Weight Is Just A Number

“I’ve gained weight.”

 

A statement that is uttered internally by almost every woman at some point in their lives and most likely more than once.  ‘Weight’… we are so focused on that one word which essentially, as my geeky husband who studied physics and astronomy in college would say, is our gravitational pull to the Earth’s core.  Fairly interesting when you realize how heavy you are on Jupiter (for me 321 lbs) and how light you are on Pluto (8.5 lbs).  Now if I thought my weight on Jupiter was huge, using the site https://www.exploratorium.edu/ronh/weight/ I can see that my weight on Earth is nothing compared to my weight on a Neutron Star (17780000000000 lbs).

 

Enough about the solar system.  My goal here is to shatter the high standards we as women place on ourselves when it comes to how much we weigh.  I have covered Body Shaming prior to this, but I believe there needs to be more as even since that post, I haven’t stopped shaming myself 100% until a few months ago.

 

I have spent my life so focused on the number that the scale would spit up at me.  I dwelled on it.  I would see my ‘thunder thighs’ and cry.  I yo-yo dieted in college, eating crap during the semester and then following Weight Watchers during summer break.  Up 10lbs, down 10lbs. Up 15lbs, down 15lbs. Up 15lbs… uh oh!  By the time I got married, I was heavy but would not admit it until at age 25, when my resting blood pressure was 150/90 and my cholesterol was elevated.  Now I had to pay attention.  Still focused on that stupid number on the scale, I dove right in to following Weight Watchers day and night.  And it worked.  The number on the scale went down.  At one point, even after having my daughter, I was down to 112lbs.  I thought I would finally be happy with my figure.

 

But I wasn’t.

 

It wasn’t until I hit my mid to late thirties where I said to myself, “Steph, is it really the weight?  Is it really the number on the scale?!”  At first, due to my latest episode of Depression I was suffering from (where I dropped to 104lbs and then proceeded to gain way more back), I answered with a “Hell yes!”  It was hard to do anything during this time.  I had no motivation.  Exercise, ha! That was never going to happen.  Food, if I thought something would make me happy, I ate it.  This went on for 2 years.

 

And then I had had enough.

 

Nothing I was doing was making me feel better.  I sat back and really thought about when I was happy, when I felt… strong.  Whoa, where did that word come from?!  Strong?!  Ah, Stephanie, now you are on to something.  Maybe instead of focusing on my weight so much, I should focus on my strength.  I had mostly accomplished this with working on my mental and emotional strength in therapy, now was the time to remedy my physical strength.

 

I stopped aiming for my previous weight of 115 lbs. and started to focus on what I could do to be healthy and get strong.  I wanted to teach my daughter that weight was just a number.  I watched what I was eating and joined a gym.  My first personal trainer listened to my goals but chose to ignore the ‘lose weight’ aspect.  He heard ‘strong’ and went with it.  I started barbell squatting, sumo squatting and front squatting.  I was doing bicep curls, tricep kick-backs and chest presses.  I was beginning to feel strong again.

 

The number on the scale didn’t budge. And then my trainer up and fell of the face of the planet (really no one has heard from him in over 6 months).  What was I going to do?  I continued with this circuit but knew I was slacking in eating healthy.

 

Then the gym offered a program guided by a different personal trainer.  I was skeptical at first but knew my focus was on strength.  No way was I going to ‘Lose Big’ (as the program is titled).  This trainer provided us with nutrition basics, info on Macros, insightful tips and, frankly, kick-ass workouts!  After the 10 weeks were over, I had lost only 3lbs, but other things occurred.  I dropped several inches and lowered my body fat percentage.  This was working.  When this trainer decided to run this program again, I said “Sign me up!”

 

And… I haven’t lost any weight so far.  I am 127lbs at my 5’-0 ¾” stature.  I am a bit proud of this.  Why?!  Because my smaller clothes fit.  Because this means I am building muscle. And because my body fat percentage is in the Fitness Level.  I can now barbell squat over 150lbs and feel energized.  I sleep better.  My mental health is better.  I feel stronger.

 

And to me, strength equals happiness, not some stupid number on the scale.

Living With Someone Who Is Mentally Ill: Interview with My Daughter

My daughter has seen it all. From her oceanic blue eyes in her cherub baby face to now, almost 12 years later. She is a remarkable child who has not only witnessed her mother’s hysterics (& panic attacks, drastic weight loss and days of not getting out of bed) but also her own diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder. My daughter, given the name Sophia Faye at birth, is the epitome of the meaning… “Wise Fairy”. Sophia is an old soul and understands so much for such a young person. Many words can be used to describe her but at the top of the list are definitely compassionate, empathetic, caring and loving. There are days I may miss her little toddling body and cheeky grins but I love watching her blossom into the amazing young lady she is today.

When I decided to do this interview series, I knew I had to interview her. I have not hid much from her. In fact 3 years ago I was so foregone I couldn’t. She learned about suicide at the tender age of 8 and questioned me often about it. She knows I grew to hate her as a newborn. I’ve always explained things to her in an age appropriate manner and often worried about her reactions but she has always listened, digested and never ever judged. I am amazed by her and couldn’t of asked for a better child.

