Strong Women

I have known a lot of strong women in my life.  Women whose strength is soft kindness, and always forgiving.  Women whose strength is never taking anyone's shit.  Women whose strength is to just keep moving, even when things are terrible.

My great-grandmother raised her children mostly alone, on a farm in Arkansas, after her husband died.  She lost a daughter at age 2, and then, years later, lost her two adult sons within a month of each other, just before Christmas.  She had been through loss, hardship, poverty, and loneliness.  But when I think of her, I remember her laugh.  I remember her vitality, even at 99 years old.  I remember her threatening to turn her daughter over her knee for disobeying her - her daughter who was my grandmother, in her 50's.  I remember her teasing.   Her love for animals.  Her stories of a life well lived. Her unwavering faith. There was no bitterness in her.  Only love and hope, and a mischievous streak a mile wide.

My grandmother, her daughter, was pregnant nine times, but only got to raise three of her children.  Three miscarriages.  Three infant deaths.  And of her three surviving children, one had a life threatening birth defect.  She married the love of her life, but it was never an easy marriage, and then he was diagnosed with cancer and died, leaving her with three daughters, ages 14, 11, and 9.  She lost herself for years to alcoholism, only to drag herself out of it so that she could have a relationship with her grandchildren.  She survived so much, and her life was never easy, right up until the end.  But what I remember about her was her irreverent laugh.  Her smile.  Her tough talks, given with compassion and love, when I most needed to hear them.  I remember her teaching me to garden (which I hated), and to fish (which I loved).  I remember exploring her land, reading in her tree, chasing the cows that lived next door.  I remember how she was like no other grandmother I knew.  There was no softness to her.  Instead, there was "inappropriate" humor and lots of cussing, and zero fear.  But most of all, I remember how much she loved everyone.  The old, the young, the disabled, the gay, the Christian, the Jew, the Atheist.  She didn't care much about the details.  She just loved you.

My other grandmother, my dad's mom.  A tough woman to love, and an even more difficult one to like.  I was one of the few people who could get through her rather prickly exterior to find the soft, loving, devoted woman underneath.  A woman who had married an Air Force man, but soon after found herself married to the musician that man had always been.  His schedule, his paychecks, were never steady or predictable enough, so in the 60's, while raising her four children, she also became the primary breadwinner of the family, as a telephone operator.  I always got the sense that she had been through a lot, but she wasn't one to talk about such things.  I do know that she dealt with a lot of serious health concerns in her later life, and often felt terrible.  But that's not what I remember about her.  I remember how confident she always seemed.  How she always seemed to know exactly what needed to be done.  I remember her love.  I remember her hugs.  I remember how much I loved her.  How much she gave to me, not in the sense of material things, but in the sense of adventure and determination.  She was a formidable woman, and I absolutely adored her for it.

My own mother.  A woman who has been through poverty, abuse, abandonment, loss.  And yet, none of those things define her.  She grew up in a tumultuous household that was constantly on the move.  She often talks about how many different schools she went to as a child, and how she can't even remember them all.  Then, at age 11, her father died and her mother became an alcoholic.  From then on, she more or less raised herself and her younger sister.  Until she was 17, and had me.  And then my sister when she was 21.  Young.  Poor.  Mother to two children.  At a time when most people are celebrating their adulthood with drinking binges, she was singing lullabies and reading bedtime stories.  And her marriage to my dad was rarely an easy one.  And yet, when I think of my childhood, I don't think of the difficulties she faced.  I remember how she faced them.  She went back to school and became a teacher. She turned poverty into a game of finding change and scrapping together enough to go to the dollar movie theater.  She turned food insecurity into an adventure of trying new foods.  Lack of transportation became an epic journey to see if we could walk all the way to K-Mart (we did!).  Everything was a game or an adventure, and it wasn't until years later that I fully understood the truth of how we lived.  To this day, she remains one of the most hopeful, optimistic people I've ever met - even when she has struggled with depression and anxiety.  She is a pillar of strength, but not in the way any of my grandmothers was.  Her strength is the quiet determination to just keep going, no matter what.  And to love her family, no matter what.  My mother and I are very different people, but I still admire her kind of strength.

