Sad

Lots and lots of people fight depression. I am one of them. It runs in my family, as do diabetes, heart disease, and big feet. Not much that can be done about the genetics, but if you know your weaknesses, with proper care and attention, it’s possible to avoid or overcome these things. (Well, except for the big feet. For that there is no cure, only acceptance—and cute shoes.)

Much was written about depression in the wake of Robin Williams’ suicide, and I’m not sure I have anything new to contribute to the discussion. That said, I know that writing is therapy for me, and so sometimes I write to help exorcise my own mental demons. And so, dear reader, welcome to my therapy session.

One reason that Williams’ death hit all of us so hard is because it had clearly been such a long struggle for him, and he had obviously done everything in his power to get well. If such a gifted, loved, and loving person, someone with excellent resources, couldn’t beat this disease, what hope is there for the rest of us? Fortunately, most people with depression don’t fall into a well that deep, but it is rather alarming the number that do, even when under a doctor’s care, even with family and friends being vigilant and supportive.

My depression most often feels to me like I am trapped in tall bucket about half-full of sadness. I’m not drowning, but I am surrounded, and I cannot get out. I know that there are things I can and should do to at least make the water level go down, but even when I know that writing or exercising or even cleaning have the potential to lift my spirits, they are the last things I want to do. The sides of the pail are too tall, too slippery. I feel helpless. So I focus on the darkness instead of reaching for the light.

There is a little something stubborn in people with depression. We tend to feel like victims, and with that mentality comes a sense of helplessness, of not believing it is within our power to change things.  Perhaps we are more comfortable living with the sadness that is known than to move into the happiness that could be. Or we may believe that, once we’re out from under the cloud, no one will believe that the cloud was real.

Depression, like so many illnesses, is more complicated and more devastating than we know. We’re looking, as we always do, for the quick fix, the sure shot, the easy-to-swallow correction. It doesn’t exist. It requires a lot of work to overcome. And each case is different; each depressed person is in his or her own pail. Each has to figure out what works, and then stick with the plan.

Depression is as a medical condition, and it deserves to be treated as such. There are medicines available that can be a great benefit, but getting the right meds in the right doses is kind of a trial-and-error thing. And, as a friend noted, the pharmaceutical companies are the ones doing all the research on depression, and it’s likely that their goal is motivated as much by money as by improving the human condition. A pill is not always the answer, is not always the ONLY answer, is not always the COMPLETE answer. As with most medical conditions, a multi-tiered approach often works best.

Talk therapy, with or without pharmaceuticals, can be a huge help, but again, therapists only make money when you’re making those appointments. Talking with friends can be just as beneficial for many people, but even the best friends are bound to get frustrated after weeks and weeks of negative self-talk. And I don’t blame them. I get tired of hearing myself complain. I have a pretty great life, and it bothers me that I don’t appreciate it more. I don’t want to burden my friends with my petty complaints when we live in a world full of atrocities like hunger and racism.

So, what to do? While certainly not a substitute for medical care, there are simple things that can be done to combat depression. Research shows that listing three good things that happened each day (small things, like a call from a friend, completing a task, discovering a new tea) lifts even clinical depression in a matter of weeks. Decades of research also indicate that the act of smiling—even when you’re not feeling it—and doing good deeds for others consistently boost mood. None of these things in itself is a cure (look again to Robin Williams), but all can be helpful.

When I had cancer, there were times when I thought that the treatment was worse than the disease. I wasn’t sure if I could do all of the chemo and all of the radiation. Many people kept me going: doctors and pastors and friends and coworkers and family and even the occasional stranger in the street. But in the end, it was my decision, and I knew that I wanted to do all that I could to get well. Having a goal allowed me to do the things that I didn’t think I could.

So it is with depression. Many, many people have kept me going, listened to me vent, forced me to get out, helped me to find purpose, and I am enormously grateful. But it is still my pail. Some days I am out, and other days I fall back in. And each day I have to remind myself that, even if I’m in the pail, there are things I can do to keep the water from rising. I need to choose to do them.

