hand. But then again, they might want to talk, and you don't want the talking to take away from your journey. Besides, you don't have anything interesting or intelligent to say.

Cookies make everything better.

I feel a little more connected to the world today. I can tell because I've actually made phone calls to friends and I want them to call back. It's not always the case- in fact, I have been known to wish for complete alone-ness recently. And Alex and I have played together more throughout the day- and I was actually able to get him juice and cookies before he cried desperately because I wasn't responding to his pulling on my fingers to get me up off the couch. He smiled happily when I said he could have the Oreos (I'm usually chanting, "No more cookies.") and did a little dance. Cookies can fix anything- even a mom who doesn't seem to ever get off the couch is forgiven if she gives cookies. Even though I've felt okay all day, I still feel like I'm being held prisoner by The Dirty Bubble (those of you who have ever heard of Mermaid-Man and Barnacle Boy know what I'm talking about). I can feel happy, but not too happy; I am curious, but not too curious....I can see, but not too clearly because there's a film over everything.

I saw my psychologist today. I have really come to like her and I often feel that sitting on her couch for an hour is really visiting a friend who gets me and George and my issues.... oh yeah, and who happens to be covered by insurance. She filled out my FMLA qualifying paperwork and asked me how I felt about not going to work for a while. Her advice is to stay away from work for as long as possible- like until May 31st. I feel like a loser whenever I think about how I can't even teach half a day. As if feeling like a loser isn't enough, I now may have to take my FMLA time (which may not even be approved because I may not have worked 1250 hours in the last year since I'm only half-time) unpaid because though I qualify for the district-offered short term disability, which pays a measly 66 and 2/3 percent of my salary (still, better than nothing), my psychiatrist has a policy of not filling out paperwork, and that qualifying paperwork must be signed by an MD or DO. George says not to worry too much, since I can probably ask our primary care physician to do it....but it's just one more thing to worry about. I couldn't NOT worry, even if I really, really tried. It's one of the gifts of depression.

Speaking of gifts, a while ago I read about embracing all of life's gifts, including that which brings us intense pain or confusion. So I'm supposed to embrace and accept my depression, instead of being mortified by the fact that my mind "plays" tricks on me by making me believe that things are really bad and can never get better. Obviously, I'm not ready to embrace it, and I don't know how to get ready. I have a feeling that accepting that depression is a good thing is one of my key obstacles. How exactly do I stop feeling like my body is worthless and my mind is weak?

Three words: restless, approaching (versus meeting or exceeding), disjointed
Rating: 7 (an improvement! I actually went out in public and accomplished something today!)

In and out....and in.....and out

I'm very tempted to stop blogging. George read my blog and said that I don't paint him in a very good light. I just read my blog and it's so depressing to read about how depressed I am! I don't know how much it's helping….and I'd much rather write about funny things, like Alex's latest adventures. Except I don't find all of them very funny, especially when I'm by myself to deal with the consequences of his adventures (most of them are messy). Last Sunday night I had a bad depressive episode. I wasn't feeling well on Sunday in the first place, but I didn't see Sunday night coming. Let's just say that I sat in the dark of my office (formerly known as George's Den and Tommy's room) and pictured the nothingness after pulling a trigger…and it seemed like a relief. Scary, because in my past suicidal moments, I always thought using a gun would be too messy.

The past week hasn't been good. I can't say there weren't good moments, because there were. Like getting to see Tommy and Alex actually play together instead of witnessing Tommy go after one of Alex's toys and Alex retaliating by giving Tommy a good shove onto the floor. And I suppose there have been other things, like how good my skin looked yesterday after I put on my foundation/moisturizer. It just seems like for every good thing, there are about 100 not-so-good things. And if one more person asks me what's wrong, I might scream at them (but mostly my mother), so here's what's not-so-good: George didn't come home until after 9 a.m. on Wednesday morning. He called on Tuesday night and said he'd be late coming home. I figured it was because of work. He sent me a text message that said, "Way drunk. Sleeping it off. Be home later," at about 5 a.m. I got up, which is a good indicator of how alarmed I was, since I usually can't drag myself out of bed until well after 8 a.m. I was worried about where he was. I was worried about if he was by himself or with friends. I was worried, worried, worried. I didn't know who to call- I called Eara, and I ended up texting some of his friends. When he did finally call after 9 a.m. on his way home from wherever he was, he got upset with me when I said I sent text messages to his friends. He said I overreacted, especially because he'd left me a text message. Luckily, my anger cleared the fog in my head and allowed me to see that no, I was not overreacting, and he had no right to be angry. I don't remember much else about the day. But I do remember him telling me that his friends wouldn't have told me anything if they had known what was going on or where he was. Something about a "cop code." All I know is that even though I'm George's wife, I don't get to know anything unless he wants me to know. And his friends, who may be able to know, won't tell me because I'm obviously not important enough to be privy to information about George…unless he says it's okay. I'm STILL mad about it! I have felt for a long time that I come a distant second to the job- maybe even third behind Alex- but nothing made it more clear than this stupid "it's the way cops are" attitude that George throws in my face at times. I should clarify that I am not mad at George anymore- though I am worried about any time that he starts to drink a lot (which he insists he does all the time, but then why is it that it seems to pick up whenever there's trouble in our relationship?).

