Category Archives: Depression

Christmas Miracles and Everyday Madness

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xmas_tree_before_1214It’s been an eventful few weeks since I posted anything fresh here for you. First, a bit of an explanation. Christmas was my mom’s favorite holiday. The tree was always up on the day after Thanksgiving and every inch of the house was covered in something that lit up, jingled or played holiday songs. More than once, I walked into the room at my parent’s house and had a motion-sensing, dancing, singing Santa scare the living shit out of me. As far as holidays go, my mom never wavered. She was all in.

Not surprisingly, since her death, the holidays kind of suck for me. Add to that an always lingering residual bit of depression, a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder and the stress that comes with planning a major holiday and a child’s birthday party at the same time, and you’ve got the perfect storm. Unfortunately, I’m terrible at writing in the midst of a storm.

Now for a little public service announcement…If you are considering getting pregnant (or knocking up your wife, significant other, or surrogate) I would highly recommend that you carefully plan the fateful insemination so as to avoid having a child born in December. Or the beginning of January, for that matter. Many moons ago, my darling Biggie was our Christmas miracle. She was born on December 12th after three years of trying to get pregnant culminating in three rounds of in vitro. But here’s the thing…we really should have timed the whole miracle thing much better.

Everyone worries about the kid when they find out he or she has a Christmastime birthday. “Oh, the poor thing! He/she really gets the shaft having his/her birthday so close to the holidays.” But, I say…remember the parents! (Or, in our case, the mother. Let’s be honest.) Ever try making candy flames while shopping online and addressing holiday cards at the same time? It’s a challenge even for the sanest parent and we all know that’s not me.

The last few weeks have been such a blur, I’ll just try to fill you in with a few main events. First, there was the aforementioned birthday party, which was another sleepover because I’m a masochist. I did put my foot down this year, though, telling Biggie she could invite only two girls from school and two girls from the neighborhood. Last year’s sleepover was significantly bigger and a bit of a debacle actually (at least for me).

campfire_cake_1214For once, Biggie liked and went along with my idea for the party theme… a camping themed, birthday slumber party. The girls slept in an eight-person tent Ad Man and I just barely managed to erect in our downstairs living room. But, before that, there was an outdoor scavenger hunt, pizza, a movie by the fireplace and a campfire birthday cake. I’ve included a photo of the cake here because I think I got more comments about it on Facebook than I’ve gotten on any cute kid or puppy post ever. Honestly, that cake was the highlight of my last few weeks. It came out so much better than I’d ever imagined. In fact, I’m considering never baking another cake for as long as I live. Why not retire at the top of my game, right?

Despite all the preparation that went into Biggie’s party, it actually turned out to be fairly easy and she was happy. Yay for me! I have to savor the little victories in parenthood because, lord knows, they can be few and far between.

Unfortunately, there have been some low points in the last few weeks as well…for example, when our Christmas tree came crashing down yesterday. I will elaborate, but I should first mention the wonderful way my day began. I was lucky enough to spend the day with a friend’s sweet, beautiful, eight week old (ish) baby boy. Oh man, is he delicious! We had a lovely day of snuggling, snoozing (him, not me), smiling (both of us) and sniffing his luscious new baby smell (Birdie and I). It was a bit of a challenge managing a puppy and a newborn at the same time, but I still found myself thinking, “See? I’m not too old for a baby. I could totally do this again!”

That is until I was attempting to calm little man who was squawking with hunger while I tried to heat up his bottle as fast as humanly possible when we heard an ungodly crash from the adjacent living room. Squawking turned to screaming, Birdie ran around like there was a squirrel in the house, and I reluctantly peeked around the corner only to find shards of glass and spilled water everywhere! The poor Christmas tree that had been so elegantly dressed just moments before, lay sadly in a bed of its own debris.

xmas_tree_after_1214I had the sense to put the the baby in his bouncy seat and unplug the tree lights before one of us was electrocuted in a pine-scented cloud of sparks. That was the last coherent thought I had, however. I looked at the mess, the hungry baby, the bottle of precious breast milk warming on the stove and the puppy threatening to run through broken glass and picked up the phone to call Ad Man. Luckily, another Christmas miracle occurred and he actually answered the phone. I said something like, “I need you! Come quick! The tree fell and there’s glass and water and I have a baby and a dog!” in not my calmest voice. Ad Man’s office is only three miles away, so after telling me to put the damn dog in her crate and doing about twelve additional things at the office, he headed home to face the destruction.

