May, Mental Health Month & Me
May 10, 2020
It’s mental health awareness month, a time when I would ordinarily add to the islands of inspirational quotes on Instagram and Facebook. But I’ve added nothing yet to the vast library of feel good wishes out there. Today is also Mothers’ Day and I haven’t created an iota of “inspiration porn” for this day, either. I simply…have no energy to be inspiring or creative.
Why? Because I am depressed, Okay? There. I said it. I admit it. I am blue, depressed, not myself--whatever you want to call it, I’m it. And I am writing about it because writing has been a consistent support for me throughout my life; using twenty-six letters in a myriad of patterns, I create a narrative to land on when I fall.
In 2018 I gave a TEDX talk called “What’s Your Story” and shared personal anecdotes from my life, wondering what the world would look like if we were more open with each other—more vulnerable, authentic, and radically candid. My call to action was creating the “What’s Your Story” platform in which I train people to share their stories and to host live storytelling events that raise money for nonprofits.
Stories have been an essential driver of healing and change throughout human history. Emotional, autobiographical storytelling can be a path to empowerment. Learning how to think about and express what has happened in your life helps you find your voice, and sharing your personal journey helps others find theirs, too.
Helen Keller was the first blind and deaf person to learn how to read, write and speak. She used her “voice” and story to fight for more opportunities for people with disabilities. In her Ted Talk about the power of vulnerability, Brene Brown says, ‘Stories are data with soul’ and that ‘connections give us purpose in life.’
Ms. Brown speaks the truth! People who know me might be sick of hearing this, it’s in my TED talk, it will be in my memoir, too - preparing for and delivering my TED talk has been more impactful in my ongoing management of a chronic eating disorder, anxiety and depression than all of years of therapy combined. Why was it so impactful? Transformative? Because telling my story and sharing the stories that shaped me created connections with people and validated that I. Am. Not. Alone.
Which is why today, I hope my story will transport you...and also me.
Like many of you, I am in quarantine. And even though I’m social-distancing, a visitor from my past, an old nemesis, has returned and stands too close to me - depression. I have not been this close to depression since I was an undergraduate and stayed in bed for days at a time. Now, as a working mother of two kids who are at home all day in a state of “pause,” I don’t have the liberty to hide under twenty pounds of blankets.
BUT WHY NOW?
My current depression took me by surprise—shock, even--and I’ve been trying to make sense of it. While the world is falling apart, sending a global “SOS” urging us to reflect on our lives (do I REALLY need to drive five miles to get an overpriced coffee at the coffee drive-thru?), my specific world is actually quite great!
I sold my home of twenty years during a pandemic—a major real estate feat--and am living in my dream place, the beautiful Adirondacks in upstate New York. Our home is nestled in the woods with a burning stone fireplace and pristine mountain views. Knock-on-wood, my nuclear and extended families are healthy and again, knock-on-wood, I have job security. I’m abundantly grateful for all that I’m fortunate enough to have.
So what the heck could I possibly be depressed about? And is it really “clinical” depression, you ask? It is. I remember this sadness at age nineteen, when I felt like crying and hiding under my covers for days, weeks, months. That’s when I took my first dose of Prozac (or as I like to call it, “Vitamin P”).
Except for the last trimester of pregnancy and while breastfeeding, I’ve been on Prozac ever since. I wish that Big Pharma could put SSRIs into the water source like flouride. Through thousands of hours of talk therapy, daily exercise, and uplifting programs that “create possibilities” instead of telling ourselves negative, fixated “stories,”, I’ve managed really well. So then...why now ?
COVID, the “pause” and social distancing have affected me in a way that surprised me. I’ve had a chronic eating disorder--anorexia--since I was eight, and struggled hard to free myself from it. Now, I find myself suddenly obsessed with food insecurity for my family--insisting we stockpile enough non-perishables for a year...two years? More? I’m hiding my gluten-free, nut-free cookies from the family (hidden in random closets around the house) so there’ll be enough for me. I’m micromanaging what family eats by rationing fresh fruits and raising an eyebrow at my husband’s serving sizes. It’s stunning how anorexia can still live rent-free in my brain after so many years.
RUNNING TOWARDS DEPRESSION
So I’ve decided today to take a different tack to attack this returning visitor. In the past, and for the last 2 months, my typical reaction to this depressed state has been to hide from it; If I just sleep enough, everything will be okay.
Today, I am choosing to run towards my depression. That’s right! I am face-to-face with it, sitting eye level and seeing what it has to say. I recently stopped hiding it from my friends and colleagues because -- as I shared in my TED talk -- we have nothing to be ashamed about when we share the experiences that shape us.
After cancelling a meeting with a colleague Patti, with the excuse that I had a “last minute meeting with my manager,” I called her back and explained the real reason I cancelled: I needed to be under my covers because I am depressed. Choosing to lean into my depression I am asking myself questions, facing my fears and living with integrity.
“I appreciate your honesty and love you even more,” Patti said. “The last two weeks have been hard on me, too. I’m here for you.” Coming from a woman whom I have incredible respect for, that meant a lot. And it reminded me of what I always teach--we usually benefit from sharing our stories with others.
It’s with this knowledge that sharing can be a Sutra connecting people; sharing invites others to hold the space with me, that I am telling the universe that during May, Mental Health Awareness Month; on Mothers’ Day 2020, I am feeling depressed.
But this time, the differences between today and a hundred years ago when I was in college are vast:
I am positive it won’t last forever.
It’s okay to tell people how I’m feeling and I don’t have to lie about it. Nobody thinks twice about calling in sick at work because they have a cold or a fever, right?
The way the world thinks about mental health has changed dramatically since I first met depression and now “mental health is cool” and I know that by sharing this post, I will connect with people out there who might feel the same way.
Tons of resources exist for anyone struggling with a mental health issue and a great place to start is by texting “HOME” to 741741 to reach a Crisis Counselor at the the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI).
And, I have little ones who help me along my learning, healing path.
When I told my spirited 5-year-old daughter on Mothers’ Day Morning, “I love you so much...but Mommy isn’t feeling too well and I just want to stay in bed and have a lazy day under the covers,” she was having none of it.
“You’re being rude about Mother’s Day,” she said, happily bounding onto my bed--“this is a day for you to be with us, with the family!”
I tried to explain further.
“You know how sometimes you don’t feel like doing anything? Even playing with your favorite toys? That’s how Mommy is feeling right now. But the good news is that I’ve felt this way before and I know it won’t last forever…”
“How about…” she said, gently pulling the covers from my face, “it ends right now? And you get out of bed and have a dance party with me?”
Even with her sweet, earnest face...getting out of bed was difficult. I felt like a bag of bricks.
I swung one foot out of bed, then the other. And a few minutes later, my daughter and I were dancing to our favorite Nicole Atkins tune, “Who Killed the Moonlight,” in my bedroom.
I could feel the endorphins ignite and start firing away.