Monday Musings: Short and Not Really Sweet

Let me just cut to the chase. I hate everything right now.

For those of you who have only known me for a short time, I’ll point you to this sad post about my ongoing back issues. Suffice it to say my back is way out of whack again—a combination of resuming my regular work schedule since the kids went back to school (which involves sitting in a position that exacerbates the pain) and sleeping in strange beds for back to back conferences.

I’m doing all the things—massage, chiropractor, heat, cold, stretching, yoga, pain medication, head pulling (like I lie on a bed, and my mom tries to yank my head off)—in fact, the routine I’m in right now is ridiculous and consumes my day. 

I was proactive this summer and scheduled an MRI. It took three weeks for them to get me in for the appointment, after which I was to wait until someone called me for a follow up. I waited…and waited…and waited…and waited…(do that for like 28 more days) and finally called to schedule the follow up despite having never been called by the doctor’s office. SPECIAL.

So, I finally got an appointment…FOR OCTOBER 30TH. Yep, that’s the soonest they could get me in with the doctor who ordered the MRI. To be fair, they offered to schedule me with a different provider on the 16th, but this ain’t my first rodeo, and I know that adding another human to this process is not going to help. (Plus, I’ll be out of town that day anyway.)

So. I’m in pain all the time, and I just have to live with it for another month at the very least. And by live with it, I mean devote hours a day to trying to not be in pain.

Let’s talk about something better, yes? Because I don’t actually hate everything right now. In fact, here are a few things I love.

One:

Someone in my friends list posted this, and YES YES YES!
I am still in purge mode and see no real end in sight.

Two: I failed at my mission to finish all the unfinished books I was reading and only have a couple going at once. This is my current stack:

See that one at the top? Mosquitoland by David Arnold. GO OUT RIGHT NOW AND BUY IT AND READ IT IMMEDIATELY. I’m not joking. This is a matter of utmost importance. I’m only 1/3 done with it, but it’s my favorite book I’ve read this year. 

Three: Ben came home from school today and told me that some girls were being mean on the playground to a kindergartener—making fun of her because she doesn’t know all her letters and numbers. He told me he told them to stop because she’s in kindergarten, and she’s not even supposed to know all that stuff yet. I hugged him and told him I was so proud of him for standing up for that little girl. I told him that I know it’s hard sometimes to be the only one to speak up. He said, “I wasn’t the only one. After I said it, Jacob and Catch stood with me and said the same thing.” 

This all comes on the heels of a conversation/confrontation I overheard on field day last week when a boy from Will’s class was calling another kid gay derogatorily. When the kid started yelling, “I’m not gay!” Will immediately stepped in and said, “STOP! He’s not gay, and even if he was, that’s not an insult. You shouldn’t make fun of people who are gay.”

So, basically, I thought I loved my children as much as humanly possible, but I was wrong. Apparently, I am doing something right if they both feel confident in sticking up for the kids who are getting bullied (which makes me feel a little better about shouting at them to bring me stuff like Gilbert Grape’s mom while I’m laid up in bed with a bad back).

Happy Monday, friends!

This Is What Ten Years Looks Like

I have been married for ten years.  Did you get that?  Let me repeat.  I HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR TEN YEARS.  You know how people talk about dog years?  Well, I like to say we count by Air Force years—that’s when every calendar year counts as ten years, so because of that, I want to say, happy 100th anniversary, Scott Johnson!  On this day, in 2003, you made me a kept woman, and I want to celebrate by taking a walk through the eleven Decembers we’ve been married.  And we’ll start here…

