I have been asked, countless times now, to describe my depression. I was never able to articulate it. Today I was thinking about it as I loaded yet another load of soiled clothes into the washer and I remembered that line from John Irving’s amazing book “The World According To Garp” “Beware of the Undertoad”. It sums things up quite nicely. I feel as if I am being pulled under water. Sometimes I fight and fight when I feel this horrific sadness, this horrible weight wash over me, and still other times I just submit. There is comfort here anyway, in this sadness, in this fatigue.

I appreciate everyone who took the time to comment on my last entry. The one part that I left out was that the cousin I mentioned was this one, the one I had been so incredibly close to. I emailed him and he hasn’t answered back, although he wrote my mom to thank her for her hospitality. I think that if I was being completely honest with myself I would say that as much as I have missed him, I don’t want him to see me, not like this.

For those of you who can commiserate about the tendency to hide I am sorry. I wouldn’t wish this on another person. For those of you who thought that I wouldn’t be obviously mentally ill in person I guess it would depend on the day. I go up and down.

Jane asked about whether or not I was reluctant to work on my phobias and the only answer I could give is I am tired of working on it. I have had three doctor’s appointments in the last week alone. I am on a few more prescriptions so now I have an even longer list and I am starting to forget the names of the pills. I just make a little pile in the morning. I quit going to my psychiatrist awhile back. He was a nice man, but he spent most of the sessions telling me stories about his life and his mental illness. I was appreciative that he was open and honest about his life but he soon started to tell the same stories over and over and I would sit on the couch listening. My insurance pays for 20 visits in a 24 month period and I am afraid that I wasted them telling a man that I understood why he freaked out that one time and whipped his dog. I really didn’t understand but I didn’t know what to say to that one. I need to go through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy again. I did it in the 90s and I need to do it again, never mind how much I hated it, it helped in the end.

Spring break is over today and I dread waking the kids in the morning. I think they had fun. Nathan spent the majority of his time hanging out with his girlfriend, asleep, or on the phone. Polly went to a variety of sleepovers, as well as having a few girls stay the night here. That involved meeting some moms I hadn’t met before, and although I dreaded and fretted I made it through those meetings and they let their girls stay the night in my home so I must not have done too badly. I’ve noticed that I don’t know what to do with my hands when I am talking. I need to remember to wear something with pockets because sometimes my hands shake and seeing them shake makes me even more nervous.

We had Maggie spayed this week. She is recovering nicely. Except for her shaved belly and the strip of fur missing from her arm where they put the IV in you wouldn’t know it to look at her. The first day she was sore and very sleepy and now she is back to chasing cats and birds around with glee.

The 23^rd anniversary of my dad’s death passed on the 27^th. Unlike last year I didn’t write about my feelings. I did talk with him in my mind, but I do that everyday. I used to be so angry at him for leaving me. Now that I understand more how sick he was I will ask him how he made it to the age of 57, ‘cause I am 35 here and I don’t know how to keep going. I think though that I am selfish and egocentric. I want to create at least one masterpiece before I go. Just one.

When I first started this site I imagined that it was going to be my way of reaching out to others who were living with depression and panic disorder. I thought that having lived with these illnesses for so long I would have something to say that might help others. I quickly realized that in order for me to cope, to function, to move on, I couldn’t spend a lot of time focusing on my symptoms. I needed to get busy doing other things or I would exasperate my symptoms and trigger new ones.

One of the side effects I haven’t really been too keen on divulging to anyone is the guilt I feel at my inability to function properly in social situations. About a week and a half ago my mom called to let me know that one of my cousins would be stopping in Portland for the weekend on his trip around the globe. She also told me of some friends of the family who currently live in New York who would be here in April. Before the weekend, which has since passed, I began to fret. I first started fretting about my appearance. I imagined that I needed a haircut and something had to be done about my fingernails with the ragged cuticles and torn hangnails. Then I began to fret about my clothes. I pulled out my skirts and dresses from where they hang forgotten and dusty and tried each one on, fretting over dry cleaning and ironing and oh my god I am going to have to wear stockings and I need a new pair of shoes because my best pair is caked with mud because I am always outside with the dog, in the rain.

After I had perused a few websites looking for shoes I can’t afford I came to the conclusion that I also needed a new dress because everything I own is black, and I realized my cousin’s visit fell on Easter weekend and I wouldn’t look very spring like.

