Roots

There is so much sadness in my community this weekend. The sadness doesn't touch my life directly, but it ripples through my community. The community we live in and are surrounded by. The community we contribute to and rely on. Our village. Our branches may not directly touch, but if you dig a little deeper, you find the roots grown deep and are strongly intertwined. The roots that hold us upright and keep us nourished, the roots that keep us steady when the winds blow too hard.

This weekend our community has lost another child to cancer. A police officer died trying to keep our community safe. Neighbors and friends watched as their life's work literally went up in flames. Communities surrounding us were leveled by tornadoes. It's hard not to have a heavy heart. My soul feels for each and every one of them. My heart physically hurts.

When there is so much sadness around, sometimes we are forced to reflect on our own lives. We are reminded to find gratitude. That in any moments time, the world we know as ours could change. There is no way to know what tomorrow brings, only to trust in God's plan.

As I reflect on my community, I see so much goodness. I can't help but be reminded to be thankful for the small moments, to be grateful for the people around me who teach me so much about life, love, and faith, and the ability to give and receive love. Through the tragedy, I know there will grow hope and kindness. I know that each tear will sprout love in someone else's heart. I am grateful to feel safe in the faith that despite heartache, sadness and tragedy, there is the opportunity for humanity and goodness to grow.

I am so grateful for my roots. I am grateful they are planted right here, and I am grateful that BR and I share that in common. I am grateful those roots sprouted lifelong friendships. I spent time with friends this weekend that I have been blessed to call my friends for over 20 years. Friends that I know will have my back, friends I know help keep me growing towards the sun despite the clouds. And I am not just grateful for my roots. I am grateful that I can see Pooks's roots starting to dig deeper. I am grateful that the roots I have spent time cultivating have sprouted new meanings for her. That those life long friendships of mine have returned in lifelong friendships between our children. That they already have the ability, at age 9, to get right back into sync as if no time has passed. Their branches extend in different directions, but we all belong to the same tree. The same system. We all stand tall and strong together. I am so happy my child gets to grow roots here.

I find gratitude in moments. That in every single one the 20,000 moments a day, that my heart is full. Thanks For safety and health, for perspective and growth. I am grateful for moments of reflection, for the ability to know that whatever comes our way, we can endure. I am thankful to those who bravely blaze the trail ahead, sharing their stories and opening their hearts to allow me to learn from their paths.

My heart is heavy. But only a heart that is full can be so heavy. I hurt for my community. I am praying for peace on so many levels. And I am saying thanks for the ability to be loved, be filled with love, love them and feel pain for them. Ready to dig my roots in deeper, and extend my branches to embrace those limbs who have withstood the wind of the storms, but are still hanging on.

Tonight, I am loving on my family. Praying to my God. Embracing my community. Strengthening my roots. Ready to help hold steady while the wind blows.

Closets

Closets. We don't think about them much, but interestingly enough, they have been a frequent topic of conversation around here lately. It started at a super bowl party, where the lovely hostess' pantry looked like a clip of a magazine. I started reflecting on my home. Sure, I can keep up appearances. As long as you don't come to our house on a Thursday or Friday, I will generally let you in the door without much hesitation. It's not the cleanest. It's lived in. You may find crumbs and handprints, you may find toothpaste in a sink or spots on a mirror. There are coats and toys and shoes about. But generally, if you are showing up on my doorstep, I will let you in.
My closets and cabinets on the other hand, now those are another story. There is generally a loud sigh that is released anytime I open a closet or cabinet. Because most weeks, the only way I can keep up appearances on the outside, is to close some of my clutter behind closed doors.
I am not proud of it. And it's not like I find it acceptable or want to spend an extra 10 minutes looking for Pook's other shoe. But it's a survival technique. Sometimes the way life works is that we stuff the things we can't handle dealing with into a closet. About every couple months I will manage to weed through a closet enough to make it functional and acceptable again. I get rid of things, I sort through things, and put them back neatly where they belong. But they never stay that way. They never stay neat and organized. It's just really hard work.
Pooks came home from her dad's last week really upset about her closet. She has always loved closets- they are small, cozy spaces where she keeps all of her treasures and imagination. She has been known to sleep in her closet, to play in her closet, and to hide in any closet she can. It is a safe place for her. She was upset that her closet had been disrupted. That someone made her watch and help to move stuff from what is no longer her closet. "Smad" that her closet had to be relocated at all. At first I didn't get it. But as the week progressed, it really made me think about the things I hold in my closets. In my cabinets. That when BR and Pooks start rooting around in the cabinet, I start getting really nervous. Not only will they not be able to find what they are looking for, but they will be touching all the stuff I may be covering up in my closet. They may uncover things I forgot about. They will be moving it and it may not go back the way it was before. They may touch something and everything may fall out at them. Because that's the thing about closets. What they hold can be so personal. And I realized that just like everyone else, Pooks buries things for safe keeping in her closet.
The closets in my house are a great example of someone living with depression. And while yes, I am one of those people, I mean this is the most generic of senses.
People with depression are often able to put on a show. They can hold it together when they need to. They can make it seem like everything on the surface is perfect and put together. Their houses may be neat and clean and they might invite people in. You may set foot inside their lives everyday and never think that there could be anything different about them. But further inside...inside of their closets are piles. Piles of feelings, of events, of questions, of fears. There are piles on top of piles, piles hiding things, and piles that no matter how hard you sort, will never have a place. In those piles are memories, keepsakes, things so precious you wonder how they ended up lost in a pile. There is also a lot of trash, a lot of grime, grime that sticks and clouds and camouflages all of those treasures.
Sometimes, your closet gets cleaned and there is this HUGE sense of relief. And for a few weeks, you live with the doors of your closet wide open and you do everything in your power to enjoy all of your thoughts being put together and in the right place. You feel proud that your piles are small and that you know where to find things and life is efficient. But you know it won't last. You know one day, you will put one item that one piece that doesn't fit in your life, and continue to shove in emotions until the closet can't hold anymore. You know that there will come a time when you can no longer find the words you're looking for. When it takes you longer to retrieve that treasured feeling. When the pile grows until it bursts the door open, and you just can't shove it all back in the way it was. When the door won't shut and you just can't hide it anymore. And you're stuck either looking at it, walking around it, or dealing with it. If you have the energy, support and coping skills, the cycle starts over. If you don't, the piles start to grow on the outside. Until you no longer feel like you can even let people in. Until no one tries to knock on your door anymore. Until you're spending a lot of time, alone, overwhelmed by all of your stuff that can no longer be hidden in a closet.
Don't be fooled by appearances. Closets have doors for a reason.
On most days, I will let you into my house without reservation. And if I trust you, I will even let you see my closet. But don't expect me to let you rummage through it or for me to keep it clean. The clutter of my mind is deep. It's jumbled. It's complicated. Sometimes all I have the energy to do is close the door and pretend it's not full of stuff.

