Emerging from the Murky Waters of Depression

One warm summer day when I was ten-years-old in northwest Illinois, my father and I decided to visit some of his friends who owned a farm in the country. Being the only child in the group, I grew bored to tears moments after we arrived. A blue-green natural pond lined with cattails and floating lily pads lured me to its muddy edges. I sloshed along, mucking up my tennis shoes, and dreaming of mermaids swimming beneath the water's surface. I chased minnows along the shore and scooped up tiny, black tadpoles into the cup of my hand. After spotting a small boat tied to a pier, I whined and begged, finally convincing the adults to take me out on the paddleboat. I jumped up and down, squealing, thinking, what a lucky kid I am!

They packed a cooler of beer, and all six adults plus me, loaded onto the over-crowded boat. Thinking back, I'm quite certain we exceeded the paddleboat's weight limit, and my overly-anxious-adult-self, wouldn't set foot on that tiny boat today, even if you paid me money. They ordered me to leave my muddy shoes on the dilapidated wooden peer, so I sat barefoot on the back ledge while the adults occupied the seats and the front of the boat. They paddled and drank and spoke in boring adult talk about things I didn't understand, nor cared to. I dangled my feet over the edge of the boat, searching for signs of mermaids and watching dragonflies and water skippers dancing on the water's surface. The algae growth in the middle of summer created a murky, yet mesmerizing shade of green in the pond. A chorus of bullfrogs croaked from their grassy hiding spots, and turtles sunbathed on a huge boulder rising up out of the water. Cupped pink blossoms stood on dainty stems of their floating pads. It's paradise, I thought.

The adults drank more, their voices louder, and their laughter rocked the boat. Peering into the water, I leaned over a bit too far, and slipped into a cool, wet, darkness. Holding my breath, my thin body plunged down, down, down until my toes touched a soft bottom. Thoughts of water monsters and big fish and drowning swirled in my mind. I opened my eyes to a blurry green and fought against tall tendrils reaching for me, tangling around me, grabbing a hold of me. Glancing up with burning eyes, I saw light, the sunlight from the blue sky above, and kicked like I'd never kicked before. Shooting up, I waved my arms and blew out all my air, like I'd done in swim lessons only weeks before when I'd jumped in the deep end. Still battling the underwater plants, I managed to swim for the light and broke the water's surface, gasping, flailing, and choking. Am I dying? I thought.

Hands pulled me up onto the back of the boat. My father's hands. He hugged me as I cried softly against his shoulder, shivering. Frightened. Embarrassed. Humiliated. My father gave me his long-sleeved denim shirt he'd taken off due to the heat and helped me wrap it around my shaking body. After asking me if I was okay, he crawled back up front with the rest of the adults. Folding my knees into my chest, I wrapped my arms around my legs, careful not to get too close to the ledge of the boat. I didn't say anything on the boat ride back to the peer, but as I observed the water rushing out from behind the boat, my fantasy of mermaids being real disappeared. Mermaids can't be real, I remember thinking, because if so, they would've saved me. Right?

My pond story is a true story. I've never forgotten it, and still to this day, have a fear of small boats and water where I can't see the bottom.

If I apply the story to my own battle with depression, it teaches me that if I fight hard enough, lean onto others when I need to, and refuse to give up, I can beat it. Falling into that pond on the warm summer day, when all seemed right in the world, reminds me a lot of depression and its counterparts, anxiety & panic attacks.

Let me explain: Depression can come out of nowhere and happen when you least expect it. It's like being submersed in murky water. Unclear focus, loss of hope, dread, and doom. Bouts of anxiety are the tall plant tendrils tangling around my legs and not being able to get away from them. Panic is kicking, struggling, and fighting to get out of the water, all while trying to not drown or let the monsters get me. Seeing the light above, swimming towards it, and the hands pulling me from the water are like rising up, support, and recovery.

Heal, rise, & shine ~ C.

Lessons From Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Hate her or love her, agree or disagree, Buffy the Vampire Slayer was/is an iconic character. In the TV series (based on a 90's film), Buffy Summers is the latest in a long line of "slayers" to battle the evil forces in the world. She just wants to live a normal freaking life, go to school, hang out with friends, have a normal boyfriend, but... she's a vampire slayer. Despite her reluctance, she eventually embraces her destiny.