I found the perfect dress and the prefect shoes. I found a control undergarment that promised to flatten my not so flat belly and I started to calm down imagining myself entering the door of my mom’s house dressed in the pastel hue of a freshly dyed Easter egg with my hair freshly trimmed and my makeup carefully applied.

Later that evening as I was undressing for my shower I glanced in the mirror. My roots, they are so grown out. I realized then that I wasn’t going to be able to go until I had my highlights touched up. As I lathered myself in the shower I tallied up my mental purchases and came to the staggering sum of 500 dollars needed for me to feel comfortable enough to be seen. It was only when I was faced with the dollar sign that I knew I needed to step back and look at what was really bothering me.

What I came up with, after much personal reflection, was I was afraid to be seen by someone who hadn’t laid eyes on me in so many years not only because I have low self esteem about my physical exterior, although that doesn’t help, but because I have never been able to shake the suspicion that people can tell that I am mentally ill just by looking at me. I fear that they will know that I am in the midst of a panic attack. I fear loss of self control, creating a scene, having to flee the party but having no way to get out because I have arrived in someone else’s car.

I have heard countless times that when you have panic disorder your fight or flight response is skewed. I understand that, but my flight response only kicks in when I am away from home. My number one response is TO HIDE.

I tried to calm myself down in the days to come. I finally called my mom and told her that I would not be going. She protested heavily and ended by telling me that if I changed my mind I only had to call for a ride. As Saturday, the day of the party, approached my phone started ringing constantly. I let everything go to voicemail. My mom called and tried to convince me to go. Maria called and said, “I am here if you need someone to talk to.” I cried as I listened to her message because I knew she really meant it, but I didn’t call her back. Monica called and offered to come over and pick up my kids and take them to and from the party. I took her up on the offer because I didn’t want my kids to miss out because of me.

On Saturday my kids went and I stayed home. It was a beautiful day and I imagined everyone eating outside, my younger nieces and nephews running and playing in the grass. I spent the day with my puppy and my guilt. I thought about my sisters. Between them, they have been married three times. I missed all three weddings. I thought of the Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners I had avoided, of the birthday parties, the graduations, the school performances, the funerals I had skipped. I let myself think of all of these moments that I had hidden from and I let the shame wash over me. This is me, who I have let myself become.

When my kids came home clutching the gifts my cousin had brought with him from Australia Polly was filled with words about the day. She told me all about who was there and what they ate. She said over and over, “You should have come. It was so much fun. Why didn’t you come?” I couldn’t explain it to her in a way that she can understand now, at 12. She told me that everyone kept asking her where I was and why didn’t I come and it was then that I realized that by not coming I had brought more attention to myself than I would have by going.

I really wanted to be honest when I wrote this, even if I am opening myself up to ridicule. Yes, I know that my inability to function affects my children, my marriage and my extended family. I understand that my fear of driving has resulted in my family always planning on taking turns picking us up and dropping us off when the location of a family gathering is not bus friendly. I know all of this and so much more because even though I try to hide it way down deep I think of these things daily. I carry this shame and it is mine; I own it.

I have been examined by two doctors in the last week. Go ahead and skip this entry if it’s boring to read; I understand.

My back was examined by a specialist. I had to remove all of my clothes and get into one of those gowns with the ties in the back. I wanted to sneak into the cupboard and grab another gown after the nurse left and before the doctor came. I like to wear two, one covering my front, one covering my back. Doctors do not like it when you do this but it makes me feel more comfortable. I realized that I was going to have to let it all hang out as the pain is low, down into my buttocks even. Every time I think of the word buttocks I think of it the way Forrest Gump pronounced it. I left my socks on because it made me feel better wearing them.

The doctor did an exam that consisted of pressing on different parts of me and asking me what hurt. He checked my reflexes and touched me in different places by running his finger across my skin on one side and then the other and asking me if both sides felt the same. He ended up leaning over and pulling off my socks because he needed to check my feet too. I felt like a stupid child for having left them on.