2003

I woke up the morning of my wedding completely at peace.  Honestly.  I’d written love letters to my husband since long before I knew he was going to be my husband, so when I chose him as the one, I was positively sure I was doing the right thing.  I didn’t have jitters or second thoughts, and the only reason I had cold feet was because it was freezing outside.  As the day progressed, rain turned to sleet turned to twelve inches of snow on top of frozen ice, and yet, somehow, we were able to fill a sanctuary with almost four hundred people.  I walked down the aisle to The Beatles’ “Blackbird” played by a string quartet, and when I got to the end, I let go of my dad’s arm and took Scott Johnson’s hand.  It took close to twenty minutes to drive two blocks to our reception, where we danced our first dance to “Fly Me to the Moon,” sung by an ancient man in a forest green crushed velvet tuxedo jacket.  Scott danced with my Grandma Hazel—the first dance in her Pentecostal life—and I threw my bouquet completely over the heads of all the single ladies waiting.  Magical.  The whole thing was just magical.

2004

We were weeks away from finding out where we would be stationed for our first assignment out of pilot training.  Knowing we would be moving to one of the coasts and therefore less likely be “home” for Christmas in the coming years, we made the rounds for all the Christmases—visiting all the grandparents and great-grandparents in OK and MO.  It would be our second and last Christmas as a family of two, as in this picture, Will had been cooking for about two weeks.

2005

I’m cheating with this picture.  It’s not December—it’s the end of November, just after Thanksgiving.  We don’t have any family pictures in December because Scott had started his stop and go schedule, which involved very short stops at home before he would go again for weeks at a time.  If I look tired, it’s because I was.  Will was not a fan of sleeping, and without someone else to take shifts most nights, I was…well, I was the mom of a three-month-old.  It was the first of a handful of holiday seasons that Scott celebrated over the phone (and later over Skype or FaceTime).

2006

Scott left for his first official deployment in the fall of 2006, so it was just me and the Will-man in December.  While the deployment was difficult, I’d found my rhythm as a part-time single mom, and we were lucky to be part of a flying squadron, which deployed as a whole, so I was never without the support of friends, whose husbands were also deployed.  I saved all our emails, and most of my deployment emails involved stories about Will not taking naps and updates about who got kicked off of Big Brother.  Scott said things like “i miss you crazy insano madness (that’s a lot).”

2007

Remember when Ugly Sweater parties were actually a thing?  Some of our best friends, the Wetzels, hosted this one, and we took on the eat, drink, and be merry challenge with gusto.  Scott fell asleep on the couch, and we wrote on his face with markers.  We slept on a futon in the loft and ate leftover chicken wings for breakfast.  So, basically, it was JUST like college, except we had kids who woke up needing to be fed and diapered.  I think we were all just giddy to have husbands around long enough to have a party.  At the end of this December, I told Scott it was now or never if we were going to add to the family, and his answer was resoundingly NOW.

2008

Ben was born three days before Thanksgiving, making him the youngest baby in the church when the Christmas Eve service rolled around.  This picture—THIS PICTURE—is all of the feelings.  There we are, all four of us, feeling like everything was perfect and right in the world.  We’d been tasked to be Mary and Joseph for obvious reasons, and Will suggested a re-write, so instead of riding a donkey, this Mary and Joseph had a pet sheep (a sheep who would strip his wool halfway through the service and run out to his Mimi who was sitting in the pews).  Fun fact: unbeknownst to me, I had MRSA coursing through my body, a little gift from Ben’s delivery, and two days later, I’d land in the emergency room to be lanced and drained.  HOWEVER, in this moment, I’m sitting next to my favorite wild sheep and staring at the child born unto us, and I couldn’t be any more in love with the look on Joseph’s face.

2009

In all of our pictures of December, there isn’t one with all of us, but this picture is perfect. Scott was around a *little* more this year, and we had a good thing going.  This was the year of toddler trenches—when some days, I just had to go upstairs and shut the door for fifteen minutes of silence, as soon as Scott walked in the door.  And when I was finished with my sanity breaks, I’d come downstairs, and the three of them would be stacking blocks or reading books or watching football, and I saw my future unfolding.  Scott was a good husband and a good daddy to these tiny people and a good man, and I felt like the queen of the castle.  A somewhat sleep-deprived queen of a relatively disorganized castle, but I wouldn’t have ruled any other way.

