Shut the F*ck Up

It’s official. The depressive episode I’m currently experiencing (already seeming ominous by virtue of its classification as “Major Depressive Disorder”) can now add “Treatment Resistant” to its list of attributes. Super.

I’ve given it time, endured some truly hideous drug side-effects, switched medications, endured those hideous side effects (including “brain-zaps” and no, I’m not making that up—you can Google it). But because, despite my patience and perseverance, none of that was yielding satisfactory results (i.e. making me feel something akin to human), my doctor made some changes this week. In response to some unequivocally suckish feelings of not belonging in this world, of being somehow not “made right” to exist here in this world—feelings that had gone from overwhelming to intolerable—we increased the dose of my antidepressant and added an additional medication for anxiety. We did that knowing full well the increased dosage might exacerbate the side effects I was already experiencing or even cause some new ones, but I was willing to give it a try on the off chance it might be the magic recipe that would balance my unruly brain chemicals and help me feel right with the world again.

Day one with the new dose went pretty well. I did feel a little wonky and just a bit off-kilter—dizzy, headachy, not remotely hungry and yes, the brain-zaps did, in fact, increase, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Until I started hearing voices. That’s right, I said “voices.” In my head. Again, I’m not making this up, but I really wish that I was.

Did you know that hearing voices can be a symptom of severe depression or a side effect of certain antidepressant medications? It's true. And I have to say, it’s a crock of shit. At a point when you’re feeling unbearably sad, worthless, hopeless and guilty, a chorus of voices inside your own fucking head may just decide to belt out a few versus of “Hey, You Suck!” and invite their friends to join in. The horror of it is incomprehensible and the word “unfair” is far too anemic to describe it.

When I left work that night, I stopped at a local restaurant to get dinner to take home. It was loud in the restaurant and while I waited I became anxious and dangerously close to a panic attack (apparently my anxiety had also increased with the new dose of medication). But I managed to hold it together, pay my bill and make it to the car with my food. I began to cry the minute I shut the car door, but felt a huge sense of relief to be out of the restaurant and in the relative privacy of my car. I was taking a minute to get myself together before I started driving and that’s when I started hearing them. People were yelling inside my head. The voices were loud, critical, insulting, unkind and terribly persistent. So much for getting myself together.

I drove home with the yelling in my head, stopping at the drive-through pharmacy to pick up my anxiety medication (this seeming like the perfect time for it). I was literally sobbing the entire time the pharmacist was dispensing the medication and I became the teeniest bit concerned she would call 911. It probably wasn’t a rational thought, but who can form a rational thought with so much noise in their head?

I got home, took the anxiety medication and waited for the voices to shut the fuck up. But while I waited, I listened. Really listened. And while I listened, I realized something terrible. And what I realized may be the very definition of a rude awakening. (Truly, if you look up “rude awakening” in the dictionary, you might see my picture. I’ll be the one grimacing and holding my head.)

So here’s the thing: it turns out the voices are mine. Every last one of them. The voices I would have sworn were people close to me, people I love and respect, the voices I would have sworn were you, weren’t you at all. The words they were saying were things I’ve heard from others. Awful, hurtful, dreadful things, but the voice delivering the words was mine alone. My voice, cruelly turned up to 11 by a quirk of my brain’s faulty wiring.

Perhaps it makes a certain amount of sense that the voices are all mine. Because while the people who spoke the words to me are most certainly responsible for their hurtfulness, thoughtfulness and cruelty, I alone am responsible for hanging on to those words. It’s a character flaw of epic proportions and one I’ve spent a lifetime trying to regulate. And although I’ve made progress, this incident has provided a vivid (Technicolor really) example of how far I have yet to go. Those words are still right there, exactly where I left them, ready to hurt me again whenever my faulty brain allows it. And my brain will even deliver the words in my own voice. Damn it.

It should take about a week to see how this combination of drugs will affect me and whether or not the side-effects will subside. I’m willing to ride it out, but if you have the misfortune of running into me in the meantime, you might want to give me a wide berth. You can’t be sure right now how many people I might be carting around inside my head.

