Happy Pills

I have a secret. Many people (way too many!) look at those in my situation with judgment and pity and even fear. Many people IN my situation often put up a false "front," pretend to be someone else, or live in denial. What a horrible way to live! It shouldn't be this way, that's why I'm fessing up here - I am depressed. I have a mental disorder/imbalance. I take medicine to help me deal with my depression and anxiety. There, I said it.

I've been anxious my entire life, even as a young girl. It wasn't until college that I realized it was bad, enough to affect my day-to-day. And it wasn't until I was in my late twenties that I hit my breaking point and finally decided to (had to, really!) get help. Growing up, I was always physically active as a dancer, but when I started speed walking for exercise more and more and more as a way to try and physically rid my body of the anxiety I had increasingly building up inside me, I knew something was going on. Then, one day I came home from work (actually, a really low-stress job,) turned on the radio and danced til I sweat in my living room (not that there's anything wrong with that, it just wasn't a normal thing for me) while having a breath-restricting, feel-like-you're-dying, full-blown panic attack. 

I called the doctor the next day sobbing (ugly cry!) into the phone and choking out the words that I needed to come in. Looking back, I realize the tears fell with the admission and sheer relief of reaching out for help. It was no longer an internal battle to face alone, and from that moment on, it was a medical condition for my doctor and me to address. And for the last ten years, my doctor and I have tried five different medications of varying affects - the fifth working best, for now - to deal with this condition.

Ok, so I know that a lot of people take anti-depressants and are more vocal about it now. Still, though, mental health (especially when it's not so healthy) remains a major stigma. What's with the secrets - does taking medication for the chemistry in your brain mean you are weak? Let me tell you, the bravest thing I've done in my life is admitting the time had come to call my doctor. Is getting help the first step towards being an outcast in society or being committed to an institution for the rest of your life? No, and it sounds crazy (pardon the pun) to even say that, doesn't it?

Fortunately, the stigma of my own mental health has all but disappeared for me. I am not at all embarrassed now to talk about depression/anxiety and anti-depressants. In fact, my meds have changed my life so dramatically that I would gladly volunteer to be in a commercial for Cymbalta 60 mg (my current magical "potion") if they'd let me. So, I guess you could call that a happy pills success story.

  

Corky's Big Adventure

My gubby (gay "husband"/BFF,) "Corky" is off on a European adventure. He and a friend are taking a Mediterranean cruise for ten days, and this poor hag is left behind. It's ok, though, this trip is beyond my "wifely" duties. It's not a gay cruise, per se, however, there are one too many voting members of the local Pride Festival board (friends of Corky's travel buddy) for even this experienced hag. The last thing I need right now is a bunch of tan, buff, linen pants-wearing hotties with absolutely no interest in "checkin" my bikini...well, except in a fashion critiquing sense, and I'm pretty sure they'd be less than impressed with my Delta Burke line swim dress.

Yes, what an adventure it will be for Corky and Duke (neither of their real names - to protect the-not even pretending to be-innocent.) The Vatican isn't gonna know what hit after the gay Griswolds pay a visit, and neither will any of the other fabulous places they go. I'm proud of the boys' spirit going into this trip. They've done some planning, but mostly they will be flying by the seats of their pants, which is a bit different than the way I tend to travel - detailed spreadsheet, a work sheet for budget, one for itinerary, one for packing list. With casual attitudes and a ready-for-anything sense of adventure, I'm sure the boys will have a great time.

Don't tell Corky, but I'm kinda protective of him. We've been friends since Sophomore year in college when we were both fresh out of the nest. He was "straight" (well, playing the part) and I was drawn to people whose story was more interesting than my own. Match made in heaven! And our friendship has evolved (for better and worse) ever since. This is why I worry about Corky like a mother hen, because we've been through so much together - boyfriends, break-ups, bottles of wine - and our friendship means a lot to me.

So, my Ditto's brunching, Architectural Salvage shopping, Flanagan's hanging partner in crime, I wish you a journey full of great adventures. And, whatever you do, please, please... try not to get hate crimed. Imagine the international incident this protective hag and heat-packing Ethel would cause! ;-)

Hot Young Blonde

I used to be a hot young blonde... really! It's true! And guess what, it’s overrated. Seriously, I wasn’t happier or more successful or content. In fact, I have gotten progressively happier and all those things since my hot self at the age of 25. And, really, what 25 year-old isn’t hot? Everyone’s been there, that’s when you’re supposed to be your hottest so you can attract a mate and procreate. Sexy, isn’t it?