Sophia’s Interview

Lounging in her preteen abode full of textured pillows and dozens of Stitch stuffed animals early in the evening, we both relaxed on her bed. There were many giggles beforehand as she pictured this interview as a video recording and not just a vocal recording. She was a little nervous, as was I, and we both tend to laugh a lot when we are nervous:

Me: How did you feel when I told you I grew to hate you when you were a baby?

Sophia: Fine.

Me: How come you were okay with it?

Sophia: Because I knew you didn’t mean it.

Concerning 3 years ago

Me: What did you feel and think when I left the house 3 years ago to stay with Bubbe & Grandpa (my parents) because Tyler (former foster son) was triggering me?

Sophia: I don’t remember that.

Me: It was only 3 years ago!

Sophia: Didn’t I come with you?

Me: You did.

Sophia: It was when he left?

Me: Yes.

Sophia: Oh, I mean, I was… I didn’t even notice anything was wrong with you. Like, I… I don’t really know. I felt fine because I didn’t know you were triggered.

Me: I left the house because I couldn’t stay there.

Sophia: But wasn’t I there too?

Me: I don’t think you came the first night.

Sophia: Oh. I don’t remember. I’m getting old!

Me (after rolling my eyes at that last statement): How did you feel when I admitted myself into the hospital?

Sophia: Scared.

Me: Did you know why I was there?

Sophia: No, I’m not sure. No.

Me: What did you think when you couldn’t visit me in the hospital and had to stay in the cafeteria with Grandpa?

Sophia: I wasn’t happy about it. I mean, I wanted to see you.

Me: You weren’t allowed to see me because they were worried about what the other people might say to you, what you might see.

Sophia: Oh, okay.

Me: Were you scared when I was released from the hospital?

Sophia: No, because I was happy you were going to leave and come home.

Me: You’ve been protecting me since the hospital stay. How come?

Sophia: Because I don’t want you to go back to the hospital.

GAD, PPD, Depression, & Suicide

Me: Do you blame me for your Generalized Anxiety Disorder and it is okay if you do?

Sophia: No.

Me: Do you blame anyone for it?

Sophia: No. Why would I?

Me: Do you wish you were ‘normal’?

Sophia: Sometimes.

Me: If you didn’t worry about the things you worry about?

Sophia: Sometimes, because sometimes it is good to worry.

Me: Do you fear you’ll have Postpartum Depression and Anxiety because I had it?

Sophia: Sometimes.

Me: Do you worry or fear you’ll have a Depressive Disorder because I have one?

Sophia: I don’t usually think about it. I guess, but that is only when I think about it.

Me: Do you know when I was first diagnosed (with Depression)?

Sophia: You were 14.

Me: And how old are you?

Sophia: I am 11.

Me: So you are close to that age.

Sophia: Yeah.

Me: That’s why I watch you a lot.

Sophia: That’s not creepy.

Me: Not in that sense Sophia. I’m not stalking you… Are you worried I will commit suicide?

Sophia: Very much.

Me: How come?

Sophia: You told me how you took that can cutter thing (a case cutter) and almost cut your hand off (almost slit my wrist).

Me: I was 18 then.

Sophia: So?

Me: That was 20 years ago.

Sophia: You also said that if you go off of medicine you’re probably going to want to commit suicide the next time you have an episode (of Major Depressive Disorder).

Me: Are you worried I will hurt myself?

Sophia: Yeah.

Me: Do you think there will be a next time?

Sophia: Yes, just because of events that can happen in the future.

Me: Like what?

Sophia: Like Bubbe & Grandpa dying or like the kitties dying and stuff.

Me: Do you think because of what I have been through that I am too overprotective with you about Mental Illness?

Sophia: Sometimes. There is no reason you should be.

Me: Do you understand why I am?

Sophia: Yeah. Because you don’t want me to get Depression and stuff.

Stigma & Advocacy

Me: What have I told you about stigma?

Sophia: What does stigma mean again?

Me: Hard to define but how people think the Mentally Ill are a danger to our society, that you should be hush-hush about it because people may not hire you, people may not want to be your friend, people don’t believe it is real.

Sophia: You’ve told me.

Me: And what do you think about that?

Sophia: I mean if that’s what they think, that’s what they think.

Me: Because you know that one of your grandparents thinks that way.

Sophia: Well, yeah, but…

Me: How do you feel knowing that you have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and you have a grandparent that doesn’t believe it exists?

Sophia: Well, that’s what he can think.

Me: Do you understand why I advocate for this?

Sophia: What does that mean, advocate?

Me: Why I share my story. Why I try to teach others.

Sophia: Yes.

Me: Do you see yourself doing that?

Sophia: I don’t know.

Thoughts on Me, Her Mom

Me: Do you think I am a bad mother?

Sophia: No. Not at all. Why would I think you were?

Me: Do you ever wish you had a mother that wasn’t like this?

Sophia: No.

