Depressed

Note: This story was written 9 months ago. Today I am totally healed, pain-free, active and very much living an overall happy life. However, in lieu of the fact that we lost Robin Williams, our beloved comedian, humanitarian and bike enthusiast, I felt I would go ahead and publish this timely article.

Here is my story.

I am not depressed today but I have had times in my life where I have been.

The initial time I remember being seriously depressed was after I had quit my synchronized swim team months earlier. At first I enjoyed doing "normal" teenaged activities like going out with friends, sleeping in on Saturday morning, and more. I had been swimming 5:00-8:00pm, Monday-Thursday and 9:00-12:00 on Saturdays for nearly ten years. We had extra practices before school during the peak season and double or triple workouts before Nationals each year. I worked out hard and was extremely thin throughout most of my swimming career, even when my delayed puberty hit me with a vengeance.

Eventually my retirement from swimming caused a weight gain of twenty-five pounds at my peak and three dress sizes. I grew sad over how I looked and felt. The lack of exercise affected my hormones and I remember getting menstrual cramps for the first time.

My depression peaked one day and I walked over to the high school behind my parents house and I remember thinking to myself, "If I had a gun would I use it?" I did not honestly know the answer and that scared me.

Somehow I managed to tell my mom and at that point talking about it seemed to help. Instinctively I also knew I needed to start exercising  regularly again. I enrolled in a local junior college and took PE courses every day; swimming, volleyball or  ballet, conditioning or tennis. I certainly was not great at all of these classes but moving again kickstarted my metabolism and I began to pay closer attention to what I ate. For me, the endorphins from exercise helped my mood too.

My depression at that point passed without the need to use medication.

The next major bout of depression came postpartum. I had given birth to my firstborn child and I had the baby blues. Yes, I was tired. Yes, I needed sleep. Yes, I felt like a human milk cow and yes having a newborn daughter with severe colic was enough to challenge any young mommy. But this was more than that. I had trouble controlling the tears.

Lucky for me, I mentioned it to my doctor. I've since learned that is not usually the case with people who are suffering from depression unless someone else encourages them to seek help. My doctor treated me with the utmost respect and kindness and gave me great advice. He had me chart my moods. He was very clear that eventually I should  see the bad days begin to dissipate over time. But if I did not, he said to come in or let him know and that I could receive help. That help might be in the form of medication, but that it would be okay. Just knowing that made me feel better.

Years later  I was teaching and had to pull a table toward me to set up my kindergarten classroom. The pain ripped through me, I had torn my rotator cuff. I had to go to an urgent care facility and the doctor gave me a cortisone shot to relieve the pain. Frustratingly he gave it to me in the wrong place and a few days later the pain was excruciating. In fact, on a scale from 1 to 10 I told them it was an 11. I had to get a strong shot to alleviate the pain right then and see a specialist in the morning.  He had to give me another shot in the correct area which was now torn and inflamed. I had to go to physical therapy. It took a long time to heal. I continued to exercise but could no longer swim. In addition to my physical pain, I was going through a very rough time relationally at that time. I was not sleeping and began to lose weight rapidly.

I knew I had to get help when I appeared at the door of my job share's home. I was sobbing as I was telling her I didn't know what was wrong with me. Her six year old daughter walked up staring her brown, now wide-eyes at me. My crying was scaring her. I was scaring a small child.
I remember deciding I would call my new general practitioner. I explained that I thought I was depressed and started to cry. They had me come in later that same day so they could meet with me.

For the first time I went on medication, an anti-anxiety medication. They also gave me a very limited number of sleeping pills, two weeks' worth. My biggest problem at that point was my lack of sleep. The idea of the sleeping pills was to get me to fall into a normal sleep pattern. They worked. That was around 13 years ago and I've never needed them since then. I stayed on the anti-anxiety pills for a little longer than I had planned. I was about to go off of them because I was beginning to feel that the side affects of weight gain, lack of energy and "flat" affect were worse than the depression I no longer felt. About that time though, one of my children was diagnosed with Juvenile Diabetes and later my husband and I had decided to separate and divorce so I continued on the medication. Slowly though, I began to feel normal, despite my life's circumstances.  I was sleeping regularly and I had been going to counseling, or "talk therapy." It was only then that I felt ready to go off the medication and "feel" whatever emotions I needed to feel.

I have not needed medication for anxiety or depression since then and that was over ten years ago.

Recently  I had a big change in my lifestyle. I was training for an Ironman and felt physically and mentally in good shape. I then broke my ankle two weeks before the competition. A trip to Ireland was cancelled, work was  on hold. More than that, I could not stand on my leg, I was couch-ridden for three weeks and dependent on others to come to my home each day and help me with simple tasks.