2010

Home for Christmas four years in a row!  How did we pull that off?  Oh, yeah, I remember now—Scott was preparing to leave for weapons school—a six-month program which involved a lot of anxiety for both of us.  I remember feeling disconnected for the first time in our marriage, like he was moving into territory without me for some reason.  I’d been doing so much “on my own” (I know this concept is preposterous given my wide circle of support, but it felt that way much of the time) for so many years, and something had shifted.  It was a fun holiday season, spent in OK with friends and family, but when we pulled back into Charleston, I had a six-month single-parenting stint on my horizon, during which I would have to pack our house for a yet-to-be-determined cross-country move, all while raising two children (and a dog who insisted on peeing at the top of the stairs every day).  I was right to be anxious, and so was he.

2011

What a weird year.  After Scott was gone for a very stressful, strained six months, we moved from SC to WA, and three months later, he deployed (again!) for the last three months of the year.  We’d run the gamut of emotions in those twelve months, asked a lot of hard questions, and gave a lot of ugly answers, and in the end, I think we were both feeling apprehensive about the future to say the least.  We were diligently communicating throughout the deployment, both desperate to continue with the momentum we’d gained before he left.  My friend, Renee, said of her husband (also a pilot) once, “When I give my husband the chance to be my hero, he does it.  Every time.”  That had been stuck in my gut this whole year, as we worked through a really trying time in our marriage.  I had to come to a place where I trusted Scott to be my hero again instead of approaching him from a place of bitterness and resentment and anger.  And that’s when he did this.  Unbeknownst to me, Scott organized a surprise “anniversary dinner” with all of my closest friends from OK.  What I thought was going to be a night out with one friend was actually THIS.  Not pictured: my dad and the boys who stopped by to say hi and I love you, Scott’s best friend, Jefferson, who read a letter on behalf of Scott and delivered flowers, and my mom and mother-in-law, two marble pillars, who held up the roof of our house for us during this year.

2012

What a difference a year makes.  And a change of scenery to beautiful WA.  And a time when Scott was “home” with just a few short trips for almost six months in a row.  We hit our stride again with an astoundingly quick recovery—it’s amazing how things come together when you’re actually together.  In Olympia, we found great children’s theater and Thai food and farm stands and chickens—we got chickens!—and a house in the hills where you can see the Olympics on sunny days.  We found a church and preschool all in one and hiking trails and a boy scout troop and horseback riding lessons and and a gymnastics gym and highways that will take us north to Canada or south to Voodoo Donuts in Portland.  And we were happy—really happy.  It was a year of reevaluating EVERYTHING.  And on Christmas morning, we woke up TOGETHER, looking a little less Hallmark and a lot more Cousin Eddie, and it was perfect.

2013

And we’ve made it to this December—our last December in WA, as we know we’ll be moving this summer.  Right now, the house is a mess of winter coats and decorations and stacks of dishes and school supplies, and tomorrow marks ten years of marriage.

Scott Johnson,

Before bed tonight, you told me you loved me and you were sorry that you fell asleep before I got home from running errands.  It’s okay—because when you’re sleeping, and I’m up being a night owl, sometimes I sit on the couch, listening to you puff in the other room and writing love letters for you to read in the morning.  I sit on the couch in my ugly pajamas, reminiscing on the life we’ve made together, a gurgling mess while I think about those two babies in the back of the house who are blessed to call you Daddy.  

So, on our anniversary—you’re going to go to work, and I’m going to buy groceries and run Ben to preschool and homeschool Will, and then we’re going to meet up at Ben’s Christmas program (6:30—don’t be late!), and we’ll have cookies and juice in the church atrium, where I’ll watch you help our boys and have polite conversation with the teachers and the other parents in that easy way that you do.  And then we will grab buy-one-get-one burritos at Chipotle on the way home, tuck our babes into bed, and grub down while we catch up on The Daily Show.  I will probably eat some chocolate or maybe a spoonful of peanut butter for dessert, and you can have an extra Cherry Coke if you want.  We can play Skip-bo when we’re done eating.  After all, we’re celebrating!  

