Just a Parent

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“Are you just a parent who is suggesting?”

The words on the screen stopped me cold. I had written to someone fairly well-known in the mental health advocacy community, and wondered if I could get some suggestions about approaching our school district to see about implementing some pre-emptive programs in our schools. (Suicide prevention, that is.)

She asked me a series of questions, and then, that.

Yes.

That was my response. But it wasn’t. Yes, I’m a parent, and yes, I’m suggesting, and no, I’m not “affiliated” with anyone, and no I don’t have a corporate backing or even a degree in mental health. I don’t have a side agenda, I don’t have some major following on social media (I don’t even do social media that often). I don’t have money, I’m not a company, and my life hasn’t been rocked by a high-profile tragedy that would give me “street cred.”

But I’m not “just” a parent. Because parenting isn’t “just” something we do. It’s all-consuming, whether your child is healthy or not. And that little word suggests that being a parent isn’t enough, isn’t powerful enough, isn’t connected enough, isn’t influential enough, and isn’t enough of a reason.

Well, damn.

This person is also a parent, and she has had tragedy in her life, and she is influential. And because she’s a parent who will forever deal with her tragedy, I find it odd that her first choice would be to diminish, discourage, and dismiss someone who is taking a stand and trying to make some positive contributions.

So I spent the evening feeling a little like I had been sent to the corner by the teacher. But by the time I went to bed I realized that her words say more about her than me. She’s got experience, and she knows how hard it is to change conversations, to effect real change in the way we relate to our kids’ mental health as a society. She knows this, and I know she knows this. She maybe didn’t even realize she was being dismissive, and was maybe just trying to get at how influential I could be by myself.

I do know all of this, too. Having tried to talk to the appropriate people for a few years now, I do know that school boards and superintendants generally don’t listen to a lone voice in the wind, no matter the cause. (Which is why I was asking for her advice! Which she didn’t give me, directly, but ultimately, I guess she did.)

I also realize that she probably gets hundreds of emails every day, asking for her time, her knowledge, her voice. And it’s possible she feels as though people will take and take that knowledge, or maybe just want to catch her wave.

I can understand that.

But I won’t be dismissed. Not by her, not by anyone. I might go away and cry for a couple of hours when someone hurts my feelings, but this isn’t something that is going away. Our schools are a perfect place to have the conversation about kids’ mental health, and despite the ever-growing chorus of babble in the media, there is woefully little actually being *done* in schools. There are teachers who can’t cram in another thing in the day, who are stretched beyond their resources. There are school boards who are faced with closing schools because their budgets are being slashed. They’ve got enough to manage.

We talk the talk, and there are articles written about stigma and don’t be afraid to talk, and get help if you need it, and on and on. A lot is just talk, and talk is … well, talk is empty.

Still, there has to be a way to start. Someone has to start somewhere.

I’m a parent, yes. And I am suggesting.

Roll With It

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My daughter once called me “chill.” Ha! I am the least chill person I know.

I’m uptight, neurotic, anxious, overbearing and oversensitive. Oh, and have I ever mentioned I worry too much?! 🙂

Still, on some level, I actually am kind of chill. I’m learning to take things one day at a time. This phrase has some weird connotations. It doesn’t always imply “living in the moment.” It does sometimes sound like you’re just slogging through the slush, “getting” through, fighting your way inch by inch through the snowdrifts of life. No, that’s not what I do. By “one day at a time,” I mean I’m learning how to live with surprises, not taking things for granted, and when the unexpected does happen, I go with it.

Because really, how can you do otherwise? I never never know what each day will bring, and while I love order, routine and stability, and while I try to plan a lot of details of my life, I’m learning how to not be surprised when I get the text that says, “Mom, I failed my geometry class.” or, “Mom, I got busted on 4/20 by my gym teacher,” or whatever. (Neither of these scenarios is true, btw.)

I don’t ever enjoy these surprises.

