Sensitivity

I am reading The Secret Life of Bees for book club, and I love it! I know it's old, but in our last meeting we discussed which books made us wish we could spend more time with the characters, and one of the members mentioned this one. I can see why. I love all of the characters, too. Well, maybe not June so much. She's a little too guarded for me. Although I wish I could be more like August, the matriarch of the sisters, I am actually more like May--the fragile one who feels other people's pain too deeply. Not as deeply as she did, thank goodness. But more so than I would like sometimes.

On the one hand, I recognize that it is a gift to have such a keen sense of empathy. I know I have helped a lot of people because of it. But I am also easily thrown off balance when the people I care about are in pain--especially since I am also prone to depression and anxiety. I have always assumed this meant that I was weak. Fragile. Too sensitive.

I spent time with my brother this weekend--the only one of the four siblings who does not have a mood disorder. In talking to him, it was clear that he does not experience his feelings as intensely as I do. He does not get his feelings hurt very often. He is better able to maintain distance from family drama, and his advice really is to tell them to suck it up.

I envy him for this, but I cannot be him. I can only be me. I feel things intensely. My feelings get hurt easily. And when someone is in pain, I feel what they feel and try to help them, even if it hurts me.

But rather than berate myself for it, I am learning to accept that this is who I am. We all have different vulnerabilities. Some people may be prone to heart disease. Other people have diabetes. I am a hyperempath with depression and anxiety. Therefore, I have to be sure to take care of myself in certain ways: make alone time a priority, set boundaries, and be more selective about who I spend time with.

I used to joke that I'm not trying to save the world--just the people that I meet. But perhaps I will have to narrow down my scope in my life-saving efforts, too.

Darkness and Light, Part 2

I am deeply saddened by Robin Williams' death. I love the roles he chose as an actor. He was a comedic genius. And he was full of life--a light that seemed to shine a little brighter than the average star.

As a psychologist, I don't have any special knowledge about why Robin Williams committed suicide. I wasn't there. I didn't know him personally. I wasn't his therapist. I do know that, no matter how well you think you know someone, it is difficult to fathom the depths of the darkness they live in. Because who wants to share that with other people? Who wants to burden other people with additional darkness? It's hard enough to deal with our own.

I also know what it's like to have multiple depressive episodes. My psychiatrist compared relapses to breaking your leg in the same place multiple times: with every break you become more vulnerable to injury; it takes a little longer to recover each time. 

My dad had 3 major depressive episodes. His last episode hit when he was 69 and lasted for almost 4 years. It was a tremendous amount of work for him--and my mom--to recover again. I know sometimes he didn't want to try. And I know he felt that way more often than he let on but tried to be strong for my benefit. 

In my last depressive episode, there were times when I wanted to give up, too. Well, it's not so much that I wanted to give up. It's more like the depression told me that I should. And in my weakened state of mind, it was hard to fight back. I am thankful that I was able to do so in the end. That was my 2nd major depressive episode. I'm trying to do everything within my power to prevent a third. 

What if Robin Williams had 5 or 6 depressive episodes? What if the demons of depression never took a break unless he threw himself into something like acting or drugs or alcohol? I don't drink and I have never used drugs, but if I had to live my life feeling the way I did at my worst, maybe I would. I don't know that I would have been any stronger. So I don't think it's fair to accuse Robin Williams of being weak. Clearly, based on his body of work, he was anything but weak. He was fighting it all the time.

I was also taken aback by the anger that some people felt about his suicide. But I don't judge them for it. I can understand why, if you have been personally affected by suicide, you would identify more with the people who are left behind and have to make sense of this loss for the rest of their lives. Fortunately, I have never been there, but if my dad had ever given in to his demons, I know I would have been devastated.

I think that people who see mental illness as a weakness, an excuse, or a nonexistent entity fear the darkness in themselves. They try to deny it in themselves and in others as vehemently as possible, lest it find a way to escape. But some of us don't have that luxury. We can't lock our depression in a closet and throw away the key; it is too powerful. It does not obey our will.

One positive outcome of having known that kind of pain is that it has deepened my compassion for others. It motivates me to alleviate whatever suffering I can in others. In my opinion, the people who know what it's like to live in darkness are the ones who are the most motivated to enlighten others. So if Robin Williams inspired more people to become light bearers, then that is at least one good thing that can come from this loss.

Darkness and Light

Sometimes I feel like a less murderous version of Jekyll and Hyde. That's one of the reasons why it's so hard to get my sleep cycle under control.

I feel the most alive late at night. Before I go to bed I have all these ambitious plans for what I'm going to get done the next day. My mind is racing with ideas for my blog. It's all I can do to keep myself from starting a post at 3 a.m. But I can't, because I'll run the risk of staying up all night and reversing my sleep cycle. A big no-no when you struggle with depression. So I take drugs to force myself to fall asleep, even though I like this version of myself the best.

By morning that cheery, motivated version of me is replaced by this sullen person who prefers sleep over life itself. No amount of yelling, begging, or bribing can get her out of bed before she wants to. And even after she gets up, she's still in a bad mood for several hours. Why would anyone want to go to sleep at night if that's who you have to face the next day?

In Jungian psychology, Jekyll and Hyde is an example of the persona/shadow archetype. Jung argued that, although most people would prefer to identify with their persona, it is important to acknowledge our shadow in order to be whole. Dr. Jekyll is so horrified by his dark side that he commits suicide in order to destroy it--which is the exact opposite of being whole.

This blog is probably the first time that I've publicly acknowledged my shadow. And I have to say, it is the thing that people thank me for the most. Because it gives them permission to acknowledge their own darkness. It assures them that they are not the only ones who feel and think the way they do. So Jung has a point. Who would have thought that acknowledging one's darkness would be the thing that makes people feel the most connected to one another?

So maybe I shouldn't be so hard on that sullen person I will see when I wake up tomorrow afternoon. She's given me a lot of material for blog posts.

