Tag Archives: mental health

Exposed by Proximity

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Children scare me. Even my own children. I do not like this, and admit it reluctantly. Children make noises at the wrong times, go where they shouldn’t in the blink of an eye, and express emotions with their bodies. In a word, they are unpredictable. 

The most likely culprit for my fear and discomfort is a desire to feel safe by being in control. This is also something I don’t want to admit. Isn’t it better to go with the flow? Not to mention that control is largely an illusion anyway. And Jesus not only loved children; He suggested we emulate them.

But that doesn’t help me with in-the-trenches moments with kids. I can’t ever find the one right answer I’m looking for. Should a kid have snacks or eat only at mealtimes? If I give someone else’s kid dessert, or put on a TV show, will that be the end of life as we know it? If two toddlers fight, and both hurt each other, do we call it even and move on, or should they be punished or lectured? How do I know in what moments to expect my children to toe the line, and in what moments to suspend expectations and get ice cream? And don’t even start on the pros and cons of vaccines. 

No matter the age of a child, my response to them could affect them for the rest of their lifetime. I am not okay with this. Will I be the one who offers grace or wisdom or a listening ear that gives permission for a child to like themselves? Or will I give advice at the wrong time, be lenient when the consequences are life threatening, or give peanut butter crackers to the kindergartner with a severe peanut allergy and get locked up for murder?

The stakes are too high. Somebody please lower them. Tell me I don’t have influence, I’m not culpable, my instincts can never go wrong. But no, once more I must make peace with uncertainty. I must receive the truth that I will both harm and help my children and other children. Sometimes I will hurt and another will heal. Sometimes I will heal what another has hurt. And some hurts won’t be healed. 

No matter the stakes, I am not superhuman. I will break what needs to be held together, and I will clamp down on what needs to be released. Damn, I hate that. 

Then again, maybe the children in my life are my greatest ally in accepting my humanness. I doubt the fear will go away. But maybe it could prompt a mantra: I am in this moment, with this child, and we are both getting to know ourselves. There’s something sacred under the scary feeling, a gift of mutual vulnerability that exists here where I am exposed.

Walk Repenting

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“… the soft animal of my body …”

As I put the car in park, I leaned forward and squinted to read the blue letters on the bumper sticker of the car in front of me. “maybe the soft animal of my body wants to walk a thousand miles repenting”

I’d never heard a human body described as a soft animal before. Did I have a soft self, and did it want to repent?

It was Tuesday morning, Colville Street, a much needed coffee-and-writing date with myself. I turned off the engine, and hoping the woman in the red shirt exiting the store to my right was not the owner of the car, I snapped a photo of the bumper sticker. A silhouette of geese flying over cattails on the right side of the message added to the calm invitation I felt from those words. 

Not wanting to linger with my phone camera pointed at the back end of a stranger’s car, I made a quick detour into the building the red-shirted woman had just exited. Like a mini mall, a half dozen boutique clothing and food/wine shops occupied storefronts along a wide hallway. I noticed a sign for a soon-to-be bagel shop on the brown-paper-covered windows of a corner space. The slurpy sounds of a paint roller accompanied the smell of fresh paint.

The shop around the corner used to sell my favorite coffee smoothie—made with raw cashews, dates, and cocoa powder. They had closed some months ago, but I’d heard the new occupant of their space served the same smoothies. I walked in slowly and surveyed a freezer with everything from ice cream bars to frozen quarts of house-made soup. The deli fridge held a mouthwatering assortment of unique grab-and-go foods, such as spiced garbanzo beans. When I got to the cheeses, I noticed the front counter out of the corner of my eye, and above it the list of smoothies. No coffee smoothie. 

The bumper sticker I’d photographed still rolled around in my mind as I perused a couple shelves of dry goods, then stepped over to the counter. “Hi,” I spoke to the southern-California-pretty girl, feeling self-conscious in my workout clothes and messy half-ponytail. “This is my first time here since this store changed owners,” I offered awkwardly, “so I’m just checking it out.”

“Okay. Welcome.” She smiled.

“Do you have a coffee smoothie?”

“No. We’re working on it.” She gestured to a middle-aged woman with light brown hair, seated behind a laptop at the nearest round table. 

“I’m trying to get the consistency right,” the woman offered. I showed her the recipe I use at home for a coffee smoothie, and we chatted for a while. She told me about the plans she has with her business partner to open a sandwich shop in the small empty storefront next door. I wished her luck with the business ventures and returned the way I’d come, back to the sidewalk by my car. No police waited to take my phone away or arrest me for taking pictures of bumper stickers.

