The facade of having it all together

I wanted to write a blog to kick of Mental Illness Awareness Week, but I couldn’t decide what to write about. I’ve been thinking a lot about the ways mental illness is simultaneously stigmatized and trivialized, but that’s not what I decided to write about tonight.

As I was getting ready to write, a blog that Erin Brown posted depicting what she “really” looks like popped into my head.

In the age of blogs and social media, we posts our best self. The us where our tummies are tucked in, our blemishes are hidden with concealer, and the coffee stains on our teeth are photoshopped out. We present our best self, our tidiest houses, and well polished ideas.

Even when I share a vulnerability or weakness, I package it in a nice tidy blog with a motivational take away for the reader.

But the truth is life isn’t always nice and tidy. And neither is my apartment.

This is what motherhood really looks like.

That is what my sink looked like when I got home from work. And there is no excuse for the situation going on in my bedroom corner.

I likely need an intervention, but it doesn't fit into my schedule.

Hoarding is a new diagnosis in the DSM-V. I take solace in the fact that best friend, who is a licensed therapist, assured me that I am not in fact a hoarder by the clinical definition.

What I am is a new mom, who happens to have bipolar disorder, and has a lot on her plate. I’m juggling a lot of balls these days and if something is going to drop you can bet your ass it won’t be my daughter’s bedtime story.

I share these pictures of my messy home not because I’m proud of them. (I was actually serious when I asked my friend if she thought I may be a hoarder.) I’m sharing these photos because the truth is no one has it together all of the time, including me.

When you have a mental illness it’s important that you prioritize your health. Sometimes that means letting the dishes go and that’s okay.

I did end up doing the dishes tonight.

Ahh, serenity.

I actually wrote this blog in my head while I washed the dishes. And the take away is this: Sometimes life is messy. You do what you gotta do. Apparently posting a photo of my dirty dishes is what it takes to motivate me to clean the kitchen. Whatever it takes.

These boots weren't made for walkin'

I’m convinced that I gave birth to the happiest baby alive. This week she’s teething and has an ear infection but you would never know based on the bright smile that beams from her face.

Before I gave birth to my daughter I worried that I wouldn't be able to handle the challenges of motherhood, particularly as someone who has bipolar disorder.

What I worried about most was my sleep schedule. I've done extremely well on Lithium, but it’s always been combined with 8 to 9 hours of sleep a night and biweekly therapy sessions. As a new mom I knew I wouldn't have time for as much sleep or therapy as I was used to.

But when I held my daughter for the first time all of those fears melted. And my daughter turned out to be one of those easy babies. She’s happy nearly all of the time. She follows a schedule that she set for herself and she follows it to the T. Up until this last week she slept from 9 p.m. to 7 a.m. most nights. She crawls to me to let me know when she needs her diaper changed. She coos and babbles and gives sweet kisses. In a nut shell, she’s perfect.

But even perfect babies face obstacles, such as teething and ear infections. This week these obstacles came to life at bedtime. And then again at midnight, 4 a.m. and 6 a.m.

By 7 a.m. when I got up for the day I felt worn out. Beyond worn out.

On Tuesday morning I fed my achy, teething baby. I rocked her back to sleep and she napped just enough for me to take a shower. But not long enough for me to get dressed. Thank God she likes her swing. Running late, I threw on a dress and realized much to my demise that I had accidentally given away one of the boots that I had planned to keep to the church garage sale. I didn’t accidentally give away the wrong pair of boots, rather I gave one boot of the pair I intended to keep and kept one boot of the pair that I intended to give away. So, I’m now the proud owner of a mismatched pair of tall black boots. Frustrated as my little one started crying again, I ripped off my mismatched boots and slid on my black Toms.

After dropping my daughter off at daycare I had to rush off to a downtown boutique to get some cutline information for my column about boots. Even in my frazzled state, I had to smile at the irony. I showed up at the store with no makeup and half dried hair.

I offered up an explanation for my disheveled appearance.

“My baby is teething and has an ear infection,” I said to the store manager as she gave me the information I needed.

“Oh, I’m a mom I totally understand,” she said. “I have two little ones so I've been there and am still doing that.”