They make my stomach sink into my knees, as I suspect is just the way of parenting. Your kid messes up or gets in trouble or has some sort of calamity befall them, and you feel kind of sick. That’s just the way of it. The same way we celebrate when things go well.

Despite those heart-twisting moments, there’s part of me that, after the initial shock of whatever, is already racing to the logical and the illogical conclusions. It’s amazing how fast my mind can come up with an outcome. (“She’ll get kicked out of school and end up on the street, and how will she support herself?” or “She’ll end up pregnant and we’ll have a bigger family and which room would we convert so she can still go to school while we help?”) Seriously, I get this from, “Mom, I’m dating so and so.” My mind is a weird and twisty thing.

That habit of projecting the most outrageous possible scenario is often unpleasant. I can send myself into some pretty big downward spirals of worry, and that does no one any good whatsoever. At the same time, whatever I fear is usually far more desperate and unpleasant than anything that actually comes to pass. Playing the “what-if” game can sometimes help me relax a little about what is actually going on. She’s just going on a date. She got one bad test result. She fell off the self-harm wagon again. We deal. We move on, and she learns, and she figures out what works in her life and what doesn’t, and she learns.

And I learn, too.

I learn that I still have my kids with me. They’ve got challenges. We all have challenges, and while mine may be different than yours, everyone has them.

You seriously just never, ever know.

And oddly enough, learning to figure things out as I go along helps me to be way less judgmental. Because no matter who I meet, I am learning to be aware that maybe their day has been full of those kinds of surprises, too, and I don’t have a monopoly on “things I wish hadn’t happened.”

I am devoted to finding ways to help prevent and treat anxiety and depression. Those sneaky, lying bastards are debilitating for the people who have them. They destroy. And, like other diseases like cancer or heart disease, they should be eradicated. (**Disclaimer: I am not entirely certain that depression, as a disease, should be treated as purely physical while glossing over the situational, but that is a whole other blog post investigation for another time.**) This is, I hope, going to have a positive outcome, meaning that I hope to do some good for my daughter, and in turn I hope that it translates into doing some good in the world.

Also oddly enough, depression and anxiety have taught me a LOT. There are lessons I wish I hadn’t had to learn, but hey, these lessons may just help me be a better parent. These lessons might possibly just help me figure out My Purpose In Life, whatever that may be. I have no way of knowing or predicting what my future or my children’s future might bring. I’ve said it before: I can’t predict, and so, while my own anxiety wants me to plan for every scenario and outcome, at the same time, in some weird and roundabout way, it helps me to just take it as it comes.

Figure it out.

So when I’m so anxious I can’t breathe right, and when I get that phone call at 2:00 a.m., these are things that can turn a person’s world around. Finding the ways to keep breathing, finding out how to get through the darkness, is just sort of what people do. It’s not extraordinary or unusual. We all do it. So, I’m learning to roll with it.

When A Voice Goes

So I found out yesterday that Amy Bleuel died.

You may not have heard her name before, but it’s likely you know what she did. She founded the Semicolon Project. You know, the movement where people who have dealt with suicide, or self-harm, or mental illness of any kind, where a semicolon represents the choice to keep going. Instead of a period, full stop, a semicolon is a pause; it joins two thoughts and keeps on going.

Only Amy full stopped.

This is really hard for me.

My daughter identifies with the rich symbolism of the semicolon. And so, I do, too. For her.

I’m sending my deep condolences to her family and friends, and to the millions of people who have taken comfort in that little punctuation. She did so much, and her project was a lifeline to many.

So what do we do when someone who was a voice of hope, is silenced, and when there are strong suggestions that the voice chose to be silent? If she died by suicide, how do we reconcile that with the message she shared?

I read a beautiful post this afternoon on The Mighty that speaks to this. We keep going. We try harder.

