Don't Call Me a Drama Queen

How Do You Do It On Your Own?

2011-02-12T21:53:00.003-07:00

I am lonely. L.O.N.E.L.Y. And it does not do good things for me.

I am not, by definition, a social person. I don't enjoy crowds. Sometimes gatherings with a large group of people turn out to be okay, sometimes not. But I do love my friends and when I went through the Big Batch o' Crazy a couple of years ago, I found out that I NEEDED my friends. I honestly do not understand how some people get through emotional times without talking things through. I have some friends who "deal with it on their own", but for the life of me I couldn't tell you what that entails. I need to have two or three people with whom I feel comfortable enough to share my feelings without fear of judgment. Dealing with it on my own is not a skill I possess.

When my thoughts stay in my head, they tend to get tangled up in each other and mutate. But when I'm able to talk through my feelings, it's like taking bits of snarled twine out of a box, untangling them, neatly winding them up and then placing them carefully back in the box. When I speak my feelings, I'm able to better understand things and that helps me decide what, if any, action I should take. Sometimes it's just nice to get the feelings and words out of me. I always feel better after talking.

If you've read my family blog, you know that my family and I are currently living with my mother and that my husband is driving long-haul truck. He is gone for about two weeks at a time and then home for two days. It's not ideal, but it is what it is for the time being and we try to make the best of it.

What brought on the flood of loneliness was that today I had my first visitor since I moved here four and a half months ago. It was a fun visit. We didn't do much, just sat on the couch and talked and our kids ran and screamed like banshees and destroyed everything that they could destroy. I cried when she left. I realized that she was my first visitor and that I really have not been to see anyone since I moved here, either.

A confidant (or two or three) is as vital to me as air or water, and I have been practically without that for several months. I had some very close friends, but life changed, responsibilities changed, and I felt some shifts in our relationships. I don't hold anyone responsible for me feeling alone because, hello, we all have phones and I have a car and the knowledge of where people live. It's just that things have felt different and so I have kept to myself. Morgan and I talk every day, but I know that he worries about me and I don't want every phone call to be me whining about how hard this is or how lonely I am. It's hard enough for him to be gone; I don't want to make it worse by making him feel bad for leaving me alone. And, even though I live with my mother, she and I don't have the best of relationships so I just feel so...alone. All of the time.

I must give people some credit, though. I have been invited to several parties or gatherings. Some of them were couples' parties and, while I was graciously assured that I was welcome as a singleton if Morgan was on the road, I was certain that going to those functions would just highlight my loneliness and make me feel worse. The other things that I have been invited to I have been unable to attend due to scheduling conflicts or the lack of a sitter. My mother frequently reminds me that since we live with her, she tends my kids every day and therefore does not want to do it in the evenings so that I can go play. So, that makes school nights off-limits. My father-in-law is great to watch my kids, but he isn't always available and it's awkward for him to babysit for me when my mom is in the same house. So, if I'm going to be out past the kids' bedtime, I can't take the kids to his house because then they'll be up too late. I have turned down invitations that I wanted so badly to accept just because I couldn't find a sitter and couldn't handle the guilt of having my mother watch the kids.

I know that attending church would help to ease my loneliness and it's my own stupid fault for not attending. That's a completely different can of worms that I don't feel like opening right now, though. Suffice it to say, this loneliness is mostly my fault, but that doesn't make it any easier to bear.

I have to admit that I am worried that I have chased my friends away. The past couple of years have not been a picnic for me emotionally, and, as a result, I have needed someone to act as a sounding board a lot. I worried then and expressed my worries but I was always told that if it got to be too much that I would be told. Did I over-do it? Did I wear out my welcome? I'm so scared because I really feel like I need close friends, but I'm afraid that I chase them away. Being able to talk about your biggest fears and concerns is a special thing in a friendship and it's not something that just automatically comes with every relationship. It takes months or years to build the trust and love for someone to feel as if you are able to do that.

I really hesitated to write this post. It's been rattling around in my brain for some time now but today the gates broke and it needed to come out. If you are a personal friend of mine, I hope that you don't feel bad. That's the biggest reason that I hesitated to post this. I don't want anyone to feel guilty that they have a life, too. Additionally, if you are my personal friend, you know that I need to get stuff out and I hope that you will understand that this was the only way that I had at the time. This post has been a big pile of whining boo-hoo-iness, but this is where I come to write this kind of garbage. :)

*placing the last of the neatly wound threads back in the box*

I'm feeling calmer now, and I know that I'm attending church tomorrow so I know I'll be with friends. I will be okay. I will learn how to handle things, either on my own or I will find another way. If I have learned anything from Morgan driving truck, it is that I am much stronger than other people think that I am. I believe that people live up to the expectations they are given, so being treated like a bomb that could go off at anytime encouraged me to act that way. I know that a lot of people worried that I would totally lose it without him near me every day. I'll admit, I wasn't looking forward to it. But somehow I knew that I would be okay. It turns out that when you have no choice, you just do it. It's sink or swim. But it's also more than that. You can choose to flail about and barely keep your head above water, or you can swim with style. I'm trying to do it with style, but I do my fair share of flailing. I do know, however, that I will get through this rough spot. I don't know how, but I know that I will. I know what I am, and what I am is a strong woman.

Oh, Crap

2010-06-29T21:59:00.003-06:00

It's starting again.

I haven't written in a long time because I've been doing really well. At first I was just working at doing well, then after a while I really was. Things were good. Life was still, you know, life, but I was dealing.

Then a few nights ago I had a panic attack. It struck from completely out of the blue. I'm trying to remain positive and not expect things to go downhill. In fact, the opening line of this post probably doesn't encourage positive thinking.

But I am freaked out.

Why is it happening again? Things are stressful, but they always are. It seems that people think that as soon as they can get through "X" then things will get better. You can bet, though, that as soon as "X" winds down, "Y" will make its appearance, closely followed by "Z".

I'm just making my way through life's alphabet. I don't understand why I have to make things so hard for myself. Lately, it has been such a struggle to not head to the medicine cabinet. I'm not talking about one in a while; I'm talking about every day. I'm staying strong, though. When the urge gets to be too much, I leave the house or take a nap.

I think that having the kids out of school is adding to the stress a bit. I've been so lax with them the past year since I've been focused on getting my mental health back where it should be. My kids don't know the meaning of work and I decided that this would be the summer in which they learned. We made lists and charts and goals and they have done really well. The house has stayed pretty clean, the laundry is usually caught up and they're learning the importance of having a good attitude about having to do a job that is no fun. My rule is that if you scowl and pout and have a crappy attitude about doing a chore, you earn another chore. It doesn't take many "earned" chores before the kids are practically whistling while they work.

Teaching children to work is hard. Which is why I have found it easier to just do the jobs myself, which in turn does no one any favors in the long run. I know that it will get easier, but I find that I spend every waking moment of the day doing my chores, answering countless calls of "Mom!", making sure that everyone else is doing their chores, and then I fall into bed late at night, completely exhausted. There is hardly any down time and I usually feel guilty for the down time that I do take because I know that there is so much to be done.

Moe is almost always gone. Between work, getting a vehicle running and other miscellaneous chores, he's home--and awake--for less than three hours a day, usually less. I think that the added work and stress of the kids being home combined with the absence of my husband are the perfect storm of I'mgoingtolosemyeverlovingmind.

I find it ironic that just a few weeks ago I considered writing a final post for this blog and wrapping things up. I felt like it had run its course and that I no longer needed it.

Turns out I was wrong.

Happy Anniversary!

2010-03-23T14:04:00.002-06:00

Exactly one year ago today, my life was coming completely unraveled at the seams. If you're reading this, you probably have some sort of idea what this blog is about so I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that today is the anniversary of me finding out just how many pain meds and in what quantities it takes for me to pass out for roughly two days.

Good times, good times.

Can I just say that I am so glad that I didn't find out how many pills it takes for me to off myself? I can? Okay. I'm so glad that I didn't find out how many pills it takes for me to off myself.

By no means has the past year been easy. Far from it. However, I have learned so many things about myself and those around me.

I don't want to take a lot of time writing here today. I just wanted to recognize the anniversary. I told my husband a few weeks ago that this anniversary was coming up and that I wanted to do something really special to mark the day. He said, "What, like go sky diving?" and I said, "Yeah, I think tempting death on the same day every year is a great idea!" (please note sarcasm)

Seriously, though, I really want to do something. Something that says, "I'm still here - and I'm happy about it. Hah! depression, you haven't won yet, and if I get my way, you never will." I don't really know how to go about doing that, though. Throwing a party for all of my friends seems sorta macabre, really.

I guess I'll just write it here and then go live it.

I'm still here, still kicking. A year ago was the lowest of lows. I may not be at the highest of highs, but I am so much better than I was last March it's ridiculous. I love life. I love the lessons that I have learned. I love the opportunities I have been given to get a glimpse of that dark side of life where so many people find themselves and yet have been able to come back.

I'm here, and I'm glad of it.

Thank you to all of you for your help and support. Thanks for the notes of encouragement. I have loved having total strangers leave comments or email me and tell me of their struggles. I appreciate the phone calls, the prayers, the laughter. We really are all in this together.

I know that the internet can be both a blessing and a curse, but I thank the Lord every day for the connections that I have been able to make and the people that I have been able to meet through this strange web of keyboards and monitors. Thanks, cyber friends, for your kind words.

Thanks even more to my flesh and blood friends who have been available for babysitting, house cleaning, meal cooking and tissue providing.

I never could have made it through this without all of the help from all of you.

