The Panacea
May is Mental Health Awareness Month, an issue that is personal to me as I’ve spent the second twenty years of my life battling anxiety and depression. Last year, I wrote a piece for The Good Men Project about The Anxiety and Depression Stigma. I hope we’ve made some progress since then to end the stigma.
One of the reasons for the unfair stigma is the misconception about what it’s like to live with anxiety and depression. There’s a perception that if you’re depressed, you can’t get out of bed or do your job.
For many who struggle, including me, that’s not usually how it manifests itself. It affects me in different ways, subtle ways, sometimes silly ways.
But ways nonetheless.
Sunday – 9:00 P.M. – Our bedroom
“Who would have thought cow’s skin and fruit taste so good together?” I quip.
“How many of those have you had?” my wife Lauren asks.
I count the wrappers of fruit leather. “Three. They’re fifteen calories each though.”
“Please eat downstairs.”
“You told me not to eat downstairs at night.”
“Because you shouldn’t be eating at all at night. I didn’t mean start eating in our room.”
I put on my hooded sweatshirt. I’m cold and I want my head covered, a seemingly innocuous detail to most. To those who battle mental health issues though, the hooded sweatshirt is more than clothing. It’s protection.
TV Room 1 <——— Kindly click these red boxes
Nighttime is the best time for the anxious person. No immediate expectations. A time to unwind, to give in to desire, to watch shows about people thrust into situations where their lives have real meaning through war (Game of Thrones), financial success (Billions), or The Bachelor (okay, bad example).
I pause Game of Thrones and head into the kitchen. My dog Sawyer follows me, but starts crying because he’s scared to go up the two steps between rooms for no apparent reason. 2
I open the door to the pantry and see my panacea: Crunchy Peanut Butter. 3
Peanut butter is probably responsible for 15 of the 20 pounds I’ve put on this past year; weight which has all gone to my stomach and convinced my loved ones I’m in the midst of a downward spiral. When in fact I just take a medicine that is very high in calories.
In the pantry, I see more fruit leather. I already ate six tonight, so that’s out. I spy a mini pack of pretzels. At some point, I decided that these small packs that Lauren gives the kids as a snack for school, is for me as well.
I grab pretzels and a bottle of water. 4
I settle back on the couch, my safe place.
Then this:
I knew getting security cameras was a mistake!
I finish Game of Thrones. Somehow I feel worse about myself than I did before I started. Why can’t I be brave? Why can’t someone break into our house and I’ll tackle them and hold them down until the police come? Wait, why do I want someone breaking into the house my kids are sleeping in?
Midnight
I enter my six-year-old daughter Liz’s room. She is sleeping, snoring since she has a cold. She’s lying sideways just like her mother does, taking up the entire queen-sized bed somehow even though she’s three feet tall.
I watch her peaceful face and begin to tear up. I love her so much. I wish I was more for her. I wish I was happy. I wish I could take better care of myself for her. I wish when I came home from work I could pay attention and not seek distractions. I wish I could throw my phone in the garbage.
If I could just bottle up this moment and carry it with me all the time, I could handle what life throws at me.
It’s a strange thing to be a depressed person with young children. The juxtaposition between how I feel about the world and how I’m trying to portray it to my children is jarring. It’s like I’m trying to sell them a carton of spoiled milk. Hardest of all though is the fact that their existence just isn’t enough to defeat the chemicals in my brain. Is it possible to love something on Earth so much, but it’s not enough?
I kiss her on the forehead and head into my four-year-old son Matt’s room.
Matt doesn’t sleep as peacefully. With his medical issues, his life hasn’t been as simple and it shows. He has nightmares. Liz hasn’t yet. She hasn’t lived enough to have them.
I don’t kiss his forehead. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to wake him, but the truth is, it’s not the same with him. He loves Lauren so much more than he loves me. Being the lesser-loved parent, you don’t think a four-year-old should be able to affect how you feel about yourself, but you’d be wrong.
Matt wakes up.
“Daddy, is it morning?”
“No buddy, get some rest.”
“Are there pools on Mercury?” He’s become obsessed with the planets lately.
“No.”
“But it’s so hot.”
“There’s no people there.”
“Oh. What’s 8 plus 8?”
“Sixteen.”
“Daddy, will you keep that in your brain until I start kindergarten and tell me so I’ll know?”
“Of course.” Fine, maybe I do love him just as much.
I head across the hall. I open the door carefully to avoid waking Lauren. I like my wife more than other adults, but not enough to want to interact with her.
When I was growing up, my parents closed the door. I always wondered what went on behind it. Something important I thought. (Hopefully not sex ever)
I think what surprises me the most now that I’m the one behind the closed door, is just how little we have it figured out. There are two confused parents behind that door.
Tonight isn’t a particularly bad night for me, maybe a 6 out of 10, let’s say maroon on the dark scale. There are darker times. When those pop up, I don’t care how strong your marriage is. You doubt if your spouse will put up with it. You don’t want to share your struggles with them because you want them to be attracted to you, but you don’t have a choice. There’s nowhere to hide from them. There’s too many hours in between each Tuesday session with my therapist to keep it all inside.
Thankfully, Lauren is sleeping. She gets up early in the morning and attacks the day. Lauren’s training for a marathon. She’s had her struggles too. But she channels it towards positive goals.
I wouldn’t say I’m the complete opposite. I mean, if we’re talking about marathon training, then yes. I can’t make it through twenty minutes on the elliptical machine without waking up the next day sick.
But mornings for me aren’t always all that bad. Sure, a new body part hurts and I convince myself it’s the beginning of some type of syndrome. If we’re talking pure anxiety, though, complete fear, I am able to keep it at bay with the “two meds”: Medication and meditation. And I don’t often wake up depressed. Darkness for me is rooted in this over-analysis of everything, constantly taking the temperature of everything around me, in allowing the characters on television and in my life, even children, to define how I feel about myself.
And, of course, it manifests itself in giving into vices like food. Well, at least tonight was only fruit leather and pretzels. That’s a small victory I’ll tell Lauren about in the morning.
Next morning – Kitchen
Lauren and Matt are eating breakfast. I abstain as I’m trying intermittent fasting, whatever that means. All I know is I can’t eat anything until noon, at which time I will eat like a Saudi prince.
Liz comes downstairs. Throughout breakfast, she keeps scratching her head. Finally, she gets up and retrieves a paper towel and wets in. She cleans her forehead and is about to throw it in the garbage, but she smells it.
“Why does my forehead smell like peanut butter?”
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