The Phoenix Police Department is not the only thing "wrong" right now. I feel guilty about Alex's hearing. I think I've thought something was wrong with his hearing and speech for over a year, but it's only in the past month or so that I've actively done anything about it. My poor baby. There's nothing that can help me get over feeling guilty, except for maybe him to turn out to be a normal speaker by the time he starts kindergarten. But that's a while away.

Then there's my overwhelming exhaustion. I am often so tired during the day that I must nap in order to function (not that I do a whole lot in my waking hours most of the time). In fact, it took the embarassment of having dirty laundry all over the place for me to do something about it…like stuff it into plastic bags and throw it into the laundry room…we've hired a new cleaning lady, Carla. She's remarkable and likeable and definitely likes to talk. She and Alex get along famously, since Alex seems to have inherited my father's gift of gab. But anyway, I did more work on Wednesday afternoon than I've probably done all month. And why? Because I was sooooooo worried about how dirty my cleaning lady would think my house was! That's another thing- I care way too much about what other people think, to the point of obsession.

Alex is obsessed with liquids right now. A few weeks ago he had water flowing from the dispenser in the kitchen- an entire gallon must've emptied before I realized what was going on. Then there's his favorite- take a drink and let the liquid dribble out of your mouth and down your shirt. This morning I gave him milk in a cup- no lid or straw- and he was fascinated by it. So he dipped his donut into it repeatedly. Just now, he was awed by how quickly his juice flowed from his cup to the floor. One of these days he's going to figure out how to open the child-proof door lock, and then I'm sure I'll catch him playing in the toilet.

George said he had a meltdown last night. I figured one was coming, since he practically had a heart attack (numb arm and chest pain, etc.) on Sunday night when I told him what I was thinking. Anyway, he told me today that he's most frustrated that there's nothing he can do about my depression. When we met and I finally told him what was going on with me, I told him that I didn't think I could see him anymore. Ever the white knight (even now, when he knows that the battle could be long and weary), George swore we'd get through this and he'd take care of me. The last week I've been insistent that if he can't handle me or this, he can certainly "be excused" from us. Today he informed me that it was his decision whether or not he would leave, and he chooses to stay. Though I know he loves me, I can't help but feel that we're doomed. He can't fix this.

He wants to go back to working in the Maryvale precinct. Maryvale, where his accident happened. Maryvale, where he had chronic heartburn and hated his bosses and his squads and felt that nothing he did made a difference. I keep begging him to not make the change. But it doesn't look like anything I say makes a difference in this case.

Frequently Asked Questions

How are you? What's wrong? How are you feeling today? Are you going to work today? Will you continue your studies? What about Alex? Do you need help? What do you want me to do?

These are just some of the questions I've been asked a lot lately. I've been responding, "I don't know," a lot, or saying, "I've been better." There are also the standard "Yes," and "No." Then there are the questions I ask myself: What's wrong with me? Why can't I feel better? Why can't the doctors agree on what is wrong with me? Will the Mayo Clinic Internal Medicine doctor be able to figure it out? Will I have to drastically change my lifestyle? Should I really take time off from my current teaching job, since it's one of my major sources of stress? Why isn't my depression medicine working? How long is this going to last?

Unfortunately, there are no clear answers. I keep thinking about a quote I used to have up on the wall in my childhood bedroom (I had a quote-a-day calendar two years in a row, and each day that I liked the quote on the calendar, I stuck it on my wall. It was actually pretty cool- looked like a quote museum, and whenever I felt dumb and lost, I could just read my wall and feel enlightened.) that said, "There are years that ask questions, and there are years that answer." I want to say Pearl Bailey said that, but I can't remember. This is DEFINITELY a year of questions.