Hello, World

2010-03-10T14:45:00.002-07:00

Hello, dear bloggy friends. How are you all? Yeah? That's good. Me, I'm great. Really. That's why I haven't been on here for a while. I figured that y'all were wondering what had happened to me. At least, I hope some of you wondered. :)

I'm not sure what the switch was, but there was a switch flipped and I feel alive again. It wasn't a complete switch-flipping sort of experience; there was a lot of work and a lot of small changes that helped me get to where I am. I figured that I should blog and try to tell what's been going on with me, since this blog is primarily set up to help others. I've been meaning to blog for quite some time now but honestly, I haven't needed to. When things were so dark and ugly, blogging was cathartic and soothing. Now that I'm doing so much better, I just don't want to bother slowing down.

So, I'll try to catalogue some of the changes that I've made so that others may benefit from trying them.

I think the biggest change came about inadvertently. I think I've mentioned before that my husband and I started going to marriage counseling last fall. We went to a new counselor because the one that we have seen in the past didn't have any openings. I think that going to this new counselor has made all the difference. Our past counselors were great, but this guys cuts through all of the BS and gets right to the meat of the problem. He helped us to uncover things about each of us individually that were affecting everything in our lives. He helped me to see things about myself that I didn't even know existed. I kept waiting for him to tell us how to go about fixing the problems, but he never did. I'm sure if I had asked "And what do I do about that?" he would have had some suggestions, but I never asked. It turns out, once I had the knowledge about these things I was able to start changing my behaviors accordingly.

So, actually, the first thing was getting a counselor that really helped. The second thing, the one that came out inadvertently, was finding out how much my behavior was affecting my husband. Sometimes our marriage counseling sessions turned into individual sessions, with one spouse just sitting and listening. In some of the sessions where Morgan was able to bare some of his issues, he expressed how he felt about me and how my downward spiral had affected him.

This should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, or who reads this blog and knows anything at all about reading in between the lines, but I'm pretty insecure in some things. One of my biggest fears is that Morgan will someday get sick of all of the crap and leave. He has never said or done anything to indicate that this was his plan, but I have an overactive imagination. Anyway, hearing how hard it was for him to deal with my problems was a bit of a wake up call for me and I really started trying to change my ways. At first, I was simply pretending. I just wanted him to believe that things were getting better so that he would stick around. I wasn't even doing it to make him happy, I was just doing it to make sure that he wouldn't leave me.

Again, let me stress that he never had any intentions (as far as I know) of leaving; it was purely my insecurities and imagination that drove me to the fear of him leaving. Hey, I have issues. We've been over this.

Anyway, during one of our sessions, Morgan mentioned that he knew that I wasn't really better, that I was pretending for his sake. I don't know what changed or how it changed, but after that it really did start to get better. I think we were able to overcome some big stumbling blocks that had been in our marriage all along. I also was able to put on my big girl panties and deal with stuff instead of hiding under the covers. I found that I had hope for the future. I cared whether or not I showered. I looked at my kids' homework. I played with my little boys instead of just tolerating them. I began to live again.

I know that I will have relapses. I have a chemical imbalance that I've had my entire life and I don't expect that it will go away and never rear its ugly head ever again. But I have learned so much this time around. I have received valuable tools that help me to deal with my disease. I have learned just how much I stand to lose when I give in to the demons when they come knocking. And mostly, I have learned that my wonderful husband loves me, supports me, and has no intentions of leaving, no matter how crazy things may get.

I plan on writing more about things that I feel have helped me, but I think I'm going to stop here for today.

I remember several months ago someone encouraged me to "fake it until it was real." I thought that was the worst idea ever, besides cutting off my lips and setting fire to my hair. I didn't want to fake it. I wanted to be happy. Faking seemed like too much work, but, I guess in the end, that's kind of what happened. I don't know if that is advice I would give to anyone who is in the fog of depression because there was definitely more to it than that for me, but it may be worth a try.

2010-01-10T00:40:00.001-07:00

I've started a project which I think anyone who reads this blog may find helpful or at least interesting. Read about it on my family blog.

So, Um, I Was Thinking....

2009-12-22T10:32:00.001-07:00

Do you ever totally wig out about something then realize after a good night's sleep that it was totally unworthy of the wig?

Yeah, me too.

Guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt guilt....

2009-12-21T22:50:00.002-07:00

I'm not sure about writing this post tonight. I thought about putting it on my family blog, but I try to keep things light-hearted and up-beat over there. I don't know if this blog has anything to do with depression, but there is a bunch of stuff on my mind and I'm hoping that writing will relieve some of my stress. I don't even know where this will go. I'm just typing the word vomit as it spews out of my brain.

I may or may not have mentioned that my husband quit his job to go to school full time, which means that for the last four months, our family of six has been living off of student financial aid we received in August. There are a multitude of reasons why, I'm sure, be it poor budgeting, unexpected expenses or just plain stupidity, but now that we are at the end of the four months that the money was supposed to last, things are stretched pretty thin.

We've had a little help from our parents and every once in a while I'll get a little bit of money for something I've sewn. However, it's extremely stressful to know that you have to make it 20-30 more days on $37.

Things have been stressful around here. In some ways, things are getting a lot better and in some ways they are getting worse. I feel like our relationship as a family has not been as great as it should be. I don't feel like our children have gotten the love and attention that they have needed. My husband is dealing with his own demons right now in addition to mine. He has obligations that I think he has been lax in fulfilling but I have felt that it was his business, not mine. He didn't stand over the bed and berate me on the days when I couldn't find it in me to get up so I would feel very hypocritical to constantly be on his back about doing the things that I feel he should do. I have felt for a long time that we needed some sort of release, a day to have fun and relax. I know that you don't need to spend money to have a good family bonding experience, but I also think that my kids have been told "No, we can't afford that" way too much lately.

I don't know the who, how or any of that, but yesterday someone gave my family a monetary gift. It wasn't a huge amount in worldly terms, but to me it was the equivalent of a million dollars. I knew that I could make it stretch a long way, definitely until we are able to get more money for the next semester. On our way out the door to church, the zipper on my son's coat broke. I'm a handy seamstress but I wasn't sure how to fix the zipper as it was put in the coat weird. I cried all the way to church, wondering how I was going to get my son a new coat and keep the small amount of money that we still had for gas or diapers. I didn't tell anyone about the coat. After church, I had some visitors who delivered that wonderful gift plus a new coat for me since I didn't have one. (I don't know who you are, but thank you. Thank you so much.)

This brings me to the crux of my story. I wanted to do something for my family. I wanted my husband to have a day in which nobody, okay, in which I didn't nag him to do the things that I felt he should be doing. I wanted my children to have some fun. I wanted us to get out. I did a little looking around on the internet and found that the natural hot springs that are about 45 minutes from our house offered a family pass for $15, Monday - Thursday. We had to take my daughter to an appointment this morning and I figured that we could finish at the doctor and then head to the hot springs to enjoy a family day of fun for a few gallons of gas and $15.

Then the guilt set in. What if the person who gave this money didn't want it to be used for recreation? Was I abusing a gift? Maybe we should stay home and try to get some things done, get more ready for Christmas, tend to our responsibilities. The mental argument went back and forth. Finally, my husband and I decided that we needed the family day. $15 dollars and one day weren't going to make enough of a dent to make a difference.

So we went. I enjoyed myself. My kids enjoyed themselves. I think my husband did, but he was quiet all day.

Did I do the right thing?

I don't know. The decision was made and we acted on it. There is no going back and undoing it. I know that I need to accept the choice that I made and move on, but the guilt and uncertainty keep eating away at me. Where is the line between responsibility and the emotional health of my family?

Also, I have good friends who are in a very similar boat, financially speaking. Full time student, no source of income. Who is going to take care of them?

Okay. I need to stop now. I don't want to make my problems worse or create new ones; I want to make things better by just getting these thoughts out of my head. I hesitate even to publish this, but I will, even if it is for the purpose of telling whoever gave us the gifts this: Thank you. I hope my decision today doesn't disappoint you.

Thursday Again

2009-12-10T20:09:00.002-07:00

Yep. That dreaded/anticipated day of the week. I'm drained.

I've had a really good week. I was looking forward to my counseling appointment tonight so that I could report that I felt like I had made some big strides. Saying that I feel like I'm getting back to normal doesn't feel right because I'm not sure that normal for me is a good thing. At least, not the old normal. I felt better, like I was on the way up to new and better things.

Then something happened today that caused all of my new-found positivity to shatter. There was a lot to discuss at counseling and now I feel like I've been run over by an emotional truck, propped back up, beaten with a club and then had sand rubbed in my eyes.

So really, just like a normal counseling session makes me feel.

It will get better. I will heal. I will come out of all of this crapola a better, stronger purpose. There is no other option.

Healing Is Painful

2009-12-03T21:58:00.004-07:00

I have been back in counseling for several weeks now with a new counselor. His name is Brett and I really like him. He goes about things differently than other counselors I've worked with. I think that I will make much more progress with him than I have with previous counselors because every time I leave his office I am a complete wreck.

Sound weird? It kinda is, but stick with me here.

Have you ever had to deal with mold on walls or ceilings? I have, and I have learned that there are a few ways to deal with the mold. You can paint over it. It's fast, easy and cheap. It's also completely ineffective at solving the problem. It's just a quick fix. Very soon the mold will grow through the paint and be back just as big and bad as before. The only way to truly get rid of mold when it is in the drywall is to cut the moldy drywall completely out. Obviously, if the mold is caused by a leak of some sort you need to fix the leak to prevent further damage but once the drywall is affected it has to go. You then spray everything down with a fungicide and reapply new drywall. It's a tedious process, involving many steps and a lot of work. However, it's the only way to completely eliminate the problem.