Me: Did you ever think I was a bad mother?

Sophia: No.

Me: How do you characterize your mother?

Sophia: Worried, anxious, fun, caring, loving, sometimes depressed.

Me: Do you always related Mental Illness stuff to your mom?

Sophia: Like different things other than Postpartum?

Me: Well I have had Depression since I was 14. There have been others thrown in there.

Sophia: When I think of Depression I don’t think of you as ‘Oh, she’s depressed’, I think ‘she is still alive and she is strong’.

Me: You see me as strong and a fighter?

Sophia: Yeah.

Me: What traits do you hope you get from me or do you see you already have gotten?

Sophia: I want to get your determination and your strength and sometimes your empathy because a lot of times empathy is good and I want your mental strength.

Me: Any last comments on me, your mother?

Sophia: I love her.

Me: Would you want any other mother besides me?

Sophia: No.

Me: How much do you love me?

Sophia: To infinity and beyond!

I am truly grateful for this kid!

When All You Can Do Is Blame Yourself For Your Daughter’s Diagnosis

I tried to hold my tears back as I stared into my daughter’s oceanic blue eyes.  I could feel them welling up, feel the moisture increasing.

Not here, not now, not in public, Stephanie.

But, to be cliché, the dam was about to break.  A tear or two escaped.  My daughter was concerned and relayed this to her father on the phone.  She handed my cellphone back to me and my husband proceeded to ask, “Are you okay?”  No, no I wasn’t okay, but do I tell him that?  The silence was broken as he asked again.  I told him the truth because even if I lied and told him I was okay, he knew I wasn’t.

I am about to cry,” I uttered quietly so the other patrons could not hear me.  My daughter and I were waiting for our dinner order to be ready at our favorite sandwich shop in town.  It was last Friday evening, the start of the weekend, and my husband’s Friday to geek out and play Magic.  He wanted to stay home with me.  I told him no, I didn’t want him to blame me for not being able to play (even though he wouldn’t, it was all in my head).  I told him this knowing full well that I wanted his support but feeling I didn’t deserve it.

Our food order was ready and we went home passing my husband’s car on the way.  When we pulled into the garage, my tears flowed like a high pressure hose.  My daughter wanted to know what was wrong although she could somewhat guess as she has been a witness to me, her mother, for the last eleven years.

“It’s my fault, it’s all my fault.”  My lamentation increasing as these words escaped my mouth.

“What is your fault, Mommy?”

“That you are the way you are.  It is my fault.”

My daughter has been diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder since she was 6 and has struggled off and on with it over the last 5 years.  This year has been extremely hard on her and because of it, hard on me.  She has been in therapy since the fall and because of some reactions she has had during her anxiety attacks the past month, it has recently been suggested that she get evaluated by a psychiatrist.

When the recommendation was first made to me by her therapist, I have to say I was a bit shocked.  I guess I never thought that her Anxiety warranted a psychiatric evaluation.  After a few hours, I have to admit the stigma against Mental Illness set in; her seeing a psychiatrist would really mark her as someone who is mentally ill.  I hurt for her.  My husband and I discussed the evaluation with her.  She has learned about the stigma, has learned to stand up to it (from her Mom of course).  But even this, having the word “psychiatrist” associated with her name, caused her to want to hide.  She instantly thought she would be medicated.  Eventually, she became okay with the evaluation that is set to be done in another week and a half.

All this got to me.  It pulled at my heart, tore holes, ate away at it.  The biggest fear I had when becoming a parent is that I would pass on my Depression and Anxiety to her and I have.  Her being in therapy never bothered me.  I am a firm believer that most people would benefit from therapy regardless of a Mental Illness diagnosis.  It was the mention of “psychiatrist”.  To me, like my daughter, I associate “psychiatrist” with “medication”.  Throw in the word “evaluation” and I was losing it.  I held back my emotions for the sake of my daughter, but I knew eventually they would become very visible.

I spoke with my therapist about it.  He told me it wasn’t my fault.  I said, “How?  How is it not my fault?!  She suffers the way I do.  I never wanted her to and now she is.  It’s only going to get worse.”  He logically said that this is something I did not give her on purpose.  There was no way of knowing whether she would be Mentally Ill or not.

“But I gave it to her.  It is my genetics that did this.  She is becoming me.”

No matter how many people tell me it is not my fault (heck, even my intelligent daughter tells me), I still cannot stop blaming myself.  I can’t kick this feeling.  She is already experiencing more than I ever did at her age.  I mean, I wasn’t even diagnosed until 14 and here she is at 11 with 5 years of Anxiety under belt.  Maybe I am transferring myself onto her to an extent, already predicting more suffering in her future getting worse and worse as she ages like it has for me.  No parent wants to see their child endure pain and illness.  In this case, I didn’t want her to endure the thoughts that I have felt, the fear I have felt, the hopelessness that I have felt.  I didn’t want her holding a case cutter to her wrist.  I didn’t want her desiring to stick something in her brain to end the constant negative thinking.