Eventually, Ad Man arrived, cleaned up the mess and we took inventory of our destroyed ornaments. By then, the baby was sleeping contentedly with a belly full of warm milk while Birdie slept off the adrenaline rush from dodging an enormous falling tree. As it was too early for a drink and I was babysitting, I got my stress relief from gazing at the perfect, peaceful face of little man. Demonstrating my remarkable skills of denial and self-delusion, I breathed a sigh of relief and thought again, “I could totally do this.”

The following day, I was again entrusted with the care and keeping of another living being, but the outcome was less successful. Birdie tends to be a pain in the ass about getting her nails clipped, so I’ve given up trying to do it myself and now take her to Petco for monthly pedicures. Because she apparently has the same short memory as her adoptive mother, she blocks out her nail terrors and is super excited to go to the pet store every single time.

Yesterday’s trip was no exception. She bounded out of the house with her tail wagging as soon as I said, “Birdie, want to go to the store?” We hopped into the car and I carefully lowered her window to a level where she could stick out her snout and enjoy the breeze, but not hang half her body out the window like a teenage boy in a limo after prom. In an abundance of caution, I hold onto her leash with a death grip the entire time she rides with me. I’d like to point out that Ad Man thinks I’m a neurotic freak (for this, and many other reasons). He just loops her leash through the seat belt and lets her hang out and gulp oxygen to her heart’s content.

Luckily, I can rarely, if ever, be convinced that his method of doing something is better than mine. And, it’s a damn good thing I stuck to my neurotic guns, because I’d just pulled into the Petco parking lot when Birdie jumped out the damn window! Of a moving automobile! Who does that?! Freaking the f*ck out, I managed to pull the car over and park all the while clinging to her leash. I’ll never forget the panicked look she gave me as she dangled outside, with just her eyeballs reaching the level of the now completely lowered window. I steeled myself for what I would see as my mind ran wild with images of her wrecked body flashing before my eyes.

Instead, I opened the passenger door and she hopped right back in, fresh as a daisy. It was as though she jumped out of a moving vehicle on a daily basis! A woman in the parking lot who had witnessed the whole scene called to me, “Is your dog OK? Are you OK?!” In a state of shocked disbelief, I told her yes. Birdie and I caught our breath and continued into the store as planned because, well, I didn’t know what else to do.

Not once did I think to wonder how the car window had gotten rolled down. That is, until we were back in the car on our way home and Birdie had her nose and paws out the 3 inches of open window I allowed her when the stupid thing rolled down again! All I could figure was that it was broken and would roll down whenever she put pressure on it. However, after we returned home and my scrambled brain started chugging back into action, I thought to myself, “You dumbass, the dog was stepping on the window button!” Erg. Anyway, this was the very difficult way I learned to always, always turn on the child safe window locks whenever doggie Evel Knievel is riding shotgun. Public service announcement #2.

Aren’t you glad you read this whole rambling post? I provided you with two nuggets of wisdom so you don’t have to learn them the hard way like I did. I also told you a couple stories that undoubtedly made you sit back and think, “Holy crap…I’m glad I’m not her!” Don’t say I never gave you anything. Have a great holiday! I’ll have lots of updates in the new year. Now, go tether that Christmas tree to the closest immovable object you can find. You’ll thank me someday.