And it will be the most perfect and romantic 100th anniversary we’ve ever had.  Here’s to 1000 more years.  The other night, I was reading our bedtime book with the boys, and I came across this passage that tells how I feel about the future:

“Nicholas, we have what we need.  Brave hearts.  And sharp minds,” Ombric reminded him.  “And as you might recall, we always abandon our plans and end up doing things we never imagined.”

That’s it.  I can’t imagine what’s in store.

xo

Leia

Pain in the Neck

Three weeks ago, I threw out my back.  This morning, I lost my proverbial shit.

I wrote almost five hundred words about how the last three weeks have been awful because I threw out my back, but I cut them because really here’s all you need to know: back pain is similar to early labor, except you don’t get a baby at the end of your efforts.  My mom flew out to help for the first week (better than angels from heaven).  And then, Monday evening, encouraged by some improvement, I decided to wean myself from the massive amounts of horse pills pain medication I had been taking at night to sleep.

Friends, the next time that I am put in charge of making decisions about my personal health, please save me from myself.  Tuesday was awful.  As I suspected, the night time meds were lingering in the morning, allowing me to be comfortable until around 3:00 most days.  I would take my first dose of meds around 6:00 each night when Scott got home from work, so it was only three hours a day that were pretty miserable.

Without that night time cushion, I was bitchy by about 10:00 on Tuesday morning.  I couldn’t lift my arm without wincing.  It hurt to walk.  It hurt to drive.  It hurt to load a plate into the dishwasher.  Don’t even get me started on moving a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer.  By Wednesday evening, I was sure that I had made no improvement--forgetting all the okay days I’d been having--and now, I had pains in other places from my body trying to overcompensate for the original pain.

I slept for one hour last night.  One hour.  I cried off and on for five hours, (spitefully accidentally kicking my husband to wake him with no success).  And then I got out of bed because my kids needed breakfast, and I needed to take Will to school.  Ben started crying when I told him we had cereal but had run out of milk.  Through genuine tears, he sobbed, “I just want pancakes or eggs!”

Over the course of the last three weeks, my kids have had more Ramen and cereal than they’ve had in the rest of their short lives combined.  The thought of flipping eggs in a skillet made me start to cry, too.  And there was no way I was going to be able to stir pancake mix.  I have avoided going to the store because 1) it hurts to drive, 2) the thought of carrying groceries up the twenty-one stairs into our house makes me want to vomit.

So, I cried through making eggs, and I cried in the shower, and I cried while I couldn’t dry my hair all the way, and I cried when Ben started crying because the velcro on the only pair of shoes he has/will wear broke, and I cried as I drove Will to school.  More than the pain, I was so discouraged, and although logically I knew that this wasn’t as bad as it had been in the beginning (when I had zero mobility in my neck, constant muscle spasms, and paralysis in my right arm and hand), I felt so defeated.  How much longer was this going to last?  I had an appointment with the chiropractor at 9:00, so I cried while I drove to the chiropractor.

I have basically given up wearing real pants at this point (except the fattest of my fat jeans because they are the only ones that don’t hurt to pull up), so I rolled into his office in my best yoga pants, smeared make-up, and (made worse by the rain) hair.  I basically looked like this (except with darker circles under the eyes):

This, friends, is where the losing my shit part happened.

“So, how are we doing today?”

We?  How are we doing today?  Well, let’s see.  If you are referring to “we” as the three people in this room--you seem to be quite chipper.  Ben is eating crackers he pilfered from your waiting room because his mother hasn’t fed him anything but Asian noodles and Cinnamon Toast Crunch for the last two weeks, and me--well, look at me.  This is not how people should look in public.  Unless “public” is the bus station--correction, the bus station bathroom.

