Eff the Cleanse

It took me over an hour but I eventually got it down. (That's what he said.)

This is the start of a blog entry I wrote last week (or maybe it was the week before) and never posted.

It’s 6:10am. I’ve been up since 5:00 which is not totally out of the ordinary, though the fact that I haven’t had coffee yet certainly is. As evidence of my lack of caffeine, I offer this first draft of that sentence: I’ve been up since 5 which coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee. The morning of my endoscopy, I wasn’t able to drink anything except clear broths and liquids and since I don’t like my coffee like I like my funeral clothes---black and adult-y---I had to skip my joe. I was so far past the point of functioning by the time I left the hospital at 4ish, that I decided to ride the day out caffeine-free and I am now entering day three without coffee (or what Dan might call his third day living with Satan’s cunty sister). Rather than trying to come up with some clever quip to demonstrate just how difficult this has been, I’ll say this---my heady hurt and sentences tough to complete. But my clothes aren’t fitting right so I decided it was time to clean this body up. For three weeks (barring any family/emotional/philosophical/hormonal crises) I intend to completely avoid caffeine, gluten, sugar, alcohol and also dairy and meat.

This is a text exchange between Dan and me later that day:

Me: I'm drinking ice tea and it tastes like vomit....the guy next to me is eating pizza. Die mother fucker!

Dan: That's my Lola

And here’s how that day turned out:

I said eff the cleanse and got drunk on half a bottle of wine at a concert in the park.

As soon as I hit the picnic blanket, I knew it was over. Shawn Colvin will forever represent either my liberation from the far too stringent rules with which I am always trying to rein myself in or an utter lack of will power...not sure which. But it was a strange, wonderful night that showed me (once a-fucking-gain) that letting go versus holding on tighter is often the wiser path. Shawn Colvin was only able to get a handful of songs in between bouts of pouring rain as thunderstorms moved in and out, but Dan and I drank and nibbled on gluten-free crackers and hummus underneath our umbrellas and had one of the most romantic and enjoyable nights we’ve had in years. (I love wine.) I had almost canceled the whole plan, cranky as I was from lack of food and coffee, and was tantrumming right up until I got there about the parking and rain. But I sucked back that first glass, confessed all my woes to Dan (it had been a woe-filled day) and then just totally blissed out, listening to the music and watching this little blond-haired boy and a pack of braided girls in sweet cotton dresses dance in the rain on a summer night. They were on this raised platform that was just every bit a stage in their eyes and they waved their arms and held hands and jumped on and off like ducklings. I wondered what this night felt like to them. How they would remember it. How it must feel to move so freely, especially for that little boy. He was surely a jock-to-be but, my gawd, dancing up there to that music he was just so free. I thought about how he wouldn’t be able to move that way forever. And then one of the parents told the kids to stay off the platform and the girls immediately obeyed (as we often do) and jumped down. But that little boy, he just didn’t want to leave that stage. I watched as he pleaded to stay, trying to balance his longing to dance with his disappointment while still maintaining a bit of tough little boy edge. And then he kept lifting one foot off the stage like he was readying to jump, only to put it back down, unable to make himself do it. Unable to make himself physically disconnect from the joy he had felt up there. As if he knew that if he jumped down, it would be over. He would never be able to go back up. My eyes filled with tears.

And then the cops arrested the drunk lady staring at the kids.

So I got a little saucy and a little maudlin, it’s known to happen. But the wagon fall-off was so worth it because I realized that I had almost missed this moment by trying to do the “right” thing. I was trying to use the regiment of a cleanse to harness some control over life and almost skipped this concert in part because I was worried that I’d be tempted by delicious picnic-y food and red wine. And as I suspected, I was derailed. (Over the next days, wine became cheese...cheese became coffee...coffee became pepperoni pizza and so on.) And you know what? That’s how it needed to be. Because as much as I know how great I would have felt had I lasted those three weeks, right now, at this exact point in my life, in the midst of this year, I can’t afford to miss the joyful moments. (Nor can anyone at any time.) But even more than that, I can’t afford to make it any harder. This is just not the fucking time to play coffeeless hero. I decided that while I may add some things to my diet that will contribute to my health---juicing, etc.---I may not take anything away. At least not completely. Things are just still plenty hard without my making unnecessary demands of myself.

In keeping with this theme of not depriving myself, I’m also going back on anti-depressants. And it is in keeping with this blog’s theme of as much disclosure as I can handle that I’ve decided to even write about it. I’ve not really talked much about medication here mostly because I’m still trying to figure out how I feel on the matter. While I whole-heartedly believe in over-medicating children so that they’re quiet in restaurants or stay in school or whatever, I do worry about how medication will impair my brain (and also if eventually I’ll have three-eyed children). But what I ultimately decided is that my brain is pretty fucking impaired right now as it is. Last week, after thinking better about driving into a telephone pole, I found myself parked in front of my parents’ house late at night, looking for my mom in all her spots---on the porch, in the front garden, in the window---and crying so hysterically that I had to wait until I calmed down before continuing on to my sister’s apartment where I was staying for the night. That’s impairment and that’s when I decided it was time for me to go back on medication.

