Hey, internets.  I’ve missed you.  Being without any kind of connection to this part of my life was difficult, to say the least.  I did a ton of writing while I was on “vacation” but I had to do it by hand.  Man, has my handwriting deteriorated.  I could barely read it and my hand kept cramping up whenever I wrote for too long.  I would have sold my soul for a computer while I was gone.

When I finally reconnected today, I had 283 messages, a ton of voice mails, and 12 orders to process.  Thankfully I was able to do a lot of yoga breathing and only freaked out when I realized Mike had tried to “fix” the wireless and actually ended up connecting it incorrectly.  It took about an hour and a phone call to Verizon, but I’m online again and halfway caught up. 

This post is not going to be pretty.  I’ve spent a lot of time deciding whether I was going to write about where I’ve been since Wednesday, and in the end, I’m doing what I always do.  I’m accepting who I am and where I’ve been and if you want to ride this train with me, there will be ups and downs.  I went through, and am currently going through, the lowest point of my life, hands-down.  The blogs I read are other writers who can be honest and raw and brutal with their lives. It appeals to me, and has helped me immensely when I’ve gone through my own trials and tribulations as a wife, a woman, a mother, a daughter, a business owner, a friend, and a writer.  I wear a lot of hats - and this hat I’m wearing right now is not something to be ashamed off.  So much stigma surrounds mental health and depression.  Here, within the confines of the borders on my blog, I’m creating a bubble where it is perfectly safe to discuss what I’ve been through.  If a future employer or random person from my past stumbles on this post and thinks, “Holy batshit this girl is crazy!” then so be it. 

Wednesday was, um, a pretty bad day for me.  Some of my friends who know where I’ve been have asked what happened.  To the best of my ability to explain how this happened, these are the factors that lead up to Wednesday:

1.  I hadn’t been sleeping well in about 4 weeks (averaging 3-5 hours a night)
2.  I had separated from my husband and was going back and forth between two houses, all the while trying to keep up with the normal household duties I have. 
3.  I had a lot of stress and despair over a couple of relationships in my life and I was hurting pretty badly. 
4.  I was trying to pretend to EVERYONE, even my closest friends, that all was a-okay and I was fine and strong and clear.  With the exception of one person (hi Susan!), I didn’t let anyone know how hellishly bad I was feeling.
5.  Wearing a mask 24/7 takes a lot out of person.
6.  I was expending energy on things that weren’t giving any energy back to me.  Think black hole. 
7.  I wasn’t eating very much.
8.  I was trying to figure out my financial future, and it looked very grim. 

So back to Wednesday.  I had a realtor come to the house and give me a comparative market analysis on our house.  She looked grim when I came to the door, so I knew it wasn’t going to be good.  Because she is a friend of mine, she told me she cut commissions to the core (1.5%) and still had no good news.  We bought our house at the peak of the market and proceeded to renovate and redo a bunch of stuff.  We still had an equity line from our old house that we rolled over.  The short version of the long story is that we are upside down on our mortgage.  The house is worth $100K less today than it was when we bought it.  Yay us! 

Some other factors on Wednesday that will remain private happened right after the enlightening discussion with the realtor.  I literally felt like that last vestige of hope I had was stripped away.  I was thinking that if Mike and I stayed separated, we could sell the house and both of us would end up with a small nest egg and we could start over.  Even if we stayed together, I wanted to get rid of this house - it’s come to represent a lot of things that I feel are wrong and fake about my life.  I’m not stupid enough to think that it’s the house’s fault - it’s just brick and mortar and light fixtures - but it’s symbolic. 

I held it together while I picked up Lily from the bus. I smiled and waved and did my Robo-Mom impression.  I made snacks and got juice out of the fridge.  I changed a load of laundry and folded some.  I even ironed.  Then I just felt everything fall apart.  I literally stood up from the ironing board and felt as though my insides were falling out.  I sent the girls downstairs and put on the electronic babysitter (tv).  I started crying.  I called Mike at work.  I told him to come home, that I couldn’t take care of the kids.  I went upstairs and I got in bed.  I had my second panic attack in two weeks.  My heart was pounding, my face was tingling, and I couldn’t breathe.  By the time Mike got home, I had totally lost it.  I couldn’t form a sentence and I was trying to call my therapist and talk to him at the same time.  Somewhere in those two conversations, the therapist suggested going to St. Mary’s since they have a mental health unit.  We dropped the kids with a neighbor, called my parents to come up, and left for the hospital. 