And then I cried some more, telling him Ijustwanttofeelbetter <heave> thisistakingsolong <heave> IamgoingtoturnintoapilladdictifIkeeptakingallthesepills <heave> Isleptonehourlastnight.  And then he told me it was going to be okay, and maybe I shouldn’t have quit the pain meds cold turkey, and if I could, could I please get on the table?  So, I did.  And he did the adjustment and went back over my treatment plan.

I left feeling a smidge better and drove to my Bible study that meets every other Thursday morning.  Why?  Because there is childcare, and I wanted someone else to listen to Ben cry about his Lightning McQueen shoes for 45 minutes instead of me.

And when I got there, I was welcomed into a room of women, whom I have known for a few months and whom I was now going to lose my shit in front of for the second time in one day.  Our leader, Becky, said, “Hey!  We all just finished sharing our highs and lows.”

This is what we do.  We share our highs and lows, ruminate on some Scriptures, and do other generally life-affirming and friend-making things.  And so, I launched into my low--how my back was not any better than it was the last time we met two weeks ago, and now the only things that have changed are that my house looks like a tornado and a bomb had a baby, my children are malnourished, and my husband is floundering for ways to be helpful and failing.  I also blabbered a lot about how I can’t imagine how people who live with chronic pain do it.

And you know what they said?  They said it sounded like I needed a meal tree started, and it was like a lightning bolt from heaven came down and struck me with this novel idea--oh, you mean, like asking for help?  Huh.

These are God’s people, friends.  Not because I meet with them twice a month in the high school classroom of our church, but because they understood me through my slobbery snot and started a freaking meal tree.

Encouraged and completely out of tears, I left the church and went to Target to find Ben some new shoes.  Scott and I have been on a spending freeze since the beginning of the year (for reasons that belong in an entirely different blog), which has meant staying away from Target unless absolutely necessary. I have been there (count ‘em) two times in the calendar year 2013, and the only unnecessary items I have brought out of the store were bags of half-priced Valentine’s candy.  Other than that, it’s been toothpaste and mouthwash and other equally exciting things.

But, after we grabbed some new light-up Lightning McQueen shoes, we headed to the food section to get milk.  While there, I lost all sense of our self-imposed rules.

Phineas and Ferb mac and cheese?  Yes.

Angry Birds graham crackers?  Yes.

Mario Bros. Fruit snacks?  Yes.

If it came in a box and had a cartoon character on it, we bought it.  And you know what else I bought?  Three new silicone spatulas!  Not the cheap nylon ones.  The ones that cost three dollars more and don’t turn into melted bits that gunk up your eggs and make you cry.

Over the last few years, we’ve really tried to limit the processed food that enters our pantry (another story that deserves a post of its own), but I bought a mountain of  disgusting processed boxed snacks and three damn spatulas.  And it felt good.

I also bought some milk because even though we will probably have some old lady casseroles for dinner in the next few nights, we will still probably need to stick with cereal in the mornings.

As I walked toward the milk, in the frozen food case, I saw a little red tag on the Steamfresh vegetables.  These have been my go-to item in this moment of mom-misery, and we were down to a couple bags of green beans.  And there it was, a red tag from God reading 5/$5.00.  This is a deal, friends!  A really good deal!  I covered all the processed boxed snacks with bags and bags and bags and bags of vegetables that are ready to eat with no preparation and four minutes in the microwave.

After Target, Ben and I stopped by our favorite local market for some fruit, and bolstered by my rebellious trip to Target, I carried him through the muddy parking lot (we were NOT going to get those new shoes dirty!) despite the fact that it felt like my right arm was being electrocuted.  So what, pain!  I have friends who are going to bring me casseroles.  And I have new spatulas.

We grabbed some quick sushi that I didn’t make on plates that I don’t have to wash (in your face, spending freeze) at a restaurant next to Ben’s school, and I headed home for my two uninterrupted hours at home without children.

