Encanto

 If you have children under the age of 12, you have probably seen Disney's Encanto.  It's a cute movie with catchy tunes written by Lin Manuel Miranda and since I am pretty much obsessed with Hamilton, it seemed a solid choice of movies to watch.  There's the very catchy tune "We Don't Talk About Bruno" and "Under Pressure" is basically my own personal anthem.  There's a play on swear words with the whole "Miercoles" thing and a house with not only a name, Casita, but magical abilities to help the family with daily tasks (side note: my life goal is now, besides having my own Wikipedia page, to own a house with a really pretentious name.  Like, Casita is not a little abode like the name implies.  It's fricking huge.  And has a tower.)

Anyways, as I am watching it, my therapist training took over as it often does to ruin entertainment for me, and I noticed two things: 1.) Generational trauma was all over this fucking movie.  Like, trauma begetting trauma begetting trauma.  That whole family could use some EMDR after Abuela got a hold of them.  And 2.) The family is also a perfect example of the family roles in addiction.

What, say you, are family roles in addiction?  Well, addiction is a family disease in that it does not just affect the addict (no shit, Sherlock, right?  Just wait...)  What most people DON'T know is that there are roles that people tend to fall into in these families.  There are six different roles, and many people can have multiple roles in the family.  But usually they are all present in some form.  So let's dig in.

First, of course, there is the addict.  In this case, that is definitely Abuela.  Her addiction?  The magic that the family has been gifted.  In alcoholic/addicted families, we very often see an attitude of "brush it under the rug.  Put on the happy face and pretend everything is OK.  What happens in this house, stays in this house."  Abuela is OBSESSED with preserving the Madrigal family magic, to the point of "punishing" her granddaughter Maribel for NOT have powers. (Ironic, because she does not seem to have any herself...)  I will also say here...I have NEVER met an addict or an alcoholic without a history of trauma.  Never.  And Abuela...well, I don't want to give too many spoilers, but they address her what her trauma is in the movie.  And it's a doozy.  I will also note, addicts are very often charming and "give you the shirt off their back" kind of people.  And we do see these traits in Abuela, unfortunately at the cost of her family.

Next, there are the enablers.  And I would say, as is often the case, the entire family are her enablers.  There is so much focus on their gifts and what they are able to do because of the magic (Abuela's "addiction".)  There is not much said about people who marry into the family because they do not fit into the narrative of the gifted people giving back, therefore they are not much "use" to Abuela other than to continue to produce the next generation of gifted citizens, therefore perpetuating Abuela's addiction.

Then there is the hero.  I actually kind of detest this label, as it implies someone who swoops in to save the day.  That is not the case.  This is someone who the family can point to and say, "Look.  We aren't that fucked up.  Look at what we produced."  They are the visible sign of the family's success.  There's a few heroes in this movie, the most prominent being Isabella (who hopes to continue this role by marrying Mariano even though she does not really want to.)  One could also make the argument that Luisa is a hero as well as she keeps on working and serving the community as Abuela demands, even as she questions if she is even worth anything if she cannot continue to produce.

Next is the scapegoat.  There are two apparent scapegoats here: Bruno and Maribel.  There's an entire fucking song about Bruno: "We Don't Talk About Bruno".  He is blamed for the family's problems, and then when he disappears, they act like he never existed.  Then Maribel, when the house is LITERALLY cracking, is blamed for that as well.  At one point, she even says point blank to Abuela "I will never be good enough for you".  Addicts often demand perfection from those around them, because they need to maintain things for their addiction to survive.  In this case, Abuela needs everyone to fall in line so the magic can continue.  The scapegoats job is to take the focus off of the addict, and both Maribel and Bruno do a great job of doing this.

Mascots come in next.  These are the funny guys, the clowns.  This would be Camilo as he literally changes himself to create humor in any situation that he sees.  He is the comic relief.