I also try to remember to do for others as others have done for me. I can’t pull those who are depressed out of their pails, but I can be a listener and an encourager. I can offer to hold them accountable. And I can walk with them on their journeys.

I guess those big feet are good for something.

Thrift

I often describe myself as the world’s cheapest human, which isn’t quite true, but close. It’s not that I won’t spend money, but I really, really hate paying any more for an item than is absolutely necessary. I love a bargain.

While this has been true for a long time, it became even more important when our family income was cut in half a few years ago. Although we hadn’t been living a lavish lifestyle, at that point we had to make some serious adjustments. We had to tighten up everywhere.

Clothing can be considered a luxury, but with growing kids it’s a necessity. While at one time we relied on thrift store purchases for costumes for school plays or for Halloween, when I lost my job and we added two children to the family almost simultaneously, shopping thrift stores for clothing became an important way of keeping expenses in check.

Here in Grand Rapids we have a few thrift stores that support local missions that I frequent occasionally, and I used to shop Goodwill until I learned of the dramatic pay disparity within the company, but the Salvation Army Store is my current go-to. I’m especially partial to the days (about once a month) when clothing is 99 cents per piece. No need to check the tags or do too much math…the perfect shopping experience.

I’m not the only one who takes advantage of these sales, so on 99 days, the place is packed. The entirely inadequate parking lot overflows, so people ignore the do-not-park-here signs at the enormous (often empty) parking lot of the neighboring garden center. I often park in this lot, but I park in a part that isn’t tagged for towing so I’m pretty sure my car will be there when I come out.

The store has an aroma all its own: musty, with a hint of mothballs and grandma’s cologne. On busy days it’s tough to get a cart, but if your timing is right, you can score some wheels. Of course, the aisles are narrow, so shopping with a cart will definitely slow you down. It’s a calculated risk, either way, but if I have time to really browse, the cart is a good choice.

On sale days, I start in the boutique, where the high-end stuff is lodged. I’ve never been a brand-name snob, but I know good quality, and I know that sometimes I can find it sequestered on these front racks. The store puts a higher price on boutique stuff, but on 99 cent days, it’s 99 cents. I check the racks for men’s stuff, women’s stuff, kids’ stuff. I examine the pieces for wear, for stains, and for working zippers. Replacing a button is no big deal, but if I have to replace a zipper it never ends well.

Many people shop together as families. Young children run wild, scream from boredom, or sit on the nasty stained floor and play with the toys that are for sale while mom and dad consult about items they’ve pulled from the rack. It appears that many of my fellow shoppers are recent immigrants; I often hear Spanish, Chinese, Korean, and the languages of Africa, as well as languages and accents I can’t identify.

Because of the ages and genders of my family, I shop virtually every rack of clothing, crawling past other shoppers with their overflowing carts. Clothes are sorted by gender and by color but not by size, so you can spend a lot of time looking and might still come up empty handed. For the kids, if I find something good I buy it even if it’s a size or two large; quality kids’ stuff isn’t easy to come by.

Thanks to some modest sewing skills, sometimes I can repair or alter something to make it work, and I’ve actually refashioned a few things so that they’re quite wearable. But not everything is worth the effort, so I focus on things that have real potential. Even 99 cents isn’t a bargain if you’re not going to wear it.

The lines for the five dressing rooms are crazy long on these days, so I know better than to buy anything that has to be tried on. If I am shopping for pants for myself, I come alone on a quiet Tuesday morning and take my time in the dressing room. For these pieces I have to pay “full price,” which is still a bargain, and way better for my sanity.

When my shopping is done, or when I’ve had enough of the experience, I make my way to the checkout and pull off the hangers while waiting in line, tossing them into gigantic boxes. Invariably I’m caught up in a conversation with other shoppers during the slow crawl up to the register, and I learn a tiny bit about the lives of the working poor. In general they are smart, hardworking, family-oriented, and kind—like most people everywhere. While I feel a great deal of kinship with them, I’m sure that in terms of material wealth I am a millionaire in comparison.

