Knock it the Fuck Off

“Knock it the fuck off”

I was told that this weekend and it was some of the best advice I have ever received

It was said at an improv workshop, led by the fantastically talented Dave Razowsky.

He told us that improvisers are actors and we were doing ourselves a disservice by not referring to ourselves as such. I told him I didn’t think I had the right to call myself an actor as I truly didn’t believe I possessed that talent.

His response was honest and meaningful.

It ranged from the aforementioned knock it [the stupid shit we tell ourselves] the fuck off to the beautiful “Let this be the last day we live small.”

Dave shared his wisdom and talent with a group of 12 or so of us improvisers actors. He shared in the most literal definition of the word. His passion, skill, warmth, we got to experience all of it. It was beautiful

While so many things he said affected me, the one I held on to the most was:

“Celebrate the uncertainty”

On stage, I can do that, In life, I find it much harder. 

The part of me that struggles with suicide is afraid of the uncertainty of a life that may have multiple stretches of severe depression. I find myself holding back on fully enjoying life because of the “not knowing” that comes with this chronic illness, and that is just a stupid way to live.

So I should probably knock it the fuck off.

Thanks Dave.

99 Problems and One Person to Help You Work Through Them

I am married but I have never been on a first date in my life. My husband and I met through a friend, we hung out in groups, started a long distance relationship, I moved to the same city as him, and we eventually got married. And before our relationship, I never had a date either.  

My entire knowledge of the somewhat uncomfortable first date process comes from my friends and from watching lots of Friends episodes. So I have learned the odds are low, wine is involved, and when you find the right fit you breath a happy sigh of relief, And also there is a laugh track and recurring appearances by Janice.

And though I have never done the first date thing as a way to begin a romantic relationship I can understand the experience as I have had my own version of first dates known as “finding the right therapist.”

It’s the same drill. You share your story, try not to get your hopes up, and get really frustrated when you invest time in the wrong one. And then you find the right fit and you breath a happy sigh of relief.

I went on my share of crappy first therapy dates, had one nice long term relationship while living in Missouri. Then, eleven years ago, I moved to Cleveland and was back on the dating scene, I had a couple of false starts, and then like soul mates in a 90s films, I had that first date and knew I found my match.

I started seeing her in my 20s, or as I refer to it, the decade of blaming your parents. She helped me get all that out of my system and made me own my life and all that comes with that.

My therapist has laughed with me, and I was going to say cried with me, though I do not remember that ever happening. Oh, I have cried a shit ton, to be sure. I just don’t remember any mutual crying .

My therapist did something much more necessary than that,

She fought for me.

She fought for me to get the right help when the system was taking too long and most of all, she fought to keep me alive.

Nobody heard me utter the phrase “I just want to die.” more than my therapist, and she found 600 ways for me to hold on.

Nobody can stop someone from killing themselves. Nobody is responsible for another person’s suicide.

But I was lucky enough to have a tiny bit left to reach out and there was always something she had to offer; mental health advocacy and resources, meaningful words, a voice that said I won’t let you lose this fight.

I remember during the worst of the worst saying “I just want to die and my son to be okay.” 

And she replied “I think you’re forgetting that’s not possible.”

She didn’t say a coddling “Oh my god, you poor thing,” or a frustrated “Stop it. This is ridiculous.”

She just simply said the truth and for that moment it was perfect and it was enough.

In other words, my 90s film-like instincts were totally on. I had found the Jenny to my Forrest – no that’s not quite right.

I had found the wealthy man to my streetwise hooker – no that’s definitely not right.

I had found the therapist to myself

And I am grateful.

Hanging the fuck on

In order to love and be loved, I must choose to live.

I found these words I had written on a crayon drawing I made in a random art therapy session at mood disorder camp.

Out of context it seemed like a cheesy inspirational saying, to really experience and feel love you must “live out loud.” “be in the moment,” etc. We are told by motivational speakers and bad romantic comedies that we don’t want to passively live life, we want to be in the thick of it, and they are probably correct.

Yet for some of us, we are just trying to hang the fuck on, so we sit in a room of other people trying to hang the fuck on, or balance the fuck out, or feel like they can get through the day without breaking the fuck down and we write on a piece of paper anything that will help.

So I sat there staring, being told to draw a picture about what makes me happy and peaceful. Ending life came to mind, but I sensed that was not what the art therapist was looking for.

So I wrote a thought that comes natural to most people. If you’re dead you can’t love people or feel their love, and for a few hours, on that day, that was enough to keep sick me alive.

And I am healthy now, but as I looked at the piece of paper last night, I did not think “Duh, of course.” No, for a minute I remembered, with too much ease and intensity, what it felt like to need those words to stay alive and what it felt like when even those words didn’t seem like enough.

And then I thought of this weekend, being surrounded by those I love and those who love me, celebrating another year, and I felt grateful.

And that’s what life is for someone like me, feeling grateful and safe and healthy and loved, and in that same space also sensing the “ending it all” instinct and knowing it will probably always be hanging out in the background, a little too close for comfort. And so I do what I need to do, what I am healthy enough to do, I equip myself with the coping stuff I need and, every so often I look at the camera and yell “Munroe!”*

*A reference to the 80s sitcom Too Close for Comfort, if you didn’t get this, good for you for liking books and being outdoors, more than you do bad tv. If you did get it, we’re soul-mates.