By “still doing that,” she meant surviving on less sleep than seems humanly possible. For me becoming a mother seems a lot like becoming a super hero. I've found myself capable of things I never knew possible. There are no depths to the love I have for my daughter. But some mornings my superhuman mom powers don’t kick in.

As I said goodbye to the woman in the store she turned to me and smiled.

“Have a good day,” she said. “We appreciate you.”

Those three words “We appreciate you” spoke volumes to my soul.

To live a life of gratitude, sometimes it’s important to see that others appreciate us. In my sleep deprived state, I needed to hear that I was appreciated. This woman’s small act of kindness in sharing her gratitude to me enabled me to face the day with a spirit of gratitude instead of a spirit of defeat.

We appreciate you. Who can you share those three powerful words with today?

A Whole New World

As I read through all the posts about Robin Williams today I couldn't help but think of my favorite films that featured him.

Aladdin immediately came to mind. I went to see Aladdin in the theaters with my sister Tempest and our Uncle Rob when I was 10 years old.

Rob was technically our step uncle, but he was the only one of my step dad’s family that I actually claimed as my own.  I liked Rod. He had cool books at his apartment, like the Lord of the Rings trilogy and a slew of Choose Your Own Adventure Books.

Rob always said interesting things. On the way back home from the Aladdin he did this cool trick where he predicted which cars would stop and turn with 100 percent accuracy. (When I learned what a turn signal was that trick didn’t seem quite as magical.)

I talk about Rob in past tense because like Robin Williams, Rob Morrison also lost his battle to depression. Rob took his own life in a way similar to how Robin Williams reportedly did.

Depression and suicide are so hard to comprehend. As someone who has bipolar disorder and suffers from depression the countless number of “there’s hope, let’s fight the stigma” posts that I see on Facebook in light of Williams’ death don’t encourage me. Maybe because I know that a week from now I’ll see another insensitive comment making light of mental illness and be reminded that we don’t see these diseases as the clinical brain disorders that they are.

Mental illness and addiction are clinical illnesses and they need to be treated as such.

When it comes to depression, I often hear people say you can’t understand this beast until you’ve had to slay it yourself. I think there’s truth in that. But I also think it’s important for people to have an awareness of what it’s like to suffer from depression. So I started thinking about what it was like for me.

My darkest bout with depression occurred in 2005. By the time my depression reached a stage that I would call full blown, I found it difficult to connect my thoughts. It felt as if the electrical cord that connected my brain to reality had been cut.  I couldn’t piece together information to write stories. I had trouble following my sources during interviews. I remember staring at computer monitor for hours, hours, trying to come up with a lead about a high school senior I had been assigned to write a feature about.

I felt fatigued. Not tired, fatigued. I once heard someone describe fatigue as carrying around wet afghan on your shoulders. This is how I felt, how I constantly felt. My limbs felt like noodles. Similar to how I had experienced after a bad case of the flu. Only this didn’t go away.

I had no motivation. No motivation to eat. No motivation to go to class. (I was in my last semester of undergrad.) No motivation to go to work. (I had a part-time job at the local newspaper.) No motivation to shower. (I reached a point where to the thought of water actually terrified me.) No motivation to even get out of bed. (Eventually the thought of simply getting out of bed also terrified me.) I had no motivation.

I slept a lot when I was depressed. As much as possible. I cut back on my hours at work, skipped class, and isolated myself from friends. I did anything I could to get more sleep. And I thought maybe if I got enough sleep I wouldn’t feel as fatigued my motivation would come back.

I tried to drink more water, and go for walks and pray. But none of these things work. I tried to watch college basketball, but even the Kansas Jayhawks couldn’t bring me out of this funk.

Eventually my prayers changed to pleas for God to put me out of my misery. I wanted my life to end. There came a time where I had no other desire than that to end my life, to escape the sorrow, and fear and darkness that consumed me. I had no suicide plan. I didn’t want to end my life myself, but rather I wanted

God to end it, if for no other reason than as an act of mercy.

You see, I believed in God. I still do. And I believed that if there was a Hell then surely I had already entered it.

Well, God didn’t end my life. My depression lasted for almost five months. It took a couple months of being on Paxil for the depression to lift and it took several more months for a doctor to accurately diagnose me as bipolar.

It’s been almost 10 years since that depression and I am alive. My life has trials, but I am a live. I have a life. And I love it.

