Beyond Blue: February 2007 Archives

Experiments have found that ordinary people tell about two lies every ten minutes. I don't see how that's possible, as I've been alone the last hour writing this piece (oh dear, am I making it up as I go along?). However, the half-hour before that, I averaged about fifteen per minute.

"What are you eating, Mom?" (I'm shoving chocolate-dipped macaroons into my mouth at an ugly pace)

"Carrots, want some?"

Robert Feldman, a social psychologist at the University of Massachusetts found that liars tend to be more popular than honest people (think politics). Because social skills involve telling people what they want to hear (things that aren't, um, true). The more social grace a person possesses, experiments say, the more willingness and ability he has to deceive.

But some lies are meant as acts of love. Truly. Parents lie to protect their kids from distressing or harmful facts (your uncle crosses his eyes because of a vision impairment...not because he's a sloppy drunk; daddy went on a business trip...not down the road to a hotel because we can't figure out whether or not to divorce).

Ever since I got summoned to jury duty a month ago, I've been paying attention to lies. More than a few people said to me, "Just say something racist. You'll get out of it."

Um. Yeah. I could do that. But I have something inside me called a Catholic conscience (and it's overactive during Lent). My conscience makes a dinging sound every time I approach the danger zone: where my depression is hovering like a hawk to feast on all the guilt (and I've given up trying to feel less guilty).

So, these are the lies my Catholic conscience condones:

Perpetuating myths of Santa, the Easter Bunny, and all kinds of fairies (Tooth, Diaper, Binky); fibbing to the kids for reasons of discipline ("Your teeth will rot if you don't brush"), nutrition ("Mommy's eating carrots, not frozen Kit-Kats"), health ("The shots won't hurt"), or recreation ("Barney will make you stupid and unpopular"); deceiving for the purpose of surprise birthday parties or similar ocassions (my aunt Kay can't even do that, God love her); "forgetting" certain details of my mental health record (when dealing with bureaucratic crap like renewing my driver's license or background checks for a part-time job); and telling falsehoods for convenience matters ("Yes, this luggage has been with me the whole time,"...except for when the stranger next to me watched it so I could change my babies' diapers with two hands.)

Of course there are also those forced compliments (the ugly baby dilemma): including reactions to artistic expressions by people who shouldn’t hold a paint brush or a microphone but really like to ("I love it!" I say to the novice artist who shows me a portrait of moi that resembles Michael Jackson with Hillary Swank cheek bones; "You sounded great," I say to my sister who sings the national anthem when she gets drunk); feedback on attire ("Yes, the pants are flattering," I say to a friend who has just bought a ridiculously expensive pair of pants which add at least ten pounds to her butt); and weight matters ("No, you don't look heavier," I say to a sister who has gone up at least one size).

Then there are the deceptions that set off my depression alarm: lying for a co-worker who is having an affair (can't do it, get someone else); hiding something from Eric that he deserves to know; ignoring a pretty serious breach of trust in a friendship; denying that a friend's statement hurt my feelings when it did; pretending I'm okay with a neighbor whom I've very pissed off at because he stole my babysitter.

But what do you do when the truth hurts? When "honesty bumps up against other values"? asks Bella DePaulo, a social psychologist at the University of California at Santa Barbara who once conducted a study in which she asked people to recall the worst lie told them, and the worst lie they ever told. Many young people said that the worst lie was told by a parent, but DePaulo found that the parent thought that lying was the right thing to do, that they weren't deceptions but acts of love.

I couldn't make a racist statement to get out of jury duty. It's just not me. And my letter failed--the one explaining that I might not be an ideal candidate, given my psychiatric history in the last year.

So there I was listening to the case, hoping that I would recognize the judge, the defense lawyer, the state attorney, or the defendant (like from the waiting room of my psychiatrist).

My case involved a motorcycle accident, in which the passenger died. The prosecutor argued that the driver was drunk while operating his Harley Davidson, which skidded off an off-ramp. (The passenger died instantly after hitting a guardrail.)

"Since this accident involves alcohol," the judge addressed the jury pool, "would anyone have any reason that would keep them from impartial judgment."

I stood up and made my way to the judge, two lawyers, and defendant.

"Sir," I said, "as a recovering alcoholic, I tend to be very judgmental towards drunks who do stupid things."

"I see," he said. "But do you think you could put that behind you and try to judge this case fairly?"

"I will certainly try. But, sir, it's kind of like being an ex-smoker...in a bar."