In my counseling, I am currently in the tearing-out-all-of-the-old-crap phase and it is more tedious and painful than I ever would have believed possible. After our first session, all Morgan (who attends with me) could say was "Wow." I echoed his sentiments but added some of my own thoughts. How is it possible for a person to have so much emotional garbage stored up inside of them and never even know it? I've always known that I'm high strung. I get stressed out easily and I don't deal with my stress very well. But some of the stuff that's coming out in these sessions just completely floors me.

Let me be very clear here: I had a very average, safe upbringing. I was not abused. I never went to bed hungry or had to get a job to support my family. My family didn't try to sell me to roving bands of marauders. My childhood was average, even sheltered. I'm not going to therapy and recalling stories of beatings or severe neglect.

But seriously, I'm messed up.

Our counseling sessions (and by "our" I mean "we go and Morgan sits supportively on the couch next to me while I bare the deepest secrets of my subconscious") are every Thursday night and I look forward to those nights with an odd mixture of trepidation, anxiety and eagerness. I want to get better, I truly do. But I liken it to the process of wound debridement. When you have a serious injury, you have to remove the dead tissue as the wound heals in order for the healing to be done properly. In most cases, this process is fairly painful as it agitates the wound and exposes the damaged and tender new tissues that are growing. I have heard that for burn patients they will soak the wound in whirlpool baths and then scrub the dead tissue off but in my quick research I couldn't find any documentation of that.

Whether the latter process that I have described is, in fact, an actual medical procedure, it describes fairly accurately the way I feel when I leave Brett's office. It's as if someone has scrubbed down through all of the tough layers I put on to protect myself and painfully exposed the delicate, tender emotions that I have tried to smother.

Today is Thursday and I finished a session with Brett a few hours ago. I am emotionally and physically exhausted. My head aches, my eyes are red and swollen. Healing hurts. A lot. And I'm finding out that people and things which I thought were safe might cause me more harm than good. I'm learning that I have to rethink who I depend on and how I do it. I am trying to overcome habits and behaviors that I have had for my entire life. I am committed to doing whatever it takes to get from this dark place where I am now to the lighter place that I catch glimpses of every once in a while but it is tough.

It's like I accidentally joined the Marines, except without all of the physical exertion, early rising, yelling, ugly glasses and hoo-ah!-iness. You know, they break you down so they can build you back up. I'm still in the breaking down phase and I'm really looking forward to rebuilding. It sounds much less painful.

How to Help

2009-11-22T00:24:00.003-07:00

A friend of mine sent me a message today, saying that her close friend had hit a breaking point. My friend wanted to know what she could do. She said that she felt helpless and useless.

I gave her a couple of ideas that came to mind right away and then asked for a little time to think about it. I'm still not sure that I have any pearls of wisdom to share, but here is what I have come up with:

Don't judge.

Never in a million, zillion years would I have thought that I would find myself staring down the gaping maw of suicide. But I did. All of us have heard of friends, loved ones, acquaintances or strangers who have attempted or succeeded at suicide. Admit it, at least once you have probably thought or said "What were they thinking?" I know that I have. I'll let you in on a little secret: you can sit in your comfy chair in your comfy life and think "that would never happen to me" all you want. In reality, you never know how you will react when the perfect storm of life's crappiness hits you full force. The last straw doesn't even need to be momentous; stuff happens, we deal with it as long as we can. If we're lucky, we deal with it in a healthy manner. If we're not, we deal with it in other ways - drugs, cutting, eating disorders, suicide. My point is no one is immune. You can never know how you will react in that "breaking point" situation until it is your turn. See how I made that last statement bold? That's because it's very important.

Be honest.

If you can be with your friend through all that is to come (more on that later), more power to you. However, if you feel that your baskets of crazy are all full and one more load may just cause your system to go haywire, that's okay. When people are not mentally stable, they need people they can depend on, not people who say nice things while in the moment but who are not dependable when push comes to shove. Saying one thing while meaning another will actually make things much, much worse. I appreciated it when someone would tell me that they just couldn't handle my crazy at that time. At least I knew where I stood with them instead of trying to rebuild on a shaky foundation.

Be patient.

I am now eight months past my D-day and I still have days when all I do is get out of bed in the morning and try to make it back into bed in one piece later that night. If you say you're in it for the long haul, be prepared. Chances are this won't be over in a few weeks, or months, or maybe even years. It's going to get old. There will be days when you think "Enough, already!" but I promise you that your friend is thinking the same thing, too.

Listen.

This is not about you. Not at all. In the beginning stages, your friend doesn't want to hear that you're having a hard time, too. They are incapable of dealing with anyone's problems but their own. That can come later, after some healing has taken place. If this is the person in whom you usually confide, you need to find a new confidant until your friend is feeling better and is more capable of helping you shoulder your burdens. For right now, let them talk. Let them scream, cry, rant, laugh - whatever they feel they need to do. Just listen.

Ask.

Ask what you can do and if they say nothing, ask again. I can only speak from my experience, but I had a hard time allowing people to come into my home and cook or clean for me. Maybe your friend will be more receptive than I was, but make sure that they are not just being polite when they say that they don't need anything. Do they have pets or children that need taken care of? What about laundry or dishes? Can you make phone calls to family, bosses or help take care of insurance arrangements? Even though it was difficult to accept help, I appreciated those who stepped in and took over the jobs that were usually mine.

Be tactful.

Find out how your friend would like the situation handled. I was so embarrassed at what I had done that I really didn't want people to know. However, there were certain people who needed to be in the know. Find out how much information your friend is comfortable with you sharing and then stick with that. Tell no more than you are given permission.

Last of all, you need to realize that you will not make this person get well. You can do everything just right, say all of the right things, and they may still choose to make unwise decisions. All you can do is be honest and supportive but ultimately, the healing will come from this person.

Oh, and don't forget to laugh. You can find humor in the darkest of hours. Obviously, you need to take your cues from your friend, but don't let anything steal laughter from you. Your friend will thank you for it.

Guests Are Like Fish

2009-10-09T07:13:00.002-06:00

Dear Depression,

I have discovered that several of my personal belongings are missing. It's official: you and your friend Side Effects have officially overstayed your welcome.

You have stolen my memory. I used to pride myself on my ability to remember everything with clarity. Now I find it difficult to remember the smallest of details, let alone whole chunks of my day, week, life.

You have stolen my ability to concentrate for long periods of time. Gone are the beloved days of immersing myself in a book, oblivious to the world around me. I can't even make it through the first chapter anymore. Movies are out of the question as well. Even blogging has become a chore. You have taken the gift of relaxation from my life.

You have hidden my ability to be a good wife and mother. I know that it is not gone forever because every once in a while that capability returns, but boy, you are good at hiding things.

I can't say that you have have left nothing in return. You have left the gift of exhaustion. I find it in the strangest places. Then, just to confuse me even more, I find insomnia where sleep should be. Caffeine and Sleep Aids are becoming closer friends of mine than I'm comfortable with.

You are really starting to get on my nerves. You may be strong, but I am stronger than you or even I know. Eventually you will get an eviction notice and when you do, I expect you to act on it immediately. I know that you will come back for occasional visits. You have been with me for too long to expect you to totally disappear. But I would appreciate it if you would limit your future visits to no more than two days.

Sincerely,

Julie

Life Is a Song

2009-09-13T22:42:00.006-06:00

Back in the day (high school), I used to sing. I was fair to good at it, too. Since marriage and kids and life have continued, however, I have since fallen out of practice. I still sing, just not very often or as well as I used to. I was reminded of this today while I was in church. I was singing along with the congregational hymns and getting more and more frustrated that it didn't come as naturally as it once did.

It prompted me to note some similarities in things my voice coaches taught me to living the best life I can.

I was always taught to breathe from my stomach, not my chest. Open my mouth and my eyes wide. Hold my tongue naturally, not forced to the back of my mouth. Imagine that I'm coming down to a high note instead of going up to it.

The first few times through a song were always the most frustrating. I would remember to breathe from my stomach but not to hold my mouth open wide. Then I'd open my mouth wide and I'd forget the timing, or sing off key.

After several times of running through the song, I'd start to remember to do each individual thing and soon I'd be able to do all of the things at the same time. It took a lot of practice, though, and if I let it slip, soon I was back to square one, working on one thing at a time.

Today I realized that life is like that. My D-day basically wiped my slate clean and I've had to start over. Remember to breathe. Remember to eat. Remember medication. Shower.

Then I try to add things that require a little more concentration.

Cook dinner instead of serving cold cereal. See if I can get a load or two of laundry done. Tidy the living room. Wash the dishes.

Sometimes it's really hard to get everything done. My husband tells me that I'm trying to do too much, and he's probably right. I feel like someone who has been in an accident and has to re-learn how to walk or talk.

So, forgive me if all I accomplish some days is survival. It takes a while to get the hang of doing more than one thing at a time, but I know that just like a beautifully executed song, it is all worth it.

Crazy People Count, Too

2009-09-08T02:20:00.003-06:00

I don't have many words of wisdom for today's post, but I do feel like I should post something just to let everyone know that I'm still here, still kicking, still fighting.

Some days are good, some are bad. Most are good.

In the past, I have tried to remain light-hearted about the label "crazy". I still try to see the humor in it; I know that I'm not clinically crazy, but sometimes it's all that helps me get through. Something happened the other day, though, that made me think more about accepting that label.

My husband and I had a little spat. I said something which upset him. We're not talking about anything that would have a major impact on our marriage, just a little spat.

Well, he got mad, which of course made me mad (really healthy, I know), so I decided to get a little distance from him and try to gain some perspective along with the distance.

The words of a friend rang in my head. Something about how my arguments were not always well reasoned, which was to be expected because I was not always sane.

As I thought about that sentiment, I wondered: does this mean that I'm always wrong? Since I'm crazy, I guess that means that none of my arguments or thoughts are well-reasoned. I'm doomed to always be the wrong one in any discussion or argument that comes my way.