Because I was able to pinpoint the exact spot that hurts so severely he deduced that I probably injured my Sacroiliac Joint. He also thought that it might me two other things, but I can’t really remember the second one because at that moment he was lifting my legs up as I lied on my back. He kept commenting on how tight my muscles are. I was trying to position myself so that I wasn’t exposing myself fully. He said something about possible nerve damage. His third guess was a herniated disk. I asked if I could have an MRI to find out more, but he said that my insurance won’t cover it because I present no signs of neurological symptoms. Basically he said that he was going to treat me for an injury to my Sacroiliac Joint and see if that works. If that doesn’t work he’ll try something else. He also recommended physical therapy once a week. He prescribed several medications. I have to follow up with him in two weeks. I thought of something my grandfather said, “They call it medical practice for a reason.”

I saw my primary care physician later. She told me that she is uncomfortable with my current anxiety level and I said, “If you’re uncomfortable, imagine how I feel.” She put my Paxil up to the highest level you can get and then added in some more prescriptions.

I remembered this one time I was watching “Breaking Bonaduce” and he said that he took enough pills a day to get full from them. I thought it was funny in a sad way and now I am swallowing piles of meds, some of them I have to take three capsules three times a day. The good news is that I am practically pain free except for first thing in the morning. The bad news is that I am so tired, and I am having a hard time forming my thoughts into words and writing them.

I am often tempted to go off the medications all together but I have to remember that I relapse every time. I don’t want to live this way, but the alternative is even worse. I am working on another entry; it’s just taking longer than usual. I thought I would post this update for the people who kindly emailed and asked how I am doing. Thank you to everyone who took the time to email. I was very touched by that.

Hopefully I’ll be able to clear my foggy brain and put together something else to write about besides pills and pain soon.

Thank you for your responses to my latest query. I saw a little of myself in everyone’s comments. I especially enjoyed the vision of Cynthea’s husband carefully selecting his coins for each day.

I realized lately that I can learn a lot about where I am presently at with my anxiety level based on which bag I select to leave the house with. I have a large Timbuktu messenger bag that holds everything I need and then some, a medium size Kipling bag that holds everything that I need but not some of the stranger things I feel that I must have when I am particularly panic ridden, i.e. a complete change of clothes, a large water bottle, several different choices of reading material etc., and a small purse from The Sak that is tiny but if I am feeling very good and not so dependent I can tuck in ID and bank card, cash and coins, lipgloss (I have a thing for lipgloss, especially the sets. I can never have enough varieties and when I flip through the Sephora catalog I go crazy with lust for the sets of different colors), keys, cell phone, cigarettes and a lighter. I am Goldilocks and the three bags, but it depends on the day which one is just right.

Basically my number one security item is the Klonopin tablets that I photographed for the header of this site, although the pills pictured are .5 mg and I am now carrying 1mg. tablets; they are green. I always carry these in the pill holder Alex bought me and I keep them in my pocket. I have had my purse stolen three times ,so when I select a purse for purchase it must have a long strap so I can wear it over my head. The purse snatching might sound alarming but the first two times it happened were a direct result of me being out in public and under the influence of death-be-awaiting quantities of alcohol and drugs. I was wasted to the point that people were able to rob me and I didn’t notice until later. I blame myself for those incidents.

The third time I was preparing to leave the house for the first time with two children instead of just Nathan. I was a bit daunted by all that I had to carry for a simple trip to the store. I had Polly’s diaper bag packed; Polly was in her infant carrier; Nathan was ready to go. I carried out the diaper bag and my purse and set them on the swing on the front porch and then went back inside to get the kids. When I came out my purse was gone. I was so stunned I sat down on the front steps and just stared at the sidewalk as Nathan ran back and forth asking when we were leaving. Not even 15 minutes passed before a young man approached my house, looking from my ID card up at the numbers on the houses.

The man spoke. “I was walking by the empty lot around the corner and I saw a purse with things strewn out everywhere. I collected the items and followed the address to return the purse.” His voice seemed shaky and I felt bewildered until he said, “I, um, saw your, um, things, um, everywhere, and I, um, picked them all up for you.” I was confused until I realized that I was still bleeding from Polly’s birth. I had shoved a large quantity of pads into my purse and he felt uncomfortable calling them by name. He probably felt uncomfortable picking them up too, but he did it. I felt embarrassed that he knew. I thanked him and smiled, relief washing over me as I realized I wouldn’t have to replace all of my cards. I wondered if I was supposed to offer him some sort of award or something but he just asked me if I was OK and walked away when I said I was.

