As I have begun to think of myself as a person in recovery from a depressive episode, rather than a person who is presently depressed, I’ve had to start looking at how my days and weeks come together and what the pacing of everyday life looks for me in recovery.
Through this process I have somehow taught myself to recognize what a “good day” looks like and to take full advantage of it. You never know how long a good spell might last, I tell myself, so you’d better get in all the things you’ve been wanting to do before the clouds drift back over and cover you in shadows again. As a result of this (somewhat misguided) “carpe diem” attitude, these good days have begun to look a little frenzied, sometimes socially but often just around my household, and generally, for whatever reason, in the form of cleaning.
I work from home, so when I feel well and have energy and motivation to get things done, I not only perform my work tasks ably and efficiently, but feel spurred on to get things done around the house as well. I appease my Fitbit by pacing around the house as I pick up clutter, make the bed or dust a shelf or two. I use my lunch break to wash the dishes in the sink and then, as if by magic, feel antsy with desire to continue “being productive” as I finish out my work day. I might go for a walk and then come home to continue cleaning and make dinner. Once I’m in this zone, it’s hard to make me stop; I want to make sure every room in the house is straightened up before I relax. I have been known to straighten throw pillows or refold the blanket behind my husband while he sits calmly on the couch, looking at me with a bemused expression.
If you know me personally, you likely know that my home is most often in a state I like to call cheerfully cluttered -- we live here, and it looks like we do, which I think makes it comfortable. I am by no standards a neat freak. The tea towel hanging on my oven door (thanks, Mom!) proclaims, “Anyone who has time to clean isn’t reading nearly enough!” and this is a fairly apt description of my attitude toward housework. Cleaning and keeping house tend to be the first things to fall off my to-do list when I’m depressed -- where would the energy for that come from? -- so when I actually feel like doing it, and like I can do it, I make sure to do as much of it as possible, as quickly as possible. That way if tomorrow comes and it happens to be not such a great day, I have at least accomplished something in my brief respite from depression.
The problem with this kind of frantic pacing is that, often, it more or less guarantees that a good, accomplished, productive day will be followed by a listless, self-doubting, exhausted day.
Why, I asked my therapist recently, could I not expend all my positive energy in one day and wake up restored after a night’s sleep, ready to do the same thing again? Why could I not spend a day working, exercising, keeping house and cooking like a “normal” person without experiencing an almost crushing fallout the next day?
The answer she gave me, which depression often seems to give us, is simply, “because.”
Because I have an illness that impacts my energy levels.
Because my energy, despite all my efforts, does not operate on a 24-hour cycle that kindly resets each night for the following day.
Because when I allow my mind to become a whirlwind of things to do at work, things to do after work, things to do around the house, things to do over the weekend, things to do before a friend stops by -- I become exhausted.
And because exhaustion -- sometimes even productive, proud, elated exhaustion from living life -- simply creates the perfect toehold in my mind for depression to sneak back in and say, “You silly woman. You didn’t think you could actually keep up with that type of pace for more than a day or two, did you?”
So, my therapist suggested helpfully and cheerfully, maybe you clean the bathroom and straighten up the living room and then sit down and read your book or watch a show.
Maybe you leave the kitchen floors for tomorrow.
Maybe you prioritize your energy and well-being over the course of days, weeks, months, instead of cramming a week’s worth of responsibilities into a single day.
I sigh and roll my eyes and sit back, looking at her. “Is that really it?”
Yes, she says, that’s really it, and you have to look at it as a form of self-care, recognizing that treating a good day like it will be the only one you have will cause you to spend so much physical and emotional energy that then it really will be the only one you have that week.
This kind of retraining is really, really hard. But I’m trying to think of the good days as an opportunity to enjoy life, in a combination of productivity and recreation and relaxation, rather than a race to get everything done before I feel unwell again. Because the dishes and the grimy stovetop will still be there tomorrow, but this day -- a day of motivation to walk in the sunshine, of the capacity to enjoy a good book in the warm company of my husband and my cat, of unfettered gladness to be alive -- is happening now, and I’ll be damned if I don’t spend some of that precious energy learning and practicing how to enjoy that too.
I’m going to get a little extra-personal in this post, in the belief that the more honest and vulnerable I can be, the more my readers can understand the many nuances of life with mental illness.
I want to be a mother.