I lugged the ten bags of groceries up all twenty-one stairs, yelling a string of obscenities all the way.  On my last trip, the bag of Pink Lady apples fell out of my arms and tumbled

down 

down

down 

down

the twenty-one stairs.  Ben had chosen them (since our beloved Honey Crisps are dwindling and out of season now) because they “are just like you, Mom--you’re a Pink Lady!”  And now, his funny little joke was so apropos because the simple act of carrying my groceries to my kitchen left me feeling just like that--like a bag of apples that had been dropped down two flights of stairs.

Once the frozen veggies were put away, I left the boxed stuff on the floor and collapsed on the bed.  I am not one to complain generally (at least not in such a public forum), but friends, the last few weeks have been excruciating hellish one giant clusterfuck challenging.

So, let’s wrap this up with a nice moral to the story: TODAY, I was a nightmare at my worst, and my friends loved me anyway.  I spent time with my children.  I bought new shoes without thinking about where to get the money.  My kids and I will eat tonight.  I live in a house with twenty-one carpeted stairs leading to three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and three TVs.  I spent two hours today writing a story about back pain.  I am typing this on my functioning computer while my kids participate in a free Lego club at the public library ten minutes from our house.  My husband just texted me, saying he’s on his way home--an hour and a half earlier than I normally get that text.  I still have medicine, so I can sleep tonight.

Today was a good day.

Mrs. Johnson Goes to Washington, Part 3: The Therapy

About a year ago, I blogged about perspective HERE and then finished it up HERE.  At the time, I didn’t really understand what was happening in my world.  I had figured enough out to know that I was dealing with depression, but I felt a little--okay, a lot--like Alice waking up in Wonderland, saying, “It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.”

A lot of the confusion stemmed from the fact that this world was completely and utterly new to me.  Not one bit of it felt comfortable or known.  In fact, my view of depression was formed by commercials for medication and a couple times through Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar.  My understanding could have been described as “textbook”--depression is a mental illness.  I kept telling myself, well, clearly I’m not mentally ill.  Depression was something that happened to weak people, crazy people, and certainly not people who are overachieving type-As, who have it together all the time.  At the time, depression meant falling apart, losing your grip on reality, and being worthless.  

Because I had so many misconceptions about how depression works, I told myself to stop being dramatic.  Get a grip.  So what if I could check nearly every box on the “symptoms of depression” checklist?  A deep part of me, the part that’s held together by pride and determination, said, “This isn’t DEPRESSION.  You’re just sad.”

Consequently, a lot of this confusion stemmed from the depression itself.  I am not one to use metaphors to describe concepts as huge as say God or love or, in this case, depression because rather than accurately describing the concept, metaphors are often inadequate.  However, I understand why people fall back on metaphors when they can’t think of a succinct way to describe something.

So forgive the inadequacy, but this is as close as I can get.  Depression feels like I’m riding a stationary bike, while perspective sits on a pedestal four feet away.  No matter how hard I reach, my arms aren’t long enough to touch perspective.  In the meantime, I lose sight of the fact that I’m trying to gain perspective because I’m just trying to keep the pedals moving.  The cycle is this: see perspective, fail to reach perspective, forget about perspective.  Repeat.  It’s exhausting.

Not long ago, a friend of mine posted this on Facebook:

It made me so angry.  Angry.  I’m not an angry person.  Really.  But this made me shaking mad.  I wanted to scream, “YOU OBVIOUSLY DON’T UNDERSTAND DEPRESSION THEN!”  Did she do something wrong?  Absolutely not.  And I totally get the sentiment.  But depression is a problem that I would never pick back up from the pile.  In a normal, healthy state, there isn’t a problem I couldn’t face.  I am a generally optimistic person, and I have a tremendous support system of family and friends.  In a depressed state, none of that matters.  It’s like walking around in a pair of sunglasses--no matter how hard I try, everything is tinted a darker shade.