My sister.  Rocking the single mom thing.  She realized when her daughter was still very young that her husband was not the sort of person she wanted to raise a child with.  So with resolve, she left him and made the best of it.  It has never been easy for her.  She has struggled.  She has moved, sometimes often.  She has lived with other people, to save money.  She has worked ridiculous hours to make sure her daughter never wants for anything.  And in the midst of all that, she is raising a young lady who is very emotionally intelligent (as well as regular intelligent). An almost-7 year old who can talk about her fears and anxiety more clearly than I can as an adult, and seems to feel zero shame about her struggles.  Not only is my sister the definition of a strong, capable woman, she is raising her daughter to be one, too.  And I admire her for that.

My friends. Mommas, you know who you are.  The ones who have lost babies.  The ones who have come terrifyingly close to losing them.  The ones who have struggled with Post Partum Depression, Anxiety, and a host of other mental illnesses.  The ones who have wondered if they are good enough.  The ones who have been through divorce, abuse, homelessness, trauma of all sorts.  The ones who struggle with physical illnesses on top of mental ones.  The ones who doubt themselves, every single day.  The ones who feel lost.  The ones who are confident in their parenting, even if they're confident about nothing else.  The ones with only children.  With seven children.  With every combination in between.  The ones who have loved me and my children as their own family.

To all of us: Happy Mother's Day.  Together, we can do this.  Thank you all for inspiring me, and helping me through this journey.  I love each of you. So, so much.  I cannot imagine this journey without any one of you.

May we be the women our children one day remember as the Strong Women in their lives. <3

What Depression Feels Like...

There is this misconception about how people with depression must feel.  According to common belief, people with depression feel sad all the time.  People with depression cry a lot.  People with depression consider or attempt suicide.  People with depression are easy to spot.

And while some of those things may be true some of the time, none of those apply to me, personally.

I have moments of joy, of laughter, of anger, of loneliness (so often I feel lonely - even when I'm around people) of grumpiness, of feeling nothing at all, and yes, moments of sadness.  But mostly, I just feel tired.  And I feel tired of being tired.

I'm tired of the brain fog.  I'm tired of being exhausted all damn day, only to lay in bed, wide awake, for hours at night before I can fall asleep.  I'm tired of not having the energy to hold a conversation, let alone play with my kids or work on a fun project.  I'm tired of fun things sounding like a chore.  I'm tired.  So.very.tired.

But, I'm not sad.  Not often.  I mean, things make me sad, just like everyone else, but sadness is not my default setting.  Not by a long shot.  Most of the time, my mood is slightly above "meh", but below "cheerful".  I'm overwhelmed a lot of the time.  So much to do that all I can do is stare at my list, paralyzed by the feeling of "too much".  And let me tell you, over the past 9 years, I've lowered my standards over and over again.  And it's still too much, most of the time.

I honestly can't even remember the last time I cried.  Before I started this current combination of meds, maybe?  Certainly not that long ago.  Maybe a few weeks ago?

I don't know.  My memory doesn't track correctly these days.  I can occasionally place the timing of an even based on it's proximity to something I wrote down or has been important for a long time.  Other than that, it's all a mystery.  Everything happened "the other day".  Sometimes that translates to yesterday.  Sometimes it translates to a year ago.  I really don't know the difference, most of the time.

I feel foggy.  Like I'm dragging my thoughts out of some disgustingly viscous semi-fluid.  And when I do grab them, I can't hold them for long.  And I don't know how to fix that.

Annoyingly, when I tell people I have depression, their first question is, "Do you have thoughts of harming yourself?"  No.  In all honesty, I don't. I never have.  I contemplate running away a lot.  When things are really bad in my head, I start planning what I'll take and where I'll go.  At this point in my life, I think that I have enough barriers in place that I won't actually run away.  Barriers I have carefully put in place over the past several years.