About a month and half ago when the med I was on at the time didn’t seem to be doing much, I went off of it thinking I could detox and juice myself to mental wellness rather than making a chemistry set of my body as my therapist and I tried to find a drug combo that worked. This was also a lurch for control. While I’m a huge believer in people maintaining their health to the extent that they can through exercise, nutrition, stress management, etc. (and of course, let’s be clear on this, sometimes people absolutely need medication regardless of how well they care for themselves), what I’ve learned about myself is that when I’m depressed I can’t access those tools which normally help me stay afloat and I spiral. And I’m spiraling. Lots of crying, weight gain, insomnia, difficulty concentrating, fatigue---just the whole damn depression checklist. Grief, yes. But depression too.

And I also am aware of this: There’s no saying that medication will help. I know things got worse since being off them but happy pills they are not. I’m still struggling with insomnia and lately I’ve been starting my days at 2:30am. (You would think this would promote productivity but really it just cracks me out.) I may end up deciding that meds aren’t for me and that I’m going to try to meditate my way through this. Or maybe I’ll come up with a plan to karate my ass out of the darkness. I’m just still working it out and while this ambivalence initially kept me from wanting to write about it here, I ultimately decided that this is exactly why I must. Since when do I only write about things I’m sure about? I don’t write because I have answers, I write because I’m still looking for them and the hope is that we can all share in that universal experience. (And then, you know, Kumbaya it up.)

Plus, I trust you guys with this and I think I owe you my honesty after all we’ve been through. I also think that no matter what people say, there’ still a stigma around mental illness and medication and while my moral ground isn’t always sound (I did use the word cunty just mere paragraphs ago) I have a hard time sleeping at night when I feel like I’m contributing to that kind of thing. Although I don’t necessarily have to speak to every shame-inducing topic on the planet (or maybe I do), I never want to be a part of the problem if I can help it. And to try to write an honest blog (I really am still trying to write a blog) about losing one’s mom without disclosing these lows feels untruthful.

What really got me writing is that I would never want someone to happen upon this blog and think, “ Jeez, my mom’s death has really fucked me up. How is she doing so well? What’s wrong with me?” I’ve had that experience so many times and I think it’s a disservice, these half-truths we reveal to each other. I'm hardly the only person who will ever have to go on anti-depressants following the loss of a loved one so why not just be honest about it? It’s not always possible to write the whole truth (not here, not now) while I’m still in the midst of it, but the fact is that my mom’s death has had a much greater impact than simply being the most painful thing that I (and so many of my loved ones) have ever endured. It’s affected our family dynamic. We will eventually find our way to whatever it is that will be born in its place (and I’m sure it will be rich with love), but the family I’ve known my whole life is irreparably damaged.

It’s affected my marriage. Dan and I still laugh a lot and I’ve written on here more about the happy moments that I have the hard ones mostly because there are more of them (and I might come off as a total douche if I told you some of the shit over which I’ve picked fights). But I would hate for someone who’s grieving or going through similar hardship to think that the loss of my mom and the chaos that’s ensued since hasn’t affected my marriage. I bet Dan would say that it’s really hard for him to know what to say to me sometimes. And that some days he doesn’t know who he’s coming home to. And sometimes Dan’s quiet nature makes me feel vulnerable and alone, emotions I don’t always express well. (see also Satan’s cunty sister.) I would hate for people to come here looking to see their experience reflected back, only to leave feeling more alone because they're struggling within their marriages and I’ve painted a not entirely accurate picture of a happy vacationing couple. Yes, our vacation had wonderful moments---beautiful, truth-filled moments---but I was also in the midst of going off the meds and was so far inside my head that it definitely affected our trip at times.

I just want to be straight with you, that’s all. I’m struggling to keep my head above water; that’s why I didn’t call. And really, as if my being on anti-depressants is some big fucking revelation. You guys are probably thinking, damn we hoped you were on medication back when you were stalking your neighbor.

Hard to believe that was a year ago today. I keep playing that game, A Year Ago Today. A year ago today on my blog I posted about my neighbor but in my journal I wrote about wanting to write something lengthier about my mom, wondering how she'd feel about it. Of course later she and I had conversations about this. “I thought you already started,” she laughed when I asked her directly. We talked a lot about the importance of people sharing their truths so that we can all feel a little less alone and learn from each other.

So, I guess the lesson in all of this is pretty clear: Do drugs and encourage your friends to do the same.




And if this post doesn't push you towards drugs then this song sure will.