Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind...

When I started this narcissistic journey that is "blogging" I really didn't intend to do anything of the sort. I was keeping an open letter, so to speak, for friends and family to read what we were up to without having to repeat myself 237854 times because, Yes, I do have that many relatives. (See: Mormons)

By the way, I love that it says "Mormons depicted in movies and television are often presented as a stereotype: very religious blond-haired Caucasians, having large families and a focus on genealogy and fundamentalism." The best I can say about that is.. well, not everyone in my family is blond.

So here are some confessions. I'll warn you, this may be long as the caffeine appears to be kicking in and I'm sucking down another cup of Chock Full 'O Nuts as I type this.

Of late, this has been an area for venting my spleen on the highs and lows of motherhood and living in the country. Especially the living in the country part - which I can say with authority because it is 2006 and we are getting our very first Starbucks this summer. Remember, we moved here from the DC area, where I had a choice between going to THIS Starbucks because they have those really good sticky buns, or going to the one across the street because it has a drive-thru window and yes I really am that lazy.

So I cast the chaos in my addled brain out into the ether, and occassionally I hear back from the ether. (which was a bit disconcerting at first, until I realized the voices talking back were distinctly different from the regular voices in my head.)

A few weeks ago I started the day with what I can only call an anxiety attack. Followed by a mini nervous breakdown. Then, I took the kids to a farm and let Jack pet baby goats and eat Cheetos. The goats were cute.

As long as I can remember, I have dealt with issues of depression - even the 23 years before I took "Intro to Psychology" and learned the meaning of the word.

Depression, in my life anyway, means that I have periods of "okayness" broken up by periods where the downs are crippling. At BYU it was crippling. Now that I have kids, it is crippling with the caveat that I have never sunk to the point that I have been unable to care for the basic needs of my kids. They are always fed, diapers changed, periodically bathed, and frequently loved on. For a while, I had myself convinced that that was enough.

I managed to rationalize the piles of laundry, the unwashed dishes in the sink, the strange film on the shower doors. I could shrug off the not leaving the house (except to go for my bi-weekly run) for days or weeks at a time, the insane fear of making phone calls to anyone outside the 4 or 5 people I call all the time.

I even managed to rationalize the compulsive eating. After all, doesn't everyone sometimes eat a bag of popcorn and a box of twinkies after lunch? And the bag of jelly beans was really begging to be polished off. Okay, the banana bread might have been pushing it.. but doesn't everyone go overboard like that from time to time? Or not? I suppose not.

So, after years of firmly deciding to get help followed by equal firmness in talking myself out of it, I am finally getting therapy. Once T was on board, there was no turning back... because I can talk myself out of a lot of things, but he's much more stubborn than I.

And so, Therapy. With a very nice woman who put me at ease enough that I didn't apologize for laughing and crying hysterically and at the same time in front of her. And who didn't make me feel bad for being hesitant to try medication, and also didn't make me feel bad for finally opting to give it a shot. Best of all, she didn't judge me when I confessed that there are days when I contemplate the pros and cons of listing Jack on eBay. What more can a person ask of therapy, really?

So there you are. My confession.

I was always taught that a person should not "air their dirty laundry". That is to say, I am supposed to believe that it's not appropriate for me to share that I have struggled, that my depression has been exacerbated by giving birth and the struggles of motherhood, that everything is not wine and roses over in MeL-Land. To which I say.... Bullshit.

Reading Dooce's experiences helped me immensely... so if writing about my struggles helps even one person, it's worth it. Even if I have to expose to a shocked (very small) public that the sky isn't always blue, and I am not always fine.