Wins and Losses

So I've decided that I love winning more than I hate losing.

After 11 losses spanning 2 seasons on my 7.0 mixed teams, I finally won last night. A hard-fought win that came down to the wire--my favorite kind. And my team won, too. Winning isn't everything, but it sure helped my mood. And these days, I'll take anything I can get to feel happy about.

I actually had 2 teams playing at the same time last night, because I play every league since I get depressed when I don't have anything to do, as you know. We lost all 5 courts on that team, but that did not dampen my mood. Because like I said in the post on motivation, at the end of the day, I still had dinner with my friends afterwards. And there were a lot of them last night, spanning 3 different teams, including the opposing team.

I've had friends reach out to me because of my last two posts, reminding me that I can always call them when I'm feeling down. But in all honesty, the last thing I want to do when I'm feeling depressed is to contaminate someone else with my negative mood.

I once dated someone who accused me of wanting to be depressed--I guess because he couldn't talk me into feeling better. I think depressed people are accused of liking their depression because it's hard to be in the presence of someone who you can't cheer up. That's why people who are just trying to be helpful say unhelpful things, which makes you feel even more depressed. So I just avoid it.

But thankfully, God gave me tennis. No matter how bad I'm feeling, I can almost always motivate myself to play tennis. And the desire to win is so great that I forget everything and focus on hitting that ball. And after a few hours of doing this, regardless of whether I've won or lost, I feel like a different person. Plus we usually eat out afterwards, and I love food, too.

Tennis, friends, food, and blogging. That is a winning recipe for treating depression in my book.

The Battle Against Depression

I really wish that so much of my existence did not revolve around obsessing about sleep. I'm tired of writing about it, and I'm sure you're sick of reading about it. But this is the reality of my existence at the moment, and I am committed to being honest about my current state of mind.

Today was another day that was filled with sleep. It makes me feel like such a failure. My colleagues don't struggle to make it to work because they can't get out of bed. The physicians in my family never even take a sick day. Some depressed people manage to take care of their families. I can barely take care of myself. What is my excuse for my weakness?

Then I thought of physical conditions that leave people debilitated. Migraine headaches. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Lyme disease. Do the people who suffer from these conditions feel paralyzed with guilt and shame when they can't get out of bed? Or do they accept their fatigue as being part of their illness rather than a personal failing?

I think about the recommendations I give to clients who are depressed. Exercise. Get sunlight. Be social. Regulate your sleep cycle. If someone had the flu, you would tell them to rest. Listen to your body. But with depression, we tell people to ignore what their bodies and minds are telling them and to do the opposite. Fight it! Don't give in!

Don't get me wrong. I do all of these things when I can, and they work. After sleeping most of the day, I forced myself to do laundry, get some lunch, wave at my neighbors, put together my tennis schedule for the new league, and play tennis for 3 hours to make up for my lack of steps from yesterday. And I'm writing this blog post now. 

Because if I gave in to the desire to do nothing, I wouldn't really be trying to get better. I wouldn't be taking responsibility for my illness. But I don't think it's fair to hold it against someone if their depression is so severe that it's too much effort to go outside and get sunlight. Because sometimes I'm that person, too.

When I have a client who cannot will themselves to follow these recommendations, I don't judge them for it. But I tell them to keep trying to do them. And no mental health professional that I know would tell a client that if they felt like they need to sleep they should listen to their bodies and rest.

There is an article circulating on the internet about how for some depressed people, positive reframing doesn't work. Telling the person to be positive actually makes them feel worse. That it's better to support them by expressing empathy for their feelings. 

Perhaps someday, researchers are going to find that listening to your body when you are depressed is sometimes more effective than fighting it with wakeful activities like forced exercise and socialization--two things that can be difficult to do even when you're not depressed.

I'm going to do my own case study to see if this works.

Being Neighborly

Today was one of those tough, lonely days. Even when the day starts out slowly, I usually have tennis in the afternoon, which helps me to feel productive. But no tennis tonight because of the rain. So it was hard to will myself to wake up after a long nap when there was nothing to look forward to but errands.

I did finally manage to bribe myself to get up with kettle corn. (I ate all of it, so I'll have to think of something else for tomorrow.) And I talked myself into walking to the mailbox to get some steps. I ran into some of my neighbors, who chastised me in a friendly way for not being social. Which made me feel like a terrible person, of course.

I mentioned in a previous blog that I don't socialize with my neighbors as much as they would like me to. In addition to not being retired, playing tennis almost every day, and not having much in common with senior citizens, the truth is, I've never been very neighborly. I think it's because I hate small talk. I avoid it at all costs.

To make matters worse, when I am home alone I am usually sleeping because it's so unbearable to be awake when I have nothing to look forward to. I thought about telling my neighbors that. How I'm often too depressed to overcome my aversion to making small talk to be neighborly. That leaving the house to check my mail was a big step for me. But that seemed like TMI.

I know they genuinely want to get to know me and want me to feel welcomed, but I wanted to cry after talking to them. I felt like this was just one more thing I should be doing that I was failing at. Right up there with regulating my sleep cycle, adhering to my GERD diet, and getting 10,000 steps. I hate it that my inner critic turns everything into an opportunity to fail.

So I'm blogging about this incident to diminish my inner critic's power to make me feel bad about myself. I'm doing the best I can do. There will always be more that I could be doing. I can only focus on my goals for today. I made it to my dentist appointment. I freaking walked to Kroger, which is a huge accomplishment (but sadly, only got me about 3,000 steps). And I am writing this blog post.

And I talked to my neighbors when I got my mail. Which wasn't even on my list. So there!

Blessings in Disguise

Remember how my car broke down on the way to my friend's wedding? Well, it turned out to be more of an inconvenience than an extra day and $1000. Try 2 extra days and $3000.