And while you’re giving me a wide berth, I’ll be working on some coping strategies. Before the kids left for their dad’s house, I took these pictures of them. I told them they were for an art project I was working on with no further explanation and after five days at their dad’s it’s unlikely they’ll remember to ask about it again. These pictures remind me why I’m here should I have a moment when I forget. They remind me that I am, in fact, “made right” for this world. And so are they. I have them taped next to my bed.

 

Maggie taped two lists by my bed as well. One reads: The Voices Are Wrong and lists people who love me. I am grateful beyond measure that the list is so long. The other is Things Lori is Good At (In No Particular Order). Obviously parallel parking is on the list, but some lesser-known skills are there as well such as lifting things, making beds and helping people see that they are important (I especially like that one). And finally, I taped a picture of myself next to my bed, all the way by the wall and kind of close to the floor where no one can see it but me. It’s a picture that Lucy took of me the last week with a two-year-old Valentine taped next to it. The Valentine is from a dear friend and I carry it with me all the time. It says, “Beautiful and Good.”

I figure if I’m going to hear voices, I might as well encourage them to say something nice. Because especially when it comes to voices in your head, if they can’t say something nice, they really should shut the fuck up.

And Another Thing...

As this chapter of the Crandler Family social experiment in communal living draws to a close, the kids and I have mixed emotions. We will (in equal measure) both miss dreadfully and in some ways celebrate the absence of the togetherness of living in one household. While I’m certain the kids and I will enjoy having our own space (as will the Crandells, I'm sure), I’m equally certain we’ll all miss the simple pleasure of running into our dear friends in the kitchen every morning.

The decision to move into the other half of the duplex in which the Crandell family will be living was one I thought would help soften the blow of missing that togetherness while still providing the autonomy I think we all need. I was, quite frankly, feeling pretty smug and patting myself on the back for the sheer genius of it all (and by “sheer genius” I of course mean “dumb-luck”), until one night last week when Lucy reminded me, loudly, tearfully, persistently and oh-so-painfully, that I’m no genius.

Seemingly out of nowhere she let loose with a litany of complaints about having to move again, living in the basement of someone else’s house (a gross exaggeration) and how all of her friends have “regular” houses where the front door isn’t in the backyard and they never have to move. And while I found much of that hard to believe, it became clear to me pretty quickly that she didn’t really want to talk at all (somewhere around, “But why don’t you have enough money to get us a better house?”). She just wanted to be heard (and perhaps beat me up a little for my obvious shortcomings as a bread-winner, mother and human being). So, as any mom would, I sat quietly and let her go. When she was done I hugged her (a lot) and sat with her until she fell asleep. And then I poured myself a sizeable glass of wine and licked my wounds.

The next morning I not only felt like I’d been beaten with a stick, but a glance in the mirror confirmed I looked like it too. In an effort to hide my dark circles, puffy eyelids and vaguely defeated appearance it’s possible I crossed that all-too-elusive line in concealer application between “refreshed” and “deranged." On the plus side, however, everyone was too frightened by the sight of me to ask what was wrong. And while Lucy's attitude rallied nicely when I helped her devise a plan for making her and Hope’s Note-Passer work in our new homes (currently an envelope taped to the wall between their bunk beds), I have no delusions that she won’t let loose with another litany of grievances surrounding our impending move when I least expect it (most likely when I’m feeling particularly pleased with myself).

While I’m waiting I think I’ll stock up on concealer. And check the box next to “humility” on the inventory of my psyche. Thanks for keeping me in line, Lu.

If You Try Sometimes

Someone told me yesterday that being with me was like being with a very complete person. It was a lovely (if somewhat odd) thing to say so perhaps it’s fitting that I found it oddly touching (and wholly endearing).

During my most recent bout of depression I’ve experienced some pretty strange feelings of being separate from the rest of the world. I’ve felt oddly “not real” at times. I’ve struggled to do what I know helps me feel better—to be present in my daily life and to truly engage with the people in it, to touch people as a check-in to make sure I am, in fact, real. That I am truly complete. That I’m here. (Of course I don’t actually touch people all that often because that would just be weird.) But try as I might to stay “in the now,” my mind, rather cruelly, has continued to wander to another time and another depressive episode when someone I loved told me that the person he had fallen in love with, the me he had fallen in love with, no longer existed. That statement has been echoing in my head like a malevolent refrain with the volume turned up to eleven: You don’t exist. You’re not real. You’re not complete.

