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Brothers gotta hug.
James has been refusing to sleep in his bed lately and last night, as he snuggled up to me in bed, I asked him how old he would be when sleeping with his mom and dad would be considered uncool. His response, “Ummmmm maybe when I’m 16.” Because that won’t be awkward at all.
Sam has been asking me a lot of questions about college lately. He is worried about leaving home and going off to college and he has assured me that when he is done with college, he is going to move back in with me. Also, he has claimed that he does not want to get married so that he can live with me forever. Fantastic.
I document these stories for a few reasons. One because they are cute, but two, I want to have something to hold over them when they are teenagers and hate my rules…
He *thinks* he looks good.
Sam loves markers. He loves markers so much, he has taken to drawing all over himself. His body art is always unique and always done with Mr. Sketch markers. Because they smell good. And because they smell so good, he always draws on a mustache. And his mustache drawing skills leave something to be desired. Because he draws little Hitler ‘stashes.
A few weeks ago The Bloggess wrote an amazing blog post on her struggles with depression and anxiety. (I encourage you to go here and read it.)
I have suffered with depression and anxiety almost my entire adult life. Most of you know about the horrible postpartum depression I suffered through after I had Sam. It took the better part of a year to find the right combination of medication to help me through that time.
A few months ago the perfect storm hit and I sunk into a really low spot. I was anxious, over come with self doubt, and couldn’t see the joy in life. I had just started a new job, one that I was really excited about because I would be doing such great work in the community. I had to resign from that job because I couldn’t get over my anxiety attacks before, during and after work. I spent over a week in bed because I just couldn’t get up and face the day. When I finally got out of bed, I moved upstairs into the recliner and watched TV. A lot of tv. For days. Weeks. During this time I went to the doctor weekly, radically changed my medication regime, and cried a lot over what I felt was the hopelessness of my situation.
Things are slowly getting better. I am working again. I have a job that I can go to, do my work, and leave my work at work. This is what is best for me right now. I come home from work exhausted and pretty much fall into bed and veg out until bedtime.
I have a lot of anxiety still. Because now that the depression is slowly lifting, I worry about it coming back. I don’t want it to come back, but I know it someday will. I don’t ever want it to come back and be as bad as it was a few months ago. But it might, and I worry about that. It’s a vicious cycle.
I am lucky that I have such a supportive husband. I couldn’t have gotten through the last few months without him. He is pretty damn amazing. I also have some pretty kick ass supportive friends. (The title of this post is a quote from the movie Angus. It’s a quote that is a favorite of mine and a good pal wrote me a card with this in large print. Because every day I tell the depression, “I’m still here ASSHOLE!”)
A few nights ago the kids and I were watching TV together and a commercial for Abilify came on. The commercial was a cartoon with a little depressive robe hanging on the back of a women. It’s a stupid commercial. The commercial was going though all the signs and symptoms of depression and talking about who should and shouldn’t consider taking the medication. Towards the end of the commercial Sam looked over at James and said, “We don’t have that do we?” James answered, “No but I think mom has a little bit of it.” The both looked over at me for confirmation and I said, “Well yes I do have depression, do you know what that is?” James thought for a minute and said, “Well it’s when you get sad for a little bit and cry. But you take medicine to help you not be sad, right?” Right. My six year old understands depression. And so does my five year old. I wish they didn’t have to understand it, but they do.
I wish I had something profound to end this post on, but I don’t. As the Bloggess says, “the fight goes on.” It goes on every day for me. Because I’m still here, asshole.