Thankfully I have a few good friends in Richmond. I was able to text them on the way to the hospital and all of them immediately went into action mode, sending emails, canceling things, helping me with my website, telling me not to worry, sending love, just virtually holding my hand. 

I find myself unable to really talk about St. Mary’s and the time I spent there.  It truly was the darkest time of my life.  When one of the docs asked me if I was suicidal, I think I responded something to the effect of ‘No, but I don’t want to be here in this body anymore.  I can’t take one more piece of bad news.  I thought I was strong but I think I’ve broken and I don’t know how to survive this.” 

During a blood draw, I passed out and had some sort of seizure and kicked over a table and bumped my head.  When I came to, I was only conscious for another minute before I passed out again.  When I woke up the second time, I was in a bed and I was literally sweating ice.  I was shivering and nauseous and panicking because I had no idea where I was.  There were no beds available for me at St. Mary’s, so I was transferred elsewhere.  By the time I got through intake and was screened and searched by a nurse, it was 4 am. 

Thursday was a haze.  I looked like a b-grade zombie actor trying to function.  I kept thinking I was going to wake up from my nightmare.  When I realized I wasn’t allowed to have hairspray in my room (I might hurt myself with the aerosol nozzle), I knew where I was and the reality hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was ashamed, embarrassed, scared as hell, needy, isolated - you name it.  Unfortunately the first person I came into contact with was not very affectionately nicknamed “Bible Lady” on the ward - she got messages from God in her ears and by laying on floors and predicted things like the Lions winning the Superbowl this year based on God’s word.  She also said I was going to end up married to another guy on the ward and that another guy was going to become a professional boxer and be trained by George Foreman.  My first experience was waiting in line for vital signs while she sang “Amazing Grace” at full volume.  This was at 6 AM, and I had no caffeine in my system.  I thought that if I wasn’t crazy before, any more time around her would make it so. 

Then I met a couple of other people who made a huge difference in my stay.  I attended every group session, every group meeting, every activity, and I wrote like my hand was on fire.  I wrote letters to my daughters. I wrote one to Mike.  I wrote one to a close friend of mine.  I wrote to myself.  I forced myself to talk to people.  My medication, which had been at a literal pediatric dose, was doubled.  I learned ways to manage my panic and anxiety attacks.  And while I was there, I realized I was about to lose another friend in this whole process.  I could feel it coming, and I used some of my time there to deal with the sadness I felt.  Some people in my life can hang with me right now and just comfort me by being there.  Others can’t, and I respect the honesty it takes to admit that I am too much for them to handle.  At least I have no illusions about where I stand, and clarity is half the battle.

I got a chance to sleep a little bit.  When I met Chris and Amanda, both suffering from severe depression and some other stuff, I had my unit buddies.  We ate together.  I learned how to play Spades.  I had long conversations with Chris about what it’s like to raise kids alone (he’s only 29, and his wife died 4 years ago).  Amanda and I talked about our children and we shared the stories of how we ended up together.  We were an unlikely bunch from various backgrounds, but Chris said, “Hey, just because we’re in here doesn’t mean we’re crazy.”  That single statement sustained me.  I was there to get better for my children. I was there to learn how to cope better.  I was going to have to make some painful cuts in my life, and I needed to build up as much strength as possible in order to do so. 

People who give up and off themselves are the biggest cowards alive.  It’s such a cop out and it leaves the rest of the world to pick up your mess and your pieces.  I knew that I was hitting the wall, and I knew that I had to take drastic steps to get better. 

I will be honest and say that coming home today has been hard.  Dealing with the pile of work on my desk, a friend breaking plans with me, seeing how Mike looks, being hugged by my children and feeling the guilt of being gone wash over me - it was all a bit much.  I used some of the tools I learned in the hospital but I’m taking it minute by minute.  As usual, a bunch of people stepped up today and are there for me.  I’m having coffee with TCG, Bradley said I inspired him to do something major, and Dan has been listening to my litany for weeks now.  I made a difference to Chris and Amanda in the hospital, especially when Amanda got some bad news.  I made people laugh, which makes me feel better.  I realized what a great mom I was and how much better I could be if I only would focus.  I told myself the rest would work out, and it surely will. It’s just never the way you think it’s supposed to.

So that’s where I’ve been.  Can’t wait to take a shower and shave.  I look like Chewbacca, but the idea of shaving in front of a nurse held no appeal for me.  I’m mostly glad to be back. You can only hide out in the ward for so long before you try out the new legs you’ve grown while inside, and take the first few steps. 

First, the good news and the easy news.  I’m down 31 pounds - broke my first MAJOR milestone.  I’d like to lose another 15, but at least I can live with myself now.  I also got a haircut today. I desperately needed one - it’s been since June.

