A Good Book Is a War

I’m reading two amazing, very different books right now. The first is Tawna Fenske‘s Getting Dumped, for Kindle, and Joshilyn Jackson‘s Grown-Up Kind of Pretty. I’ll talk more about Tawna’s later this week, but for now I want to focus on Joss’s and on good books and reading in general. (Tawna’s is, of course, good.)

I was waiting for a dear friend to meet me the other day, so I had Joss’s book with me. I sat down on a bench across from the Coldstone Creamery and began to read. See, I believe in staring down my weaknesses. Books are the same. A good book is a war on yourself. I read the first eight pages of Joss’s book, its prologue, and had to set it down because I couldn’t swallow for the lump in my throat. (I had to set Tawna’s book down after the first ten, too, but that was because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t see straight for the tears.)

I could easily have not picked it back up, if I’m honest. The book promised to wring me dry. I just read another book like that last week, and am still a bit shaky. (Enter Tawna’s book as antidote.) I could have stopped reading Joss’s and been oblivious, and happy, and, uh, able to swallow. But I read to feel. I need to read good books – comedic or otherwise. I must experience this story. The pain we explore through reading primes us to deal with it in our own lives, gives us an outlet to respond to ours through pondering these stories, characters, moments. I can feel myself expanding as I read, my heart stretching to hold it.

Reading is like that. It is not safe, nor lazy, nor luxurious, really. Even humorous books like Tawna’s stretch you, only they do it with positive emotions like love, joy, satisfaction – what do these concepts mean to us, not abstractly but literally? when we lie in bed at night staring at the crack in the ceiling, we are not pondering the absolute meaning of truth, the metaphysical quality of life that makes us human. We are on the front lines of that life, and we are regretting a harsh word, hoping for tomorrow’s phone call, tossing and turning our beliefs into moments. Books give us other people’s moments for consideration. They enrich us with possibilites and that is why they are dangerous.

It is not in thinking that we are in jeopardy, but in feeling.

Try New Things

I had the opportunity to do something new this week. I can’t be specific, but it was something I never thought I would do. Or even have the opportunity to do – not because it’s hardcore but because it’s something I never thought *to* do, and if I had, would never have done it before. But I’m friends with someone who does this thing and she suggested I try it. I jumped at the idea.

It was very freeing to do something you know you couldn’t have done in your past life. (It would not have been okay with my ex.) It was freeing to do something new, to expand yourself a little, and to help some people out while you were at it. (Believe me, I wish I could be specific, it would be much easier.) It was freeing to say yes when you realize there’s no reason to say no.

This one, especially I’d like to talk about. How often do we say no without reason? “I just never saw myself doing that.” Did you ever try to see yourself doing that? Probably not. And even when we can come up with reasons not to – scheduling, finances – they’re usually things that can be accounted for, and again, you’re left with, well why don’t you?

I think it really does come down to comfort levels. I don’t mean this in a bad way, just people get into routines easily. They establish habits. And often they’ll blindly turn down anything that doesn’t conform to that routine or pattern because it doesn’t conform to that routine or pattern. While I usually talk about big things in this regard, like divorce or moving or careers, it’s true at a micro level too. We don’t arrange to meet those friends we haven’t seen in years, we don’t take that one-day cake-decorating class we’re kind of interested in, we don’t attempt to make bagels at home (what?), we don’t do anything we think is too out of our normal mode.

So even if you still say no – do so after you seriously think about why, and what. What about the suggested activity triggers that negative response? Does something about the idea embarrass you, and should you do the thing to get over that? Are you afraid of being bad at it? Should you do the thing to get over that? On and on.

Think. Act. Enjoy.

If you’re a writer, make it a habit to say yes. To paraphrase Hemingway, you can’t write about a life you don’t live.

Blame the Bagels

for the delay in getting this post up.

I love to bake. So instead of blogging, I made bagels. I’m not sorry. They’re too amazing to be sorry for. I can’t get store bought bagels after trying these. Seriously easy to make – took me three hours start to finish, half of it inactive. I followed the recipe here with some changes. I didn’t refrigerate; I used active dry yeast instead of instant (mixed in with the flour, didn’t even proof it); and instead of syrup I just added sugar to the dry ingredients. Also, I do my rises in the oven with it set to warm, even though I have a very warm apartment. Faster that way.

