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The Truth About Mental Health

May 17, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Mental health issues are scary, right? If you have one, whatever you do DON’T ADMIT IT.

That’s the common philosophy, anyway. Why do we think that? Because we think that by not acknowledging the issue it will go away and no one will ever know we’re not perfect? Because we don’t want people to see us as weak or somehow less?

That’s what I thought, anyway.

I used to think mental health issues were scary. After dealing with my own and talking to others, I now find them a lot less scary.

I used to think people would see me as weak. After being open about it, I’ve discovered the exact opposite.

Right now I’m on leave from work to deal with an ongoing and very stubborn case of postpartum depression. My son is three. That’s a lot of crap, people. A lot of tears. A lot of yelling. A lot of pretending things were okay when in fact they were less okay than they had ever been.

When I first went on leave, I didn’t know what to say to the people I work with so I copped out with “spending time with family”. When it turned out my leave was going to be longer than the month I had indicated, I decided to fess up.

So I sent a note to my branch (about 10 or so of those people report to me) and to some others I work closely with. It took me several days to work up the nerve. And about 18 drafts in my head. And a few very deep breaths before I finally hit send. It’s one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.

What I expected was responses along the lines of, “Oh, I had no idea. Thanks for sharing. Wishing you well.”

What I got back was so much more than that – nothing but absolute support and sharing of their own personal stories.

Since it’s Mental Health Day I thought I’d share with you excerpts of some of the responses I got. A lot of these say really nice things about me, which I share not to make me sound awesome, but because sometimes these comments only come out this clearly when we tell people something honest and difficult about ourselves.

Here’s what some of them said:

“… I think the part of me that tends towards an emotional sensitivity gravitated towards the sensitivity and authenticity that is part of your nature. I think you’re an incredibly strong and wonderful person and I admire so much not only the way you lead but what you express of yourself, which is enlightened, passionate and straight from the heart. You make it easier for me to feel comfortable being my true self.”

“…What was not a surprise, and rather consistent over space and time, is your courage and ability to communicate and share your thoughts on a tough situation. As always, I’m blown away by your gift, to speak openly about something that is difficult to discuss. So thank you for sharing your story. Although it is tough to hear coming from someone you know (and can’t help them fix overnight), I would prefer to try and understand than to not know ….or worse be told something untrue.”

“I’m giving you a virtual high-five for sharing your story with me. Wow. Your courage is amazing. I’m honoured that you would share.”

“You are very brave and I am honoured that you shared this with me. It is so important to rip the veil off of the entrenched stigmas that keep us believing that we are less than perfect if we can’t just rise above.”

“…thanks so much for taking yourself and your health & your needs seriously and for being kind enough to share a little bit with people who care. You’re a fabulous role model, and I wish you exactly what you need to heal.”

“BRAVO, Robin! It’s a huge thing to come face to face with this issue and to take the time you need to deal, process, feel better, etc. That you would share this with us is also a significant step, and shows that you are serious about your leadership, as well as your efforts to heal.”

“You are a brave and incredible woman, Robin. I had no idea about any of this. That you came forward with your personal news is inspiring and really shows me, and all of us here, about what real leadership and self-preservation mean. And those things are what really matter.”

I know other people’s mental health issues – and willingness to share that information – are different than mine. I’ve seen some people share anonymously. I’ve seen some share selectively. I’ve seen some blow the doors open and just tell people without worrying about what they’ll think.

As for me, at first I didn’t realize PPD is what I was dealing with. And then I told no one, for a long time. And then I told a few people, some of them at work, because I was just not coping and when you’re completely losing it at work on a regular basis people are bound to suspect something’s up. I preferred them to know the truth than to think I couldn’t handle my job.

Then, in January, I started blogging about it. It was a whim, and I had no idea how public that would make it. If you read my first post, you’ll see that my boss found my blog before I had even posted anything. But I kept going. And I told a few more people. And a few more. And I talked about it on the radio. And then, after a long time searching for the right thing to do, I decided to tell my whole team at work.

I still don’t tell everyone I know. I don’t post my blog posts on my personal page on Facebook…yet. But I’m getting there. And you know what? Talking about it has been empowering.

I know not everyone is comfortable sharing stuff like this. But if you’ve been thinking about it, maybe this will reassure you that it might just be okay. If you don’t want to share, that’s okay too.

Either way, your mental health matters and there are so many safe ways to get support. You can start by reading the stories being shared during this Mental Health Blog Party and the resources linked to by the bloggers participating. One thing I know for sure is one of the biggest steps in feeling better is knowing you’re not alone.

Filed Under: Better world, Postpartum depression · Tagged With: community, depression, gratitude, hope, telling the truth, we're not alone

Confessions of a Depressed Canine

May 14, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Depression isn’t contagious in humans, but I’m starting to wonder if I’ve given it to my dog.

