Beyond Blue: January 2007 Archives

I'm a pilgrimage kind of gal. Throughout my life, I've flocked to places marked with divine fingerprints: Lourdes, France, where the muddy hole Bernadette Soubirous dug 150 years ago became a river of healing waters; Mexico City, home to the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, who appeared to Juan Diego atop Tepeyac Hill in December of 1531; Lisieux, France, the birthplace of my patron saint, Theresa of the Child Jesus; and Calcutta, India, where I prayed with Mother Teresa and her Sisters of Charity for a week during Christmas break in grad school.

Pope John Paul II once wrote that a pilgrimage is "an exercise of...constant vigilance over one's own frailty, of interior preparation for a change of heart."

That's essentially why, in a bad depression last winter, I traveled back to my alma mater, Saint Mary's College (in South Bend, Indiana): by looking over the St. Joe River behind Our Lady of Loretto Church and climbing the staircase of my dorm, I could literally touch the lessons I learned almost 14 years ago and see the faces who helped transform my heart.

Although South Bend is the armpit of this country (sorry guys!), it is home to all the key players--the guiding lights or sages--who accompanied me in my first mega spiritual awakening: the four years I obsessed over the question, "Who do I want to be...for real?"

From my religious studies advisor I learned the importance of words and poetry and mystics. He repeated verses over and over again, until they seeped into my unconscious mind, and imprinted messages on my soul like the one from T. S. Eliot's "Four Quartets" that begins "I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope...."

From another professor I learned the importance of gray matter: that nothing is ever black and white; that a nuanced approach to life will inevitably save you from the very frustration and inconvenience you were running away from with zebra-stripe thinking; and that acknowledging life's contradictions diminishes its disappointments.

But the person who I desperately needed to see was my first therapist--a woman who, suspecting there was more to my struggle than staying sober, introduced me to the different faces of mental illness, educated me on the physiological nature of depression, and guided me to places of healing.

I needed to hug her.

I craved a session with her in the worst way, like a ten-year-old homesick at summer camp. A letter wasn't going to suffice. I wanted to be back in that green leather chair across from her, where I first confronted my dark side, my fear of being anything less than perfect.

As I began to explain to her what had happened to me over the last year, I sensed my fear disengage from my body--so that I could look at it and call it a jerk. She's brilliant that way. With one seemingly innocent question, she'll move you from a place of confusion to clarity. And by articulating ugly thoughts, you can grasp a hint of beauty on the horizon that awaits you.

That's what good therapy does, and effective pilgrimages do. In the words of Pope John Paul II, they are "an exercise of...constant vigilance over one's own frailty, of interior preparation for a change of heart." By reminding you of where you've been, these "God places" point you to a better place. To healing waters, to an apparition's wisdom, or to a miracle that can happen in a hug and a question.

Check out more suggestions for staying well this winter in Beliefnet's special Winter Health Week package.

One Bible verse disturbs me more than any other.

It's not the one telling me to sell my laptop computer and king-size bed because "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God" (Mark 10:25).

It's the words the prophet Simeon used--as he took the baby Jesus into his arms on the day the Catholic Church celebrates as the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord--to foretell Mary's sorrow: "And a sword will pierce your own soul, too" (Luke 2:35).

Psychologists have noted that there is no pain worse than Mary's--grieving the death of a child. Surely a runner up is seeing a son or daughter suffer, and being incapable of stopping or lessening it in some way.

My son David inherited my genes that predispose him to all sorts of fun stuff like mood, sensory-integration, and anxiety disorders. Even before he emerged from my womb in a scary emergency C-section--where I heard a roomful of doctors and nurses yell through their green masks, "Come on, baby, don't do this! Hang in there, Sweetheart!"--I knew I was in for a ride.

I just didn't realize how much it would hurt.

When he was two I took David to see a behavioral specialist because I knew his tantrums weren't normal.

"Describe them," the doctor said.

"For well over an hour he will scream, writhe and thrash his entire body, yelling with so much intensity that I check to see if he has broken a bone. A few times, I paged his pediatrician because I feared that he swallowed coins or something else on the floor and was suffering from bowel obstruction. The books I read say to ignore it. But I'm worried he’s going to get a concussion the way he pounds his head against the wall or the kitchen tile floor."