So. Bagels.

Dough, after first rise and cut into eighths

Shaped, boiled, and ready to bake.

Ta da!

Perfection.

On Friendship, Thoughts

Sometimes I feel small.

I’ve been sick all weekend with the plague, worried about things – money, my revisions, money, several dear friends going through hell, impending loss of health insurance, but mostly those dear friends. I feel helpless, frustrated, and small.

Which is ironic since I was just talking about this all last week, no?

Thing is, this is purely situational. I hate seeing my friends hurt. I hate being hurt. I hate hurting people. It sucks all around. I just want the situations to resolve, to end.

The similarities on the surface between how I felt and what I wanted when I felt like this years ago, as I talked about last week, and how I feel and what I want now are striking.

And yet, looking further, so very different.

I feel helpless because I am helpless. I can’t fix the problems my friends have; I can’t usher in a resolution. I feel small because these situations make me see how big the world is and how complicated. And frustrated because, well, wouldn’t you be? I’ve never been a patient person and my friends don’t have timelines on their problems. I wish they did. Endurance is easier when you know there’s a finish line, and where it is.

So I find myself in a familiar place.

But I am not the same person standing there. And that is the most important difference.

I have seen that I am not always helpless, that I can choose to act, that I am strong, and brave. I have dug deep into myself and become more self-aware and authentic. I am not small. I can see my frustration is borne out of a desire to do something. I don’t have to let it control me, knowing I can’t do anything.

I hope my friends can move through their problems soon and with minimal damage. Oh, do I. The thing about authenticity and the relationships it fosters is that you feel a lot more, and deeper. So I know my friends feel even worse than I do. I just hope that as they stand in that familiar place, they are not the person I used to be, either, and that they know they aren’t standing there alone.

The A Team

Okay, this is the last post related to depression for now, I think.

I mentioned the A Team in The Depression Post and I wanted to explain it. (Click here for the second post on this topic, about meds.)

It’s probably not a surprise that I can be kind of out-going and people tend to like me. I don’t want to say I’m often the center of attention, but kind of. I tend to lead naturally, is probably the better way of putting it.

When I checked myself in to the psych ward, this held true. I contributed to the activities time and then also to the group therapy time. Oddly, the psych ward I went to was usually full of older people with drug problems, but the week I was there it was full of younger people suffering from depression. Two guys had been committed after overdosing accidentally, which were interpreted as suicide attempts. I don’t know how it happened but soon we were calling ourselves the A Team and expressly stated to the nurses that our goal was to make the other patients smile every day. We would be ridiculously goofy to do it, or just littler things – one older woman saw me reading my Bible and asked me to please read to her. It became a challenge.

The thing is, I was in my own therapy, I was struggling and journaling and it’s not like I had it all together. But going outside myself like that offered its own healing. It empowered me to see the other patients respond. I was at a place in my life where I felt everything was out of my control, and I was weak and useless. To see that I wasn’t, even when I was down and out myself, meant something.

Something I have learned in the seven months (as of today, exactly) since moving out is how much other people matter. Which sounds backward, really, but allow me to explain. I had been surrounded by good people, but there was always a wall and it took me a long time to figure out I had put it there, because I was pretending, because of a lot of reasons. So while these lovely people were quite lovely, and I cared a great deal about them and they me, it was hard to truly feel connected to them.

But letting people in, and reaching out…. I wish I could explain how much this has been my lifesaver. Literally. Being authentic means having authentic relationships with people. I can’t begin to express how this is the best thing you can give yourself. I’m actually crying just trying to explain it. The capacity for love and trust and all the goodness life can ever give you can only be had through authenticity and letting people in and reaching out. And it has to be both. You can’t just open yourself up and expect people to come in, and you can’t only reach out. You have to give and take. That was a really hard lesson for me, but it’s true. And now I’m blubbering.

All I’m saying is, be your own A Team.

NYC

I apologize for the lateness – I meant to have this written before I left for NYC but that didn’t quite get done – revision or blogging, always such a toss-up, you know?

I have a lot I’d like to blog about but given the time press, I don’t want to rush a topic and not do it justice, so instead I’ll tell you about NYC today.

