Searching for daffodils

 

Photo by Kavita Joshi Rai on Unsplash

Recently, I dealt with a bad bout of depression. I think it had a lot to do with the weather; it was wet, cold, cloudy, and gray. 

This week, I went to my doctor for my annual checkup, and she told me that she’d seen a daffodil in her front yard. 

I thought, “Daffodils? Cool!”

In Atlanta, where I live, the first harbingers of spring are daffodils, cherry trees, and forsythia. I start expecting daffodils around the end of February. So when I heard that my doctor had seen a daffodil in her yard, I decided it was time to start looking. 

On the way home, I glanced at a grouping of flowers at the base of a mailbox. Sure enough, they were daffodils! 

I’m smart enough to know that daffodils will not cure my depression. I take my meds and check in regularly with my counselor and psychiatrist. I also have a group of friends I confide in. 

But knowing that spring will come, knowing that the seasons will follow in order, and seeing those signs of each season coming — it helps. 

Next month will mark two years since the pandemic really hit for me. I date the beginning of the pandemic from March 13, 2020, when our governor declared a state of emergency and everything started shutting down. It was the day I took both my son and myself for haircuts and then went to Kroger. 

During those first few days, I walked in a park and I reminded myself, “Spring will come. Spring always comes. Even in a pandemic, spring will come.”

Today I am enjoying temperatures in the 60’s. By Sunday, we may have snow showers. Winter has not left us yet. Daffodils are only the first shots in the war on winter. 

But, even in the middle of a pandemic, even in the middle of a bout of depression, spring comes. 

This is why I go searching for daffodils in February. 

And why I always find them. 

Because they remind me that spring is coming. 

Like it always does.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

 

Letter to the editor, but not mine . . .

On June 4, 1980, in response to the Florida Legislature's raising the legal drinking age from 18 to 19, the St. Petersburg Times published the following letter to the editor:

Tina Sergent was my name before I got married.

I did not write this letter.

In fact, the very first thing I ever heard about this letter was when a classmate of mine walked into first period and said, "I didn't know you were 18."

I wasn't.  In fact, I was 16 in June of 1980.

I don't know of anyone else named Tina Sergent who lived in St. Petersburg, Florida and who was 18 years old in 1980.  So, unless there was another Tina Sergent who wrote that letter to the editor and had it published, the only other possibility I can think of is that someone wrote that letter and signed my name to it.

My piano teacher even asked me about it, and my father's response was that probably one of my "friends" wrote it. 

Here's my question:

Why?

I may not be able to find out, after 40 years, who wrote this letter and why, but I'd like to know why.

Was this a calculated attempt to embarrass and humiliate me? 

To be honest, I would not be surprised.  I went through public school and didn't have a year where there wasn't a bully.  

This week, I proofread a harassment case.  The lawyer doing the deposition commented that there wasn't any touching involved. 


That comment reminded me of what abusers sometimes say:  "I never laid a hand on them."  "I never hit them."  "I never touched you." 


I never got in a knock-down, drag-out fight during my years in school.  I did get punched in the back one time on the bus, and I hit back twice. 


But I:  was blocked on a sidewalk and in the hallways, had my books stolen, had stuff played "keep-away" with, had my shoes thrown in the trash, was gossiped about (even was falsely accused of shooting crumbs at lunch one time), and for me, the crowning insult:  the embarrassing question.  I was shown a picture of a naked person and then asked later, did you see such and such?  I wore and Adidas shirt to school and was later asked if I went to the Adidas concert.  I had my attempts to play volleyball mocked.  I was asked, will you do my homework for me?  I was asked, can I borrow your textbook? from a person I didn't trust.  I had a boy attempt to shove a ring onto my finger.  That same person also asked me if my little sister drank milk from my breasts.  I had a group of people yell at me that the bus was coming, and when I ran, they laughed at me because the bus wasn't coming.  When they repeated that trick and I didn't fall for it, someone said, "You'd walk if the bus came, wouldn't you?" and then threw a piece of paper in my face. 

And this is not the end of it. 

So I think I can be forgiven for suspecting that that letter to the editor signed with my name was a calculated attempt to embarrass me. 

Here's what I would like to know, and may not get an answer to:

What in God's name did I ever do to you that you treated me like this? 
What did I do to you that was so horrible?
Why did you do this to me?
Why did you target me?
And why was the system around me structured so that I feared that if I fought back, I would be the person punished and the bullies would not be?



This week has not been a good week.  Like everyone in the US, I am tired of living under the chronic stress of COVID.  I am disheartened by the racial animus in this country.  (I am not referring to peaceful protests, nor am I referring to African-Americans' insistence on "we need to expose history, all of it, and we need to be heard."  One can be passionate and insistent without being hateful.)  I dislike the animus between the parties as the election draws closer.  In fact, I hold out very little hope of this country ever getting better. 