Lock Me Up and Throw Away the Key  

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list_insane_asylumThis list of reasons one might be committed to an insane asylum in the late-1800s is one of my favorite things. It comes from West Virginia’s Hospital for the Insane which still stands and is open for “Heritage” and “Ghost” tours. Huh? If I were committed to a creepy insane asylum, that would be the very last place I’d choose to haunt in my afterlife. I’d choose something more like the Bora Bora Nui Resort. Yep, I would haunt the shit out of one of those little villas set literally on the ocean. I should mention that the asylum also hosts Zombie Paintball and and a drag show, both of which sound a hell of a lot more fun than being spooked by pissed off, long dead lunatics.

Reading through the list of reasons for committal, it’s clear that I would have been a long term resident at my friendly neighborhood insane asylum if I were around in the 1800s. This is, of course, presupposing that I’d survived the Salem Witch Trials prior to that. Let’s peruse the list, shall we? I suspect a good number of us would have been potential patients at the asylum. Right off the bat, I’m screwed:

Intemperance and Business Trouble.  I’ve been known to imbibe an alcoholic beverage or two in my time and anyone who reads this blog knows that, despite my license to practice law, I’ve earned approximately zero dollars over the last eight years. If that’s not business trouble, I don’t know what is. While I wouldn’t necessarily draw a causal connection between intemperance and my business trouble, both of these character flaws exist simultaneously so I’d have to plead guilty on this one.

I clearly have a Hereditary Predisposition to insanity. Thanks a lot, Mom. I would also be remiss if I didn’t blame my grandmother and numerous aunts, uncles and cousins. You’re all a bunch of crazies, but I love you.

Ill Treatment by Husband. Check. Um, here’s an idea though…perhaps they could have thrown the husbands in the asylum, not the long-suffering wives!

I don’t think they could get me on Imaginary Female Trouble. All my female trouble has been based firmly in reality. I am, however, clearly suffering from Hysteria (i.e., “female trouble”), an Immoral Life (see Intemperance, above), and Laziness. I’m also guilty of Using Medicine to Prevent Conception, Menstrual Derangement, Mental Excitement and, worst of all…Novel Reading!

Overaction of the Mind would be a yes; Overstudy of Religion, a definite no. I have been accused of Political Excitement, especially since moving to the South. For some reason, I was considered very calmly political when I lived in Berkeley, California. I can also be Bad Company at times, just ask Ad Man.

I don’t think I’ve ever had Bad Whiskey, but whiskey has definitely been bad to me. I am pleased to report that, as far as I know, I have not suffered from either Bloody Flux or Brain Fever. Neither of those symptoms sounds like a good time.

As for the rest of the first column, I admit to Business Nerves and Congestion of the Brain. I’m sure I displayed both to a few judges in Los Angeles County courtrooms. I’m safe on the rest of the symptoms in that column, but I’m not going to make any promises that Desertion by Husband won’t be forthcoming.

I definitely have Domestic Affliction and Domestic Trouble, but again, why do I have to go to the insane asylum while the real culprits, my husband and children, get to walk free? Actually, I should throw our puppy Birdie in there, too. Am I the one who barks at my own tail and pees on the kitchen floor? I think not.

Not sure what Excitement as Officer means, but if it involves a sexy policewoman’s uniform and stilettos, I can’t absolutely rule it out. A girl’s got to keep the home fires burning, if you know what I mean.

Yes to both Fever and Jealousy. Suppression of Menses? Hell yes! Shout out to my IUD! Time of Life? Well, this one depends on context. Is it like, “Woohoo…I’m having the time of my life!” If so, then I’m sure that’s occurred in one 4 am Chicago bar or another when I was in my 20s. If instead, it means “The Change,” then no, not yet, but check back in five to ten years. I’m sure I’ll be plenty deranged by then!

asylum_buildingI think we’ve sufficiently covered Uterine Derangement and Women Trouble. Add those to Hysteria and Menstrual Derangement. Jeez, you’d think getting one’s period was like catching the Black Death back then! Hmm…I wonder what the gender was of the person who wrote up this list. Such a mystery. I guess we’ll never know.

Do you think Shooting of Daughter had to be an actual shooting or would merely contemplating be enough? I’m going to read this literally and say no, I’ve never shot one of my daughters. Not even during a homework meltdown.

