Climbing

 It can be challenging to communicate mental health issues, and their impact, to people who don't deal with them. Anxiety is more just than fear. Depression is more than just sadness. But how do you assign words to them that make sense to other people?

Recently, when my depression was flaring, I started to think of it this way. Depression is like a ravine. You fall into it. Someone may throw you a rope to pull yourself up (meds, therapy, etc). You pull yourself, and you're able to get to a safe spot, maybe six feet below the road. It's secure enough for you to move forward. You can communicate with people on the road above, and there are even people on your level, sometimes. And then occasionally, you fall again. And hopefully, someone throws you a rope again and you can climb back to your level. But each time you have to climb, the climb gets more exhausting. It gets harder to muster the energy to climb. And you can feel hopeless. Hopeless that you'll be climbing forever. Hopeless that you'll never actually get to the road again. AND depression lies to you. It tells you that you can't get there. It tells you that you don't matter enough to try. Sometimes, it might even tell you people would be better off without you. It plays dirty. And it is exhausting. And it steals your joy, your passion, and your energy. 

So, even though the climb can feel impossible, it's essential to keep trying. And it's incredibly satisfying to get to your level, or better yet, the road. Keep climbing. You CAN do this. 

Parenting in Pandemic: A Jumble of Thoughts and Mixed Metaphors

I'm not sure where or when I first heard or thought of this, but the metaphor I've most often associated with motherhood is of being in water. You try as hard as you can to keep your head above water. Sometimes, you're successful. Sometimes, you feel as though your head is going beneath the surface. As if you're drowning.

This morning, the clutter in my kitchen was drowning me. So, simple solution, right? I took an hour and straightened and cleaned and scrubbed and emptied and refilled. So, my kitchen feels less drowny now. But I'm still fighting the current to keep the REST of the water from engulfing me.

At the risk of mixing metaphors, we are parenting by triage these days, aren't we? Whatever seems most urgent is the thing we address. And the rest of it waits there to rage back at us once we get that one thing under control. Homes. Work. Kids. Schoolwork. Volunteer activities. Anxiety over a global pandemic. Uncertainty about whether our lives will ever get "back to normal" and what that "normal" might even look like. They are like waves against our dinghies. And we are just trying to stay afloat. To keep our heads above the water.

Back in late February/early March, I felt like I was drowning in volunteer stuff. It was the busiest time of year for a number of my volunteer organizations. I had meetings every weeknight. I had to do lists a mile long. I love to be involved, but I felt like I needed a break. And then...everything stopped. And for a few weeks, there was a standstill. The only thing I was fighting was fear and uncertainty. That was a surreal feeling.

Eventually, things started needing to be done again. I actually owe a few people emails regarding stuff I volunteer for. Sorry, guys. Haven't forgotten you. It's just that my emotional bandwidth is kind of maxed out just now.

I feel like I'm failing in so many ways. I know I'm not alone in that. It feels impossible to keep up with my kids' schoolwork, my part time job, my house (having a house cleaner is BY FAR my favorite luxury and GOD do I miss that woman), keeping my kids' anxiety at bay, being the mediator for all manner of conflict between all manner of people in my life...waves against my dinghy.

I'm not writing this because I want anyone's sympathy. I'm not even writing this because I want or need anyone's advice. I'm writing this because I think so many of us are feeling this way these days, and I want someone reading this to feel less alone.

We are going to make it through this storm. And the optimist in me genuinely believes that our children will be stronger and more empathetic for it. We just have to keep our heads above water in the meantime. We have to keep our dinghies afloat. And we need each other to do that.