Finally, there is the lost child.  These are the forgotten ones, the ones brushed aside.  Luisa would at times fit this role as she is often left to fend for herself and to carry her anxiety all alone.  Dolores would be another example of a lost child.  She hears things not meant for her ears and is brushed aside as a partner for Mariano as she is not "perfect enough" like Isabella is.  These ones are often the ones who provide a sense of relief for the family as "we don't have to worry about them."  Unfortunately, they often end up as the ones with the most anxiety.

And like so many alcoholic/addicted families, things will fall apart eventually.  You can only do so much patching, Bruno, before the house crumbles.  And just like treatment for addiction, you need to develop a completely new foundation before another house can be built (hopefully a more healthy, functional house where things are aired out and not swept under the rug.)

Caring

I suck at self-care.

Therapists can be this way, surprisingly.  In fact, I once had a client tell me my life must be great because I know all of the coping skills and how to parent.  I chuckled and gently corrected him, but on the inside was like "Dude, if you only fucking knew..."  Therapists are people too, you know.  And also, it's probably good that most people, clients especially, can't hear my inner monologue.

Life has been incredibly crazy around here (as evidenced by the fact that there is no blog post for January of this year.)  We decided, rather abruptly, because of course major life decisions should be made with little planning or a timeline, to put an offer on a house and put ours up for sale.  We now have until March 12 to get rid of the house we are currently in...during the winter months...a house that we were supposed to be in for about 5 years but then the economy happened and 13 years later, we are here in a house we have done very little updating to and that we have little to no equity in (because of course we bought at the peak of the real estate market, right before the crash that made us go 30K upside down on the house practically overnight...).  Oh, and let's not forget that I technically have been self employed for less than two years full time so OF COURSE my income can't be counted in a new loan, which really limits things for us.

I thought this was going to be a good idea how, again?

Anyways, we are doing that and trying to keep a house show ready with two children and two dogs and no garage is super fun, much in the same way that getting your cervix checked while in labor is fun.  Sure, there might be whack jobs that enjoy it, get off on it even (hell, there are women who orgasm when they give birth...) but the majority of the population going through it really think it sucks monkey balls but you do it because the end result is usually worth it.

Competition season has also started to gear up, which means lots of money spent, tripping from hair spray inhalation and the fumes sequins and fake eyelash glue give off, and copious amounts of coffee.  Except for...I started seeing a functional medicine doctor and I am on this crazy ass diet to try to eliminate food sensitivities and they told me I have to stop drinking coffee and to start to wean myself off of it.  I also am not allowed any alcohol.  Or sugar.  Or grains. Or most fruits.

Elizabeth asked if this doctor has any regard for the people I have to live with.

I am also currently working two jobs still, albeit ones I love, but again I'm working 7 days a week, most weeks.  It will be worth it in the long run (I hope...) but my God, life is crazy right now.

So back to self-care.  I suck at it.  But I was seeing the toll on myself.  Crappy ass sleep (well, crappier than usual).  Constantly aching body.  Headaches.  Out of control anxiety, and depression and irritability.  Constantly living in a state of overwhelmed-ness and futile efforts to get caught up.

My hair looks way better, though.

It sucked.

So I decided to change something.  I obviously am not backing out of the housing situation, because I really make it a point to avoid getting sued if at all possible, in all areas of my life.  Plus, even if we don't sell the house, we can start looking for land to build on in a year or two and I'm OK with that option as well.  Competition is another thing that I am not backing off of, either, because it has been so good for Alexis and not gonna lie, I rock that dance mom shit like a mofo.  Two jobs, also not changing unless something picks up and I suddenly get overflowing at the practice I own.  Running has been sporadic, but mostly due to the horridly cold weather and snow and lack of plowing the streets out here.  That will resume on a more regular basis, soon I hope.  Or I might buy some Yak Tracks.

