Daughters daughters daughters

My daughters are beautiful. Yes, I may be biased, but I believe my daughters are beautiful. Many people have said Lucy, my older daughter (who is three), is gorgeous and should be in modeling. Many people also say that Matt (my husband) should be buying guns and going to target practice to keep all the boys away.

This infuriates me. Why does my husband need to go buy guns? Why does he need to go to target practice? How about instead of my husband chasing away prospective boyfriends we raise two girls who can take care of themselves? How about instead of my husband running off to target practice we raise two girls who have self-confidence and self-esteem and are able to pick out healthy partners?

Saying my husband needs to get guns to protect his daughters implies so many offensive things. It implies my daughters won’t be smart enough to pick out good partners. (Although, I admit they will more than likely pick at least one or two morons, that’s just part of growing up.) It also implies that my daughters cannot take care of themselves. It implies that my daughters will not possess the good judgment to select an appropriate partner.

As parents, we should not be running out to purchase shotguns. Instead, we should be making sure that we raise our daughters (and sons) to be self-aware, to know what they want and, most importantly, what they deserve in a partner. I hope that Matt and I will raise our children to have healthy self-esteem so that they can tell whether or not someone is worthy of their attention and affection.

I understand that people do not mean to be offensive when they tell Matt to go out and buy guns but it is such an antiquated way of “complimenting” our children. No one ever told us to go out and buy guns as a way of saying our son was good looking. No, instead they said “those ladies better watch out!” which is just as bad. Why would the girls need to watch out? Do you think my son is going to be a horrible boyfriend? Do you think he will be offensive or abusive? Do you think Matt and I will raise a man that has so little respect for women that they need to “watch out” for him? Again, I know people do not mean to offend and that it has traditionally been a compliment to the parents and child but c’mon people, how about we start thinking before we speak? How about we come up with new things to say as a compliment? How about we start complimenting things other than looks?

Having a newborn, I realize there is little for someone to compliment. After all, she just lies there, eats, sleeps, and poops. And, no, I do not expect you to compliment any of those attributes. But maybe instead of saying my husband needs to stock up on fire arms you simply comment on who you think she looks like or ask how she (or we) are doing.

My husband does not need to go buy an arsenal of guns and neither should girls be watching out for my son. We will raise our daughters and son to have high self-esteem, self-awareness, and respect for others. Please do not stop complimenting them, just think before you speak, and what it actually implies. Just because it has always been said, doesn’t mean it should keep being said. 

Pretty In Pink

The other day while driving, my 2 (twelve days from being 3) year old asked me, “Mommy, am I pretty?” And in that moment, my heart dropped.

My toddler, my TODDLER, asked me if she was pretty. (My son, who is 7, has never asked me if he’s pretty or cute or handsome. The closest he’s come is asking if he got all the peanut butter off his face.) After assuring her that she is always beautiful then quickly changing the subject, I was assaulted by my own questions: Why was she asking this? How could I stop it? Does she really know what she is asking and does she really care about the answer? How much does she understand about physical appearances? How concerned is she about her own appearance? I needed answers. And fast.

The first question-why was she asking that question-was the easiest to answer. She was asking because certain people, mainly one relative, are constantly telling her how pretty she is. There is nothing wrong with telling someone they are pretty but when it is the only thing that person is telling her, there is a problem. This same relative is telling her that if she curls her hair she will be pretty or paints her nails she will be pretty or wears a dress she will be pretty. It is a constant reinforcement that Lucy needs to be pretty or must find a way to make herself pretty. An example would be “We will curl your hair and then you will be real pretty.” And her outfit compliments are always the same “Oh don’t you look like such a pretty little girl?” I am not exaggerating when I say it is a constant concept this relative is, basically, drilling into my daughter’s head. And now I am seeing the consequences of that.