Of course I do. If you know me, I doubt you think any different. I have always loved children and I think I’m a pretty nurturing person. I like to take care of others. I really like holding babies. There has never been a time at which I have not thought that I would grow up to be a mom, that I would throw all my love and energy and joy and sanity into raising a family, that my husband and I would have cute babies who would grow into happy kids who would turn into sullen teenagers who, hopefully, would become the kind of adults who will love us and take care of us when we are old and creaky and grouchy. It’s always been our plan.
Ah, the plan -- that silly thing we occupy ourselves with making, and remaking, and pretending we have control over, until one day we realize that here we are, that carefully curated plan cast to the side, as we have busied ourselves with the actual, beautiful grind of just living our lives.
Before we got married, my husband told me (less than halfway joking) that he wanted to be “done having kids” by the time he was 30. Well -- almost six years later -- I am on the last legs of 29, he’s not far behind me, and there are no kids on the horizon.
I’ve grown accustomed to the questions, whether they are nosy or curious or needling or serious. “When are you thinking about having kids?” “Are you guys thinking about trying soon?” “You know if you wait until you’re ready, you’ll never actually have them.”
Please (and especially if you are a person who has asked me this yourself) don’t get me wrong. I’m not offended by the questions. We’ve been married for almost six years, and I’ve never been secretive about my desire to have kids. I’ve even offered a [very vague] time frame in the past (“oh, maybe in a year or two…”) so it seems pretty normal that as I round the base toward 30 I’d have to be at least thinking about it.
I know that I don’t need to own a home before I start a family. I know that I don’t need my finances to be in impeccable order before I think about getting pregnant. I know that nothing will actually prepare me for motherhood, because motherhood is unto itself one of the most breathtakingly difficult and wondrous things this life has to offer. I know that. Don’t tell me I shouldn’t wait to be ready; “ready” is a highly relative term.
There’s a lot of good awareness rising up lately about why it can be insensitive to ask a woman whether and when she is going to have children. She may be struggling with infertility. She may have grown up with parents who didn’t show her how love and family should be. She may have miscarried once, or twice, or so many times she can hardly count.
But did you ever think that she just might not feel that she is well enough, mentally, to responsibly bring a child into this world and care for it the way she knows she can, and longs to, and someday, hopefully, will?
Of course that’s not to say that people with mental illnesses can’t, or don’t, have happy, nurtured, cared-for children. They do! All the time! My point is simply that, just as with any other medical condition, some of us must work harder or think more carefully or wait longer to get to a healthy enough place to have kids.
On the surface, some days, I have my act together. I work full time, my house is reasonably organized and clean, I have a plan for dinner that doesn’t involve using an app on my phone to order it, I get all my errands done. I am acting like any regular adult who does these things all the time, and I think, “I’m so ready to add kids to this picture.”
Then soon, maybe the next day or the next hour even, the dark, vicious shadow starts to swirl in the air around me, encroaching on my mind, my space, my heart until it settles inside me, cloaking all of the light of my optimism, my hopes and goals in impenetrable darkness. “Of course you can’t be a mom,” the shadow tells me. “Look at you. You didn’t even shower or make your bed today. What makes you think you can be responsible for growing tiny lives and hearts and dreams when you can’t even make yourself a cup of coffee?”
Thankfully, the darkness doesn’t come as often or stay as long these days, especially compared to several months or a year ago, but it does still come. The doubts and insecurities that a healthy person might have about parenthood multiply tenfold, or more. How can someone who worries about being five minutes late for a dinner reservation possibly handle the concerns and anxieties of being a mother? How can someone who has had days of being unable to get out of bed, much less face the obligations and duties of everyday life, possibly bring a healthy child into this world and not mess it up?
Not to mention what the shadow tells me about the genetics of all of this. “Depression runs in your family. Do you really want to bring a person into the world who will experience this kind of pain and sickness? Do you think that’s a responsible thing to do? Do you think that’s fair?” No, I tell it. It sounds awful. Why would I ever knowingly give someone life when this is how they could feel once they get here? What kind of a mother would I be if I did that? What if my child had it worse than I ever have? It will be my fault. It is, in fact, desperately unfair.
Again, I beg you not to misunderstand; I don’t take these thoughts as truth. Depression lies, as we know, and it lies well, making us feel uninspired, unimportant, incapable, unworthy. I know that I will be a good mother, if I am ever blessed with that opportunity. I know that my husband will be an outstanding father. Any child we have will be showered with an absurd amount of love not only from us, but from grandparents, aunts and uncles, family, and friends. We will care for those kids, and love ‘em, and raise ‘em to the best of our ability, and no level of depression will change that. And I’m well aware that I can no more control passing on mental illness genes than I can the genes that may (or may not) pass along blonde hair and blue eyes, or near-sightedness, or the wide Finnish feet my husband’s side of the family always jokes about.