After attempting to deal with depression on my own for about a year through various coping mechanisms, I finally found Nancy.  The military offers FREE counseling to all members and dependents.  As a key spouse for our squadron, I was armed with this information to share with other spouses but had never had the need to explore this option for myself.  When we moved to WA, I decided it was time.

Here is what depression looks like from the other side.  You know that stationary bike I’ve been pedaling?  Yeah, it’s not going anywhere.  And you know how you gain perspective?  You get off the damn bike and walk over to it.

In the depths of depression, this option never occurred to me.  On the other side, I have moments all the time when I’m like, “How did I not see this?  How did this not make sense before?”

But that’s the thing about depression.  It wraps everything in a dark, moving cloud.  You have bright moments when things make complete sense.  On good days, there are bursts of energy, bursts of insight, bursts of positivity.  But most days, for me at least, I went through the motions of living--after all, I still have children to care for, a husband to love, and friends and family who depend on me for all sorts of things--but I was living without any sense peace, joy, or purpose, three things that hold a lot of weight in my world.  (One of my biggest misconceptions was that people suffering from depression didn’t function well at all, when in fact, I was functioning in a way that most people would consider “productive,” but I knew without a shadow of doubt that something was just not right.)

I have lived my life in a way that seeks peace and joy at all times.  I have found that if what I am doing--whether it’s working, raising my children, or developing relationships with other people--is full of peace and joy, I feel a sense of purpose, a sense of fulfillment.  Any time I don’t find peace and joy in something, I know it’s time to let go.  Peace and joy are related to but encompass so much more than happiness.  It is (dare I say) easy to weather life’s storms when I am safely anchored to peace and joy. (Oh no! I fear the metaphors may be taking over.)

I have been seeing Nancy for three months now.  (Scott and I go together to work on our seven-year-itchy problems, too, and Scott has now decided he wants to go to therapy for the rest of his life.  He just loves talking.)  She has helped me identify some of the triggers that brought on the depression, and maybe more importantly, she’s helped me give a name to some of the “stuff” that has been going on in my head.

As part of my homework, I read David Burns’ book, Feeling Good, and I would suggest this user-friendly book to anyone who thinks they might be dealing with any level of depression.

I know people deal with these sorts of things differently.  I have friends who would not even tell their closest friends, let alone blog about experiencing depression.  Unfortunately, there is still a significant stigma attached, and there are many who won’t talk about it or get help because of fear or embarrassment.  I get that.  I really do. 

 Even though this post will probably take me less than an hour to type when all is said and done, hours of thought have gone into it.  Believe me--I have asked myself all kinds of questions.  Do I really want to be this vulnerable?  What will people think?  Will this cause people to tread lightly around me?  Look down on me?  Think less of me?  Pity me?  Will this affect my husband’s career?  What about those Christian friends of mine who say Jesus is the answer--what will they think when I tell them I love and trust God to carry my burdens, but this depression is still real?

I’ve asked all these questions, and I’ve settled on this: I can only travel this road the way I know how, and that is to be completely transparent about my struggle.  (I don’t mean to imply that if you need to keep this issue close to you, you are doing something wrong.  I just know this is what I need to do.)  When people talk about qualities they value in others, words like integrity, dependability, and trustworthiness are the first things that come up.  But you know what I value most in people?  Authenticity.  We all do stupid things.  We all make mistakes.  We let each other down.  We fail.  Because we are human.  But I have an infinite amount of forgiveness to extend to anyone who will own up to his or her humanity for the sake of being real with each other.

This is me right now, and if I’m to be my authentic self, I have to share this.  And to be completely honest, I’ve been living with my decision to put this out there for a couple of weeks now, and where once there was anxiety and fear, I feel nothing but peace and joy.  Consequently, I am confident that adding my voice to this conversation has monumental purpose.

If any of this struck a chord with you, but you’re new to this world, too, check out this questionnaire.  (Then, find a copy of Burns' book and read it!)