And yet it is beginning.  The fear is already inside of her.  And it was all my fault.  How could I, someone who has battled Depression and Anxiety for over 24 years, not feel blame?  More importantly, how can I stop feeling blame?

Teaching My Daughter To Rise Above The Stigma Of Mental Illness

My daughter has seen me. She has seen me throughout her eleven years of life.  She has seen me lose touch with reality several times, seen me cry uncontrollably many times, seen me at a handful of Psychiatric and Therapy appointments.  She has even seen me become hospitalized.  Throughout all of this, she has stood by my side supporting me any way a preteen can.  She will get me my medication and water when I have an anxiety attack.  She will tell me she doesn’t want any other Mommy when I say she deserves better.  She fights the stigma behind Mental Illness for me to “infinity and beyond” (A Toy Story line that defines how much we love each other).

 

But, even with all that she does to help me, she falls victim to the stigma when it comes to herself.

 

My daughter was diagnosed at age 6 with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, a diagnosis that she deserved even at age 4. She feared doctors or, honestly, anything medical.  She catastrophized thoughts in her mind constantly thinking that she could catch diseases such as Ebola and Rabies just by breathing it in.  While these medically induced anxieties faded through the years she still tends to get overwhelmed and will have minor Panic Attacks over things that she can’t control.  She is easily frustrated.  She cries. She’s a worrier, and a huge Empath like myself.

 

There have been several occasions where school was a trigger. When she started elementary school, they placed my daughter in the Special Friends program at my request.  It was a program dedicated to giving young children a place to relax for an hour and talk about their feelings.  I loved this program.  She aged out after 2nd Grade .  At this point we started therapy for her to learn coping skills for when anxiety attacks hit.  This helped for a while and she was able to stop therapy for a year or two.  Enter a few major life events, moving and entering Middle School, and her anxieties came back full force.  Insomnia set in.  Panic Attacks over homework became present and therapy sessions returned.

 

Through all of this, I have been her advocate. I do not want to see her suffer the way I have.  There was a brief discussion last year with the school nurse about possibly getting her further help, such as a 509 report, within the school system.  She had been sent home because she threw up.  The nurse knew right away after seeing my daughter through the years that this was related to her GAD, but due to the rules, I had to pick my daughter up and keep her home for 24 hours.  The nurse said that if this was in her file, she could return to school the next day bypassing the required 24 hours.  I thought heavily on this and suggested to my daughter that we get the school more involved.  Her response:

 

“I don’t want special treatment. There are kids that need it more.”

 

I respected that answer since the school year was almost over and we were switching school systems. She started Middle School and things were okay for a short period of time.  Then I noticed her getting heavily overwhelmed, crying and panicking.  I brought the subject of getting more help from the school with her again.  She hesitated and replied:

 

“I don’t want special treatment.”

 

I explained to her that it wasn’t special treatment. Her diagnosis, which is in her medical file at the school, would be more known so that if she did have further issues, she could receive the help she needed, whether it be visits to the school Psychologist or extra time on a test.  Then she started to tear up a bit and said, “No, I don’t want it.  The kids will make fun of me and my friends won’t like me anymore.”

 

Oh boy. Enter the Mental Health stigma.  Because I have been fighting it so long, the huge advocate in me came out and I may have reacted a tad too intimidating for an 11-year-old.  I was angry.  I thought the world has become slightly better with Mental Illness, but I was wrong.  I spoke, with a seething rage inside my head, sternly to my daughter:

 

“Do not feel that way at all. Do not, for one second, be ashamed of your diagnosis.  So, you have an Anxiety Disorder.  You have no idea what other kids at your school may have.  Most likely a few of your friends have one too.  All that, all that you just said, that is the stigma talking.  You do not have to hide like I did.”

 

She began to cry a little. She knew I was right especially after being such a support and advocate for me.  She nodded her head, apologized, and went upstairs.  I didn’t know if it really sunk in, the words I said until one afternoon she came home from school and was excited to show me a video she was working on in school in one of her classes.  I sat and watched the video and was so enamored and proud of this child.  Here she stood, in the crowded hallways of her school talking about her Anxiety Disorder.  She didn’t care if anyone heard her.  She spoke confidently about coping skills and therapy.  My daughter isn’t hiding anymore.  She’s kicking the stigma to the curb just like her mom.

When You Need To Discuss Sexual Harassment With Your Pre-teen Child

“Mom, I need to tell you something,” my daughter spoke as I started the car after picking her up from the YMCA yesterday, “but I don’t think you are going to like it.”

 

I love sentences that start this way. I had no idea what was going to come out of her mouth next.  Let’s just say I never ran the following as a possible scenario in my head.

 

She proceeded to tell me that a 7th Grade boy on her afternoon bus was going around talking about his two favorite words, thick and moist.  I knew instantly what was coming next as I am my father’s daughter and have always had a dirty mind.  She continued by saying that this boy then proceeded to ask all the girls on the bus if he made them moist.

 

Uh, what?! Did I really just hear that correctly?!