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I feel so strongly that we have work to do. When families suffer the loss of someone they loved so deeply, when people feel like breathing another breath is just too much agony, when there is this pain, we have work to do. When someone who convinced others to hang on lets go herself, it shows us that we still have a long road to walk in combatting suicide.

I’ve been playing with some ideas in my mind about how I can do my part. I still don’t know what that part is, I don’t know what role I’m supposed to play, and I don’t know what it’s going to look like. But for a long time, I’ve felt like I just have to, in some way, work on suicide prevention. I’ve been so lucky. No one I love has died by suicide. But, to borrow another line from another article I read recently (that I can’t find the link to), the difference between being touched by suicide and not shouldn’t come down to “luck.”

We need to do more. I need to do more. I will figure out what that “more” is. Amy’s death is one more that shouldn’t have happened, and has left so many people broken-hearted and questioning, left to figure it out.

And I’m left counting my blessings, counting the love around me.

 

Lost? Or Still Looking?

We’ll be getting more assessments, more appointments, more questions, and hoping beyond hope that we get answers. So far we have none.

Counsellor suspects Borderline Personality Disorder, which brings up way more questions than it answers. The suspicion is that, regardless of any traits or patterns I may have noticed from the day daughter was born, because she seems to have separation anxiety, and even a fear of abandonment, the suspicion is BPD.

But? But?

Is that something that can be with you from birth?

Is it something that can be a part of your very soul, your make up? Because whatever it is that she has, she’s always had it. She was bullied in elementary school, and things got worse after that, but she’s always had it. She’s always had separation anxiety, and she’s always always always had difficulty with changes in relationships.

Daughter told counsellor that she has trouble in social situations, and doesn’t really “get” girl talk, and doesn’t really even care too much about it. She said that she will often adapt herself to whatever social situation she finds herself in, so that if a group of kids is talking about a subject, she’ll go along with it like she knows, even if she doesn’t.

Counsellor says that that also leads her to suspect BPD.

But these are ASD traits, too, aren’t they?

Daughter told counsellor that she’ll chase after people who are upset with her in order to keep them from leaving her. She also said that when she’s angry at people, or if they do something to hurt her, she will feel like she doesn’t want to continue the relationship.

That does sound like BPD to me.

But? But?

But it also doesn’t. But it does.

I’m so confused, and kind of lost.

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It is not news to me that my daughter has mental illnesses. Depression and anxiety have been constant companions for her for a very long time, and we’ve been looking for answers and relief for her for just about as long. But counsellor made it sound as though BPD was literally on the edge of psychopathy.

Is my baby that sick?

So I’m afraid.

Daughter says she just wants to know. She just wants to figure it out so she can get her therapy to start actually helping, so she can start working towards feeling better without spinning her wheels all the time. She just wants to feel better. And that is just not too much to ask.

She’s thin. And she has so. many. scars.

I’m scared.

But. Once more, I will be strong. Hell, if she can manage to confront her demons every day, and not let it take her down, I can stifle a few tears. I will keep my promise to her — we’ll keep looking until we find answers, and we’ll work at it, we’ll do everything we can to help her feel better.

Daily Prompt: Pattern: Snowflakes

via Daily Prompt: Pattern

Since we’ve been riding this rollercoaster called MDD (Major Depressive Disorder, or, as I call it, Many Dismal Days), I see patterns in behaviour, patterns in triggers, and even patterns in communication.

Parent-blamers would call her a “snowflake,” which they mean to be a delicate type who can’t withstand the pressures of daily life. The implication of the word “snowflake” is negative. Its cause is assumed to be that parents, by not letting their children fail at things, have created patterns of weakness in their children, where they fall apart at the slightest provocation because their parents have traditionally done everything for them.

The reality is far more complicated, as are real snowflakes. Maybe in some cases, the parental influence is a factor. Maybe in some cases, kids are wired in such a way that things seem more challenging for them. Maybe in some cases they’re actually trying desperately hard to face life’s issues, joys and obstacles, trying really hard to succeed, but for whatever reason the weather changes and they melt.