And before you ask the follow-up, no, I don't have the urge to hurt anyone else.  I empathize far too deeply with others to be able to hurt people intentionally. (Except that one guy, about 8 years ago, that I nearly punched in the face, but I promise you, he totally had it coming.)  In fact, my aversion to hurting anyone is a large part of why I haven't run away.  My children would be devastated and scared if mom suddenly disappeared. I'm honestly not sure how Patrick would react, but I know he'd be upset.  So, no.  I don't want to hurt myself or anyone or anything else.

I just want to stop feeling tired.  I want to feel again.  But I want to not be overwhelmed by every sensation and emotion. 

I am just. so. tired.

Lights in the Darkness

As I continue to drag myself out of this trench of depression that held me earlier this year, with the help of medication, I'm rediscovering the sensation of being purely happy in the moment.  This doesn't mean my anxiety is gone - it's always hovering, telling me that the other shoe is bound to drop at any second.  But, it's manageable.  I can brush it away, tell Mildred to shove off, and I can continue to feel really, truly happy.  And on a few rare occasions, simply content - which is a rare feeling for me, even when I'm not depressed.

But as the fog is beginning to drift away, I realize exactly how bad it had gotten.  You never realize how dark it's been until the sun begins to rise. 

And I realize that part of the reason I made it through the dark were the stars that shone brightly, leading my way, reminding me that there was light beyond the abyss.  And those stars were my friends.  Friends who knew how bad it was, and never made me feel guilty about.  Friends who went out of their way to invite me to things.  Friends who, when I had gone too long avoiding people, would do everything they could to make me come.

"My Monday sucks.  Does yours?  Why don't you bring the kids over and they can entertain each other while we drink coffee and try to remember how to function."

"The kids have been asking to play with Sam and Miles.  Mind if we pop by for a couple of hours this week?"

"I need to run to the store for ten minutes alone.  Can you watch my kids, and then we can have lunch after?"

"Join us for dinner.  Everyone is going to be there.  So-and-so was saying they haven't seen you in ages."

"Let's grab coffee and talk about these Festival details that need to be ironed out."

It never felt forced.  Just very chill reminders that there were plenty of people who cared about me, and who would help carry me through this rough patch.  And when I just couldn't, there was no shame, no cajoling.  Simply a sincere, "I get it.  Maybe we can try again tomorrow.  Or next week."

And throughout that, they were honest about the struggles they were having in their lives.  They made me feel normal, and human, on days when that seemed impossible.  And in those times that they were struggling, we leaned on each other, held each other up, and continued to trudge, together, through some of the least pleasant of human experiences.  And they never let me doubt that we'd come out stronger on the other side.

In short, it was exactly the sort of support that someone struggling with depression needs.  And I know exactly how rare and unique that is for someone with mental illness.  I have read the stories, talked to the people, seen the statistics that show what mental illness is for other people  The realities that others face.

And I am reminded how very, very lucky/blessed I am.

So to each of those friends, Thank You. 

I love you.


[Disclaimer: It goes without saying that while my friends were the stars in my night sky, my husband was the one who walked beside me, one steady hand on my back, the other holding a flashlight to light our way.  Love you, Patrick.  Thank you.]

Positive self-talk

Most days, 5:00 pm rolls around, I look at my house, and I think, "I have gotten nothing accomplished today."

Some days, that's entirely true.  Some days, my depression and anxiety kicked my ass onto the couch and didn't let me up.  Some days, the weight of fighting my own brain has exhausted me, and left nothing else.

But some days - maybe even most days - it's a lie Mildred (my anxiety) likes to tell me.

Because while it may be true that the house is a disaster and we're eating leftovers again because I forgot to order the groceries (again), it is completely ridiculous to think I did nothing.