 

My daughter, a wise soul (after all her name means Wise Fairy), was disgusted. Somehow, she knew what he meant at her tender age of eleven.  She scrunched up her face and replied with a huge “No!” when he asked her.  But that response wasn’t enough for this kid.  He then wanted to confirm her answer by asking if he could look to make sure.

 

I was worried what her response would be to this. I have always been straight with her, not sheltering her from the realities of this world.  I was very proud when she said that she told him, “Heck no!”  I am raising her right.

 

I had to digest all this. I knew I would feel disgusted if someone asked me this and I am in my late 30s.  When we got home I was curious to see what her father’s response to this situation would be, hoping that some reaction would be given.  Knowing my husband, I knew I was asking for a bit too much.  He said that this is the age boys get disgusting and that our daughter responded correctly.

 

As the discussion progressed during dinner, more questions arose in me.

 

“Did the bus driver do anything?” My daughter responded with, “No.”

 

Excuse me?!

 

“She didn’t say anything at all?!” My daughter responded, “Nope.  Well, at one point she tried to change the subject, but that didn’t work.”

 

Okay, bus driver, I know this is not really in your job description, but please say something even if just to the school.

 

Did I mention that this bus aside from having the Middle School kids, also has 4th and 5th Graders?

 

I was torn with how to react. So obviously, I posted it on Facebook leaving it to the internet gods to come up with a solid solution.  Waiting for reactions to start pouring in, I pondered this event more and more and became more saddened by it.  Of course, the kids in Middle School are learning about their bodies and how their bodies react hormonally, I can’t prevent that, nor do I want to.  But this, this wording… While he thought he was being cool, it was just feeding the Sexual Harassment frenzy that has snowballed into an avalanche in the United States recently.  It isn’t right, this wording isn’t right.  What this boy did, as many on Facebook agreed, was Sexual Harassment.  These girls aren’t going to know yet to tell him to shut up.  Most are going to shy away from it and pretend it didn’t happen.  Worse yet, is a 4th Grader going to know to tell him no when he wanted to check if they were or weren’t “moist”?

 

I woke up and checked Facebook this morning. I was met with generally the same reaction… this is Sexual Harassment, call the school and the bus company.  While I want to jump at the phone and dial the school’s number, I am undecided what to say.  I feel awkward using the word “moist” (God, what a horrible word) when discussing this with the school authority.  I also have no idea what the child’s name is.  What am I going to say, “Some 7th Grade boy is asking the girls on bus 20 if he makes them moist”?  But, I do not want this to die away.  This is extremely relevant especially at this prepubescent age.  This is the age where girls and boys are learning about what their body can actually do.  They are learning about sex.  They are learning about their body’s reaction to sex.  They are feeling awkward about it.  I mean my daughter still plugs her ears and sings “La, la, la” when I even try to discuss what a menstrual cycle is.  I also know that they are coming upon an age where some of their friends will sadly begin to engage in sex.  All this, all this means, they are coming upon the age of being sexually harassed.

 

It is sad, sad to think that I need to discuss in further detail what Sexual Harassment is to my newly eleven-year-old daughter. It is sad that this boy feels he can talk this way and get away with it, especially with all the recent events (Al Franken, Kevin Spacey, Harvey Weinstein, etc.).  It is sad that now somewhere in my town a parent might have to discuss this with their nine-year-old 4th Grader.  How does one delicately explain it to a mere child?  How do you teach your child this is not right?  There is no required training in this like there is at work.

 

So here I sit, angry, disgusted, saddened and a bit confused wanting to hold on to the little girl that still resides in my daughter, but knowing that in this day and age, she needs to grow up at a younger age than I did.

When You’re More Nervous Than Your Child On The 1st Day Of School

Crowds of kids gathered with their parents at the bus stop snapping photos of their elated children.  Some even took video.  I stood with my daughter giving a hug and kiss on her cheek.  I did this as support, support she didn’t ask for. Why? Because today was the 1st Day of School, the first day in a new school district for her and I was worried.

I was very nervous, bordering on anxious… wondering if she had everything.  I think I was more nervous this year than she was because I can actually remember Junior High (New York’s version of Middle School) and I remember starting Junior High not knowing anyone.  I remembered the fear, the anxiety, the pure terror.  You see, I didn’t go to my zoned Junior High where I would have had friends from my elementary school, I went to a ‘Gifted & Talented’ Junior High for my creative writing abilities.  And although my daughter was starting a new school system as we moved in late spring to give her a better education, unlike myself, she already knew a few people.

I worried about my daughter.  With every new thing she would panic over… What if I can’t open my locker? What if the kids make fun of me? What if I am late to class?… my worry grew.  I only want her to be happy and to succeed.

As the days passed and the 1st Day approached, I repeatedly asked her questions:

“Do you remember how to open your locker?  Tell me.”

“What bus do you take from school to the YMCA in the afternoon?”

And then I started to make blatant statements:

“Don’t forget you will need lunch.”

“You only need a pen or pencil the first day. Why are you bringing so much other stuff?!”

I think I was beginning to drive my daughter batty as she began to roll her eyes at me and sigh.