I think that the human tendency is to insist on patterns in order to make sense. Even if the patterns don’t always fit, we force things (and people) into categories because that’s how we make sense of them. Kids who are struggling, be it because of depression or anxiety or whatever, are difficult for us to figure out, and challenging to treat. We want to relieve their suffering, but because the causes of these mood disorders are often elusive, we find easy targets (parents, or even the kids themselves) and impose a structure that may not always fit.

Thus we label these kids “snowflakes” because it makes us feel better to have someone to blame. We see patterns in their behaviour and reduce them to the lowest common denominator.

We forget, though, that snowflakes are beautiful, unique, intricate and complicated. Snowflakes are forces of nature, with immense power in their beauty. They sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight, and they have the strength to bend tree branches under their weight, or even crash down a mountainside in a ferocious, roaring avalanche.

Let’s take some time to reflect on the labels we use, and the patterns we impose. Let’s remember that the people we categorize are exactly that: people. With individual thought processes, unique ways of processing information, diverse ways of making it through life’s challenges and joys.

Let’s remember that even snowflakes can be strong.

You Must Be Joking.

If a “neurotypical,” (?) non-depressed, non-anxious, non-idiosyncratic (???) person were ever to be described in some of the ways I see autistic people described, I’m betting that “ableist” language would pretty quickly become a thing of the past.

(Note: ** I use quotation marks around words that I find objectionable or else don’t have the knowledge and experience to find other words for.)

Consider this one website that claims to “describe” Asperger’s teens. Language such as, “clueless,” about social cues. “Overly logical and rigid.” “Abnormal and intense interest.” “Lack of appropriate social and emotional responses.”

And this is supposedly a “friendly” site.

What the hell?

Or, consider a book I picked up this morning, about anxiety and Asperger’s. The author says he is an Aspie. Yet even in the first chapter I ran into example after example of his portrayal of Asperger’s in a negative stereotypical way. He also insists that life in general is going to be harder for Asperger’s people, and that they just need to be brave and get through it.

How inspiring.

And so, when I’m looking for possible diagnoses for my daughter, I’m sort of wondering if I even should. Is this what she’s up against? What if her diagnosis is bipolar, or borderline personality disorder, or schizophrenic, or something even more reviled by the mainstream?

From what I can tell in my early research, and IF my daughter falls into that spectrum of brain wiring, what I know of her to be true is that Aspie people are creative, intense, generous, loyal, sensitive and highly attuned to their environments. She’s far from “clueless,” about social cues. She may not always interact with people in ways that others might expect, but rather than clueless, she is extremely clued in, and figuring it out with a lot more care and thought than your “average” person.

One site even claims that Aspie boys, because they don’t get the whole dating scene, become obsessed with masturbation. Girls prefer to wear the same hairstyles and clothing they wore in grade school, well into the teen years. Both boys and girls neglect their hygiene.

Part of me is right disgusted that this stuff is even printed. Part of me wants to laugh. Seriously?

My daughter doesn’t fit this stuff.

But you know what? While I think that yes, there may be a very wide range of behaviours, interests and manifestations, it’s the overwhelming focus on the negative that bothers me, as if the only way a kid can be diagnosed is if they fall into these apparent extremes. And if they don’t exhibit negative extremes, what then?

And really, who writes this stuff??

Oh yeah. It’s the “well-meaning” professionals who want to make it “easier” for parents to “manage” their child’s “symptoms.”

My child does not need to be managed, thankyouverymuch. She doesn’t have symptoms of a disease, unless you count anxiety and depression, which are literally DIS-ease, as in not at peace with herself. She has a personality that is varied and intricate. I don’t need it to be easier for ME.

I asked my daughter recently how she would feel if she did find a diagnosis that makes sense to her. Would she feel labelled? Would she feel like she’s being categorized, or would it increase her anxiety? She told me that more than anything, she just wants to know that there’s a reason why she feels the way she does.