I grabbed my laptop, sweatshirt, journal and book from my car and headed toward my original destination for a weekday morning self-date—the coffee shop beside the mini-mall. 

I ordered a hot matcha latte, paid with a gift card, and chose a table in the corner. Then I settled in with my journal and returned to pondering the bumper sticker: maybe the soft animal of my body wants to walk a thousand miles repenting. Yes, my body seems to say, I want to do this. I ask my body, why?

Because pretense is not a way to spend a life.

Because I am sorry this world is not a comfortable place for a hundred families I know and billions I don’t know. 

I am sorry for the miscarriages and painful marriages, sorry for the systems that don’t see people, and the people who don’t see themselves, sorry I have loved control more than gentleness, sorry for the disease and dis-ease that never ask before they darken our doors.

I am sorry for the loss of hard-to-hear human stories to easy-to-apply inhumane labels, sorry that emotional and physical safety are a privilege and not a right, sorry for all the grief that is carried alone because we are scared to name our own grief and to witness the grief of others. 

I am sorry we look at teenagers and see youthful bodies and immature minds, but don’t see the loneliness or oppressive unanswered questions, sorry we look at children and see their food-smeared faces, hear their unfiltered words, but don’t see their whole souls—meant to awaken us to the wholeness that is their birthright and ours.

I am sorry there is no easy way out of addiction or a demeaning job or loneliness, sorry that pain is par for the course and I sometimes pretend it’s not, and sorry I forget that joy is also par for the course and I sometimes pretend otherwise.

I am sorry that plants are largely unheard and animals are prized or passed over, but rarely known, sorry I’m an unsafe stranger to some, and an unsafe friend to others, sorry for all the ways I have confirmed the loneliness in another person’s spirit.

I am sorry I swallow my food without giving thanks to the earth and the farmers and God.

So yeah, I could walk a thousand miles repenting, my soft body says. And I want to grasp other soft bodies and bring them with me, to walk together barefooted until our soft mass of bodies spreads repentance across every landscape, until we have repented our way home, which is not a place of individual belonging, but of collective belonging.

And then my body is done speaking. She relinquishes the pen back to my mind, and I see the paper I am writing on, the smooth blonde wood of the table underneath. I notice my cold ankles, the barista’s laughter, and a melancholy female voice singing through the shop speakers.

I notice the way my fingers wrinkle as I hold a blue pen with black ink, and see for the first time that the tiny screws on the metal logo attached to my purse are fake.

After a while, I notice that I am noticing, and I wonder—if fifteen minutes of quiet repentance awakens me this much, what might be born of a thousand miles?

Lunch time nears. I return to the shop with no coffee smoothie and purchase a cauliflower and garbanzo bean salad. While I eat, I think about repentance. Is repentance a list of sins and regrets before God? Is it turning a different direction, choosing a better way? Is it a walk, the bodily healing of circulation, the mental healing of gazing at the horizon, the spiritual healing of engaging with the landscape of humanity? My body says this might be the case. Perhaps it is all of these and more, an invitation to be awake, to be soft, to hold each other gently…for a thousand miles, if necessary.

Forty and (In)secure

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Twenty One Pilots’s song, “Stressed Out,” laments the insecurities of adulthood, noting that fear is still present, and we still care what people think. I turned 40 this month, and yes, I’m still insecure. It’s different than high school. And the same. I want you to like me. I want to be well-dressed and well-spoken, and most importantly, perceived well.

I’m a grown-up—have been for quite some time—and I can tell you what maturity doesn’t mean. Being grown up doesn’t involve control and confidence; it doesn’t mean growing out of awkward traits and social habits; it doesn’t include a clean house and well-kept yard, or a passel of perfect grown-up girlfriends.

I’m less sure what being a grownup does mean. But I’ve noticed I’m softer than I used to be—more flexible, a teensy bit less judgmental, and I know more about cooking and cleaning than I did 20 years ago.

I know less about God, love, and relationships. It’s been said that the more you know, the more you know you don’t know anything. I can confirm this.

There’s a real sense of loss, not landing in adulthood firmly in control and certainty, an expert in the kitchen, the workplace, the bedroom. I get tired of being wrong, confused, ineffective. If knowledge comes from experience, I am an expert in exhaustion, stress, and leaving my cell phone in obscure places.

I know I’m sounding a tad morose. But there is a happy ending. There’s something left after losing control, and the appearance of control, and pretending to have control. What’s left is eyes to see a different life entirely—a life of watching the cat lick his fur, thinking of my three favorite moments from the day just before I fall asleep, fighting less with my kids and husband, knowing there will not be a seismic event when my to-do list is left undone.