So how can I stop it? Do I tell my relative to cease calling my daughter pretty? Or do I ignore that relative and focus on what I can control, such as educating my daughter and nurturing her in a different way? The first thing I believe I will do is stop taking her with to my hair appointments or let her watch me get ready. At the hair salon she is surrounded by the industry that thrives on physical appearance and materialism. At an age where she is a sponge to those around her, at the salon Lucy is hearing “how can we make you look better/younger/sexier” and is sublimely being told that what she is born with isn’t good enough. The same could be said for her watching me get ready. I have no logical response when she asks me why I put on eye liner. The one time I told her “because that’s what society dictates I do” didn’t go over well. Eventually I will be the one to teach her how to subtly apply make-up and how to do her hair, but when she’s at an older age when she can comprehend more.

Looking back on my daughter’s question, I truly believe she does not understand what pretty is or care about being pretty, at least not in the materialistic sense. She knows people call her pretty but people also call her a goofball or silly. She does not care about being pretty, what she cares about is making people happy or smiling, like most toddlers she wants a positive response. She cares about being pretty because she wants the positive reinforcement from above said relative. And that worries me. I don’t want her to feel as if she’s pleasing someone by being pretty. I also don’t want her to try to be pretty. I want her to be…well…her. I want her to wear whatever makes her happy (as long as it’s weather appropriate). I want her to curl her hair because she likes the way the ringlets bounce. I want her to do what makes her happy not her relative. Maybe that’s asking too much of a toddler but I feel if I don’t lay the groundwork for it now, it will only become more difficult or a full problem when she’s older.

I’m also hopeful that she doesn’t care about her physical appearance. This conclusion is backed by the fact that she wears her pants backwards, isn’t bothered by food in her hair and will wear the same shirt every day no matter how it smells or the stains that are on it.

The problem, of course, will be dealing outside people or even relatives. How can I explain to them that they are enabling society’s negative self-images? Can I simply say: I do not mind you telling my daughter that she is pretty but I do mind when that’s all you say to her. Instead of saying her dress is pretty how about it is fancy? Or sparkly? Instead of telling her she’s pretty tell her she’s funny or adventurous or silly.

Society and media is going to do everything to convince my daughter that she needs the perfect body, perfect hair, perfect everything. I will be doing everything to convince her that she is enough, that being beautiful inside is more important than being beautiful outside. I will do everything to show her how immaterial materialism is. I know I’m going to have to fight it on big level, I don’t want to have to fight it on the intimate level of relatives.

I will do my best to show my daughter that asking “Am I pretty” is the wrong question and instead she should be asking “Am I good person”. I was prepared for that. I just didn’t think I would have to be prepared by the time she turned 3.

9

Nine years ago my life changed. There is definitely a line (or a day, if you will) that separates my life into the “Before” and the “After”. That line is May 18. It is my sobriety birthday.

Nine years ago today I voluntarily checked myself into out-patient rehab. I had no idea what I was in for and I had no idea that I was going to be labeled an alcoholic. My psychiatrist had said I had “alcohol dependency”. In my 22 year old mind, this did not qualify as alcoholism, merely a preference for alcoholic beverages over non-alcoholic beverages. I was dumbfounded to learn that alcohol dependency and alcoholism are one and the same.

My life “Before” is a blur of drunken nights and regrets. It is full of uncomfortable memories and awkward nights. But it probably isn’t what you imagine when you picture an alcoholic. I was not a person who drank daily but rather one that when I did drink, I drank heavily. There was rarely a time when I drank that I didn’t black out. It wasn’t until I was in rehab that I realized that isn’t the norm. I had gone through college believing that everyone blacked out when they drank and I was never concerned that I didn’t remember the night before. My ignorance was over whelming.

I had my first drink at age 15, the summer before I would enter my freshman year of high school. It was a beer and it was disgusting. I remember being told, “The more you drink, the less gross it’ll taste.” I couldn’t handle it so my friend gave me a Zima. (Does anyone else remember Zimas? Those were only good if you put in a Jolly Rancher…) I don’t remember how much I drank that night but I remember feeling cool and part of the “in-crowd”. I remember believing that drinking was going to make me popular. This theme continued all throughout high school. I held onto the belief that the more I drank, the more ‘impressive’ my drinking abilities were, the more popular I would be. As it was, it turns out it didn’t make me popular, just a drunken mess.