My biggest fear was not the recovery of my bone. As an athlete I have learned to listen to my body. I followed the doctor's orders, my physical therapist's or coach's, and even more importantly, I would let my ankle guide me. If I were to become swollen I would know I'd pushed my body too hard; icing and elevating were the answer!

My biggest fear was depression. It was my biggest fear for a couple of reasons: one was that I would have a training endorphin crash as I was recovering. I was training 15 or more hours a week and now I was down to zero. I had not even gotten to expel all that energy. I think in the beginning the endorphins I had created while training were the main reason I was in such a good mental state. But a concern I expressed with my doctor was that the future lack of exercise would hurt me mentally as I moved forward.  I discussed my previous bout with anxiety and depression in my life. He really listened to that piece, knowing my history and prescribed a boot for me to wear while my ankle healed.

My ankle protested. It swelled up, it got red and it was angry. I had to return to the emergency room, and later my own doctor, in severe pain, lacking sleep and in tears. I went through a combination of five different boots, casts and splints.

I did hit a low one day about three weeks into my injury. It was at the pivotal point of pain and lack of sleep. I literally could hardly get off the couch without piercing pain. I was alone most of the day and going a little stir-crazy. My mom called and I finally told her I was beginning to feel depressed and about some things that were upsetting me. She ended up coming over to be with me and we talked about my concerns. She continued to come by each day for a few weeks to do a few tasks that I could not do for myself: empty the garbage cans, fill up my ice machine for my ankle, water my plants outside and get my mail.

I got through that rough patch, began to take pain pills at night so I could get some sleep and I have had small victories in my healing. It's been nine weeks since I was injured. I started physical therapy this week. I began working full-time.  I swam 2000 yards a week ago with a pull buoy between my legs so my ankle had no movement. I am no longer walking with the aid of a walker or scooter. When I'm sore I use crutches with my boot. Soon I will be walking with only an ankle brace.

It hurts, I'm slow but I'm okay all of it.

A week ago the school where I teach had a staff development day. It was one of the best ones I've ever been to because there were things I could apply to my teaching practice immediately.

For a large portion of the day we discussed mental health issues and we specifically discussed anxiety, suicide and depression. It was relevant to our entire staff as some of the kids we see at our school suffer from one of these issues. As our presenter gave us facts, discussed the topics and suggestions of how we might handle situations or conversations with students I thought of myself, my students, friends and family who have had to get help for one of these conditions or diagnoses. I learned that 25% of us experience anxiety. That is a large portion of our population. I learned that it is okay to ask students or family or friends if they have thought about suicide or how they are feeling, not just their physical symptoms. I learned that medication is sometimes an aid to the brain's receptors which are not functioning properly. Sometimes, as in my case, it is temporary. In other cases, it's a lifelong necessity.

The thing is, I think it's important to talk about it.

I've known friends and family who have lost parents, siblings and children to depression's sometimes fatal grip. If 25% of us experience depression or anxiety, doesn't it make sense to try and remove some of the stigma associated from it? Or at least admit that sometimes life is hard with one another? Or we're sad?

I think so.

I am not depressed today but I have had times in my life where I have been. If you are sad, depressed or anxious please ask for help.

National Center for Depression Centers: http://www.nndc.org/
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Sherpa Love

So to set the scene, months and months and months ago I somehow asked my former synchronized swimming duet partner and current friend o'mine if she would consider being my support person for my very first attempt at an Ironman. In the world of triathlons, her role is dubbed, "sherpa."

She did not hesitate to say yes.

That's just the kind of friend she is.

As I was in the midst of figuring out if I could really really attempt this big feat, she would gently prod me about what she could do to support me? When she should fly up from southern California to join me? Where would we be staying?

Normally I am a list-maker. I'm organized. I'm a teacher and for field trips I've thought of every variable. For this event I kept feeling like I needed a little more time.

Time to heal my knees and begin running.
Time to go to Maui with my girls.
Time to train.
Time to think about hiring a coach as the race approached closer.

When I fell on my knee in June and got hurt she was encouraging.

She started asking me my favorite colors. Symbols. Motivational sayings. And so much more.

She would post silly photos or creations to my Facebook page.