Also, here is something I ran across this week when this post was still in my head that’s worth reading especially if you are part of a faith community that ignores issues like depression.

Thanks for reading!  If you are totally bummed out now, try reading THIS or THIS.  It’s always a good to leave on a high note.

Don't Be Scared, I've Done This Before (Lady Gaga)

Is anyone else equally disturbed by the "healthy teeth" picture?  Is that first picture a corpse?

When I was little, I think I had cavities in every single one of my teeth.  Oddly enough, I loved going to the dentist--probably because my first dentist, Dr. Allen, had me mesmerized by his ability to talk to the goats in my ears.  (Or were they elephants?)

I have loved all of my dentists with the exception of two:

1. Dr. McCreepy who commented over and over about how my mouth creates excessive amounts of saliva, and 
2. Dr. McHack who capped two of my teeth TWICE, after which all four caps broke in my mouth while I was still in the chair, followed a week later by one of the fillings he replaced falling out while I sat on a plane in NYC bound for Ghana.

I find going to the dentist to be a relaxing experience, and not just because it’s one place I KNOW I won’t be disturbed by my children.  More recently, I have had THE BEST dentist here in Summerville, Dr. Beavers.  

He had me at the catchy slogan.

And then again when I saw what he does in his free time.

If you live anywhere close to him, drop everything you’re doing and pay him and his wonderful staff a visit.  You won’t regret it.

Despite my cavity issues, I promise I have excellent mouth hygiene.  You might even call it obsessive.  I keep floss in the door of my car, so I can floss as soon as I’m done eating at a restaurant.  I also keep it in every purse I own, in the nightstand next to my bed, and in the junk drawer in the kitchen.  You never know when you might need to floss.  Immediately. 

In my opinion, the best invention from the last fifty years is the electric toothbrush.  I love how clean my teeth feel and that it has a timer to let me know when I’ve been brushing for a full two minutes.  On a couple of occasions, I’ve either forgotten to pack it or left it out to conserve space on trips.  WORST MISTAKE EVER.  I am always elated to be reunited with my ET when I return home.

So, this Christmas, when I opened a present from my mom, I knew at once that I was absolutely her favorite child.  Here’s what it was:

You might be saying, what IS that?  Well, it’s the second best invention ever.  Now, I can use the waterpik to floss my teeth in the shower.  It took me five minutes to install, and I was ready to water floss!  The instructions said to slowly turn it on because different showers offer different water pressure and to always use warm water.  

Now, at the risk of sharing too much information (uh...I think I’ve already crossed that line in this post), I like a hot, hot, hot, hot shower.  The more water pressure, the better.  When I exit the shower, I want my entire body to be bright red.  I HATE when I visit someone’s house or stay in a hotel and the water pressure is low or even mediocre.  So, I figured it can only be the same with the waterpik.  Bring on the hot, tooth-pounding spray!

Wrong.

During my first use, I turned the knob, and the six-foot waterpik hose started flailing like a living, moving organism.  It was like a scene out of that really bad J. Lo and Ice Cube movie, Anaconda.  Within seconds, the entire ceiling was dripping, and stupidly, I tried to control it by grabbing it and shot myself in the eye with scalding water.  Covering my eye with one hand, I reached up to turn the knob back and lost my balance, hitting my head on the wall.  Dizzy, half-blind, and pissed, I got it turned off and decided to have a seat.

After a few seconds, I started blinking and was relieved to find that I could still see out of my left eye.  My excitement was not dampened by the trauma, and I decided to try again.  This time, I turned it on just a TEENSY bit, while holding the head of the waterpik down so the spray hit the floor instead of the ceiling.  Lesson learned.

Now that I know how to use it, it’s the highlight of my day.  Okay, maybe not, but it is REALLY FREAKING COOL. I know you're all going to run out and buy an oral irrigator.  

And now, this incredibly weird post is over.