Like Buffy, I too, would prefer to live a normal life. But, lately it seems to be a constant battle of struggling upstream, without a paddle, and a hole in the bottom of my shitty canoe. Am I conquering the "evil forces" of the world? No. However, I am fighting my own inner battles in attempt to discover peace and harmony within myself. I am embracing my own destiny, facing my demons, and slaying the shit out of them, one by one.

Heal, rise, & shine ~ C.

Depression Wears a Three-Piece Suit

He entered my life without knocking,
sauntered in with his haughty swagger.
In a three-piece suit, dark hair slicked back,
piercing black eyes slice like a dagger.
Curling his finger, licking his lips,
his enchantment draws me near.
I can't turn away, refuse to stop,
as I slip into my worst fear.
A vise grip around my throat,
I tumble into hell.
Blinded by a seductive smile,
he bewitches and lures me down an unholy well.
Cunning and deceitful, he whispers ugly lies,
I believe him, oh God, I believe him,
this devil in disguise.
As I claw my way to the light,
I feel his grip upon my feet.
I force my gaze upwards, don't look back,
don't you accept defeat.
I hear a familiar, distant voice,
beckoning me like a song.
I kick free of the grasp below,
and follow the calling from where I belong.

Depression: A Freight Train of Shit

In July 2018, this-thing-which-shall-not-be-named, barreled into MeTown by way of a freight train. It ignored the sound ordinance signs and blasted its horn as it raced down the tracks of my life. It never slowed its speed. It plowed over me. Into me. Blindsided me. Left me laying in the middle of the tracks, crumpled and confused. A literal train wreck. As I pulled the sheet of denial up over my head, I retreated. I ran. I hid. The rest of the world moved on, but I slipped into the past. Tumbled deep into the well of despair. Dark, murky, and stagnant, my days creeped along at a nauseating crawl. Nightmares plagued my fitful nights. Exhaustion dictated my brain. I was tired. So. Damn. Tired. Still unwilling to give this thing a name, I fought back. Everyday, I forced myself to leave the safety of my covers. I stood under the scalding waters, attempting to rinse away the despair. "You have no business here," I'd say, and visually imagine it disappearing into the drain. I dressed in my let's-get-shit-done clothing. I showed up at my workspace. Somedays, I'd actually get shit done. Others, I'd sit, staring. Hoping. Wanting. On those days, I'd crawl back into bed and sleep. On those days, I nestled under the covers and drifted into a restful slumber. Like vampires, nightmares are repelled by daylight. They can't feed upon your fears. They can't drain you of life. Unbeknownst to me, the allure of sneaking back into bed only worsened this-thing-which-shall-not-be-named. It dragged me deeper into the inky blackness. It licked its lips, devouring my soul. Its enchanting spell took hold. I isolated myself. Ignored the phone. Turned down invitations. And, when confronted, I lied. Denied. Pulled the cloak and veil around myself. To most, I was a poser of happiness. To a limited few, I allowed my shield to be lowered, not by choice, but out of sheer submission. Their persistent love willed me back to awareness. Lifted me up. Held my hands. And, assisted me into giving a title to this-thing-which-shall-not-be-named. This freight train filled with shit, which continues its ruthless battle is called, depression.

Depression: Maybe She's Born With It

What comes to mind when you hear the words: crazy, insane, lunatic, unstable, disturbed, loco, screwy, not right upstairs, barking mad, mental case, sicko, unhinged, fruitcake, loony, wacko, nutjob, off one's rocker, or cuckoo for coco puffs?

Me? I think of my late mother and late grandmother. Not because I ever called them any of those words, but they were both mentally ill. Depression, anxiety, bi-polar, and schizophrenia. The latter two I'm not clear on, and we never got a definitive diagnosis on either of them before they passed.

When I hear someone use the words or phrases above, I cringe. Mental illness isn't funny or something you sling around when you're trying to be funny. It's real and real people suffer from it everyday. We must squash the stigma of mental illness.

My maternal grandmother, Betty, died when I was four-years-old, so I don't remember much of her. My mother left my father, packed me up, and moved her and I down to Texas from Illinois. Long story. I'm guessing the last time Betty and I saw each other, I was two, in 1973. Betty died of a massive heart attack at forty-two-years-old. She was a heavy smoker, an alcoholic, and in and out of mental institutions during her thirties. I know from my mother's stories, Betty suffered from mental illness, was often heavily medicated, and she received shock therapy during her hospital stays.