"If he is banging his head that hard, then the best thing to do is to hold him tightly until he calms down," she said.

A few days later, during his next anxiety attack, I went to hold my son. He tried to squirm out of my arms, thrashing and writhing, but I held each of his limbs tightly so he couldn't escape. Controlling the wild 30 pounds was more difficult than swimming 25 meters of a pool with a panicked football player under my right arm (part of the test I passed to get my lifeguard license back in high school).

As I hugged him, tucking his little hands into mine, not only did I feel his anxiety, I experienced my own childhood anxiety more acutely than had I been on a couch next to an expert hypnotist. With tears rolling down my cheeks, I became the scared eight-year-old shrieking with terror in the middle of the night, sitting up in my twin bed with beads of sweat dripping from my forehead as I held a plastic rosary in my hand.

You would think the Hail Marys and Our Fathers I uttered while trying to fall asleep would protect me from the anxiety induced by my recurring dream, but it didn't. As soon as my head hit the pillow, the image was always the same: a line--of rope or thread or yarn--moving from side to side in a slow, methodical tempo like the needle of a metronome, gradually becoming entangled as the rhythm evaporated and a chaotic mess ensued. All order was lost, and the rushed madness resulted in a ball of crinkled trash.

"It was only a dream," my mom would tell me, as I trembled and sobbed in her arms. "Dreams can't hurt you," she said, as she combed my thick hair with her fingers and wiped the tears from my eyes.

But I knew better. My dreams were Simeon's prophecies...of fears that would become reality, of order that would end in chaos, of my future.

As one scared kid trying to comfort another, I rocked David in my arms.

"It's okay," I said, trying to calm him and control his flailing limbs. "Breathe in," I whispered. "Breathe out."

How badly I wanted to take away his anxiety, to throw it into my own collection of issues, to feel the fear for him so he wouldn't have to.

But that would mean no resurrection. Because Jesus couldn't have risen from the dead--restoring us to peace and serenity--without the crucifixion: that Good Friday, where Mary stood underneath his cross bleeding from her heart, feeling as if a sword had pierced her soul.

The following passage is from one of my favorite authors, Joyce Rupp, in her book "Your Sorrow Is My Sorrow," about the seven sorrows of Mary:

"Our Simeon messages are invitations to live each day gratefully and to enter each day fully. They can gift us with deeper awareness of how much love we have taken for granted: our good health, our job, our home, our loved ones. When bad news jars our peace and crowds out our joy, it is a wakeup call: Attend! Notice! Appreciate! Affirm! Beyond the shock of the bad news and its consequences comes the invitation to be grateful for what we simply assumed was ours for the keeping.

"If, like Mary, we live in the fullness of each day, mindfully aware and grateful for that which brings us meaning, happiness, contentment, and security, we will not be spared the devastating emotions that spring up at a time of unwanted news, but we will also not be burdened with guilt or regrets over not having recognized and appreciated what is being taken from us."

If I counted up all the minutes I've spent staring into a flame, I wonder how many years of my life that would be. Certainly more than the hours I've spent brushing my teeth or combing my hair. It would probably even surpass the combination of bath and shower time.

For some reason (like most Catholics) I assume God hears me better if I stick my face in a hot glowing body of flame.

Is that because Jesus calls himself the "light of the world" (John 8:12)? Because Paul instructs the Ephesians to "walk as children of Light" (Ephesians 5:8)? Because Christians light the Paschal Candle on Easter as a symbol of the risen Christ?

Or is it because something about a flame on a candle soothes me in the same way that David's ratty blankie comforts him. The scarlet blaze generates a feeling of hope, of fierce tenacity, that whispers: "you're not off the hook yet...hang in there."

Last year, when I wanted to die as urgently as babies want to be born, a good friend reminded me to look for the light. "No matter how black your darkness is, there is always a speck of light. Keep your eyes on that light."

At first all I could see was the tiniest blip of brightness, like a speck on a photograph that isn't supposed to be there. With more time and prayer and drugs and therapy, light began to trickle in, filling the shadows here and there. And then, ever so gradually, my vision was truly illuminated, so that I not only wanted to be alive, but I could perceive goodness and beauty and love in the people and things around me.

