Category: mental health

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Somethin' Funky Up In Here

After every time-consuming or effort-extracting event, I go through a letdown. I’m not sure if it’s organic, chemical, physical or psychological or probably a combination of them all, but it’s as if my body says, ‘Whew! Ok, let’s hibernate and possibly get sick for a bit!’ after which I cry for a few days and endure a cold or other illness. Is it possible I actually DO catch a cold or other illness? Or am I just incredibly spent and want to sleep so my body invents an ailment? Inquiring minds wanna know.

Warning – this may be one of the most painful entries ever as far the segue goes. My brain is cloudy and I can barely remember how to speak ACTUAL WORDS such as CAR and PAINT and CLOSE WINDOW when someone comes to the door. Leave now or forever hold your peace.

In the airport coming home, when for some strange reason I decided my hands were invisible and therefore not functional, I neglected to take out my camera so you could all see Miss Arizona USA (not to be confused with the ol’ regular Miss Arizona) sitting and waiting for the flight to, you guessed it, Arizona. Do you know how I know? She had her sash on. Her required sash for all the free airline travel she gets. And if I heard her say it once, I heard her say it a million times (or at least the actual 6 times I DID hear her say it), she is NOT dating Bill M., Preston C., James F., Tony S., Tony L. or Tony Z. I don’t care what those silly men say, she is NOT. (smiling SMILING smiling)

There was a youngish man, guitar out on his lap, sitting next to her and, I kid you not, playing and picking those strings for the entire 90 minutes we waited for the flight. 90 minutes of Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings songs, a few of which he hummed along with, not so badly. He was so earnest. So very, very earnest and I wanted to stop reading my book for a minute (yes, my hands reappeared and functioned for my book) just to tell him I would enjoy his music more if he would only play a little Dave Matthews or even Patsy Cline, but he would never have heard me, so completely wrapped up in her he was. His adoring eyes never left her face, not even for the Gypsy Kings segment.

The friend referred book I was reading is called God Is Not Great. I’ve struggled with religion since I was a child and it’s only now that I’m realizing it’s alright to say out loud that I might not believe in God. At least not the type of God I was instructed to love and obey as a child. In the scriptures is says ‘By their fruits ye shall know them’ and my problem has always been that what I mostly see is hypocrisy and ways to keep people out in every religion I’ve studied. But not in all my 36 years and not until I read this book did it dawn on me that I didn’t have to keep searching to find the one I wanted to belong to. Because I don’t want to belong to any of them. And man, I’ve had such a sense of peace and relief with that realization.

Speaking of politics (weren’t we? I did warn you…), I’m trying to figure out how to support any candidate that is Christian. After all the wars done in the name of different Gods, the number of people persecuted for being different and the (what I consider to be) faulty reasoning behind it, voting for someone that I know holds those beliefs would be just plain wrong, wouldn’t it?

A number of people I know are having babies, just had a baby or actively trying to have a baby. (Still with me?) I’ve been trying to have a baby. So much so that it took medical intervention to get me to give it a break already. So many miscarriages in so little time are not a good thing and there have been a few not mentioned on this blog. Today, after reading Schmutzie, who I realize had a totally different reason for writing what she did, I had the sudden realization that maybe The Universe has been trying to tell me that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t be trying to have another child but I couldn’t hear it yet. And then I thought maybe I’d get my tubes tied. And then I almost cried because it sounded like such a wonderful idea. I’ve not ever considered this option before and I’m not in any hurry to go and get it done, but it’s an interesting turn of events, is it not? Life is so fascinating.

My sister comes out with her husband in a few weeks for an entire glorious weekend of nothing to do put poke our toes in the sand. If I tell her I don’t believe in God, will she still love me?

My daughter is 16. (Did your brain just crickety-crack trying to keep up?) Completely and utterly 16 and everything it entails. I would not go back and be 16 for every, single, solitary fat-free and guiltless cheeseburger in all of China, of which there are none, but even if there were. She routinely hurts my feelings to the very depths of my soul as only your daughter can and it’s continually my job as her mother to love her just like she is, right where she’s at, and not make her feel ashamed. Being a parent is one of the frackinist jobs of all time. And yet, I wouldn’t trade it for anything and actually went through hell just to be in this position but I’ve got to learn to give myself permission to have a bad day without self recrimination. Wow, that was an awfully and probably unnecessarily wordy paragraph. Sorry, Mrs. Beasley.

This freelancing and doing the stray article now and again has not brought in the amount of cold, hard cash one might expect. Or, maybe it’s exactly as much as one might expect. All that to say – not much. And I’m feeling the itching in my fingers and in my brain to do something more substantial. There was a job a few months ago that I was excited about but ended up not getting and ever since then, I’ve just not really looked. But I think it’s that time, friends. It’s THAT time. So, Hello Universe – I’d like a winner job, please. Oh, and thanks.

My husband is awesomer than I ever imagined or dared hope.

And also, mashed potatoes with tiny bitso cheddar cheese just might be the best thing since Kindereggs. (Thanks, Jen.)

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Mental Health, Revolution Health

Discrimination against the mentally ill makes my blood boil. I’ve been told many times to never, ever say those particular words to people because ‘it would freak them out. Wait until they get to know you and then tell them in a way that won’t make them feel uncomfortable.’ Needless to say, this does not help a person feel comfortable being themselves or helping them own their own uniqueness. It makes a person feel ashamed which can start patterns of self-destruction.