Gathering in the Head is one of my favorites. I’ve spent many years in my head, but as far as I know I’ve always been alone in there, so I think I’m OK on this one. And, if Greediness means hiding the good chocolate from your children and eating it after they go to bed, then I’m greedy as hell.

Grief? That’s a topic for another blog post. Let’s just say grief is the only thing on this list that’s actually gotten me close to requiring hospitalization. Speaking of which, today is the 12th anniversary of my mom’s death. I’d like to believe she’d be MommyEnnui’s biggest fan if she were still here. Thanks for the twisted sense of humor, Mom. It’s serving me well.

Hard Study could have gotten me committed to an asylum a few times during law school. Instead, I went with outpatient therapy and tequila. Rumor of Husband Murder? Much like Shooting of Daughter, this one depends on who’s spreading the murderous rumor and whether empty threats count. As for Seduction and Disappointment, I’d refer you back to the same Chicago bar in my 20s. I’m sure this one was checked off back then.

And, finally, Dissipation of Nerves. For this one, I looked up dissipation and found a number of interesting definitions: “breaking up and scattering by dispersion,” “wasting by misuse,” or “a process by which energy is used or lost without accomplishing useful work.” Considering the fact that I spend much of each day gathering in my own head, Dissipation of Nerves could be my middle name!

Well, there you have it. I would have been the ideal candidate for commitment to West Virginia’s Hospital for the Insane if I were around in the 1800s. The good news is that pretty much every one of my female friends and a good number of the guys would be committed with me, so at least I’d have company. Imagine all the fun we’d have drinking, being lazy, reading novels and just generally living an immoral life. Doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?

How many reasons would you have had for being locked in the insane asylum?

The Back-to-School Curse

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willa_sick_birdie_0814

Still Life with Dog and Sick Kid

Things have gone from bad to worse at the MommyEnnui residence. I don’t know why it always catches me off guard when things go horribly awry at the beginning of the school year. I really should write, “Don’t celebrate yet! The shit’s about to hit the fan!” in my calendar on the first day of school every year.

I already knew last week was going to be difficult. It was the second week of school, we have a new puppy and Ad Man was scheduled to be out of town for several days. That meant that I’d have to get two sleepy, stubborn kids up at the crack of dawn, supervise their morning routine, make lunches and have the girls ready to get on the bus at about 5 minutes past the crack of dawn. I also had to simultaneously get a sleepy, stubborn puppy outside to go potty, somehow convincing her of the urgency of the matter, and then keep her from chewing on the children while they tried to avoid getting ready for school.

We managed to do it, despite a few mini-meltdowns by Biggie and Smalls over the outfits they’d picked out themselves just the night before and complaints about their breakfast which would have been deemed disgusting and inedible no matter what I put in front of them. Surprisingly, Birdie cooperated, contentedly spending time in her crate when I couldn’t follow her around at every moment. I tried not to make eye contact with her for fear of breaking the trance.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing though. This was the first week of homework for Smalls and, borrowing from her sister’s playbook, she cried, whined and ended up doing a half-assed job of it each afternoon. Biggie, on the other hand, was delighted that for once, her sister was the drama queen. She took advantage of the rare opportunity to be the “easy child” by being excessively cooperative and pleasant. Both girls have gotten really good at capitalizing on the other’s foul moods. Generally, it’s Biggie throwing a fit and Smalls smiling sweetly at me, saying, “I love you soooo much, Mommy!” These kissing-up skills should serve them well in their careers someday.

When Smalls got off the bus the next day complaining of a headache and stomach ache, I assumed she’d just developed an allergy to homework. I told her to go lay down in her room if she wasn’t feeling well. After about a half an hour of helping Biggie with homework, I realized that Smalls still hadn’t emerged begging for snacks and began to get concerned. I discovered her asleep in her room with the covers over her head, soaked in sweat. Yep…she was running a fever. At this point, I ran outside, shook my fist in the sky and yelled, “Noooooooo!!!” OK, maybe that part only happened in my head.

