Meds-- when to say "Enough Is Enough."

"Someone oughta give her some meds."

Have you ever heard someone say that to someone they felt was acting inappropriately?  A little too jolly, a little too much drama, a little too much non-conformity.

As a society, needing "meds" is synonymous with being a little "off."  A little less than what is okay for a "normal" person.  We can joke about meds-- take a Xanax-- you'll feel so much better....  but boy is it hard to admit you are really on them.

Besides being so unaccepted by society, the medications used to treat depression and other mental disorders can have multiple, major side effects.  Weight gain/ weight loss, tremors, insomnia, drowsiness, sexual side effects....  the list goes on and on.  Over the years I have suffered with depression, I really wish I had at some point started a spreadsheet with all the medications I have tried and stopped and the side effects.  I've been on Lexapro, Cymbalta, Zoloft, Celexa and I can't even remember the rest.  I've given up on trying to find the best medication and am just hopeful now for "the lesser of the evils."

When I "tumbled off the deep end" last summer, my current doc prescribed Wellbutrin for my depression and Xanax for my panic attacks.

The Xanax didn't really help the panic attacks-- it helped keep me from bursting into unstoppable tears (this was one of my main symptoms-- it was like I got to the top of a rollercoaster and once I started the downslide, the tears just would NOT stop.  I could cry non stop for 3-4 hours-- even if I wasn't sobbing crying, the tears just kept flowing.  I was starting to wonder if I might have some kind of eye infection instead of a mental disorder).  However, the quickened pulse, the shallow breathing, the feeling of falling, unfortunately is still present when I am in a situation that makes me anxious.  Fortunately, I have learned to cope better with those situations, and so they are farther apart.  My prescription is "as needed," and I've gone from "needing" several times a week to maybe once or twice a month.

The Welbutrin did help, after a while.  I know that this and other antidepressants take time to build up in your system and counteract the chemical imbalance in your brain that is causing your depression, but the waiting for them to start acting can be agonizing.  But eventually, they do-- they start doing what they are supposed to do and they really do HELP. This particular one even had no noticeable side effects, unless I can blame it for the ten pounds I've added but I think my distant gym membership is more to blame.

The hardest thing is stopping though.  Once the medication is in your system, you start feeling good.  You feel like you can actually accomplish things and not want to cry every 10 minutes. Even if you have physical side effects, you just feel BETTER.  As you start accomplishing things and getting out more and mending your relationships that have suffered so much from your depression, you start thinking maybe you've gotten through it--- maybe you are OVER your depression. ("Can't you just get OVER it?"--the worst thing you can say to us).  So you stop, or like me, you just start forgetting.  Then a couple of weeks later-- when you look at a sinkful of dishes or dread crawling out of bed (yes, I know we all love snuggling in our bed, but a depressed person often feels real, agonizing DREAD-- it's a horrible feeling) or just try to think back to a fun time in your life, you feel the tears welling up.  You feel your stomach churning.  You feel the feeling like you are falling again into a pit and cannot crawl up the steep, damp sides.

And you know.  You're not healed.  The depression is still a part of you, the medication was just masking it.  You know you are going to fall farther and deeper and faster this time.  Unless you go find that bottle, fill up your pill dispenser, and start over.  And wait.  And finally, thankfully, blessedly, you find relief as your brain chemistry once again evens out.

I had a big family event last week, and we traveled nearly 600 miles, after four sleepless nights finishing up decorations and last minute details.  We slept at a relatives and then at a hotel and I just got BUSY.  I forgot my meds.  I think I may have taken two or three doses over the last two weeks.  And I thought, just for a little bit, that I had had enough.  That this blog and my lifestyle changes and my time on meds had done the trick.  But I was wrong.  I'm not okay yet.  I still need the meds to get through the day, the week, the month.  I hope I will not need them someday soon, but not this day.  This day, I am still on meds.

Yours in healing,
Nena

Kidney Party Weekend!

This is a very special weekend for me, for those of you who don't know our story.  My sister Carol was diagnosed with Lupus, an auto immune disorder, when she was 16.  Her body attacked itself for 9 long years, and she almost died multiple times.  After attacks on nearly every major body system, the lupus attacked her kidneys in 1991 and they failed.  We knew about transplants and that the best chance for a working kidney was from a  sibling or close relative.  We were all tested.  During the long wait for the tests to return, Carol had to endure dialysis for hours several times a week.  The dialysis would make her weak and nauseous but it kept her alive.