I've sought help for my depression and I know I’m on the right path. That in itself makes me feel better, but it takes time and I’ve been finding it difficult to be patient.

And then yesterday, out of nowhere, I found some renewed patience in an observation from a kind heart. A somewhat off-hand remark from a person who had no idea what it would mean to me. At least to that person, I seem complete. It was an affirmation that I’m real. That I’m still here.

Almost everyone over the age of five knows you can’t always get what you want. But at 45, it seems I’m just learning that if you try sometimes, you get what you need.

The View from Here at the Beach

It’s 10:30 at night on Mother’s Day. I’m the only one awake and the depth of the quiet here at the beach is unlike anything at home. Tomorrow’s my birthday and wrapped up here in the warmth of the quiet I’m reflecting on yet another year gone by (and finishing the last glass from a bottle of wine so delicious letting it go to waste would be a crime).

Last night we built what may have been the world’s smokiest fire ever, made s’mores and complained the entire time about the smoke burning our eyes and lungs. Everyone  blamed everyone else for wood that was too wet, errors in construction of the pyre, a pit not dug to specifications, marshmallows lit on fire or dropped in the sand, and pretty much all the problems of the world (which included a fair amount of marshmallow stuck rather stubbornly in Lucy’s hair). We whined like absolute babies on that cold, windy beach, laughed our heads off the entire time and loved every minute of it.

Then, when all the s’more had been eaten and that ridiculously smoky fire’s last ember extinguished, we paraded down the beach and up the street back to our cabin in a bizarre conga line that Lucy dreamed up and refused to let go of (like a pit bull with a steak) until we agreed to act upon her truly strange (and dare I say slightly deranged?) vision. She carried a lit tiki torch in the front of the line, stopping every five steps so that each person behind her could complete the action (dance move?) that she had choreographed for them. Ben posed oddly with a hand on a hip, Felicia threw her hands in the air, Terry bunny-hopped precisely three times and I shouted “Yay Mommy!” while lunging in Mary-Katherine Gallagher “superstar” fashion. Over and over again. All the way back to the cabin. I’m not sure it occurred to any of us to refuse. (And honestly, what good would it have done if we had refused? Persistent doesn’t even begin to describe Lucy once she’s sunk her teeth into something.)

This morning we ate cinnamon rolls from a can and I opened a combination of Mother’s Day and birthday presents (mostly because the kids couldn’t remember after wrapping them which gifts were which). We walked on the beach, collected sand dollars, skipped stones, read books, played board games and sat quietly in the sun on the deck. And before we settled down to watch a movie together, Ben regaled us with an a cappella rendition of Queen’s Bicycle Race so wonderfully weird I laughed until my stomach hurt.

Tomorrow we’ll fly kites, skip some more stones and find a few more perfect sand dollars before heading back to our real life. And while I’m always sad to see it end, I’m always grateful beyond belief for this wonderful weekend. Forty-five years old looks pretty good from here at the beach.

Our annual beach weekend isn’t perfect in the traditional sense. Norman Rockwell would not find much inspiration here, I’m afraid. But Mother’s Day weekend at the beach is Heagler-perfect. Perfectly wonderful in its off-kilter imperfection.

I can’t wait to do it again next year.

My Life IS Like a Book (It's Just Not a Fairy Tale)

Earlier this week, Lucy and I sat talking in my bed, snuggled up together at bedtime. She and Ben had just come back from a weekend at their dad’s house and we had a lot of catching up to do. She was in the middle of telling me about the book she finished when she stopped and asked, “Mom, do you ever wish your life was like a book? With adventures and saving people and stuff?”