But if she were to come across sites and writing like I’ve described above, I fear it would set her back to be described as rigid, clueless and obsessed.

I think this is going to take some time to figure out.

Thankfully, it’s not all like this. Am I naive? Absolutely. Optimistic? Eternally. (See my earlier post about the case for optimism.) Oh there are people who struggle with having been diagnosed with something that isn’t a mainstream brain wiring. I think that anyone who receives a diagnosis must have some processing to do, coming to terms with whatever it is that has caused the diagnosis to be made.

But isn’t it easier to deal with things when you know what you’re facing?

If my daughter has a bipolar disorder, then we need to treat it so that she can live with more peace and more fully than if it’s not treated. If really she is perfectly neurotypical, and her anxiety and depression are just things unto themselves (“just,” she says. Ha.), then isn’t it better to know so we can confront them and help her feel better? She wants so much to get on with the living part of life! Celebrate what makes her who she is, and figure out ways to deal with the negative (anxiety and depression).

Easy, right?

 

Sister Sister

With so much attention on the child who is anxious and depressed, other siblings can miss out, I think. Despite parents’ best intentions, and even with extreme effort, non-depressed siblings sometimes don’t get all the enthusiasm, attention, or engagement that they might otherwise.

I know parents try. We do our utmost to make sure that youngest gets the time and attention she needs. Parents often go to extreme lengths to ensure that siblings don’t feel deprived, left out, or otherwise shorted. But I also know that sometimes it just isn’t possible to make it perfect.

Not only does that add to my feelings of guilt and worry, it can sometimes make youngest feel resentful. On the other hand, I think that sometimes, being the sibling of a depressed teenager forces kids to grow up in ways that they otherwise might delay. That isn’t always a negative.

Siblings take on a huge chunk of the care for depressed and anxious children. Huge. Often without being asked, siblings will sometimes do extra chores, help their depressed siblings with daily tasks like making lunches, and sometimes most helpful of all, will simply stay out of trouble. That’s monumental. As well, I’ve noticed that youngest child has developed a fairly strong sense of responsibility. She can (and does) take on caregiving tasks, making sure she gets to where she needs to be ready and on time, and really helps the family to function more smoothly. These are all really good things.

But what about the little things they miss out on? When the Drama-of-the-Day is all about oldest daughter, and when some days my heart is in my knees because I worry about what oldest is doing, feeling, thinking, about to do, has done, etc., sometimes it’s all I can do to ask youngest how her day was.

I’m not going to get into fair / not fair — life isn’t “fair.” It’s up to parents to make sure we’re doing the best we can for our kids, and even if it isn’t “equal” all the time, I know that in general, parents are likely doing all they can.

But other siblings must miss out, and that makes me sad.

Our youngest does feel taken advantage of at times, and often simply refuses to ever do another thing ever in the world for her sister, and for that, I applaud her. She stands up for herself. She gets pushed around (figuratively) when oldest is frequently rude or ungrateful or demanding. She pushes back, and that makes both of them better people, frankly.

But for every morning that sees disruption because oldest can’t find the one shirt she just has to wear, and for every morning where oldest threatens to skip school because she doesn’t have time to make her lunch, or for every time that we worry that oldest is going to hurt herself, youngest is there in some way, simply not making it worse, and often stepping in to ease the pressure.

I just sometimes feel like that’s not right.

At the same time, I am so, so grateful.

There is SO much in those two lines, it could take me weeks to lay it all out. Suffice to say, I feel a lot of guilt that her mornings often start with upheaval. I feel a lot of guilt that even if she gets the praise, recognition, enthusiasm and attention she needs and deserves, sometimes there’s a shadow of worry on my mind that means I’m not 100% focused. I feel a lot of guilt that sometimes she will see me in tears, either because I’m worried, or angry, or just plain tired.