That morning when I was getting ready I had shoved $200 I was planning on bringing with me to the store into the pocket of my jeans. I don’t know why I did that because usually I placed it in my purse. This was 1995, before Alex and I started relying on debit cards and only carrying small amounts of cash. The thief had gained about two dollars in coins for their efforts. I imagined this person throwing super sized maxi pads around in anger. I gathered my things and went to the store as planned. I never felt the same about my front porch again, realizing that someone could and would travel the fourteen stairs to steal something from me in less than two minutes. I imagined them waiting, watching for me to slip up again, but I didn’t know where they were hiding. I just knew that they were out there, somewhere.

When my mom found out that I was still sleeping on the couch she became upset with me, because I am supposed to be in a bed, as it offers better support for my back. I explained to her that my back gets really stiff at night and I have this fear of needing to use the bathroom and not being able to get downstairs. She responded by bringing me over a urinal and a chocolate bar. I have been craving chocolate for weeks now and I am not sure why.

“It’s a male one”, she said, “but you’ll figure it out if you have to.” I thanked her.

Later that night I grabbed my pillow and my new vase and headed upstairs. I slipped the box under the bed and crawled in. It felt so good to sleep there again. After a few days she asked me how the urinal was working out. “It’s great”, I told her, and it is. I haven’t had to use it, but just knowing that it’s there makes me feel better.

It got me thinking about security. There are several items that I carry with me when I leave the house, not because I need them, but because I feel better having them with me. The list has gotten smaller over the years and so has the size of my purse, but there are still several things that I feel I must have with me. It made me wonder what items others keep close to help themselves feel secure, if any.

A few years back whilst at work, I was operating a dough sheeter to roll out puff pastry. The sheeter was located next to the time clock, so I often had constant streams of people asking me who was punched in, who was out, who was on lunch etc. I found it irritating, to say the least, and I really only attempted to answer truthfully if a supervisor asked. On this particular day a young man approached, walking with difficulty. I had seen a coworker get his hand caught in the sheeter, fracturing several fingers, so I merely used my peripheral vision to glance quickly. I figured he was a visitor, perhaps a relative of an employee. When he made it to the cards and reached for one I remained silent as it took him fifteen minutes to grasp his card and drop it in the slot. The whole time was agonizing. He said nothing, but I wondered if I should offer assistance. As I rubbed the dough down with more flour and checked its thickness I glanced at him again. From the way he held his hands and his walk it appeared to me that he had cerebral palsy.

Hours later when my supervisor and I had time to slip out back for a quick smoke break I asked her who he was. She explained that his name was Ben and he worked in a separate part of the buildings. Our paths had never crossed before because we worked opposing shifts, but with the upcoming holiday everyone was on overtime. I wondered aloud to her what job he could do as his hands were practically frozen at his chest and his gait suggested wheelchair needed more than high volume, fast paced production work. She exhaled a long stream of smoke, smashed out her cigarette, and said his parents were friends with the owners. I nodded.

As the days went by I was introduced to him and we started doing the hi and the bye and the have a nice day. When bread roll season arrived he started hanging around my area at the moment I was racking up the rolls and rolling them to the cooling area. The kid had a good nose and an affinity for fresh from the oven bread. Even though I had been sternly warned by the owner about the employees eating the profits and instructed to make anyone who asked for one to produce a receipt I turned a blind eye to Ben’s sneaky fingers. He started smiling a lot in my direction.

Soon after, pie season hit its peak and I struggled to keep up. When the orders hit the thousands I was promised a helper. There I was, filling and topping pies, when who should appear but Ben. I had trained several women to make pies before Ben and I told them to try to keep my pace. I could fill, top, egg wash and sugar a pie in 45-60 seconds. To Ben I just showed him the steps and let him try. So much egg wash, intended for the lip of the bottom crust, ended up in the fruit filling while he was trying to work the pastry brush that I feared he was turning them to quiche. After a few hours I had him sprinkle the sanding sugar for me while I did the other steps. He was quite chatty, rather smiley, and I found myself liking having him around just to help the hours fly by.