When we hear that someone has a physical illness, it’s easy to feel compassion and empathy for them. For the most part, our physical bodies appear to work the same way as those we see around us. You have two feet. One gets amputated. It isn’t hard to imagine what that might feel like and extended our compassion to that person. You won’t ever really know unless it happens to you, but you can imagine. The same for cancer or diabetes. We can imagine what that might feel like or at least what it might feel like to have the simplicity of our life taken away, so we can immediately extend them sympathy.

All that changes when we start talking about mental illness. There hasn’t been the same amount of study and diagnosing done for the inside of our brain as has been done for our physical parts. People aren’t comfortable talking about depression or medication or therapy. Whens someone tells you that they just can’t get out of bed in the morning or that they feel so sad they think about killing themselves or that they haven’t been able to save any money because they’ve spent every cent on alternative therapies, it gets harder and harder to sympathize with them. It’s uncomfortable. You’d like them to just stop and ‘act normal.’

If you are the mentally ill, you don’t want anyone at work to know you go to therapy once a week and take medication because it might impact how your job performance is perceived. Your occasional bad day takes on a whole new dimension and when it comes time for promotion, you might not be seen as ‘steady’ or ‘reliable’ even if your job performance is very similar to those around you with no stigma of Mental Illness.

I often receive emails from people struggling with these issues and I feel so helpless to help any of them. All I can tell them is that I know how they feel. Being diagnosed as Not Otherwise Specified doesn’t really do a lot to comfort. We need much more research and open dialog and better work in creating diagnoses.

A few weeks ago I was invited to participate in a phone call with Dr. Ken Duckworth, the medical director for the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). I was excited to speak with someone who spends their time helping the mentally ill by furthering research and most of all just spreading awareness by talking about it. I’m sad to say I ended up not being able to make the call due to a misunderstanding about the time. However, here is an audio link for that call if you’re interested in listening.

I think Dr. Duckworth hits the nail on the head when he states that people will feel much more comfortable with mental illness and the treatment of, when we can pinpoint better how things in the brain work. He also talks about the relationship of alcohol and drugs with a chemically imbalanced brain, which I know about intimately. And I really like that they talk about how accountability and learning from natural consequences is different for the mentally ill than for, say, an alcoholic without a mental illness hitting bottom. The learning curve is different and needs to be discussed with the family of the mentally ill to help them understand how things might be more helpful for their loved one. 12-step programs are great and a good starting point but there are specific differences. Also touched on – endocrine disorders and thyroid issues have shown some connections with depression and unbalanced brain chemistry. I hope they do more research there. As I stated in an earlier post, I was amazed at how similar the symptoms were. I have no doubt that we will only find more and more supportive facts that show how our brains and our physical bodies share illnesses. Had I been able to make the call I would have asked him about dissociative disorders. (duh!. : ) )

In an email yesterday, I was told that Revolution Health is partnering with O, the Oprah Magazine as a sponsor of the O You! Conference on September 29 in Miami. You can win one of five trips to the conference by entering here once per day. Speakers at the conference include Suze Orman and Martha Beck, who I think is phenomenal.

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Let Me Tell You

Let me tell you a little story: The last post I did? I actually posted it a week ago but it was somehow set to PRIVATE and I didn’t know it and then I realized it and then I marked it PUBLIC and now you can see it. Cool story, huh? There is no moral or arc. You’ll just have to get over it and accept it for what it is, whatever that is.

Let me tell you a big secret: I’ve gained 15 pounds in the past 2 years. Add that to the 20 pounds I gained when my thyroid started going out 4 years ago and the gazillion pounds I gained on medications for 6 years and you’re talking about a-LOT-o weight. And now I look like this. I look at that person and can’t believe it’s me. I don’t feel like that on the inside but I sure do feel like that when I get on the treadmill. I can’t exercise more than about 20 minutes without getting so sleepy, achy and wiped out that I don’t move for the next 12 hours. The doctor said that within 7-8 weeks on the higher thyroid dose I will start to feel an improvement and be able to workout longer. ‘What a relief’ said my knees. She also said my appetite should improve once my body starts functioning again like a real person and that I would actually GET HUNGRY and then WANT TO EAT and that in so doing I would LOSE WEIGHT because I would have energy to MOVE MY BODY. She also told me that I will have a harder time because I used to have eating disorders. And also not to get pregnant for the next two years. (SADFACE)

Let me tell you a little something about time management: I have three large boxes with approximately 447 photos to scan and crop and resize and put on disks for my entire family before the reunion later this month. I have had these images since last July and have not cracked them open or done a little scanning each day to cut down on the overall effort. After the reunion is Blogher and I’m supposed to have some really funny and entertaining things to say. Who thinks I can do it?

Let me tell you a very short sentence about moving boxes: STILL THERE.

Let me tell you about my kids: They stayed here for 9 days. Now they are at their dad’s for 10. And then they’ll be back for 5 and then at his for etc. etc. and on through August. You ask, Do they like it? Are they sad they have to do 50/50 time? And I answer you with the only measuring sticks I have available –

  • Alex said she hopes we stay in this house until she graduates in 2 years and also that she likes being able to be here whenever she wants. I think my curfew for her is 30 minutes later than her dad’s. Is that bribery? I wasn’t aware of it before hand so I must vote no. But it doesn’t hurt.
  • Ty trusts me to get him to his daily practices and games on time and prepared with the necessary sport accessories. His face no longer looks strained or worried an hour before we leave. He called this house his Home at least 3 times in phone conversations that I overheard.
  • Tony’s room is as messy over here as at his dad’s. He does not put clothes in the hamper or away in his drawers. He also makes snacks at midnight and doesn’t clean up after himself. I’m taking all these things as signs that he is as comfortable here as there.