Not two days earlier I had spent the afternoon with a total stranger, the brother of a friend-of-a-friend (of a friend), whose son had just been diagnosed with autism. He was overwhelmed. His world had been rocked and he didn’t know if he was coming or going, much less what he should do next. So I listened to his worries, told him who to call, what to read, what websites to visit and which tools to download. I gave him power in the form of information. Then I ran around Green Lake with him (far faster than I would have liked) and told him (between gasps for air) about the bright, funny, sweet and charming  young man that Ben is. And finally, I told him everything was going to be all right, although perhaps a different kind of “all right” than he had previously envisioned. The next day I got an e-mail from his sister (the friend-of-the-friend of my friend) thanking me for my time. She told me her brother seemed like a new person. A person with purpose and direction. A person with hope. So I looked at Lucy, smiled just a little and answered her question with a question, “What makes you think my life isn't like a book with adventures and saving people and stuff?”

Ignoring my question completely, she went on, “But the books always end there. What do you think happens after you save everyone?”

And I thought, “Oh sweet Lucy. You can't save everyone as much as I know you’d like to and the sooner you learn that the happier you’ll be.” But because that’s a conversation for another day, and all that really matters right now is that she learn the importance of saving herself (something I’m desperately trying to learn, and hopefully teach her in the process), I said simply, “Probably you live happily ever after, Lu. At least that’s what I’m hoping for.”

Just because my life isn't a fairy tale doesn't mean there's no happily ever after. And in the spirit of heeding my own advice, I'm bearing in mind that it may not be the "happily ever after" I previously envisioned.

We're Gonna Go It Alone

The Universe seems to be telling me something these days. Repeatedly. Loudly. Somewhat annoyingly. (Not unlike my children now that I think about it.) According to the Universe, it’s time for me to go it alone. I’m not sure why. And I’m definitely not sure I like it. Does the Universe think I need more time for introspection? That hardly seems reasonable. I turn myself inside-out and back again on a pretty regular basis—often right here in this blog for all the world to see. Do my kids need an example of strength and perseverance? Surely I’ve already provided that. I fall down and get back up more than one of those punching bags with the clown face that bounces back when you punch it. Could it be that I simply have more to learn? I’m not yet fully-formed? I have more miles to go before I’m the person I’m destined to be? Or is the Universe just a mean-spirited bitch who would dangle the comfort of support and companionship in front of me like a gourmet cupcake only to snatch it away when I reach for its salted-caramel goodness? Nah. That couldn’t be it. Could it?

Last week I sat in a meeting where I received the results of Ben’s three-year re-evaluation for Special Education services and signed off on the recommendation of his team. Reluctantly. The recommendation was to move him from an Individual Education Plan, which falls under the umbrella of Special Education, to a 504 Plan, which does not. A 504 Plan can provide many things—a behavioral plan, checklists, check-ins and accommodations for small-group testing or keyboarding  among other things. But the 504 is administered by the school psychologist whom I don’t know at all, not the Resource Room Coordinator whom we trust implicitly, depend on without reservation and love like a treasured friend.  Sandy has been my lifeline at school for five years and the thought of Ben heading into sixth grade without the safety-net Sandy provides scares me. And the thought of him transitioning after sixth grade to middle school without the benefit of Special Education services truly terrifies me. But according to the Shoreline School District, it’s time for us to go it alone. And with much trepidation, that’s exactly what we’ll do.

The intoxicatingly romantic, wonderfully exciting relationship I’ve enjoyed for the past year—a relationship I was sure would last a lifetime—has fallen victim to my recent struggle with a major depressive episode. A casualty of my inability to connect from the depths of the rabbit hole I found myself in, or perhaps his reaction to that inability. I hung on as long as I could, hoping to avoid heartbreak, until it became painfully clear my heart was already broken—probably his too. My strong need to first and foremost be true to myself and to always protect my psyche, my soul and all that makes me “me” finally demanded that I face the truth. Sadly, it was time for me to go it alone. And with a heart so heavy I can hardly bear it, that’s just what I’ll do.

The lease on Chez Crandler is up at the end of June. After nearly two years of living together, the Crandlers will forever be family in my book, but we’ve decided it’s time we each had our own place to live (but we’ll have a key to the other’s house, of course—you never know when I might need to sneak a scary clown mask into Maggie’s bed ). It was a difficult decision, but one with which both families have made peace. And while there are things about having our own place again I’m looking forward to, there are so many things about living with the Crandells I will miss terribly. Thankfully, Ben’s biggest concern about something he would miss was dispelled almost immediately.