Second, the not good and not easy news.  Richmond’s a very small town, and some membes of my family have very large mouths.  That’s okay, we’re a bunch of height-challenged emotional Mexicans - what can you expect?

(Note to my mother:  Stop reading here.  Seriously.  Close the browser and step away from the computer.)

(takes break to allow mother time to stop reading)

Okay.  Blogging is a weird thing.  You develop an online persona, but it’s never truly who you are.  With blogging you choose what and when to expose, and you can make things look pretty or ugly depending on the way you shine your literary light.  During coffee with The Checkout Girl earlier this week, we were discussing the dreaded Mommy Blog and how someone she knew who was fairly famous was going through a divorce.  Unfortunately this person makes money giving parenting advice, so she was feeling like her life was over.  Or something like that.  We were talking about how refreshing it would be if people would just come clean about their realities.  If you’re divorcing, just say it.  No one expects us to be perfect.  Well, maybe some do, but we can just ignore those people.

Because I have had such trauma in my head over the past few months, and because I have to self-censor here to protect the innocent, I’ve been really feeling neglectful of this blog.  I’m holding up a Photoshopped version of my life right now because that is what is expected of me and that is what certain others are comfortable with. 

Again, if you are becoming uncomfortable, stop reading and go to your happy place.

Obviously I am not going to discuss the deep and dark specifics of my issues.  This isn’t because I’m embarassed of them, but it’s because my drama involves someone else (my husband) and I can’t tell those stories.  For every inch that I am open, he is a closed door. 

That being said, I’m just going to cut down on the speculative emails I’ve been getting today and say that yes, Mike and I have separated.  It is not a bad thing. It is not a negative thing. It does not mean we are getting the big D. It means that he and I have some stuff to work on individually, and we are both working very hard on that.  The space gives us the chance to do that without feeling like we are walking on eggshells all the time.  It allows us to both focus all available energies on our children, and that’s really the most important thing right now. 

Marital problems are a big no-no in our family.  That doesn’t mean our family has none, it just means that they aren’t discussed and no one divorces.  Stay married and be miserable, dammit!  That’s just how we roll.  Even though most of us are non-practicing Catholics, Catholicism has a way of seeping into your bones at a young age.  It’s hard to forget those lessons beaten into us during our tender years. 

I’ve just found that I’m already so very tired of being asked, “Does so and so know?  Oh my god, what about the holidays??? Who will go where?  And so and so wants to come up, whatever shall we tell her,” complete with hand-wringing.  It just seems so much easier to tell my family and friends:  yes, we are separated, no we are not getting a divorce tomorow, yes the kids are fine, no we don’t hate each other, and let it go at that.  It is private, between Mike and me - but I’m not going to pretend the reality of the situation does not exist.  Is it serious?  Yes.  Is it sad?  Yes.  Are we surviving?  Yes. 

The great thing about my husband (and myself - hell, I might as well give myself some kudos while I’m writing this):  his primary concern is our children.  We are doing everything we can, at great personal cost, to keep their lives stable and as comfortable and normal as possible.  Although we’re doing it in a fairly non-traditional way, we’re doing what works best for our family as a whole and trying to put our individual needs and wants aside.  Those of you with opinions on the details or the hows or whys will just have to be satisfied knowing that we have discussed everything and are a united front.  We always have been. 

It’s been a simulatenously amazing and sobering experience to realize that some of my friends are going to be there for us and some are not.  People I didn’t think gave two craps about me have come out of the woodwork.  Others that I thought would support me no matter what have not supported me.  In a few cases, my perception tells me that a back has been turned on me.  Family members I thought would be judgmental have shared their own stories with me.  Other family members have freaked out on me.  It’s like living in Bizarro Cristina World where everything is upside down.  I realize that when you admit you are having marital problems, many people with their own panic because it makes them insecure or afraid.  I remember when a close friend told me she was divorcing. I felt personally threatened. I went home and clung to Mike and said, “God I hope that never happens to us.”  Thankfully I was still able to support my friend, even though it scared and saddened me.  Not everyone is able to do that right now, and I am trying to forgive and understand. 

So there you go.  This post negates the need to put unicorns and rainbows up daily, which is good, because all of the graphics I could find were getting progressively more disturbing. 

At the end of the day, this is my blog.  It is my space.  If you are uncomfortable with what I’m sharing, please do yourself a favor and don’t read it.  You can be assured I won’t be sharing any more than this in terms of details, but I will be free, in my own space, to say that I am having a bad day, or that I am doing better, or that I am concerned for myself or for Mike.  Otherwise, this entire blog becomes a big fat lie and a huge waste of my time. 