Let me tell you a tiny nerd anecdote: Tony’s friend came over and asked if we had the Pink Floyd movie, The Wall. I told him he could check the shelves. He asked where it might be and I told him they were in alphabetical order. He breathed out, ‘Coooool!’

Let me tell you a post script: LA Angst is coming up on July 11th! Reader spaces are filling up quick this time if I believe the 17 people that told me they want to read. Get off the fence, duckies! I only have room for seven six more of you.

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Can't Wait For The Movie

My friend Susan and I play this game sometimes. It doesn’t really have a name but the basic rules of the game are – have the worst life/circumstances of everyone around you. But you have to laugh about it. Ya, I think that’s it in a nutshell.

For example, if I got a ticket for illegal parking but she broke her arm, she wins. If she got stung by a bee but I broke the heel on my Manolos, I win. Actually, that might win a lot of stuff. Unless she is allergic to bees and has to go to the emergency room and almost dies, then I guess that would win. Maybe.

In any case, Susan’s mom died recently so she totally won, for like, days and days and maybe weeks. I mean, you can’t really top that, right? The things that could happen to trump the death of a parent are pretty far and few between. Except now. Now I think I might win for a bit.

But the second part of the rules, the laughing at the situation part, I’ve been unable to do until today. Today it just seems hysterical in a sad, yet funny way. I mean, imagine this last chapter of my life as a movie. Mom goes to mental hospital. Kids and father move. Mom spends the next four years job after job and house after house inching closer in a very dramatic and pragmatic fashion, always repeating some mantra like, ‘This will all be worth it someday when my kids are living with me again!’ and throw in some arm shaking and maybe background music. Oh, I think Climb Every Mountain or Ain’t No Mountain High Enough would work great. There would be close-ups of sweat falling from my temples, little ringlets of hairs coming out from my bun all misty and dewy over the kitchen sink.

Hey, I know! Let’s put me in a covered wagon – the preferred mode of transportation of My People. I can wear the Bonprons I made and some bloomers made of scratchy, low-grade cotton so my knees will get irritated as we go along. I’ll walk and walk and walk and walk aaaaaaand walk. I think there better be falling down in crevasses and storms of many kinds.

And then, as the smoke clears and a slight wind rustles my hair, you’ll see the determination set in my jaw line as I go those last few feet on my hands and knees. My fingernails packed with dirt from pulling my limp body (did I forget to say I got paralyzed from the waist down somewhere along the line? Probably a freak accident with an Emu.) along the muddy grassland, clump by clump.

Then let’s fast forward past the part where I built the cabin after wrastlin’ the miners for the plot of land that was my great grandfathers and rightfully mine. And past the part where I spin the wool and make fabric and then sew curtains for every room. And past the part where I planted the garden, toiled in the fields and then bottled 1,364 bottles of corn for the winter. And past the part where I send the telegram to the children and tell them the homestead is finally, FINALLY ready for them.

Let’s just go straight to the part where they get the telegram and go, ‘Meh. No thanks!’ because that, my friends, is comedy gold. And I do believe it’s a comedy. Anything that depressing has to be a comedy just to sit through it.

I know I’m winning more than just Susan. The past few days when people call on the phone I’ll say, ‘Hey – I heard about [whatever-I-heard-here] and how are you doing with that?’ And they’ll say, ‘Oh, Leah, no biggie. We didn’t lose the farm and no one got hurt and my kids still want me to, you know, be their mom…’ at which point their voice kind of trails off.

Thanks for the kind emails you’ve sent. Mostly they were very thoughtful and I appreciate you taking the time to write me. However, I’d like to point out that, as one friend said, teens are in the height of their asshole stage and I have four of them and I know this. I was the Queen of Bitch during my teen years. I realize this and recognize this and being their mom, I’m allowed to say it. But please refrain from expounding on that idea in emails or comments. No matter what they do or say, they are my children and I love them with a fierce passion that will cause me to cut you if you attack them with your words. Personal stories of how YOU were an asshole are fine, though. And, please feel free to send love and candy! I like candy. And yarn. And tiny dogs.

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Less Time Thinking and More Time Doing

I want to do something and I want to do it well. I need something, anything, to fill this hole in my heart a mile wide.

Excuse me while I wax slightly melodramatic. I’ve spent years of my life with one purpose, my only purpose, a sole purpose, to now find that it’s not needed in the slightest. I am, in fact, unnecessary. Can you imagine? Spending years of your life believing one thing and working towards something with every fiber of your being in every way that you possibly could? To believe something as a solid truth only to find out that you were completely wrong?

I’m crushed. I’m saddened beyond belief. I do not, in fact, even know the words to express my pain. I’m screaming with my hand over my mouth. If only you could hear me! If you were in my head you’d know. You’d feel the reverberations so deep, your bone marrow would vibrate. The tune hasn’t been written, but only touched upon by the dark and soulfullest strains of the blues song you’ve never heard, barely skimming with its tawny, skinny finger along your cheek.