 

 

 

 

 

In Need of a Plan

Do you have a plan?

A question asked of college graduates, presidential candidates, and the suicidal. And for any of these people, if you answer no, you are immediately taken less seriously.

I was raised by a planner, I married a planner.And then there is  me. I bristle at the idea of a schedule, a calendar, or even writing a grocery list.I feel a bit of guilt about my resistance. Sometimes you need to defer to what gives others comfort, like your husband knowing where your are for instance. I function with a lack of schedule, but as a family that is tricky.

As much as I try (not much) I will probably never be a planner.

So when I tell a psychiatrist I’m feeling suicidal and they inevitably ask ”Do you have a plan?”

I say “no” and immediately feel I have let them, and myself down.

C’mon Deena, how hard is it to come up with something, I chide myself?

“It doesn’t have to be fully fleshed out” I tell myself, just say something vague, like “Yes, it involves a razor, some stale  taco shells, and a VHS copy of Mars Attacks.”

But I say no, they seem relieved, and I promise myself to try harder next time.

Reading Some Depressays

Reading things from this blog out loud at an art exhibit.

(Source: http://www.youtube.com/)

Depression: A Very Special Mother’s Day Episode

 

I have often said the saving grace during my hellish depression was that my son’s life was not impacted at all. While there were some days he knew I wasn’t feeling well (and a whole trip to Florida to visit MY grandparents, that my husband so wonderfully took him on while I stayed here,) for my son, it was nothing he ever knew he had to worry about. And for the majority of my prolonged illness, I was able to care for him like I always do, with equal amounts love and tv watching.

While sick, I was fortunate enough to drop my son off at school and pick him up on an almost daily basis. Sure, for a few months, I would drop him off, go to an outpatient mood disorder program, have suicidal thoughts, and then pick him up, but he didn’t know that. Honestly, I could have showed up in a leg cast and one of those dog cones and as long as I had a treat for him in the car, he would have been completely un-phased.

Lots of things were unmanageable when I was sick. I stopped working, I stopped talking on the phone as much, I stopped watching So You Think You Can Dance, but I was able to take care of my son, this most important boy in my life.

The fact that I still could be such an active (well involved, I  not really an active anything) part of my son’s life was not due to some “pick yourself up by the bootstraps” mentality I had. It wasn’t that I was strong and mothers who can’t take care of their kids during depression are weak. It was that I was lucky, and these other moms, are not. I had my moments when I needed others to take over and if these moments became a way of life, I would have been a guilt-filled, suicidal mess.  

I often said taking care of my son was my saving grace, because it literally was. If I couldn’t have done that, I don’t know that I would have made it.

So thank you to everyone who mothered my son and me when we needed it – my husband, parents, family, friends, and for his many, many hours of service, Sponge Bob Squarepants.

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let me be your rent-a-depressive.

an audio file for those who are struggling.

pass it along.

Today’s advice for the hospitalized suicidal person (who has no social media access anyway)

Hospitals are a necessary evil and when you are well again (really, this does happen,) they provide the best comic fodder. Stay alive for the fodder. It would be a damn shame to not get that reward after your struggle.

For Anyone Who is in The Worst Place Ever

Are you feeling depressed right now?

Forget that, are you feeling like depression would be a huge fuckin upgrade?

Are you feeling, like you can’t even remember what it’s like to feel anything but the immense overwhelming need to be done with it all?

I get it

I can’t make it better and I won’t promise it will get better, though for me  it has, and I really thought that was never possible, but ignore that.

I am not here to cheer you up.

If “being cheered up” was the answer, you would feel awesome. It sucks that that is not the problem (and that well-meaning idiots think it is.)

One of the best feelings I had last year was when I was suicidal sitting in a room surrounded by other people who were in their worst depression ever.

It was “not being cheered up” personified.

It was “let me feel the same shittiness you feel and I am not going to cheer you up because I could not even fake that and there is no need for you to fake it either because that would be totally lost in this room right now.”

I wish I could be your rent-a-depressive. I would just lay next you in bed and we could moan together and cry and scream, or just stare at the same spot on a wall.

You would know, even though our crap is not the exact same, that you are not alone and maybe being in the room with that would be enough to get through a couple of hours.

I get it.

Feel everything you are feeling no matter how painful it is.

There is no need for guilt.

You do not have a weakness. You have an illness and oddly, that is awesome because even though you don’t believe it in this moment. illnesses can be treated. (I have a brain that has gotten electroconvulsive therapy. It worked and I never ever thought it would. There is help)

Pick a person, a hospital, and outpatient group and reach out, even though the act of reaching out seems like too much right now.

There are so many of us and you are worthy of getting better and of meeting others who say “I totally get your shit.”

I don’t even know you and in this moment I get you and identify with you more than most people in my own life.

You are not alone.

A year ago today I sat in my office ready to kill myself, but I didn’t do it.

I wonder if Doogie Howser ever typed that same sentence in one of his computer entries.

Hmm, maybe Doogie was the first blogger ever. Write that story Entertainment Weekly.

I don’t feel 100 percent these days but I do feel a huge amount, like what The Cheesecake Factory considers a reasonable dinner portion amount, better.

#shehecheyanu

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