I have no short term memory these days. I keep asking the same questions because I can't remember the answers. For instance, I asked Eara THREE TIMES today if she had cold water. Yikes! If I don't write things down, they could be lost forever, like Amelia Earhart. Even if I do write something down, there's no guarantee I'll remember why I wrote it or what it means. So not only are people asking me the same questions, I'm doing it to some people. Crazy.

I haven't been writing because I have been sooooooo tired by the time 7 p.m. rolls around that I just sit down and be still. I've caught myself just sitting, and staring into space, absorbed in a fog of nothingness, really, because I'm not necessarily aware of what's going on around me. Yesterday was a curious exception to the sitting still. Alex fell asleep at 3:45 p.m., naked (except for his diaper- a recently developed favorite activity) and slept until 5 p.m.-ish. He asked for cookies when he got up (interestingly, "cookie" was one word he learned to say clearly right away), so we walked to the kitchen and I got him a snack-size bag of Chips Ahoy (the 100-calorie packs, for those of you who didn't know that they exist and/or that they taste like the real thing, and so much so that my finicky toddler LOVES them). He started to cry. I asked him what was wrong. He cried harder. I got him juice. I had to go to the bathroom, so I started to walk out of the kitchen. His cries became louder and more intense. I went back to him and took him by the hand. He screamed and cried and threw his cookies all over the floor, but then seemed extremely distressed by not having any cookies in his bag, so he then threw himself onto the floor. "Spongebob Squarepants" was on TV, so every now and then he'd stop crying and watch, but then he would just start crying again. Needless to say, I was beside myself. I didn't know what to do. I grabbed him and held him tightly, but he didn't want that. I followed him around the house, but he was so upset that he couldn't even gesture for what he wanted. When Alex cries I feel especially bad because he has little-to-no verbal language skills, and his frustration then becomes my shared frustration. It's kind of hard to be the calm grown-up when you wish you could throw yourself on the floor and cry too.

After nearly thirty minutes of this crying/screaming, I broke down and started to cry. I'd already called George (at work) a few times, who was quick to offer suggestions to get Alex to stop crying (none helped) and who had the nerve to ask me, "What do you want me to do?" I wanted to reach into the phone and put my hands around his neck to make it crystal clear that I am really unable to handle stressful and upsetting situations like this and I absolutely need help, but I am also unable to articulate what I need when I am feeling panicked and scared and frustrated and convinced that I am the worst mother ever. I did tell him that I thought I was the worst mother ever. He didn't argue with me or tell me I was wrong. So now I'm convinced that on some level, he thinks he's a better parent than I am.

That's another wonderful gift of my gray cloud, aka depression. I am an expert at assuming that people think the worst of me. When in doubt, I believe that people are upset with me, or they don't like me, or they're talking about me behind my back. What is nuts is that I KNOW this is not always true. But when I don't feel well- when my medicine isn't working as it should- even things that I know are true are things that I question. This morning I asked George if he loved me. He didn't come right out and say so until I asked him to tell me that he loved me, and then he said it (but maybe it was because I insisted?). My heart felt broken and I seriously question whether or not he loves me. He sure isn't acting like it these days. Once, a while ago, he told me that he was mad about my depressive episodes because he wondered if they were real, or if I was faking. Since George's mother is a piece of work who is manipulative (and a bunch of other unpleasant things), he grew up thinking that all women are manipulative and they don't ever say what they mean. Though we have had many a fight about how NOT his mother I am, he still doesn't entirely trust that my words and feelings are genuine. So right now, I wonder if he's thinking I'm faking? I would LOVE to be faking, because I would absolutely stop faking right now and not be considering leaving my job for an extended amount of time to rest and take care of myself so that my adrenal glands can start working again so I can not be depressed even though I am taking high doses of antidepressants!! I wish I were faking. Being thought of poorly for faking seems better than going through my unstable emotional condition.

I saw both my psychiatrist and my psychologist on Tuesday. I also have a primary care physician, an Ob/Gyn, an optometrist, a dentist, a naturopathic doctor, and soon, an internal medicine specialist and an endocrinologist. Wow. Maybe I should throw a party for all these health care providers. And invite my insurance company, because I'm sure CIGNA is LOVING that I am single-handedly funding their company this year.