Ah, yes, you think. There she goes again. Going on about the kids and her feelings and the dreadful inadequacy of it all. Believe me when I tell you this is different. At least for me it is. For you, you could be entirely correct. If that is the case, feel free to spend your time accordingly and move on to the next reading spot of your choice.

My husband is going through one of the hardest moments of his life thus far. I support him and love him the same as always and even more because of his deep sadness and fear. He keeps his feelings reigned in, on my behalf, I suppose. He cries by himself, afraid that I’ll come apart at the seams if he isn’t strong and all put together. It hurts me. Oh, how it hurts me to hold him and have him keep his sobs silently inside, with only his shoulders heaving slightly, a smile on his face when we pull away and barely a tear in his eye. Careful not to get any of his sadness on his wife whom he thinks couldn’t handle it. He didn’t ask me if I could take a little of it for him, rest it on my back like a mantle for a bit and give him reprieve. He doesn’t dare. He knows what he knows and he has his tight-knit family for the sad-sharing. They know each other. They take care of each other. I’m glad they do. I’m glad he isn’t worried about how I feel. All their energies have much more important things to do at this moment and I support that 100%. Even more, if it were possible. Even more, if he would let me in. In the meantime, I’ll have to do with the cursory reports of progress.

There is a natural and opposite reaction to every action. The counterpoint for his is mine, namely, my kids. But, really, who’s to say which came first? Perhaps I met him like this. As much as he won’t allow me into his family, I don’t allow him into mine. He can forge relationships with all of the children that will let them, which by my estimation is roughly 2.75 of them collectively. I can try to nurture his attempts but on the outset, it’s his journey, as I have remained a neutral party for my children’s benefit. I’ve been a safe harbor for them to come to at any moment, including a disagreement or confusion with him. And I’ve repeatedly told myself that this was oh-so-very necessary. A duty of love from their mother. My never-ending job, to be there always and unfailingly for them, my beautiful offspring. First and foremost, failing nothing.

So odd when your perception shifts. You’re looking through the lens in one direction and then suddenly you’re off balance and falling to the floor on one ear. The way you’ve seen things suddenly turned 90 degrees and the first thought to your head is – Of course! Why haven’t I seen things this way the whole time? Why didn’t I know this – this – thing? Why? Am I daft?

My children don’t need me. They don’t need me in the way I’ve been projecting for ages to myself and to the world. In fact, they have a mother and a fine one at that. My ex and his wife are entirely the perfect parents. It could be completely true that I need them far more than the other way round. Because without them, who am I? But, without me? They are still themselves in a complete family unit lacking nothing. I, on the other hand, am only part of a half of a relationship where deep feelings are kept to the person who feels them. I can’t say a solid half because no one sees me that way, let alone myself. So, only a part I remain.

I’ve been so stubborn and self-centered. I haven’t listened when they’ve tried to tell me. They are happy the way things are! I’ve been supposing that I had things to offer, things that could be had no where else but I was deluding myself. One of them was finally brave enough to tell me how they all felt.

Oh, the planning I’ve taken. The silly and thorough planning. Working the entire day around one of them popping in for less than five minutes. The miles I’ve traversed to see an hour of a football game or pass off a book left behind. All because I thought in some way I was important in their lives. Well, to be fair, I am important as much as a beloved aunt or friend of the family can be. Just not in the way I thought I was: a Mother.

I think of my attempts at being their mom as so sad. I’m embarrassed. How awkward for them, to have to pretend I was doing somewhat of a good job at it. There were clues along the way. Their reluctance at putting personal items in their rooms here. Their indifference at whether I’m in attendance at a school or sports activity. I thought it might be a way of protecting their feelings. But I was wrong. It was the reality of the situation I was afraid to look at. And now, the Universe has cracked a bit and the sound is hurting my head.

Do I sound bitter? I suppose I am. But not at them. Really, they’ve done the best they could with what they had. When you go through years of hearing that someone is a mental case, it’s hard to see them as anything but. They’ve managed to become a family with close ties to their father and their step-mom, which is so much better for them than the opposite. I suppose I’m just nursing my wounds at being on the outside again and wishing I were on the inside for once with my kids. A family where I’m the mom and they are my children.

At some point I’ll have to figure out what’s next. What is the next step? Certainly less time thinking and more time doing is the order of the day. I want to do something and I want to do it well. I need something, anything, to fill this hole in my heart a mile wide.

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The Crushing

“Seven years, Mom! Seven Years! You just haven’t been around. I can’t count on you! I like things the way they are! You can’t just expect me to change at the drop of a hat!”

“Wait a minute. Seven years? How do you get that number? Your dad and I divorced in 2002 while I was in a MENTAL HOSPITAL! I was out of state a total of eight months! And your dad is the one that moved you to a place that I couldn’t afford to live and where I knew no one and couldn’t find a job. Yes, it took me a couple of years to move here. But that doesn’t equal seven years. I don’t think you’re being fair!”

“It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter if it was Dad’s fault or your fault. I don’t care if the reason is because he told you not to come and live here or you couldn’t find a job! The end result is that you haven’t been around! So, don’t just all of a sudden decide to change everything around! You call that stability?”