So the reason my husband and I are choosing to wait, to not have children at this exact moment of our lives and in our marriage, is not the fear that these thoughts are true. It’s the reality of the illness that causes them, the truth about where I am in my slog through the swamp of depression. I’m learning about myself, about my illness, about ways to treat myself better and cope with my emotions and change my behavior to allow for improvement in how I feel and think and live. In this way, no, I am not yet ready to become a mother. And yes, someday, hopefully soon, I will be more ready -- at least psychologically -- to step up to the task. And I need to be more ready, because there’s also the idea of what my hormones will do when I become pregnant, the need to taper off of medications I’ve come to rely on for the duration of my pregnancy, and, of course, my super-increased risk for serious postpartum depression. It’s a lot to think about, so yes, I want to be more ready than I am right now. I want that baby to grow inside a happy, healthy mama, and come out to be mothered by a woman who is strong, and graceful, and resilient, and rational, and self-loving. There are ways I can work on becoming those things for that baby now, so that I am more ready to evolve healthfully as a mother when the time comes.
But one of the biggest lies we learn from our culture, from social media, from the entertainment industry, is that life is a race -- that we must keep up with the neighbors -- that we must meet all of life’s milestones at the same time and in the same way that everyone else does.
A dear friend once shared with me the quote, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” (Google tells me that Theodore Roosevelt actually said it.) But I’m learning to live it. My children, whoever they will be and whenever they will come, will benefit far more from a mother who learned to live and grow and breathe and cope within her mental illness, rather than one who rushed into parenthood because she felt like it was supposed to be the right time. I will content myself with the knowledge that as I wait, and work on myself, my health, my recovery, my soul, I am becoming the mother that I will someday, Lord willing, actually need to be.
I’d love to be ready now. It’s hard to watch cousins and friends and former classmates announce pregnancies and start to grow their sweet families. Some days it actually really sucks. But most days it’s just another day to cherish being married to my best friend, have the chance to sleep in on weekends, be overly affectionate to my cat and focus on becoming well. “Ready” means different things to different people. Maybe these words can add a new layer of context, an extra tinge of compassion, the next time you wonder why that happily married, baby-loving couple hasn’t made their own just yet.
“This project at work is making me want to kill myself.”
“I can’t help it, I’m just so OCD about my keeping my books in alphabetical order.”
“The weather is so bipolar today. First it was pouring and now the sun is out.”
I’ve been mulling over how to write this entry for a good couple of months now. It’s an important topic for me, but I don’t want to get preachy and I definitely don’t want to patronize my readers (for whom I am unendingly grateful). I know all too well that folks are good and fed up with people telling them what to say and what not to say because someone, somewhere, might deem their words offensive or inappropriate.
But part of advocating against stigma and being a voice in the mental health community is learning when to speak up -- not for the sake of political correctness but in the spirit of helping build a society that doesn’t reduce or minimize its own members to stereotypes and tired, inaccurate analogies.
I want to note that, of course, this issue is not limited to the misuse of phrases or terms regarding mental illness. In middle school, I cringe to report, “retarded” and “sped” were two of my choice descriptors for anything I found unfavorable. I was in college when the Think Before You Speak campaign went live, explaining that it was “not cool” to call people “gay” as an insult or even as a joke. While awareness has been raised and I think we’re doing better, this stuff still happens, and I don’t think we should sit on our high horses and judge others who use this kind of language. Old habits die hard -- I know when I’m very upset about something, I have an upsetting tendency to use the gross, overused pantomime of shooting a gun into my temple. Me! Someone who lives with depression and understands clearly that suicide is the furthest thing from a joke. It can be hard to change our ways, even with the best of intentions.
But while I don’t want to be the PC police, I do believe that this is something we can help each other with. I believe that we don’t want to be a society that uses factual descriptors of disability, of sexual orientation, of mental illness, to carelessly insult others or to casually describe everyday life. It’s a tangible area that we can each work on, as individuals and as communities, to learn to build each other up instead of using our words to relegate others to the dark corners of an ill-defined and poorly understood existence.
As always, I think that the path to compassion is through information and understanding, so I want to explain why it’s such a big problem to talk this way (or to accept when others talk this way).
To understand that this language does those things is to take a step toward understanding those who live with mental illness (or disability, or any other kind of marginalization). As we understand, we become better empathizers, and we’re able to take a step toward loving others more wholly and living with them in a community of compassion and trust.
These days, does anyone think that we could use less of that?