I tried my best to have a good attitude about it. I made a list of the things I was thankful for. I tried to put a positive spin on everything. It helped some, but it was still annoying.

You know what helped the most? I looked at the service ticket when I got home and it turned out that my rear brakes were 95% worn. I kind of thought they were unresponsive, but I didn't think it was that bad. I'm actually thankful that my car broke down. I was speeding because I was late for the rehearsal dinner, and if I had to break suddenly, things could have been much worse. Maybe breaking down wasn't a punishment for having a bad attitude after all. Maybe God was looking out for me.

I often tell clients that the events that they think are terrible at the time may turn out to be blessings in disguise. This is also supported by research on happiness. I mentioned in a previous post how people who become paraplegics from car accidents return to their baseline level of happiness after about a year. Sometimes they are even thankful for the accident, because it moved their lives in a more positive direction.

I guess if you're really cynical, you could argue that they're just rationalizing to make themselves feel better. I don't think this is true, but even if it were, so what? Our beliefs are more compelling than reality, anyway. I'd love to be irrationally grateful.

This holiday weekend has been tough for me. Holidays are the hardest because they are supposed to be filled with family, friends, and food. And in this case, fireworks. I am 0-4. I think about how I've spent the 4th of July in the past. Some of the most recent ones were far worse than I could have imagined. Now that I'm single, the best I can hope for is that holidays won't be as lonely and depressing as I think they will be. This one is about what I expected. (Unless Federer wins tomorrow. Then it will all be worthwhile.)

My tendency is to beat myself up for my single status. I must deserve it because of all the terrible relationship decisions I've made. Or maybe I'm just unlucky. Or maybe at some point in the future, I'll look back and realize that this period of solitude was also a blessing in disguise. I'm not completely convinced of this, but I'm trying to be hopeful.

These are the flowers from the wedding. It has nothing to do with blessings, but I think it's a cool picture.

Mental Hygiene

Negativity is like a virus. Even if you are vigilant about taking your meds, challenging irrational thoughts, praying, meditating, and practicing self-acceptance, forgiveness, and compassion, it just takes one negative comment--one careless psychological sneeze--and you're contaminated.

I've had 3 people sneeze on me today. In an effort to avoid contaminating you with too much negativity, I'll just tell you about the most egregious of the 3 incidents.

I had my follow up appointment with my psychiatrist today. Thank goodness I only have to go twice a year. It's a 3 and 1/2 hour drive round trip for a 30 minute appointment, and there's very little about that 30 minutes that is therapeutic. While my psychiatrist knows his drugs, he's not a particularly good therapist, to put it mildly. Which is OK, I guess, because I have a therapist. But I have to talk about something.

Because I have chronic sleep issues due to my night-owlness, I confessed that I've been struggling with regulating my sleep cycle now that I'm not working. Every time I tell him what time I go to sleep and wake up, he makes this judgmental face that looks like he just sucked on a lemon. Then he proceeds to tell me what the research says about the importance of waking up at the same time every day, especially when you have a history of depression. How I need to get morning sunlight, I shouldn't take naps, I need to be more disciplined, blah blah blah.

I am not good at constructive criticism, but I did manage to say that I'm trying. That I spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing about sleep. So much so that it probably interferes with my sleep. He can read my blog if he wants proof.

But I wish I could say something more honest. Something like, you make me feel like crap when you make that stupid face and give me a lecture on sleep hygiene that I already know by heart because I am a clinical psychologist, in case you've forgotten.  Every time I see you, you just give my inner critic ammunition to tell me how I'm failing at sleep hygiene and that I suck. You are supposed to be helping me with my mental health--not making it worse. Oh, and by the way, your waiting room smells like mold and you need to clean your freaking office and water your damn plants. It doesn't reflect well on you that your plants are dying! 

But I don't want to come across as being too negative.

Does anyone ever give their doctor honest feedback when they do something unhelpful? I try to imagine what my reaction would be if a client brought to my attention that my facial expression conveyed blatant disapproval of what a terrible job they're doing of trying to get better. It would be a shock, no question. But I don't want to convey disapproval and judgment, so I think I would want to know. I think I would try to be more aware of my facial expressions. But as I mentioned in a previous post, we are terrible predictors of how we will act in the future. So maybe I would just be pissed off.

Maybe I can think of this as an opportunity to practice constructive criticism. Maybe I'll talk to my therapist about it and see if she thinks it's worth it to say something. Not what I wrote above, of course. But something.

Or maybe I could just tell him that my latest blog post is dedicated to him so he should read it. That would be hilarious!

I'll let you know what I do. In the meantime, I encourage all of you to do your part in preventing the spread of negativity. Please remember to cover your mouth before your criticize. (And not in that passive-aggressive way where you cover your mouth while you fake cough and mumble something critical under your breath, either. You know what I'm taking about.)

 I think this doodle looks like germs.

Constructive Criticism

I have trouble giving constructive criticism. I prefer the passive-aggressive route: just avoid the person altogether, or put their call on speaker phone and do my blog homework while they're talking.

I know this doesn't reflect positively on me as a psychologist. When I have a client who has problems being assertive, I have all kinds of good suggestions. And they usually take my advice. Which is a perfect example of why I often think my clients are more courageous than I am.

Part of the problem is that I can't stand hurting other people. If it's a choice between being annoyed by them or hurting their feelings, I choose to be annoyed. Because I can take it. But all those annoyances start to add up after awhile. Like being bitten by 1000 mosquitos. And I'm allergic to mosquitos, too. That's why I have to keep reminding myself to pick me.

The other obstacle is the whole hyperempath thing, combined with being highly self-critical. When I think of how I would feel if someone were to tell me that I brag about myself a lot, I would be mortified. I'd probably never speak again.

Sometimes the other person is so sensitive that they, too, will obsess about it for the rest of their lives. We can never have a conversation again where the person doesn't think about it, apologize for it, justify their behavior. It's painful. It feels just as bad as when they were annoying me, except now I feel guilty, too.