And I know myself better. I know I love writing and small groups. I know I like a clean house, but not enough to put in the work. I know I’m scared of the interminable wants and needs of my children. Being quiet and alone—especially in nature—returns me to myself. Banana splits and blended mochas almost always sound good. I try the hardest to be self-sufficient when I’m at my weakest. Animals make me happy. Getting called “a writer” makes me stand a little taller. Synchronicity feels like opening a birthday present.

My birthday, which this year fell on the first Sunday in May, played out like a dream Mother’s Day. My husband cleaned the kitchen, top to bottom. He and the kids cooked breakfast and dinner, and took me out for lunch. I sorted through a large tote, five bags, and an unconstrained pile of children’s clothing I hauled up from the basement, and found most of it could be passed on. I went to the park and watched goslings and ducklings, heard the smack-smack of their webbed feet in shallow water, and marveled at their fluffy bodies. I took a nap. With my parents and sister, I ate fresh-made blackberry pie with “40” cut into the top crust. Michael gave me a gift certificate to have the house professionally cleaned (when the dust settles from our six-month construction project). Like I said, a dream day.

It’s worth noting I couldn’t have planned such a day. All was gift—the generosity of my husband, my children, my sister. Many times I have planned a birthday party for myself, with friends and presents and homemade cake. But for forty, this un-forced birthday felt fitting. The people who love me gave what they wanted to give. And I received. I basked. I rested. And yes, I sorted children’s clothing—one of those things I never can find time to do.

Maybe I’m ready to accept this life I have. Whether I die tomorrow or in another 40 years, I will die complicated—a mix of peace and insecurity, frustration and gratitude, mundane and miraculous. And not at all grown up.

Before the Meeting: A Story About Inner Voices

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Once upon a time, in the midst of a large wood, there stood a smallish cluster of trees hiding a secret meeting place. From the outside, these trees appeared just as the rest of the forest. But underneath the canopy of intertwined branches that formed a roof over the meeting place, a mild summer climate prevailed. The temperature was always pleasantly warm, the leaves bright and shiny, the floor spongy and warm, but never damp. The light inside felt like sunlight, although it did not come from the sun and never changed with the seasons.

Near the center of this cozy clearing stood a tremendously broad tree stump, weathered and gray. There was enough room around the stump for seven or eight chairs, but the only seat was a large stone with a comfortable-looking, moss-lined depression, where Found Girl always sat. Although no one was ever quite certain if Found Girl really did sit, because it looked like she flowed, as if someone had plucked up a small section of a stream and fashioned it into something like a person. Her appendages were more suggestion than reality, and you could almost hear the gurgle of a creek when you came near. Despite her ambiguity of form, she had a most attractive face, with eyes that sparkled like sun glinting off stones in a mountain stream, and a mouth which gave order to her face and conveyed her gentle nature. The others came and went, but Found Girl always stayed on her stone chair, content and natural.

On this particular day, Levee and Bound arrived at the clearing together, though they didn’t look at all as if they belonged together. Levee, a thin, straight-lipped woman dressed like a schoolmarm, carried a ruler. Her hair was pulled back so tightly into a bun that her face looked just a bit stretched. No one can say I’m late, she pondered with pride, and with any luck, my exemplary responsibility will guilt the others into behaving themselves.

Bound was small in stature, the size of a boy ten or eleven, though clearly a grown man. He had short, black hair and wore brass knuckles on both hands. But one hardly noticed his appearance because he was always shouting, and all that uproarious noise was the main thing anyone remembered about him. He carried himself with the foreboding of a lit fuse nearing its explosive target, and a few strides into the clearing, he broke into a series of lunges and air-punches. Truth be told, the noise he generated on the outside was only a fraction of the roaring and explosions happening inside. Stupid. Unthinking. Can’t get their act together long enough to solve some problems, he thought, anticipating a tedious meeting. I can’t stand myself and I can’t stand them! Words stayed inside, as futility spilled out in growls.

Levee laid a legal pad and pencil on the stump and scrutinized the forest floor and canopy. Lost Boy circled the clearing, his large shoulders hunched over. No one had seen him arrive, and even he seemed a little unsure of his presence as he slunk in circles. I don’t think this is going to be okay. I can’t possibly speak in front of Levee and Bound. Nothing makes sense. What can I do. This was a statement, not a question, and his torso rocked forward and back with each repetition. What can I do. What can … What … His thoughts morphed into panic, disguised by his plodding feet.