Anyway, my psychiatrist, whose opinion I very much respect, did not feel it is wise to change the dosage of my antidepressants, since my problems are all hormone-related, and until the hormones are back in balance, no amount of antidepressants would help. Though this means I have to continue feeling the way I feel, it also means that I haven't gone crazy or lost my mind or become mentally/emotionally weak to cause my depression to come back so severely- it means that my body's hormonal catastrophe is messing with my head. Literally. Okay. So the depression is not my fault. When I told my psychologist I was nervous about going back to work (I didn't go to work on Monday or Tuesday) because I felt people would think negatively about me and my absences and that I felt guilty, she threw her hands up in the air and said, "Of course you feel guilty, Darna! Your mother instilled guilt in you when she blamed you for everything as a child. She invented ways to make it your fault. But it's not your fault. You haven't done anything wrong." Fireworks went off in my head. She's right. My mom blamed me for everything, from speeding tickets to why her friends didn't call to why her marriage was so unhealthy. She used to always ask me why I was so bad. She threatened to tell people at school "who I really was," suggesting that if they knew they would all hate me. I was afraid of her. For a long time. I thought she was right. It turns out that I was an absolute angel compared to some children (especially Alex!) and what she considered bad was a bright child's natural curiosity shown by asking questions about almost everything (my mom STILL hates that about me, I think. She doesn't like to be questioned because she sees it as challenging her authority.). But I still was anxious. I called George at work. He agreed that I did nothing wrong. I felt a little better.

My first day back at work was a nice one. The kids were happy to see me. And amazingly, I pulled things together and was prepared for my lessons. But I was so tired. I came home and cried because I was still reminded, through e-mail messages and things that were said, that I cause(d) a lot of needless stress for my students and my colleagues.

Yesterday my heart raced and I was dizzy for much of the day. When I got home, I started to experience chest pain. And this morning, I woke up shaking/trembling and couldn't stop until well after I got to school. There have been a lot of unusual physical things going on with me.

I subscribe to a daily mental health newsletter, specifically tailored to discuss depression-related topics. Last night I read all about studies that are showing that children suffer brain damage when exposed to extreme stress- particularly those stressful situations caused by physical, sexual, or emotional abuse. There were pictures (CAT scans?) showing the brains of abused children and those who were fortunate to not be abused. I sobbed. Most of my life I've been lucky to be smart. I was identified gifted in 3rd grade and had stellar grades in my accelerated and AP classes. I graduated suma cum laude from ASU (only one 'B' in four years) after having earned several merit-based scholarships. But I sobbed. Because I know my brain was damaged. I have severe depression which requires medication to help my brain chemicals be normal. How many more great things could I have done if I'd not had a damaged brain? Would I have been able to pull off starting a Summerbridge in Phoenix? (Summerbridge is a really cool educational workshop. Google it if you're interested.) Would I have pursued medical school? Would I have had enough confidence to go after the many things I didn't go after because I thought I wasn't good enough? I don't know. And I guess it's a waste of time to wonder. It makes me that much more determined to make sure Alex NEVER suffers as I did. I'd rather die than subject him to that. And I think a crime of passion could happen if my mother ever subjects him to it.

I'm angrier the past two days. Mostly at myself, but also at my parents. Eara said that my dad thinks he had a part in the development of my depression. Wow! He must've really been in denial, especially in sixth grade when I gave him a big stack of research to support my theory that I was being emotionally abused by my mother. You know what he said when I did that? He said, "We'll talk about it later." But we never did. In college, I did make him pay for my therapy. I insisted he owed me that much. I was much angrier back then- but he was still convinced that I just needed to pull myself up by the bootstaps back then too. And then there's my mother, who calls me up to four times a day to ask me if I'm okay and what's wrong and if I need her help. I usually let her leave a message.

I'm told I should be honest and open about how I feel as I "write" because it will help me. I hope it starts helping soon. I did feel better today after I left school. I was genuinely happy to see Alex and I laughed and joked with both Alex and Tommy. But now I'm having a hot flash. I'm going to try to stick my head in the freezer.

Rating: 5

Three Words: spacey, angry, tired

Survival of the Fittest?