“But we won’t get to see Goose and G anymore!” Goose and G are Maggie’s parents and have become, by extension, my kids’ surrogate grandparents in the time they’ve lived here. Ben and Lucy’s own grandparents live far away and as much they’d like to, can’t often come to piano recitals, school orchestra concerts and sporting events. Goose and G treat Ben and Lucy’s events the same as their own grandkids’—they wouldn’t miss them for the world. So when Ben voiced his concern about not seeing Goose and G, Dylan quickly assured him, “Ben, that would never happen. Even if you wanted that to happen it wouldn’t.” To which Maggie added, “Oh Ben, you’re stuck with Goose and G, honey,” to Ben’s obvious relief.

Are the Crandlers a Family? Definitely. Roommates? Not for much longer, I’m afraid. It’s time for the Heaglers to go it alone. And with incredibly-mixed emotions that’s what we’ll do.

If there’s a lesson to be learned from this recent trend, it eludes me. Maybe in time I’ll feel I was given an opportunity, presented with a crossroads or offered a chance to grow. But right now I feel a little lost, scared and alone. And truth be told, I also feel a teeny bit like telling the Universe to shut her pie-hole. But who knows? Maybe that’s just as it should be. Perhaps those are all the feelings I need to move through so that I can move forward.

Or maybe the Universe really is a mean-spirited bitch.

Whatever the case may be, I’m ready to give in and see what happens next. So, all right already. I’ll go it alone. But don’t come crying to me, Universe, when I hatch a plot to take over the world using an international, underground network of boozy mommies and secret messages printed on wine corks. Consider yourself warned.

Brake Repair

"You cannot teach a man anything. You can only help him discover it within himself." -Galileo Galilei

The school district is currently re-evaluating Ben for special education services—a process that is required every three years. A variety of evaluation methods are used, including parent-reports. So a couple of weeks ago I sat down to answer 86 questions with Never, Sometimes or Often on a Behavior Rating Inventory of Executive Function as part of the process. I asked Maggie to go through the questions with me to offer her opinions as someone who has lived with Ben for nearly two years and to provide a sounding board for my perceptions as well. Many questions made us snicker and wish for an “Always” option, but question #55, “Has trouble putting the brakes on his/her actions,” caused me to turn to Maggie completely aghast and say, “Hold on. Ben came with brakes? Good lord—why didn’t anyone tell me? Those don't work at all! I need to get those looked at!”

Maggie chuckled and said, “Yes Lori. They’re standard equipment, but I guess it makes sense you wouldn’t have realized it. Lucy’s don’t work either.” Then it was my turn to chuckle. “I guess you’re right,” I said, cocking my head to one side and gazing up at the ceiling, lost in thoughts of my brakeless children careening through life at terrifying speed, wondering where they got such defective parts. Then Maggie jolted me back to reality when she cleared her throat and I realized she was staring at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Yours don’t work either.”

And I started to say, “What on earth are you talking about?” with just the right amount of righteous indignation, but the words stuck in my throat when my mind flashed to my illustrious, half-baked college career that I insisted must take place 1,200 miles from home for absolutely no logical reason, my (count them) three marriages, my take-no-prisoners mission to have children after the scare of losing an ovary at the age of 30, and more recently the 400 puzzle pieces I hand-cut for an Autism Awareness display at school (my hand still hurts a little) - just to name a few. Frankly, it was a dizzying array of images.

So instead of an indignant, “What on earth are you talking about?” I went with a nearly-imperceptible head-nod and, “Huh.”


It seems my brakes don’t work either and I might just be the last person to realize it. Who knew answering 86 questions about my autistic son’s behavior (and a good-natured barb from my keenly insightful roommate) would help me discover something new about myself.

And now that I realize they're broken, I should probably get my brakes looked at. Or not. I'm pretty proud of the awareness raised with those puzzle pieces and their accompanying autism fact-sheet.


And that take-no-prisoners mission to have kids after a health scare? That worked out pretty well too.