The fog is difficult to navigate. The fear is always just behind me, at the ready. I let it know that I know it’s there, and then, I try to go about my business.
I’ve become the one who writes things down, posts slips of paper ripped from magazines on her bathroom cabinet, scrawls important words on her left hand so as not to forget them. I sheepishly buy magnets with “inspirational” quotes. I take glue sticks to the backs of images that make me pause, paste them in an old journal. I am looking for images that make me remember there is beauty in this world, if you go looking for it.
I see the beauty in my daughters. They are proof of it. But they are not always with me. And I don’t want their purpose in life to be my beauty. They have lives to live, and I want them to live wide and strong and bold, without looking over their shoulders, always worried to see how I will react.
I still can’t go to the supermarket. Maybe at night, when the bread aisle really clears out. The tiny organic co-op, a little better, although I hid in the juice aisle while a kind woman I know checked out and took her daughter with her.
It’s a small town.
I was not ready. Simple as that. But I needed some food.
I don’t wish to be tedious. There is always this wish of mine, to not bore you with the tales. I am savvy enough to know that the specific tales themselves are anything but boring, but I am not sure how they will unfold here.
There is change at work, in this heart and mind and soul.
Balance is hard to come by.
I did as much as I could today, and then, all at once, it was clear I had done too much. So I crawled under three layers of blankets, and passed out asleep.
When I awoke, I saw that the sun had gone down. The blankets were weighty. I felt safe, for a moment. Maybe two moments.
Then the “real” world began to creep in, began to tug at me. We need you we need you we need you, get up get up get up so much to do, so much you are not doing, lazy shit.
I stayed put, under my covers. I breathed deeply. I let the fear have its moment, and then I let it go, scurrying off to some other corner of the old house.
It will take time. I don’t know what will happen. I am not well. This is a true statement, all melodrama stripped away.
It is an illness as genuine as diabetes, as chronic as heart disease. There’s just no escaping this one.
I have struggled since 2005: the constant adjusting of medicines, the gory side effects, the difficulty of explaining to the girls just what it is that sent their beloved mama to a place where they could not follow.
I don’t mean to be tedious, I don’t. But the mind is something most of us take for granted, and that is worth stating.
“There are fixes,” we are told. But this is not always the case. There are things that can help, but it is a perpetual carousel for some. Garish. Sometimes, it’s a funhouse, but it’s not fun, not fun at all. It can be grotesque, frightening. The funhouse mirrors do not tell the story.
I want to feel better. Some days, that seems a viable goal. Some days, it does not.
Take a minute to think about someone confounding in your life, a friend who does not answer the phone when you call, a friend who does not respond. Chances are good it’s nothing about you—it’s simply about physics. There is a finite amount of energy, and your friend may be hoarding it, so she can offer what she can to the people who need her the most: her children.
Always know: It is never about you. Don’t feel slighted.
Always know: Your kindness does not go unrecognized. You may make all the difference to someone, with a kind gesture. They simply may not be able to respond to you in the way you would like. For now, at least. But they think of you gratefully as they sit hunched on their couch, eating a bowl of soup or pasta you have left on their porch.
Be good. Don’t judge, if you can help it. If happiness comes easily to you, if you sleep reasonably well, if an invitation from a friend brings you joy and not anxiety, count your blessings. It’s a gift beyond measure, a gift beyond what you know.
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Another reader who’s been where you are.
Feel our arms around you. We remember. We are here.
We know you will leave the dark place behind. Knowing you, you will remember, and help lift someone else out of it who feels as you do now. Blessings to you.
thinking about you. wishing you wellness. hold on please!
(wow. my security code below is ‘amen’.)
Such sound advice for anyone who’s never experienced this, or who’s thinking that they’ll just be in the way and She will let her know when she needs something.
Thank God for our children, yes? They make us rise up and be. I loved the image Mater gave of you illuminating your daughter’s party with a fairy tale, totally off the cuff. Don’t imagine for an instant that that isn’t really you, that you’re just playacting or putting on a show. It’s all you, even if you’re just doing it for them. It’s still you, the real thing.
Well, I am very glad that you are writing. And that you are feeling better enough to be out of the hospital. And that you are being kind to yourself.
you have just described my life. thank you. and double thank you for doing so in such a graceful way. best to you.
Beautiful. You are.
There are a lot of different things to say, but for each of them, there are a lot of different ways for them to be taken. I know, since I’m also working through it and have to deal with family and friends and strangers. Just know your limits.
Good luck.
I am amazed over and over that when I click to read what you have written, I am reading my own thoughts. It is amazing to me how many of us there are who are or have been where you are are drawn here to read about you, about it, about us. I am amazed at what a blessing it is to have the opportunity to connect with this community that may otherwise be hidden. I am amazed that there are other people like me.
And Mater, thank you for being proud of her.
I love you.
It is so true that we take our mental health for granted. And one cannot fully understand that until it starts to slip away.
You are a beautiful writer. You have a gift. Perhaps this gift can help you to heal. I do hope so.
I feel strange saying such things to someone who doesn’t know me at all, but I couldn’t just go away without saying something.
God bless.
“And I don’t want their purpose in life to be my beauty.”
Wow. This is a powerful sentence. So true …
and yet it is also true that your daughters will always
be beautiful. No matter what their purpose turns
out to be, they will always be beautiful. Just like
their mother.