I had a disheartening revelation today while driving south on State Route 51: if I'd been around in the days when Darwin's theory applied (though some argue it still applies today), I wouldn't have survived. I was a sickly kid, I'm blind as a bat without contacts or glasses, and then there's this mental health issue. This isn't a good thought to ponder when you're already questioning your existence, but it just popped into my head. A lot of my thoughts are like that these days. My thinking is fuzzy because my mind seems to be experiencing some kind of numbing fog, and every now and then there's a moment of clarity, but it's some kind of negative message that makes me wonder why I can't spend the rest of my life in bed.

I woke up this morning and I was irritable. I grumpily got out of bed, but I didn't have much time to be irritated because Alex wanted to play with his cars. He can say "play" now, and he usually says it as he pulls on your hand to get you to sit on the floor. George slept. I feel bad for him because he is facing a lot of stresses without the addition of my problems, so even though I wanted desperately to sleep, I let him sleep while I kept Alex occupied.

Then George left on a mission (to prepare for a big test tomorrow) and I was left alone with Alex, who most likely was just himself. But I felt that he was being naughtier than usual, and I was so irritated with him that I contemplated locking myself in a room to get away from him. When I told George that I'd had this urge, his face practically turned to stone- any threat to Alex, even if it's just perceived- gets this reaction from him. I still wonder how "bad" Alex really was. Maybe I was just so irritable that I picked up on every negative thing? I don't know. But it can't be good for my son to deal with a mom who doesn't think he can do anything wonderful, even if it's only sometimes. When I'm well, Alex is an amazing miracle who is sweet and funny. When I'm not well, he is still that, but it's harder for me to realize. As if I'm not frustrated enough, now I worry that I'm a bad mother, and I'm frustrated that I can't think of one good thing I do for him.

In a rare glimpse of my true self today, I made a funny comment that made George laugh this evening. I can't remember what I said, but I remember laughing, and it felt good.

Rating: 3 (When will the day be a 10 again?)
3 Words: angry, frustrated, irritated

Roller Coaster Ride

It has been four days since my "breakdown" on Thursday morning in the kitchen. Today is the first day I actually started to feel like myself again. But the initial feel-good period I experienced when I woke up this morning was followed by a terrible low. I was enjoying my son's company when it occurred to me that he may be better off without me. I'd much rather be absent from his life than have him possibly turn out depressed because of an unstable and weepy mother. Though I know that when I'm well this is a crazy concept, right now I can't shake the idea out of my head. I read on a support site for depressed people that the disease puts these thoughts into your head, and you have to fight them. It's just that I'm tired, I guess.

Right now I feel tired and dizzy. And a little bit hopeless, because it seems that a medicine change isn't a good idea right now since tests are still being conducted to figure out what exactly is wrong with my hormones. But then does that mean I have to continue to feel this way? I'm nervous about going back to work and going to the doctors on Tuesday…and I feel oddly jumpy. It makes me wonder how I survived being depressed before I got medicine and the therapy I needed.

Yesterday George unloaded his feelings. While I think it was good for him to do that, it only served to remind me how much of a burden I am right now. I don't know how to help him. When I'm well, I can respond in a way that seems to help. But right now I can't even help myself. I am so frustrated about this!

I'm going to try to include a rating of my day on a scale of one to ten, with ten being really wonderful and one being dreadfully bad. Maybe if I do this everyday I'll see that I do have good days? Or something like that… And I'm also going to use three words to sum up who I am today.

Rating: 3
Three Words: lost, edgy, worried

To get caught up...