“All I’m asking for is for you to stay over an equal amount of nights during the summer. If it doesn’t work out, then when school starts again, we’ll change it back. That isn’t unstable! That’s an opportunity!”

“I don’t want things to change! I like it how it is! I stay mostly with my dad. He’s the one that makes sure we have cars and money and whatever else we need. You’re my mommy! You’re my best friend. I tell you everything and I know you’ll just love me and accept me. I don’t want you to start telling me what I can and can’t do! I don’t need another mom. I already have one! I want you to stay my best friend.”

“Your best friend that never gets to be your mom because you don’t want me to be that for you? You know, we have cars. We have your room upstairs. We have food and everything your dad has. For the past few years I’ve lived close enough to be a real mom to you but you haven’t let me. From the minute I got out of the hospital, my whole life has been about getting to this place! This spot! Living close enough to you to really be a mom to you. You have no idea what I’ve gone through to get here! And now, just like that, you tell me you don’t want what I have to offer?”

“I do want what you have to offer. I just want you to be my best friend like you have been. Don’t change anything. Please! What difference does it make?”

“You know, while we lived 12 miles away, I could kind of understand because it took about 15 minutes to drive from house to house. But now, we’re just a few blocks away. And it’s like it hasn’t changed anything. It doesn’t matter how close I live, does it? Now I get it. The real truth is that you just don’t want me to be your mom. I never would have guessed that. I was so focused on getting to do all the mom stuff like fixing you breakfast and helping you with your homework and doing your laundry. You know, taking care of you.”

“Mom, no. I want you to be my mommy. The way it’s always been. Just be that. Don’t change anything. Please.”

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Ask Leahpeah

From my email:

Hi Leah. I have a daughter that is 9 and a son that is 7. They are beautiful and smart. In fact, that is why I’m writing you. They are so smart that I think they are catching on. I can’t always make sure I am the safe adult parent when they are around. Not that any of my personalities are mean or harmful. If that was true, I would have given them up a long time ago. It’s just that some of my personalities are not as helpful for kids or able to take care of them as well, if you know what I mean. And I’m pretty sure my daughter has figured out that I’m not normal. And I’m sure that my son won’t be far behind. How did you handle this? I know you are integrated now but what about before? Should I tell them the truth? I worry it will just scare them or confuse them but I don’t want to lie to them, either. My mom used to help out but she died last year and I don’t have anyone else to help take care of them. My husband left me right after our son was born. Thanks.

Hey there. I’m sorry you are in the situation of taking care of your kids all by yourself. Do you belong to a church group or have any good friends that understand your situation? Or siblings? Their father’s family? Or can you get connected to some group through your therapist (if you’re seeing one, and I hope you are) that offers low-cost care for kids? I ask because if you don’t have any help, then you are potentially not taking the best care of your kids.

When you say that you don’t have any harmful personalities where the kids are concerned, I think I do know what you mean. None of mine were angry or hurtful towards children, either. But on the other hand, there were a few years when my kids had to basically take care of themselves for hours or days at a time when some of my other personalities were in charge, which is really neglect and shouldn’t be happening. I’m positive that you are doing everything you can possibly do to take good care of them. I’m positive that you are doing the best you can. But please consider finding outside help that is supportive of your situation. Because even though it’s hard to trust others with inside knowledge of your situation, your kids are worth it. And you need it, too.

Kids are way smarter than most adults give them credit for. If you suspect that your daughter knows you aren’t ‘normal’ then I would guess that you are right. It’s a hard situation to figure out how much information is the right amount but yes, probably she needs some. And she can let you know how much she needs if you let her take the lead. One way to do that is to use a modified version of play therapy. I used play therapy with my two older kids when they were old enough to wonder what was going on. We acted out our life using dolls and stuffed animals. My husband traveled extensively (we were in the military) and the kids let me know in play how they were feeling and I helped them know that I heard them in the same way. It might be odd at first if you aren’t used to using play time as therapy but if you keep at it, it can be really healing. This page has some info on how it can help. And this page and has some helpful info with some tips. Here are some books you could look for at your library.

I’m glad you asked this question because it means you are thinking about how you are affecting your children. And even ‘normal’ (have I mentioned I hate that word? 🙂 ) parents affect their kids in ways they wish they didn’t. Parents can’t help it. We set examples in every department by what we do and don’t do. Your kids are watching you and evaluating and setting their gauges about what is right and not right and what they will accept and won’t accept by how you treat them and how you let others treat you. So it would make perfect sense that they would want to understand why you seem to be so different at different times and why sometimes you are seriously invested in their well being and why other times you seem to hardly care at all and they have to fix their own dinner. It might feel monumental to them that when they fall and skin their knee, sometimes you kiss and cuddle and give the love only mothers can but other times send them to get their own bandage.

I should interject a side note here, that not knowing anything about how your internal structure is set up, I don’t know if all your personalities cooperate or not. If not, I would say it’s time to take that into serious consideration. The more you all work together, the better for the kids. If you do work together, it’s possible to make agreements with everyone on the inside to put the kids first. That might mean that if someone else is out and one of the kids gets hurt, they invite you, the mom personality, back out immediately until things are under control again. Alternately, you could get agreements that whenever the kids are with you, that you are out, period. I also understand that could create resentments between your selves, but hopefully, you can figure out the best way to do things with your therapist. If you don’t currently see one, I would suggest finding one and soon.