I put in a lot of energy this week into work and drained myself of so much physical energy that I took a day off on Friday because I was just sapped.  When I don't feel well physically, my mind turns absolutely black, and sadly, remembering the bullying is one place where it goes . . . and this is one question it asks. 

Why?


Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

The illness that may kill

I don't know when I first formulated the thought, "I want to die," but I've had that thought more often than I'd like to admit.

In fact, I had that thought a week ago this past Tuesday, on May 29th.

I felt horrible.  I went about my daily activities, dropped my son off at Bible study, and then drove down to the library down the street and wrote in my journal about how bad I felt and how tempting it was to die.  If someone were to pick up my journal and read that entry, they can be forgiven for believing that I acted on those feelings.

Obviously, I didn't act on it.  I wrote about it, then picked up Matthew and went home. 

I have an illness called depression.  I've had it for many years.  I suspect I may have had it since I was a teenager.  There's many circumstances in my life that I think brought it on; dealing with bullies, dealing with spiritual abuse, dealing with health problems, dealing with autism.  Any one of those would be enough to bring on depression; all of those are enough to overwhelm anyone.  I see a counselor regularly and I told her yesterday that given all I'm dealing with, I'm surprised I'm not more screwed up than I am. :-)  (I also take meds regularly.)

I also suspect that some of my depressive feelings may come from my hormones.  I use a hormone cream and a hormone patch and change them every Tuesday and Saturday.  The Tuesday I felt so horrible, I went home, changed the patch, used the cream, and went to bed.  The next morning, I woke up and felt much better.  I'm due for a meds check soon, and this is a question I plan to ask my GYN, about a link between depression and hormones.

Two of my reasons for living are named Matthew and Frank.  Thinking about them keeps me reasonably sane.  And I have people who would miss me if I were gone. 

I'm thinking about all of this in the wake of two celebrity suicides this week, Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain. 

Kate Spade was a famous designer, known for handbags and other things.  Anthony Bourdain was a chef with a show on CNN who traveled the world.  People loved what they produced.  People wanted to be them.  How ironic that, apparently, Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain didn't even want to be.
Did they have depressive illness, as I and millions of other Americans do?  And if they did, did they somehow feel that they couldn't say, "I am depressed," "I have depression"?  Did they fear that, if they expressed that feeling, they'd just hear, "Why are you depressed?  You're wealthy.  People love you.  You have everything to live for!" 

Logic and rationality don't always work on someone who has depression.  Sometimes the illness is all-consuming.  It is chronic and debilitating for millions of people.  Meds keep it at bay, coping skills keep it at bay.  But sometimes, sometimes, the meds, the coping skills, the need others have for you . . . it just may not be enough. 

Depression is a fatal illness in some cases.  It is an illness that kills.

I don't necessarily subscribe to the belief that "suicide is a sin" and that people who kill themselves automatically go to hell.  I believe God is gracious enough to understand that at times, people do do it in a moment of weakness.  People often do it when they see no way out, when the circumstances and problems just seem insurmountable.  It looks and sounds easy.  Usually, my thoughts of "I want to die" aren't "I want to die."  They are, "I want out.  Life is hard and I'm tired.  I want out."  Realizing this gives me strength to keep on going.  And writing this, I realize that those signals might also be saying, you're trying to do too much.  Take a break and cut yourself a little slack.

For those of you who are Christians, even faith isn't enough at times to keep suicide or suicidal thoughts at bay.  Nearly nine years ago, a member of our youth group killed herself.  My own preacher has shared in a few sermons about his struggle with depression.  A close friend of mine, who is also a Christian, deals with depression and is on medication for it.

(Some time back, a person on a Facebook group I'm part of asserted that faith in Christ would heal depression.  When I pointed out that I was a Christian, and I still struggled with depression and even took meds for it, I was told, "Then you're not a Christian."  For the love of all things holy, please do not do this to people.  Please.  I believe God can heal and sometimes He does do so miraculously.  But most of the time, He chooses to heal through people with medical skill and with drugs that those people know how to use properly.  People of faith already feel shamed enough by having depression in the first place.  They do not need to be shamed by other people of faith.  To the person that told me I wasn't a Christian, I said, I find it interesting that you can judge my relationship with Christ from one post.)

Today, my Facebook feed is flooded with articles on suicide, how to tell if someone might be suicidal, where to get help if you or someone you love is suicidal. 

One thing to keep in mind is that the depression that can lead to suicide is an illness, an illness that can kill, and that like any illness, it needs to be treated.  Maybe by meds, maybe by some changes in circumstances, maybe by learning some good coping skills, maybe by a combination of things. 