I just wanted her to be prepared.  Middle School is not Elementary School.  You are given more responsibilities in Middle School.  You have to go to more than one classroom.  You have a set time to get to each class.  You have reports and projects.

And most important… you must figure out who you are sitting with at lunch!

This last item was what was making my daughter more anxious the last few days.  She doesn’t want to hurt anyone.  She was debating between her oldest and dearest friend (they have been friends since they were babies), our neighbor across the way and a friend from her former camp in the city we used to live in that relocated too.  She questioned me repeatedly about this.  I suggested her old camp friend as she would see her bestie on the bus and well, our neighbor lives right across the way from us.

A mass chaos of questions, things to purchase, items on a To-Do list and my brain was foggy (it has been for the last couple of months already).  I couldn’t concentrate to get everything organized, I just couldn’t think.  With that I became irritable.  With the irritability, I grew more anxious and had several anxiety attacks.  It felt like my brain was playing a hyper speed game of Atari’s Pong in my head. But I tried to keep my anxieties from my daughter. We didn’t need her GAD to start.

It was official. I was more nervous than my daughter.

As I stood at the bus stop this morning with her and the gaggle of other kids and parents, I internally told myself this is it.  She is ready and if she forgot something, there is always tomorrow.  Tell your Anxiety that she is fine.  She will make friends. She will open her locker.  She will find her classes. You know she is ready for this and so are you.

Then the bus showed up. I waved to my friend, the bus driver.  I watched her get on and smiled. I walked away feeling calm and content and whispered, “Good luck my love.”

Struggling To Help My Daughter…


My daughter is a bright, caring, empathetic, preteen girl.  Most days she has a smile on her face that melts her mom’s heart.  She is typical preteen, mostly caring about binge-watching shows on Netflix or catching up on her friend’s latest YouTube videos featuring her fave, Beanie Boos.  She does well in school, is friendly to everyone, and is respectful of others.
She also has Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD).
When she was diagnosed at age 6, I did everything I could to help her.  I got her into a special group at her school, inquired information from her doctor and read up on anything I could get my hands on.  I have plenty of experience with adult GAD, but I haven’t a clue on what to do for childhood Anxiety.  The school group helped immensely and then she aged out of the program.  She was doing well until a major life event occurred in our household.  We were fostering-to-adopt but had to give this child back to DCF because of my declining mental health.  Her GAD came back full force.  This time we sought out therapy.  While she got help, so did I for my Depression and Anxiety.
In the last 2 ½ years, my daughter has been doing great with only minor hiccups.
Then we decided to move to give her a better education as she starts Middle School, another major life change.
My husband and I do not hide things from her and she knew from the beginning about the move.  She helped us in choosing where we would live (ultimately her input was minor).  We wanted her to embrace this change.  She was excited as she will be in school with her best friend now.  We thought she was handling this well.
And then sleep disturbances set in.  
My daughter has always been a good sleeper; I have never experience this before even with her past episodes of GAD.  As the moving date approaches, her sleep disturbances have become full fledge episodes of Insomnia and I, as her mother, feel completely helpless.  Here I am, a woman who has struggled with Depression and Anxiety for most of my life and I can’t help her.  For me, the solution comes in the form of medication that I take nightly.  For her, at age 10, there is no medicinal help.  At first we tried simple solutions by telling her to read, it will tire her eyes.  That didn’t work.  
As night 3 was approaching, I became extremely concerned.  I could vividly remember what I felt like and how I reacted to night 4 of Insomnia for me.  I remember the tears and the strong desire to sleep.  I remember the immense amount of thoughts that bounced in and out of my mind.  I remember the extreme irritation and delusional thinking I had during the day.  I was desperate to give my child relief.  
I suggested she use my weighted blanket.  She refused.
I suggested mindfulness meditation.  She refused. 
I suggested my Therapist’s 4-square breathing technique (breathe in for 4 seconds, hold for 4 seconds, breathe out for 4 seconds, repeat 4 times) which has worked for me a few times.  She was hesitant but decided to give it a shot.  It didn’t work.
Night 4 brought on the only pseudo-medicinal thing I could try with her… Melatonin.  I cut my 3mg pill in half.  Nope, still didn’t work.  She was in tears.  She just wanted to sleep and I completely understood this all too well.  I explained that she needed to distract herself, try not to just lay in bed.  I suggested reading, writing, journaling, drawing, coloring and lastly, watching stuff on her Kindle (which I set to the night mode that turns off the harming blue light).  She slept only 7 hours that night, barely enough for an adult.
Last night, night 5, I finally convinced her to use my weighted blanket.  I thought we may have found the solution as all was quiet.  Then I heard her come downstairs at 11pm.  After about 15 minutes, she returned to her room.  This morning she said that she sat crying in her room and eventually fell asleep around midnight.  She woke up at 6:10am.  6 hours of sleep.
I don’t know what to do.  She is declining rapidly.  The recommended amount of sleep for a child her age is 9-12 hours.  She has not had anywhere close to this in five days.  My sleep is becoming disturbed worrying about her.  I do not know how to help her anymore.  I am struggling as I feel the sense of blame coming back… she is like this because of me.  My GAD worries that she will never sleep again, always jumping to the worst conclusion.  I cry for her.  I blame myself for her struggles with this illness.  I am pondering therapy again, but that isn’t going to fix her problem quickly.  How can I help my daughter?  