It turned out, I had my darling Smalls home with me for the rest of the week and through the beginning of this one. We spent long days watching High School Musical, High School Musical 2, Camp Rock, Camp Rock 2: The Final Jam, Princess Protection Program, Freaky Friday and much, much more. If I see one more Disney Channel star, I’m going to lose my freaking mind!

After 2 trips to the doctor, 2 strep tests, 1 mono test, lots of poking, prodding and pleading for a prescription for antibiotics (that would be me), it turned out that it was just a really nasty virus. Ugh…virus. That word dreaded by parents everywhere because it means you are officially powerless to do anything but wait until the virus is damn good and ready to release your kid from its evil clutches. Poor Smalls was stuck with the thing for 6 days.

Oh, and how could I forget the best part? On Fever Day 2 while Ad Man was still out of town, I had Birdie out to attempt a walk. This time, she took a few steps then planted herself on our neighbor’s uphill yard refusing to leave. I ended up carrying her down a set of uneven steps and twisted my ankle so badly I was sure it was broken. I hobbled home carrying the dog (who’s 20 lbs. now, by the way) and immediately iced my ankle while watching it swell up and turn purple. So, there I sat crying with a erratic, potty-training puppy, a sick child and a husband in Texas not returning my texts or calls. Because, you know, that’s how we roll here at MommyEnnui headquarters.

Without access to my absentee husband, I turned to Facebook for support. The best advice came from my friend S who recommended “B.R.I.C.E.”…bourbon, rest, ice, compression and elevation. Many other friends offered their sympathy and asked if they could do anything to help. Those from far away generally just said they were looking forward to a blog post about the whole debacle. So, this is for you heartless bastards.

On the morning of Day 7, I limped to Smalls’s room to check her temperature. Suddenly, the heavens opened up and rays of golden sunshine pooled on her IKEA rug. (Now that I think of it, that could have been dog pee, but I digress.) Once the room cleared of fluffy, white clouds and angels’ wings, I was able to focus on the thermometer stuck in Smalls’s ear which clearly read 98.6! (That’s 37 degrees Celsius for you Europeans with your fancy metric system.)

My joy overflowed, but after 6 days of vegging on the couch watching TV in her pajamas, Smalls was a little less thrilled with the idea of dashing off to school. Regardless, to the school bus she went! I celebrated by sitting on the couch acting as a buffer between Birdie and the furniture, quietly drinking my tea, and watching something (anything!) other than Nick Jr. I actually left the house to sit in a coffee shop with other adults and begin this blog post. I grabbed some groceries and headed home to the dog. It was a wild day of freedom.

Throughout the afternoon, I hatched big plans for the next day. I was super excited to finally get back to my favorite morning hot yoga class. I laid out my clothes and put all my gear in the lovely, as yet unused, yoga bag my step-mom gave me months ago. I planned to finish this post and finally get it up on the blog. I was also going to make one of the zillion tasty recipes I’ve posted on Vegetarian Mamas recently but hadn’t been able to make with a new puppy and sick kid all up in my grill. I crawled in bed that night knowing that Ad Man would soon be home and feeling optimistic for the first time in a long time.

Same Couch, Different Kid

Same Couch, Different Kid

The following morning, I awoke with the sun…and the whining dog and the prodigal husband attempting to pry the children out of bed. When I stumbled out into the kitchen relieved to see Smalls still looking perky, Biggie moaned, “Mommy…my head hurts.” I held my breath as Ad Man stuck the thermometer in her ear, glanced at it and then turned to me with a look of such pity, it sent me into a complete psychotic breakdown.

I don’t remember much after that other than hearing Ad Man’s faint voice from far above the deep, dark place to which I’d sunk. I’m pretty sure he said, “I’ve got to go to work…you know, that place where people praise and throw money at me for a job well done. How’s that law degree working out for you? Oh, by the way, I have to go to San Francisco for a couple days next week.” Or something like that.