When I hear stories of those who have lost their battle to depression I say a prayer of thanks that by God’s grace I overcame mine; I say a prayer of help that I may overcome the episodes of depression to come; And I say a prayer of wow at the beautiful thing we call life.

Robin Williams had a beautiful life. May he rest in peace.

Stupid shuffle

Because I lack the discipline to be a full-time writer/blogger, I found a daytime gig at a local United Methodist Church last year. This job is the perfect fit for me. It’s an open and affirming church with an extremely generous congregation who are passionate about social justice. I’m one of those lucky people who loves her job, despite how I act when we face a printer jam.

Having a low stress job helps stabilize my mood, but more than that this job keeps me engaged with my community. The church is in the heart of downtown Lawrence, Kan. Lawrence is a college town and progressive haven for us liberals who live in one of the reddest of states. In many ways Lawrence feels like a little slice of heaven in the middle of corn fields and Koch brother politics.

But in reality Lawrence has the same issues that all communities face- poverty, addiction, cycles of oppression. It’s easy to look past the homeless man standing at a corner downtown when you walk back from lunch. (A little too easy as I seem to do it most days.)

But when the faces of poverty come stand at your desk and tell you their story, you can’t really turn away. Well, maybe you could, but if you’ve ever read Matthew 25:40 you will probably feel like a real asshole when you do.

(And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family,  you did it to me.’ Matthew 25:40..

In Kansas utility companies cannot disconnect your service during the winter months because of something called the “cold weather rule.” When this disconnection ban lifts at the beginning of April it sets off a domino effect. People who have neglected their utility bills in order to pay other expenses are forced to fork up the funds or have their service shut off. During the spring and early summer social workers scramble to find money to help people pay their past due utility bills.

In my short time at the church, I’ve discovered that if you use the pastor’s discretionary funds to help out even one person outside of your congregation social workers take note and send EVERYONE your way.

People in need end up being shuffled from one social service agency or church to another. Often times they never find the help they need.

And that appeared to be the case today when an exceptionally young couple came into our office. (Seriously, kids are looking younger than they used too. Is 20 the new 12?)

I was the only one in the office when the couple arrived. They walked in holding hands, wearing old, torn cloths. Both of their eyes were sunken in and they looked like they could use a long bath and a good night’s sleep. They needed about $700 worth of help in utility assistance, a number far beyond what we could give them.

As the young man stood there telling me his story- he had been injured on the job and on workers compensation- I couldn’t help but wonder what his story really was. How did he and his girlfriend get to this place where they were forced become vulnerable to a complete stranger in order to get help with their bills? What was his childhood like? Did he ever have the educational opportunities to get a job that wasn’t so demanding on his body? Did he grow up in a home where they lived paycheck to paycheck? Had he seen what it was like to have the stability afforded to so many of us?

I could go on and on about with questions I had about this couple. Those questions will never be answered. What I do know is that they needed financial help that I wasn’t able to give them. All could really do was shuffle them to the agency. In this case it was the Salvation Army.

And the other thing I could do was look the man in the eye, shake his hand and wish him luck as he continued on his journey. It’s not much, but hope it gave him some dignity. I really hope so, because when I looked in his eyes, I swear I saw the face of Jesus.

No time for shame in this mommy game

It’s been 11 weeks since I gave birth to my beautiful baby girl. And in that 11 weeks I have became one of those mothers who doesn’t make time to read, write blogs, or go to the gym. I seem to have become one of THOSE moms who spends any extra time she has cuddling her little one, smelling her hair, kissing her cheeks, and telling her just how much I love her.

Yes, I am indeed one of those moms. But underneath all the warm fuzzies that come with giving birth to such a perfect daughter, I am still me. I still think and feel and write, although lately most of my words don’t make it from my head to my computer. But I decided it’s time to let those words out. So, today I am going to write a blog the only way a new mother can- quick and dirty. Quick, because I really don’t have time to write long thought out prose. And dirty, because I likely won’t have time to copy edit this either.

Been wondering what’s on my mind lately? Here goes.

Who has time for mommy wars?