The way I spoke about my situation during play therapy with my kids when they were those ages was something like this: “I know that sometimes Mommy seems different. Sometimes she seems to pay attention to you better and sometimes she doesn’t. That’s not fair! You are important and special and deserve to have Mommy always care about you more than TV or sleeping or anything! I think there is something going on in Mommy’s brain that makes it so she can’t be like so-and-so’s mommy. So I’m going to tell you the magic words that you can say that will always make Mommy stop acting so different right away. Ok? Here they are! These are the magic words: Mommy! I need you to look at me right now and love me right now! and when you say that her brain will work better and she’ll stop painting or reading or sleeping, OK? Now, try out the magic words!”

Variations on that theme worked well. Understand that I did have an agreement, though, so it was a serious promise I was making with my kids. It helped them feel empowered but it only worked because my personalities were all bound to comply and did. Because it created an environment where they could tell me how they felt, using the dolls and stuffed animals, I got to hear all about hurts and pains they had been saving up for their Mommy when she had been ‘gone away’ or ‘busy with her paints’ or whatever it was they told themselves, and there were many hurts and pains to talk about and relive and go over. But I do think it made a tremendous impact on the quality of my relationships with them which I benefit from today. It opened a dialog with them that continues and I’m sometimes amazed at the things they are comfortable talking about with me, because I never would have talked to anyone in my family, let alone my parents, like they do with me. I’m very lucky.

Remember that while in play therapy mode, it’s important for them to not ever be ashamed of what they say or do. And believe me, there are moments when you’ll want to sink into the floor or become defensive or run from the room. But in order for them to truly heal and connect and understand, you HAVE to be open and honest and make room for them to tell you just how angry or scared and let down they feel. And it is your job to validate every, single, solitary thing they say they feel. Feelings can’t ever be wrong. It’s the action, after the feeling, in a harmful or un-nurturing vein that needs to be stopped and redirected. But the feelings – they are always just feelings and should be validated. It is in this way that you teach them to trust in their instincts and to listen to their gut and to learn to take good care of themselves while creating healthy boundaries. The worst thing you can do is invalidate their feelings by saying, ‘No, mommy didn’t do that or say that. You’re wrong.’ because that is teaching them to NOT trust in their feelings. Even if you disagree with what they are saying because you know it didn’t happen that way, save that talk for another time. In that moment, tell them, ‘I’m sorry you felt so scared and mad. That sounds really hard!’ Later, when you are out of play therapy mode, ask them if they want to talk about it. If they say yes, try to explain what you remember happening. If they still insist it happened different, it may be that you both experienced it a different way. Our recollections, or memories, are easily swayed by all kinds of factors and you could both be right, as odd as at that sounds.

A great example of memory being tricky is that one of my sons distinctly remembers that when he met my husband, Joe had very long hair. Ty was 9 at the time. The fact is that Joe had cut his hair to a very short length before I or my children met him but his driver’s license photo shows him with very long hair. When Ty saw that photo way back when, it somehow ingrained in his memory that Joe had long hair and he still thinks to this day that Joe’s hair was long when they met. Another example is pretty much any family gathering I ever went to. I have 7 siblings and you sometimes get 8 different accounts when talking over things that happened a few years ago. Throw in my parents and a few nieces and nephews and you’d be hard pressed to find 3 or 4 accounts that match in their entirety. So, who’s wrong? The important things are the feelings behind the memories. Sometimes, the time is better spent talking about those than the facts of the accounts.

It’s a big job, taking care of kids, even when you have a partner to lean on in the hard times. By yourself it becomes much harder and when you add in the mental issues it grows exponentially more difficult. I would say it is next to impossible for you in your current situation to give yourself or them the care you all need all of the time. Please look at this as part of your job as their mother. Whatever you need to do, whomever you need to talk to, whatever agencies you need to go through, do it to find the help you need. And how awesome that you care enough to think about this problem and figure it out! Kudos to you. Your children are lucky.
xo

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Different Than I Thought

Published in True Mom Confessions, Berkley Trade, 2009

No one expects to get divorced when they get married. We were no different. My first husband and I were determined to make it work and we fought it out for almost 14 years. We would tell each other, ‘We can do this! We’ll figure it out because we are strong enough to make it work!’ When we finally reached that breaking point, there was nothing I wanted more than for him to marry someone that would love him and my kids. We ended as some sort of odd friends with a long and varied past and had the best in mind for each other. Although, for him, he probably thought the best would never happen for me based on my mental health issues. Thankfully, he was wrong. And I know at this point he’s happy he was wrong.

I wanted his new wife, because there was no question that he would be getting married right away, to really, really, REALLY love them and be there for them. I wanted my kids to feel like she was their other real mom. To trust her. To love her. And maybe that was odd because in a way, it could be looked at as if she was replacing me. But for them to be in a real family would be the best thing for them. For them to have anything less might in many ways be detrimental and there was never a moment when I wished for that. I remember the first time I met who he was going to marry, I went up to hug her because the kids genuinely seemed to like and appreciate her and they were happy and that made me happy. It wasn’t until she didn’t really hug me back, but instead seemed uncomfortable, that I realized the way I was thinking might be different than the other two in our odd adult triangle. But I never stopped hoping that we could be friends and work together on behalf of the kids.