Unfortunately, Greg and I were trying to have a 2nd baby while we were waiting for the tests, and on the day we learned we were a match, we also learned we were pregnant with Jared.  So Carol endured more waiting and dialysis, while I carried and delivered Jared.  But we had learned that I was a "perfect" six-antigen match for Carol--the best you could get, and that my kidney was healthy as a horse, in fact, both were.

Doctors assured us that the other kidney would increase in both size and capacity to cover the load of the donated one, and that I was just as much at risk for kidney disease or failure later in life with one as with two.  I was also assured that I would still be able to have another baby (as evidenced by Danica) later.

Two months after Jared was born
, the amazing transplant team at Sierra Medical in El Paso wheeled us into adjoining rooms.  They knocked me out, flipped me onto my side and sliced an 8 inch incision into my side.  They had to partially remove a rib to reach the kidney.  The kidney was then rushed to her bed next door (she only got a tiny incision near her bikini line because they leave the old ones in) and doctors came out and hugged our family when the kidney immediately started making pee!

Although we were challenged multiple times by potential rejection, we continued to pray and have faith and eventually it settled in for the long haul.  Her lupus seemed to give up at that point and she never had another major flare up.

All this happened 20 years ago, on August 4, 1993.  Since then, Carol gave birth to a son, sent him to
heaven a month later, married her wonderful husband, who came with her 2nd son, Rene, went to college and obtained a nursing degree, and bought the beautiful home in the foothills of the Franklin Mountains where we will gather with friends and family and celebrate together this Saturday.  We are wearing white to represent her new life and green ribbons which are the color of Organ Donor Awareness.

Please continue to pray for her health, and that of all kidney patients.  And consider becoming a living donor.  I am LIVING PROOF that you can lead a healthy, full life with only one kidney.  As of today, there are over 118,000 people waiting for an organ transplant.  Of those, 96,000 are waiting for a kidney.  I'm sure there are more than 96,000 Americans who would be willing to share theirs and donate the gift of LIFE to someone.  Contact http://www.kidney.org/transplantation/livingdonors/ to find out more.

Church camp chatter

Yesterday I talked to a woman I knew from church.  She has been ill for several years with the same chronic auto-immune disorder my sister has.  (we'd rarely said much more than hello at church, but I knew of her situation because of my sister)The disease has taken its toll on her body and she has been in and out of hospitals, poked and pricked everywhere and is now confined to a wheelchair.

She was  kind of stuck in the area where I was helping with our church camp registration and so we got to talking a little bit.  We talked about all the meds and surgeries and side effects and I could tell that she is just TIRED...

Add to that the fact that she has a son with a brain disorder and ADHD and she was sending him off to a week-long church camp under the care of a (trustworthy and smart) teenager, and I could tell that she was just about at her breaking point and it was not even 8:30 a.m.  

We started talking about her son and I shared some of my story and she began to chatter excitedly about behaviors and treatments and such.  It was as if a switch had been flipped and she was now "on."  I realized it had probably been a long time, if ever, that she had talked to someone in the same situations.  

I asked her if she had any support from people who were going through what she was.  Not a church to pray for you, not friends and neighbors to bring you casseroles, but someone to say, "Oh, yeah, my son does that too and here's what works for me."   Someone for when you are pulling your hair out that can say, "Now, c'mon, you know it'll be better tomorrow."  Someone that when you start spouting off acronyms and slang terms and side effects, knows what you mean.  

She said, "No, and I wish I did."  

I told her about a support group I'd found online for parents going through what I've been through with my kids, how refreshing it was to have someone to talk to who KNOWS. 

I've even been thinking of looking online for some local support groups.  Maybe I can make a friend who'll meet me for nachos and talk.  And will understand if I cancel at the last minute or show up crying.  

I'll continue my newfound friendship with this woman.  But our situations, though similar, are still vastly different, and I know there will come a point where I have no idea what she is dealing with.  But I know there is someone out there who does, and I know that if she seeks them, she will find them.  And she won't be alone any longer.  

Just as I'm not anymore.  

Church camp, a road trip, and a little drop in the bucket

If you are reading this on Monday, you are probably reading this while I am on my way to a place that has been a huge part of my summers for several years.  It's a Christian camp, located in the plains just in between San Antonio and Houston, off a country road and a town long forgotten by developers and megastores.