Fire and light take us back to the beginning: to a world that began as one big gas explosion (divided into seven neat days, of course). Sometimes I wonder if my body remembers that--when fire bore life--and reconnects with history in front of a flame.

In each candle I light, I pray for a tiny crumb of hope. I pray for a beginning of light, or a dawn, like the one John of the Cross described where "the mind, in sweet tranquility, is elevated above its comprehension to a divine light." In other words, I pray to feel good and right, though I might not know why that is.

Don't forget to check back all the suggestions for staying well this winter in Beliefnet's special Winter Health Week package!

"A family that vomits together stays together."

That's a modification from Father Peyton's famous line--"A family that prays together stays together"--and sums up our Thanksgiving two years ago, when the whole family (parents and both little virus transporters) caught a nasty flu within ten minutes of each other.

My sister's bathroom had never been so coveted as that evening. (We were traveling, of course.) I sat on the hide-a-bed with two paper bags, one for Katherine and one for me. Eric hugged the toilet with David at his side and an extra paper bag in case both got the urge at the same time.

I'm a wimp--a total pansy--when it comes to colds, viruses, infections, and stomach flus.

I despise blowing my nose, swallowing what feels like shards of glass, feeling my intestines grumble and kick like a fetus inside my womb, and eliminating everything I consume before I've had a chance to taste it. The rest of the six billion people in the world probably feel the same.

What's different for me is that, as a depressive, I rely on lots of techniques to stay sane: a healthy diet, exercise, regular sleep, getting outside, vitamins and minerals. When I'm ill, most of them go out the window.

On sick days, my heart rate (that on normal days I try to raise to 160 beats a minute for at least an hour) rises to no more than 85 for three minutes as I climb the stairs; I can't count on the endorphin buzz or the antidepressant effect felt after my run. The thought of eating turkey and broccoli makes me gag; I'm lucky if I can stomach a few saltines and Sprite. Along that line, the only pills I take are my antidepressants and my mood stabilizer; the vitamin and mineral arsenal have to wait for a stronger digestive system.

So what do I do about my depression on the days that my body won't cooperate?

I lower my expectations. Way way way way down. Like if I fold a load of laundry, that's monumental! If I can get down a half of a bagel (with or without cream cheese), amen!

And I avoid absolutely everything that could possibly trigger anxiety. Like the newspaper headlines about what's totally messed up in the world. On my healthier days, I can read the print and, at least partially, filter out the fear and paranoia the words generate in my fragile brain. When I'm sick, I don't stand a chance. So I let the paper go directly from the driveway to the recycling bin.

Similarly, I steer clear of the people in my life with a high probability of setting me off. It's a boundary thing. (Always is.) I will be forever working on boundary issues. Even in my coffin I suspect I'll be saying things like, "I really don't want to upset you, but this space is set aside for my corpse."

On my good days I use my words to communicate effectively (try to anyway) and don't take things personally (try not to anyway). On my bad days (or sick days), every negative (and positive) comment gets filed as a personal attack. So if my guards are down, and I can't defend my fledgling sense of self, better that I not speak to anyone on the big B (for boundary issue) list.

On sick days I also concentrate on anything positive I can do from my bed with a pan at my side.

Like slowing down my breathing. When people get anxious, they breathe quickly and shallowly, from the upper chest. The body responds with an increase in heart rate, blood pressure and stress hormones. Breath work can be as simple as relaxing your belly and taking a deep breath from the lower abdomen. One exercise is counting to four as you inhale through your nose, and counting to eight, as you exhale through your mouth.

And I can surround myself with people who are on my "H list," for healthy relationships). All I need is my cell phone and a few numbers programmed into it to have an instant support group. Or, if I can avoid the temptation to read negative stuff online, a decent internet connection will immediately connect me with friends and websites (like Beliefnet) that can feed my spirit.

Of course, books were designed to cuddle up with too. Ah, the wisdom in my printed pals. And they are so agreeable. If one say anything remotely disturbing, all I have to do is stop reading. They don't talk back! Not the adult versions anyway. And chances are my paperbacks won't give me the sniffles, unless my two little virus-transporters have touched them.

Check out more suggestions for staying well this winter in Beliefnet's special Winter Health Week package!

"What did you do to get well?" a good friend of mine, who is currently wrestling the demons of depression, asked me the other day. I paused before replying. How do I tell her the truth? That I worked...

