I had ect #19 today. It was kinda like love potion #9 (the song not the movie.) Except instead of a guy with romance problems, it’s a woman with servere medication resistant depression. And instead of going to a gypsy lady, I went to many, many, many, experienced mental health professionals. And instead of taking a love potion, I get elctrodes, anesthesia, and some zaps.

But, you know, otherwise it’s exactly the same.

I have had two improv gigs in the past 24 hours. They were two of my least favorite kind. The first gig was last night. I was doing a show at an early childhood PTA meeting.

Um, yeah.

It was in a bright room with big round tables where parents, mostly moms, were scattered throughout. This is not the setup for any sort of success. I am a mom. I get that the last thing you probably want to do after sitting through a meeting is watch some people do they’re kooky comedy that may or may not be funny.These are precious hours for a parent. You could be grocery shopping, doing laundry, drinking copious amount of alcohol. 

We better damn well be good or I have wasted a child-free hour of parents’ lives. And that is never okay.We went up there. We did our thing and it actually went really great. The audience was awesome and kind and generous (my three favorite audience qualities.)

The good feeling was short-lived as I went out afterwards and started bemoaning today’s gig. 

Someone had roped me into volunteering my time to do a workshop for AmeriCorp. Okay, much like a night of healthy bondage fun, you can not get roped into something without your consent. Still I was gonna feel like a martyr and no reason-filled person was going to stop me.

I had a lot to do to today and now I had to do an hour-long workshop on workplace safety precautions while somehow incorporating improv. I was doing it for no money and I was doing it by myself, with no other improviser friends. What the heck was I thinking? I still have no idea, but I can tell you it also went really great. 

I left telling myself that maybe these events went surprisingly well because I had such low expectations.

Anything can feel awesome if you set the bar at suck. (from my new anti- inspirational poster collection!)

Okay, maybe all the lessons I learn are not the most helpful to leading a positive-centered life, and maybe sometimes (most of the time) there are no lessons.

Either way, two points just went in the “this doesn’t suck” column. And I’ll take that.

Tonight my son was showing me he could roll his tongue. This lead to a big discussion about genes and where we get the things that are part of us. We talked about how some things come from family and some things are just uniquely you. This conversation, of course, took place when my son was supposed to be going to bed.

My son wanted to know where he got his sense of humor, (me and his papa) his love of star wars and lego building, (his dad and his Uncle Monkey) his fondness for hats (his Papa Mike) and so on.

After he was in bed, supposed to be sleeping, he called me in.

“Mom, I have one more really improtant question.” 

“Yes?”

“Where did I get my coolness?”

Oh my 5 year old boy, how I love you.

I often think about all the qualities (most are awesome, a couple maybe aren’t) my son has and which ones reminds me of which family members. 

And it usually ends with me thinking “God, I hope he does not get my depression.”

I have quite a few health related genes you wouldn’t want. My teeth and my eyes come to mind first. Yet, none of those stir an ounce of guilt or worry.

Depression is a whole other not so desired beast. I try to console myself with the fact that if he does have points of depression atleast we will know a lot about it to get him through it. 

“Hey mom, have you ever felt like complete shit?’

“Indeed son, wanna see my mood disorder scrapbook?”

Like most parts of parenting though, you can only be so prepared. They are bound to throw you a curve ball, and the worst part is, I am a Cleveland Indians fan, so I won’t even know what to do with it.

What’s the main difference between being committed to a psychiatric hospital and being in an outpatient mood disorder program you ask?

What an astute question. Someone’s been reading along and paying attention. 

The easiest way to explain would be to say that being a resident of a psychiatric hospital is like being in daycare while being a patient in a mood disorder program is like being in pre-school.

In the hospital they feed you, they take care of you. They let your loved ones know you are safe so they can go to work and run errands. The staff makes it sound like you are learning helpful things but basically they are just trying to make sure you stay in the room and don’t eat the glue.

On the other hand, in an outpatient mood disorder program they have a curriculum. There are goals to prepare you for the next stage. They still give you snack and some art projects to hang on your fridge but they are always focusing on the skill set you need for the future. Like preschool there is a lesson plan. Though instead of  things like pre-literacy skills and phonics, it’s lessons on how not to be suicidal and other fun things that will help you function in society. 

Any more questions? Just ask.

Last summer I went to Chicago to study at the Second City. I was taking a weeklong intensive improv class with two of Chicago’s most talented teachers.

The week took place during a small window of feeling, if not great, decent. Stuff was soon to be really really not decent. But this week, this class, was eighty kinds of awesome.