She believed in me from the beginning. Her belief was contagious and I began to believe in myself as the race got closer and closer. I overcame my fear of riding in the heat and getting heatstroke. I overcame my fear of riding alone for 100+ miles or 6 + hours. I was swimming 4,000 or more yards. I slowly built up my running mileage from 1 mile to 21. With my doctor's help I figured out how to avoid asthmatic attacks. I had my bike fit, finally figured out which running shoes were the most comfortable for my knees, perfected the art of aqua jogging, combatted the problem of chafing in the nether regions of my womanhood and overall figured out my nutrition plan. I rented a cabin. Overall I was ready as I could be given the time I had to prepare and the setbacks I had experienced.

She meanwhile had secretly ordered shirts for my support team comprised of family and friends. She had purchased items to surprise me; foot rollers, more t-shirts, surprise food items and special icing items for after I completed the race.

I surprised her by breaking my ankle two weeks before the race.

She made another sign and posted it to my Facebook page.

She sent me photos of possible accessories for my injury.

She flew up to the Bay Area anyway, loading me and all of my gear (wheelchair, crutches, food, clothing and more) in the car to head up to Tahoe. On the way up we stopped for donuts and dressed up as Pirates (apparently we will do anything for a dozen free donuts on Dress Up Like a Pirate Day).

She had emergency t-shirts made with my coach's nickname for me, "Mayhem" while also incorporating my little mishap. When we arrived at Ironman Lake Tahoe we went to the athlete registration. We hitched a ride on a golf cart (I could not put any weight on that ankle of mine) and we had fun. First, we went to the "Got Chocolate Milk" booth and took a photo.

After we visited all of the vendor booths. I was exhausted and was in need of refreshment.

The next day, to amuse ourselves and turn a bad weekend better we decided to have some fun with an Ironman Tahoe photo shoot. 

First the swim.

Next up, the bike.

Gotta fuel up.

It's important to transition to running attire.

Do not forget warm clothing and a headlamp for when it gets cold and dark.

Finally, we finished up the photo shoot finish.

The next day we cheered on all of my teammates and the friends I'd met via the Ironman Lake Tahoe Facebook page. We were bundled up at the start of the swim. 

Later we cheered the athletes on Brockway with loud music and cowbells. I was in the car with my casted ankle elevated out the car window. My daughter Morgan was driving and my sherpa was running down the street with her cowbell, wearing her encouraging shirt.

Sometimes it's hard being me. 

But with sherpa love like I had, it makes it a whole lot easier. Everyone should feel so loved and supported. 

And you know what? For weeks after the love continued. 

Sherpa love. It's a special kinda love.

Yes I Do

I have been stuck in my writing life.

For a while last year, though I published nothing publicly, I was motivated and writing a memoir which included quite a few stories about my dating life. I think the prologue is decent, the opening is fine and from what a trusted group of friends, family members and a few peers from my now-former writing group have told me, some of the vignettes are downright hysterical. The stories do not paint me in a good light, as I really have pulled some rookie moves over the years. I am far from perfect. I'm a late-bloomer in many areas and I have fumbled along the way.

But as I tried writing a few additional dating chapters they ended up being watered down, boring, run-of-the-mill, blah-blah-blah versions. I knew they should be raw, and real, honest and from the heart. I became stuck because I knew intuitively that for a memoir to be believable, relatable and real, I had to write truthfully. I had felt I could not write because I have been struggling with knowing which are the parts of my life that were important for my story to be told, some of which are quite private, and how I am (hopefully) growing and evolving as a person, while also being sensitive to all the people in my life; my children, my ex-husband, and others.  I never wanted to come across as mean-spirited about the men I've met, as many are honestly just like me, learning by trail and error about themselves and love. I wanted to protect my children, I mean, as they were younger, who wants to read about their mom's dating life? Not my son, for sure. Maybe my daughters. My brother? Oh hell no. In addition, I have tried to never disparage their father and hurt him or our relationship as co-parents. It seems, from his remarks, he did read those blog postings I wrote for our little town and did not appreciate all of them. He wasn't the only one. I dated a man whom mentioned others were commenting at a party about an article I wrote. It was regarding a town hall meeting on housing, that too, was not appreciated by the company he kept. In many ways I should look at those readers as a compliment, at least I have an audience.

But what about the other men I have dated? The ones I might date? I do believe, in at least one case, a man was mortified that I wrote about my life and quickly headed in the other direction. He worked for a very wealthy man in the community and anonymity was a job requirement for him. I have never written about a man I was currently dating and the truth is, I doubt I will. Some things are sacred and personal. But I can't guarantee it.  This man was a beautiful and handsome man, shy, reserved and  a jack-of-all-trades. He was well-read, tidy and a hard worker. He hiked. He was a kind dog owner and about six years my junior. He had supported me before my first marathon by taking me to a carbo-load pancake and egg breakfast at a local diner and gave me a generous certificate for a post-run massage just in time for my birthday. The next week he drove me to the airport before my first bike tour in Maui and picked me up a week later. Then he just went......silent. It hurt. I had a gut-instinct of what happened. He was a dutiful employee and timid to talk to me about my writing. I tried calling him and emailing and then gave up.  I ran into him at Target about a year ago and said hello. He turned beet red. We exchanged pleasantries. I took a deep breath and said, "Why did you have to just disappear, XXXXX? Why not just tell me? I have to be honest, that really hurt."