Puppy Ennui

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I’m pretty sure I’m suffering from puppy postpartum depression (“PPPD”). I just called Ad Man because I was lonely and feeling frustrated by doggy parenting and ended up crying on the phone like an effing lunatic. I’m now sitting at … Continue reading →

Calling for Peace in the Parenting Wars

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judging-new-parentsLast week, I went to hear Jennifer Senior, author of the universally lauded book on modern parenting All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood, speak. I have not yet raved here about Senior’s book just because I feel like it has been reviewed and praised in so many publications already. It’s unlikely you haven’t already read a review, read the book itself, or at least seen it on the bestsellers’ shelf at the bookstore. Suffice it to say, it is a fantastic book about the changes that have occurred over the past 70 years or so that have completely changed the face of parenting and what those changes mean for today’s parents.

all_joy_no_fun_bookAll Joy and No Fun isn’t a how-to parenting book, however. Senior, a parent herself, readily admits that, like most people, she’s just “winging it” as far as raising her kids goes. We’re all pioneers in this wild new landscape of modern parenting. Senior’s book presents astute observations in a nonjudgmental way and this is one of the things I found so rare and refreshing about it.

You can go to any bookstore or spend just a few minutes on Amazon and find countless books written with the intention of convincing the reader that the author’s theory on raising children is the correct one and that all other parenting methods are tantamount to child abuse. Really, it’s come to that level of dispute and hysteria. It’s a virtual cage match between Attachment parents, Free-Range parents, long-term breastfeeders, Tiger moms and dads, No-Cry parents, anti-vaccine evangelists, family bed advocates and on and on and on.

I’m not going to claim that I didn’t delve into more than a few how-to books myself as a young parent. (Or, more appropriately, a “new” parent…I had ADVANCED MATERNAL AGE stamped on my OB’s medical files from day one!) There are a thousand different situations that arise just in the first few months of your firstborn’s life for which you have not the slightest bit of preparation and it sure would be nice to have a manual to refer to for step-by-step instructions. But, unfortunately, that’s not how this maddening parenting thing works. In reality, you do your best and then wait 18 or 30 years to find out whether you completely fucked up or not.

And yet, that hasn’t stopped an army of experts and lifestyle gurus from getting rich on books that purport to show you “the way” through parenthood. I was just reading a review of Alicia Silverstone’s new book The Kind Mama: A Simple Guide to Supercharged Fertility, a Radiant Pregnancy, a Sweeter Birth, and a Healthier, More Beautiful Beginning. If that doesn’t sound like a woman who thinks she has the answers, I don’t know what does. In addition to being an actress, Silverstone is also a vocal vegan, animals rights activist, fairly new mother and best-selling author of The Kind Diet. (Full disclosure, I own Silverstone’s first book and refer to it often for recipes and information about vegan eating.)

the_kind_mama_bookAs an influential Hollywood hippie-type (no judgment intended…you know I love my LA hippie brothers and sisters), Silverstone has taken it upon herself to extend her vegan, Earth-loving “brand” to parenthood. Not surprisingly, The Kind Mama advocates strongly for attachment parenting, extended breastfeeding, the family bed and vegan eating for the entire family. Some of the controversial assertions Silverstone makes in the book are that: 1) meat, dairy and processed foods “track toxic sludge through your [uterus],” 2) diapers are “pseudoscience,” 3) eating plant-based foods can “demolish your need for pharmaceutical drugs for things like depression,” 4) tampons may make you infertile, and 5) some babies are “never the same” after receiving vaccines.

As you can imagine, the responses to the review I read and comments on Amazon regarding the book itself are passionate to say the least, though the word combative seems more apt. A few responses, both positive and negative, were thoughtful and constructive. However, the overwhelming majority of comments made it abundantly clear that otherwise sane people will readily resort to insults, name-calling and threats against those purporting to tell them that their beliefs and philosophies, especially regarding parenting, are incorrect.

start_cola_earlierI’m not trying to defend Silverstone here. The author herself resorts to the same tactics when she describes forcing your baby to sleep “in a barred-in box, completely alone,” AKA in a crib, as the equivalent of child neglect. And, I personally think her anti-vaccine stance is misguided at best and, at worst, deadly. What is clear, though, is that the so-called “Mommy Wars” have now grown into full-blown “Parenting Wars.” You will now be judged not only on whether you choose to work or be a stay-at-home parent, you will be second guessed on every decision you make regarding every aspect of raising your child, from when you decide to start the kid on solid foods to whether your children will be expected to contribute toward the cost of their college educations.