The defense lawyer glared at the judge with eyes that said, "Don't even think about putting this chick on the jury."

I walked back to my seat with a smile because I knew I had just scored. But I was slightly embarrassed by what I had just said, and how it came out so naturally.

Growing up in an alcoholic family and enduring nineteen years of drunken holidays and dinners where I was the only sober one had left me with a few bruises. Almost all my compassion was used up in this area.

But maybe I shouldn't have been so matter-of-fact.

A few days later, I read the details of the case in the paper, and I wanted so badly to take back my calloused and disparaging words.

The passenger who died wasn't some fellow drunk picked up at a bar, like I thought. It was his wife. And the defendant said the only drink he had that day was one to toast his wife's birthday.

"How many times do you have to learn this lesson?" I asked myself. "You can't rush to judgment until you have all the details. And even then, it's always best to err on the side of compassion." My friend and mentor Mike taught me that.

I had just finished my article about my three biggest fears in raising a daughter today--Britney, Paris, and Lindsey--when I checked out the brilliant monologue by Craig Ferguson on YouTube.

He says something like this, for all of you who can't listen to the entire twelve-minute clip: "I'm no longer going to make fun of Britney, because I was once there."

As a recovering alcoholic and as a depressive, I was so moved by his words, his humility, his poise.

How brave of him, as a respected comedian, to say: "Guys, lets not judge, because we don't exactly have it together either. And there but by the grace of God, go I."

We've had some fantastic dialogue on the comments boards of "Mind Over Broken Leg?" "He Had It Coming," and "Hardly a Secret." I've so enjoyed reading them because I struggle with where to draw the line regarding the power of the mind.

I am impressed by all the intelligent and nuanced remarks regarding this very complicated topic.

Especially articulate was reader Alison (a depressed writer like me! Go to her website by clicking here...very cool!) when she wrote the following on the comment board of "Hardly a Secret":

"One way of looking at it is that visualization is a lens. Before we use it, we might not see the opportunities and the path that are already in front of us. After we use it, things suddenly become much clearer, and we can walk more confidently without fear of tripping. Or, to paraphrase an old cliche, perhaps the law of attraction means that we can will the door to open. But we still have to walk through it.

"Of course, as someone with depression, I find that visualization isn't the only answer. Rather, it's the lens, and medication is the frame. I could hold up the lens to my eye all day, but that would be pretty exhausting, and it would be hard to do everything one-handed. Medication is the frame that lets the lens rest in place so I can have both hands free."

And I appreciate reader Maria (on the comment board of "Mind Over Broken Leg?") telling me to have more patience with visualization and positive thinking.

Patience did not arrive in my DNA (hence the challenge of mental illness and motherhood). The other day, when I couldn't build a website in five minutes, I threw up my arms and said, "Forget it!"

Eric laughed hysterically and then said, "You really gave that a chance."

Yes, mindful meditation and visualization work better with long-term goals, not immediate ones (like expecting to be on "Oprah" in two weeks with the right mental picture).

I apologize, in general, if I seem to be bashing New Agers. Because I really do endorse meditation, mindfulness, yoga, positive thinking, and visualization. It's just that I have seen people use the law of attraction to dump their responsibilities on others.

Take my friend Sue from Nebraska. According to her dad, paying for health insurance is like asking for an accident to happen. (By worrying about "what if," you materialize your fear into a real crisis.) But an investment advisor told her to forget about retirement planning if her dad wasn't insured. Any savings would most likely go toward settling an atrocious hospital bill (not that anything was going to transpire). To clear her conscious in the event that her dad did get sick (as most of us do), Sue decided to shell out the cash for his insurance.

Same deal with tax returns. Sue's dad believed that proper visualization would take care of those. Which means that my friend got stuck filing five returns this year (one for herself and four for her dad, to cover the last few years when visualization failed.)

And I guess with every year I work at my depression, I grow a little less tolerant of judgmental statements made by well-intentioned but ignorant folks with regard to mental illness: "If you could only master your thoughts and control your emotions, you wouldn't suffer," or "By saying you are bipolar, you inhibit yourself from healing." That sort of thing. I've also heard New Age friends accuse rape victims of attracting the tragedy to themselves. Last time I checked, those kinds of allegations weren't found in Jesus' Sermon on the Mount.