The functional medicine doctor was the first step.  I'm trying to get myself to the point of not being constantly sick.  I don't want my kids to remember me like that.  I found a therapist, so hopefully I can stop feeling like I am going to crawl out of my own skin.  I got a new haircut, that now forces me to go in every month to get a trim because if I don't I end up looking like I let my dogs style my hair for me.  This is another thing I actively try to avoid.  I have been actively trying to engage in my hobbies more.

In short, I am doing every single thing that I would tell a client to do (except of course, find a therapist, because they already have me and I rock.  Duh.)  And here is the real kicker....

That shit works.

Who'd a thunked it?

Running

It is well established that I am crazy.  If you don't know that by now, I strongly encourage you to go back to this post and just read from the beginning.  Seriously, take the time.  I'd lay money on the fact that by the time you get to January 2011 you won't have to keep on keepin' on.  You'd be a believer.  A converted crazy cognizant, for those alliterative types out there.

Runners are also crazy people.  I mean seriously, who wants to engage in a sport where you could possibly literally shit yourself?  Seriously, google "runner trots".  Avoid the images.

I have been running more lately.  Now, don't think that I am about to go to any kind of race and win.  Or even finish in the bottom 10%.  More like dead last. (Though I suppose technically that is in the bottom 10%, so...) But it  has been good for me to have that outlet for myself.  That alone time, of just listening to music and focusing on not dying.  Because you feel that way sometimes while running.  Then you get the runner's high and can't wait to go back at it.  Hell, I probably would struggle to finish a 5K in under 35 minutes, to be perfectly honest.  Way above my times in high school...hell, way above my time in high school 7 months pregnant running cross country (true story).  I'm not doing it for any kind of award. Or even to get into shape, really.

I'm doing it for my sanity.  Which, if you followed my instructions above, is clearly questionable at best.

That is why it was so disheartening the other day when I had a really shitty run.  Like, almost literally shitty.  It was the kind of run where my limbs felt leaden, like they all had an extra 20 lb weight strapped to all of them.  Where I could not get into a rhythm of any sort.  Where my knees vaguely ached as did my muscles, but no amount of warming up or stretching would alleviate the pain.  Where I seriously thought I might actually poop while running.  And it was only 4 miles I ran.

"Only four miles".  Who the fuck even talks like that?  Crazy people, that's who.  Crazy people who run.  Which them makes them even crazier.  And thus starts the endless loop of craziness.

From now on, that is totally where I am blaming my crazy on.  Forget that I will never run a marathon.  Forget that there are people twice my age lapping me.  Forget that I have been crazy for way more years than I have run.  I am crazy, therefore I run.  I run, therefore I am crazy.  There's a nice symmetry to it.  A limitless loop of lunacy, with no clear beginning or end.  Again, with the alliteration.

On second thought, don't bother going back and re-reading.  If this post alone hasn't convinced you, just stop reading.  Forever.  I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.  And by negativity, I mean complete and total denial.

Denial II

There have been some things that I have been avoiding not only talking about, but writing about on here as well.

I mean, not that I am the queen of denial at all or anything...and I'm not talking about a river in Egypt here, folks.  Aside from humor, denial is probably my go-to defense mechanism to use.  I ignore my health until it whacks me upside my head and takes me out.  I avoid dealing with unpleasant things such as making phone calls and having to actually talk to people.  I frequently avoid looking at my bank account, but I maintain that is an act of self-preservation more so than actual denial.

I need to do better and to be better, though.  So here goes it, the re-cap of the three most important things that have happened that I have been avoiding talking about, in chronological order.

1.)  Alexis turned 10 years old.  Yes, ten.  As in double digits.  As in now she has less years to go until 18 than she has lived.  As in a full decade.

Why I am able to accept Elizabeth turning 18 but not Alexis turning 10, I have no clue.  Maybe it is because I can tell myself that I am still young with Elizabeth.   Maybe it's because Alexis has always had a kind of sweet innocence about her, stubborn as she may be, that lends itself to being incompatible with growing up and I don't want to see that go away.  Maybe it's because I see how the world is a cruel and unforgiving place sometimes and I don't want to see her crushed and I know that it is going to happen someday and I can't stop it.