A few moments passed as Found Girl flowed in her stone chair, Levee took stock with a critical eye, Bound threw punches, and Lost Boy bit his fingernails and wandered.

Fragrant—whom everyone called Fray—a woman of average stature with a fairy-like appearance and delightfully scented hair, entered through a cascade of willow branches on the east side of the clearing and stood beside Levee at the stump, where they waited for Broad. I’m lucky to belong here, thought Fray. This is a lovely group in a lovely place.

Broad soon arrived, looking especially round, his very large and expressive face—almost triangular in shape—resting directly on his shoulders. No one could say for sure if he had a neck, and no one wanted to get close enough to see, because Broad often broke into unrestrained displays of emotion, and his aura oozed despair in such a way that it seemed very likely to get all over whoever might come near. I’ll just stay here at the edge of the clearing. There’s too much energy at the stump, Broad decided. Too tired to stand, he melted onto a bed of thick moss near the base of a crooked evergreen.

The moment Broad arrived, Levee called the meeting to order with a few loud raps of her ruler on the stump. That is, she tried to call the meeting to order. This had no effect on Lost Boy, who continued his distracted circling, but it did throw Bound into a tizzy. “You two get over here!!” he shouted at Broad and Lost Boy. He kicked the stump as he repeated this command. Broad collapsed even further into a fat heap and cried.

At this point, Levee’s thin-lipped smile became so thin it almost disappeared. “We must stand around the stump and be quiet.” Her voice was coated with frustration and disdain, and she glared at Bound. Meanwhile, Fray fell in beside Lost Boy. “Come to the stump,” she invited in her always-pleasant voice. But Lost Boy didn’t reply, only continued in aimless circles, and Fray thought, Poor soul. If only he knew it’s okay to not be okay. She returned alone to the stump.

Levee, hell-bent on a productive meeting and desperate for order, strode over to Broad and dragged him toward the stump. This required no small amount of effort, and a few hairs popped out of her bun. After several exhausting moments, Broad was in a sad, fat heap, closer to the stump. Suddenly, Lost Boy noticed he was the only one still at large and would be Levee’s next target. Just as he moved to hide behind a tree at the edge of the clearing, Found Girl spoke.

This startled everyone, as they had forgotten she was there. Her voice, like her appearance, flowed, yet carried unmistakable strength. It drew Bound’s attention first; he immediately stopped kicking the stump and shouting. Before she finished a sentence, everyone in the clearing was focused on her, curiously enthralled by her flowing body and voice, their individual angst forgotten for a moment.

This is what she said. “Friends, each one of us belongs here. This is our clearing, our stump, our meeting. Levee may bring an agenda and take notes, but she is no more important—or in charge—than anyone else.” At this, Levee’s schoolmarm face relaxed somewhat, though her relief seemed tinged with doubt. I can’t imagine how Found Girl thinks she’s going to bring things to order.

Found Girl continued, “Lost Boy doesn’t have to speak his fears, and Bound doesn’t have to quiet his anger. Fray and Broad can attend to their own thoughts and feelings, which are their gifts in this meeting. We’re in this together. Look around at each other. Smell Fray’s fragrant hair. Admire Bound’s latest brass knuckles, and maybe look for Broad’s neck.” Everyone chuckled at this, except Lost Boy, who had commenced his circling.

Found Girl, having given everyone permission to be themselves, closed her captivating mouth and motioned to Levee. Then the meeting began.

Substance Use or Pain?

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I know next to nothing about substance use. Other than tales of “the alcoholic” family members I never met, the “sinners” in the prodigal-returns books the church fed me, and the guy who beat the tar out of a piñata at his daughter’s birthday party, I live in a substance-use-free bubble. Although, I was offered a drink last week by two guys about my age who came upon me at a local park, where I had stationed myself to watch for beaver activity. I hoped to catch the crepuscular creatures near one end of their habitat, where they had recently felled a large tree.

It became apparent these two fellows had been drinking when they repeatedly complimented my purple outfit, introduced themselves, offered to move my chair for me, asked me to show them the beaver lodge, and kept up a constant stream of friendly banter. Sober people walk by silently and you’re lucky to get a nod.

“If you’re gonna take beer from a stranger, we’re the right people to take it from,” the talkative fellow offered. He went on to explain the virtues of the beer he had in the cooler bag over his shoulder, but it all went over my head. IPA and other alcohol-related terms are Greek to me.

As a child, I was taught to fear alcohol, with the admonition that because alcohol addiction runs in our family, I could become addicted with a single drink. Is there truth to that? I don’t know. Now that I’m an adult it seems beside the point.