For nearly the past five years, I have gone to this camp every summer as a counselor for 4th through 6th graders. I have made dear friendships at this camp that have lasted me for years.  One of the fellow counselors and one of the camp nurses I'd call two of my best friends-- the ones I call when I'm the snotty lump, or when I am shaking with fear not knowing if my kids are okay when one is back in a crisis.

Starting with long evenings sitting out in this open area between cabins, telling our stories of how we had come to faith in Christ and the challenges our faith had gotten us through, I came to know and love these women.  Every year, we'd chatter excitedly over Facebook about our departure.  I'm sure we were more excited than the kids.  And every year, we'd come home singing the songs that had been burned in our heads at worship (yes, some were silly and you wanted them out of your head) and marveling over the God moments of this year.

I also came to know and love all the little corners of the rustic, beautiful 150 acre campground.  Each counselor and their cabin-- six to eight eager, squirrelly, innocent young ladies who sometimes floored me with their descriptions of how God had moved in their lives-- would find an isolated spot to have their daily
Bible study and reflection time each day.  Lucky  you if you got this spot over near the lake or one of the swings in the breezeway!  Someone would always dash to claim the abandoned church that is original to the property and then realize that it is the only non-air conditioned places there!


Last year, I didn't get to go.  I had started my wickless candle business and our huge national convention was that week.  I didn't want to miss it, but my heart ached for camp.

This year, I wasn't asked to go.  I guess since I had left Children's Ministry for a while and wasn't in the loop I just wasn't on the list.  I was sad, but accepting.  At the last minute, I was approached to see if I was available because they had had a last minute rush of registrations.  Unfortunately, I knew I needed to be home with my son, who was still struggling to get on his feet, and I also had a big family obligation 500 miles away the following weekend.  Filled with regret, I said no.

So when my friend, the fellow counselor, who also wasn't able to go this year, asked if I wanted to tag along with her, just for an overnight-- to drive 3 hours each way to spend just about 24 hours in this little corner of heaven, I jumped at the chance, despite a laundry list of things that had to be done before our family weekend trip.  (That includes making 24 centerpieces that I just started Sunday night, but that's a whole 'nother post--- see keyword procrastination).  Her daughter was a little mom-sick as they had gone together the previous 3 years, and her son was serving as a junior counselor, and she had promised them she'd come just for a day on her day off.

From what I was told, we will stay in an empty cabin in this lake house.  We should get there right before dinner and get to fill our buckets with amazing worship.  We'll talk until the wee hours, and the next morning after being energized with the morning message and more amazing worship, maybe we will get to do some of the camp activities, like laze in the amazing pool with a lazy river (not exactly relaxing when it's filled with 3rd graders jumping in in 3 foot tubes, but it's still water), or maybe even get to go on the 5-story zipline, one of the first places I really learned to trust God.

But I know that when I come home, I will have at least filled a tiny bit of my bucket and have something to draw from on the days I feel bone-dry.  I will remember the days when my kids still smiled and laughed at camp.  I will remember the deep, deep friendships born of that camp.  And I'll be a little more healed.

Walk on by

If you see me walking down the street 
And I start to cry each time we meet 
Walk on by, walk on by 

Make believe 
That you don't see the tears 
Just let me grieve 
In private 'cause each time I see you 
I break down and cry 

And walk on by (don't stop) 
And walk on by (don't stop) 
And walk on by 

                    -- "Walk On By," Dionne Warwick

Walk on by.  One of the distinguishing characteristics of major depression, in my opinion, is the ability or choice to not SEE certain things in your surroundings.   Not because it affects our real vision, but because seeing them requires more energy or emotion than we have to give at that moment.  It might be something small, like a pile of dirty dishes or a load of laundry on the floor, or something larger like a mortgage payment or a problem with your spouse or child.  Definitely selective vision.  

My daughter's room is a perfect example.  Her room is separated from ours by a large game room.  Well, it's supposed to be for games and "family bonding", but now it's home to a large denim chair-and-a-half relocated from my classroom when my students couldn't stop graffiting it and an outdated game station.  Even the walls say depression-- I started painting them and left one wall half done a year ago.  So to avoid seeing the depressing room, I turn left at the top of the stairs, focused on getting to my master bedroom, my retreat.  I only cross over to her side to drop off some laundry in the linen closet or to take a shower (our master bedroom shower has a leak, also left unfixed, but that's another story).  Every time I go in, I stare at the closed door, closed by a teen girl's need for privacy and also to keep me from seeing the growing mess in her room.  I know if I walk in, I won't like what I see.  