After a half-hour in line, I leave with two enormous bags: six pair of men’s pants, five men’s polos, a few things for the kids, and three shirts for me…for $18. The musty smell fills my car and then my laundry room, where I quickly wash away the stink and the stigma.

Because I do feel it: the ways that we are measured by what we wear. I believe that our outward appearance says something about who we are. And while I’m proud of how well I can dress my family shopping this way, I am careful about how many people I tell. Well, at least until now…

What the heck. Go ahead and judge if you must, or join me at the next sale and score some fabulous bargains. Either way, I’m fine. 

Thirty

My husband is a great guy. He’s smart, funny, a terrific father, and a great life partner. He is not, however, particularly romantic. Before we became engaged I, like many young women, dreamed of a thoughtful, memorable, write-a-book-about-it kind of proposal, but when I suggested that such a thing would be nice, Bill was clear that he thought elaborate proposals were stupid. He thought things like talking to my father (“getting permission”) and proposing while on bended knee were old-fashioned and sexist, and told me that such gestures would not be forthcoming. So the moment that we agreed to marry could most accurately be described as a non-event, but I said yes anyway.

We picked out a nice ring and started making plans, even though we were both fresh out of college and unemployed. Nothing about our future was clear or firm. We picked a date and planned a wedding on a fairly modest budget. We took a few risks in our arrangements (like planning an outdoor reception with no back-up plan in case of rain) and added a few personal touches, like a carriage ride to the reception. Everything else was lovely but fairly standard: four attendants each but no flower girls or ring bearer,  beautiful flowers, an organist but no vocalist. Great hors d’ oeuvres and a beautiful cake, but no sit-down dinner, no dance hall, and no DJ.

I’d like to say that the wedding went off without a hitch, but actually the hitches are the things I remember best.  I woke up on my wedding day still a little drunk from the rehearsal dinner the night before. As the day unfolded, I sobered up and managed to get everyone and everything in the right places. Except I didn’t have a check for the florist, and I had to make a quick trip to buy shoes for my going-away outfit…but when the time for the wedding arrived, I was dressed and ready to walk down the aisle.

About five minutes before the ceremony, the minister found me to inform me that Bill had forgotten to bring my wedding ring. Just plain forgot it. So I took off my engagement ring and handed it off to the minister, who gave it to Bill, who placed it on my finger right after the vows….which Bill also forgot. The minister helped Bill—poor nervous guy—to stumble through. And then we were married, and were off in our carriage to enjoy our outdoor reception.

That was thirty years ago this week. While I am sure that even then there were weddings far more elaborate than ours, these were the days before Pinterest and shows like “Say Yes to the Dress” turned weddings into the elaborate, insanely-detailed events that they are now. I’ll admit that part of me wishes that we could redo some things—there are some very cute and creative ideas out there!—but in truth we were more focused on our marriage and the life we would live together after the wedding than we were on the wedding itself.  And that I wouldn’t change.

When we got married, people didn’t talk about “soul mates.” Love and compatibility are important, of course, but even the most perfectly matched couples learn that love doesn’t actually conquer all. In every marriage there will be struggles over money and family and any number of issues, large and small. At the end of the day (or week, depending on your standards), someone still has to do the dishes, and you may not always agree on who that should be.

Thirty years ago, I don’t think I could have defined what a soul mate is, but I think I can now. It’s someone with whom you’ve shared a lifetime of everyday memories and some great adventures. It’s someone who supports you through cancer and job loss, and someone who trusts you enough to be willing to lean on you during his or her tough times. It’s someone with whom you have a million inside jokes and shared secrets. It’s someone who encourages you and supports you; someone who loves you exactly as you are and yet still challenges you to be better. It’s someone with whom you share a past, the present, and the future.

Love is a choice, and marriage is the commitment of two people willing to work it all out: for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. It’s not particularly romantic, but who needs romance when you can have a genuine soul mate.

One Year

I wrote this piece nearly a year ago. Kelsey was fighting some pretty powerful demons at that time. Today, on the anniversary of what was her darkest day, I'm so happy to see her continue to emerge as the amazing person she is and is becoming. 