Instead of beating me into submission, this thought just made me angrier. Just because I'm crazy doesn't mean that my feelings don't count. Crazy people count, too!

I went back home a while later and my husband apologized. He said that he had overreacted and that he was sorry.

I apologized, too, but the new thought of my opinions not counting was still spinning in my head. Moe encouraged me to go into town and buy dinner for myself so that I could think it through.

I did just that, and ended up at my sister's restaurant where one of my good friends is a waitress. She could sense that something was wrong and asked me how I was doing.

I gave her the briefest explanation of my feelings, but expressed to her my worries that since I was crazy I no longer counted.

Her reply? "Oh, you count. Everyone counts in a census. Even crazy people."

Words of wisdom, along with a reminder to quit taking myself so seriously.

So the moral of this posting is:

Don't accept labels. (haven't we already discussed this? : ))
Don't take yourself too seriously. The humor is there - find it!
Everyone counts in a census. Even crazy people.

(Dear Sweet Friend - I understand that my use of the "not-well-reasoned-argument" thought is taken out of context here. I understand what you were telling me that day. Don't quit telling me your thoughts! As you can see, it ended up okay, even better than okay because I learned from it.)

Choose Wisely

2009-07-22T01:24:00.003-06:00

I'm not sure why I feel so hesitant to call my children by name in this blog. Most of my readers know me personally, but I feel like I would be intruding on their privacy to use their names. So, if you will indulge my weirdness, for this post, my two eldest will be referred to as Son and Daughter.

Son is nine years old. He was a wonderfully well behaved baby, toddler and child. He loves to read and is extremely intelligent. He is pretty introverted and is content to amuse himself. Most days, however, he cannot stand his sister.

Daughter is seven. She was an average baby, not unusually well behaved like her brother, but wonderfully average. She, too is incredibly intelligent. I'm very proud of both of my children, and a little scared as it won't be long before they surpass me in intelligence. She is an extrovert. She loves to be around people. She loves to talk. She loves to be the center of attention. She adores her brother.

Together, they are often the perfect recipe for disaster.

My D-day happened while school was still in session, so I was able to have some relative peace and quiet at home during the day. After 4:00, however, things went downhill in a hurry.

I have never been a "kid person." My grandma was that way. I remember that she didn't really like us much until we were teenagers. I love my babies. My toddler is so much fun right now. He is a handful, but he doesn't back talk, doesn't lie, doesn't do calculated mean things. My infant is the same way. I have found with my nieces and nephews that once they get to be between 11-13, our relationship improves exponentially.

What this all boils down to is this: it is summer vacation and my kids are driving me nuts. Not the normal kind of nuts that most parents experience, but the kind of nuts where I have to control every action and every word that I speak for fear of permanently scarring my children, both physically and emotionally. I'm really, really struggling with the two oldest children.

There is a lot of what we call "wigging out" at our house. I'll ask Daughter to put her clean laundry away and Armageddon ensues. Son also has a very short fuse and his temper is usually taken out on his sister. It's almost as if she is some sort of Kryptonite to him, only instead of making him weaker, she makes him angry, crazy angry.

This summer, my children and I have had many, many talks about their behavior. I have tried to teach them that all of life is full of choices. I can quote entire conversations that I have had with my children because we have had them almost daily since school got out.

"Son, I know that Daughter drives you crazy. I know that she pesters you. I know that you prefer to play quietly and alone for the most part and she is just the opposite. But she loves you. She idolizes you. Daughter is going to be your sister for the rest of your life, and even after that. That is one fact that is never going to change. We are family, and none of us are leaving. So you have a choice. You can choose to let her annoy you. You can let her make you angry. You can choose to hit, punch, shove or kick her and by doing so, you choose to suffer the consequences - OR - You can choose to have patience. You can look for the positive aspects about your sister. You can learn to take a deep breath when she bothers you and control your temper. The choice is yours. Which choice do you think will make you happier?"

I've had similar conversations with Daughter.

"Daughter, I know that you hate putting away your laundry/cleaning your room/making your bed/ etc., but those are things that you have to do. I'm not going to do them for you. Dad is not going to do them for you. There are some things in life that just simply have to be done, whether you find them enjoyable or not. However, you have choices. The task has to be done, right? So you can choose your attitude. You can choose to whine or throw a fit when I ask you to put your laundry away. You can choose to play with your toys instead of cleaning your room. By making those choices, you also choose to accept the consequences - OR - you can complete tasks that are not so fun as cheerfully and quickly as possible, which will in turn give you more time to do things that are more enjoyable. Which choice do you think will make you happier?"

Sometimes my children make the right choice. Sometimes they make the bad choice. As a parent, watching them struggle through their choices from a distance, it seems ridiculous to me that they would choose the path that so obviously (to me) leads to unhappiness.

Does anyone see where I'm going with this? Before we get into that, I'd like to share a little bit of insight that I've had.

Becoming a parent changes your life in ways that you can never imagine. One of those changes that was a complete shock for me was the insight I gained into God's feelings for me. My whole life I have been taught that God loves all of his children unconditionally. He may not love all of the behaviors, but He will always, no matter what, love His children. When I had my first child, I was struck with the similarities between God's love for me and my love for my child. I knew that there would be times that this child would take me to the limits of my patience and sanity, but I also knew that there was nothing in the world that he could do that would make me stop loving him or give up on him. Even with that understanding, I know that the depth of God's love for His children is deeper and more exquisite than the love that any human can feel. When I compared the love I had for my son to the love that God must feel for me, I was speechless and humbled. Tears flowed freely as I first had that realization. Even now, nine years later, it is still a powerful reminder to me whenever I feel lost or alone.

So, if God feels about me the same way I feel about my children, only to the nth degree, how must he feel as I make choices that will obviously lead to unhappiness?

When it's put like that, in such black and white terms, all of the solutions seem simple.

I can attest that knowing and doing are two very different things.

I'm trying. I'm fighting the thoughts every day that I know aren't mine. I'm trying to accept that some things in life aren't pleasant and aren't optional, but my attitude is a choice.

"Son, your sister does not make you angry. She does not make you lose your temper. She acts in certain ways, and you choose your reaction."

"Daughter, putting your laundry away does not make you have a bad day. Cleaning your room doesn't make you angry with me. These are tasks that simply have to be completed, and you choose the attitude with which you complete them."

Jules, your life is not peaches and cream right now. There is a lot of stuff that, quite frankly, really, really sucks. However, you choose the way you react. You choose to get angry, or sad, or offended - OR - you choose to not dwell on those things that will bring you down. You can choose to look for the things in life that will bring joy and let the things that bring sadness just wash on by.

Knowing and doing are very, very different. I'm trying. Really, I am. If you see me making a bad choice, let me know. When I'm in the trenches, it's so hard to see right from wrong. It's hard to see where reality ends and my agency begins.

I'm a Dementor

2009-07-20T00:02:00.002-06:00

I don't know what is up lately. I'm not pregnant, at least, I shouldn't be as I had surgery to take care of that after my last baby was born. However, I have a lot of emotions that I associate with pregnancy. The crazy, emotional, feel-like-crying-for-no-reason kind of emotions.

Don't get me wrong, there is still plenty of stress in my life. It's just - well, I thought that I'd be doing better than I am by now. I have to keep repeating what I've been told: It took me years to get this way, it's going to take months or even years to get back out of this hole.

I always hesitate before posting a negative, pity-party sort of blog. I want this to be a blog that gives hope and help. I want to share ideas and tools that will aid others in the battle of depression.

Right now, I've got nothing. No words of support, no "chin up" sort of message.

I guess, if anything, today's message is "There will be ups and downs. There will be regression. Every day will be a struggle. Sometimes you will win, sometimes you will lose. Just have hope that in time you will win more than you lose."

I feel like locking myself away from everyone. I feel like I drain life, vitality and happiness from those around me. I know that becoming a hermit is counter-productive. That is something that has really taken me by surprise throughout this whole crap sandwich that has been the last few months of my life: how can I KNOW something is wrong but still want to do it? I know how to get better. I know what things will make me worse. But I still have to fight everyday just to keep going. Again, the little black lobe of my brain comes into play. It says things that are terrible and I know that they aren't true, but man it is hard to fight against the darkness.

So, there you have it. My emotions for the day. Sorry if I have sucked any of your life away.

Uuhh... What Were We Talking About?

2009-07-09T01:23:00.003-06:00

It is 1:24 in the morning, and I can't sleep. I am going to hate myself when my alarm goes off at 5:45. Ugh.

Something that has been on my mind a lot lately is the memory loss that apparently comes with losing your mind. Yeah, I got the double reference there. I guess it makes sense.

It was really bad right after D-day. The first couple of weeks are a blur. It's been really difficult for me to have entire days that don't exist in my memory. I have never had a stellar memory, probably just an average memory, but I feel like my life is being stolen from me, and it makes me mad!

My counselor told me that it is very common. I think I may have talked about this in my first blog but I can't remember - the irony! If I already wrote about it, then this is just a refresher. What happened to me was my brain could no longer handle the stuff that was going on in my life and it went into survival mode. Heidi (my counselor) said that if it was not related to immediate survival, i.e. breathing, heart beating, etc., then my brain did not consider it important.

Did I say that this has been very frustrating? I can gauge what my stress level was on any particular day by how much of the day I actually remember. I hate that it has been almost four months and I still suffer from memory loss. Two days ago, I couldn't remember where I had parked my car after visiting my mom in the hospital. There is a six level parking garage and a couple of parking lots. My car doesn't have a panic button so all I could do was wander around until I found it.