My grandma would say there are “show ponies” and there are “work horses.” I mean, I’m not the ugliest nag in the stall or anything (far from it, wink! wink!) I’m just saying my looks are honestly less important to me as I grow older. Sure, I’d like to live a healthy life and maintain some sense of attractiveness well into my later years (I wouldn’t mind being the hottest nonagenarian in the home, think Blanche Devereaux.) In no way am I saying my appearance is grotesque nor am I giving up on my looks, far from it! What I'm saying is that I choose not to fixate on what I see in the mirror or obsess over (impossibly) maintaining the same physical self I was in my twenties. I’ve got other things to do.

So, I’ve gained some laugh lines and age spots and my beer/wine belly - and my tendency to pat on it like a proud expectant mother - has prompted a few well-meaning but awkward comments about my “due date.” Who cares?! If I’ve learned anything since age 25 it’s that most of us are our own worst enemy. Does anyone but me really care if there are lines on my face or that my jeans are size whatever? No. And I’m 99% sure no one cares about those things about you either, unless you are, in fact, the center of the universe. 

Look, I will never be (thank God!) or look like a 25 year-old again, and neither will you (unless you’re one of my hip young millennial coworkers.) I wouldn’t trade a day of my 37 years to go back. Ok, maybe that day I so gracefully threw up in a cup coming home from a drunken night with an old friend, spilled it on myself, unzipped my skirt to take it off then walked into my apartment building where I unexpectedly came face-to-face with a co-worker, where I gave a friendly nod, then briskly turned to walk away with puke everywhere and my ass hanging out. Yep, that day…that day I would trade, but that’s it.

To me, a life best lived is one that includes the things you love, not deny yourself - which is why so many of my meals involve cheese, wine and carbs… you know, just in case it’s my last… You can’t reverse time no matter how hard you try. So, instead of spending my days trying, I’m going to embrace who I am now, a hot beer-drinking, pizza-eating 37 year-old, wrinkles and all. And  with that, I will continue to be happy. 

Chillin Child-Free

So, Mother's Day has come and gone. This year I noticed an over-abundance of articles about "child-free," "child-less," "have children but support all women and their motherhood status." Don't get me wrong, I love that this is even a conversation, says the girl who was this close to a Women's Studies minor in college.

I myself am a devout member of the "child-free," a term I just read about today. I do not have children and have never (even as a child myself - I played "lawyer" or "businesswoman" all the time but never, do I remember, playing "mom") wanted to be a mother. It was never a big internal debate that I had, I just never felt the drive or need or even fantasy, but my decision is just as firm as if I had. Some women yearn to be a mother and know their whole life that they want to raise children. I can honestly say, I am the complete opposite of that woman. And, with that, I am confident, comfortable and sure. And, the next person whose response when I express my desire to remain child-free says, "Never say never!" will promptly receive my foot up their ass (seriously people?!!)

Women and circumstances decide (or not) to have children for a lot of reasons, some good, some not so good. However they arrive at their motherhood, child-free or child-less status is all very complex, extremely personal and for many, not at all easy. I know that I'm lucky, not necessarily to be child-free (but have you been to the Subway by the Science Center the last week before summer break when the teachers have all but given up on keeping order among the mutiny?!! Nope, definitely not for me,) but to know what I want (or don't want) and having the right to make that decision.

Look, it's not an easy decision for a lot of women, so let's be kind to each other, respect that what's right for you isn't right for everyone and appreciate that at least we have choices. And for goodness sake, positive thoughts and well-wishes to my good friends, the sandwich artists at the Science Center Subway!

   

Happy Mother's Day!

A friend just asked me what my family “does” for Mother’s Day. My response - our family doesn’t really “do” anything big or special for Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, which I guess is our own tradition. Also, I selfishly claim that because my birthday is always on or very close to the second Sunday in May, it takes trump. As a kid, I even insisted on celebrating my birthday on Mother’s Day every year at the pizza place where they would give me one of the pink carnations they were handing out to mothers. What can I say, it made me feel special and also like I had pulled one over on “the man.” Ha!

