So I have an appointment with my Psychiatrist today. As you may know the difference between a Psychiatrist and a Psychologist is the former is an MD and the latter is a PHd. From my personal view and multitude of experiences though, Psychologists (and therapists) often have a sense of humor and a personality while Psychiatrists almost never do.  This fall as I spent time in my outpatient program I was shocked, shocked to find there was a very talented Psychiatrist there (bastardized Casablanca reference for my Dad) that was actually able to relate to people and laugh. Oh and the other bonus, he found meds that wound up being helpful. It was awesome. If I  created a fantasy team with all of my mental health professionals over the years, (possible weekend activity) he would be in my top three. This is saying a lot. Unfortunately this is not the guy I am seeing today. He is crazy busy (bad pun) and I see this other lady. She is decent enough and gives me refills and, to my delight, that seems to be enough right now in my current stage of good health. So tonight as you are drinking you red wine or hard liquor while watching people with flags and torches, know I will be sitting in my comfy bed with a delightful cocktail of my own (yay for sleeping pills and mood stabilizers.) Hopefully I won’t be sending Ambien-fueled text messages that I don’t remember in the morning. Either way I hope to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of Bob Costas talking about the history of Croatia’s gymnastics uniforms while being thankful for my medicated happy self.  Go Olympics!

I think when you spend over a year dealing with severe often suicidal depression you start to ponder a lot about yourself, those around you, and the world as a whole. You think about things you were never forced to consider before. Of all the different beliefs that were cemented in my thoughts during this past year, there is one I am more certain of then all the rest: Crazy people love PayDay candy bars. Now let me clarify, I do not believe all people who are mentally ill eat PayDays, that would be a ridiculous sweeping generalization. I do, however, believe anyone who eats a PayDay is some form of diagnosed or undiagnosed crazy. This stance is based on a lot of research. In my life, before I had my lovely stay at the mental hospital, (which I also like to refer to as one of Cleveland’s finest Bed and Breakfasts. No shit, Alton Brown would call it a delightful yet understated hidden gem.) I had never seen anyone eat a PayDay. During my brief residence at the crazy people B&B, I saw three different people eat them. I feel so strong in my convictions that if you see someone on the street eating a PayDay, you could ask them what SSRI they are currently on. I pretty much guarantee they would answer you with the same automatic response they have come accustomed to when answering the myriad of doctors they go to. And if you think about it, the crazy person/PayDay connection makes total sense because you have to be somewhat ill to be convinced this is a candy bar in the first place. A PayDay is a glorified hunk of nuts. Yet at every grocery store or drug store you go to, it has somehow gotten the glorious location of being with the good, chocolaty, legitimate candy bars. I mean really, the Bit-O-Honey has more of a right to be there. Now prehaps you are a PayDay fan and none of this makes sense to you. To you I say “Let me know if you need a good psychiatrist, I know tons of them.”  

“There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age eleven.” - Dave Barry

I don’t expect much from other people on my birthday but I do like to really celebrate the heck out of it.
I think when you have had a couple of suicide attempts, it does feel like a bit of a big deal to have once again made it.
Don’t get me wrong. I think everyone should really go all out for their own birthday. Attempting to off yourself in the past is not a requirement.
I feel really good and healthy this year, and just like birthdays, I am not taking that for granted. So happy day everyone and eat something sinful on my behalf. 

My favorite room in our house is my son’s room. It has been put together with memory after memory and decorated with handmade artwork by cherished family members. There are needlepoints from both his bubbies, the one he is named after and the one whose house has become his second home. There is also one from his Aunt Klara. I am telling you this kid has some serious needle-pointing genes working in his favor.
Large canvases painted by his cousins hang on the wall along with wooden initials his Aunt painted, all done in the days right after he was born.
There is also a picture I drew. When you are a mom and your child starts bringing home art projects you hang them everywhere so of course my son want to hang the picture I drew. Pretty cute and flattering, huh? 
Every so often my son will ask about one of the pieces of artwork. He likes to know where they came from and I am sure he feels the love that went into making these treasures. Also sometimes he just likes to stall before going to bed.
I assume one day he will ask about the picture I gave him.
“Mom, when did you make that picture?”
“Last Winter.”
“Where?” 
“Well you see son there is this thing called the Intensive Outpatient Program for people with Mood Disorders. It’s kinda like a summer camp, if the majority of your fellow campers are suicidal. Anyway there was an art therapy class and I made it there.”
“Oh, can I have a snack?’
Cause that is the thing about kids, one minute they are asking tender profound questions and the next minute they just want some goldfish crackers.