Alexis is my child who once told me after I commented on how low the clouds were that she was excited about this because she always wanted to taste them.  Alexis, my baby who hated everyone from birth but me, and then only tolerated me because I had the food.  Alexis, the child who once had to be told at a competition to stop turning cartwheels because she had done so many we were afraid that she was going to wear herself out.  Alexis, the child who is so energetic that another therapist who worked with ADHD kids turned to me and asked, "Is she always this hyper?"  Alexis, the child who went from crying every dance class to dancing solos in competitions.  My child who is a mixture of steel and softness and innocence and light.  I once had a teacher say about Alexis that "even when she is trying to be sassy she is still sweet."

I never want those qualities to go away from her.  The only surefire way I see to prevent this is to never have her grow up.  So yes, I am in denial that she is 10.

2.)  I quit my full time job at the agency and went to private practice full time.

This should be a great thing, right?  I did not want to hospitalize people any more.  While that job was a noble job, a necessary one, and I know that I did in fact save many people's lives...I did not want to be on that end of things anymore.  I wanted to be more involved in the actual work that went into claiming back your mental health.

However...I did my internship at this agency.  I started out as a terrified intern who did not know what the hell I was doing and worked my way to my independent license.  I worked there the longest out of my professional career.  I built a great reputation in the community with other stakeholders, I believe.  Change is hard, especially for the already anxious person that I am.  Private practice is very different, and while I am sure that I have any kind of clinical advice I need available, I still miss the stability that working for an agency provides.  I miss my coworkers, who all helped shape me professionally.  I miss being confident in my paychecks and not worrying if people cancel or I don't have people scheduled.

Don't get me wrong, I am very happy in my current job.  I am just still in denial that this is my actual life's work now because it seems too good to be true.

3.)  Spartacus died.

Yes, my bubby; the first dog that was mine.  I trained him and housebroke him, all on my own.  He was there when I brought the little girls home from the hospital; he was there when we brought Deogie and Maximus home.  He helped train them.  He was always willing to allow me to wrap my arms around him and snuggle; albeit for only a minute because he was a veritable walking furnace with his thick fur.

His death, though he was 10 years old, was unexpected.  Friday night, he was running around, albeit slowing down a little bit which I chalked up to being 10 years old.  Saturday, he was not eating.  Sunday, he started to vomit and was still not eating, so Monday Charles took him to the vet.  They did labs and sent him home with medicines.  His liver enzymes were way off as were his white blood cell counts.  Charles took him home and only a few hours later, Spartacus had a seizure, vomited up some blood, and died.

It does not surprise me that he went when I was not around.  I would not have been able to handle watching that.  I would not have been able to handle seeing his body lifeless.  I have the memory of petting him before I left for work, and him leaning into my leg as I did so, versus what happened to him in the last hours of his life.

Dealing with that is hard.  Maximus still looks for him, and when he can't find him he gets tears in his eyes.  The day that he died, when I got home from work, he literally climbed up into my lap and gave me a hug with his front paws.  Charles said that when he was carrying Spartacus's body to the truck (he took him to his parents' to bury) Maximus was losing his shit.

My bubby, the Friday before he passed.

So yes, life has been interesting these last few weeks.  I'm trying to get away from the Freudian defense mechanisms; hence the honesty in this post.  I'll get back to my regularly scheduled inanity soon, I promise.

Slow

I recently decided that I was going to start running again.  There's this 5K I have done for the past three years now and last year I walked it because my sister fucked her knee up and someone has to keep her in check.  I wasn't going to do it again this year, then at the last minute decided I was because I really like to test my meds at least quarterly.  So I started running, got the old runner's high again, and remembered why I used to like it to begin with.

Then I pulled a groin muscle.