That's why I prefer to be so attuned to how other people feel that I can sense their annoyance and figure out why without them having to say a word. Which, admittedly, isn't a great strategy--especially when you're prone to depression. Because afterwards you have replay every social interaction over and over, trying to figure out where you offended the other person.

I can do it when it involves tennis. Especially when it involves wasting someone else's time by being late, not showing up, etc. I may not think my time is valuable, but I won't tolerate someone in my group or on my team who wastes other people's time. But sometimes I still obsess about how I did it. Maybe if I had said it differently, I wouldn't have hurt their feelings.

The reality is, sometimes there's no way you can give negative feedback without hurting the person. And it's not really my job to make sure that no one ever feels pain. Sometimes pain is necessary. It lets us know that we need to change something. And if something's bothering me enough to tell them about it, then I am definitely hoping for change.

Sometimes I wish I could be one of those people who are so oblivious that they don't care that they're annoying. Someone who can dismiss criticism with some rationalization. Or someone with a really bad memory for negative feedback. But I can't. I'm me. Empathic, sensitive, guilt-ridden me.

Perhaps I can think of this as yet another opportunity to practice self-acceptance.

Interventions, Part 2

In the book Stumbling on Happiness, psychologist Daniel Gilbert gives multiple examples of how we are terrible at predicting what will make us happy. I'm sure you've heard some of the studies. How people who are paraplegics from car accidents and people who win the lottery both return to their baseline level of happiness after about a year.

I often tell clients the same thing when they're catastophizing about what will happen in the future. How they'll be flipping burgers at McDonald's because they got an F on their chemistry exam. How they will never find love. How they will be depressed for the rest of their lives. We don't know what the future holds. We know that we don't know, but we still act like we do.

So how are we supposed to make decisions if we're so terrible at predicting the future? Gilbert recommends that we ask someone who has made a similar decision and find out how they feel about it. Psychologists say that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Still, there are no guarantees. Ultimately important decisions often come down to a leap of faith.

A few weeks ago I shared my anxiety about having to do an intervention. I asked for advice from my psychiatrist, my therapist, and from God. They all said I had to do it. But I couldn't make myself do it. Because based on the two suggestions above, the forecast looked pretty gloomy. But a promise is a promise.

I've been reading Thomas Merton's "No Man Is an Island," and he says that God is involved in every aspect of our lives, guiding our every step, trying to move us closer to where we need to be. I wasn't sure if I believed that, but it was comforting to think that it might be true. That perhaps God was moving me closer to this conversation, even though I felt like I wasn't getting anywhere.

I decided to blog about it because that always seems to help. One reader said that perhaps the opportunity would naturally present itself. She was right; I got my opportunity. I did my part, expecting that my concerns would be completely dismissed, but they weren't. My words had an impact. Things are in motion, moving in the direction they're supposed to go. And I am thankful.

When I pray for courage, I feel like God tells me that if I do my part, He will do his. And while that has always been true, I'm always still afraid to take the next step. Will it happen this time? Was I just lucky before? Will God really be there on the other side?

Sometimes it takes awhile, but I usually take that leap of faith. I may not know what is on the other side, but I know I can't stay stuck on this side forever.

Why I Have a Superhero Complex

When I was a kid I remember going to K-Mart with my dad, trying to get him to buy me a toy, as usual. We passed by the jewelry section, and he said he needed to buy something first. He had promised one of his patients that if she lived he would buy her some jewelry. He said that he didn't expect her to live, but since she did, he wanted to keep his promise.

I never forgot this incident because it impressed upon me what a good doctor my dad was. I could imagine him talking to this patient as he made rounds at the hospital. I could see him greet her with his unmistakable laugh, reassuring her that she was going to get better. All of his patients loved him. I wouldn't be surprised if she got better just for him.

My dad was equally dedicated to his family.  During his periods of depression, the thing that plagued him the most was his fear that he had not spent enough time with us because of work. I was shocked when I heard this. My dad attended every tennis match, awards ceremony, and piano recital we were in. Even now, although we all live in different cities, we try to get together for birthdays and holidays because being together as a family has always been a priority. He has his faults, but failing to spend time with us is definitely not one of them.

Above all else, the reason my dad was a dedicated doctor and father is because this is how he has chosen to serve God. I must admit, it bothered me to hear this when I was a kid. Kind of like when the flight attendant tells parents to put their oxygen mask on before helping their children. As a child, I didn't want my dad to love God more than he loved me. But as an adult, I appreciate how admirable it is to live your life with that level of commitment. 

One of the reasons why I berate myself when I'm not able to function is because depression never stopped my dad from performing his duties. Once he confessed to me how bad things were for him when he was depressed. How it would take him forever to dictate his notes because his cognitive abilities were so compromised. How he would obsess about forgetting some detail and would drive back to the hospital. How there were times when he wanted to give up. But he didn't. He still went to work every day, came home every night, and made us pray together as a family before we went to bed.

People give me a hard time because I want to save the world. But with a dad like mine, how can I expect anything less of myself? It is a high standard to try to live up to, but if I have to struggle with something, there are worse things than having a superhero for a father.

Psychological Energy Conservation

Being single has its advantages. I never realized how much energy I was expending on compromising and trying to make things work. It's lonely at times but much more relaxing. So much so that I think I'm going to give up all of my high maintenance relationships. Maybe it will help me cut down on my crash and burn days. 

In fact, I'm thinking about promoting a psychological energy conservation campaign modeled after Go Green. Instead of Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, my slogan is Refrain, Reframe, Reevaluate. Since my tag line is less intuitive, let me elaborate.

1.  Refrain.  I'm going to do a better job of setting boundaries. Before, if someone asked me to do something, I felt like I had to do it if I was capable of doing so. Whether I wanted to or not was irrelevant. Or whether it was in my best interest to do so. But you know what? I can just say no. No, I'm not available at that time. No, I don't want to go to that wedding. No, I don't have room for you on my team.