Catherine, my mother, didn't fall too far from her family tree. Drugs, alcohol, depression, anxiety, she heard voices, felt and knew things, had manic episodes, and obsessive compulsive behaviors. I recall two separate times she tried committing suicide, or at least threatened to. I know this all to be true, because I lived through it. Welcome to my life.

A couple of us siblings believe mom ended up the way she did because she was a sensitive. She predicted things before they happened. Saw things. Heard voices. Maybe she drank to drown out these things. Maybe it's what drove her to drink, be depressed, etc. Maybe Grandma Betty had it too. Who knows?

I will admit this, I am sensitive, an empath. I can pick up on others' feelings/moods, and it affects me. But, I do not hear voices, nor can I predict future happenings, and I've never seen a spirit. Thank goodness, because what a curse it would be. My experience with depression and anxiety has absolutely nothing to do with my empathy. The only link I can find is, my mother and grandmother suffered from them, too, which I believe makes me predisposed to both the illnesses.

Was I born with the shit? Is it in my DNA? Am I hard-wired to be anxious and depressed when the shit hits the fan? Again, who knows?

My goal with this project is to learn how not to allow personal trauma, grief, sadness, and loss to dictate my life. I want to learn from my depression and anxiety, not hide from it or because of it. I want to educate myself and my grown children of the things to watch out for, the warning signs.

I want to break the cycle of family mental illness.

And, I want it to end with me.

~Heal, rise, & shine, C.

Let it Go Project

This blog is the written account of The Let it Go Project, a personal journey of healing, rediscovering my FUNny self, and setting my trapped spirit free, once again.

I set the blog up months ago, but didn't post anything. I'd log in everyday and just stare at the page, the image of the tattoo on my arm, and the blank post underneath the header. And, everyday, I'd log out, thinking, maybe tomorrow, only to come back the next day and repeat the process.

Why? How come my hands are frozen over the keyboard? Is it procrastination? Or maybe the fear that people will say, "Oh, look. Another person who wants to tell her story. Can't she just keep it to herself, deal with it, and let it go?"

So, I kept a journal of my ideas. My thoughts. The things I wanted to write, but couldn't or wouldn't or shouldn't. I went to therapy, exercised, meditated, burned incense and sage, attempted to wear something other than yoga pants, ate healthy foods, wore crystals, hugged trees, rescued two cats, created art, wrote, kept a gratitude journal, read self-help books, visited self-help blogs, listened to self-help podcasts, did online workshops, made deeper connections with my husband, adult children, and my siblings, and worked on forgiveness.

A few things made me feel better. My family connections are great medicine, and I'm not sure where I'd be without them. I adore my therapist (and we're working on something new I'll share later in this blog series). I actually wrote & published my 2nd novel during a deep depression. I guess being in bed, hiding from the world, was good for something. And, I hear it's hilarious. How on earth, I was able to write a funny mystery while wallowing through my own shit, is beyond me.

2018 brought a hurricane of health issues. A breast cancer scare, surgery, the onset of depression, the anxiety, rapid heart rate, panic attacks, and the persistent high blood pressure. I went from no prescription medications to four, yes, in twelve months. This all should have been enough to open my eyes.

But, it wasn't. Not until yesterday.

I had an appointment with my psychologist. I broke down, admitting to her, that if I didn't fix all of this crap, it would eventually kill me. I know somehow, someway, this grief-stricken baggage on my back will be the death of me. Saying the words out loud to another person had a profound effect on me. They were a wake up call, saying, "Hey, dummy, listen up. Heal or you're going to commit suicide by self-sabotaging yourself to death." The harsh reality of the situation sunk in. This shit is real.

I woke this morning, thinking, today is the day. I'm ready. I'm reading through the journal I continued to write over the course of the past year, and will share the ideas/thoughts/entries here. My hope for writing this blog? It certainly isn't to gain popularity. Lol. My goal is to share my experiences, help raise awareness, connect with others who may be going through similar situations, and break the freaking cycle. My family cycle of mental illness, which I'll touch upon in my next post.

To anyone out there needing to read this for your own healing journey, follow along.
To the naysayers out there, the Judgy-McJudgy-Pants, move along now, nobody needs your negativity.

Heal, rise, & shine ~C.