Happy Pills

I have been thinking a lot about my depression lately. The weather, the anniversaries, the gloom all bring me to a place of reflection. Right now, I am so blessed to be in a good place. I am medicated, functioning, and feel good. I have daily struggles that I know I will deal with for the rest of my life, but I am happy to say that I have found a certain amount of peace. I get up in the morning with little struggle. I function all day without a nap. I trust people, I see a future, I see hope, and I am able to build a plan to work to get us there. I get overwhelmed and anxious, I get sad and down, but we make it through without much incident. It isn't lasting. I am a functioning parent and adult, I am in a healthy relationship, and I have a career and true friends. Life is good.
I have never been shy about talking about my disease. Maybe that is because I have had a lot of years to deal with it. Maybe it is because unlike some people, I can say without a doubt that mine is a chemical imbalance. Maybe, because of this, it makes it less personal and more physiological. I don't know. But other than some whispers around school in 10th grade, my depression has pretty much been out loud, present and acknowledged, and open for conversation. Pretty Much.

I was getting my medicine out of the cabinet and must have muttered, "Need to take my medicine..."
Pooks was standing there. It's not that I have ever hidden my medicine from her, but I don't know that I have ever mentioned having to take medicine every day. She asked, "Do you have a headache?"
I paused. Her and I have been having a lot of grown up conversations lately. Things in her life are changing, things in her body are changing, and we have a lot of talks about life. I want to be the one thing that remains constant. But even though we have been having these big girl talks, when She asked me why I needed to take medicine if I didn't feel sick or have a headache, I hesitated. It's not that I am ashamed that I take medication to control my condition. I got over that a long time ago. And more than anything, I want her to know that it's okay that I do. But how do you explain depression to a 9 year old?
I am grateful, so grateful, that I have to explain it, and it's not something that I am a living example of every day. And I am grateful beyond that, that even though she is highly sensitive and emotional, depression isn't a part of her own identity. But how do you put into words to your 9 year old something that other adults don't even understand?

I had never considered the fact that one day I would have to explain this to her. And I never considered the fact that I would feel like a bad mom for having to do so. Or be at a loss for words. But I did. And I was. So...I told her that sometimes mommy's brain had a hard time remembering to see the good around her and had a hard time seeing the bright side of things. That there were chemicals in my brain that didn't work the right way, and the medicine helped them work. That the medicine ultimately kept me from being sad a lot of the time. She responded by climbing in my lap, hugging me tightly, and kissing my face gently. It was horrifying and liberating all at the same time.

Was that the right thing to say? I don't know. But you can't tell your child that you used to lay in bed and cry and not be able to function. You can't tell her that you still have trouble organizing your thoughts and dealing with your feelings. You can't tell her that if you don't take this pill, that you are so overwhelmed with life that you shut down completely because don't have your own coping skills. You don't want her to know that some days it takes every ounce of energy you have to get up out of the bed to brush your teeth. You don't ever, ever, ever want her to think that tucking her in feels like work, or that she is one of the only reasons you are able to keep it together. You don't ever want to burden her with your disease.

I have had a few weeks to think about my explanation. The other day on Facebook, there was a survey to ask your child their opinions about you, and one of the questions was, "What makes me (mommy) happy?". I was relieved when Pook's first response was, "Me!"...and my heart dropped when her second response was, "And your medicine".
Ouch. Wasn't expecting that one to sting. I tried to explain that wasn't entirely true. The medicine didn't make me happy. The people in my life do. The medicine just helps my brain be able to make sense of it. But did she get it? I don't know.

I hope that sometime in these next few months, years, that I can articulate to her what I know is somewhere in my heart. That depression, is a malfunction of the body, just as much as high blood pressure and high cholesterol. I hope I can help her to understand that there is no shame in needing medicine to help your body operate properly. That a pill doesn't magically make you happy. I hope that I can find a way to let her know that depression doesn't make you weak- it makes you stronger. It makes you have to fight harder. It makes life more complicated, but no less beautiful. I pray she is an advocate- that she continues to use her natural empathy and compassion to help the little people. I pray more than anything, that I have to explain it better one day, because she doesn't know how it feels.

Breaking the stigma of mental health issues starts at home. It starts early. It starts with love and openness. It means hard conversations, it means unconditional love, it means speaking up. It means telling my 9 year old that sometimes people- even mommies- need help. And that is ok. It doesn't mean you're any less of a friend, of a person, of a mom. It means allowing myself to admit that to her. It means admitting it to myself over and over again every day.