Will the real Darna stand up? March 2, 2007
I'm surprised I'm awake. My body is tired, as it always is, but my mind is racing. Since typing takes relatively little energy, my blog affords me an outlet, and maybe once I've dumped the contents of my mind onto the screen, I'll feel like I can sleep. Here's hoping, anyway. I've had a cloud hanging over me my entire life. From parental accounts of life before my birth, my parents didn't like each other much and my mom really had no business being pregnant since neither her physical nor her mental health was optimal. I've heard my mother talk about being homesick (as I would be if I'd traveled halfway around the world to live without knowing when I'd see my family again), so I imagine her pregnancy was not a terribly happy time. I know that even though my mother is often the last person I go to for any kind of support, it was a comfort to have her around while I was pregnant. So she must've really missed her mother when she was pregnant with me. Or maybe not. Who knows? I've long given up on trying to understand what drives my mother.Anyway, both of my parents have said that I almost died in the process of being born. But God had other plans, I guess, because I was born shortly after midnight on Valentine's Day- or maybe God's attention was diverted for a moment.... While my mother remained in her drug-induced sleep, my father gave me the gift of conflict and turmoil through my name: Darna Valentina. (His thinking was quite innocent, but it just so happens that Darna is the name of the Filipino equivalent of Wonder Woman, and Valentina is the name of Darna's arch-nemesis. That's a lot for a little girl to handle.)As I grew, it became quite clear that my sister Eara (such a cute kid!) was the apple of my mother's eye. I accused her (mother) of it a lot and she always got mad. With my grown up mind I understand that no one likes to admit or face ugly truths, and this was certainly the case for her. In addition to thinking the world of Eara, my mom didn't like me much because I was so much like my father. She actually admitted it a few years ago- sometime between wishing I'd die of Anthrax and hoping I had a child who made me as miserable as I made her. I think about all the horrific things I had to hear as a girl, and instead of being angry now, I am sad for the mother who clearly needed help, and so sorry for the little girl who had to suffer. NO CHILD can ever deserve to hear what I used to hear. It's taken almost ten years to stop the tape from playing in my head. I am just so sorry that it even started.I do not mean to paint a picture of a terrible childhood, or even to use my childhood as an explanation for what I am today. I have experienced some amazing and wonderful things, and when my mother wasn't angry or frustrated, she was teaching me things and encouraging me to dream big. Oddly, she's probably part of the reason I was a resilient kid who was able to survive. (But really, that credit goes to teachers and family friends who loved me even when I didn't think so much of myself.) Times like now, though, when I feel like a failure who is weak and inept, it helps to remember that I didn't exactly get a healthy sense of self to fall back on. Though I try to have as little to do with her as possible these days, she is so in love with my son that it appeals to my vanity...but I also know that my son is a piece of me who will some day ask her too many questions so that she might get annoyed and say something mean. So she doesn't spend much time with him unsupervised. How sad is that? It just shouldn't be that you can't trust your own mother with your child.I had a nervous breakdown during my senior year of high school. It came about because the social worker at my school, my guidance counselor, and my student council advisor all somehow saw through my "act," which was by now perfected to an artform. Forced to admit the horrible things that happened at home and how I had to put on a happy mask for the world, I guess I couldn't deny the ugliness of my life. I stayed in bed for a week. I hardly talked. I cried profusely. I didn't eat. I wished for death and contemplated ways to help it come quickly. But I did nothing. I know now that my guardian angel was sitting in my bedroom with me.Even though I'd admitted that there were bad things going on in my life, it wasn't until I was a sophomore in college that I worked up the courage to admit that I needed help dealing with them. I took a depression screening test. One of the volunteer screeners took me into a quiet room and cried when I told her what I'd been going through (spontaneous crying spells, a desire to isolate myself socially, making really dangerous and reckless choices, etc.). She referred me to ASU's Student Health office to see a counselor. The counselor's name was Kevin. He was a doctoral student and he was marvelous. He listened to me talk and validated my life's worth, which I have always seriously doubted. It was 1998. I'd been my mother's verbal/emotional abuse victim for nearly 19 years. I was finally diagnosed as having major depression.It is now 2007. I'm not my mother's victim anymore. But the depression won't go away. In 2002, I was lucky to find a terrific psychologist who put me in touch with a gifted psychiatrist. I learned I'd been sadly under-medicated, but that was fixed. When I started taking Wellbutrin XL along with Zoloft, I really started to feel better. They are such staples in my life that I didn't even consider going off of them, even when I learned I was pregnant. They have helped me be myself, and most importantly, I got through some major life changes without falling apart.But they don't seem to be working anymore. I'm not working anymore. I've fallen apart. In my last blog post, I shared the medical nightmare I'm going through...I've since seen a naturopathic physician who agrees with my lab results that I am seriously fatigued and depleted of necessary hormonal support. She's given me herbs and vitamins and is running more tests to find out what else (if anything) is causing my health problems. My therapist comments that I am the most depressed she has ever seen me in the last five years. My son failed his hearing test. He needs tubes put in his ears. I am gone from work a lot and it makes a lot of people unhappy. What's worse is that I am powerless to stop the unhappiness. I only work half a day, and even the thought of that exhausts me.Is my depression the reason for the medical problems? Or have my medical problems caused my depression to come back in full force? I don't know. What I do know is that I am tired all the time, and it takes much more to make me laugh and smile genuinely. And I wonder a lot more now what would've been so horrible about missing my birth. But I have no desire to eliminate my life- I truly do want to find my way out of this scary fog and stop dreading life so that I can enjoy it again. Thursday morning as I sat on the kitchen floor, unable to move and having difficulty breathing, I realized that my son, who put his face on mine and wiped away my tears, is my guardian angel this time around. So he won't let me push life out of my way. I can remember not feeling like this, so I know deep down that it is possible that I'll feel happy again. I just have to not give up. So much easier said than done. I am soooooooo tired all the time. Who I am and who I have been the last couple of months is not the real me. I want the real Darna back.