College was worse. My depression and anxiety were at an all-time high (or low, depending on how you look at it) and so I drank to cope. Still, I wasn’t a daily drinker. I wasn’t your stereotypical alcoholic that you see in movies or on television shows. I drank Thursday night (or Thirsty Thursday as we referred to it in college), Friday night and Saturday night. I drank three nights a week just like all of my friends. I didn’t think it was a big deal. I didn’t black out three nights a week. I did black out at least one night a weekend, though, again thinking it was the norm. As I got older and my depression got worse, I would drink a glass or two of wine on Friday nights to wash down Dramamine. This ensured that I would sleep deep and not have to deal with the real world for at least twelve straight hours. If I thought this was strange, I didn’t have the mental ability to think upon it.

By the time I checked into rehab at 22, I had reached the end of my capacity to care. I was more depressed than I had ever been and wanted to quit. I didn’t necessarily want to commit suicide, I just wanted to quit my life. I wanted to wake up with a clean slate and no past. I wanted a new life. Thankfully, my rehab team knew exactly what I needed.

I would spend 28 days (week days, out-patient rehab doesn’t meet on the weekends) learning how to re-live. I would spend 8 hours a day, five days a week, learning how to be a human without alcohol. I would learn how to function sober. I would learn how to deal with my past demons and how to cope with future ones. I would learn to accept my alcoholism and how to be an alcoholic in recovery. The things I learned nine years ago in rehab I have used daily ever since. There was nothing I learned in recovery that wasn’t and isn’t still relevant. The women who worked with me along with my psychiatrist easily saved my life and I will forever be grateful.

My life in the “After” (wow that sounds morbid), has not been easy but it has been worth it. When I started out, I attended AA and NA (Narcotics Anonymous) on a regular basis. I learned the Steps and I vented about life without alcohol and dealing with people who can have alcohol. While I understand that The Program is supposed to be helpful and a tool necessary for recovery, I stopped going to meetings when I was roughly 9 months sober. The town where I was attending meetings was small, you saw the same group of people at every meeting. There really wasn’t any anonymity and it was not a healthy environment. I believe that had I continued to attend meetings, I would not have stayed sober. I admired people who work the steps and have a sponsor but I also believe that The Program only works if you have a healthy environment to work it. I did not so I got out.

More or less, I have done 9 years of sobriety by myself. My parents have been a huge help but as they aren’t alcoholics they don’t completely understand. My brother and sister-in-law have also been huge helps, especially my sister-in-law who lets me vent whenever I need to. The most important thing my support system has done is help me celebrate my accomplishments. My parents sent me a gift when I was six months sober. (They also attended support meetings for family members of alcoholics through my rehab program.) They helped me celebrate annually my sobriety birthdays. They realize that I have reached large milestones and accomplishments and they validate me which means more than they will ever know.

My husband met me when I was four years sober. He never knew the “Before” me (thankfully). This means he doesn’t quite grasp how big of a deal it is that I have gone nine years without a drop of alcohol. He doesn’t know what a mess I was while I was drinking or how awful my depression and anxiety were (turns out, anti-depressants don’t work when you drink on them). He only knows the “After” me and therefore he doesn’t see what an accomplishment nine years of sobriety is. He doesn’t help me celebrate, in fact, he has never remembers my sobriety birthday. It hurts me and saddens me but at the same time I understand why he doesn’t understand. It is comforting knowing he only knows this me, the "After" me, and I like knowing he doesn't realize how far I've come because than he doesn't realize what a mess I was in the "Before". 

My life was not easy and my life will never be easy. Every day I wake up I am an addict and every night I go to sleep an addict. Hopefully, every night I will go to bed sober and wake up without being hung over. My life from age fifteen to twenty-two is a blur of drunken nights and many regrets that I have yet to make peace with. I feel strong in my recovery but that doesn’t mean I will stay sober and thinking I will is the first step towards relapse. But as great as my fear is of relapsing it is miniscule in comparison to my fear that my children will become addicts.

Every time my daughter chugs her milk (just like I used to at her age), I worry she’s already showing addict tendencies. Every time my son tells me he likes the taste of medicine, I worry he’s already showing addict tendencies. My children may be young (7, 3 and 5 months) but I constantly worry about what their future holds. I constantly worry that my children are already addicts and just need to take that first sip to become active addicts.