Like I said, the first couple of weeks were the worst. Once I was able to be home without supervision again, my older children were at school and I was home with my infant and toddler sons. There would be days when my husband would get home and as I prepared dinner I would realize that I hadn't yet eaten anything that day. Had I taken my medication? Unknown. This is difficult to share, but there were times that I realized that I hadn't fed my toddler because I would find him eating out of the garbage can. He didn't speak well enough to communicate that he was hungry so he took care of himself the best that he could. The baby didn't get forgotten because he cried when he was hungry so I made him a bottle, just to try to stop the crying.

That was when I started my lists. Heidi advised me to keep a notebook with the date written in it and to check off each thing as I did it. Eat breakfast? Check. Feed babies? Check. Take medication? Check. I eventually adopted three or four different notebooks and left them in different places, just so I always had one nearby. I still use the lists, to a lesser extent. I usually remember to take my medication and I felt so bad about forgetting to feed my son that I haven't forgotten that again, but I have to write down a lot or else I forget.

In our family, the responsibility for managing our finances has always fallen to me. My husband deposits his paycheck and then I take care of things from there. I get online once every other day or so to make sure that all of the debit card purchases get written in the check register because sometimes it's hard to remember to do it at the time of purchase. After D-day, I completely and totally forgot that we had a checkbook, or bills to pay, or an account to keep in balance. I don't know who did the shopping, probably me, I guess, but I don't remember actually doing it. Anyway, I wasn't keeping track of our money and my husband was busy keeping track of me. It never even crossed his mind to keep an eye on our bank account.

When you are living paycheck to paycheck without a savings account, it doesn't take much to tip the scales and tip they did. In fact, I think the scales fell over. When it finally dawned on me to take a look at our account one day after Morgan deposited his check, we had accrued over $350 just in overdraft fees which was almost half of that particular paycheck. By the next paycheck we were still playing catch-up and we had another $150-$200 in fees. The next paycheck was down to around just one or two $35 fees. We have finally gotten it to where the checkbook is caught up and balanced, but bank fees can snowball so fast if left unchecked. I think that the $350 fees were caused by just two or three items, each under $20. This has been over the last three months and we are still trying to get caught up. Our church has helped us with our rent and we have had to say "no" to a lot of frivolities, but we're getting there. It will probably be several more months before we get back on top of things, but there have definitely been some lessons learned.

As I said, my mom has been in the hospital. Everything should turn out fine, but she had an emergency surgery and then had to go back to the hospital just a couple of days after being released. My sisters gave me the task of calling all of our family to let them know that Mom was in the hospital. Great idea, right? "I know, let's have the crazy sister notify everyone!" I made a list, but there were still those who got left out of the loop. Even when I did contact someone, I had to think really hard to tell them all of the necessary information. I usually ended up giving them the number to the hospital and directing all further inquiries that way.

Another fun (and by fun I mean super lame) side effect has been the breaking of the connection between the part of my brain that controls speech and my mouth. I can think of the words but I can't say them. Oddly, writing has not been as much of a challenge. I think that's one reason why blogging is so therapeutic. I feel like someone who has had a stroke and is still all there upstairs but completely unable to communicate via speech. I've had friends ask me questions and I've just broken out in tears because I know that I can't tell them the answer. There have also been times when the stuff that comes out of my mouth is not words, at least not in any language I recognize. My friends and family seem to enjoy those times. "What movie do you want to watch?" "Murfle poirgh juptty seegiwer." "I don't think we have that one...."

It's frustrating. It's like having that "tip of your tongue" feeling all of the time. My words come out in the wrong order. My husband pulled some posts out of our yard the other day and I told him that we'd better fill in the holes they left so that our goats don't break our legs. He understood me, but I felt like a moron. That's when we break out the humor. "Oh, so the goats will break our legs if there are holes in the yard, huh?"

One evening a couple of months ago, I was getting really stressed out with my kids and needed to get out of the house. We hadn't had dinner yet so I volunteered to drive into town to get some takeout.

**Note** Yes, eating out was a contributing factor in our financial mess but before you judge, keep in mind that when you're crazy, everything goes to pot. Buying and preparing food for a family of six is extremely overwhelming and there were a lot of times that it was just easier to eat out.

Anyway, the drive into town from our house is roughly seven miles. Everything was normal. I got to the restaurant, waited for our order to be ready, paid for it, and then the next thing I knew, I was at a stop sign a mile and a half away. I had no recollection of the time between taking the receipt and "waking up" at the stop sign.

I was freaked out.

I called Morgan and had him talk to me the rest of the way home, just to keep me alert and "awake." I didn't hang up with him until the car was stopped in our driveway. I talked to Heidi about it and was shocked to hear that what had happened was not uncommon with a person who is very stressed out. She said that I was most likely never in any danger, my brain just switched to auto pilot. It still seemed weird and not okay to me so I talked to my psychiatrist about it, who repeated what Heidi said. Now I just try to stay very focused when I drive and not drive at all when I'm feeling stressed.

In summation, losing your mind really sucks. Really. A lot. As an added bonus, it's multi-faceted. Memory loss, mood swings, debilitating depression, financial ruin - it's all there! I have learned a lot, though. I know, without a doubt in my mind, that this horrible thing has happened to me and my loved ones for a reason. There are lessons to be learned. I'd like to pass along some of the most important things that I have learned when it comes to dealing with memory loss.

If you are uber stressed-out, expect your memory to take a vacation. Don't worry, I'm told that this is normal and it will eventually return.
Make lists; check them twice, or three times. Always have paper and pencil handy. Write down anything you need to do and then cross it off when that task is complete. I even write down things that I need to discuss with my husband so that it's okay if I've forgotten about it by the time he gets home from work (which I usually have).
Have a routine. It's much harder to forget to do something if it's part of your daily schedule.
Find humor everywhere you can. If you speak in an unknown language, don't worry. Those who truly love you won't mind. They'll jump at the opportunity to lovingly mock you.
Finances should never ever ever be the responsibility of just one spouse. Go over everything together. Be honest. Save receipts. Check with each other before making a purchase. Follow a budget. If this system had been in place before I cracked, my husband would already have been in the habit of paying the bills, balancing the checkbook, etc.
Have a savings account. Before all of this started, we had no savings. We still have no savings, but looking back I can see how even $100 would have saved our butts more than once.
Strictly limit dining out. This is great advice for the crazy and the sane. Eat toast if that's all you can muster the energy to fix. It takes no time at all to throw half of your monthly income away at restaurants.
Learn to let things go. I have found that I bring on my memory loss by letting myself get stressed out. I am learning to reduce my stress level by recognizing that some things just aren't worth getting worked up over.
Know when to cry "Uncle!" and then accept any help offered with grace and humility. When we realized that we were three months past due on our rent, we knew that there was no way we were getting out of that hole ourselves. We prayerfully considered our options and then went to our bishop to ask for help. It was embarrassing and humbling, but he agreed to help us. Now we are more determined than ever to not be in the position again that we have to go to our church for help.

On that same note, I'd like to express my deepest gratitude to those who came last week when I cried "Uncle!" I don't recall ever having such a mish-mash of feelings before. I was excited, scared, embarrassed, sad, anxious and grateful all at the same time. I am surrounded by wonderful people.

True friends will:

Scrub your toilet, even though boys live in your house.
Wash your dishes, even though they just had their nails done.
Ask to take your dirty laundry home with them until you finally concede.
Dust every surface in your house that might possibly have dust on it.
Make your children's beds.
Not judge the clutter of junk that you may live in.
Bring chocolate.
Show up and leave with a smile on their face.

From the bottom of my heart,

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

Calling Team Blue

2009-07-01T00:10:00.003-06:00

I have no idea what I'm going to write as I sit here and begin typing. We had a pretty wicked wind storm earlier this evening and after that I couldn't connect to the internet. It was like losing all of my friends in some horrific accident. I couldn't check my email, or change my facebook status, or log on to show Emily a witty comment I had made.

It sucked.

We tried resetting the modem, restarting the computer, etc. etc. and nothing worked.

I've had a crappy day, emotionally speaking. I've been battling the little black brain lobe, which doesn't feel so little today. My daughter is with my mom right now because I just couldn't deal with her anymore. I don't know why, but I can handle my three boys all put together better than I can handle my daughter. When it got to be too much to bear, I cried "Uncle!" and called my mom. She said that my daughter can stay there for a couple of nights, until I get myself pulled back together (which right now, I feel will never happen).

So, yeah. Crappy, crappy, crappy day, emotionally speaking. Then my source of comfort and companionship when I can't sleep wouldn't work. I was pretty sure when Morgan and I headed to bed that sleep would not come easily. He and I talked for a while and then we prayed. I felt like I needed to blog, but my internet was down. I decided to settle for writing a Microsoft document and then transferring it over whenever the internet was back up, probably sometime tomorrow after calling technical support.

As a fluke, I tried opening the internet with a different browser than we usually use, and it took me through some repair program. It took a while, and the whole time it was working I just sat here and thought about stuff.

My counselor advised me to assemble a support team and I did, even though it was really hard and scary. Then I felt as if I needed to share my experience with the world, and I did, and it was really hard and scary. There have been other things that I've done that have been way out of my comfort zone, but each time I have mustered the courage and done whatever it was that needed doing, I felt better. It always looks less scary from the other side of the task. Sometimes, it's even ridiculous that I was scared.

At my last appointment with Heidi, she told me that she was letting me loose for a while, maybe permanently. She would keep my file open for several months and I was welcome to call in and make an appointment if I felt that I needed it. Heidi said that looking at how low I was several months ago compared to how well I am functioning now is amazing. She said that I have come remarkably far in a remarkably short amount of time. That scares me. Because it was so fast, does that mean it is superficial? Am I destined for a crash in the near future?

At the same appointment, Heidi also asked me if and how I was utilizing my support team.

Ummm.....

Why? Why is it so hard? I have several people who have agreed to be on my team and do whatever I need them to do. So why am I so hesitant to ask?

