WHO Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?

Because February is Mental Health Awareness Month, I thought I’d share two things with you:  1. I suffer from depression and; 2) I can't stand Tom Cruise.  You might not think these two things are related, but they are.  Apart from the fact that Mr. C. couldn’t act his way out of a soggy paper bag, the truth is that he was once very vocal about his belief that depression and anti-depressants are hokum.  Apparently, TommyBoy in his infinite, Scientological wisdom was/is convinced all you need to cure depression is vitamins, good nutrition and regular exercise.  (Yeah.  And all I need to do to look like Anne Hathaway is drink a wee bit more water.)  How ignorant and/or arrogant do you have to be to say that no one needs anti-depressants?  Last time I checked, Maverick wasn't famous for his degree in clinical psychology. 



Sad, Sad Rex

As someone who’s been hospitalized with severe post-partum depression not once, but twice, I can tell you that mental illness is no picnic.  With my first baby, it took three months of wintry housebound solitude plus no sleep to put me over the edge.  With the twins, I was only a month in when things came apart at the seams.  Panic attacks became a regular occurrence.  (Note:  If you’ve never had one, they’re way more fun than a barrel of monkeys.  Not.  Imagine someone holding a knife to your throat:  your heart is pounding, your stomach is in knots, you are freaking OUT.  A panic attack is like that, minus the knife at your throat.  You’re flipping out for no particular reason anyone can see.  So.  Much.  Fun.  Especially in social situations!)  I would cry at the least little thing.  Couldn’t get a jar open?  Sob.  Stubbed my toe on the doorframe?  Sob.  Couldn’t find the t.v. remote?  Sob.  Baby wouldn’t stop sobbing?  Sob. 



To say this was exhausting (on top of being exhausted) just doesn’t cut it.  The term “bone tired” doesn’t come close.  Nobody likes being depressed, unless they're Rex Murphy, maybe.  On top of it all, when I wasn’t crying my eyes out or having heart palpitations, I was meaner than a caffeine-deprived Kardashian. It’s probably a miracle my marriage lasted as long as it did, considering how up and down I was. Any time of the day or night, you could come on over to Jo’s house to play on the mood swings. Surprising how few people took me up on that offer…

Overriding the whole mess?  Shame.  Not the kind of shame you feel after a debauched evening spent snarfling King Dongs and bushels of chips and dip.  No, this shame was far more isolating, because with it, I compared myself to all other mothers, knowing that I didn’t measure up in that most important of events:  the Mommyhood Olympics.  While other women cooed about their dreamy babies who slept twelve hours at a stretch and frolicked happily in their Baby Swim classes, I was the loser whose baby wouldn’t sleep for more than fifteen minutes at a time UNLESS I HELD HIM.  I couldn’t relax, I couldn’t put him down, I couldn’t stand to hear him cry, I couldn’t figure out what the heck to do. 

Sidebar:  Here’s the part where all my childless friends shake their heads and say “You wanted ‘em.  You got ‘em.  Suck it up!”  Yes, you’re totally right.  But consider:  before you have kids, the only thing you ever hear about is how wonderful it is.  Sure, people joke about dirty diapers and getting no sleep, but who takes that seriously?  Then you actually have a baby, and it’s too late.  It’s like becoming Prime Minister and then being told “Guess what?!  You’re gonna do this whole gig with no aides, no advisors, no sleep and no intel.  Oh, and BTW?  You can’t resign.  Ever.”  It's the best job in the world, but it sucks the life out of you quicker than a "Twilight" marathon.

Contrary to the Great and Powerful Cruise, depression doesn’t miraculously go away just because you eat your veggies and do your sit-ups.  Funny thing, though.  Lots of people seem to endorse this way of thinking, consciously or not.  Case in point:  when I was freaking out after the boys were born, my brother came over and decided that I needed to go for a walk.  Bless him, he was just trying to be helpful, but I had to shake my head.  First of all, I don’t think it occurred to him that walking near the road just made me think about throwing myself in front of an oncoming truck.  Yukkity, yuk, yuk.  Really, what bugged me was that I got the impression that all I needed to "snap out of it" was a brisk walk. 

Think about it: If someone you knew had diabetes, would you believe that a better attitude or fresh air would change that?  I'm thinking...nope.  What I want to know is why everyone considers mental illness to be a matter of opinion.  When I folded like a cheap tent during my first bout of depression, people I knew said, “But you’re always so happy!”  Uh, yeah.  It’s called chemical depression, not optional depression.  It's your brain chemistry dictating your moods, not you.  Seriously:  do you think if I had any option, I'd choose to be depressed?  Sitting and crying for hours for no reason is not particularly entertaining, or helpful.  Especially when it comes to keeping a job or  maintaining relationships.  Repeat after me, everybody:  "Mental illness is not a choice."  It's not a character flaw, not a bid for attention, not something you'd wish on your worst enemy.  It's freaky, it's frightening, and it's like having one arm tied behind your back 24/7.  You miss out on so much stuff because of it, and it's not fair that on top of that you have to listen to clueless nimrods like Tom Cruise spout off about how all you need is more Vitamin C and maybe some hot yoga. 