You know, it used to be considered extremely rude to tell someone how to raise his or her children. Not everything was up for passionate public debate. Were there “experts,” books and magazine articles, friends and complete strangers standing by to shame my mother when she was unable to successfully breastfeed me? Hell, no. Did she have to justify her choice of diapers or where she put me down to sleep or what vaccines she “allowed” the pediatrician to give me? No, again. She sincerely did what she and my dad thought was best for me and it was no one else’s damn business.

beer-breastfeedingWouldn’t it be nice if we could return to those days? Thank you, researchers, for your findings. Thank you, doctors, for your medical advice. I am now going to go ruminate on those facts and opinions and take the action that my husband and I deem is in my child’s best interest. No, woman at the grocery story, I don’t need to know what you think of our decision. No thank you, I’d prefer not to read the book filled with doomsday predictions about the horrible things that will happen to my child and, indeed, the universe if I fail to buy her organic, GMO-free toothpaste.

Can we all just go back to viewing parenthood as a series of personal decisions people make as they’re stewarding little humans from infancy to adulthood instead of a political stance to be analyzed, debated and voted upon by all citizens, everywhere? In other words, they’re my kids, I’m doing my best and everyone else can shut the fuck up. Oh, I’m sorry. Was that too harsh? I forgot mothers aren’t supposed to get angry or swear. Surely, that outburst will have a dire effect on my children in the future.

Awkward with Strangers

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louie_subwayI’ve been looking for my next show to binge-watch while on the treadmill and folding laundry having recently finished ‘Call the Midwife’ and ‘Top of the Lake,’ both which I highly recommend. I decided to go with something a little lighter today and started the second season of Louis C.K.’s dark and very humorous sitcom ‘Louie.’ If you haven’t seen it yet, in ‘Louie,’ comedian Louis C.K. basically plays himself–a newly divorced father of two young daughters living in New York City.

There was a particular moment in the episode I watched that really struck a chord with me. Louie and his daughters are asleep and his pregnant sister is spending the night on his couch when she suddenly starts screaming in pain. Her yelling wakes both Louie and his neighbors, a lovely couple whom he’s never met. The neighbors come to Louie’s door to see if they can help, one man offering to help Louie get his sister to the hospital and his partner offering to stay with the sleeping kids.

Louie, visibly uncomfortable, seems paralyzed and incapable of making a decision until one of the neighbors says, “Brother, do not let your sister die from pain or lose her baby because you are awkward with strangers.” Later, after having this experience in the trenches together (not to worry, Louie’s sister’s excruciating pain is eliminated at the hospital with one enormous fart), Louie decides that he’d like to be friends with his neighbor. Louie, of course, is a social misfit and intimidated by making new friends so the ensuing conversation about getting together again is hilariously awkward.

I laughed my ass off at this episode, but could also completely relate. It made me wonder how many experiences I’ve missed out on because of social anxiety. Recently, I had a dentist appointment. It occurred to me afterward that so many of my actions relating to just this one appointment were driven by my own social weirdness. First, I dodged phone calls from the office attempting to confirm my appointment, instead, waiting for an email so I could respond online. The receptionist at the dentist’s office is a very sweet woman named Martha who I like very much and am comfortable chatting with in person so there was really no rational reason for me to dodge her calls.

I despise the telephone. I avoid calling even my closest friends and family members because I spend the entire conversation just waiting for the moment when I can get off the phone. I will also do just about anything to avoid having to call in an order for take-out. I get a tightness in my chest and a lump in my throat when I’m forced to make the call and a ridiculous sense of accomplishment when I manage to do so successfully. I know I get this from no stranger. My mother, who suffered from depression and anxiety, rarely answered the phone. My dad was always screening calls for her. Email and texting have been like a godsend for me and I know my mother and I would have kept in much better touch with each other if we’d had access to texting while she was alive.