Poor Finley – he hasn’t been the same since we brought Connor home. We did the introduction thing and the blanket-smelling thing when we came home from the hospital and for a while he seemed okay. Curious, and perhaps a little suspicious, but okay.

Then Connor started to get mobile, and apparently this was NOT OKAY. Finley watched with surprise, and then concern, and then he started to get a little too close as though he was perfectly prepared to put the chubby little crawling thing in his place. So we carefully intervened on Connor’s behalf to make sure his chub stayed intact, but as Connor has grown it’s Finley who needs us to run interference.

This is generally related to Connor’s tendency to be active and physical and, well, two. We’ve taught him that he needs to be gentle, and usually he is. But occasionally Finley gets a completely undeserved swat, which we treat with zero tolerance so it’s getting better.

But at the first sign of any sort of discipline – even a calm command for a time-out – Finley’s tail starts to droop. If Connor is crying, for whatever reason, Finley lurks nearby, tail between his legs, head dropped, everything in his pose revealing his concern. If we get into a true cut-it-out, I’m-serious, quit-being-so-two! situation with Connor, Finley runs for cover.

Maybe it was that first year when things were so rough – Connor was fussy, didn’t sleep, cried a lot. I didn’t cope, didn’t sleep, cried a lot. Maybe Finley has Post Traumatic Connor Disorder as well.

At times we’ve found him cowering on the stairs or under a desk or chair. Sometimes his poor little fuzzy body shakes. When Connor’s in the house, Finley is always on high alert. I feel guilty for not being able to protect him from this.

Or maybe I shouldn’t feel that guilt – shouldn’t worry that there was too much tension when Connor was a baby and my reaction to it has traumatized my dog for life. Maybe it’s just the combination of a dog who likes his routine and a child who is determined to keep things interesting.

But I feel for my furry baby, and when he looks at me with those sad puppy-dog eyes I know just how he feels.

In his happy place.

Linked up with:

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: depression, mom's instinct

I Know, Right Now You Can’t Tell

May 4, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

“I feel like a fraud.”

Two friends, on the same day, during separate conversations, making the same statement. Two moms struggling with postpartum depression and questioning whether their struggle is real. Whether doing something to get help is valid.

I get this. Had, in fact, just written about it. That post didn’t even end up articulating what I meant when I started writing it. My question to myself and, by posting it, to others, was: Am I making this up?

We all have good days. On those days, we question why it’s so hard at other times. We wonder if perhaps it’s all in our heads. It is, in a way, at least from a biochemical standpoint, but it’s the nature of the depression demons to make you lose sight of things.

When I am okay, I can’t really remember what it’s like to feel not okay.

When I am not okay, I really can’t imagine ever feeling good again.

It’s not like this is something I could put on a calendar and prepare for, like this:

Monday will be a good day, and you should prepare to go to work and not worry about whether you are going to be forcing down anxiety attacks in the middle of meetings.
Tuesday will not be a good day. You will not feel able to go to work, but you will have to so pack your happy mask and pretend you are all right.
By Wednesday, things will be on the upswing again and you’ll feel better, saner, calmer. But in the back of your mind you will know that you are still on this roller coaster and it’s going to be a while after you get off before you really know you’re not on it anymore.

If you’ve been following along, you’ll know that I’m not working right now. I took four weeks of leave, which has turned into longer than that (more on that in another post). When I went into work to talk to my boss about taking leave during what was initially a vacation week, I threw on jeans and a t-shirt and a ball cap and prayed there wouldn’t be very many people in the office. I had stuffed my pockets with Kleenex just in case and would have given anything to teleport in and out of his office so no one else would see me.

If I had gone in today, I would have been showered and dressed and looking mostly normal. If someone would have asked me how I am, I would have said “okay”. That would have been true and they probably wouldn’t have been able to tell that I’m a bit loopy from medication. But on Friday I was also okay – pretty good, actually – and then late that night I got some bad news. That slope is awfully slippery, and Saturday was one of those days where I spent the day crying and wishing I could die.

In the ratio of bad days to good over the past few weeks while I’ve been off work, the bad days are holding a solid lead. But that’s slowly shifting as each and every day I’m learning more about what I need to do to ensure the good days start to outnumber the bad, and so that eventually the bad will be few and far between. But for now, I still have really bad days and I know the process I have to go through to get past those is not an easy or a fast one, so when the good days come I try to feel grateful and not like a fraud.

Given the choice, I would actually be happy for it all to be in my head. One day it will be, but only as a memory.

Post dedicated to my friends T and T, who are not frauds, and to D, who was listening to “Unwell” by Matchbox Twenty with me. He had the same light bulb moment when we heard the chorus (below) and correctly guessed it would turn into a post.

“Hold on
I’m feeling like I’m headed for a
Breakdown
I don’t know why

I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell
I know, right now you can’t tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you’ll see
A different side of me

I’m not crazy, I’m just a little impaired
I know, right now you don’t care
But soon enough you’re gonna think of me
And how I used to be”

(YouTube won’t let me embed this video, but I’ll give you this image as a link. Because Rob Thomas is cute.)