However, the opposite is a nightmare too. I know too many people who live as victims, blaming the world for wronging them in every which way. I certainly have been guilty of this at times. (See my "Dear God" letter.) If I were to choose between being deserted on an island with a New Age quack (again, not saying all New Agers are quacks) or a "victim" of everything, I'd take the New Ager in a heartbeat. (As long as she doesn't insist that I build the bloody boat because she is too busy visualizing it.)

But where do you draw the line?

When can you say to the "victim", "Get up off your butt and do something about your problem!" without coming across as Dr. Phil on a bad day? Is it ever right to tell someone, "If you learned to be grateful, maybe bad things wouldn't happen so often" or "By complaining all the time, you're attracting these things." How long do you stick with a mental picture before you abandon it? When is it time to abort the visualization because whatever you were going for (like an "Oprah" appearance) isn't happening?

Oh heck, maybe I need to go back to my support groups and get squared away again. Maybe I'm reading too much again (that can be dangerous).

Anyone want to help me out with your take on this conundrum?

While we're on the topic of spiritual communication, I have wanted to say for some time that nothing pleases me more than to read on the various message boards notes like this: "I stumbled across your post when looking for something else, and it is exactly what I needed to hear."

I believe that most coincidences are mini-miracles.

Take the story of how I met my guardian Angel Ann, or how Chris LaPanta was there to save little Will from drowning on Ash Wednesday, or when Rose Nowak sent me a medal of St. Therese at a critical time in my depression.

Last winter, while reading Deepak Chopra's book "The Spontaneous Fulfillment of Desire: Harnessing the Infinite Power of Coincidence," I started a "coincidence log," as he suggests, where I'd jot down my intention and then what transpired.

My first entry: "Intention: to get a part-time tutoring job."

The very next day I went running, and passed a guy (actually, he passed me) who directed the Academic Center at the Naval Academy. I asked this friend of a friend if he knew of any tutoring positions.

"Funny you should ask," he said. "Yesterday I talked to the director of the Writing Center, and they just received some funding that allows them to hire some part-time tutors. He asked me if I knew of anyone."

Wow. I liked this Deepak exercise!

Eric (the aquaintence, not my hubby Eric) gave me the guy's e-mail, and I set up an interview with him. The next day, I went running again. In front of me was Eric, again, walking with a young man in uniform.

"Eric," I said. "I don't see you for months, and then two days in a row."

"How ironic," he said, pointing to the man next to him. "This is Chip Crane, who directs the Writing Center.”

"Oh hi, Therese," Chip said, shaking my hand. "We're set to meet tomorrow morning, right?"

Right. And that's when I was hired as a part-time writing tutor.

What do you think? Are coincidences are mini-miracles?

Up until I reached drinking age (three years after I actually quit drinking), I hated sharing my birthday. I figured my twin sister and I got half the cash in our birthday cards as our two older sisters. But now...

Relax...have fun. It seems like an easy enough way to prevent and relieve depression. But my last two date nights with Eric haven't gone so well. We spent our Valentine's Day dinner listening to the couple next to us get...

The date night before Valentine's Day was the evening Eric and I almost got shot. Again, in an effort to put our worries and responsibilities aside for a moment and have fun. Psychologists advice against talking about your kids on...

Celebrations of all kinds--but preferably without druggie gunmen and nasty brides breaking up over chocolate tortes--have been known to fire up neurotransmitters in the brain and protect brain cells in the prefrontal cortex from shrinkage and death. When people sing,...

There's a big secret out there--"The Secret"--waiting to be discovered by all of us who want a better, easier life.Rhonda Byrne, an Australian filmmaker, has repackaged the ancient philosophy of the "law of attraction" and the power of positive thinking...

As an adolescent I loved wearing ashes on my forehead to cover up my oily pimples. In high school, Ash Wednesday got a toast to the beginning of those two-hour Stations of the Cross on Fridays, which shortened each class...

For me Lent is about emptying--a glass, a basket, a soul--so that it can be filled up again...with wine (or sparkling cider), peeps (think Easter basket), and hope. The forty days before Easter is one big humbling exercise--where you remind...

I'm sure glad my friend Eileen isn't asked to give many eulogies, because they'd all sound like this: "It's a bummer he's gone, but he had it coming to him."An avid disciple of medical intuitive Caroline Myss, Eileen believes all...

I used to attend a weekly candlelight yoga class. Every Friday evening I would seek courage in warrior pose, stability in tree pose, and peace in lotus pose. And for what seemed like eternity I wondered, "What am I doing...