I wish I could give both of my kids the perfect childhoods, whatever that may be.

This morning I read a brief news article called, “Disruptive Children Do Not Inspire Similar Behaviour in Their Siblings.” It was all about how often, non-“disruptive” siblings learn “how not to behave.” At the very end, was the line, “The researchers are currently examining the role of siblings in the development of childhood depression and anxiety.”

First of all, they didn’t define “disruptive,” so that could mean anything from talking excessively in class to drug abuse. And I have a problem with the assumptions that are loaded into the term “behaviour” when applied to the non-defined term of “disruptive.” Because I know for a fact that when oldest is rude, or gets angry with us when she feels we don’t understand her, or when she’s simply trying to make herself feel better — yeah, that can be disruptive to the rest of us, but it’s not … it’s not … she’s not doing it to purposely upset us. She’s not doing it because she wants to hurt us, and she’s not purposely manipulative. So technically she could be said to be “misbehaving,” and as I’ve said, youngest often works hard to smooth it out, however she can.

All that aside, though, I’m most interested in that last line. Siblings really do take on a whole lot for kids who are anxious and / or depressed. It may not be enough to “study” those roles. Somehow they deserve more, only I don’t know what “more” is, and I, as a parent, just don’t know how to make it so. That, too, makes me sad.

 

Well, then.

Ok, so 15 months later, we have progress, we have stability in instability, we have … hope?

It’s been a year of major change, 5 on the Richter scale (okay, maybe a 4). But through it all, still no answers. No obvious reasons for daughter’s continued depression, anxiety, and self-harm. Despite a complete change in environment, support sytems strengthened, and now medication, we still haven’t had any answers beyond “anxiety and depression.”

But that can’t be all. It rings hollow. It rings hollow for me, and for her. It feels unsatisfactory, as though something’s missing. I *get* that millions of people are anxious and depressed for no specific reason. But for her, it just hasn’t felt like that’s it. She doesn’t think so either.

So she’s started looking for answers beyond the obvious. *Why* is she so anxious? *Why* is she so depressed?

After a little bit of back and forth with her questions last week, something … clicked.

Asperger’s.

It makes so much sense. It frames every experience we’ve ever had with her, since infancy.

From what I’ve read, Asperger’s manifests differently in girls than in boys, and going by male diagnostic criteria doesn’t get girls very far. So I began looking. That’s what I do, after all. Searching for answers, looking for information, asking questions.

I mentioned the possibility to her and not only did she agree that it could be a possibility, she began to do her own searching, and came up with other reasons why this could be a thing.

Now I’m going to get myself in trouble, because I don’t know the terms that people use, and apparently Asperger’s isn’t even considered its own diagnosis anymore, and somehow we still need to work within these parameters that give you a set of criteria, and you either fit it or you don’t. And some people say that *everyone* has these types of brain functions to some degree or other.

My rebuttal to that is that not everyone has the collection of functions that make Asperger’s kids unique. Not everyone has the whole set (or even most of the set).

I digress.