It always rains when I go to NYC. It’s just a bus ride, so I’d like to go more often, but the couple times I’ve been, it’s always rained. I’m sure there is deep meaning in that, but I’m going to ignore it. I went to Books of Wonder for the first time – eee, so cute! – for the 5 author signing last night. I got to meet a lot of people in person I have heretofore only pestered electronically. I’m sure they wish it could’ve stayed that way. (Eh, Dan Krokos?) Carrie Ryan, Julie Cross (YAY JULIE!), Beth Revis, Megan Miranda, and Maureen Lipinski did a really fun Q&A and then signed things. (Cos it was, you know, a signing.) They told stories about redheads and science and zombies and stuff.

And then I had calamari for the first time in over a year and remembered why I love calamari. And pinot grigio. And talking to people. Yay, people. (I’m a writer. I’ve been in the revision cave for months. PEOPLE ARE GOOD.)

My takeaways are: go to events. They are FUN. You can get good new book recs and hear about process and hear insight into the books you loved reading. And that I need a recipe for ginger blackberry scones, cos the ones in the BoW cafe were GOOD. And that book people are their own tribe and if you’re one of them you can fit in with the rest of them pretty easily. They’re a fairly laid-back bunch. We recognize our own.

And that I totally should not write filler blogs, so I apologize again, dear friends, but I need a nap.

The Meds Post

First, a great big thank-you to everyone who read, shared, or talked about last week’s Depression post. I need to share Sam’s comment, though, because it still gives me a lump in my throat every time I read it (emphasis mine):

I love this post. One of my best friends asked me recently if going on medication for depression was weak, or stupid, or ridiculous. Their parents had said it was — but this is a person that sometimes seems like they’re drowning. I wish that posts like this one were more common. Especially as someone still in high school, it seems like they could save people.

Oh. Oh. Friends, this is why I blog. And that comment is the perfect introduction to what I want to talk about today: meds came up, and a lot of people feel the way Sam’s friend’s parents do. Some people fighting depression themselves even feel that way, and then they don’t get the help they need.

It is most definitely NOT weak, or stupid, or ridiculous. In fact, it’s the opposite. Asking for – and making sure you get – help, and allowing other people to help you – those are some of the bravest things a person can do in life. Depression is an illness. You wouldn’t tell someone with diabetes not to take their insulin, just try harder not to feel sick, so why do so many people think they should be able to manage depression without meds? Some can, most can’t, the goal is to manage it however one must. There is no prize for being med-free, there’s only the life you’re living and how you’re living it.

My own history with meds is spotty. I went on Prozac shortly after I got married, I think, and it didn’t do anything so I stopped taking it. I tried herbal sleep helps, thinking if I could just get the anxiety aspect of my problem under control, and could sleep better, I wouldn’t be so stressed and could handle negativity better. I did sleep a bit better, but the rest didn’t change. When I went in the hospital, I was on a cocktail of Ambien, Ativan, and more Prozac, juggled around to Seroquel, eventually. Seroquel is a powerful antipsychotic commonly used to treat bipolar disorder. While I wasn’t bipolar (although perhaps on the very edge of the spectrum), the important part was the Seroquel seemed to get me settled, so I took it. (It also made me fat and lethargic and I felt like I was kind of in a mental haze. I hated it.)

I prefer to be med-free, if I can. I will go on something if I need to, but my preference is not to take anything if I can help it, simply because my body is so sensitive and I don’t like playing with chemicals. However, that is me, and my reasons have nothing to do with thinking meds are bad. I absolutely encourage meds if you need them. I think they can be tremendously helpful. They didn’t work the best for me, so I stopped taking them, but I would never generalize because of that.

Here’s how I see it:

When I first started my running program, I went balls to the wall on the treadmill. And nearly couldn’t go back two days later. I had to cut my first workout a little short, even, because I couldn’t do it at whatever crazy speed I’d put the treadmill on. And it occurred to me, the point was to get through it. I wasn’t competing in the Olympics. I didn’t need to be fast or any good at running. I just needed to do it. So I slowed the treadmill down. I encouraged myself – just one more interval, Jess, you can get through one more. Whatever it took to get me to the end of the workout. I’ve not cut a workout short since. Even if I had to run the whole thing at a snail’s pace, I did it.