Soon he was in my station everyday. He told me his life story, in a way, but he never mentioned his disability. I did my breathing exercises through the panic attacks that kept washing over me while I worked and smiled at his jokes, funny or no. At some point, as it always has when I’ve worked side by side with anyone for awhile, the topic turned to sex. He admitted that at 24 he was still a virgin and had never even had a date, let alone a girlfriend. When he said that he would probably never get laid, not ever, I looked up from my work as he tried to push his glasses up off of his nose, leaving a slimy smear of egg and course sugar across his face. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” I told him, “If I was single and younger I’d totally go out with you.” His smile lit up his whole face and I felt good to have made him smile. He was a nice guy and I wondered to myself if I knew anyone I could set him up with.

I thought that I had handled myself well until the other bakers started teasing me about my new boyfriend. Apparently, Ben had mentioned my comment about how I said I would date him, only he substituted the word “fuck” for “date”. I was mad at Ben and shocked for a moment until my coworkers started talking about how Ben couldn’t even get a pity fuck and he was destined to remain a virgin unless he hired a prostitute and paid big.

“You didn’t really mean that you would fuck him, did ya?” they asked me. I decided that I needed to put an end to this so I selected my words carefully. “How do you know I haven’t already?” The whole kitchen erupted into laughter, hoots and hollers.

Later as I was pulling off my hair net and tugging on my coat I saw Ben again. This time he was with the other guys and they were teasing him about me and slapping him on the back. His eyes met mine and he waited for that instant, his eyes shifty, nervous. I smiled at him and winked as I left the building.

Yes, I removed my last post because I wrote it in a fit of anger and when I was able to look back at it I found it served no purpose at all. I was reacting to my daughter’s school sending home countless newsletters and then complaining over the fact that they are constantly short on copy paper. At the beginning of the year I brought 1000 sheets to the office, as instructed, and within two months they were begging for more. Meanwhile, half the crap they send home is useless. They sent home a note last week asking parents to “reduce their carbon footprint” and “feel free to help us reduce ours” so I granted myself audience with the principal and explained how they could reduce theirs.

1) If a family has more than one child in the school, just send the newsletter home with the eldest child instead of sending multiples to the same house.

2) Print on both sides of the paper (their copy machine does have that function) using a smaller font than the size they have now, which is set for the legally blind.

3) Consider having parents sign up to receive the newsletter via email to save paper.

4) Eliminate messages to the entire school that are only relevant to one classroom. i.e. “SHHHHHH! Teacher Suzie is having a surprise birthday party next week. Please join us in the cafeteria for refreshments and gifts!!!!!!”
I said, teacher Suzie already knows about your surprise party, she doesn’t need more apple paperweights, and I honestly don’t care because I don’t even know who teacher Suzie is, as she is not my daughter’s teacher.

5) Consider printing out a half dozen pages with reminders of upcoming events such as PTA meetings and tape them to the windows on the doors where parents can see them during pick up and drop off instead of printing off 1000 sheets saying “PTA Meeting ! 6 p.m.”

Anyway, the principal was not receptive to my suggestions and I left in a shitty mood. O.K. I entered in a shitty mood. When Polly and I boarded the bus home it was almost full. There was a man sitting across from us who was visibly intoxicated and he leaned over and asked me if that was my daughter. I am used to this comment, as Polly and I hear it from many people, and I replied, “Yes, she’s my daughter.” I expected him to remark on our resemblance. Polly was gazing out of the window by then, her headphones on her ears, and the man began to go into graphic detail about what he would like to do to my daughter, sexually. By then the bus was packed with people who were standing. I felt this rage come up from my core into my mouth as I rose to my feet , certain that I was going to kill this bastard with my bare hands. He rose to his feet, rang the bell, and then started yelling to the driver, “I need to get off here!” He pushed his way out the back door and I sat down, my heart racing. Here I am walking with a cane now, when I can walk, smaller than that man, and for that instant I was blinded with my emotions. It was frightening in several ways.

It has been almost two weeks since I injured my back and I have acted horribly at times. I know about the pain = rage connection, but I have spent so many years of my life trying to swallow my anger, always equating it with violence. My inner bitch has been here all too often lately, and I feel ashamed.