As per usual, a bunch of #hashbrownnetworkers and twitter geeks descended on Richmond’s Canal Club to support our very own local burlesque show, Richmond Varietease.  I must say Miss Magnolia was in rare form last night (not that she isn’t always in rare form).  Some highlights of the evening: 

1.  Miss Magnolia’s impression of a skanky woman on Cops with only two pink acrylic fingernails and a baby as a drink coaster.
2.  Miss Magnolia’s reverse motorboat on the back of a friend’s head (sitting right next to me). 
3.  Seeing @rvafashionista pick up an apple on stage with her throat only and win some bubble gum for her trouble. 
4.  Sitting next to Laura, and hearing my favorite quote of the night:  “Holly can spend some money on a go-go dancer.”
5.  Having Miss Dolli show us what an “assle” is while performing to an acoustic odd version of “Baby Got Back”.  Note: it’s not a tassle, but it’s close. 
6.  Miss Magnolia’s “Vigantic - my big big love” song at the end of the show.  Un-freakin’-belieavable. 

In all seriousness, I think one of the main reasons I love the show and burlesque in general is that the idea of “bodily perfection” goes right out the window.  Each of the performers are uber-comfy in their skin (obviously), but it’s really remarkable for someone like me to watch it.  Seriously, it would be hard to imagine myself up there unless I looked like Kate Beckinsale (i.e. no cellulite, body fat, stretch marks, moles, scars, etc).  To watch these women perform with the self-confidence they have, not to mention the joy in doing what they want to be doing, it’s really quite inspiring. 

And yes, go ahead and laugh at me for being inspired by a burlesque show.  That’s fine. I can take it. 

Best of all, a good friend of mine met someone last night and love was in the air.  I hope that love continues to flow his way as he certainly deserves it. 

* * * * * * * * *

For those of you who tweeted at me or sent me emails or posted comments on the blog about the therapy post, a big gooey thank you is being sent your way.  My family cringes when I tell “too much” and I get that.  I’ve been on the other side of the fence where so many women who were braver than me wrote publicly about their struggles. I read those struggles and I related.  Those public admissions of trauma or pain or mistakes helped me get right with my own, so I don’t mind sharing in the hopes that it’s doing it for someone out there too.  It’s pay it forward in reverse I guess. 

To answer the questions I got about the therapy post, yes, it helped.  I got lucky since shopping for a therapist has about the same success rate that shopping for jeans has for me - it usually takes multiple tries and a lot of tears and cursing.  I liked her right off the bat, felt entirely comfortable, and spent the entire hour using up a box of Kleenex and snorting my way through a discussion.  She’s razor sharp and asked questions that cut right to the core of all the questions I don’t want to answer, and I respected her for that.  I respected her for not telling me that everything would be okay, or by diminishing the amount of inner turmoil I’m feeling.  She gave me some very specific recommendations of things I could do right away to a.) sleep at night and b.) feel less awful during the day, so I immediately implemented her ideas and began to feel a little better. 

One of the suggestions she gave was very helpful to me and can be used in a lot of situations, so I’m sharing it with you.  I’m an iPhone geek and it’s rarely out of my reach.  A main problem over the past few months is that I wake up frequently and my brain kicks into overdrive.  At night, the thoughts come fast and furious and they eventually spiral down into some ridiculous future that will never happen but depresses me nonetheless.  She suggested that I put together a playlist of music/sounds that relaxes me and to focus entirely on the music.  Now when I wake up, I reach for my phone, plug in the headphones and force my brain to focus on lyrics and bridges and notes instead of the craziness that is my night brain.  So far, so good.  Eventually I might be sleeping through the night again. 

I’ve got some tough decisions to make in the coming weeks.  Thankfully I am graced with amazing friends who tell me things I don’t want to hear, even though I know they are right.  I am sorting through the advice and trying to decide what the best thing for me is at the moment and for the long-term.  I’m slowly coming to grips with the sacrifices I’ve made in the past, and how they affect me today.  I’m also planning for many more sacrifices in the future, but this time I’m going to be well aware of what I’m doing when I walk through that door. 

My first foray into therapy was way back in 1990/1991.  I was at University of Michigan, surrounded by people with PhDs and professional certifications and Birkenstocks.  It seemed natural, almost compulsory, that I end up in therapy while living in Ann Arbor. I was taking a class on Freudian-inspired literature.  I was somewhat morose. I spent more time in coffee houses than bars, and I had lots of dysfunctional relationships.  Bring on the therapy!