Before my baby was born I worried about what other moms would think. Being bipolar I knew that I would have limitations that other moms might not. I knew that I would have to stay on my medication and would need to make sure I got enough sleep to avoid a manic or depressive relapse. Would other moms judge me for not breastfeeding? Would other moms judge me if my husband helped out with night feedings so I could sleep? Would other moms judge me for putting such a high priority on my own mental health?

And then what about when I decide to go back to work? Would other mom’s judge me for that?

What I learned rather quickly after giving birth is that motherhood has a way warping time. When you spend all day caring for an infant the endless feedings and diaper changes make time disappear at a speed much faster than you ever thought possible. Sure, sometimes the days drag on, but then you look back at weeks and months that seem like a blur. In many ways it seems like my daughter has been with me forever, yet at the same time it seems like she just got here.

When you are a mother, time goes by too fast to worry about what other mothers think. I admit before I gave birth I judged a lot of Facebook friends for their obnoxious mom posts. (No one cares about your parenting theories or wants to see 20 pictures of your child each day.) What I didn’t realize then, that I do now, is that these moms probably don’t give a shit about what other people think. They are too busy being a mom.

It’s a shame more people don’t watch Shameless.

When you are on maternity leave you spend a lot of time feeding your baby. Whether your child is getting milk from the bottle or from your breast, feedings will consume your days. And there isn’t much that you can do during these feedings. Maybe seasoned moms know how to multi-task during feedings, but the rest of us can only muster enough energy to watch TV. And watch TV I did. I watched more TV during my 10-weeks of maternity leave than I did during the entire year of 2013. Reality TV. Daytime TV. British TV. You name it and I watched it. And my favorite show as of late? Shameless.

If you aren’t watching Shameless you should. It’s on Showtime but you can watch past seasons on Hulu. The writers of this show are brilliant. The characters are so well developed and witty that at times I forget that they aren’t real. And what I appreciate the most about this season of Shameless is that it has shown bipolar disorder in it’s most common form, undiagnosed.

Ian, the mild mannered, sensitive middle child of the family has acted different all season. He went AWOL in the army and now works as a stripper, runs 8 miles after three hours of sleep, fills journals with ideas about video games he wants to create, and is fearless enough to pull a knife on a man more than twice his size.

“Are smoking meth?” Ian’s boyfriend Mickey asked him in the last episode.

No, Ian is not smoking meth. what Ian’s family and TV reviewers have yet to realize is that Ian is bipolar like his mother and is in the middle of a manic episode. I wonder what will happen to Ian. How will his mania end? With him arrested? Or hospitalized?

Sure, I know that Shameless is just a show and Ian is just a character. This story is fiction, but this condition is not. It’s part of my life, something I think about every day when I’m watching TV and feeding my baby out of bottle instead of my breast. I know that the lithium that flows inside of my blood to keep me sane would be too much for her little organs to handle. So each day I feed her donor milk and thank God that my bipolar disorder has been diagnosed and is well managed.

There are things more shameful than not watching Shameless.

When we first brought our baby home I spent every waking minute looking at her, and thinking about her and cooing over her. It’s as though the rest of the world didn’t exist. I started to worry that I would be one of those mothers who stopped caring about society. I didn’t want to be one of those mothers. I wanted to care about the world around me. And I wanted my daughter to grow up to be the kind of person who cares about the world around her too.

About a month after my daughter’s birth news of Kansas House Bill 2453 jolted me back into social consciousness. This bill, which didn’t make it through the Senate, would have enabled Kansas businesses to discriminate against gay and lesbian couples on the basis of “religious freedom.”

Last week I saw stories splashed across Facebook about World Vision’s decision to hire people who are openly gay and in same sex marriages. The Christian global aide organization went on to retract that decision because so many conservative Christians pulled their sponsorships from the organization for making a pro-gay stance. Sorry, Jesus but we can’t feed your sheep if gays are involved in the process.

These stories break my heart because they are so far off from the Jesus that I know. The Jesus that I want to share with my daughter.

We are going to have her baptized in a couple of weeks. On Easter, to be exact. Will some people judge me as crazy for believing a resurrected savior whose name is used for such hate and bigotry?

Sure. But this mom has no time to worry about those judgments. She’s too busy keeping herself sane and teaching her little girl about the God of compassion and grace and love. A God who we will never fully understand, but believe is omni-everything enough to conquer even death. And this is a belief that I will never be ashamed of.