Over the past few years, their step-mom has been everything I wished and hoped for. We might not be best friends, and that is most likely a much more healthy relationship that I originally imagined, but we are always more than civil and most of the time slightly warm. And the kids think of her as their mom. They call us both Mom interchangeably and within the same breath. To them, they are safe in their relationship with both of us and have no reason to differentiate with a Step here or a Bio there unless there is someone else in the conversation that really doesn’t get it and is wallowing in confusion. Then you might hear one of them backing up a bit to explain who is who. Maybe. But it’s just as likely they won’t take the time to explain and figure it is that person’s problem if they don’t get it.

And oddly, there is nothing that I’m prouder of. And oddly still, there is nothing that pierces my heart quite like hearing them call her Mom. It’s a strange revealing moment to be feeling discomfort and then in a shocked second remember that it’s something you wished for. Because on some level, I am still vain and would like to be irreplaceable. I’d like to be the only Mom in their life and have them depend on me for all of their Mom needs. And she could be there, doing a really fine job of being a Step-Mom, but I would be the REAL Mom. This is the fantasy that rides through my brain from time to time. But sadly, it isn’t reality. And thankfully, it isn’t reality. Because being safe on all sides is what is best for them. And I’m happy they call her Mom even when my heart occasionally bleeds a bit on the inside where they can’t see. Maybe hers does, too.

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Ask Leahpeah

Question from the comments:

Hi Leah,

This isn’t about knitting, actually. My name is Caitlin and I’ve been reading your site for the past few months. Sorry for lurking, I just never know how to say hi. Hi! Probably just like that. I have not experienced multiple personalities but I have experienced a lot of what you describe in your archives, which I hope you don’t mind that I read. It helps so much to know that there are people out there with lives that are just fine who suffer in some of the same ways I do. I have always been fascinated by your blog tagline: “Flawed but authentic.” One of the things I find most beautiful in your writing is that you do try do embrace flaws as human. And you certainly seem to be striving each day towards an authentic life. Here’s my question: How do you do that??? 😉

I suffer from depression and anxiety disorders and am learning that there may be a large part of my childhood that I have blocked from memory. My biggest struggle is trying to be authentic. With mental illness, how can you even find you self in there to be authentic to? If you have the time, any advice would mean the world to me.

Thank you for you writing, compassion, and beauty.

Hey Caitlin,

The archives are there for the reading. Please feel free to help yourself. I don’t think I feel comfortable answering your question as an authority of authentic-ness since I’m just barely getting by these days. Seriously, I just keep getting up every day and trying my best. I do, however, have some really awesome readers that are super authentic despite depression, illness and sometimes mental disorders. I’m hoping some of them won’t mind chiming in with any tips.

Take good care of yourself.
xo

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Magical Disappearing Cervix

Everything tastes off. My sore throat went from being vaguely hurty the past few months to being an actual genuine owie.

You’ll be happy to hear that my pap smear is over for another year. I hear your cheering. I won’t mention that my cervix was hard to find. I have a magic disappearing cervix that pops in and out of sight. Hello! I’m your cervix and now I’m over here! I can’t remember this ever being a problem before. I also won’t mention that she had to take out, insert and crrrrrank open the speculum FOUR times to find it. I mean, why mention that? It might make you uncomfortable.

Beyond the pap, my physical included a tippytap on the cleavage side of each breasts not lasting longer the .4 seconds, a visual peering moment at my neck and the question ‘Are you regular?’ I asked her ‘Do you mean pooping?’ No reflexes. No breathing deep. No looking for swelling around my ankles. No groping to find lumps in my breasts. Not even a tickle. No looking in my throat or actually, you know, touching it. Or in my ears. No asking how I feel. Because she knows. She read my lab results so she already knows that I’m fine. Even if I’m not, she knows I am. I’ve decided she must have super powers. She can see inside my body with her ultrasonic vision and hear my heart with her supersonic hearing. When I asked ‘So, that’s it? That’s the physical?’ She laughed and did a soft-shoe out the exam room door. Ya-cha-cha-cha-cha.

From her complete and thorough looking at my neck, she decided I no longer needed an ultrasound on my thyroid. I mean, she totally looked at it for like 2 seconds. With her eyes because you look with your eyes, stupid, not your hands. I asked her if I could get one anyway, since I actually used my fingers to touch my neck and it has been sore for so long and she said, ‘No. You don’t need one. Last week’s blood tests showed you are back within range. You’re good.’

Well, thanks! Awesome! I’m .2 within the top part of the range and so I’m good. I then told her I’d like a referral to an endocrinologist to which she frowned and looked doubtful. I did my best, listing off all my siblings and my extended family history in an effort to help her understand that I REALLY WANT TO GO TO SOMEONE ELSE. She nodded, pretended to listen, jotted down ‘family history thyroid’ on my chart, um-hummed a few times, checked her watch and said, ‘I’ll request it and see if you qualify for one. Don’t get your hopes up.’

She’s my favorite. With or without her referral, I’m going to someone else. It’s just that ‘with’ we still get to eat food. Not being able to afford food – not so fun.

Screw republican, democrat, independent, black, white, female, male or vegetable. I’m voting for the person with the strongest medical reform in their platform.