I can also resist the urge to help people when helping them means hurting myself. My rationale in the past has been that I can take it, so it's OK. I can lose sleep. I can get my heart broken. I can sacrifice my time. But it's not OK. I always tell clients that you have to put yourself first, because you can't rely on other people to do so, even if they love you. If its a choice between you and someone else, pick you. So I'm picking me.

2.  Reframe.  I waste a lot of time beating myself up for things I can't control. Like being angry, or anxious, or exhausted. So I'm trying to reframe my feelings in a way that helps me to be more accepting of them. 

Lately, when my inner critic gives me a hard time for obsessing, I stand up for myself. Of course I'm obsessing! That's my thing. That's what I do. Why wouldn't I be doing it right now? That shuts him up. And it actually helps me to stop obsessing. 

And I've come up with another part to help me be more forgiving of myself for my anger. I think of my anger as a bouncer who is trying to keep people who have hurt me from getting back into the club. Because I'm standing at the door saying, of course you can come in! Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything? The bouncer gets mad at me when I do this, and who can blame him, really. Someone needs to be strong enough to kick these people out.

3.  Reevaluate.  I need to do an energy assessment after I crash and burn, rather than assume it happened because I'm a crazy, weak, bad person. If I choose to blog during lunch instead of take a nap and catch up on sleep, I might be tired later in the week.  Same thing with staying up until 2 a.m. Or choosing to captain 2 teams at the same time. Or playing 5 times a week. I can do it, but I have to be ready to pay the consequences later.

I can become more aware of what I need, rather than judge myself for what I think I should need, if I were a normal person. I can allow myself to do what works best for me. I'm the most productive after 7 p.m., so that's when I'm going to get my chores done. I'd rather work nonstop for 2 hours than leisurely spend the day working. And my favorite time of day is between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m., so I'm going to let myself enjoy those hours, even if it means that I'll sleep until noon the next day.

I'm thinking this campaign could really catch on. Think how much more energy we would all have for the things that are important to us if we used it more wisely. Heck, I might even win the Nobel Prize like Al Gore.

Fatigue

I don't know if you've noticed or not, but I have a tendency to be a little hard on myself at times.

Yesterday I had another one of those days where I slept 14 hours and didn't get up until 4 p.m. And then I still went to bed at my normal bedtime (1 a.m.) and didn't get up until 9:30. So as punishment for my excessive sleeping, I decided that I didn't deserve a cappuccino today. My colleague thought that seemed a little harsh, but it makes perfect sense to me. 

But in an effort to be kinder to myself, I'm trying to come up with alternative explanations for why I have been so tired, other than that I am weak, crazy, a bad person, etc. Here's what I've come up with:

1.  I'm depressed. But other than the fatigue and excessive sleeping, I don't really feel depressed. And even if it is depression, I'm already doing everything I can to treat it.

2.  I have some physical illness like chronic fatigue syndrome. This is possible, given that I didn't know I had asthma for a long time, and it accounted for what I perceived as a lack of mental toughness on the tennis court. On the one hand, it would be a relief to have a valid excuse. On the other hand, there would probably be some medication that I would have to take for that condition, too, which would be annoying. 

3.  I'm tired because it's the end of the semester, and I'm always tired at the end of the semester. This would make the most sense, but it still bothers me because my colleagues don't collapse from exhaustion at the end of the term, so that still makes me feel weak.

4.  I'm tired because I'm captaining and playing on 2 tennis teams and playing 4-5 times a week. This also makes sense. Until recently, I was only captaining 1 team and playing 2-3 times a week. But how lame is that to be exhausted from too much recreation? Boo hoo!

5.  My anxiety is leading to mental and physical exhaustion. This is also possible. But then I start beating myself up about not having a reason for feeling anxious. And I'm not really sure what I can do about that other than to take the Ativan sooner when I'm having an anxiety attack rather than suffering for several hours. But the Ativan might make me sleepy.

6.  Blogging is mentally exhausting. All this honesty and self-disclosure is pretty draining. And I hardly ever used social media before. Now I have to use it all the time as part of my blogger duties, which kind of feels like homework. Still, I've never heard of anyone needing more sleep from intensive blogging.

7.  I don't need to know the reason why. My feelings are always legitimate. It doesn't matter what other people are or are not able to do; I have to honor my own needs. I may really need more than 8 hours of sleep, and most of the time I don't even get that.

If this were a multiple choice question where I had to pick the best answer, I guess I'd have to go with #7, because this is what I tell my clients, over and over again, until they believe it. And I don't want to be a hypocrite. Because my inner critic would give me a hard time about that, too.

Strength

In honor of Mental Health Awareness Month and Mother's Day, I am featuring a guest blogger, my youngest brother Romeo Barongan. He has been featured in several posts, including Hard Core Fan, The Best Valentine's Day Gift, and Let it Go. This post is an example of how good things can come from depression--like wisdom, gratitude, love, and strength.

Strength is not about how I look on the outside; but about what I’m made of on the inside. It’s not about how much weight I can lift; but about the burdens I’m able to bear….what I’m willing to endure when the cause is just. After a life of trying to keep up with the Big Boys in the gym, I’ve learned that strength isn’t about the body but the soul. In honor of Mother’s Day, I wish to acknowledge my own Mom for helping me realize the definition of true strength. While I have been striving to acquire strength of body, my Mom has consistently demonstrated strength of character.

I feel the need to create some context for the journey about which I will relay shortly. My parents are both successful professionals. They reared three over-achieving children. And then I came along to round our family of six. I’m not selling myself short or looking for pity; I’m no failure. But growing up as the youngest child in a household so rift with talent created a seemingly impossible path to follow. To worsen matters, people outside the family often chided me for my privileged upbringing. They would disregard my success with statements like, “Anyone could do that if their parents had the money yours do.” They disparaged me for my work ethic in the classroom & relative inexperience in blue collar affairs. “Spoiled rich boy should learn to do real man’s work & get his hands dirty every once in a while.” I wanted to prove that I was a “real man.” I had to show the world that I wasn’t the sheltered doctor’s son that they accused me of being. I would force the world to see that I was indeed strong.