Last November, I attended a community education event—“Hidden In Plain Sight,” or HIPS. This event multiplied my slight knowledge of substances by at least ten times. For example, I thought “doing pot” 40 years ago was essentially the same as “doing pot” today. I was wrong. But before I get to that … The whole experience hit me odd—attending a 1.5-hour community event in which I felt the main takeaway was “just say no” (although those words were not used). I thought people who didn’t rely on religious/moral reasons for abstinence just didn’t abstain. Or at the very least, didn’t tell others to abstain. But apparently, given data on brain development and facts about the effects of drugs and alcohol, a whole slough of people agree that—at least for kids and teens—“no” is the appropriate attitude toward substances. And this isn’t about illegal drugs; it’s about nicotine, marijuana, and alcohol.

When I talk to my kids about alcohol and drug use, I notice they are acutely—vehemently—aware that it is “bad”—so much so that it’s easy for them to assume a person who uses is not a “good” person. For that reason, my conversations with them, more often than not, focus on the aspect of numbing pain. I tell them people drink because it makes them feel better. It’s relief from anxiety, loneliness, trauma, and intense emotional pain. And isn’t every human being worthy of relief from pain?

I didn’t know what to expect going to the HIPS event—other than free pizza and a lesson on the paraphernalia of risky teen behavior. But when I left after the event I had a distinct feeling that something was missing—we didn’t talk about the pain these kids are trying to numb. Or the pain their parents are trying to numb. And parental influence means—like it or not—when we as parents use substances to numb our pain, it’s hard to tell our kids not to, and even harder for them to respect and respond to us.

In the state of Washington, where I live, it is legal for a parent to give alcohol to their child at any age, in their home1. And although it’s illegal to give tobacco or marijuana products to your own children, the data in our local community indicates that parents are supplying these items to their children in middle school and high school2—or at least turning a blind eye. Additionally, many websites that sell vapes and other nicotine products simply have a textbox to type in one’s age, making it easier to buy substances than it is to log into your bank account.

Products that were originally marketed as smoking cessation products, such as vapes,3 may deliver more nicotine to users than cigarettes, depending on the product and frequency of use. They’re also cheaper. A carton of cigarettes is $120, and the roughly-equivalent 7,000-puff rechargeable fume vape—which comes in more than a dozen flavors and fits easily in a closed hand—costs only $15. It also conveniently flies under the radar of the Clean Indoor Air Act, since the nicotine is delivered without a cloud of smoke. As you might imagine, these changes rewrite the landscape of nicotine use.

And alcohol is not exempt from the changing landscape. With a disposable water bottle, a wine cork, and a bike pump, a curious teen can vaporize alcohol, conveniently bypassing their digestive system and taking the full impact of a shot of hard liquor directly to their bloodstream.4

Now back to the changes around “doing pot”. Before the turn of the century, marijuana products delivered about 4% THC, or tetrahydrocannabinol, the psychoactive compound found in cannabis. In the 2010s, that number jumped to nearly 20% with the medicalization of marijuana. Today there are products containing up to 90% THC5. This ain’t your grandpa’s weed. Yet in Walla Walla County the Healthy Youth Survey in 2023 reported that 56% of 10th-grade respondents thought trying cannabis/marijuana held no risk or low risk, and 30% thought regular use had little or no risk.6 Are these students thinking of grandpa’s weed, or the expanding menu of available products? There’s rosin, crumble, distillate, bubble hash, dry sift, crystalline, and the list goes on.7

Youth who experiment with substance use are often unaware—now more than ever—of the actual amount of alcohol, nicotine, or THC they are taking in through various products or processes, resulting in an uptake of accidental overdoses.8 Parents seem to be checked out of their kids’ lives, and capitalism is taking advantage of the changing topography of products that deliver substances.

2023 Health Use Survey (askhys.net)
Walla Walla County data

20% of 10th graders reported using marijuana at least once in their life.

50.9% of 10th graders reported using alcohol at least once in their life.

16% of 8th graders had ridden, during the previous 30 days, in a vehicle driven by someone who had been drinking alcohol.

2.7% of 6th graders (my 12-year-old daughter’s grade) reported alcohol use in the past 30 days, as did 3.9% of 8th graders and 13.1% of 10th graders.

19.5% of 8th graders and 33.6% of 10th graders indicated it would be “sort of or very easy” to get marijuana.

In case you got lost in the grade numbers,
all of these statistics are for youth approximately 11-15 years of age.