It wasn't bad at first.  I was all "oh, I'll rest it for a day or two."

Day or two turned into a month.  Wasn't bad at first turned into holy hell my leg is on fire and it hurts and I'm dying.  This then turned into people I work with freaking out thinking I had a blood clot (I didn't, but glad someone is going to care for my physical health because I sure suck at it sometimes).  I got doctor's involved, then physical therapy.  And had a breakthrough.

Or so I thought.

The PT stretched my leg out some and used ultrasound therapy.  For the first time in two weeks, I could walk without looking like some kind of zombie dragging my leg behind me.  It was great.

Until it wasn't.

That weekend, I woke up on Saturday and could not put any weight on the leg.  At all.  I caved and started to use crutches.  Went back to physical therapy for the second session.  I got asked, "What did you do to yourself?"  The tone of voice used here indicated to me that this woman wanted to add some F-bombs in there but she was being all professional and shit so she did not.

I'll spare you the details, but basically I managed to twist my pelvis and hips into positions that they are not meant to be twisted, which then was pinching nerves.  I went to the chiropractor in desperation for the first time in my life.  I got asked, "What did you do to yourself?"  Again, pretty sure the tone was F-bombs.  Maybe if there was an F-bomb font (like we need a sarcasm font) I wouldn't need to actually say fuck as much as I do...

He told me that I chose the biggest joint of the spinal cord to get out of place.  Of course I did.  It is very fitting for my life that I would do this.  He popped that sucker back into position, while cracking dad jokes continually which was actually rather amusing, and then told me to go home and lie down for the rest of the day.

My tone was F-bombs.  "Uh, I'm going to work."  He shook his head at me and told me to slow down.  "You have to let yourself heal.  Who knows how long your pelvis was that way."

I, of course, went to work.  And then the next day drove to college to see Elizabeth for family weekend after going grocery shopping and running the little girls to dance and gymnastics.  We walked all around campus, taking stairs at times, even.  I brought the crutches as the damn thing kept slipping in and out.

Let myself heal?  When?  While Charles is still off work because of his arm, his idea of a clean house is way more relaxed than mine is.  I have not been up the stairs to kiss the little girls good night in almost a month, which kills me.  My garden desperately needs my attention.  I have not gone for a run, which was a great source of stress relief, since this has happened. Rolling over in bed at times can hurt, yet the idea of having to sit and relax is almost enough to send me into a panic attack.  What am I running from?

Perhaps it is my own thoughts that I am running away from.  My head can be a pretty messed up place sometimes.  Perhaps it is from judgment from others, because God knows as a woman who works and has children I will forever be judged as inadequate at both.  Perhaps it is the anxiety, that while controlled for the most part is always there, lurking, telling me that I am in grave danger somehow; that my loved ones are too.

Having to slow down has made me realize how hard and fast I go sometimes.  Hell, for the last two years I have been working 7 days/week, most weeks.  I have been figuratively limping along for a while now...Is it no wonder my body decided to give out when I pushed it running and started literally limping?  Maybe it was my subconscious's way of getting my attention, and when that did not work it had to up the ante and get my pelvis, hip, and back involved in the game so I would finally slow down some. Some.  Not as much as I probably should.  I still have tendencies toward oppositional behaviors because I am an asshole like that and don't like to be told I can't do something.  Because you know, the rules for caring for sports injuries somehow don't apply to me.

Guess "slow" can also be applied to me as a learner of life lessons, as well.

Hope

After Gabe's death, some of my very dear friends got together and sent me a flowering myrtle tree to plant.  Someone else had given me a rose, but they tend to commit suicide when they see me (and in fact, I did manage to kill it off...) so having something that I was not likely to kill was nice.

The tree has provided us beautiful blossoms every summer.  It is a lovely reminder that my son is not forgotten.