I hit the gym hard. I tried to be more “blue collar” without the benefit of knowing exactly what being blue collar actually meant. It was an unusually painful separation when I finally moved out of my parent’s house to strike it out on my own. We’re such a close family with traditional Eastern culture values; I think my parent’s perceived it as a mild insult when their then 25-yr-old youngest son decided to leave their house. But I was driven by the need to establish the obligatory self-sufficiency that comes with adulthood. I had to prove not only to the world but to myself that I wasn’t the helpless youngest son of a privileged family. I had to prove I was normal; that I was “strong.”

The older I’ve gotten, the more I appreciate how amazing my parents are. Dealing with the often overwhelming constant bombardment or adult responsibilities is enough to suffocate me on most days. My career barely involves a fraction of the level of pressure & high stakes that characterized my parent’s careers—and yet, they were able to succeed & still have the time to make me feel like I was the center of their universe. All this year, I’ve been struggling with a life crisis that I tried to keep to myself & resolve on my own. I didn’t want to worry my poor Mother who has more than enough on her plate. I just had to “cowboy-up” & go it alone. But I recently broke down & shared my struggle with her. It’s ironic: I spent most of my 20’s trying to establish my independence in an effort to uphold my obligations as an adult. Now in my late 30’s, I realize that no matter how much I “grow up”, I’ll never outgrow a parent’s love. And I’ll never be too old to realize how much I love & need my parent’s in my life.

I used to think that I was strong after a good workout in the gym or after standing up to a bully twice my size. But then I see my Mom at 70-yrs-old adapt to the computerized healthcare industry to order to extend her 40-year career as a doctor. I see her remain active in the Church & community on her off days. I see her remain the dutiful wife to my Father. And I benefit from her seemingly never-ending support in my own life. I was looking at myself in the mirror after a solid workout this morning when I began to think that strength is too great a quality to be measured in a single act; & certainly too immense to assess through anything we can see in a mirror. With my reflection staring back at me, I realized that I had been strong on this day; but there were far more days when I hadn’t been. With Mom, there’s never an off day. Her love knows no limits. Her commitment to those she loves never wavers. Today, I want to thank her for helping me realize where true strength lies—otherwise, I could have spent my whole life looking strength in all the wrong places instead of summoning it from my own heart.  Even on my best day, I’m not half as strong as my Mom is every day. But I am making progress. For example, I used to be afraid of telling the people in my life how important they were to me----afraid of sounding sappy or weak. But now, all I’m afraid of is failing to be sincere. I love you, Mom. Thanks for everything. And Happy Mother’s Day to you & all the Mothers out there. Oh, & if you haven’t already done so; please don’t be afraid to let your own mom what she means to you. Thanks for reading.

Self-Compassion

My compassion reserves are running low. In my last relationship I took the words of Jesus and Buddha literally about how we should be able to love everyone. It was practically a 3 year exercise in compassion. But by the end I wondered if perhaps I had misunderstood what they meant about loving others. It was a lot of work to have to channel Buddha and Christ just to tolerate being in his presence. I feel like I'm experiencing a backlash now. All those feelings I tried to deny are coming out with a vengeance. I guess I was supposed to have compassion for myself, too.

I'm not very good at self-compassion. Every time I try, the Inner Critic berates me for whining about my problems when I have a good life. I don't know what pain is. I'm not living in a war-torn country. My life hasn't been devastated by natural disasters or school shootings. All of the people I love are still alive. Who am I to complain? 

But surely I must have the right to honor my feelings. My suffering must count, too, if God cares about all of us. So I'm going to write about what's upsetting me, without apologizing for it or justifying it or willing myself to be positive. 

This week I will be moving closer to divorce. Filing forms. Getting documents notarized. More tears. More snot. You would think there would be a limit to how much it's possible to cry over something. That 4 years would be more than enough time. I used to pray to God--plead, even--to tell me what I could do that would allow both of us to be happy. Leaving seemed like it would just make us both miserable. And it has. And I don't see an end in sight for me, at least. I'm trying not to blame God or myself. But in this moment, my faith in a happy future is wavering and I feel like I deserve the pain.

I have 2 family members who are currently on the opposite ends of the bipolar spectrum. My brother is trying so hard but still feels terrible.  It hurts me that he's hurting. My dad is manic. Mania feels great for the person experiencing it, but it's hell for the rest of us. But what power do I have to make him see?  If he were my client, I could make him see our psychiatrist, get him on meds. But as a daughter, I am practically useless.

I'm afraid to answer the phone when my parents call. Which makes me feel horribly guilty, because I know their time on earth is limited and I will regret not talking to them more when they're gone. But the call is almost always about something bad. Something I'm expected to fix. Or something I don't want to do. At minimum, I'm supposed to be a receptacle for the stress, but I can't take it. It's too much. I'm not able to function afterwards.  

So I have to be strategic about when I call or when I answer. It has to be a time when it will be OK if I fall apart. But since it's hard to choose something where there's a good chance you'll fall apart, I often forget to call altogether. Which makes me feel even guiltier and reactivates the vicious cycle. I wish it could be easier. I wish there were some way I could be a good daughter but also protect myself. 

It takes a lot of work to maintain my health. Since I have GERD, allergies, and exercise-induced asthma, I have to take shots, nasal sprays, pills, steroid inhalers, rescue inhalers. I'm not supposed to have coffee and chocolate. I can't eat or drink 3 hours before exercise or bed time. If I drink too much during a match, I'll even throw up water. It's frustrating to have to worry about throwing up every time I play. Or brush my teeth, even. But giving up dental hygiene and tennis are not options.