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ABCs

Oh, I’m learning so much. For one thing, when you go in to get your blood drawn, make sure that the person that is about to remove 5 vials is an expert blood retriever and not someone new. I am not a good practice person with lots of available blood just teeming to the surface. I am a person with very hidden veins that are deep and roll within my arms. This rolling and deepness is something I’ve known for years. I tell people this on the onset and warn them that I’ve broken perfect stick records before and so don’t feel bad if you don’t get it right the first time. I think the record number of sticks is 8 before switching arms. Yes, that was a beautiful bruise. What I didn’t know, was that if someone says to a fellow lab tech, ‘Hey – you should do this one.’ that they are really speaking in code for ‘This lady has really deep and rolling veins. You should use her arm for a practice dart board.’ I assumed, and that was my problem, that they were getting someone MORE experienced than them to save me pain and green bruising. Sadly, no.

I have an ultrasound next week to check my neck for nodules attached to and near my thyroid. Super fun. My throat has been sore for so long I can’t even remember when it started. And it’s larger than it should be. And bonus, I get a pap smear on Tuesday. You can’t have more fun than that. That appointment is with the nice lady. You know, the one that yelled at me? Looking forward to it. But, I am going to take all y’alls advice and write a list before I go in along with an excel sheet I started that has my blood results from a year ago and little boxes to write the new ones and the next ones and the next ones. I love shit like that. It makes me feel organized. And if she is mean again? I’m going to find a new doctor. But I’m probably getting referred to an endocrinologist anyway, so I don’t know if I’ll need to.

Finding people that have walked this walk is kind of a quest right now. In every situation I go into, the more information I can find out about it before hand, the better. It’s how I find safety and peace. One of my best friends from childhood had cancer in her thyroid and had it removed two years ago. I called her and it was fun catching up, but it was really great to hear how she manages her care. She’s the head coach for a Colorado college girl’s basketball team, so she’s got to keep her energy up. Knowing she’s made it work gives me hope.

I also called all my siblings and my parents. All 9 of them. And jotted down everyone’s medical history as it pertains to me. It was pretty enlightening to find out that all 4 of my sisters have thyroid issues but only one is on medication because her levels were the only ones that finally went out of the ‘normal’ range. The one sister that does take meds takes Armour instead of the synthetic one because osteoporosis runs in my family and the synthetic hormone is supposed to increase your bone loss quite a bit.* My sister that is 44 has the bone density of an 80 year old women, if that gives you an idea. My mom was at one point diagnosed with Grave’s disease, but she rejected it because she thought she could get well by eating right. And one brother has Chronic Fatigue, which in my opinion is really just a thyroid issue. So, there you go.

On the net, I’ve really enjoyed reading both Queen of Spain and Radioactive Girl. Also, Jonniker has been quite enlightening. And all of you that have taken time to comment or email me support, THANK YOU so much. I’ve slept a lot and cried a lot but I do feel your support and it’s made it a bit easier. I’m really struck by how much the physical has effected the mental in my body. It’s something I’m slowly getting to understand and I think I might have some research and a book in me about it.

I’ve read a few books over the past few days and would recommend What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Hypothyroidism by Ken Blanchard. The forward is by Mary Shomon whose book Living Well with Hypothyroidism is also great.

*Those for synthetics and those for natural are quite vehement. I don’t think I’ve quite figured out the truth yet. And the truth might just be that some do better on one thing and some do better on something else.

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Thyroid Things

A year or so ago I had a bunch of tests run and they found that my thyroid wasn’t working that great, but it wasn’t working that bad, either. Also, my heart and lung were having serious issues, so my thyroid took a bit of a back burner.

Fast forward to now. Since my endocrine system sucks, the news isn’t that big of a surprise. My blood panel shows that my thyroid is barely functioning (Hypothyroidism) and I have a very large amount of calcium in my blood (Parathyroid Disease). Both conditions cause things like feeling anxious, loss of energy, depression, not being able to concentrate, headaches. My doctor, (the one that got mad at me and then kicked me out of her office) prescribed Levothyroxine. During the 30 seconds that I spoke to her, she told me the diagnosis, that she wants to recheck the calcium in two weeks before doing anything about it and that she was prescribing me a drug for my thyroid. When I started to ask questions, she told me to talk to my pharmacist, since that is his job. Then she hung up.

When I went to pick up my prescription, I asked for the pharmacist and asked him about the drug and what alternatives there were and if there was anything natural that could take the place of it. He smiled, winked and said, ‘This is the stuff you want to take.’ Then he walked away.

I realize that our medical system is messed up. But isn’t it pretty sad that neither one of them have time to answer any questions? And since I don’t have much of a choice of who I go to, I feel stuck. Where are people supposed to go that want more information? I can research on the internet just like the next person, but it would be nice to talk to real, live humans. I’ve never been one to just ‘take their word for it’ so I’m a little torn on starting a medication that I know next to nothing about and that once started, should be taken the rest of my life. On the other hand, what choice do I have?

Online I’ve learned that Parathyroid Disease is more intense in that I might need a surgery to correct the issue. I’m glad she wants to recheck my blood before moving ahead with that, but would it have killed her to say that to me? Also, neither of them mentioned that soy inhibits the absorption of the medication and that I shouldn’t be drinking/eating it. Or that antidepressants, the ones that she didn’t want to prescribe me that someone else is supposed to, screws around with absorption as well and it’s suggested that they shouldn’t be taken together. But, hopefully, with my thyroid getting fixed, I won’t need anti depressants anyway. And does this mean I need to find a multivitamin without calcium for the time being?

So many questions, so few people to answer them.