And then I came across one particular website that outlined some things to look for in preschool girls. I nearly cried. That was her. As an infant / toddler / preschooler. That was her. I felt like I’d been hit over the head with it. I nearly cried because for the first time EVER, it made sense. When doctors couldn’t tell me why she cried all the time, and didn’t sleep till she was 3. Why she likes to walk alone at night. Why she simply cannot find the words to describe how she feels, how emotions and talking about emotions are just not in her vocabulary, and they overwhelm her. And why she had such severe separation anxiety. And why transitions have always caused her distress. Not just, “oh darn, I have to go do something else now.” Downright distress. And why forgotten headphones can start a day off alarmingly poorly. And why I’ve always had to say to her, “You’re not the parent. Your sister doesn’t ‘obey’ you because you’re not the parent.” Why she’s always helping classmates with their schoolwork even though she’ll have to do her own homework later to catch up. Why I can’t say, “Ok, we’re leaving in 5 minutes,” because if she’s not ready it provokes tears and worry. Why her smile is … put on. Like she’ll look at me and for a split second she is visibly putting on her smile. Blink and you miss that. But it’s there. Why numbers “make sense” to her in a way that interpretive subjects don’t. Why jeans were a foreign article of clothing until high school. Why she melts down nearly every day after school. Why she’s always felt like she doesn’t quite fit. Why she moves in a way that seems almost mechanical, stiff, as though it doesn’t quite come naturally to her. Why she can be so honest at times, so much so that it continues to surprise me. Why she can invite a friend over, but then sit in a corner on her phone, ignoring the friend, because she just doesn’t quite feel right. Like she really wants to be with people, but the reality of doing that is overwhelming. How I could never keep her in books.  How favourite music isn’t just favourite music. It’s everything. How she will persevere through the most remarkable odds, and how *I* am overwhelmed by her bravery, her perseverence, her generosity, how she’ll be the only one in the family to notice when I get new glasses or a hair cut. How she would give her time and knowledge again and again, and how she *always* sees the best in people, always without fail sees things in people that most others miss, and will defend those people even when many others wouldn’t. (I don’t know if that’s an Asperger’s trait, but I don’t know of too many people who have that in them.)

No, none of this is a diagnosis. And apparently it’s *ridiculously* hard to get a diagnosis.

But for her, we will figure this out. If it means that she can begin to make peace with herself, if it means that she can begin to see where she fits in the world, and know that there’s nothing wrong with her, and if it means that my parenting can work with her brain, well, that’s we’ll do.

And if it’s something else, if it’s really *not* Asperger’s, well, we’ll figure that out too. We will figure it out. We’re still looking.

The Case for Optimism

I think optimism gets a bad rap sometimes. Optimists are said to be blind, naive, pollyannas who don’t see things as they are.

For me, optimism is hope. The two are intertwined. I don’t engage in optimism all the time. Sometimes it feels naive. Sometimes it just feels like too much damn work. Really, there’s nothing easy about optimism. To be really optimistic, you have to accept that there are things going on that suck big, and still believe that everything will be okay. That takes a lot of guts. Sometimes it’s easier to wallow in your coffee.

(At least there’s coffee!)

My point is that if it’s a process, then after the wallowing, optimism can be a woolly blanket on a cold day. The wallowing, grieving, and general lousiness are necessary in order to work through the things that suck, take a stand, take action, take charge (take something!) and keep going. Even getting up and getting through the day is optimistic. It proves that somewhere inside, you feel that there’s a point.

I read an article yesterday about one author’s experience with depression while doing her Ph.D. She said that the more she tried to just get through and deal with it herself (by not dealing with it), the more she would beat herself up when she didn’t succeed in solving it. She finally realized that getting help was more efficient and made her feel better and she should have done it ages ago.

That was really powerful! Would you try to heal a cavity by powering through? Would you trade in your glasses for positive thinking?

No. You go to the dentist. You see the eye doctor.

My daughter has been “powering through,” for a long time. She’s very hard on herself and thinks she should be able to just deal. She doesn’t want help. Help is for “freaks” (her words). But it’s getting harder and harder, and she feels more and more chaotic when her efforts aren’t rewarding her with glowing mental health. She can’t make decisions, and beats herself up for any course of action because it’s not ideal. We’ve had the conversations where I’ve suggested, as I said, that counsellors help with brains the way that coaches help with sports, dentists help with teeth, etc. She’s resisted.

I don’t know what the switch was, but now she’s agreed to try again. She will see a counsellor.

This is huge!! This has me wanting to shout from the rooftops!

Of course, I’m filled with apprehension. What if it doesn’t help? What if it gets better and then comes back again? What if? What if she doesn’t click with the person we choose, and then refuses to go to anyone ever again?

On some level, she must feel some measure of optimism that she can feel better. I know I do.