My mental health is always hanging in the balance. It's work to maintain my sleep cycle because of my night owlness. I can't miss any of my drugs. I can't miss Ativan for even one night. I meditate, pray, journal, exercise, and all of the other self-care strategies. But despite my best efforts, I can never make it to the end of the term without burning out before I cross the finish line. I can't handle the stress of my life. I can't get out of bed right now. It makes me feel weak. Inadequate. Unable to do the basic tasks of life.

Just got a call from my lawyer friend that my paperwork looks good to go, so I guess I'll be filing for divorce this week for sure. If you believe in God, feel free to say a prayer for me. If you don't, send positive vibes my way.

2014 Blog for Mental Health Project

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”  
A Canvas of the Minds

Sometimes we make the most important decisions in our lives without consciously knowing why we made them at the time.

I knew that I wanted to become a psychologist since I was in high school. At the time I wasn't fully aware of being depressed in the clinical sense. Being anxious was so much a part of my personality that I didn't think I had an anxiety disorder. And I definitely wasn't aware of any mental illness in my family. I had no idea at the time that depression, bipolar disorder, and anxiety would impact every aspect of my life--in both positive and negative ways.

It's probably not surprising that I have been negatively affected by mental illness. But as I write this post, I realize that there have been positive things about it, too. I have learned the most important lessons in life through suffering and loss.

Even as a therapist, when I heard clients make comments about how they had a bad week, it didn't fully register how horrible that week was for them. In part because clients don't elaborate unless you ask them to. Unless they are certain that you really want to know. And because they are embarrassed about it. Ashamed, even. But after going through my worst depression 5 years ago, I have much more compassion when clients make these offhanded comments.

I admit, during that period there were times when suicide would cross my mind. But there were two things that kept me from seriously entertaining it. One is that my dad would be devastated, and I feared he would never recover if I went through with it. 

The other reason is that if I took my own life, it would undermine everything I ever said to my clients about how pain passes. That one day when they look back they will realize how strong they were at the time. That they will learn lessons from their suffering that it takes some people a lifetime to learn. How can you believe anything your therapist said if she committed suicide? That would be the ultimate betrayal.

So I spent months willing myself to get better.  I went back to therapy, started meds again, meditated and prayed, and forced myself to play tennis and spend time with friends. And I did get better. And everything I said about realizing my strength, becoming more compassionate, and acquiring wisdom were all true. I would have never chosen depression, but we usually don't choose the experiences that teach us the most about life.

People often ask me how I can listen to client's problems all day long. In all honesty, I can't imagine what else I would do for a living. It feels more like psychology chose me.  And when I hear a client's story, I always have hope that together we can change the plot for the better. After all, I always root for the underdog. I am the eternal optimist. And I never back down from a challenge.

There was a time when I would never have told this story about my struggles with depression and anxiety to my students or clients. Or even friends and family. But now I want to share it with the world, because every act of courage benefits someone else. My blog is proof of that.

Patience Isn't Always a Virtue

I looked it up. While it is included in some lists, in Catholicism the 7 virtues are faith, hope, charity (the theological virtues), prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance (the cardinal virtues). Since I at least grew up Catholic, I'm going to use this list, because I'm not patient at all, and I don't want to be unvirtuous.

My greatest strength is probably fortitude. I never give up in a match, even if I'm down 0-6, 0-5. I continue to play tennis, even though it makes me throw up. I will do everything I can to make a relationship work, even if it's a lost cause.

Last week I had a client who started antidepressants and experienced a sudden onset of suicidal ideation, which sometimes happens in young adults. As she was describing what it felt like, I realized that I had experienced the same thing when I got back on meds, even though I was not a young adult. But I was on a higher dose than I was before. In retrospect, it turns out it was too high; I had a lot of side effects that I had attributed to the depression.

I didn't think much of it at the time because I always have some suicidal ideation when I'm depressed, but it was definitely different. It was what psychologists call ego dystonic. As my client put it, my brain told me in the most illogical way that suicide was the next logical step to whatever I was thinking. If I didn't have the energy to walk over to the fridge and get a milkshake, my brain would say Well why don't you just jump off the balcony, then? It freaked me out. I would yell back. No! I don't want to do that! I want to live! 

So I fought the thoughts off until the meds kicked in. At the time I thought I was weak, but when I recognized myself in my client's story, I realized how strong I am.

Patience, on the other hand, is a different story. Patience also requires strength, but in a quieter, more peaceful way. And as you know if you've been reading my blog, I am loud and obsessive. You can't will yourself to be patient the way you can will yourself to save break points. In fact, although this blog is about practicing other quiet, peaceful things like self-acceptance, compassion, gratitude, and forgiveness, I have never included patience in that list until today. Probably because it seems impossible to achieve--even for a warrior like me.

As I mentioned in the post on obsessiveness, I can only focus when I meditate about 5% of the time. But it still works. I am definitely less anxious, better able to tolerate my emotions, and more compassionate. Maybe patience is the same way. Maybe if you at least have the intention of being patient, even if you suck at it, it will still work. That's what they say in Buddhism--in a less judgmental way, of course.

Might as well give it a shot. Whether or not it's a virtue, it's still a good quality to have.

Memory

I love the movie "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." I love the idea that even if you take the memories away, the love between two people remains. And I like the message that we must experience pain in order to experience joy. But lately I've been wishing I could erase the painful memories from the past 10 years.

Let me first say that I am thankful for my memory, lest I be struck down with dementia for being ungrateful. It helps in my job because clients expect you to remember everything they've told you from the first session on. And when you see 30+ clients a week, that's a lot of stuff to remember.

The most painful memories help me to have more compassion for other people's suffering. When I was depressed, I could not conceive of any possible value that could come from my pain. But now that my brother is depressed, I am better able to help him because I know what he's going through. You're not afraid to sit with other people's pain once you know firsthand how lonely it is.