It’s funny, my psychiatrist once asked what it was like for me to grow up with a depressed mother. I told him I didn’t actually realize she was depressed when I was a kid. I just thought she liked to sleep a lot. It’s only as I’ve gotten older and become better able identify my own depression and anxiety symptoms that I can point to similar behaviors I saw in my mom.

Anyway, back at my dentist appointment, I pulled into the parking garage and sat in my car for a minute because I didn’t want to get out at the same time the person next to me was exiting her car. I walked into the lobby of the office building and, forgetting what floor the dentist was on, did my damndest to squint at the directory rather than asking the security guard sitting next to it. I often have to search for words and forget people’s names when I’m nervous and was afraid I’d forget my doctor’s name if I had to ask the guard…as if that would be the worst thing in the world.

I walked to the elevator bank where there were numerous people milling about. I could access the floor I needed to go to by either the regular or express elevators so my mind spun while I tried to figure out which one would likely have fewer people riding on it. When I was able to get in an elevator alone, I was relieved. Small talk with the dentist and his assistant was uncomfortable and I was happy that I could no longer speak when he jammed my mouth full of cotton and dental tools. After the appointment, I walked into the bathroom of the office building hoping that no one else would be in there.

The thing is, few people can tell that I have problems with social anxiety. I’m an outwardly friendly, open person. Hell, I tell hundreds of people about the most personal issues in my life–depression, anxiety, grief, infertility, miscarriages–on a weekly basis via this blog. I’m lucky that my social anxiety is not crippling and is fairly well controlled with medication, but I know there are plenty of people who are not so lucky and spend their lives paralyzed by anxiety. There’s a soft spot in my heart for socially awkward people. I understand the constant battle they fight with their own minds just to get through all the normal human interactions one encounters each day.

In the ‘Louie’ episode, it wasn’t easy, but Louie managed to fight his own demons and make a new friend. I’ve met some of my closest friends in just the last few years. These are people with whom I actually spend time alone and occasionally even talk to on the telephone!  I am so incredibly grateful that I didn’t miss out on all the love, laughs, support and happiness they bring to my life because I’m awkward with strangers.

Waiting for Spring

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tree_buds_horizIt occurred to me recently that I should just have my psychiatrist read this blog to track how I’m feeling. I’ve realized that writing is what you might call a “canary in the coal mine” for me. When I’m doing well, the writing comes easy and is fun as hell. Unfortunately, there are other times when the chemicals in my brain are not cooperating and I can’t seem to have a funny or original thought to save my life, let alone put it down on paper in any engaging way.

I’ve been working on a post for the last three days that I finally had to set aside today. The writing felt laborious and, no matter how much editing I did, I just couldn’t make it come together.  I’m clearly depressed despite what I told my shrink last week. You’d think by now I wouldn’t have to be hit over the head with glaringly obvious clues to know it’s time to remix the old antidepressant cocktail.

Instead, it took a complete meltdown in Starbucks during a conversation on the phone with Ad Man about the girls’ swim lessons for me to realize what was up. (You can understand why that might be a very emotional conversation. WTF?) I’m officially a wreck and cannot take another day of winter! When we moved to Atlanta, I knew the summers were going to suck, but I didn’t imagine that the winters would suck too. I’m like the poster child for Seasonal Affective Disorder. It also doesn’t help that I’ve had a migraine every day for the last week and a half.

Fortunately, there was a tiny glimmer of hope as I was walking down the street after my Starbucks breakdown today. I passed by a tree with buds on it! The trees are budding despite the unseasonably cold weather and threats of snow. I stopped to take a photo to remind myself that no matter how long and hard the winter is, it eventually comes to an end and is followed by spring. No matter what.

Anyway, this is a very long way of asking you to please be patient with me if my posts seem to be sparse and less than hilarious these days. I’m just holding on by my fingernails, waiting for spring.