Not long after attending the HIPS events, my husband Michael and I walked by a smoke shop as we were finishing a pizza-and-ice-cream date night. “Ooh,” I said spontaneously, “let’s go in!” Michael didn’t share my enthusiasm, but he followed me inside the shop. The young man behind the counter welcomed us in and asked if we were after anything particular. I volunteered that neither of us had ever had anything. “If there’s something you want to try, let me know,” he offered.

To the left, behind a long counter, packaged products lined the wall. To the right, blown-glass paraphernalia caught my eye. I didn’t know what any of it was called. “Pipe” and “bong” seemed like terms that probably applied to some of the stuff, but I wasn’t sure. It reminded me of visiting the glass-blowing shops in Oregon’s coastal towns. Rows of shelves showcased the beautiful colors and shapes, and at the back of the store two more large displays highlighted artful drug paraphernalia.

The shop also had knives, samurai swords, rings for body-piercings, incense, an impressive display of fancy cigars, sex paraphernalia, and—based on my newly-acquired knowledge—several items I assumed were for hiding drugs. Michael and I circled the store a few times, commenting quietly to each other. Wanting to be a good customer, I bought a small vaping device.

Just kidding. I bought a pair of cheap earrings.

“Drugs and alcohol” are not the static story I imagined. And my interpretations are one tiny perspective on an issue that is complex beyond any one person’s understanding. Advertising, social influences9, the complex science of the over-400 components of cannabis10, the biology of addiction, stigma, family structure, mental health, and countless other factors impact our youth and their decisions around substances.

Mental health professionals and others, including the renowned Brené Brown, say it isn’t possible to selectively numb emotion. If we numb pain, anxiety, and sadness, we also numb joy, contentment, and gratitude. How will a generation unable to feel things—let alone name those feelings—live whole lives, experience belonging, and effectively walk through the tragedy and triumph of life?

And how will they teach resilience to the next generation?

I am left with more questions than answers. Why did I know nothing of the breadth and depth of new and evolving products and packaging around substance use? Why did only about 20 people attend this HIPS event that was marketed across the Walla Walla Valley? Why does it seem like social workers and law enforcement are the only people looking at this data?

About 10% of 8th graders and 14% of 10th graders surveyed had considered suicide. Over a third indicated a struggle with depression.11 Why are our children in so much pain? And how are we offering relief?

Endnotes:
1 RCW 66.44.270, subsection (4), viewed here.
2 The Healthy Youth Survey fact sheet for Walla Walla County in 2023 reports that 29% of youth in 8th and 12th grades, and 27% of youth in 10th grade reported getting alcohol from home, with permission, in the past 30 days. Additionally, only 5% of youth drink alcohol if their parents think it’s wrong, while 28% drink if their parents don’t think it’s wrong. This data is from a fact sheet created here.
3 https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10880776/
4 https://www.vumc.org/poison-control/toxicology-question-week/jan-29-2020-alcohol-vaping-friend-or-foe
3 https://medicine.yale.edu/news-article/not-your-grandmothers-marijuana-rising-thc-concentrations-in-cannabis-can-pose-devastating-health-risks/
6 This data is from a fact sheet created here.
7 https://vivosun.com/growing_guide/what-is-crumble-crystalline-sugar/
8 This was covered in the live presentation. I’m still looking for a data source to cite here.
9 https://www.cdc.gov/tobacco/e-cigarettes/why-youth-vape.html
10 https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4188645/
11 This data is from a fact sheet created here.

Love Is a Pain

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I escaped the anxiety epidemic, I thought. Until this year.

I didn’t admit depression. Until last year. Only after taking antidepressants did I know the truth of my years of depression.

It’s late September, and anxiety adds itself to my truth. Anxiety feels different than depression, which for me exhibits as heaviness, intense overwhelm, and anger. Instead, a growing undercurrent of angst and tension in my thoughts and feelings came as a surprise—anxiety. I feel resentful about being “the only one who cleans around here,” nervous about irritating my friends, and more grouchy than usual because the kids “never listen to me”—anxiety.

I can’t blame a change in circumstances; life carries on as usual. I have to own an internal landscape of crankiness. In my journal I write, “I’m anxious but somehow I’m not letting it rise up. I’m not connecting well with myself or others. I don’t know what to do with this inner Rubik’s Cube of mental and emotional colors. There is no ‘lining up,’ just a lot of turning and twisting and muttering. I don’t feel depressed or exhausted, just a buzz of not-okay-ness, and fretting about what other people are thinking or doing.”