My memory also helps me capture the intensity of my feelings when I write about my experiences, which hopefully makes my blog better. I am guessing that most writers have good memories and intense feelings. But sometimes it can be a tough combination. That's probably why writers are so neurotic.

Lately there have been some memories that I wish I could forget. Or at least remember without feeling like it's happening all over again. It's almost like having PTSD, reliving these hurtful experiences every time they pop up.

Yesterday I remembered how my first husband told me while we were separating that I have a heart of gold. He said it was the happiest day of his life on our wedding day and the saddest day of his life when we signed the divorce papers. How can you feel that way about someone and still choose to leave them? What good does it do to have a heart of gold if it doesn't help you make a relationship work? In a way I am thankful that he was loving through the entire process, but sometimes I wish I didn't remember how I felt at all.

The letting go process in my second marriage has been just as painful. It hurts just as much now as it did 4 years ago. It still makes me cry. Every step we take away from each other renews my sadness. When will this grief subside? That whole one year estimation is a bunch of crap. I wish I could just forget the past 4 years--all the pain and all the stupid things I did to try to ease the pain that just made things worse.

The only memories I would miss from the past 4 years are the first trip when my mixed doubles team went to districts, getting Federer's autograph at the Cincy tournament, and UVA's basketball season this year. Which makes me seem like some superficial sports fanatic, but it's true. In my defense, part of what made these experiences memorable is that I shared them with my friends and family. I'm sure there were other positive memories worth holding on to during that period of time, but I can't think of any at the moment. Right now, all I remember is the pain.

The only good thing about this second divorce is that it helps me understand how you can love someone and still let them go, even when it breaks your heart. I'm not angry at my first husband any more for leaving. I understand why he did it. It doesn't alleviate the pain of either loss to realize this, but I have a better appreciation for how complex love and marriage are. That's something.

Today I'm not able to do the things I try to focus on in my blog--practice self-forgiveness, self-acceptance, and self-compassion. But maybe tomorrow I'll feel differently.

Let it Go

I love Disney movies. And Disney's latest, Frozen, is one of my favorites, not only because the music is awesome, but also because it is a story about self-acceptance and love between two sisters.

Elsa is the heir to the throne in the kingdom of Arendale. She has spent her life locked in her room, afraid of her power to create ice and snow, because she accidentally injured her sister Anna when they were children. At her coronation, Elsa's powers are revealed when she sets off an eternal winter. When she sings the theme song, she is exhilarated that she no longer has to hide her secret. She creates her own palace of ice and snow on an isolated mountain top.

Although Elsa is free from her secret, she still doesn't want to let her sister into her life. And ironically, in her effort to protect her sister, she accidentally freezes Anna's heart, which almost kills her. But even then, she still tries to push Anna away, for fear that her powers will do even more damage.

It is not until the end of the movie, when Anna sacrifices her life to save her sister, that Elsa understands that surrendering to love is the answer to controlling her power. She is then able to unfreeze the kingdom and open the doors to the palace.

Tonight my brother called me because he has been depressed and struggling to make it to work. For the first time I shared with him how I had gone through the same thing 5 years ago in an effort to convince him to get on meds and to reassure him that this is not a sign of weakness. He was surprised that I had suffered as he had and that he had not known about it. But it wasn't his fault, because I didn't tell any of my brothers about it.

Although I had been on and off meds for several years, this episode forced me to accept that they would have to be a permanent part of my life. As humbling as this was to acknowledge, it was also freeing. But even after I felt better, I still remained in my kingdom of isolation, afraid to let people know.

Writing this blog is the first time I have been completely honest about how dark my depression was. And perhaps sharing my story will save someone else. But in this moment, the most important thing to me is that it saves my brother's life.

We all have the power to create barriers to keep our loved ones away from the darkness inside us. Yet the real answer is to let go and to bring that darkness into the light.

Inner Beauty

There's a lot of talk these days about redefining beauty to include people who don't look like supermodels. And more of an emphasis on inner beauty, as indicated by the number of FB posts of people with some kind of physical defect.  ("Like" if you agree! Ignore if you're a terrible person.)

I'm all for focusing on inner beauty, but this tactic is problematic because, by definition, inner beauty is not something that you can see in a picture. I guess we're supposed to infer that the person is beautiful on the inside, but that doesn't tell us what inner beauty actually "looks" like. So I've been thinking about people who exemplify inner beauty to me.

When I was in grad school I met this guy who had a cappuccino cart in the hotel lobby where I was on vacation. This was the era before Starbucks, so I had never heard of a cappuccino.  He was thrilled to tell me what it was, how it's made, and what makes it so great. After that, I bought a cappuccino every day while I was there. And it tasted that much better because of how much he enjoyed making them. I thought it was a thing of beauty to see someone who loved their job that much.

I don't remember what he looked like.

I had a similar experience once while I was picking up a package at the post office, which always annoys me. There was a long line, too. But the woman behind the counter seemed so happy to give everyone their packages that I couldn't help but smile. I don't think it was because she loved her job like Mr. Cappuccino; I think that's just who she was. And there is something beautiful about someone who can be happy, regardless of what they're doing.

I don't remember what she looked like, either.

When I was depressed 5 years ago, I had 2 friends who called me every day to check on me. Ordinarily I can talk up a storm, but I didn't have a whole lot to say when all I had done that day was lie on the couch and will myself to exist. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember that they were there for me.

When I was depressed back in December, I hardly saw anyone because tennis season was over, I was off for winter break, and everyone was busy preparing for the holidays. Once again, I had one friend who checked on me regularly, even though she didn't really know me that well at the time. Occasionally I would venture out of the house and we would see a movie or have dinner.  If it weren't for her, I could have easily gone weeks without any human interaction.

I am blessed to have such beautiful friends.

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but sometimes you have to be there to fully appreciate what it means to be in the presence of beauty.