Every single day, I hug my kids and tell them I love them.

Every single day, I check in on a friend to make sure they're okay, when a Facebook post from them worries me.

Every single day, I make sure my children eat three meals and two snacks.  Even if I buy them McDonald's from the drive-thru, I'm making sure they're fed.

Every single day, I spend what seems like hours listening to my daughter tell me about her gazillion imaginary sisters, and my son explain something I've never heard of as though I have an intimate knowledge of it.

Every single day, I make sure Miles is reading something.

Every single day, I make certain my children are learning something, even if it's "just" the social skills they gain by playing with friends, or how to treat a stranger with kindness.

Every single day, I make sure the pets are healthy and taken care of, at least at a very basic level.

Most days, I pick up things I don't want to.  I sweep floors I just swept.  I wipe some unknown substance off a surface.  I talk to a friend, and remind them that they are going to be okay, that we're going to get through this rough patch together, and that this parenthood thing stinks sometimes.

Every single day of my life, I try.  Even when I don't want to.  I do the things that have to be done, even if it's just the bare minimum.  But I do it.

No matter how many times Mildred tells me I'm useless and lazy, I need to remind myself that she lies.  I am not useless.  What I do matters.

And I do a lot during the day.  It may be nothing big, but I do a million little things that keep our lives moving forward.

And I think that's a pretty important accomplishment.

What Is Anxiety (for me)?

Hi, I'm Tabitha and I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder, and Depression.

I sometimes feel like that's how I should introduce myself, but the reality is that when I do mention those things, something strange happens:

People start talking to me like I'm either a time bomb, or a small child.  Or they start asking uncomfortable questions and saying things like, "But you don't seem anxious/depressed!" or "Why are you anxious?  There's nothing to worry about!"

Let's start with the obvious: Anxiety, Panic Disorder, and Depression are Mental Illnesses.  By definition, that means that my brain does not work the way it's supposed to.  It means that there doesn't have to be anything "scary" or "worrying" going on for my brain to randomly decide to hit the PANIC button.  It can literally be anything, or nothing.  There might or might not be a trigger.  And if there is a trigger, I'm not always able to identify it right away.

You know, because my brain is in panic mode instead of thinking rationally.

Sometimes, I don't even realize that it's my anxiety or depression acting up.  My brain slowly begins to feel foggy - slowly enough that I don't realize it's happening until I "suddenly" can't think clearly.  Sometimes, I start getting cranky for no reason.  Sometimes, I feel like running away.  Others, I want to curl up in my chair under a blankie.  Often, I want to be left entirely alone, and any noise is too much noise (a delightful experience when one has children).  For me, my depression is so wrapped up in my anxiety that I usually can't tell which is which, except by evaluating whether I feel more like running away (anxiety) or more like sleeping for a week (depression).  Add in the fact that I haven't had a good, regular sleep pattern in years (again, thanks kids. lol), and I often can't tell what's going on in the moment.

Some other facts about my particular brand of mental illness:

• It tends to be worse in the winter or when it's particularly cold, but it's been pretty solidly in the "not good" category for over a year, now.  We're working on it.
• I have "brain fog" pretty much constantly right now, even with medication.  I know it's there because occasionally, things will be going just right and it will clear a bit and I'll remember what it's like to think clearly.  
• Having constant brain fog makes literally every single thing I do a monumental task.  It's exhausting for me to have a conversation.  Writing lesson plans takes forever.  Letting the dog out requires a moment to collect myself so I can drag myself to the door.  Cooking dinner takes so much energy and focus that sometimes, I don't feel like eating by the time I'm done.
• The only thing that reliably helps me feel better is a combination of therapy and medication.  I'm on the meds.  I still haven't had the mental energy to find a therapist.  One of those catch 22 situations.
• I am "lucky" in that I have a pretty clear idea as to the root causes of my anxiety and its bff depression.  That doesn't mean I know exactly what triggers each episode or panic attack, but I do know the root cause.  Unfortunately, the root cause is not something I can just erase or cut out of my life.  I'm still learning how to deal with something that is so much a part of me that it will literally never go away.
• Because my mental illness has its roots in my childhood, I literally have no idea what parts of my personality are "disordered" and which are "me".  Is my spontaneity a symptom or a characteristic?  What about my "fight me" attitude?  Where does the illness end and the person begin?  Is there really any differentiation?
• Being around people helps.  A ton.  Unfortunately, the planning required often exhausts me to a point that I avoid it.  Which makes my depression worse.  Another great catch 22 of mental illness.
• Here's a big one: I don't feel like my brand of mental illness is a "real" mental illness.  I mean, it could be waaaaaay worse.  I can often "pass" as "normal", so it doesn't "count".  (Intellectually, I know all of this is bupkis).  What does that mean in a practical sense?  It means that I don't feel like I should be allowed to speak about my mental illness, because it's somehow less important than others.  Again, I know, intellectually that it's nonsense, and that my anxiety and depression and panic are valid, recognized mental illnesses.  But that doesn't stop me from feeling like they're not.
• Just for brevity's sake, I refer to my anxiety/panic disorder as Mildred.  I picture her as a middle-aged, middle-class housewife screaming profanities at a customer service rep (me) because she's bored and unhappy.  I've discovered that a lot of people who struggle with mental illness use this technique to separate the illness from themselves.  It helps us to frame it in a way we can fight back.  It's difficult to fight your own brain.  But fighting this other, this anthropomorphized version of our disease, that is something we can do.
• My depression, as yet, does not have a name or an imagined form.  Mostly because it is much less invasive in my life.  I tend to think of my depression as an emptiness, a void.  It doesn't tell me I'm worthless (Mildred has that covered), it just removes all feeling - all highs, all lows.  I stop dreaming.  I stop creating.  I stop doing things that make me happy, because they don't anymore.  I know others experience depression differently, but for me, it is an abyss.
• I had a GOOD childhood.  Was it perfect?  No.  But the vast majority of it was pleasant and fun.  The parts that lie at the root of my mental illness, in perspective, are relatively small portions of my childhood.  And yet, somehow, they've affected me very, very deeply.  And none of them are particularly horrific.  Just the somewhat mundane, long-term and unpredictable sorts of things that some people would not even be affected by.  But not me.  For me, they are a source of anxiety, even now.  Not by choice.  It's just how my brain is wired.
• My favorite forms of self-medicating include, in no particular order: coffee, overworking myself, "rescuing" someone or something, mindless video games on my phone, oversharing with everyone, and zoning out.  By favorite, of course, I mean most common.  
• My preferred methods of self-harm include: overworking myself, being sedentary, isolating myself, and forgetting to eat.  Again, by preferred, I mean most common.  It's not like I enjoy any of these.  But they are the places I go when things get bad.  I figure it could be worse.

Basically, it's a big, mixed up, complicated mess.  Because that's what we humans are.  Especially those of us with mental illness. 

So, when I introduce myself, and 5 minutes in, mention that I have anxiety/panic disorder/depression, this is a bit of why.  I can't help myself.  But I'm also judging how you're going to respond to me.  If I tell you about my mental illness, and you keep talking to me like I'm a "normal" person, there's a good chance we'll be friends.

Condescend to me and it will take much longer for me to learn to trust you.  

"How are you?"

"How are you?"

"I'm okay.  I'm tired."

It's true, but it's not the whole truth.

I'm exhausted.  I am fighting my own brain 24 hours a day - and have been for months.  I am constantly ambushed by surprise panic attacks.  I have a list a mile long, and so much anxiety that I can't even start on it, which causes me more anxiety.  I drag myself out of bed, out of the chair, out of the house, when I can, when I have to.  I maintain what I can through sheer stubborn force of will.  But dammit, it's exhausting.