Dear God,It's me, Therese (not Margaret). I hate to be a white, whiny, ungrateful pest (I've been called that before). Really, I do. But I'm feeling a bit like Job (you know, from your instruction book, the Bible). First I've...

Eric wants to call this blog "Beyond Blue Balls." That's his way of saying two things: I'm working too much at night, and I'm not meeting his physical needs. If he compared notes with other husbands of sleep-deprived mothers, he...

Eric strongly suggested I order of copy a "Reclaiming Desire: Four Keys to Finding Your Lost Libido," written by Andrew Goldstein, M.D., and Marianne Brandon, Ph.D., cofounders of the Sexual Wellness Center here in Annapolis, Maryland (I can't use the...

Try to find your mojo as you listen to this meditation by Gina Ogden, author of "The Heart and Soul of Sex: Making the ISIS Connection."...

If I collected a nickel for every uninformed statement I've heard about mental illness, I could afford my own psych ward--an entire wing of a hospital.Here are some of my favorites:"People with mental illness are not the only ones who...

While we're on the topic of brain anatomy, have I mentioned my tumor? It's a benign growth in my pituitary gland.Be careful what you pray for. During the year of my depression, I got down on my knees every morning...

Maybe it's because I'm mentally ill myself that I find the behavior of "American Idol's" contestants perfectly normal. Even if the early audition crowd does suck--if they are "humiliations set to music" (according to a "Washington Post" article)--more power to...

Here's a Newsweek interview with Jennifer Crocker, a professor of psychology at the University of Michigan who focuses on self-esteem issues, regarding the treatment of contestants on "American Idol."She believes that the judges' criticism "can hurt people's self-esteem temporarily and...

Last Wednesday a friend of mine died.He was one of the most successful newspaper columnists of his time, the recipient of a Pulitzer Prize, and a comic genius. But I appreciated Art Buchwald most as one of the three "Blues...

Art Buchwald wrote the following as an introduction to a fantastic article in "Psychology Today" (Nov, 1999) called "Celebrity Meltdown: Famous, Important People Who Have Suffered Depression.""I had two depressions, one in 1963 and the other in 1987--the first clinical...

We're in good company! Here's just a preliminary list of famous people who have struggled with mental disorders. Even more are found in the same "Psychology Today" article for which Art Buchwald wrote an introduction.H-HospitalizedSA-Suicide AttemptS-SuicidePublic FiguresBarbara Bush * Former...

In her introduction to "Touched With Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament," psychologist and writer Kay Redfield Jamison writes this:"'We of the craft are all crazy' remarked Lord Byron about himself and his fellow poets. 'Some are affected by...

I always knew that a person had to be without disabilities to work (I'm self-employed) or have health-insurance coverage (I'm on Eric's company plan). But I was reminded today--while renewing my driver's license--that you also need to be perfect in...

According to the Chinese calendar, 2007 is (quite fittingly) the Year of the Pig. This Communist country is getting quite picky with who is allowed to adopt their babies. All persons taking antidepressants are out. But don't feel bad, fellow...

I try not to worry too much about discriminations and uninformed labels here on earth because I know the Kingdom of God is stereotype-free. I was reminded of that as I sang the beautiful lyrics to "One Bread, One Body,"...

Thanks to a reader, Jennifer, for her comment on how Eric's intolerance for clutter could be seen as controlling. It made me think of the correlation between abusive relationships and depression. While I'm happy to report that my marriage is...

Yesterday a friend e-mailed me this: "On Wednesday, I will leave my husband of twelve years. He is a depressive. He uses prescribed medication and has available to him a phalanx of good therapists. But he also self-medicates with alcohol....

I found this interesting article on how depression affects couples: "Depression Fallout: The Impact of Depression on Couples."...

Clearing clutter has got to be the number one tool used by God's watchdog of the pearly gates (St. Peter) to distinguish the advanced souls on earth--the Dalai Lamas with absolutely no attachment to material objects--from their infant brother and...

Even if I fail to effectively de-clutter my home, I'm good at reading about de-cluttering. Two books have been helpful in teaching me what this agonizing task has got to do with mental and spiritual health. In "Make Room for...

It doesn't take much to get this mortal second-guessing herself. One harsh message on the comment board will do it. An African-American woman was offended that I used Martin Luther King, Jr.'s sentiments as a launching pad for my own...