As I sat waiting for the repair program to do its thing, I wondered - could I ask for help online? I could blog about what I needed and then if people wanted to say no they could just pretend that they didn't see the blog. I wouldn't have to face them or call them and feel anxious. They wouldn't feel put on the spot and obligated to help. It seems like a cowardly way to get things done, but maybe I can work my way up to personal petitions.

Silently, I made a deal with God. If my internet would come back up, I would blog. I would write about my feelings and I would ask for help. I told Him that I wasn't strong enough to ask anyone in person but that I could do it over the web.

Since we had tried everything we could think of to repair the connection already, I did not expect it to work. Apparently fixing a wireless internet connection is no problem for someone who walks on water and raises people from the dead.

Heidi gave me instructions. I am to be very specific when I ask for help. I am to say "I need you to _______" instead of dropping hints or just saying "I need help."

Well, here goes. I'm keeping my end of the bargain.

I cut my thumb bad enough yesterday to require a trip to the doctor's office. I can't get it wet for several days and my dishes aren't done.

My laundry is piling up and my house is sorta messy, and I could probably get on top of it again if I didn't have to deal with my kids. What is it with them? They complain that they have nothing clean to wear but WIG OUT when I wash their laundry and ask them to put it away.

My kids. They are all driving me crazy. They were gone for the weekend and I was able to accomplish some things. Now everything that I cleaned while they were gone is dirty again. I'm struggling with dealing with crying and fighting, bickering and toddler and infant mischief. I find it very difficult to be the mother that I know I can be because my stress level is always right at the breaking point.

As I write this, it is technically Wednesday, July 1 but I haven't gone to bed yet so it is still Tuesday to me.

If you are willing and able, please come to my house tomorrow (Wednesday) and help me. Call first, because sometimes I don't get dressed for a while if I have nowhere to go or nothing to do. Trust me. You don't want to see me in my jammies. If you can't come Wednesday, then call me when you can. This is what I need:

My dishes washed. I won't be able to get my thumb wet for several more days and I don't have any dish washing gloves. More than that, I find myself unable to muster up the gumption to wash them.
My house tidied, floors vacuumed and swept, etc. It's not really that messy and it will probably be messed up again very soon, but it would do my heart good to see it clean, even if it's just for an hour or so.
Someone to watch my kids, for one day a week or a few hours a day or something. I have four of them, two of which are in diapers. I know it's a big favor to ask. I honestly don't know how I'm going to get through the summer with all four of them on top of me every day.
Adult companionship, even for an hour. I am broke and stuck here with my kids all day. Even if I had the money to take them anywhere, the task would probably seem too daunting.

This is so difficult to do. I'm embarrassed. What kind of woman can't take care of her own house and family? I feel less than competent.

I'm fairly certain that when I wake up tomorrow morning and remember this post, I will want to delete it. Maybe God will "help" by disabling my internet again, huh? : ) I am not a public person at all. I've said several times that I'm a much better person virtually than physically.

Some of you are here frequently and have already helped so much. You know who you are, and if you are unable to come, I definitely understand. Others who have never even been to my house, if you can't or don't want to come, just pretend that you didn't read this post and no one will be the wiser.

I will be totally embarrassed by but very appreciative of any help offered. I don't plan to sit on the couch and eat bon bons while Team Julie labors over the menial duties that are rightfully mine. I don't even have any bon bons. Please, just come. Help me. Help me feel like I'm not crazy. Help me feel like I'm not a complete loser for reaching out. I like to be stuck in my shell so much that this is very difficult. I'm bawling my eyes out as I write this, but I know that my words are inspired.

I was talking with Emily today, as girls tend to do with their best friends, and she shared some thoughts with me. Before I share those thoughts with you, however, I should let you know how the hierarchy of our club works. Emily is the captain of Team Julie. She is in charge of all T-shirt orders, bake sales and other fund raisers, pep rallies and Kleenex stock purchases. All practical inquiries should be directed to her. I take care of the emotional garbage. : )

Anyway, Emily said that whenever she thinks of me and my situation, she pictures me carrying this huge burden all by myself and I refuse to let anyone help me. I knew exactly what she was talking about because that's just how I feel. Through this entire experience, I have heard and spoken much about the Atonement of Christ. I have been told to let go, to let Him carry the burden. I have just one problem with that:

I don't know how.

I'm a very literal, visual sort of person. I wish that I had a burden log and I could cut chunks off of it to give to others to carry, but unfortunately, that's not how it works. I insist on carrying my burden because I don't know how to share it.

This post is my attempt to share my burden. I took stock tonight of some of my burdens. I saw that some of them I could give away. I asked for help. The rest is up to Heavenly Father. He will decide who, for reasons unknown to them, finds this post tomorrow and He will touch their heart to reach out to mine. Possibly, He will guide some away from the computer and they won't see this post for several days, maybe weeks. Maybe by then the crisis will have passed and I won't feel as if I need the help. Or maybe by then a new crisis will have arisen and I will again need the help.

I don't know how it will work, but this is the only way I know to share my burden. This is my first step. I pray that as I take this first physical step, the other steps that are more spiritual and difficult for me will come.

Laugh It Up, Chuckles

2009-06-27T22:48:00.003-06:00

One of the best coping mechanisms that I have found during this entire experience is humor. From the very beginning, Morgan and I were able to joke about it. I think we cracked some joke the first night that I told him what had happened. Then I thought about it and said that it seemed so wrong to joke about suicide. Morgan said that we can either laugh about it or cry about it. It's such a serious subject and if we can find ways to lighten up, we will jump at them every chance we get. For example:

The first morning that I was allowed to be alone, I wandered out into the kitchen. I found the correct dose of my medication sitting on a sticky note stuck to the top of the microwave. Morgan had written "alprazolam" on the note. I giggled to myself because I thought that it was cute and silly for him to think that I wouldn't know what it was, having downed several of them the week before. He called me later in the day to see how I was doing and make sure that I had found my medication. I teased him about writing the name of the medication on the note. He said that he had just wanted to make sure that I knew that it was my medication. I responded "Aww, sweetie. You're cute. You should know by now that I will swallow any pills that I can get my hands on."
Another day, I decided to take a nice, relaxing bath. I was headed through the living room on my way to the bathroom and as I walked through I told Morgan that I was going to take a bath. He looked up and said, "You don't have the toaster, do you?"
Some of my closest friends have gotten in on it, too. We have always teased each other about everything, but sometimes they'll stop and say "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." Or when I say something dumb, I just shrug and say "I'm crazy, what do you expect?"
Morgan and I like to give each other a hard time. I'll tell him that I'm mentally unstable so he should go easy on me. Sometimes he'll tell me that his life is pretty rough because his wife is crazy. Then we jokingly bicker about who has it harder - the loon or the sane.
Sometimes when I want something, for instance Morgan and I are watching a movie and I want some popcorn and he doesn't want to get it for me, I'll remind him that I'm very unstable and one never knows what might push me over the edge. "You don't want to have the responsibility of my death on your shoulders, do you?"
I like to remind my friends and family that I can get away with stuff they can't, just because I'm crazy. It's actually quite liberating.

Sometimes we forget that not everyone uses humor the same way that we do. We have joked about some of this stuff in front of different friends and family and we can tell by the way their jaws hang open that they can't believe that we are joking about something so serious. To those who think that we are wrong, macabre, disrespectful or rude to joke about mental illness, I say this: Laughter makes it less scary. If I can joke about it, then it must be conquerable. Humor makes it manageable.

So if you see me and I appear to be confused, or maybe I can't find the right words to say, or maybe my pants are on inside out or backwards, by all means - ridicule me. I will never get through this if the only reactions I get from people are pats on the shoulder or expressions of sympathy. Don't get me wrong; compassion, love and support are vital to the healing process. But so is laughter.

Still Here

2009-06-27T00:44:00.004-06:00

I feel like I need to write a new post, but it's nearly one in the morning and I'm really sleepy. I'll post again soon, probably within the next few days.

Just wanted to let you all know that I'm still here. : )

Also, let me reinforce the idea that this blog is here to help anyone and everyone possible. I have several subjects that I plan to cover in the future, but if anyone has questions for me, please ask and I'll do my best to address those issues, whether they be advice on how to handle a similar situation or just to pick my brain about any old thing.

I'm Mentally Unstable. Please Be Kind.

2009-06-20T10:29:00.005-06:00

When all of this first happened, I thought that I would tell the handful of people who I thought needed to be told and then we would sweep it all under the rug and I would get on with life. I didn't want to tell a lot of people. First off, it was so embarrassing. I was also afraid of being judged for what I had done.

I didn't fully understand my biggest fear when telling people until my counselor brought it up. I was afraid that people would think that I was just being a drama queen.

Drama Queen. High strung. Too sensitive. High maintenance. Has to be the center of attention.

These are all labels that I was given, some in my childhood and some as an adult. At some point in my life, someone has said each of these things about me. And to be completely honest, there have been times when I have deserved every one of those labels. They are part of me, part of who I am, and I constantly battle the negative aspects of those traits.

I'd like to make it abundantly clear at this point that I do not blame anyone but myself for my actions. Being called names didn't make me swallow a bunch of pills. That was my decision. However, I'd like to call to attention how detrimental it can be for a person to receive negative feedback on themselves repeatedly, from childhood through adulthood. If you hear something often enough, you may eventually accept it as truth.

Most of us had motivational speakers come to our junior or senior high schools and talk to us about self esteem. "Don't put rocks in others' backpacks." The Golden Rule. One of them said that the saying "Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me" was a load of crap. She said that names do hurt. I listened and took all of those things to heart, but that was just for teenagers, or so I thought. I thought that through all of the formative years and the awkward teenage years we should be careful about calling names. I thought that by the time you were an adult you should be past all of that. I was wrong. Labeling people is always bad news, especially when the person who is labeled accepts that label. Accepting it means you believe it's true, and if you believe it's true then inevitably you will act accordingly.