He looked at me, with a now purple face and mumbled, "I know, I'm sorry."

The truth is, I don't remember exactly what else he said. You know what? I suppose I'm learning it just doesn't matter. I need to write and everyone needs to understand it is only my version of the story. They might have another and that is okay. And would you look at that? I just wrote about the man who wanted to be anonymous.

My writing has suffered these past few months because life has been a bit topsy-turvy for me. I felt burned out at work and was looking seriously at other options; teaching abroad, going to a private school with a really unique program or deciding whether to stay and make changes where I am currently working. I decided to try and redesign my professional career with new goals. One simple change, was simply moving to a new cubicle, redecorating and organizing everything in it. This meant I threw out a lot of old files, outdated materials and duplicated papers.  I created a slightly different "look" and made it a better reflection of who I am and the interests I have in my own life. I also realized that the past six years I had worked in my previous cubicle, working with families and students in grades K-12 and some adult ed students was the longest I have ever physically stayed in one place. In my previous school I had taught 6th grade reading, writing and history. Before that I had taught kindergarten, second, third and fifth grades, traditional and alternative programs, in different rooms, with different curriculum, team members. Realizing six years in one spot is a record for me at work, I also noted that I need to create new curriculum and ideas or I get bored and feel stagnant. Change keeps my teaching practice fresh and I am happier as a result. I have lots of ideas I hope to implement in the future, and though my first day back on Monday was my worst one ever (an idea for another blog posting), I believe this will be a better school year for me. Mainly due to a shift in attitude. This carried over to my house as well, I cleaned out boxes, two car loads to Goodwill and a sidewalk full of giveaways for neighbors. Inside I reorganized my kitchen nook to make it easier to settle-in and write there. I keep it clutter-free and have writing books and ideas easily accessible. I try to file old bills and such, making my spot as inviting as possible for myself.

In addition, I had plans for one child to live with me this summer, due to a serious shift, they chose not too. And one child who had not planned to live with me, does. It was a turn of events that has worked out, but not anticipated earlier on in the year. Now I love these two deeply and even though it has been a change in dynamics, I believe in both cases, our relationships are solid and close and I love them both fiercely. I have another child whom I love deeply as well in my tilt-a-world life right now, though she is nearly completely grown up. My kids, in particular, my girls, give me journals, ask when I'm going to finish my book and in general, all three are big supporters of all things written by me. I guess as they give me permission to write, real, I give them permission to not read it. Ever. Or perhaps I will write under a suedo name (to be determined...).

Another bit of feeling off-balanced was due in part because I was seeing a man whom I met through a friend on Facebook. We started innocently on a bike ride, to hang out and have fun. Due to an entire host of reasons that are personal, it was very clear to me, even though I really cared for this man, we needed to break up. It was the right thing to do. And as he and I have since discussed, I just don't like the outcome that followed. Not one bit. He has confirmed to me on at least three occasions it was the absolutely right decision and he has no desire to date. Even though we did. And that hurts too. But I agree. And I miss him. He was my friend. He was my fellow foodie. He brought me soup when I was sick, fixed my broken claw foot tub thingamajig, put together my broken bike tool and he re-calibrated my oven's temperature. He helped me figure out the safest route to commute by bike to work. He did not get mad when I fell asleep at a night concert, despite liking the music, because the 5:00am swim workout did me in. He taught me to see the beauty of yoga as a strengthening portion of my week and triathlon training as an important part in the recovery of my broken ankle. He was my biggest encourager to go to Ireland on a solo trip this spring, my first out of the country excursion and far outside of my comfort zone. Still, as much as I like, no love, this man, and I do, there were a number of times in my heart I felt sad or knew it wasn't right to continue seeing one another. We still talk, and in time, I would venture to say we will be friends, even spending time together doing things. For now, it makes me sad and hurts inside and my heart is a little broken. It needs to heal a wee bit more and I do too.