I guess because mental illness is mostly invisible, it’s easier for people to ignore.  Kind of like Britney Spears' talent.  I think that there's a lot of fear involved, too.  People don't understand something, so they avoid talking about it.  But that's not the answer.  All that does is force people who suffer from mental illness (depression, bipolar disorder, etc.) to try to hide it, rather than dealing with it openly.  I always tell my boys "knowledge is power".  If you take your flashlight and shine it under the bed, you can see that there aren't any monsters waiting to get you.  Same thing with mental illness.  Bringing it out into the light is the best way for people to come to terms with it.  My ex used to get so angry with me because I wouldn't hesitate to talk about being hospitalized for PPD.  It wasn't that I was looking for sympathy.  What I was trying to do was take away the stigma associated with it.  If you'd ended up in the hospital with a heart attack, you wouldn't hide it.  I figure if my brain chemistry tries to take me down, I don't need to hide that, either. 

You know what I think is the answer?  Be curious.  Find out more about mental illness.  Be kind.  Stop judging.  Start listening.  Stop assuming that everyone is the same.  I can tell you from experience that you don't have to look like Cruella De Vil on the outside to be barely holding it together on the inside.  Know that everyone is different, and not everyone copes the same way.  That doesn't mean they deserve contempt.  Basically, just know that all of us are trying to get through life one day at a time, the best way we know how.  

Even Tom Cruise. 
 

Good Help is Hard to Find

It's official:  I've found my dream man.  No, it's not Ryan Gosling or Channing Tatum (six packs are overrated, anyway) or George Clooney (back in his “Facts of Life” days, before he got all smug and self-satisfied).  No, this Mr. Right is actually a criminal, which actually makes him Mr. Wrong.  But hold on a second.  Let’s not rush to judgment.  Just hear this and tell me if some part of you isn’t the least bit intrigued.  I recently read a report of a guy who breaks into a woman’s apartment while she’s away on holidays.  She comes back to find him folding her laundry.  And when she asks him what he thinks he's doing, he tells her that his next step is to wash the dishes.  I have to say, I'm impressed.  Any other petty thief would have just taken her flat screen and made a mess in the process.  This guy?  He’s busy pairing up her socks and folding her towels.  Now there’s a man I could get used to…Or at least send homemade chocolate chip cookies to in the Big House. 

Apparently, the woman lost no time in calling the police to report an intruder.  Well, I would have, too.  Eventually.  But between you and me, I probably would have let the guy run around with the vacuum before I ratted him out.  Good help is hard to find.

That’s the thing about getting older.  Not only have I gotten crankier, my standards for a man have changed dramatically.  And when I say they’ve changed, I mean I actually have some now.  When I was young and carefree (read:  dumb as a sack of hammers), all I was wanted was Mr. Good-looking & Fun.  Really.  As long as the guy was cute and a good kisser, I was happy.  This time around, I was looking for Mr. Pays His Bills, Cooks Me Dinner and Picks Up His Dirty Underwear Without Being Asked.  Looks were a nice bonus, but unless they came with an intimate knowledge of the proper way to make a bed, I wasn’t going to waste my time, or his.

Nowadays, I’m not willing to guess at anything.  I’m about as subtle as a Pitbull video.  Or Nicki Minaj's make-up.  I don’t think there’s a single pertinent question I haven’t asked my fiancé.  And I’m not talking “Oh, Hunny Bunny, if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?”  More like:  “Are you aware that the only way either one of us is getting out of this is feet first?”  Nothing like cutting to the chase. 

And as for that weird impulse I've always had to try to make a guy think I was something I was not (nicer/smarter/stronger/braver)?  I've had to stomp on that like grapes at harvest time.  I don’t want to have to put up any kind of front for someone I live with.  The brutal reality is that I snore, suffer from clinical depression, have the tastebuds of a peasant (i.e. my idea of the perfect meal would be KD with extra shredded cheese), love morbidly sad country songs and talk/rant far too loudly at inappropriate moments.  Yes folks, there's no two ways about it:  I.  Am.  A.  Prize.   

The nice thing is that my fiance is fine with all of it.  He has been to every neighbourhood in "Jo's Crazytown", and he's still interested in signing on for permanent residency.  Brave man.  Fact is, he's not one to judge, which is fine by me.  As far as I'm concerned, the flip side of having standards seems to be this bizarre need to judge others by those same standards, whether they are applicable or not.  

For me to judge others implies that I am superior to them in some way.  Uh uh.  Last time I checked, nobody died and made me Grand Poobah.  Nope.  People are certainly entitled to their opinions, but to tell someone that their choices are wrong and/or immoral is just a load of bull puckey.   Newsflash:  Part of being an adult is respecting other people's choices, even if you don't agree with them.  And be gracious about it, for goodness' sake.  Otherwise, it's just like saying "I'm sorry, BUT..."  It ain't happenin'. 

True enough:  our friendly neighbourhood B&E'er (aka "Random Laundry Folder") might not be YOUR idea of a dream man.  But you've got to make allowances that he's someone's  "Mr. Right".  I'm just so thankful I've found mine. 

And he does windows!