If I told people, this is what I thought would happen:

Me: I am having a very hard time with depression. It's not just sadness, it's crushing, irrational, suicidal blackness and sometimes I can't deal with it. I need someone to talk to or relate to. Maybe some days I need someone to take my kids for the day. Sometimes I just need to get out of my house and sometimes I just need to take a nap. Will you help me?

Other person: Whatever. Suck it up. Brush it off. You're such a drama queen. Suicide? You'll be fine. You just want attention. You just want pity. Everyone has bad stuff that they have to deal with. Get over it.

I didn't think that someone would actually say all of those things, but I was sure that they would think them. The worst part about all of it is that I believed all of that stuff. Honestly. Tell a girl enough times that she overreacts to everything and she'll believe it. That's why I don't go to the doctor until I'm on death's door step. "Why didn't you come see me sooner?" is a phrase I hear often.

My wonderful, super awesome counselor, Heidi, has helped me so much. She told me that it was unreasonable for me to think that I was going to get through this alone. She asked me to make a list of six people to be my support group. I was to go to each of these people individually and in person, explain to them what was going on and ask them to be part of my support group.

It was really hard to come up with six names. The first two were easy as I already had two people that knew. The rest were a lot harder. It took me a long time to think of six people and it took me a couple of weeks to work up the nerve to approach them. It was really, really scary. Everyone I know has their own problems that they are dealing with. Some have small children or children with health issues. Some have their own mental health issues. Some are working, going to school, raising their families, battling a stupid ex, you name it, all of my six had something going on. I didn't want to be a burden. I didn't want people to feel obligated to help. I didn't want them to brush me off.

- but -

When I finally approached them, I was shocked at the responses I received. Most cried with me. Several related that they, too had been at the end of their rope, some even suicidal themselves. All of them chided me for being nervous to ask them. A few expressed frustration that I hadn't come to them sooner.

The experience was exactly the opposite of what I had thought it would be. It was healing, cathartic, therapeutic. With each person I related to, my burden grew lighter. Each person agreed to be there for me, no matter what, no matter when. I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't a drama queen. My problems and feelings were real. It was an amazing feeling.

As the weeks have passed, occasionally I will be with someone or think about someone and somehow, I just know that I have to share my experience with them. Each time I share, it gets a little easier. I always worry about the drama queen factor, so I devised a list of requirements that I must meet before telling someone:

Am I telling the person to gain compassion and understanding?
Am I not looking for attention or pity?
Is this a person that I feel I can trust?
Does my gut tell me that I need to share this with them?

If all of the above questions are answered favorably, then I take a deep breath and start talking. I have surprised myself. My motivation is never attention or pity like you would expect from a drama queen. I want help, and I know I'll never get it if I don't ask for it.

After the counseling session when Heidi told me that I needed to form a support group, Morgan and I talked about it and jokingly wondered who to invite to be a part of Team Julie. We would have T-shirts and club meetings at which, of course, chocolate would always be served. Our T-shirts would say "I'm mentally unstable. Please be kind." Now Team Julie has grown. There are no longer only six members, but closer to ten or twelve.

I hereby invite every reader to become part of team Julie. Benefits include compassion and understanding, fellowship and camaraderie. You will also have the healing knowledge that you are not alone. So very many people suffer from the same thing. I will reciprocate all favors given to me with something of equal or greater value. If you are feeling low, you can call me anytime, day or night. Leave a comment here and I'll get back with you. You're on your own for T-shirt cost, though. I can't afford to buy a T-shirt for everyone. : )

If you want to join, let me know by leaving a comment. If you join Team Julie, I will join your support team. Heck, I'll join your team even if you don't join mine. Isn't that what it's all about? We're all here to support and love each other. Think about how huge this could get; a giant network of friends all pledging to love and support each other in their times of need.

My friend Becky recently had an episode similar to mine in some ways. She blogged about it. I'd like to share a little snippet of what she had to say. (Hope you don't mind, Bex!)

"Someday I will proudly declare that I Beat Depression. In remission, you could say. Because depression truly is a cancer for the soul. It is heartbreaking that, as a culture, we do not value "depression survivors." When someone mentions that they had depression - it sounds flippant. Small. Weak.

I call for Depression Awareness Month. We should get ribbons and bracelets and 5k runs as well. From my research, it affects 15-25% of the population. Truly, it affects EVERYONE. Because these 15-25% have children. And parents. And spouses."

I agree with her wholeheartedly. I say Depression Awareness Month is in March, because March is when I had my D-day and March is when it's that yucky time of not-still-winter-but-not-yet-spring. Our color is blue. If I see someone wearing a blue ribbon or a blue T-shirt that reads "I'm mentally unstable. Please be kind." I'll know that they are on board, and I'll know that they are fully awesome for going out and getting that printed on a T-shirt.

I'll close today with this: Be kind. Don't label others. Don't believe the labels that others give you. I know that the problems I ended up having with my labels were 99% my fault. I was given the label and then I fulfilled it. You are what you believe you are. Believe yourself to be strong, confident and resilient and you will be.

D-day

2009-06-18T01:31:00.004-06:00

D-day. I have chosen to call the big event D-day. It sounds better than "the day I went crazy" or "the day I almost killed myself." I chose 'D' for drama, depression, death and decision.

Monday, March 23, 2009. I woke up feeling crappy. Not physically ill, depressed. Blue. Cranky. Inexplicably sad.

I chatted online with a friend. I talked on the phone with another friend. Nothing seemed to help. The day quickly spiraled downward. Sometime in the early afternoon, I called my husband, Morgan, at work and asked him to come home. By this time, I was crying so hard that I could hardly speak. Morgan was unable to leave work, which I understood but didn't like.

I was suicidal.

I'd like to interrupt myself for just a moment to say that typing those three words and knowing that I'm going to publish them on the World Wide Web scares me to death. (Scares me to death? Oh, the irony.)

I began to contemplate and plan how to kill myself. As I ran through different scenarios and their various outcomes, one thought kept coming back to me: "My babies are here. I can't leave my babies alone in the house with my dead body. My two older children will be home from school before their dad. I can't let them be the ones that find me."

In the end, I decided that the solution, at least for the day, was not suicide. I was, however, done. D. O. N. E. I could no longer cope with the whirlwind of crazy thoughts and feelings and I needed to check out for the day.

By this time, my two older children were home from school. I put the baby down for a nap and asked the big kids to play with the toddler. I told them that I wasn't feeling well and that I was going to take a nap. I told them to tell Morgan that I was sleeping when he got home and that he should be home soon.

I went to the medicine cabinet and got some Xanax, which was prescribed to me a couple of years ago to help with anxiety. I had only taken a few since the prescription was filled and I dumped out the remainder of the pills into my hand. I also grabbed the bottle of Hydrocodone, which I had left over from my surgery last fall. There were four or five of each of the medications and I downed them and left the empty bottles on the counter.

I went in my room and lay on the bed. My head was full of awful thoughts, things that I hate to even remember. It felt like I had grown an extra lobe in my brain. I pictured it as a little black knobbly ball the size of a golf ball sticking out of the side of my brain. It was full of dark thoughts and it was powerful. It told me that I was worthless. It said that I was an awful mother and that my children would be better off without me. It said that I should die so they could get a new mother, one who wouldn't screw them up. It told me that Morgan deserved a better wife and I should die so that he could find one.

It's difficult to write about those thoughts now, because even though I have gotten much better, there are still days when I battle the little black lobe. I don't actually hear voices, but the dark thoughts are so strong.

I decided that the pills that I had taken were not working fast enough, so I went back to the medicine cabinet to find something else. I had been prescribed Zoloft and usually took one a day. I took seven of them and headed back to bed.

More dark thoughts descended on me. I couldn't quit crying. My body was shaking, my heart racing. I wanted it to all go away.

Back at the medicine cabinet again, I found Morgan's antidepressants and took a number of them as well. By this time, the drugs had begun to work and I'm not certain of the number that I took, but I believe it was four or five.

I went back to bed, finally feeling drowsy and a little calmer. I felt no pain, no nausea, no discomfort at all. I remember Morgan coming into the bedroom, asking if I was okay, had I taken some medication, had I taken too much. I don't remember what I told him, but I must have convinced him that I was okay and that he should go to dinner at our friend's house as we had planned. I remember that my mom called. My friend Emily called, too. I don't remember any of the conversations except that I kept telling them that they needed to talk to Morgan.

Then I slept. I did not hear my family come home from our friend's house. I didn't hear Morgan get into bed with me. I woke up the next morning around 9:00 to the sound of my baby crying on the baby monitor. I got up and fed him. I don't know how they got there but my little ones spent the day at my mom's house. I don't even know how she knew to come get them, or if it was her that picked them up. Did I call her? Did she call me? I guess I should ask her.

After the babies were gone I went back to bed and slept until Morgan got home from work. I don't remember how the babies got home. Maybe they stayed at my mom's house two nights, I'm not sure. We had dinner, Morgan went to school, somehow I got the kids to bed and when Morgan got home I was already asleep.

The next day was Wednesday and Morgan had school again that night. The only thing that I remember about Wednesday is that I wondered why Morgan hadn't asked me what had happened Monday. I decided to tell him what was going on. As we were getting ready for bed that night, I told him that I needed to talk to him and that I needed him to stay calm. I told him that Monday I had been suicidal. I told him that I had chosen not to go through with it, but instead to "check out" for the rest of the day. I told him that I had taken some medicine, but I didn't tell him how much. I was afraid of what his reaction would be. I don't remember much of the conversation except that he told me that I needed to make an appointment to see somebody, anybody, but that I needed help. He said that he would come with me for support.