Meds are like that. The goal is to get through life, is to have a life, is to live a life. If you need to slow the treadmill down, do it. Another way? What I’m doing right here. Talking about it. Staying silent would mean my depression still had power over me. I refuse to let it. When I feel myself slipping that way, the first thing I do now is tell my friends so. I will take a moment here to throw that out there: surround yourself with a support system that gets you. I look like I have things all together (kind of) (also, HA) but I wouldn’t be here at all without several friends and family, some of whom don’t even know the impact their support of me has had. (And some of them do. ♡) If someone makes you feel small, or like the problem is “just you”, say thank you for your opinion and do not take it to heart. Don’t. If you’re in school and it’s your parents, they love you and they mean well, but talk to someone else.

So, that’s what I have to say about meds. Meds are not good or bad, they’re a resource. Take them if you need them. The goal here is to live.

Book of the Month: HOW TO SAVE A LIFE, Sara Zarr

The middle Friday of every month is my regular Book of the Month feature, but I’m back to talking about depression on Monday if you’ll be kind enough to stop by again. Some things:

Thank you for your response. It means the world to me. Also, someone pointed me to a couple other posts you should read: Allie Brosh of the amazing Hyperbole and a Half, and this earnest post from Strong Inside Out. Amy and Allie both do a great job of capturing the emotions I don’t go into as much. You feel isolated, worthless, stupid – you wonder what’s wrong with you when there shouldn’t be anything wrong with you. Read their stories.

This month’s BotM is a young adult novel by Sara Zarr, HOW TO SAVE A LIFE. I’ve heard nothing but good things about Sara for years but never read her. I don’t lean toward straight contemps. But I saw the summary of this one, and when it came out at the bookstore, I read the first couple pages. I had to read it. I borrowed the book, devoured it, and then bought the copy.

 

WHY THIS BOOK: The characters. Mandy has one of the most aching real characterizations/voices I’ve ever seen. She made me uncomfortable in her ideas about life and men. I absolutely squirmed reading her chapters. Which made the story that much more perfect, resonant, as it progressed. The story went to places you expected, but many you didn’t.

WHO SHOULD READ THIS BOOK: Anyone who loves chick flicks, a good heart-warmer, and who doesn’t mind crying a bit.

 

The Depression Post

I hope by now everyone has seen The Bloggess’s post on depression. If not, go read it. I’ll wait. (I’m not asking.)

A friend and I were discussing it, and how widespread depression is – neither of us knew the other had battled it – and how one thing we wish is that it weren’t taboo to talk about it. Basically, everything The Bloggess said. I mentioned how I had blogged my struggle with it, and then remembered (again) that I couldn’t point her to it because my archives vanished. I decided to revisit the topic.

I struggled with depression for most of my life. My mother showed me papers from a psych evaluation describing me as an unusually stressed five-year-old. I consider myself an old soul, in ways, and one of them is I never had the carefree joy of many of my peers, ever. I toyed with self-harm, with suicide. One thing I won’t say is that I was “the typical emo kid,” because that’s exactly the idea I’m fighting. There is no such thing as a typical emo kid. There are people who hurt, and while the experience of hurting is not unique, pain is individual. Pain is one of the things that makes the human experience so damn solitary. We share each other’s joys; joy suffuses people. Pain does not. We can empathize and sympathize, but we can never carry each other’s pain. I wish to god we could. I know people who if I could physically yank their hurts from them and carry them so they didn’t have to, I would do it in a heartbeat. And it breaks me that I can’t.

It’s one reason depression is so hard to understand. People who haven’t fought it can literally not grasp the agony of it, sometimes. While this can be frustrating, I’m glad for them that this is the case. I wouldn’t want anyone to know such depths. It’s part of the spectrum of the human experience, but one I’m glad not everyone sees.

I had hoped that in attempting Christianity and marrying, I would find the peace I had craved. The happiness and stability that my lifestyle should have afforded me. It didn’t. It got worse. I recognize now this is largely because of problems within both of those propositions – the marriage and the Christianity, neither of which worked for me. But what this means is that in October 2009, I spent a week on a psych ward.