I will never hide the fact that I’m an alcoholic from my children, or anyone for that matter. It’s not something I boast of but it’s also not something I want to hide. I am surviving my disease to the best of my ability and hopefully I will keep surviving one day at a time. I just hope and pray and wish on every star that my children won’t have to fight this disease because more often than not, the disease wins, the disease is always there, waiting to overcome you and swallow you whole.

Nine years of sobriety. Nine years of fighting battle after battle, knowing I will never win the war, rather all I can hope for is a continuous draw. I was always be an alcoholic, the best I can hope for is to be a recovering alcoholic. And while I stay in recovery, I plan on educating my children to the point that they are vomiting out information on the disease and scared out of their minds to take a drink for fear of being an addict itself.

I’d like to say nine years went by fast and that it was easier than I thought it would be but that would be a lie. Nine years of sobriety have not been easy and I don’t expect it to get easier.  But being sober allows me to be a good mother, it allows me to be a good wife, it allows me to be a good human. It helps me manage my depression and anxiety. And guess what? When I’m sober, I no longer wish I had a different life. Instead, I love my life and the craziness that it is.

Nine years ago I stopped drinking and I haven’t started since. Go me.

Depression + Anxiety + Motherhood

Someone recently said to me, “No offense, but I don’t know how you do [parenting] without alcohol!” One, in no way was I offended. Two, I don’t find parenting sober to be a challenge any more than I find being sober in a general a challenge. If anything, parenting helps keep me sober because I have to be sober not only for myself but my children as well. What I do find challenging, in fact what I find the most challenging aspect of parenting and living, is dealing with my depression and anxiety.

I am 31 years old meaning I have been battling depression and anxiety for 21 years. Some times have been easier than others. Some years have been harder than others. But parenting…parenting has been by far the most difficult.

For those of you unfamiliar with depression, it is not the crippling sadness that is often depicted in movies or books. Depression is not just a form of sadness; depression is a blanket that suffocates everything you do. Instead of just being sad, you are tired—so very tried. You feel as if you could crawl into bed and sleep for days and still be tired. Your body feels as if you are moving through mud mixed with honey with a 50 mile an hour wind blowing in your face. Every step seems to cost you the small amount of energy you have and you do not think you can move three steps let alone get through an entire day. I read a quote that said, “Sleep doesn’t help when it’s your soul that’s tired.” This perfectly sums up depression. You are tired, your body is tired, your soul, heart, and spirit are tired. And nothing helps.

To add anxiety on top of depression complicates matters. Anxiety is, simply put, worrying. I worry about everything. I worry about scenarios that have a one in a million chance of happening. I worry about things I can control and I worry about things I can’t control. The worrying makes me tired, exhausted in the sort of way you feel after getting over an illness. The anxiety makes my depression worse or my depression makes my anxiety worse, depending on which demon is in control that day. Either way, I’m usually a mess of depression and anxiety, bone weariness combined with deep worry.

On bad days, bad days not horrible days, but the regular bad ones, I struggle to stay up right. I long for my bed, my deepest desire is to crawl under my blankets, listen to depressing music (Sound of Silence, lots of Alanis Morrisette and early Jewel, that kind of thing) and sleep. I just want to sleep. It’s hard to explain to people who don’t have depression but sleeps seems so wonderful when I’m depressed. It sounds glorious to slip away for a while, to not think, to not worry.

On good days, I function like a healthy person. I stay awake all day, I eat healthy, I play with my kids and joke with my husband. It’s all good. And on those days, it’s easy to forget that bad ones. On those days, it’s easy to think that life will always be like that. Then the bad days come, or the god awful horrible days, and I’m reminded that I am not a healthy person, I am a mentally ill person who needs help.

