This is what 36 looks like

As I turn another year older, I've been thinking a lot about how and why I am the way I am. How much am I responsible for me, and how much am I a composite of all the experiences and conditions of my past and present? At what point is a person able to really make their own choices, free from their past conditioning? I find myself watching children, studying how they navigate the world, wondering what goes on in their little heads. It’s especially interesting to me, watching kids and how they interact with adults.  Some are defiant, some quick to listen, some speak to any and every adult they can, some shrink behind their parent’s leg and whisper replies only a mom or dad can translate. When I was a child, I understood a happy adult was better than an unhappy adult, and I could make adults happy by listening well and being polite.  At some point, as life got more complicated--more children in my family, leaving my safe home environment for the wild west of public school--listening well became my mantra to feel safe and secure; and doing my best to keep adults happy, to be a bright spot amidst my rambunctious peers, became my job. I was praised for my maturity and ability, and I was hooked -- the positive reinforcement made following directions and listening to adults my main objective. 

At some point, my education and growth became entwined with my desire to keep authority happy, and I felt one was not possible without the other.  My weltanschauung was a continued improvement of my own performance, my own behavior, in order to keep the important players in my life happy. If happiness wasn’t available, then I could make life easier by proving I didn’t need the way others did. I saw mistakes as beneath me, thinking if I could just be great the first time around, I wouldn’t need to trouble anyone with my perceived lack of ability.  I found comments on report cards that said things like, “much improved!” or “showing growth” to be insulting. I bought into a mindset that embraced 4.0 GPAs and AP classes, so I could show my teachers and parents and mentors they were doing a good job. My mindset was, and has been, achievement and accomplishment to make people happy, and to make them feel good about themselves.  

Then this summer, something shocking happened. I had a major depressive episode. I felt like it came out of the blue, at the time.  My first experience with depression was postpartum-related after Grace, and I attributed it to whacky hormones and severe sleep deprivation. This second time, I was caught totally off guard.  I am no stranger to anxiety, and I attributed how I was feeling to heightened anxiety after a particularly demanding spring season. I ignored what I felt for awhile, hoping to wait it out, but the more I ignored it, the more it intensified. I felt like I was going crazy; I couldn’t reel in my thoughts and I felt like I was constantly talking myself off a ledge. I flirted with the idea of talking about how anxious I was.  I prayed desperately. I journaled like an unhinged madwoman. I would make self-deprecating jokes about surviving another day. I cried a lot, when no one was looking. And I felt myself drift away from my real self -- the one who loves laughing and being silly and making fun of Eric -- almost as if I was watching myself from the ceiling. I distinctly remember playing barbies with the girls and thinking, “You know how to do this. You can pretend to do this.”  I was obsessed with acting “normal,” thinking if I seemed normal to everyone else, no one would tell I was floundering.  I thought admitting I was struggling with daily life would disappoint my family.  I thought calling my doctor for advice would be a waste of her time. I thought whatever I was going through would pass, and if it didn’t, I would just have to get used to pretending. Sometimes, refreshingly, the fog would lift and I would float back down to my body, and I would remember how to laugh and play and get in a witty zinger when Eric got home from work...all the while living in utter fear of getting pulled back under. I had no appetite; swallowing food took an incredible amount of effort.  I only liked cheetos, lean protein, coffee, and rum. Lol. I weighed less than 120 lbs and my clothes hung off my body, like a human hanger. I was pretty good at pretending, though (yay acting!), because I was so, so ashamed that I had let this happen. I thought if I just chose joy!, or prayed better, or wanted less, everything would be fine again. I wouldn’t have to trouble anyone for help, or disturb anyone’s happy summer, just because I had some bad feelings. Couldn’t I at least keep everything steady for the people I love? Wasn’t that the least I could do?

Looking back, I can see I was under an immense amount of stress -- taking on my beloved Mary Poppins while continuing to “manage my household” (ie know/do everything about/for everything/everyone), anticipating the impending change in my family’s dynamic as my girls headed off to kindergarten and preschool, and trying to savor our “last” summer of little kid stuff. In the midst of this, I could not find solid footing. I wanted to keep performing and chasing that endorphin high, yet most afternoons I found myself carrying a bike, a scooter, and at least one kid home from the park, being asked why I was taking so long to get home?  I had grown tremendously by taking time to perform again, and I just didn’t fit back into my life in the same way, right away.

I wish this story had a really great twist right about now, that I was enlightened through meditation or found some *essential oil!* to manage depression, but that is not the case. Back when I was really floundering, I remember thinking all I wanted was to raise my girls in the way they deserve, in the way we were all accustomed, by being a mom who loves and plays easily, without having to pretend she was not hurting.  I remember thinking, what if one of them ends up like me? And I would sob, thinking all of this, now and in the future, was certainly my fault. 

It was this thought, my girls and their future, that made me pause, that gave me a chance.  What would I want for them, if they were going through this? Obviously I would want them to tell me!  Then I could help them figure out what was wrong and care for them during that process! Obviously!  

And in the back of my mind, my small voice said to me, are you loved enough to be honest, too?  Do you trust enough to be honest? And even if you face shame and embarrassment, do you love yourself enough to risk being honest?  And I realized, for the first time, I had a choice. 