For Kelsey, as she turns 19

Since your birth, we’ve shared a love for Disney films. We know all the characters, all of the lines, and of course all of the songs. I know some people blame these movies for their own distorted notions about life and love, but to these people I want to say, “You do realize that animals don’t talk or do the dishes, and fairy godmothers and enchantresses and pixies and flying carpets—you do realize they’re not real, right? Grow up!” These movies are fantasies, to be sure, but I think the stories and the characters are often more complex than we give them credit for.  As we get older, it’s up to us to find the deeper lessons and find ways to apply them to our lives.

I like your new mantra, “I’m the hero of this story.” It’s thoughtful, it’s to the point, and it’s true. You play the most important role in your own life, and that includes taking responsibility for getting yourself out of difficult spots. It means taking initiative and not placing blame, and sometimes it means taking your lumps. Sometimes that means fighting demons and darkness. But I have no doubt that you can win the fight. You are your own hero.

But you’re more than the hero. You’re also the princess: beautiful, kindhearted, spunky, with a great voice (and a tendency to burst into song for no reason). You’ve got big dreams, and with your talent and some hard work, there’s no reason to believe that those dreams can’t come true. You have a lot to offer to the world, and to your own story.

And some days you’re the villain: witty, a little snarky, a little dark. Disney villains in particular are interesting characters and can be a source of comic relief, but inevitably they become obsessed with some long-ago hurt, real or imagined. For them, living in the past is the road to madness. So be careful not to sabotage yourself by dwelling on what was, or what might have been. Learn from the past, but focus on the future.

Also remember that, while you are the center of your own life, you play an important supporting role in many, many other lives. You enrich our stories in innumerable ways, some that are obvious, and some that you may never know. You have so much value to so many, and that value will only increase as you mature. By the same token, there are many who play supporting roles in your life. Even when you’re alone in the spotlight, remember that all of us are only a breath away, and while the scene is yours to carry, we’ll be there to support you when you need it.

Unlike the plays you auditioned for in high school, in real life you’re not assigned a part, but you get to choose the part you want to play in any given scene. You don’t need to be the same person all the time, and each part can be interesting and valuable, but there’s one part you need to avoid playing: the victim. You’re definitely not this. Self-pity does not look good on you, and it has no place in this story.

So you’re the hero, but you’re not some two-dimensional romantic lead who sweeps in at the last minute, but a hero more like Indiana Jones: genuine, complex, and slightly flawed, someone who confesses to making it up as you go. You can’t control everything that happens, but you can control how you respond to events. Learn to respond with grace and courage. You’ve got a great life ahead of you. 

Struggle

It is my nature to worry, and I do it well. When my kids were really young, I used to stress about things like childcare and cloth-versus-disposable diapers. As a working mom, I wondered if I was spending enough time with them and if the time we spent together was of sufficient quality. I worried about keeping them safe and whether we had done enough reading with them so that they would be able to keep up in school.

My dad, an experienced parent, had no appreciation for the depth of my concern. When I would vent to him about my worries, he would smile a little smile and shake his head ever so slightly. “Little children, little problems. Big children, big problems,” he’d say.

I may have been frustrated that he was a little dismissive of my bundle of worries, but I understood what he was saying. Sort of. I also imagined that if I did my work well when my kids were little, that would carry them through to adulthood, and our big kids would not provide me with big problems to worry about.

And it has worked out that way. Sort of. Not a day goes by when one of my kids doesn’t astound me with a profound bit of wisdom, an achievement, or an act of deep compassion that makes my maternal heart swell with joy. They are learning, growing, becoming.

It is just as true that on any given day my kids will say or do something that astounds me with the depth of their stupidity, immaturity, and selfishness. As painful as these things are, I hope, and I pray, and I try to believe that they are learning, growing, becoming through these experiences. But I have my doubts.

In a really old episode of Law and Order (my favorite show), Detectives Curtis and Brisco were investigating the murder of a young woman. Raised by loving parents, she got into modeling as a teen, which led to a world of money, celebrities, and drugs. Curtis, who had young daughters, was bewildered and judgmental: he figured if he raised his girls right, they would avoid any kind of problems.