After this winter, though, I was not so sure it would make it.  This winter was brutal, cold, and brutally cold.  It was a winter that a lot of people, myself included, struggled to make it through. There did not appear to be any new growth on the tree.  It seemed to have succumbed to the cold.

I started to clear away the dead wood as best I could.  It left a bunch of pointy sticks that I was going to grab a shovel to dig up.  The tree was dead anyways; why leave something in the ground to potentially impale my children (or, let's be honest, myself) on?

Then I saw it:

Hidden amongst the dead was new growth.  New life.  Tiny, persistent, struggling to get air and light and water...but alive.

A new reminder that life goes on.  After I lost my son, I begged my husband to not let me go crazy.  I seriously feared that I would go off the deep end.  One might argue that I did, but I say I was this wacky before.  I am talking the kind of crazy where I would take out my whole family and then myself.  The kind of crazy where I would dump his ashes out and smear them all over me.  The kind of crazy that people fear when they hear the words "mentally ill".

I know better now.  The mentally ill are not to be feared.  They are no more likely to hurt you than anyone else; in fact you are more likely to be harmed by a loved one who is not mentally ill.  I have a mental illness; and I abhor violence and probably couldn't hurt a flea.

That new growth, coming up out of the ugly, pointy, dead wood...hope.  That is what kept me going on.  That is what keeps all of my clients going on; why I do what I do day in and day out despite people demeaning my profession; despite the stigma; despite the fear and desperation and frustrations.  

It was what kept me going after Gabe died.  It is what keeps me running outside when it rains and is sunny at the same time, looking for the rainbow.  It is what keeps me saying the same things day in and day out.

Hoping that it will sink in.  Hoping that it makes a difference.  Hoping that it will get better.

Because it does.  The new life will spring up from the carnage.  That it will be just as beautiful.  

That it will persevere.

Struggling

It's never being good enough.

It's forgetting what it is like to function outside of the constant fog cloud of fatigue.  Forgetting what it is like to wake up after 10, 12, 14 hours of sleep and feeling refreshed and rested.  Wanting to spend all day in bed asleep because the time you have to be aware of how you just hurt is less that way.

It's wanting to curl up within yourself, except that you are intensely uncomfortable in your own skin so you really don't want to do that either.  So you exist in limbo, simply existing for a while.

It's the never ending cycle of thought that flows through your mind, unbidden and unwanted and uncontrollable and unwelcome.  "You suck.  You're awful.  You're less than.  You MUST be perfect.  You will NEVER learn to cope.  You will ALWAYS feel like hell."

It's recognizing the cycle of negativity yet feeling helpless to stop it.

It's the constant worry.  The catastrophizing.  The panic attacks.

It's seeing the reminder and freaking out and dying on the inside.  A touch, a gesture, a scent.  Triggers.

It's being numb.

It's the guilt.  The constant gnawing guilt of feeling like you are failing everyone around you.  Like you are to blame for your circumstances and why you are here and in this situation.

It's desperately wanting to feel better but lacking the motivation to even get up and make the call.  The fear.  The stigma.  The lies that run through your mind.

Make the call.  It gets better.

Letters

As I was driving home from work tonight, I got to wondering what ever happened to those letters that you use to get from certain people around Christmastime...you know, the vaguely brag-y letters extolling all of the wonderful things their family accomplished over the year while you are all over here like, "Uh, I paid my gas bill on time! Go me!"  Then I realized that all that has gotten replaced in our instant gratification society by such things as Pinterest, Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. Don't ask me what made me think of this...my mind is truly a wondrous mystery sometimes.  I then got to thinking about what my letter would say if I were to write one...which, let's be honest here, would never be likely as I can't be arsed to write out Christmas cards...Here you go.  Welcome to my mind:


Dear Bitchez,

Hello all from tropical Ohio, ha ha!  It is sure wonderful to live in a climate where you can be ready to go swimming in the morning and shoveling snow in the evening!  Gives the ol' sinuses a great work out and makes it super fun to figure out what the hell to dress the children in so you aren't judged by other parents!