The Kate Spades, the Anthony Bourdains, the Tina Sewards of this world deal with this illness.  For Kate and Anthony, they've left behind the legacy of what happens when this illness kills. 

For the rest of the Kates, the Anthonys, and Tinas, let's leave behind a legacy of what can happen when we seek help. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Breaking point

Both my BFF and I are at our breaking point.

She has a close relative in rehab who will be coming home next week, and my friend will probably be providing most of the care the relative needs.

She also has a friend involved in some very complicated legal troubles.

She's a writer, self-published, and these life rolls have really gotten to her.

I have a list of health problems that seem to go on and on and on and never get any better.

I also have a child with special needs that needs extra help, and dealing with his needs day after day can be wearying at times.

And I'm also trying to write and not doing it very successfully.

Both my BFF and I are very concerned about the state of the country.

And recently I read the following statement on a group I'm part of:  "In June of 2017 you're going to be sitting here wondering why nothing has changed.  And the answer will be the same.  Because you personally did nothing to change it."

I do NOT need that guilt trip laid on me!

Because, apart from voting, I do not have the resources to "personally" do something to change things.  And I truly resent being told that because I, personally, did nothing, that the fate of the country, world, etc. can be laid at my feet.

I have hit my breaking point.

So has my BFF.

Pray for us.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Family Friday: Hubert, Elmer, and me

I recently wrote a blog post about living with obsessive-compulsive disorder.  The form I deal with is called "pure O", the obsessive thoughts without the compulsive actions.

An OCD discussion group I sometimes post in suggested, "Give your OCD a really wimpy name," as a way to lessen the power of the OCD.

So I named my OCD Hubert.  (My apologies to anyone who reads this and who really is named Hubert.)

A few days ago, I wondered if the same strategy would work with my depression.

So I named my depression Elmer.

Hubert and Elmer's mission (and they have definitely accepted it) is to make my life as miserable as possible.  They've been around since I was about 14.  The first time I remember feeling sad enough to be depressed was when I was about 14, and I think it may have been either that same year or the next when I started dealing with the OCD.

Hubert's strategy is to attack me with vulgar, disgusting thoughts.  For years, I fought him, and I felt embarrassed to admit that yes, I thought that way.  Now I'm trying to accept the fact that yes, I have those thoughts.  And sometimes, I take those thoughts to extremes.  "Oh, you want me to think swear words in church?  Okay.  Not only will I think swear words in church, I'll say them.  I'll stand up and interrupt my minister's sermon with the most vulgar speech I can think of.  Our ushers will politely ask me to leave, and when I keep swearing, they'll have me forcibly removed, they'll call the police, and have me arrested for disorderly conduct.  Take that, Hubert!"

The idea is to take the thoughts to an extreme conclusion and thus, reduce their power. Paradoxically, the more you fight the thoughts, the more they reoccur, and the more anxiety that surrounds them . . . which leads to compulsions to get rid of the thoughts, which makes you feel better for a while . . . until the thoughts return, along with the anxiety, which leads to the compulsions . . .

No, I do not plan to start swearing in the middle of church.  Nor do I plan on following through with other thoughts.  Thoughts are just that--they are thoughts, and the fact that they drop into a person's head isn't a sin.  Pursuing those thoughts and planning to act on them . . . that's when it gets dangerous.  (And if those thoughts are suicidal thoughts, that may be a signal to get help, pronto.)

Elmer likes to convince me that I am worthless, bad, unlovable and ugly.  I think he's behind my favorite self-insult:  "Idiot!"  He's unfortunately had plenty of ammunition from childhood bullies and spiritual abusers, and he's also helped by the chemical makeup of my brain.

He and Hubert work together to paralyze, demoralize, and deingrate me.  They are uninvited, unwelcome tenants who don't even bother to pay rent.  Instead, they demand payment from me in the form of sleepless nights, worthless feelings, negative self-talk, and other forms of self-debasement.

My weapons against them include medication, which works to change my brain chemistry; surrounding myself with supportive people, attempting--as much as possible--to avoid negative stimuli, and using humor.

Some days, Hubert and Elmer win the fight and go snickering off into the darkness and slap high-fives with each other.  Then, I have to go and reload my ammunition in preparation for the next battle.

But, there are the days when I get to win and they get to run off like a cowardly dog!

As long as I live, I suspect that Hubert, Elmer and I will do this dysfunctional dance of depression and OCD.  Then at death, they get booted down to hell, where they belong, forever to be tortured in the lake of fire.

In the meantime, I think my stockpile of humor and positive stimuli is running low.  Let me see about replenishing my supply.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.