Jenn,
I can’t say I’ve been in the exact same place as you — are all of our darknesses similar, or is each one unique? — but I have been in a dark, dark place. And I so admire your strength and courage in writing these words and sharing them with us. I will hold you in my thoughts as you make it through each day, each minute, taking the steps you need to take.
Oh, Jenn. Wishing you hope, praying for your peace.
I am leaving a metaphorical bowl of soup on your metaphorical porch. Thank you for writing here — as always, it is honest and brave and I am grateful for it.
You? Tedious? Never.
Hiding in the juice aisle is so spot-on. For me, it was the public library, which was agonizing for this booklover. Not getting my books only made my condition worse. A vicious cycle, this depression is. But you already know that.
Lou’s advice, above, is good. Is there anywhere to go out unnoticed in your small town? Any places to take small steps without running into the ballet mothers?
Be well.
My husband could have written this… My heart breaks with wanting to help, to make everything better. I tell our friends, keep trying… keep calling… he knows you care… he knows you call…eventually he’ll call back. Just this past Sunday he answered the phone when an old friend called and asked him to the football game, he declined the invite… BUT, he answered the phone.
Baby steps, darling, people love and admire you, baby steps……..
I feel for you. I understand where you are coming from.
One day, my two year old looked at me on a down day and said in his warbled helium like two year voice , “Mommy. you want to go to the playground?”
The only way he could think of to cheer me up. I did smile.
hovering, trying for my own balance, but unable to pick up the phone and wishing i could tell my friends all that you’ve laid out so beautifully here, i say simply you wrote this well, and i wish for you that elusive balance, that good place.
I love you. I love you for putting this out there, for helping me and so many others to remember that we aren’t alone in this. I love you for being strong, even if you feel like you aren’t–getting through each day is heroic when it takes all your strength just to exist.
I truly wish I could come over, cuddle up with you, and just hug you for hours. You deserve so much love.
I’m trying not to do the ugly cry because I have to pick up my kids from school in a few minutes…I may be failing. Good thing I’m already the weird one, I won’t shock anyone.
Thank you for this.
Hang in there, Jenn.
It’s so strange, if you had gone in to the hospital to treat a life-threatening heart condition, people in the grocery store would say, “Good thing you went in and had that worked on! Whew, you could have died!” But really, that’s just what you did. Just because depression is harder to fix dosen’t make it any less serious or worthy of intervention. Good job taking care of yourself and your girls. They should be proud of you.
I wish you peace. Your daughters are blessed by your presence, no matter what. You’ve given them a gift with your honesty & raw willingness to seek – and accept – help.
(Dude, seriously – my security code word is YGOD. Wow.)
Darlin Jen. If there was a way for me to reach out to you and envelope you in my arms – and we could comfort each other, I would. If you can contact me, please do. I would love to speak with you for a minute. Let me know.
Its hard, so very hard. And for what its worth, you must know from these many comments that you are not alone and also not unique in your pain. For me, when I am struggling, that is sometimes helpful to try to remember because it is such a lonely and isolated place (though I know this does not relieve your own pain).
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby.
But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real
you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
-from “The Velveteen Rabbit” by Margery Williams
Love to you.
Much love from a fellow mom who’s been there recently as well, if not the same country, the neighboring one. Still struggling, but still curious enough to see what happens next, so that’s gotta count for something, right?
I struggle with the same illness. I have to force myself to leave the house. Force myself to remember the joy that once came so easily to me.
The fog threatens to swallow me and I fight to stay above it.
I’m here for you. Out here in the mist. Cheering you on.
Hop, skip and jump to our house, which is very peaceful in the evenings and weekends except for Neal snoring.
Dearest Jenn, when cocooned in those warm blankets, with dark thoughts hovering over you, and the world pressing down–remember us. We love you more than you can know. Your prescription for cyber-hugs is a click away, to be taken as needed. Side effects are rare but may include sudden rays of happiness, warm fuzzies, tears of joy, and the beginnings of a smile. Can you feel all those positive vibes from Nevada and points eastward? Be kind to yourself. Love, love, love, love…
One of my best friends chronically has this too. Not that I “know” but I know…. she is my Pisces friend, my Suze, my daughter’s Aunt Sue. And I love her. And I understand her. And she can have as much space as she needs and (I hope) she knows that when she needs us, we are here. If I lived closer, she would have pasta on her porch all the time.
You are beloved. In your fragile state and in your strong state, you are loved.
Recognize fear but don’t let it have you. Keep up your dialogue (maybe it is monlogue but act like it’s a damn dialogue!) and we’ll keep listening out here in teh interwebs. Don’t know you, but we know you.
Oh jenn…..your writing, the comments have me sobbing here. Can I just pretend they are saying these amazing things to me too? Some days I just need to borrow some of that hope and energy and understanding….the incredible moment of acknowledgement that it isn’t being lazy or crazy…..i can’t call people back or go do things. I can’t do the grocery store either. It takes all I have and then that it is for the day, back to bed I go.
Today all I can do is commisserate instead of offer the beauty and kindness that others offer. Love to you, my friend
YOU CAN DO IT.
I hope you know that you are a healer too, with your own family practice. What a community you have built here! I use Rite Aid =)
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