I got lucky, though. I ended up with Rachel, and she dutifully listened to my privileged white-girl rants about my life, relationship and parents.  Oh, poor me, living in an apartment paid for by my parents, attending great school on their dime, and taking classes called (I kid you not) “Math for Poets”.  (side note: that class *may* be explanation for my inability to solve simple equations)

In all seriousness, I was involved in very bizarre and long-standing relationship with a guy.  It was fraught with drama, late-night phone calls and lies.  Lots of lies.  Mix in my weight at the time (a hefty 98 pounds) and too much time spent with head in books and you had a girl in need of head-shrinking. 

Those early day of therapy were heady to say the least.  We criss-crossed my childhood, the origins of my food weirdness, and dissected my relationship with aforementioned dude in minute detail.  I told her things I had never even told myself, then analyzed them with her.  I wrote incessantly.  I was journaling an average of 10 pages a day.  The proverbial crap was pouring out of me, and I felt free.  She thought I had clinical depression.  I got free medical treatment at U of M’s hospital and began my long love affair with Zoloft sometime in 1991.  Between Rachel and the medication, my life literally changed.  I didn’t end my relationship with the guy for another 7 years, but I was able to call it what it was, and I was no longer able to delude myself into thinking it was something else.  I stopped abusing food and my body.  I cut unhealthy people out of my life.  I took my medication dutifully.  I tried to be a better person.  I started dating a normal guy (i.e., one without another girlfriend) and generally spent a very happy senior year living the life in Ann Arbor.  Political protests - the annual Hash Bash - the Objectivists study group - lunches spoken entirely in German - Women’s Literature studies - oh my god what a huge nerd I was. 

After graduation, I took a road trip with the normal boyfriend.  When I came back, I got a job and stopped therapy. I wasn’t on my parent’s insurance (or dime) anymore and couldn’t afford luxuries like therapy when I was making $16,800 a year. 

Therapy and I have met up since then.  When my friendly eating issues came back with a vengeance, I was smart enough to go back.  When Mike and I got engaged and I was nearly having a nervous breakdown over wedding and financial pressures, we both went for premarital counseling.  I’m a big fan of counseling.  Nothing makes you be honest about how imperfect you are than someone else holding up the world’s most truthful mirror. 

Today at 1 PM I’m about to revisit the whole head-shrinking phenomenom.  My awesome neighbor (and friend) offered to watch Arden for me while I go. 

About three years ago, I went through a difficult time.  I didn’t talk to anyone about it.  I went silent but continued to smile.  I told myself things like, “There is nothing wrong. You are spoiled.  Deal with it.  Snap out of it.”  I repeated these things for about a year before the “affirmations” worked and I stopped thinking about it.  This year, those same thoughts resurfaced and I have to deal with them.  When it happened this time, I knew I had to talk to someone who could help me sort through the mess that is my head right now.  Since I am a mom and a wife, I can’t just run away to a quiet place and collect myself.  The good thing about that is I can’t hide.  You can’t stay in bed all day when your kids need to be fed and loved and driven places.  And when you live with someone, you can only go so long before all the unsaid things hang in the air between you like cobwebs and you absolutely must clear them away. 

I know that I need to go.  I believe in the power of self-awareness.  But I’m scared crapless as well. I really don’t want to deal with a lot of this.  I don’t want to look, I don’t want to feel, and I’m afraid of what is lurking below.  The fear isn’t going to stop me, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.  I am looking forward to gaining clarity, no matter how difficult that clarity is going to be. 

I want to blog about today, but I just can’t.  Delilah passed away around 3.15 this afternoon. Oddly enough, when the vet listened to her heart, I kept expecting her to call out “Time of death . . . 3.15 pm” a la Grey’s Anatomy or ER.  She didn’t.  I have what could be considered the worst headache of my life, brought on by crying far too much over the past two days and not eating much today.  I did have the presence of mind to take some pictures today of the girls with Delilah, and I will post them tomorrow. I can’t look at them tonight.

I do want to say thanks to everyone who commented and took the time to share their pet stories with me.  It helps.  It helps hearing that others have gone through it and think it’s brutally hard, as I do. It helps to hear that others have made hard decisions - knowing that it is best for your pet even when it feels totally wrong to you.  Dogs are definitely the bomb - we will have another one day - but for now I’m trying to focus on 15 years of happy memories without turning into a fountain every time.  I’ll post the pictures and wonderful experience with the vet tomorrow if I can bring myself to do so.