But today, I went in.  I had just gotten a haircut and needed some root lifter.  I knew I had some but it wasn't on my bathroom counter, so I went on a search for it.  Found it on her side table, amidst several half empty soda cups from her part time fast-food job, an empty bowl that looked like it might have been chocolate ice cream, and various pieces of costume jewelry.  To get to it, I had to cross over a sea of clothes leading across the room.  Dirty or clean?  Who knows-- I think I saw a swimsuit I saw her wear two weeks ago and could that be winter sweaters (It's July)?  

I know I could have "not seen it" and just gone straight for the root lifter, but honestly I would have tripped.  Seeing it would force me to react to it.  Force me to confront my teen and chew her out about her room and throw around ultimatums and threats of forcing her to donate all her clothes to charity.  Pretend to ignore the rolling of the eyes and sighs and stomping, and follow through on making sure it was cleaned.  

I've always been the "mean parent."  Growing up in a home with a strong college graduate mother and a passive hardworking but uneducated father, I had learned to be the disciplinarian.  Oh, my dad could wield a belt if he needed to (usually if that was the punishment doled out by my mom), but it was my mom who gave us the stern looks, the lectures, and the sighs of disappointment.  So while I respect my husband's calm, quiet nature, it is usually me who does the ordering and reprimanding.  And thus me, again, who usually gets the cold shoulder after having to discipline.  

So I try not to see things.  I try to avoid the confrontations and effort that would result.  I focus on seeing the one or two things I have accomplished and the areas of my home that I have domain in and patting myself on the back.  Little by little, I'm facing things.  I actually downloaded an app called iDoneThis to keep a running log of the things I've done so I can have a visual encouragement as the list gets longer.  Even one line longer.  One line is one step closer to getting better.  

By the way, I didn't close my eyes to the room.  Guess what my kid is doing today... 

I'll leave you with a wonderful rendition of Seal covering Dionne.... 

What a Little Anger Can Do...

Do you ever get so mad that you have to just HIT something?  Yes, I know you're not supposed to hit your kids but sometimes you have just HAD it.  My solution is sometimes to throw something across the floor but it is usually something flimsy within reach, like a paper napkin, and the gentle float is just not quite satisfying, KWIM? Or the stack of papers I just spent an hour sorting and are now in a mess across the tile.  But the better solution, for me, my house, and my sanity, is to go out and DIG.

And dig I did, last week.  You see, about 7 years ago, we put in an impromptu pond in our frontyard (long story, but it involved divorcing neighbors, an old pond mold they had in their yard, and six forlorn little goldfish we couldn't bear to see die... you'd laugh if you heard the whole story).  In our rush to build it fast, we purchased a 6 foot pond kit from Walmart with probably the cheapest, weakest pump available.  Plus since it was in our front yard, it could only be 18 inches deep, per city code, to prevent drownings.  Pond aficionados know that the larger the pond, the more self-maintaining it is.  Well, our little 12 sq. foot pond needed LOTS of maintenance, and two pumps, replacement fish, several attempts at aquatic plantlife, and, well, we just gave UP.

There it sat, our once beautiful pond that drew oohs and aahs (it really was beautiful for about one summer), with about six inches of putrid, algae filled water that despite Mosquito Dunks made you feel like you were in a World War III with those tiny guys from Night at the Museum.  And every day, I set my eyes forward as I walked it past it, dreading the task it would take to empty it and then refill it with soil.

On top of that, there was this psycho plant called Mexican Ruellia. Beautiful cup shaped lavender blooms atop long stems of beautiful boat shaped leaves.  But in the center of the blooms lay these evil bomb-shaped seeds, and a drop of water would send them shooting into the air, randomly landing everywhere and immediately rooting and forming a new  clump!  The 4 inch pot I had stupidly purchased at the garden shop was now a 6 foot by 5 foot spread, interspersed with honeysuckle vine (yeah, that's a whole 'nother story) and Hackberry saplings!  Between the dead pond and the evil bomb seeds, an entire 10 foot square area right by my front door looked like a long abandoned field.  I knew I had to do something, and I knew a pallet and a half of flagstone lay in that wasteland.

Flung that baby as far as I could! 