Mommy’s Sick… Does Anyone Care?!

A few days ago I stayed home sick.  No, I didn’t actually have a fever, but my nose was constantly draining as if someone forgot to turn the shower off and my body was achy everywhere.  I was involuntarily stretching because of these aches and knew that I would accomplish nothing, zero, zilch, nada at work.  I was lightheaded and nauseas.  From the moment I woke up, I knew I was doomed.  I texted my boss and informed him I would be out apologizing because I have a project deadline approaching.  I then crawled up the stairs and informed my husband that he would have to drive our daughter to school.

“I’m sick.  Can you please drive Sophia to school?” I voiced weakly, “I’m dizzy, achy, and my nose needs to be permanently attached to tissues.”

I should’ve known what his response would be, after all I have been married to the man for over 12 years and with him for over 20, but I was still a bit awe stricken…

“Ugh, do I have to?!” he whined.

Really?!

I love my husband, really I do.  He really is my rock.  So many times my Depression and Anxiety have told him to leave, that he would be better off without me.  But he never did.  He stepped in as primary parent and let me get the help I needed whether in the form of visits to my therapist or psychiatrist, a phone call to my parents or even a couple of hospitalizations.  He truly is my best friend and an awesome man with exception to this one thing.

During my hospitalization for Severe Postpartum Depression and Anxiety 10 years ago, I finally learned I am not Wonder Woman, I cannot do it all.  I mean ALL is a considerable amount.  The media will have you believe that mothers can do everything.  I haven’t met a mother yet that does everything and those that come close usually have large quantities of coffee or wine in hand.  Once I arrived home from this hospitalization, I put the phrase, “I need help” to use.  I mean, I honestly needed help.

“Jimmy, can you help me with this?” I asked my husband.  For awhile, he did (remember, this was a decade ago).  Then he would get whiny.  Once he started to get whiny, I stopped asking for help.  Without asking for help, my Mental Illnesses got worse, but I kept them relatively under control.  After all, I was forever in debt to him for being hospitalized and leaving him with a newborn to take care of for 12 days… at least I thought I was.  Then, I was hospitalized again and once released, he and my daughter questioned me how they could help me.

Ah, finally, they were asking how they could help, not waiting for me to beg them.  This, unfortunately, didn’t last.  I was once again asking them for help, not a lot, and I was using “please” and “thank you”.  They are the magic words you know.  My daughter usually obeyed, but lately, with prepubescence, it is becoming more difficult.  My husband…

And we’re back to… “Ugh, do I have to?!”

I tried not to get angry by this response.  I was completely drained anyway, but inside I was beginning to boil.

“Yes.  Thank you.”

He proceeded to do as asked.  I then called him at work around noon, after a nap and forcing some food into me, to make sure he was going to pick her up from school.

“You’re picking Sophia up from school, right?” I inquired.

“What? Me? Why me?  You’re home.  You pick her up.”

“I’m sick.  I’m not leaving the house.”

And once again… “Ugh, do I have to?!”

When this is a response you constantly receive, it makes it hard to ever ask for help.

Then, he added, “What are you making for dinner?”

What?!  Yes, I know I am home, but really, I don’t even have a desire to eat.  After explaining if he would like his food with snot on it (because, hello, drippy nose), I hoped he would understand that dinner making was not happening from me.  That wasn’t the end of it though… somehow he did guilt me into marinating the steaks I wasn’t going to eat.  With tissues stuck in both nostrils and my hands lathered in antibacterial gel, I got the steaks marinating.

It didn’t end there.  When these two people I love to infinity and beyond arrived home, their understanding of Mommy being unwell left the house.  I was constantly needed for something.  I don’t understand… the two of them functioned fine when I was away on business a couple of weeks ago.  But somehow they can’t understand the idea of me becoming sick.  To them, if I am present in the house, I should be able to function at 100%.  This, too, was the case 3 years ago when I had the flu.  They both couldn’t fathom why I wasn’t cooking and cleaning the whole house since I was home.  At that time, I put myself in quarantine… for 3 days all I did was sleep, go to the bathroom, and munch on toast.

And now, the tables are turned.

Hubby left work early 2 days ago feeling icky, deep into a case of the ‘Man Cold’ with the symptoms I had.  For those who are questioning what the heck ‘Man Cold’ is, I am pleased to tell you.  ‘Man Cold’ is the common cold when it presents itself in male humans.  Instead of acknowledging that they have a cold, they think they are dying.  They believe their sneezes and coughs are much more than a common everyday germ.  They somehow get the idea that this germ, the germ us females have just had, has mutated into a superbug.  They will continuously whine about how awful they feel and try to make you believe that they deserve to sit on the sofa and binge watch Star Trek and Mythbusters.

