My Disease

     My name is Amanda and I suffer from something called clinical depression.
     You might know someone who has had to deal with depression short term, take a few pills, have some counseling and move on with their lives. That's not me. I will have to take a pill everyday for the rest of my life to maintain any level of normalcy. Normally it is pretty well controlled by my medication and regular exercise, I can blend in with anyone else without people noticing how different I am.  But I am different.
     For me depression manifests mainly in the form of fatigue.  Even on my best days getting out of bed is a difficult task, I feel like I am running in sand and watching all of my friends, family, and co-workers blow past me on their well paved roadways.  On my worst days the sand becomes molasses; I cry when my alarm goes off and pray for help to get up in the morning.  Sometimes I slide into what I call a funk; a zombie like state where I am lost somewhere inside my disease.
     Over the years I have had to accept that I will never be what I think I should be.  I have had to dumb down my expectations for myself significantly. I need that self-love and understanding that comes from acknowledging my situation.  It's an awful thing.  Sure, I have all of my limbs, I am reasonably intelligent and somewhat capable. I was blessed with a few little gifts here and there to help me get through this life.  But my brain has a chemical imbalance that will always be with me.  It changes who I am.  It makes every day a fight.
     In the last day or so I have been sliding into one of those funks that I mentioned earlier.  They usually last only a few days, but it can seem like forever.  I cannot face the simplest tasks, like making dinner for instance, or washing the dishes.  You might as well ask me to climb Mount Everest.  I simply cannot do it.  Because my depression doesn't manifest that way, I don't feel sad, although I am more easily discouraged and my feelings are significantly more tender than normal.  My kids, at whom I rarely yell, are always pushing the limits of my patience. My mother can tell at the first sound of my voice that something is wrong, even before I know sometimes.  She wants me to go get some short term counseling and my husband wants to know if I am taking my medication.   It's difficult to accept that even though you are doing everything in your power, it's not enough.    
     Maybe you know someone in your own life who deals with clinical depression.  Maybe it's you.  Let me share a few things that I know for sure about this disease.  It's one of those diseases that can't be seen, but hurts anyway. Being depressed is not the same thing as being crazy.  No matter how strong your will is, you cannot out-will it.  It is not something that you can choose.  Would you choose cancer?  No, and you wouldn't choose depression either.  Having to take a pill every day does not make you weak, in fact it may just make you stronger.  Be kind.  A depressed person does not function on the same level as everyone else.  When you see that pile of unwashed dishes in the sink, do not judge.  Washing them just might be an insurmountable task.  Stop and think before you speak or act.  Be careful what thoughts you are going to take from the situation.  And ask yourself, am I planning to climb Mount Everest today?

Pedicures with Peter Pan

On Sunday we try to do things that are different than the activities that we normally participate in. We read from the scriptures, play games, sometimes watch religious movies. Today we held a pedicure party. My seven year old spread out a bath towel and each of my children began choosing the colors they needed to use. Even my husband was in on it. The two year old wanted to paint somebodies nails, and I was already being painted. I guess you could really say that he had his toes painted.

Scotty said that he would make sure nobody could tell that I had fat toe nails any more. I thought Gene would bust.

They renamed the colors things like dirt and sizzle and golden bullet and lightning.

On Tubs an Turtles

Have you ever made a choice that spiraled out of control and soon found yourself in a situation that you weren't sure how you got into? I have. Often. That's how I ended up with a turtle in my bathtub.
It started out innocently enough. We homeschool our kids and they take band at the local public school. Usually they ride their bikes to and fro, but on this particular day there was thunder and lightening in the sky. I was on my way back through the melee to pick up my seventh grader when I noticed a turtle trying to cross the street in front of the middle school. My stomach clenched up and I began to worry that the poor little guy wouldn't make it safely across. ( Here I should explain that this has always been a particular mental illness of mine. I once stood in the middle of the road to protect a half smushed possum from becoming a fully smushed possum while waiting for 911 to arrive. I kid you not. And wouldn't you know the darn thing wasn't even grateful. It just hissed and spat at me the whole time.) And so it was that I found myself anxiously awaiting the release of my son from class so that he could move the poor turtle. Yes, I know that I could have moved it myself, but I had already touched a frog and a catfish and that was my yearly limit.
My son was more than happy to move the turtle, but once we found it he wanted to bring it home. No, I said, we don't need a turtle. Just to show it to my brothers. he said, then I will let it go. I agreed. I am a sucker. Five pairs of pleading, big, blue eyes gazing at me turn me into a complete idiot. We learned that this particular turtle is the fastest turtle on earth, that he loves to have his head stroked, and that he doesn't like worms. We named him Shel and he started to live under a laundry basket in my living room. When dad came home that evening, things escalated. Within 24 hours he was eating my expensive apples, riding in a bucket to cub scouts, and, yes, even bathing in my bathtub. We spent half of our next school day trying to identify him (he's a three toed box turtle), and searching the house for him when he escaped from under the basket. He gets walked more then the dog.
And so it is that I find myself ready for my morning shower, but unable to take it because there is a turtle in the tub. And since I don't touch turtles, I am wandering my home until one of the people in my family who does touch turtles wakes up. And then comes the Clorox shower cleaner. Ahhh, the things we do for love.