I also have two male friends. As happens, they have both met women who seem perfect for them. In fact, I really like both girlfriends and as couples, their relationships seem to bring out the best in these men. As their lives grow busier, I spend little, if any, time with them. So although it's perfectly normal and understandable, it is still a loss of sorts. One was a running partner and the other was a biking one. They could not be more polar opposites as human beings so their friendships filled very separate roles. I'm happy for them but certainly fill the voids without them nearby.  How do you write about that? I guess I just did.

A few years ago I started seeing a counselor because as a single parent I liked being able to talk about my worries or concerns and get  an unbiased take on the situations we discussed. We also talked about my dating life, my work and such.  I benefitted from our once-in-a-while visits. But she is leaving the practice and so this relationship must also end.

Another relationship that has ended is the one I had with my writing group. It's mostly my fault. I was undependable. And that is not normally how I operate. My attendance was spotty at best the past year. First I was training for my first and only Ironman race last summer. Sunday nights were unusually difficult to motivate myself to attend our meetings after my longest training day. Sometimes we'd swim a mile or two, ride six to eight hours and possibly run as well. I was plumb-tuckered out. Just before my race, I broke my ankle. I couldn't drive at first, then I was on crutches and out of work for six weeks. When I did go back to work, I started slowly, building up my stamina. The monthly writing get-togethers were even more difficult to attend and once I recovered physically, at least enough to drive, mentally I struggled with feeling sad. Being hurt and in pain took a lot out of me. My writing tank was empty because it was all spent just making it through the week... though I have nearly a half dozen blog entries in my draft bin, I never published them during this bleak time.  I've slowly reclaimed pieces of my body through physical therapy and exercise, sometimes pushing too hard with an overly zealous physical therapist. This led to a few set-backs, and led to some further lessons I needed to learn about my body; to trust my intuition, incorporate activities I love, and give priority to healing and recovery now so I can have years of future activities with a full range of mobility.

The writing group had a heart-to-heart email exchange last fall, about the time of my injury and recovery and everyone who committed to continue was going to be required to become better about attendance. What followed this agreement was a series of events coupled with bad timing: in January my daughter could only come to visit when it was our day to meet, February was my other daughter's birthday, March I decided to put my dating life first as I was trying to make that a bigger priority with Facebook man, April I was in Ireland and in May was when Facebook man and I broke up and I had already committed to go on a bike ride with people months earlier, in June it was the end of the year and report cards and summer school starting all in one week and in July even I was questioning my commitment. In August I had finally decided I was ready to jump-in and start anew and received a polite we'll be happy to see you but perhaps you should find another group closer to home as you've only attended one or two meetings all year long from one member. It hurt but she was right. I found their writing inspiring and enjoyed their insights and suggestions and they gave me permission to write some of the stories that I am actually most proud of...though the content is somewhat mortifying, it is, after all my true, unabridged stupid experiences. But clearly that writing group won't work due to the distance and the day of the week and I will miss them (well, perhaps not the one that wrote that email....).

And in a twist of irony the day after I got the polite good-bye from my writing group and had my worst first day of teaching of my life, I received my second check in the mail for writing and editing. It's from a former schoolmate of mine. He wrote me a few months back, telling me he enjoyed reading my stories and was hoping I could help him with a blog he was beginning. I felt unqualified as I know nothing of the content and subject matter. He was kind and asked if we could try. I have enjoyed our collaborative exchanges. It is confirming to have people who see me as a writer.

Mostly there are people who will write me a quick email when I've written a story or blog posting, telling me how they could relate or why it touched them. These are people from my childhood, readers from the town blog, members from my fitness teams and my  co-workers who are avid readers, and one of my biggest sources of encouragement. The other is my former principal, whom I love. She was the one who read about the writing group in the newspaper so many years ago and thought of me. She continually asks when my book will be finished.

I have been stuck in my writing life. It is only as I have come to realize that I have permission to write my stories and not worry about everyone else in my life and their reactions that I feel myself becoming unstuck. I've struggled because of a physical challenge, an emotional one and in matters of the heart. But I am ready to move forward.

What is it that has pushed me to move forward? The injury and comeback? No. The renewal to recreate my teaching practice? No. The break-up? The kids? The email? No. No. No.  It is because I am not a quitter. I stay the course. I will be an example for my kids of regrouping and reinvention. And related to my dating life, I will do as the commander in Star Wars said to Luke as he was trying to fly straight and shoot accurately to save the Empire, "Stay on target."

I'm going to try to be brave and become unstuck. I vow to renew my commitment to the craft of writing with my time. I don't know whether it will be in a group setting, on my own, in a class, getting a writing mentor, through this blog or another avenue.

I do know this, I have a story to tell. Yes, I do.