Today I recognize how distorted my thinking was back then, and I cringe when I read it.But like an anorexic who thinks more weight loss will make her beautiful, suicidal folks are locked on death as the solution.It's difficult for...

No need to buy a parrot when you have an inquisitive five-year-old boy. "What does 'stressed out' mean, Mom?" asked David the other day. "You and Dad say it all the time." "It means...'tired,'" I answered. "Then I'm stressed out,"...

Then again, maybe we shouldn't blame stress on technology and taxing jobs. Maybe if we weren't fretting over 350 e-mails in our inbox, then we'd worry about something else because we have primitive, monkey brains. In "The Emotional Brain," Joseph...

Yeterday I mentioned Talia Mana's blog, and now I'll share that she just interviewed me on blogging about depression. Her website, the Centre for Emotional Well-Being, is full of interesting research, commentary, and discussions. She and I have decided to...

This just in from "Time" magazine: the brain can be rewired. Replacing the dogma that the adult brain is immutable, recent research in neuroscience has discovered the brain's capacity to change in structure and function according to experience and thoughts.In...

Okay. I get all of it. The scientific evidence that we can, in fact, change our brain with our thoughts. But this very study almost killed me last year.I tried for months and months and more months to stop thinking...

I want to reiterate that I am a huge supporter of mindful meditation and cognitive-behavioral therapy. It's just that they alone weren't able to treat my depression.Here's a great website on mindfulness-based cognitive-behavioral therapy, an effective blend between mindful meditation...

In order to move beyond their dark days, most depressives master the lesson on how to make lemonade from lemons.For Valentine's Day, here's a romantic tale on just that: how a friend of mine turned an embarrassing situation into the...

Granted, most marriages don't start out (or if they do, they don't stay for long) in that Disney-type "the universe has aligned now that we've met and as long as we're together there is only sunshine ahead" mentality. Which is...

If preschool Valentines are any measure of a mother's performance (which they are around here), then I'm in much better shape this year than I was the morning of my first Cupid competition.Three years ago, I was a sleep-deprived, hormonally...

Learning to read the daily newspaper as a depressive is like learning to feed the ducks in Annapolis without getting crapped on by the seagulls: it demands good timing, a certain strategy, and an obnoxiously wide hat (to shield your...

This passage from Kahlil Gibran's "The Prophet" is where I'm going with this wide hat, container lady, Michelin Man stuff:"You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a...

Sometimes the headlines can work to your advantage.Take the bizarre story about the astronaut love triangle. After reading how Lisa Nowak (a Naval Academy grad) drove cross-country in diapers, I thought to myself, maybe I'm more normal than I had...

I've never been so excited to freeze my buns off. Ever since the temperatures dropped into the single digits (with wind chill) a few days ago, I've been dancing around the house in my Irish wool sweater singing, "We're not...

By the way, Pat Robertson says he now believes in global warming....

My heart bleeds for reader Kate after reading her despondent comments on this post. You say that no one could understand your despair. I have no doubt you feel completely alone in your battle. But I'm pretty sure a few...

I wish psychiatrists sent depressives home with instructions on when to go to the hospital similar to the ones obstetricians give to pregnant women once they reach 37 weeks of gestation: when your contractions last for a minute each and...

Here is what J. Raymond DePaulo Jr., M.D. says about hospitalization in his book, "Understanding Depression":"The need for hospitalization arises if a person is endangered because he or she is suicidal, or so paranoid or so irritable that he or...

Thanks to reader Rich for his question about how much to disclose about mental health in a job interview. If he's going for a position in a psychiatric unit, he asked, is it okay to tell them about the mental...

Maybe the general public (and especially the U.S. government) isn't as wigged out by mental illness as I thought. Surely a letter to the Circuit Court for Anne Arundel County stating that I had been hospitalized within the year for...

Two boys went to bed with fevers last night. One is dead. The other is my David. I have to wonder if the guardian angels are vacationing in Florida this month, because too many little guys have fallen asleep for...

Whenever I hear of a story like I did today about the seven-year-old dying in his sleep, I always go back to Harold Kushner's classic "When Bad Things Happen To Good People."Now, remind me again, good Rabbi, why does crap...

At the Burial of a Child O God, whose beloved Son did take little children into his arms and bless them: Give us grace, we beseech thee, to entrust this child ___ to thy never-failing care and love, and bring...

One of the unfortunate things about "coming out" as a depressive is that any enemy in your past can rightfully say, "Aha! See? I knew she was crazy." I was not well liked at my first job out of school....