I stayed relatively silent about my depression for two decades because I felt I had no right to complain.Two million children in Africa die a year from Malaria. That's suffering. Mothers risk their lives to give birth in war-torn Iraq....

From my original blog, in case you missed it:I haven't always been so candid about my depression and anxiety. A year ago, while in the eye of the storm, I bailed on delivering the keynote address to a large Catholic...

On "yes" moments, the Swedish diplomat Dag Hammarskjold wrote this in "Markings": I don't know Who--or what--put the question. I don't know when it was put. I don't even remember answering. But at some moment I did answer Yes to...

Our Christmas tree is now on the curb with the rest of the 33 million trees Americans bought this year (according to the National Christmas Tree Association). I'm feeling guilty of course (don't all depressives?) for not being a better...

Now that the Santas and stockings have disappeared to the North Pole along with the holly-jolly tunes and the Salvation Army bells, commercial-savvy marketers reach out in desperation for some holiday or other excuse to make us buy, buy, buy....

One of my all time favorite quotes is from Antoine de Saint-Exupery's "The Little Prince": "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."...

I'm always telling David and Katherine to use their words (instead of whining and screaming), but I'm often afraid to use them myself. Unlike Eric, who vocalizes a resentment before it's had time to fester and start a family, I...

Speaking of using my words, I remember the first time after my big breakdown that I made a conscious effort to voice my frustration.I had just graduated from the hospital outpatient program with the lessons on effective communication fresh on...

I have a friend who refers to his other half as his "solar-powered wife." This sunshine-dependent woman has learned (the hard way of course) that she is a "high-intensity light" human being, a living organism that functions best when exposed...

An epiphany can mean several things: an "Aha!" moment after relentless searching and study, the first time you see something (or someone) in its natural form, or the Christian feast commemorating the visit and adoration of the Christ Child by...

Here are some cool quotes from "The Artist's Way:"I myself do nothing. The Holy Spirit accomplishes all through me.--William BlakeGod becomes an activity in our consciousness.--Joel S. Goldsmith Every blade of grass has its Angel that bends over and whispers,...

Talking to my mom is like reading a chapter of the Big Book (the 12-step Bible). I vented to her yesterday about a spat I had with an in-law. All I wanted her to say was, "You are right. On...

"Loving them when you don't like them" is especially useful to remember when doing such maternal tasks as potty-training a stubborn three-year-old, or dragging two oppositional kids through the grocery store. It can work when dealing with explosive personalities within...

The poem "Anyway" is basically an elaboration of the Serenity Prayer, which I say all the time.In "Parenthood and the Serenity Prayer" I explain how I used it to potty train, or at least attempt to potty train, David when...

When I simply can't be benevolent to friends and family, I at least avoid trigger points. For example, sometime in November I told Eric that I would not be walking through the automatic doors of the Annapolis Westfield Mall from...

Any buzz I had going from my HappyLite was definitely killed by Fr. Dave's holiday e-mail. A missionary who travels all around the world, his annual update read a little like a "State of the World" address. And if you've...

While we're on the topic, here's a great piece on the "Top Ten Unusual Ways to Give."...

Speaking of charity, here is a story from my old blog, in case you missed it:Ghandi once wrote that "the best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others." The "happy doctors," scholars who study...

New moms are at risk for developing serious mental illness--not only the postpartum depression commonly understood, thanks to the advocacy of Brooke Shields and her memoir "Down Came the Rain," but also schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. Last month, Danish researchers...

Depression affects women almost twice as often as men, with about one in four women suffering from it in her lifetime. While depression may strike at any time, studies show that women are particularly vulnerable during their childbearing years. Two...

I think I overshot on last year's New Year's resolutions. Did I really think I could achieve a dozen goals? Here's how I did:1. Commit to a charity (happened--if driving my mom-in-law around one day a week qualifies.)2. Meditate every...

Check it out: In her Beliefnet article "Resolutions That Stick," M.J. Ryan gives us some pointers on how to follow through with this year's goals....

For 2007, my only resolution is to become more close-minded. I suffer far less when I detach myself from everyone's opinion of my health, my parenting, and my faith. Had I not been so open-minded--trying every and all suggestions thrown...