Okay, so now that you know the backstory, why did I start digging?  Last Monday, I had pretty much just had it.  Fed up with my kid, my dogs, my mess, my business, and already starting to dissolve into that puddle of snotty tears I told you about (I know, bad image in your head).  I grabbed the shovel and my sneakers and started ATTACKING the Ruellia.  As evil as the seeds are, they are not too smart, and they were very shallow rooted, and within a few hours, I had cleared half the stand!  Inspired, I kept at it, and had finally cleared a space where I could stand and start shoveling out the water and gunk out of the pond!  Several spiders and rocks, and green slimy gunk piles later, I decided to give the liner a tug.  Well, it took a lot more than just a tug, but DANG it felt good!  Planting my feet and pulling with all my might, I yanked that liner all the way out and dragged it to the driveway!  Slowly but surely, the rest of the water began to seep into the old carpet padding on the bottom and then into the soil.


I looked around and mentally calculated how deep my soil needed to be to a) fill the hole, and b) give me enough space for some stabilizing sand and the flagstones. (I had laid the stones out on a blank piece of lawn as I took the pond out and there was more than a patio sized area there!  The stones had been stacked 3 deep around the pond.).   Satisfied with the day's work, filthy, and starting to feel the effects of working for 6 hours in 100-degree heat, I called it a day.

You can see the pond impression on the right.
Where the shovel is was 3 foot high Ruellia. 

The next day, I tackled smoothing and tamping the soil, and with my son's help (he had to redeem himself for making me upset in the first place), purchased 200 lbs. of sand and bender board.  My husband helped me that evening to attach the bender board to stakes, and we began to spread the sand and lay the stones.  The $4 solar lights uplighting my live oak had already started to flicker by the time we finished, and I sat down on the garden benches relocated from elsewhere to survey my now peaceful corner, shaded from the street but still close to my doorway.

I envisioned myself coming out in the evening with a glass of Moscato, or sitting down to chat with a customer picking up an order, but I know my life is not near that perfect nor will it be anytime soon.  I'll likely storm out there after another argument, or hide out to keep from having to tackle the dog pee in the hallway, but at least I'll know I made that spot (mostly) myself and that feeling will do so much towards my healing.  If you know who I am, and you're in the neighborhood, drop by.  I promise the mosquitoes are almost gone and I think I can find some wine somewhere....

My little peace corner.

Lessons from my Journey

Wow... 5 years have just disappeared into a pit of depression.  Twice, I have tried to recover this blog and share my thoughts on the world wide web for anyone, anywhere who maybe has gone through this journey to see that there is light at the end of the tunnel.  But then I just get stuck in the tunnel.

I'm recovering-- I really am.  I've come to terms with living in a family plagued by mental illness and all that entails.  I've been to the dark side of near suicide more times than I can imagine and my love for my family has been the one thing that has kept me alive at times.  I'll freely admit that I am in a place now that without those wonderful drugs we call antidepressants, I could probably not function without dissolving into a wet mass of snotty tears, often in public, several times a month.

My pit has taken its toll though.  Once a promising teacher, I left a campus where I was two steps away from getting booted out because I could not admit my failures and learn from my mistakes.  I've thought about going back-- financially we are struggling-- but the stakes are just so high, I can't handle the pressure.  Of course, pinching pennies is its own type of pressure.  My home, once welcoming and unique with its Southwest style and custom ragged walls, now seems dark and dingy and even more depressing.  But the task of repainting or the expense of repairs is even more daunting than I can handle, so I live with it and tackle a little each day-- at least cleaner, if not lighter.

So many times, I have just felt so ALONE but yet I am realizing as I am becoming more vocal about my struggles, that so many of my friends have struggled with depression, ARE struggling with depression, and I've decided that my voice, my story, just might help.

My problems are nowhere near gone.  I'm the mother of two children with very real, very debilitating illnesses and it just wears you down, mentally, physically, financially.  I won't go into detail on this blog about my kids and their battle, because they are very private and I have to respect that, but if you ever want to meet for coffee, I can share a little and what it's meant for us as a family.  Because of these illnesses, we decided to take a fledgling direct-sales business in home fragrance and jump in completely full time, so that I could have the time and flexibility to be with my kids in crisis as needed.  Unfortunately, this year, it's been so often that the business has not taken off like we planned and money is very, very tight.

But writing, sharing, opening up to my bare soul, will help me pull out of the pit and I hope it helps you or someone you know.  My hope is to write a new blog post at least 2-3 times a week.  My reality is you'll be lucky to hear from me once a week or even once a month, and if you do, you will know that at least I am getting better.