My kids were so afraid when I fell off of the couch on the evening of February 19th. I was trying to get to the bathroom. I couldn’t get back up so they took it upon themselves to call someone. My mom was at the beach with friends, so they were debating between my two sisters, my brother, and 911. I begged them not to call anyone, especially not my brother who doesn’t even know where we live, to be totally honest. I tried to tell them I would be fine, it was just my back (again). They ended up calling Maria who has three kids under the age of nine. She said she would be right over. I begged for the phone and Nathan handed it to me. I called my sister and told her not to come, explaining that there was nothing she could do. I explained that our insurance doesn’t allow us to just show up at the ER without an ambulance ride unless we call our doctor and get approval. She told me to call my doctor and I promised I would. She waited for me to call her back.

The doctor on call was not someone I knew. She told me to put ice on my back, take 2400 mgs. of Ibuprofen, and call if I wasn’t better in 48 hours. I called my sister and told her not to come.

The next day I was in even worse shape.The pain was absolutely unbearable no matter what position I was in. Alex had two days off so he could give me a hand, and I still couldn’t walk which made trying to get to the toilet an issue. Finally, around six p.m., I was able to speak on the phone with my own physician who told me to get to the hospital immediately. I was going to call for a cab, but I didn’t know if they would be able to assist me in and out. I thought about it for too long before calling my eldest sister, Monica. She works full time as well as college but her kids are older and I figured it would be easier for her to drive me since she doesn’t have the babysitter worries. She said that she would, but she had to work late that night as she had patients coming in after five o’clock. And it would be late when she got to my house. She suggested I call an ambulance but I was afraid insurance wouldn’t cover it.

I called Maria again and she tossed her kids into car seats and was at my house in a flash. The kids were all crammed in the back and grumpy from a long day at school and daycare. They all competed for my attention by yelling out their important news and I managed to pat each one’s knee and say hello. Then the two little ones started hitting the eldest boy, Evan, in the head with the toys they were holding. Maria remained focused on getting me into the car.

The look on Maria’s face as she got me into the car reminded me of her face when she stood by my side while I went through labor and delivery with Polly. The pain in her eyes was so staggering that I apologized for having her there in the delivery room. It’s been almost 13 years since that day and I felt this need to explain that emotion to her and to apologize for having had her witness that pain. When I see my pain in her eyes I can only think that it would be easier for us to change positions. I couldn’t explain it.  She understood. I cried for a minute and she fed me pink tissues as she headed out into rush hour. Maria has been studying to become a licensed Acupuncturist. It’s funny, my sisters are so different; one works in Eastern medicine, the other has a career in Western medicine.

Maria told me about school and what she has been up to. She is taking Chinese lessons so she spoke to me in Chinese, which oddly made sense at the time. I knew that she was filling the spaces with words to distract me, the same way she and Alex tried to do crossword puzzles out loud during my labor. I can remember Alex asking for a five letter word starting with  S for indifference and I yelled STOIC! during a contraction. It’s funny now, not so much then.

She expressed to me during the ride that she had always wanted to see me doing something that I loved, something that would bring me great fulfillment. She asked me if I had ever felt as if I was really good at something. I told her that someone had once told me that I could become a millionaire as a motivational speaker, like Tony Robbins. I have no idea where that came from; I haven’t thought about that in years.

I glanced at her, her face contorted in confusion, and she blurted out, “Who the hell told you that?” “Um, Chaz.” I felt really stupid for a second and then we both started laughing. Not bad, it only took me six or seven years to get his sarcasm. I had almost forgotten the way she laughs with her whole body. When she laughs really hard she cries, huge warm droplets running down her face. We both laughed for the rest of the drive even though I begged her to stop because every movement was excruciating.

Evan started demanding that I tell him how an Etch-A-Sketch works and I had to admit that I wasn’t sure. I promised him I would find out before we saw each other again. I peeked at him turning the white dials carefully, shaking his head in frustration if he didn’t get it just the way he wanted it, shaking the lines away before trying again. I remembered how much I had wanted an Etch-A-Sketch as a girl and how my Mom couldn’t afford to buy me one. It’s funny how material things can seem so important for a time and then they slip away. I remember buying Nathan one before he was even old enough to use it, determined he wouldn’t be deprived of that all important toy. Neither of my kids seemed to like it much. They were too busy playing with their Magna Doodles.

Maria got me to the admitting counter at the ER and offered to stay with me. I looked at her standing with her little ones and knew it was their turn now. As much as I wanted her by my side, I had to be a big girl and ask for help alone.