I don’t know why we don’t celebrate the way other (seemingly functional) families do with brunch or lunch and cards and cake and that butt-ugly Jane Seymour jewelry I’m sure LOTS of disappointed mothers have been gifted. My parents, despite my sharing their stories for them in writing, are very private people – always have been, always will be – which seems ironic considering I am the master/mistress of TMI (stories about shitting one’s pants… been there, done that! See previous posts.) Except for within our inner circle, the immediate family, my parents shy away from all attention and fuss. My mom has even thought ahead to the unwanted attention she might receive after her hopefully very distant but eventual death – no funeral, and if the law would allow, stick her in a garbage bag at the end of the driveway on trash pick-up day. I don’t know if Mom has big plans for an obituary as it would draw attention, but if one is allowed, it will no doubt be something brutally succinct, as in “Bad news… [Mom’s name] died.” The end.

Just because we have no big customs or elaborate celebrations for these Hallmark holidays doesn’t mean my family doesn’t value them or their meaning. I will call Mom on Sunday, like I do every Mother’s Day, to acknowledge the holiday and wish her the best. A bit of a formality we mutually understand, but I think she appreciates the call nonetheless. And I will call my dad on Father’s Day to do the same and be met with a quick “thanks” mumbled back in slight embarrassment before we move on to more important conversation that will certainly put less “unnecessary” attention on him. It’s the same every year. See! We have our traditions, after all! And I look forward to them just the same.

Like a Fine Aged Wine

So, with my next birthday looming, I’ve been thinking a lot about growing older. I’m actually ok with it. No, really! At 36-37, I’m not exactly staring down the other side of the hill yet, but your thirties are when you become a bona fide adult. A REAL adult… like how old your parents were when as a kid you first really understood the concept of age. I guess you’re still only as old as you act. And look! I mean, I did add some skinny jeans to my wardrobe this year – just trying to fit in with my co-workers, a super hip band of “Millennials.”

 

My attitude towards aging comes from my genes (not skinny.) See, the women in my family seem to get better – happier, funnier, more confident and more at peace – with age. They’re also nuttier, feistier, more spirited and more outspoken – all good things in my book. They also deal with aging and everything it entails with humor and grace - a word I can hardly type here considering their pure love of fart talk, dirty jokes and all things gross (seriously, conversations at our family dinners would make a 12 year-old boy blush, but we sure have a good time!) As my mom would say, “Getting old aint for sissies.” It’s going to happen to the best (and luckiest) of us, you might as well get your laughs where you can.

 

Laugh, we do! My 92 year-old grandma, as many her advanced age, can't remember a damn thing! I'm not telling her secrets, she knows (when she can remember) that her memory isn't good. Fortunately for her, she has my mom to keep her (mostly) in line. When Grandma forgets, Mom (mostly) gently reminds her. And when Grandma sees a sign as they're driving for Dairy Queen's sale on bacon cheeseburgers and remarks that she might like to try one, Mom advises that, in fact, they've just come from doing that very thing. Oops! But, the old fart (Grandma AND Mom) know how to roll with the punches and not be afraid to laugh at themselves. It's the only way you survive.

 

Getting older takes guts. I feel lucky that I was shown how to "roll with the punches" from a long line of lively, hilarious, headstrong women. That's a legacy I can live (and grow old) with.

 

 

Shit, Not You Again...

Right. As I was saying, "my bucket list"....

So, it's been a while since I've written - 2 1/2 years actually! Well, you know, LIFE... Jobs, friends, dramas - they come and go, all with due time. "In with the positive, out with the negative..." as I used to say when I was in my twenties and faithfully doing yoga meditations - poor sap! As I get older, I find it's more gratifying to "in" with the wine, and "out" with the F-bomb. What? It's still a form of self-expression just with a different, perhaps, less physically healthy approach.

In the last couple of years, I guess you could say I've been working on my "bucket list" (from my last post, November 2012.) But, really, aren't we always working on our lists, our goals? What's the point of achieving them, anyway? Isn't the point in the practice and lessons learned from the effort of getting there?

And I have learned a lot since my 34 year-old self who last wrote. I'll be 37 next week, and I, like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally like to say, "I'm gonna be 40!... Someday!..." Yes, yes, every birthday is a milestone, even the ones not divisible by 5 or 10. So, I'm confident (and hell-bent determined - don't challenge me, I'm a Taurus with a strong German heritage) to make 37 a great year.


So, here's to me! And, us! Or, this theoretical miraculous year in which I finally discover the one small key to infinite happiness (but not before I cure AIDS and cancer, then fund the arts all across America with the money I make, attend the Met Museum's Costume Institute Gala wearing one of those Beyonce booty-worshipping couture gowns where Clooney finally decides to turn his attention to me/my booty, where it should be.)