The girls are all doing fabulously, despite their parents' best efforts to completely fuck up their lives.  Elizabeth is 16 now (insert cliched, tired joke about getting off the roadways...)  She does in fact have her license and is a fantastic bundle of emotional lability, neediness, and temper tantrums when she does not get her way.  Living with a teenager is super fun and fantastic!

Alexis is dancing competitively now, which according to some means that she will learn bad things such as confidence, physical fitness, and ownership of her body.  At least until she is offed by some deranged murderer or something because as a parent I clearly lack any capability to teach her safety rules since I let her dance in competitions!

Charlie has not killed anyone, that I know of at least.  She is a fantastic bundle of emotional lability, neediness, and temper tantrums when she does not get her way ha ha HA OMG I have a preschooler and a teenager in the house at the same time someone hold me until it is over PLEASE!!!

I am working at a place that believes firmly in things such as micromanaging, employee burnout, and lynching whistle blowers and people who engage in their own critical thinking.  It is super good for my emotional and mental health in the way that it is super healthy to allow Mike Tyson to teach anger management.  I also decided recently to greatly reduce my intake of gluten as I feel pretty strongly that it can be the devil.  I also recently completed the whole30, which totally makes me better than you somehow.  But don't worry!  I haven't descended completely into the bottomless pit of tree-hugging hippiness, despite making my own laundry soap and bread as well!  I still firmly believe in the power of self-medicating with alcohol and chocolate and am not above seeking out Xanax as needed!

Charles is still working a lot.  He often times has this look in his eyes...I wouldn't quite call it despair...but let's be honest here, he lives with four females.  He spends a lot of time with our (male) dogs.

Speaking of!  They are doing well as well.  Spartacus still tends to emotionally eat.  Actually, anytime food is presented he has an emotion and needs to eat...so maybe he just really likes food.  Maximus is as dumb as ever and tends to flop over where ever you push him down...not that I have tested this or anything.  Deogie loves to try to hump the cat, which resulted in some super cool sex talks with the little girls!  We also have fish upstairs, but really does anyone count fish as actual pets?

I can't wait to see what kind of new adventures come for 2014 with my family.  Hopefully nothing involving the legal system or any form of bankruptcy!

Have a Merry Christmas!

Laura, Charles, Elizabeth, Alexis, and Charlie


Now THAT, bitchez...that is an honest letter.   I may look into sending that out this year.  Eh, who am I kidding? 

MHPMHD

A few months ago, a group of co-workers and I got together for some one's birthday outside of work.  A pretty small thing, considering that hundreds of people probably do it on any given day...but it was revolutionary for us.  We talked, laughed, drank margaritas, and had such a good time that I made the executive decision that we would have a monthly Mental Health Professionals Mental Health Day, otherwise known as the MHPMHD.

Most people don't realize this, but therapists are people too.  The work we do is very important, but we are severely underpaid, overworked, and under-appreciated.  Hearing stories of abuse, terror, pain, misery, and just humans being the very worst they can really wears on a person.  Hence, the importance of caring for one's self.  Most mental health agencies will not do it for you.  They want to wring every last drop out work out of you they can and then will still tell you that you are not doing enough.  It is disheartening.  Much like parenting, in fact.

Right now Charlie is in the midst of a knock down, drag out fit.  She is pissed at me because I am making her play with her toys.  (Call Children's Services, y'all. I am so abusive.)  Not only do I have a toddler to contend with, I have a teenager as well.  Teenagers are really more like toddlers than they are adults, but they have more words and really aren't quite as portable.  Then I have the 6 year old who is totally focused on rules and all of the perceived injustices that are wrought upon her at the hands of others.  Shit gets crazy all up in here, yo.

Most days I am perfectly content to stay at home and referee.  Most days I don't mind the crazy that is both my house and my job.  I thrive on it, in fact.  I chose this and I love it.