I'm overwhelmed.  I have children who need a million small things every second.  I have a job/hobby that requires research, and leadership, and decision-making skills, and making my own costume - none of which I feel "good enough" to do acceptably.  I have a household to run, groceries to order and pick up, dishes to run, laundry to fold, clutter to donate, dust bunnies to sweep, papers to file, appointments to arrange, lists to make...

I'm weary.  The world is falling apart around me.  Hatred. Death. Destruction. War. Tyranny. Injustice. Prejudice. Xenophobia. Bigotry. Illness. Poverty. Struggle. I cannot observe without feeling, and I have felt so much, so constantly, that I am weary of feeling.  I want to feel numb, just for a little while.  And yet, I know how much I hate that feeling, so I avoid it, too, trying not to feel anything at all, not even numb. I don't have the energy, even for that.

I'm sleepy.  The new meds don't give me vertigo, at least, but I can't keep my eyes open.  I sleep seven. eight. nine. ten hours.  Still sleepy.  Take a nap.  Wake up more sleepy than when I fell asleep, if you can call it that.  Is it really sleep when your brain doesn't stop asking, worrying, chewing on a problem, even when the rest of you is asleep?  Is it really sleep if all your dreams are of being chased, of running away, of being too slow, too stupid, too weak?  Is it really sleep if you wake up just as sleepy as when you laid down?

I'm anxious.  Above all, I am anxious.  Every second of every day, my body vibrates with it, this underlying but certain dread that everything is going to end, soon, and badly.  My face smiles while my brain whispers, "Watch for the other shoe.  It's about to drop.  Any second now, all of this will be gone."  I put on lipstick and try to pretend I'm someone else, someone whose brain doesn't insist on playing out visualizations of all of the horrible things that could happen to a person.  I stay at home, pretending I just need to get things done, that I'm not terrified of taking my children in a car on the highway where my brain will play a video of us crashing, rolling, dying, screaming.  On repeat.  Until we get where we're going.  And then I get nothing done at home because I'm so anxious about all that needs to be done that I ignore it all and sleep.

I'm panicking.  Not multiple times a day, anymore, not like last week when I couldn't go more than a few hours without my brain hijacking my body and making me feel like I was dying.  No, at least not that.  Now, it's only once - or maybe twice - a day.  Only once - or twice - that my heart races, and I can't catch my breath.  Only once - or twice - that my muscles tense, preparing to fight, or fly - only there's never anything physical to fight, or to run away from - so they just stay tense, waiting.  Only once - or twice - I get so nauseous I think I'm going to puke from all of the built up nervous energy collecting in my belly, filling it up with worry, so that I'm not hungry for food.  But this is improvement, and if I keep it up, maybe, someday, it will all go away, and I will stop having to watch over my shoulder for its inevitable ambush.

But that's all too much.  That much truth would overwhelm you.  That much truth ruins the social niceties.  That much truth makes you chuckle, nervously, and change the subject.  That much truth makes me seem crazy.  That much truth will make you sad.  That much truth is too much, for most people.  That much truth is too much for me.  It's too hard to explain, over and over again.

So, instead,

"I'm okay.  I'm tired."

And leave it at that.

Should...

I'm overwhelmed.

I should be posting information for my Living History cast.

I should be making preparations for Sam's birthday party this Saturday.

I should be folding the laundry that is clean, or washing the piles that are not.

I should be washing the dishes.

I should be clearing out the flower beds in front of the house.  (I should have planted ages ago).

I should be reading to the children.

I should be filing the paperwork I am drowning in.

I should be clearing out the clutter that makes me feel anxious and claustrophobic.

I should be sweeping the floors that gather dust faster than anyone can keep up.

I should be answering messages from people.

I should be scheduling appointments.

I should be writing my novel.

I should be sewing a costume.

I should be ...


But how can I when I'm drowning in the static that is anxiety, loud and endless as the ocean.

I can't even think.  How can I function?