When my inner world gets uncomfortable, I settle for the companionship of fear. When I settle for fear, I choose to think instead of feeling. If I think rather than feel, I’ll have an an acceptable answer for most questions. If I think rather than feel, I tell myself, I reduce the risk of rejection; I avoid confronting what I don’t understand about myself; I cannot get stuck in feelings. If I think rather than feel, I will be dependable, and that, my friends, is very important.

I fear transience of warm feelings, and permanence of cold feelings.

I fear loss of control. Not measuring up. Disappointing someone. Sigh. Doesn’t that essentially mean I live afraid of life? No wonder I feel anxious. I can’t stop the world and get off.

Now that I know I’m anxious, what’s next? There are too many options: medication or meditation, solitary confinement (okay, that’s more of a wish than a real option), exercise, more coffee or less coffee, structure or flexibility.

I’ve been through this enough times to know fixing is not the loving response. But what is? Does love sit in the feelings? Maybe the loving response is reception—not the kind with cake and punch, but the kind that’s about welcome. Could receiving feelings be different than sitting in feelings? More like open hands and less like sackcloth and ashes?

When I think about setting the emotional tone in myself and in our home, I think of zen peacefulness—wouldn’t it be lovely if I were un-ruffleable?

But love is not only the ocean’s vast calm. It also knows the waves of anger, fear, and bitterness. Is it a ship? A lighthouse? A squawking seagull? What form does love take in the steady pounding of reality?

Perhaps love is the pain of not being in control.

I know well the pain of trying to control, and the aftermath of disconnection when I succeed in control. I am less familiar with the pain of releasing control. This pain is the pain of God’s very existence; the pain of having children who have a choice.

I want to control my children. I really, really want to control them. Also, I don’t want to control them. I know it’s not love, and desperately I want to love them.

I want to feel the raw pain of love rather than the grasping anxiety of control. I want my discomfort to be worthwhile. Let me trade in an obsession with control for the wildness of not being in control. Here my soul will meet with God, inside the terrifying invitation to feel. I will feel the risks of rejection, unknowing, and transience. They accompany my choice to love, and indicate that I have chosen to feel. God is here. Let control crash and burn. Loving is enough.

Also, I will medicate, and meditate, and drink more or less caffeine.

Shout out to my friend KL for the Rubik’s Cube analogy, and to Julia Cameron for the invitation to name fears that compel me to think instead of feeling.

One Year on Antidepressants

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The year after my daughter Kayt was born felt like three years. I guess that’s when my depression began. I often said I would’ve rather given birth a second time than gone through that first year with an infant. After a lifetime of receiving praise and recognition at work and school, the transition to an unnoticed 24/7 job was rather like being plucked from the heart of New York City and dropped in backwoods Alabama. Nothing worked the way it had before.

Kayt was perfect. Even the nurses in the birthing ward said she was one of the cutest babies they’d ever seen. I liked many aspects of caring for her, but I didn’t like being tired all the time, and I didn’t like having little control over how I spent my days. As months and years passed, my resentment grew. I was angry that I didn’t get to rest. Rest always felt like a liability because it could be interrupted at any time by someone else’s urgent needs.

Depression runs in my family—both sides—but I understood little about depression. I thought it meant feeling dark all the time, being unable to get out of bed, unable to accomplish anything. Since my go-to when I’m stressed is to do more, my productivity was rarely affected by my sense of well-being (or lack thereof). I plodded on, day and night. Cook, clean, shop for groceries, open mail, plan birthday parties. Nurse babies, read to toddlers, remind preschoolers to get dressed, fight with kindergartners about the letters of the alphabet, drive kids to and from school. I was often up at night. My kids never did that magical thing the parenting books call, “when they start sleeping through the night.”

When Kayt was 21 months old, our second daughter, Kyli, was born. A year later we moved to a larger house in the same town. The girls woke several times every night for weeks after we moved. A few months later, I started counseling. I was perfectly miserable in my perfect life, and I wanted help.

My counselor, Beth, became a trusted partner on my journey. She saw me—the real kind of seeing—and she started me on the path to seeing myself with compassion. But after seven years of intermittent personal therapy and marriage counseling, Michael and I found ourselves in a dark period. My depression deepened around April that year, and by the time it leveled out in June, it had made a significant negative impact on our marriage. I resisted our marriage counselor’s nudges toward trying antidepressants, until the moment I decided that if I could do something to spare my husband from a hollow wife, and my kids from an angry mother, I ought to try it.