One of the two teachers was Rachael Mason. Rachael has the amazing ability to come off as both a tough bitch and super supportive at the same time. It’s a kickass talent.

We did an exercise where we moved around the room and it helped inform our character. I don’t know how it happened but the character I was supposed to play was a dainty woman.

After the exercise Rachael asked how it felt. I said on stage I was always uncomfortable playing a,woman. She paused, looked at me, and said “That’s the most fucked up thing I have ever heard.”

The super supportive tough bitch was right.

I spent the next few minutes saying things like “I mean it’s not like I want to be a guy or anything.” and “You see I have a deep voice and hate pantyhose.”

These moments were the most honest I have ever had in an improv class. I felt exposed but never judged. It was like being a first-timer in a nudist colony.

Tonight, a year later, I decided I would play only women on stage. This was a challenge. I frickin have breasts and a vagina yet am more comfortable being a dude on stage.It requires less vulnerablity and truth.

But I did it. It was not some eye opening, life changing, amazing show. I pushed myself but nowhere near as much as I could have.

But I did it. I played all women. Some even had lady feelings and at times I actually felt feminine. And, believe it or not, I survived. Yay, estrogen points for me.

To quote Mason, my vagina weeps.

Getting it

My grandma is pretty rockin. She was married for 49 years. A few years after my Grandpa died, she got a live in boyfriend. He passed away about 12 years ago. So a couple years back she moved into a retirement home and found herself a boyfriend who also lived there. Judging by the after shave in her bathroom, they are totally shacking up.

I am trying to nickname her Blanche Deveraux, but due to her inability to hear me, I don’t think it is gonna catch on.

Did I mention my grandma, with this very active life, is 92?

I visited her today at her retirement village. I used to joke with my friends in college that we should all live in one of these places when we graduate.

I, being the ultra cool college student, spent much of my college life participating in a retirement home-like lifestyle. I played a lot of cards and scrabble, watched game shows, and ate dinner in the dining hall at 5 pm. I loved that all you had to do to see your friends was walk down the hall.

My grandma is not totally sold on this retirement village lifestyle. She thinks she is in better shape then the majority of the people who live there. She is right about that, but I never got why that was a bad thing. I thought it must be nice to be one of the “more with it” people.

I got it today though. I walked in and saw all the people who lived there. Some where drooling and half asleep in a chair. The percentage of people using some sort of walking aid was way over fifty.

I got that my grandma looked at these residents and thought “Is this how people see me?” “If I live here am I automatically the same as them?”

I got it.

During my short stay at the psychiatric bed and breakfast, I felt the same. I did not get comfort from being one of the “more with it” people. I felt sad for those whose lives would always be more of a challenge then mine. But more than that, I felt sad for myself that I was now viewed as one of these people. We were all people who got the same condescending and sad looks from the staff who served us our food and gave us our meds.

Even though my grandma and I both needed to be at these places for our health and safety, it still kind of sucks.

Today, I got that.

I leave for Florida tomorrow. The weather will be in the upper 80s and low 90s. That is, coincidentally, also the age range of the people I will be visiting. 

I have kind, caring, and giving grandparents and I realize I am lucky to still have grandparents. I will most likely need to remind myself of this many, many, times over the next few days.

Insane people are always sure that they are fine. It is only the sane people who are willing to admit that they are crazy. – Nora Ephron

I do not have a mental illness. I have a physical illness. The last time I checked my brain was indeed part of my body. I am happy to be labeled crazy, cuckoo, off my rocker, occasionally unstable. I am in great company. Heck, you can even do that thing where you open your eyes wide and circle the side of your head with your finger. I am pretty sure you will look more imbalanced then I do.

The term mental illness though, it just adds to the stigma. It helps continue the delightful notion that depression is all in my head. It is indeed all in my head, as that is where my brain resides. The term mentally ill is what kept your freshman roommate with “all the issues”, who played Hurt by Nine Inch Nails on repeat for an entire semester, from getting diagnosed.It’s why your aunt who freaks out when a table setting is out of place, and is going to spend the rest of her life making Thanksgiving a “must drink” holiday for you,doesn’t see a Dr.

Everyone’s brain functions differently. It’s why I think about suicide more than the average bear but it’s also why I can do improv and you can’t. The majority of my life I am thankful for my smart, quirky, 80s sitcom trivia loaded, kind-filled brain.

So you know, if you think you need help look into it. If you don’t think you need help, look into it even sooner.