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: depression, perspective, we're not alone

A Slogan for Depression

April 26, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

*Disclaimer: This is meant to be lighthearted and to challenge some of my own thoughts about what depression means in my life. Not meant to offend

My mom sent me a link to a site that creates slogans. You’ve probably seen these – people use slogans as signatures on message boards (as in “Everything’s better with Kelly.”) I figured, what the hell, may as well play around with it. See what slogans it suggests for depression. Here’s some of what it came up with, and my editorial comments.

Yes, I believe we’ve been introduced.

My depression is 3 years old. How old is yours?

Right now, yes, but you’re the crazy one if you think I’m going to adopt this as my slogan.

With what? A scalpel? I’d certainly be willing to give it a shot.

I don’t but I certainly would.

Rules as in takes over? Yes. Rules as in “Depression Rocks!”? Not so much.

It certainly feels like that some days, but I bloody hope that’s not true.

Too late. I think my four different types of medication would be considered “messing with depression.”

If she really wants it, I’d be willing to sell her mine. She certainly has the money.

Um, it’s not contagious. At least I don’t think it is…

This has to be a typo. It should say, “Depression is better with chocolate.”

Is that supposed to be the title of the movie about my life? Because I want it to be called something different.

I suppose this could be interpreted a number of ways, but in general highly insensitive given recent events.

That’s better.

Now you’re talking. I have a dream team. And a ringer on the bench. And fans on the sidelines. And one very enthusiastic cheerleader.

With all that, who needs a slogan?

Image courtesy dreamstime (appropriate, don't you think?)

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: depression

Thoughts for My Mother

April 20, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

If my mom were a blogger I know exactly what she’d be like. She’d be the kind of person who pours her heart onto the page without worrying too much what other people think. She would start writing thinking no one would read – except maybe her kids – and then realize her ability to create a community around her would work magic in the blogosphere as well. People would read because she was a mom in the time before mommy bloggers and therefore her story is different. And yet it’s very much the same.

I could never have imagined how the advent of one small child into my life would change things, permanently. I was pretty passionate about everything I tried, passionate about business, passionate about training, passionate about travel, passionate about the mountains and skiing. So no one ever expected me to drop it all in favour of one small child.

I also could never have imagined how much time one small child took up. I think I envisioned myself getting up in the morning, dressing the small (and of course perfect) child in something becoming, and sitting, sipping tea and reading mind-expanding material to said child so that he or she grew up to be something extraordinary. The reality, as you can imagine, was quite different and a bit messier.

The day the earth-shaking child chose to make her entrance was cold and snowy… I won’t go into boring detail about the following day but it was indeed D Day and while I remember thinking, “Well, I will never do this again,” I was in for the surprise of my life. What was about to happen to me resulted in not one small child, but 4, and my life being co-opted and enriched in a way that was totally unexpected.

At 4:31 p.m. on December 21st, a child was born. She looked at me with my eyes. Then the whole world shifted.

Those of you who are members of The Red Dress Club will recognize the beginning and end of this piece as a recent prompt. My mom read what I wrote and then sent me a piece of her own, part of which is excerpted above.

“You should start a blog,” I told her.

“I wouldn’t have enough to say,” was her response.

I confess I laughed. My mom? Not have enough to say? She’s interested in everything. She could write and write and write and still not run out of things to say. She would write thoughtful posts. Insightful posts. Funny posts. She would probably write a lot of poignant posts. She would write posts that would connect to something in people and they would comment. And then she would click on links and follow tweets and read others’ writing and comment back.

That’s the sort of person my mother is – through her involvement in various things she becomes part of something. As far back as I can remember she’s been genuinely interested in people’s stories.

My mom is not a blogger, but her earth-shaking child is. And right now, reading the things I have written – especially recently – I imagine it’s hard to be my mother. So because I have, yet again, shaken her world, I will use my own blog to tell her this:

I know you’re worried.

I know you wish you knew how to help.

I know you’re beating yourself up about not noticing sooner or not coming by more. About saying the wrong things. About not knowing what the right things are.

I know you’re watching and reading and trying to understand, and I love you for it.

I know you don’t really understand though.

I actually don’t think you can. If you haven’t experienced this – especially this experience as it relates to being a mother – I really don’t think it’s possible to know what it’s like. During the times I feel good, even I can’t remember what the bad feels like.

I imagine just knowing I’m struggling, whether you understand it or not – and perhaps especially if you do not – is consuming you with stress and worry.

You might feel as though I’m not reaching out to you enough. Don’t take it personally – it’s not really anything to do with you. I just can’t right now.

I don’t know why this happened and I’m not entirely sure how to fix it, but I feel like I’m getting closer to finding the way.

You have to trust that it will be all right.

That’s what I’m doing. I’m holding on and trusting that it will be all right.