My kind doctor offered to see me one morning before her first patient, so I didn’t have to wait months for an appointment. She prescribed Fluoxetine, and in mid-July last year, I began the drug experiment. Four days in I wrote, “I have had a significant increase in difficulty with sleeping (which is usually a non-issue for me). I have had trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, and going back to sleep, and twice I’ve been awake long enough in the wee hours of the morning that I start to feel nauseated and have to eat something before I can go back to sleep. Michael and I both feel that I do have improved emotional capacity. It has been a tiring week, but my ability to handle things without getting overwhelmed and shutting down seems to be better than usual. And I would say I feel less dark and discouraged, despite the difficulty sleeping and the resulting tiredness.”

A few weeks later my sleep had mostly returned to normal. By October I was settling into feeling more alive than I had in ten years, so when Michael suggested that the medication was affecting my libido (it was), I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not sacrifice my mental health for an orgasm. After working through that with our counselors, it was smooth sailing.

Fall became winter and I marveled at my capacity to enjoy life. I felt a renewed sense of agency as I regained the ability to choose a response other than anger to life’s frustrations. I knew I was lucky to have responded so well to the first medication I tried. A few friends had cautioned me or expressed concern about antidepressants, and I was well aware that a wide range of negative effects were possible. But the primary effect the medication had on me was to make me feel human again.

As spring approached, I wondered what my annual spring depression would look like. Three years in a row I’d darkened inside as the days grew longer and trees blossomed. My doctor said I could increase my dose of Fluoxetine if needed. Three weeks into April, I did. In my notes I wrote, “To this point, I have only positive things to say about being on Fluoxetine. I have come alive, enjoy so many things, and am more flexible and joyful. Started feeling my spring depression a few weeks ago, so I’m planning to try the higher dose for a month. Then hoping to go the opposite direction and maybe stop taking it later this year.”

Five days later I wrote, “I feel blank, like this higher dose of antidepressants has removed all ability to feel, all motivation, and almost all thought. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep it up for a month. I write from my mental and emotional activity, so if there isn’t any, I’m not sure I’ll be able to write. I do have three topics in mind though, so I will try to write, and I will drink coffee and text friends and maybe do some yard work, definitely take a shower, force myself to cook, invite myself to enjoy the sunshine, maybe color some birthday cards for friends. I know I am okay, but I miss feeling it. I guess the plus side of being emotionally numb is that I don’t respond to everything with anger.”

Ten days later: “Thirty mg of Fluoxetine is a mixed bag. Motivation is down, libido is down, I don’t feel much emotion, haven’t cried except when Phred died (the family cat), and it seems like writing is more of a struggle. I’m just more numb, more blah. On the other hand, I feel pretty calm, not very angry. I’ve been more easily in touch with what I like and what I want, instead of what I should do, and I’ve been doing more fun things with the girls—a little less focused on tasks and more oriented to quality time. It’s weird to in some ways be more connected and in some ways more disconnected.”

After only two weeks on the higher dose, I was unable to refill one of my prescriptions and I dropped back to 20mg of Fluoxetine. A few days later I wrote, “I’m feeling good about it, now. I was pretty ‘muted’ and I’m feeling a bit more alive the last couple of days, and not too heavy.”

My spring depression slowly receded, and this summer has been the least stressful summer since kids came along 11 years ago. There’s no way of knowing how much of this has to do with antidepressants. My relationships, personal growth, the ages of my children, and even what I choose to eat and read are all in the mix. Ultimately, I’m glad I threw some drugs in there. I feel like I got my life back this past year, and I rediscovered the version of me that isn’t bitter and exhausted.

What have I learned about my mental health during this past year? I’ve noticed some things that don’t help me: exercise, to-do lists, a full schedule, guilt and shame (which can come from self-help books, religion, and—most often—my internal dialogue). There’s a longer list of things that do help me: small groups, one-on-one time with friends and with my spouse, coffee, writing, stillness, being flexible (I’ve learned this significantly reduces anger), learning to stay in friendship with myself and live out of my Spirit center, time in nature, recognizing when I fear myself, and allowing myself to experience intimacy and connection out of my imperfections (not my perfections).

My doctor encouraged me to take antidepressants for one full year and go from there. I’m a few days past the one-year mark, and trying to make a decision. I slept like shit last night and I feel like shit this morning, which makes me hesitant. On the other hand, I know what to watch for when I decrease medication: anger, loss of friendship with myself, feeling overwhelmed/helpless, moving from enjoyment to duty, feeling afraid. I’ll start my lower dose on Friday and see how it goes. There’s nothing to be afraid of. God and I and most of the people in my life are on my side. I’m not in a battle against myself (despite what the church taught me). I’m part of a big, dysfunctional human family, where everyone belongs simply because we are alive. And ultimately, belonging (and drugs) is the way out of depression.