Blog Stew: February 18, 2007
How is it that all the women on HBO's Rome have curly hair? Is this historically accurate? I mean, I'm struck by how wonderful everyone's curly tendrils look. Makes me wonder if maybe Italians in the day (as these Romans were) had naturally gorgeous hair that was lost with their empire, and is only now recreated with time-intensive hair manipulation. Hmm...Musings about hair aside, I'm up so late on Sunday night because I took a three hour nap today (and there's no school tomorrow). I fell asleep and George didn't try to wake me up (for once) to get Alex juice or a snack. I haven't been feeling well since yesterday, so the nap was much needed; I have to admit that I take a lot of these "urgent" naps lately, since I'm ALWAYS exhausted. I wake up some mornings after sleeping eight hours, and I feel like I've been up all night. Chalk it up to whatever is going on with my hormones.For the record, I finally made an appointment to see an OB/GYN for a pap smear and woman's exam.....and what happens? Exactly what I feared would happen, which is why I hadn't been to see an OB/GYN since right after Alex was born: I got bad news. During the exam, there was nipple discharge. I'll never forget the doctor's surprise- and the matching look of masked shock- when it happened and she nonchalantly asked me if this had ever happened before. She tried to assure me that it was probably nothing, handed me lab paperwork (apparently she ordered a full blood workup), and encouraged me to call right away if the discharge changed at all.At first I wasn't too worried. But there's something about nipple leakage that's unnerving. It was odd even when it was supposed to be happening after I gave birth, but now that there's been no birth, it's especially strange. Long story short, my bloodwork showed some strange hormone levels (I think my eyes must've glazed over and rolled back in my head as I heard the doctor explain all of this in her foreign medical jargon because I can't really explain what she said) and my doctor was concerned about a pituitary gland tumor, which can often cause the strange hormone levels and the nipple discharge. Mention a tumor, and most people wriggle in their seats uncomfortably. I freaked out. I put off scheduling an MRI. I went into full denial mode. This is why very few people knew anything about this entire health ordeal- until now, that is, when I've come out of denial mode.My MRI came back showing no signs of a tumor. {sigh of relief} The doctor wants another few blood tests done to try to specifically pinpoint which hormones have strange levels so that I can possibly be put onto hormone replacement/treatment therapy. I'm so NOT enthused about this possibility. Even after all the blood loss and the torture of having to lay still for the MRI, the doctor tells me that we may never be able to pinpoint exactly what is wrong with me, and it could just be chronic fatigue syndrome. What this has to do with the leaky nipple, I don't know. All I really understand is that there's not a definite answer for what is wrong with me, and I may be tired for the rest of my days. Not a very heartening thought.This latest health roller coaster has made me really understand how much of an asset good health is for those who have it. I took mine for granted, and now I see that should I ever completely achieve it again, I will cherish every minute of it.I had an interview on Saturday morning for the Arizona Virtual Academy. I REALLY, REALLY want this job, since it allows me some flexibility in the hours that I work, as well as the major perk of being able to work from home. I think it went well, but it's hard to feel good about myself and my teaching attractiveness when I've had such a hard time of it with my job this year. I'll sum it up by saying that I've missed a lot of work, and while 90% of the time my absences have been unavoidable, I work on a team that needs me to be at work. Plus my principal clearly doesn't share my philosophy on child-rearing, which is that I'm Alex's mom first, so that's a rub. I was getting down on myself when I realized that though the circumstances are bad, my passion for learning and teaching hasn't changed- I'm still an awesome teacher because I work hard to plan the very best lessons and be engaging; I read and keep myself abreast of educational issues; and I still have so much to learn! I'm so grateful for Presidents' Day tomorrow (and completely confused about the proper placement of the apostrophe) and I'm going to bed now!