He stayed home yesterday to nurse said ‘Man Cold’ and mainly because school was canceled due to a couple of inches of slushy snow and ice.  He questioned why I wasn’t staying home too so I could take care of him and our daughter. I just looked at him oddly.  Home all day and he didn’t even salt the walkway, driveway and sidewalk.  Made for quite a theatrical performance for me getting to my front door last night after work.

This is the same person that only a few days ago was having me drive my child to school, make dinner, clean, pick up the child from school and wanted to know why I couldn’t go to work.  But I don’t whine when he asks for help.  Why?  Because I am Mommy.  I am the caretaker and my heart aches when those that I love are ill.  I just want to help them feel better.

I am sure there are men out there that do not act like they are on their death bed, that do not suffer from the dreaded ‘Man Cold’.  But, I haven’t met one yet.  Anyone who is married or with one of this special men, hold onto them tightly.  They are a rare species.

Mommy’s Time Off… (Because That Will Ever Happen!)

Moms, stand up for a moment.  Identify yourselves!  We all deserve medals.  Scratch the medals.  Just bring us coffee, wine, ice cream and leave us with a nice comfy blanket on the sofa binge watching the latest and greatest on Netflix.  Oh, wait, is that the baby that just cried out?  Is that the toddler whining for Goldfish crackers?  Is that the preteen rolling her eyes at me because I said no?  Is that my husband screaming about having no toilet paper even though he was told to buy some earlier this week because we were out? And now the cat is kneading her claws into the blanket which in turn is scratching my legs and the dog is running from the sofa to the door deciding if he wants in or out.

Sound familiar?

Add in a bit of, “Mom, what’s for dinner?” and, “Honey, can you hand me the remote?  It’s too far away.”  (Really dear, it is 3 feet away from you sitting on the coffee table.  Move the damn cat and get it yourself.)

Mothers are the most important figures in a household.  Sure, I will give dads credit.  They do a lot… well most of them… okay, 50% of them?  I know, that might be a stretch.  But, it is us Mothers who have to deal 100% with all the Mental Shit that goes on.

A couple of weeks ago, I read the most enlightening article about Mothers and their Invisible Workload called The Invisible Workload That Drags Women Down.  This article made such and impact on me that I am still thinking about it today.  It discusses that although women will work outside the home just as much as men (hubby and I work full time jobs and make about the same give or take 1%), women take on a WHOLE lot more then their male partners.  It isn’t that men do nothing.  Their share at home tends to be physical (think laundry, dishes, taking out the trash).  While us Mothers, aside from doing roughly equal amounts of the physical labor at home, take on all of that Mental Shit.  We know when Johnny has little league, when little Sarah has her dentist appointment, and of course, when the dreaded toilet paper has run out.  We are the ones who have to buy the milk, even if we don’t drink any, because our husbands forgot they have two arms, two legs and a driver’s license.  We are the ones that know where the passports are, the birth certificates, the car titles.

All of this is a HUGE drain on our brains, the brains that were already sucked dry from being pregnant (google pregnancy brain).  Ten years later, my brain is still not the same.

We become sick, and are still seen by society, to be workhorses.  Have the flu?  It doesn’t matter, you have a household to run.  Why is that?  Why has society taught us that if we are “under-the-weather” to just “suck it up”?  Why are our needs so minor?  Why is our care not as relevant?

This needs to change.  All you Mothers out there standing up, it is time we take back ourselves.  I am not saying abandon your family.  For sure, you wouldn’t be able to leave the house without a child attached to a leg.  It’s time we tell our hubbies, “I need a break.  You all are mentally draining me.  Please give me a couple of hours, just a couple, to sit and be lazy on the sofa reading a book with a glass of wine (or coffee, tea, hot chocolate).”  Don’t back down.  Then make sure these couple of hours are truly kid (& hubby) free.  Have him take the kid(s) to another part of the house, or heck, out of the house.

Of course, I am a bit hypocritical.  I have yet to have this happen in my household of 1 lazy, but loving, husband, 1 moody preteen daughter, and 1 precious and beastly furry child.  I started writing a book about two years ago chronicling my struggles with Depression and Anxiety.  I asked my husband to take our child to see her grandparents (his parents) once a month giving me the day to write.  Two years later… I am still waiting for this to happen.  Even tonight, I begged my daughter without giving me a guilt trip, to let Mommy write a blog post.  All I needed was 1 hour of quiet time.  I was not in my room 5 minutes and she was on my bed showing me drawings she made using pictures of me, her father and the cat, pulling my attention away from writing the post after I spent most of the day cuddling with her on the sofa.

But this changes today.  2017 will be the year I take back myself.  The year I recognize I am not just a mother and a wife (and an Architectural Project Manager).  I have my own hobbies and interests.  I will take my Mommy Time every weekend, a couple of hours each day, and recharge my batteries.  I will convince myself that this isn’t selfish, that this is truly necessary to keep this household running.  I will do this to deal with the Mental Shit us Mothers deal with all the time.

Because I matter.

Moms matter.

You matter.