We all know loving, close-knit families where the kids have been raised right but still make mistakes—lots of mistakes, huge mistakes, stupid mistakes that can’t be ignored. It is the nature of young adults to test limits, and sometimes kids get caught. Others, for whatever reason, are able to avoid the dire consequences of their recklessness. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with parenting, but more with dumb luck.

Some days I really, really want to return my kids to the bubble of childhood, where I could control them and protect them and attempt to bend them to my will. I want my kids to avoid mistakes and heartache and pain. When I’m honest, see that part of the reason for this is because I believe that their bad choices, bad behavior, and mistakes reflect poorly on me and my parenting.

I miss those days when my biggest concerns were their bizarre clothing combinations, bad table manners, or failed spelling tests. I hope that when I scolded them for these things, they understood that I was trying to teach them about bigger things: about being polite, getting along with others, diligence and hard work, and that small things matter. I hope that these are the lessons that will carry them forward in life.

They say that, during childbirth, it’s important for the child to struggle through the birth canal; it’s a healthy thing for the baby, and part of nature’s design. Perhaps it is the same as these kids become birthed as adults; struggle is healthier for the adult in the long run, but it sure is painful for the mother.

Advice columnist Ann Landers said, “It is not what you do for your children, but what you have taught them to do for themselves, that will make them successful human beings.”  Even now, when the law says three of my kids are adults, the jury is still out on what I’ve taught them, or rather, what they’ve learned from me. Whatever it is, there’s still a whole bunch of stuff they will have to learn for themselves.  May God give them, and me, strength and wisdom for the journey.  

2014

Ah, the new year. A time of fresh starts and starting over. My resolutions, unoriginal and predictable, are the same each year, and every publication knows what they are. At the checkout at Target, magazine covers implore: Get Organized NOW! They promise: Lose 20 Pounds FAST! These two “resolutions” have been on my list for every year I can remember. And although I start each year with good intentions, my craft room is a perennial disaster area, and my weight is, too.

As I look forward to 2014, I will try, once more, to get all the photos into albums and my body back to the gym. I certainly will accomplish some things, but it never feels like it’s enough. There is always more to be done or that can be done. It’s not that I’m standing still. My life is rich and full and complicated, with unexpected twists that consume my time and my energy. I have reasons, and I have excuses, for not getting everything done, and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between the two.

I am glad that my life is full, even if I don’t always love being on call for the kids or cleaning the bathroom. When I start to feel sorry for myself, I remind myself that I’m privileged to have kids to shuttle and a home to clean. They aren’t burdens; they are blessings. And if I’m feeling pressed for time, I remember that I spend far more time playing Candy Crush and watching Law and Order reruns than I should.  That’s among the reasons I “don’t have time” to get more done.

For years I’ve thought about writing a book, and when I lost my full-time job, I thought that maybe I would have a month or two between jobs to pound something out. Four years later, I’m still looking for full-time work, and still haven’t “found the time” to write that novel. I have, however, filled my time with lots of other things: caring for the kids in a million ways; sewing and crafting; working part-time at a couple of jobs; and writing for hire, through which I have learned a lot and helped to put food on the table.  

Writing for hire has also led me to my current project. I’m ghost writing a book. Since I’ve signed a nondisclosure agreement, that’s probably all I can say about it. My name won’t appear on the finished product, and no matter how well it sells, I will never receive a dime in royalties. And I am totally fine with all of that, because, hey, I’m finally writing a book! Even if no one else knows, I’ll know.

Now that it looks like there’s a real possibility for this dream to come true, it gives me hope for so many other great things to happen in 2014. It feels as if anything is possible! I could actually get organized or be a size 8 (okay, a size 10). But if those things don’t happen, that’s okay, too.

Because I know that the 365 days ahead will be full of wonderful things: accomplishments great and small, unexpected joys, new people and places and adventures. And I know there will be pain and sorrow and disappointments. It will be a year like every other, and like no other.

It’s going to be a great year. Welcome 2014!