But...I need a break.  I need to see my coworkers outside of work where we can laugh and let loose.  I need to NOT be with my family for a few hours.  I need it for my sanity.  I am crazy enough on my own; I certainly don't need their help.

It has gotten to the point now where every once in a while, I can feel the depression starting to creep in.  Like an ominous storm cloud encroaching, it slowly sneaks up with the intention of wreaking havoc on my mood and my ability to cope.  This tells me it is time to engage in some self care (mind out of the gutter, pervs!) and to remove myself.  To go and do something for me.

Does it always work?  No.  Sometimes the depression stays.  Sometimes the storm does not blow over, and it stays and is destructive to my soul and mind and it sucks monkey balls.  Sometimes the storm is able to blow over, like all those times when the hypervigilant peeps at the National Weather Service tell you there is a tornado coming and issue a warning and then are all like, "Oh!  Just kidding!  My bad!"  But you still have hunkered down and prepared yourself because you just never know.  Maybe this is the time that the golf ball sized hail will materialize and destroy your carefully cultivated garden and dent your vehicle and leave you with a huge mess to clean up.

The MHPMHD is designed to be the basement, the storm lanterns, the battery powered radio in the storm.  Sometimes it materializes, sometimes it does not.  Sometimes there is clean up, sometimes not.  It is preventative.  Hell, if I thought it would fly with the IRS, I would totally deduct whatever amount I spend on those days as a job or a medical expense.

Necessary for my mental health, and for yours too.  In fact, I am going to challenge all of my 7 readers to do this.  Once a month, to take a few hours out of a day and do something for yourself.  It can be getting together with friends and having lunch; going for a serene walk by yourself, or going window shopping with your mother.  Just something.  Slow it down, and care for your mental health.  Care for your soul.  See what a difference it makes.

Laughter

So since I was off work this morning, I was posting a lot on Facebook.  Mostly just the random ramblings of a deranged mind, really, but I hadn't had time off during the week for a while so it felt good to make an ass out of myself during the week.  Someone posted a comment on one of them, something about always making her laugh.  This of course got me thinking about some kind of touchy-feely metaphorical bullshit that I can post here about the importance of laughter in my life.

One of the main ways that I knew something was wrong after Charlie was born was that I had no desire to laugh.  I still did, of course (given that my husband was shocked as hell when I told him what was going on) but I did not actively pursue it the way I do now.   I went through the motions on the outside, but on the inside I would have been screaming if my psyche had the motivation to get itself up out of bed and to pour the gin out.  All I really wanted to do was to crawl into a bed and fade away.  I did not want to hear my children's laughter or to joke with my husband.  I had no motivation to seek this out.

Monday through Friday during the week, I see very ill people.  I see people who actively want to end their lives, or other's lives.  I am pretty sure that I have looked into Satan's eyes a few times too.  I see people who are hearing voices telling them to do awful things.  I hear people tell me about the awful things that others have done to them.  I see misery, sadness, despair, and a kind of grim trudging through the day to go to bed to get up to see another.  Bleakness.  Pain.  Sometimes evil.  I am steeped in it.

Yes, I know I chose this.  I still love my job.  However, I would not be able to cope with it if I stopped laughing.  Any mental health professional who is reading this will be nodding their head because they know.  The laughter is the antidote to the poison of what we do.  It can truly numb your soul.

But even before I entered this field, I sought out laughter.   I tend to be a sucker for men with a sense of humor.  I strongly preferred comedies over dramas or horrors (and now I just really tolerate dramas and will not watch a horror.  Or anything with violence, really.)  Now, even more so, I have made it my mission.  There is not enough laughter.  If I can make someone laugh through my ridiculousness (and honestly, it is a little frightening how ridiculous I can be); if dropping the f-bomb at inappropriate times and engaging in hyperbole can brighten someone's day, I'm all over that like a teenager is all over news of Harry Style's most recent break up.