I had a full-time job, I hadn’t finished a book in a year, my marriage was trying to recover from some shaky times the year before, and I was battling so hard against my own demons: the doubt, the self-hate, the worthlessness. And then the worst possible thing that could happen, did. I got pregnant and miscarried very early. Twice. I was on birth control but it wasn’t working. I mentioned in my last post how sensitive my body is – most women wouldn’t have even known they were pregnant, but I could tell. And it was never supposed to happen.

This was absolutely devastating because one point of contention in my marriage was having kids. That is, I wanted to and he didn’t. (I’m not spilling any secrets here, everyone who knew us knew this.) So finding out I was pregnant was sickening – I was at once ecstatic and lost, because my ex was so upset about it, and then it was a moot point when neither stuck. The second time happened right around my birthday in September and sent me reeling.

I woke up the first week of October and decided I was either going to get ready for work and step in front of the train or I was going to have my neighbor drive me to the hospital. I don’t remember making the choice, I just remember walking downstairs on autopilot and knocking on the door. When my neighbor answered, all I said was, “I need to go to the hospital,” and sat in silence the whole way there.

When I explained to the ER staff why I had come, they asked if I would admit myself. I did.  I told them I needed to get away from my life. I spent a week going to therapy and having my meds adjusted. I ended up off the meds by April 2010 and done with the therapy. My therapist declared me one of the healthiest people he had ever seen.

It was all an act. I put up blinders and made it work.

In retrospect, I never felt much better about myself. It was part of trying to force things to work that didn’t, and made me feel worse. I wondered what was wrong with me to be so miserable in what was outwardly a perfect life. I feared I didn’t know how to be healthy or happy. Feeling trapped, worthless, and stupid makes it very easy succumb to depression. I will say that since I left in June, I have not felt those things. I have felt helpless – because things are out of my control. I have felt bad about circumstances, because they’ve been bad, but I have not felt bad about myself. It’s a huge difference, and every day I feel stronger and better.

I don’t know if I’ll relapse someday. I could. I always could. That’s one reason I want to talk about it. There is no shame in depression. There is only the struggle. Struggle is a sign of life. It is not a weakness.

One of the most chilling memories from my time on the ward was dinner, maybe my third night. I quickly established myself as a focal point for the other patients, because I’m like that. Me and what I termed the A Team made a goal of making everyone else smile every day. One girl rarely left her room and she didn’t talk. There was partially a language barrier, as her English wasn’t good, but mostly her own depression. That night she came out to dinner and sat at my table. As we’re eating, she looked up and simply asked, “Are we crazy?”

I said, “No, we’re not. There’s no such thing as normal. It’s relative. Everybody needs help sometimes with something. That’s okay.”

She replied, “Thank you.”

They were the only five words I heard her speak the entire week I was there.

You Can Start Again

Inertia is deadly. It’s also an excuse. One can change direction midstream, or start from non-movement. It’s hard and tiring but it’s DOABLE.

That was my gym lesson last week. I’m very hard-core and focused and my one rule has been never, ever stop. If I stop, I won’t start again. Especially during the push-through. But at the gym, the window in front of my treadmill wasn’t open and omg I was so hot. I couldn’t take it anymore. I hit pause – during the push-through! – hopped off, opened the window, got back on, and hit start again.

:blinkblink:

Well.

It can be done.

The treadmill started up and I moved. That was all there was to it.

I moved.

I’m pretty sure I’ve said before that the anticipation of a thing is almost always worse than the doing. As my New Year’s Eve beer cap asked me, “What exactly are you waiting for?”

Sometimes life is hell. Sometimes it really really is. I’m not going to say platitudes like, “it’s not that bad.” Sometimes it really is. But it’s rarely ever as bad as we make it in our heads. We live for worst-case scenarios. (This isn’t a bad thing, because sometimes they happen, and because exceeding our expectations regularly is encouraging. Not that being doom-and-gloom all the time is a good thing, either, but it has its place.)

We set ourselves up for failure when we don’t even try. When we tell ourselves out of the gate we can’t do a thing. That is the only failure. Henry Ford said, “whether or not you believe you can do a thing, you are right.” If you think you won’t be able to start again if you stop, you won’t start again if you stop. We become what we think we are, even if it’s not true to start with. That’s why my one word is so important to me. It’s a reminder: I am brave. Not, maybe I can be brave. I am.

You can start again. You can start at all.