I had to choose: pretending and pleasing? Or being truly myself, bad thoughts and all. This choice wasn’t made at one poignant moment.  It was hemmed and hawwed and suffered through. But eventually, I chose myself. 

I opened up about how I was feeling, admitted maybe my adorable anxiety was being less adorable than normal, and perhaps I could use some help, please? If it’s not too much trouble? Please and thank you?  Finally, my incredible support system breathed. We can see your pain.  You deserve more than this.  (I was shocked.  Really? You noticed me?!) Together, we made a plan to find my way back to myself. I called my doctor, and it seems she does care about me...not just my physical body, but as a person with a mind and spirit as well.  We talked, I told her what was going on and how I was feeling:

I think I have a little anxiety left over from having done my show and sort of resenting all the mom stuff I have to do now without the benefit of a standing ovation every night.  It’s so lame but I can’t seem to get over it.

And she said:

Honey, you had so much going on! It was too much for any one person to handle!  

Me: But bad thoughts and feelings? That's a thing? Like a legit medical diagnosis? 

Her: Yep.

Me: Well shit! That’s sort of cool. Do you think I have an allergy to something that triggered this? Should we run some labs?

Her: You have depression.

Me: Haha, I love my life! I’m not depressed!  Do you think it’s my thyroid?

My sweet doctor patted my hand and said she’d check my thyroid, but to also try this little thing called zoloft and to stay strong for about 6 weeks, and I would start to feel better.  Okay, I said. But I’m very curious to see my thyroid labs.  

*spoiler alert: my labs were normal.* 

**second spoiler: the zoloft helped and six weeks later I started to feel better.** 

During those first days of my depression diagnosis, I had to be really careful how I interacted with social media. I scaled way back in communicating with others.  I couldn’t listen to sad or sappy songs. I had to keep things extremely light on the surface of my life because inside, there was enough material to keep Billie Eilish a grammy winner for decades. I forced myself to eat small meals. I went to bed early because by 10 pm my brain could not handle any more stimulation.  I read a lot, because it occupied my mind fully and gave me an escape from the reality of my depressed mind. I set limits on the time I could play barbies with the girls, to be sure I had enough brain fuel to play again later in the day. I apologized incessantly for inconveniencing my family. Sorry I have to go to bed early, Eric. Sorry I can’t talk about the nuclear fiasco in Iran, Eric. Sorry I can’t watch this show called Chernobyl that is the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen.  Sorry I don’t want to watch A Star is Born because it’s about suicide and I can’t handle that right now.  

...It’s about suicide?

Whoops. Spoiler alert?

( *It’s worth noting that I love my husband dearly and possibly I need to get out more* )

Over time, I found that I knew what I needed, and I knew how to get what I needed...and for the first time in a long time, I began to listen to and trust myself. I started structuring my life in a way that served my needs, in a way that really looked no different on the outside, but on the inside, allowed myself to be a priority.  I realized in this fragile state, when I truly listened to myself I could take better care of everyone else. I realized this trendy *self care* business is not about pretty photos of manicures and brunches, but asking myself what I want and need, and then not letting myself off the hook when the responsibilities of my life come knocking.  I want to write. I want to read a book. I want to stop playing love-struck Barbie and surfer bro Ken, right now, ok Grace?  I’ll do sidewalk chalk instead! I want to stop rushing, over-thinking, and I want to stop caring about who I am in relation to other people, and start caring about WHO I AM.  

I wrote this bit in my journal a few days ago, when I was thinking about how it is to break a habit, especially a lifelong one, of abandoning oneself for some insane notion of trying to please others: 

If my identity is based on what I think others think of me, I am only a reflection of everyone else’s thoughts and opinions. It becomes essential to please everyone to simply like myself. Sometimes people will not like my choices, and I have to get comfortable with that, instead of offering up an unnecessary apology, or contrition for the sake of peace, because over time, these behaviors become wholly dissatisfying.  This job of providing a collective peace that comes at one’s own expense is never ending, keeps one working and earning, and the lack of a clear answer -- have I done this right for you?-- hell, simply the asking of the question over and over and over --have I done this right for you? Have I done this right for you? Ad nauseum -- it breeds anxiety. 

All of this is to say: people pleasing is not a mode that leads to a successful and true life. 

I hope to write more about the subtle shifts I’m making to reflect this truth, but as I turn another year older, I am writing this to remind myself of something I’ve forgotten, mostly since becoming a mom: 

I am a human being.

I am bound by the universal limits of being a human. I have a brain, a body, and a mind, all of which have needs. I understand that being mentally and physically healthy means acknowledging my limits, and protecting these limits with boundaries. I used to think “limits” and “boundaries” would cramp my easy-breezy lifestyle.  In fact it is quite the opposite -- I feel revolutionized, free, and empowered. When I abandon myself by pretending I am above my basic human needs, my body and brain will send me signals that all is not well. It is my job to listen, without blaming myself, without apology..  

To conclude, I recently turned 36, and I am a human being. 

I am done pleasing. I am done perfecting. I am done apologizing, explaining, justifying, exhausting myself with other people’s happiness.

"Have I done this right for you?" is still a question I ask. Except now, I'm asking it of myself.