The next morning, Thursday morning, I called and made an appointment with our family practitioner. When the secretary asked about the reason for the visit, I hesitated then said, "I don't think my antidepressant is working the way that it should and I'd like to discuss changing it." That may have been the biggest understatement of the year.

Morgan came with me, as promised. Our practitioner came in and asked how we were doing and that was when the waterworks started. Morgan had to tell her some of what happened because I was crying too hard to even speak. Finally, there were some questions that he couldn't answer so she turned to me.

"What did you take?"

"Some Xanax."

"How many?"

"Four or five."

"Anything else?"

I hesitated. Yes, there was more. Did I want to share how big of a loser I was? No way.

"You need to tell me what all you took so we can see how bad the situation is."

Deep breath.

I told her. As the pill count rose, Morgan's eyes widened. He hadn't known just how bad it was. I had taken over 20 pills. Even I hadn't realized how bad it was until that moment when I was forced to make a reckoning.

Again, I'd like to interrupt for an explanation. Since D-day, I have learned the technical description for what happened to me. I'll share that in good time, but I'd like to note that a major side effect of my mental "snap" was severe memory loss. There have already been several points in my story where I have indicated that I couldn't remember everything that was said or done. At first, that was obviously a side effect of the drugs. But I still suffered from the memory loss even after the drugs wore off. The severity of the memory loss usually correlates with the severity of the depression, stress or anxiety being experienced during that time and I now have entire days that are lost to me. More on this later.

We were with our practitioner for quite a while, over an hour and a half, I think. I remember that she asked me if I felt like I needed inpatient care. I was shocked. Was it really to that point? I thought that you had to be completely crazy to go for inpatient psychiatric care. I also thought to myself, "Is it bad that inpatient care just sounds like a vacation?"

She discussed getting me psychiatric help to get my medication and dosage to where it needed to be. She said that I needed to talk with a counselor to help me figure out the tangled mess that was my thoughts. She asked about the kids and when we told her that they had been acting out for several months she provided information on how and where to get help for them. She offered to speak to our bishop, to ask for help with paying for some of the treatment if we needed it.

One of the last things I remember her saying was that she would be on call that weekend and that if anything happened at all, Morgan was to take me straight to the ER.

Oh, and I was grounded from the medicine cabinet. Morgan was in charge of doling out my meds to me.

How humiliating.

That afternoon and evening, Morgan and I talked a lot. We decided who we should tell and who we shouldn't. We made plans for what I should do if I began to feel out of control again.

I really didn't want to tell anyone what had happened. I was so embarrassed. I also knew that if it was ever going to get any better, I needed outside help and in order to get that help, people needed to know what was going on. I was afraid of certain people judging me, thinking that I was unfit to be with my children. I didn't want anyone to take my children from me. I put so much trust and responsibility in Morgan's hands. I told him that if he felt that I wasn't able to care for my kids then he should make arrangements for them to be elsewhere. He said that he trusted me, as long as I followed the plans we had made if I began to feel poorly.

That evening, we told my mom what had happened. She cried. She got angry. She cried some more. She expressed her love and offered her help and support.

I asked Morgan to tell his boss. I wanted to make sure that if I ever needed Morgan to come home during the day again that there wouldn't be any negative fallout.

We told a couple of our closest friends.

It was so hard to tell people what I had done. I was embarrassed. I was afraid that they would think that I was being overly dramatic. I have much more to say on this subject so I will leave it at that for now and address it later in a different post.

Morgan decided to take all four of our children and stay at his dad's house with them Friday and Saturday night. He thought that the quiet and rest from the kids would be very beneficial for me, and I mostly agreed. I was ashamed to admit it, but I didn't want him out of my sight. He was my lifeline, my support. Even now, three months later, I hate to be without him. I live in fear of completely smothering him, but he's stuck with me thus far.

Friday went relatively well, as I knew that all I had to do was get to four-thirty and then Morgan would come home, get everyone ready and then I would have the next two days all to myself. Four-thirty came and went. Then five and five-thirty. The baby was screaming. The big kids were bickering. I called Morgan. He had decided to take care of a few errands before coming home. I told him to come home now. It was about six o'clock when he finally walked in the door. By that time, I was sitting on my bed, holding my two-year-old and my infant who were both screaming. I was shaking uncontrollably and my leg was bouncing up and down and I couldn't make it be still. He wordlessly took the babies and left the room.

I can't remember why he stuck around, but he didn't leave right away. He didn't even start preparing to leave. I was in the bedroom listening to the blare of the television, the crying of my babies, the arguing of my two older children, and that is when I had my very first panic attack. I began to hyperventilate. I couldn't focus. My heart felt like it would come right up my throat if I would let it. I remember telling Morgan that if he was going to leave then he needed to leave right then. Then I asked him to stay. "Ask your dad to take the kids. Don't leave me!" He insisted that I would be all right, that he would just hurry and leave. I was inconsolable. I wanted to sleep again, that deep, deep sleep that I had just a few days previously. Fortunately, there was a smell shred of my brain that could still tell right from wrong. I told Morgan what I wanted. He just shook his head. I asked him to give me my drugs. He refused. I begged him for the drugs. "I just want to sleep. Let me sleep!" I pleaded. I felt like I was a junkie, begging for my next fix. He finally compromised by giving me the recommended dose of a sleeping agent, which we had in the house. (Sleeping pills?! Why didn't I know about these on Monday?)

In the quiet that surrounded me after my family left, the little dark growth on my brain began its work. "They're better off without you. You are worthless. You don't deserve any of the good things that you have." I fought back, but those dark thoughts were so strong. I thought that maybe I would take a bath. We have an awesome gigantic jetted tub and I thought that a bath might help me to relax. Then the dark voice agreed that a bath was a great idea. It would be so easy to just slip under the water ..... and stay there.

Okay, no bath. I called my mom. She redirected me to our family practitioner. I called, was told to stay exactly where I was, wait for my mother to pick me up and bring me to the ER. I was not to drive or consume any medication of any kind. I obeyed. My mom called Morgan, who met us at the ER.

More embarrassment ensued as the admissions process was completed.

"Have you hurt yourself in any way?"

"No."

"Have you taken any medication?"

"Just the recommended dose that my husband gave me."

They drew blood to make sure I was telling the truth. Then our practitioner got there. We talked for a while, and I was given three options. I could go home with my mom, I could go to my house with Morgan, or I could be checked in for inpatient care.

I didn't want to go with my mom. I would get bored at her house. I would feel uncomfortable. Besides, I had things at home that I wanted to do.

I didn't want to go home with Morgan. I was ticked off with him for leaving me in the first place. The sleeping pills had started to kick in and I was feeling calmer. I wanted to go home and be alone.

She would not have any of that. She repeated my options. If I wouldn't agree to be with my mother or husband, it was into the loony bin with me. I was not allowed to be alone for the next 48 hours. I argued. I cried. My mother and husband sat there in silence. My mom finally left, feeling that this was a decision that she needed to let me make with my husband.

I finally chose to go home with Morgan, even though I was not pleased about it. We had to wait for my blood test results before they would let me go. We finally left the hospital at about ten-thirty p.m. and I realized that I had not yet had anything to eat that day. The hunger hit me all at once. Morgan agreed to drop me off at my sister's restaurant while he went to make arrangements with his dad and my mom for the kids for the weekend.

We actually had a fairly nice weekend together. When Morgan had to go back to work on Monday, my mom came and stayed with me during the day, and we began the waiting game. Waiting to get into a psychiatrist, waiting for the counselor to have an open appointment slot. Waiting for the next panic attack, hoping that maybe there wouldn't be anymore.

There were.

I'm going to end this post here. It has been a long one, and very emotionally draining to write. Again I'd like to emphasize that I have felt inspired to share my story. I have fought against this urge, but two nights ago I finally gave in to what I know is a message to me from God: I have had this experience for a reason. I have gone through (and am still going through) some pretty horrible things and because of that and through my sharing this, someone, somewhere, will be helped. Someone will realize that they aren't alone. Someone will realize that it's okay to ask for help. I don't know how far-reaching my story will be. Maybe it will only directly impact the life of one person. If that is the case, so be it. I would rather open my heart for everyone to see than deny that one person the help that they need.

When I told Morgan of the feeling that I needed to share this, I also told him that I didn't think that I could. It was too terrifying. What if someone thought I was an unfit mother? Could my children be taken away? Had I committed any legal wrong-doing?

Morgan suggested that I write this blog anonymously if I was so afraid of what the reactions may be, even though he thought that there wouldn't be any negative consequences. Immediately I knew that wasn't the answer. I knew that for some reason, people had to know that it was me, Julie Bennett, who had experienced these things.

So there you have it. Now you know what I have done. If you know me only as a name or acquaintance, you may think that I have it all together. Maybe you think that I'm an exemplary mother or wife. If you think these things, I believe that you are wrong. I try my best, but I often fall short, and in that little fact lies the beauty of this entire situation. Everyone falls short. Everyone has the face that they wear for the outside world, and everyone has the face that is who they really are. We all screw up, some of us more royally than others.

Where do I see beauty? Quite simply in the atonement of Christ. If you read this blog thinking that there would be no religious implication, then I'm sorry. You were wrong. I am LDS, or Mormon, as some people would say. I'm not the best Mormon out there, but I'm not the worst, either. I have struggled with church attendance for the past three or four years. I sometimes go weeks at a time without praying. I have at times wondered if God really cared and I have wondered why I didn't feel his presence.

Let me close with these words: This did not happen to me because I shut God out of my life - BUT - I will never get out of this without His help. I will do my very best and then try to do a little more and then have faith that it is enough. He will carry me through.