Since I was first diagnosed with depression and anxiety, I have been on medications. I went through a time when I fought taking my meds, seeing them as a crutch. Eventually I adopted the mind frame that is true and works for me---just as a diabetic needs insulin to survive so do I need antidepressants. There is no shame in that. My medication is not a crutch but rather cane as in I can walk without a cane but not well and not for long. I need my medication to fix my brain’s chemical imbalance. Without it I cannot be happy or even experience happiness. The longer I go without my meds, the worse my depression and anxiety gets. Eventually, I will suffer a panic attack so severe I will “freak out”, no longer be in control of body and most likely vomit and, yes, soil myself. My reaction to being without my meds is not simply  mental but physical as well.

So if I take my meds regularly, I can control my emotions and my worries with ease, given that I have had 21 years to practice reigning them in. It is still a struggle, especially when I am PMS-ing or my hormones are not regular, like now when I’m nursing. Most of the time, I feel as if I am a tightly wound coil that can spring/explode at any moment. The trick is to either explode where no one gets hurt (like screaming into my pillow) or to defuse in a safe way (usually by reading or taking a bath or simply going to Target by myself). Difficulty occurs when I can’t calm myself or when I detonate in front of my kids.

Parenting a toddler is tough enough. If you have never had a three year old in your house then it’s hard to imagine but three year olds are basically teenagers (hence their nickname three-nagers) without their level of education or ability to reason. Parenting a seven year old isn’t nearly as challenging but as he has a new baby sister and this is the first year I’m a SAHM, he often feels left out and neglected. And then there’s my newborn who is such a happy baby but is still a baby, needing constant attention and even though she’s happy, she does not like sleeping of any kind. So, as any parent knows, parenting is tough. Parenting with depression and anxiety? Now that’s near impossible.

The worst part of depression, the absolute worst aspect, symptom, effect, whatever you want to call it, is the way it makes you give up, the feeling it gives you of just wanting to quit.

When I was at my worst with depression, right before I entered rehab, I wanted to quit. Quit what you ask? Well, life. It’s not that I wanted to end my life, I just wanted to quit it. I didn’t want my life to be my life anymore. I wanted to run away and start all over. I wanted a clean slate where I couldn’t remember all of the times I had messed up. I wanted a new life. Thankfully, I got the help I needed and did get a new life, it just involved coming to terms with my past instead of erasing it.

Even though I no longer want to quit my life, I still struggle with the feeling of wanting to quit, to give up. There are days that sometimes parenting seems too difficult for me to handle and I want to give up. There are days when I feel I’m a total failure as a wife, mother, and friend and I want to give up. I want to curl up into a ball and give up. Those days are the hardest. Those days it takes a lot of motivation to not give up, to not freak out and explode, to not walk away. What adds fuel to the fire is knowing my kids know something’s wrong. “Why is mommy sleeping” “Are you going to bed early again?” These words cut me and break my heart. At the same time, I know that recharging myself is better for all of us. Still, I don’t want my kids to look back on their childhood and only remember me sleeping. Or to look back on their childhood and think, “When mommy was happy, she was really happy and when she was sad, she was really sad.”

It’s been 21 years. TWENTY ONE YEARS of fighting my depression demon and anxiety imp. I’m tired. I am so tired of fighting and having to fight and knowing the fight will never end. Yet, staying and fighting is so incredibly worth it. I’m not going to sugar coat it, the hard days are hard and don’t get easier but the good days are phenomenal and happen more frequently with every passing year.

I am far from the perfect mother and I am far from the perfect wife. What works for me may not work for you. What helps me keep my demons at bay may have no effect on yours. I’m simply sharing my story so that other moms out there know they are not alone. I hope they know that they need to keep fighting, not only for themselves but for their children. I hope they know that it’s okay to ask for help, that it’s okay to take naps, that it’s okay to take “me time” to recharge as long as it’s just a recharge and not a white flag. You have to keep fighting. Not only for yourself but for your children. Your children need you and need you to be strong. Who knows? Maybe one day they, too, will suffer from depression and the only way they’ll be able to battle is to remember how bravely and resiliently their mother battled.

My wish is that my children will look back on their childhood and remember not a mother who suffered from depression and anxiety but rather a mother who battled depression and anxiety bravely. I hope they look back and remember a strong woman, a brave woman, a woman who woke up every day to battle the same demons, knowing she could never win but knowing she would never give up.