The Voice

I’ve been feverishly trying to figure out why I’m so exhausted this week, why I don’t want to get out of bed, why I have been taking naps every day during lunch, why I didn’t drive to Griffin today, why I tell myself, “I’ll run that errand tomorrow”.  

My depression has a voice.  Sometimes I push the mute button and don’t listen.  I didn’t listen this week.  Today, I pushed play and realize why I feel so sleepy I barely can function, while simultaneously I feel ashamed and guilty for not having more energy to wrap the presents, go to the bank, go welcome my Dad back home, return texts and calls.  It’s my clinical depression.  It’s kind of an Aha! moment for me to realize this and really a comfort to not have to wonder what else it could be.  What has consoled me is to remember that setbacks are not permanent conditions. Relapses don’t last into infinity. The perspective I have in the midst of my intense struggle insists that I will feel this way forever. However, my track record for getting better is 100 percent. So is yours. 

Relapse teaches me over and over again that life can’t be wrapped up and put into one single box like a Christmas present.  As hard as we try to control all the aspects of our mental health, those of us who have suffered depression in an acute way will most likely run into relapse more than once in our life. These setbacks, as painful as they are, teach us invaluable lessons, like how to accept messiness, frustration, and uncertainty with grace. They teach us, like SNL’s Gilda Radner once said that “some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end.  Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next.”

Remember, it is okay to not be okay.  Don’t suffer in silence, you are not alone.  Be kind to yourself and others.  There is a whole lot of love out in the world for us all.  

    

A Better Place

October 13, 2016

The day was warm, the tall grass wet our shoes in the old southern memory entrenched cemetery at Midway.  Michael was there in his simple, yet rich looking wooden box while his family surrounded him.  For me, it was something out of a movie - heartbreaking, yet when I blinked, I could see it was also beautiful and full of years of rich stories, kisses, songs sung, hugs, trips, steaks, baked potatoes, games and laughs.

Before Lynn, JT and I left for our final farewell, we received a blessing I'll hold with me forever.  The house was quiet.  A faint song could be heard in the background yet no radio or tv was on.  We couldn't find where it was coming from.  We searched until we found my phone across the room untouched and turned up the volume.  The song below was playing.  It was Michael telling us through his love of music that he was okay, he was in that better place.  I'll never believe anything different.    

A Better Place - Glen Campbell

I've tried and I have failed Lord.
I've won and I have lost.
I've lived and and I have loved Lord, 
sometimes at such a cost.  
One thing I know, the world's been good to me.
A better place, awaits you'll see.

Some days I'm so confused Lord, my past gets in my way
I need the ones I love Lord more and more each day.
One thing I know...
The world's been good to me.  
A better place, awaits you'll see.

A better place.

We all asked God to heal Michael in prayer over and over physically.  In the end we all finally got what we wanted -- spiritually.  Michael beat cancer because cancer cannot follow him where his is now, in heaven.    

Below is the eulogy JT spoke at his service along with happy memories and Michael's voice singing.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLcC-rvwlqc

Thank you all for coming today to support our family during this sad time.  It truly is a testament to my dad, and all our family, that you all came to show your love and support.

Michael Turner was a son, a brother, a husband, a cowboy, a lineman, a builder, a biker, a boater, a traveler, a musician, a singer…but above all to me…he was a Dad.  He was my Dad.  He was my hero.  He showed me that people can change…that there is always hope…that I can always be better.  I could talk forever about what he was to me, but today I wanted to share this…

There are three things I will always carry with me that my Dad taught me.

1.  When I would go to Michael with my troubles, whether it was venting about work, or money, or any of a host of problems…my Dad would listen.  He would offer advice sometimes, and sometimes he would let me figure it out on my own.  Inevitably, at the end of our conversation he would say….Remember son, millions of people would line up right now to trade places with you.  In other words, we are blessed.  God has blessed us immeasurably.  Look at all the people here to pay their respects, to show their love and support for Dad and our family.  I feel blessed…and Dad taught me to appreciate that.

The second thing my Dad would say is…..

2.  If you show me how worrying will help, I will start worrying.

My Dad was not a worrier.  He just wasn’t.  He realized that worrying did not help the situation – it only made us stress even more.  Now, that isn’t to say he didn’t care – I think some of us often get that confused – but he was good at realizing what he could control, and what he had to leave in God’s hands.  To let go and let God.  Even in the deepest depths of his struggle with cancer, he wasn’t worried.  He knew things had gone past his control, and it was in God’s hands now.  He knew his place in heaven awaited.  That was a comfort to him.  A comfort to his family.  He didn’t worry – he just didn’t.

The third thing my Dad would say to me, and the most important one of all is…..

3.  I love you son.

Most that knew Michael I think would agree that he was indeed a man’s man.  Rugged, tough as nails – but he had the heart of an angel.  Dad did not shy away from expressing his love – and also to show it.  My wife said on Monday – every time I was in a room with Michael, I felt his love.  And oh how he loved his family.  I watched him, and even when cancer had riddled his body, and was weakening his mind, every time Lynn would help him…he looked up adoringly at her and said…”Thank you, baby”.  The love in his eyes and voice…you could see it and even feel it.  Even then…his love permeated the room.  And he loved his sons and daughters…me, CJ, Jessica, Natalie and Rebecca - titles like step and in laws were words that didn’t apply in Michael’s world – just family - we were his sons and daughters.  And we were his grandbabies.  How he doted on his grandbabies…Dustin and Josh, and Skylar and Logan.  From the moment he first held them, to driving them around on hayrides, to singing Great Balls of Fire and Fire on the Mountain to them and with them – he cherished them.  And they loved The PawPaw. 

And in his later years, Dad’s love often leaked out in his tears.  He showed me that a man could cry.  Some of you may not know it – but Dad was a crier.  A trait, as you all have plainly seen, he passed on to me.  And I’m ok with that.  I’m proud of that.  For I am my father’s son.

These are just a few of the things my Dad taught me.  I am not yet the man I wish to be – but I am a better man because of my Dad.  He made me a better man.  And isn’t that something?  Isn’t that something?

I’d like to leave you with this poem I found.  I think it captures Michael’s spirit and his wish.  It’s called:

I wish you enough.

I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright no matter how grey the day may appear.

I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun even more.

I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive and everlasting.

I wish you enough pain so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear bigger.

I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.

I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.

I wish you enough hellos to get you through the final good-bye.

Good bye Dad.

Once again, on behalf of my Dad and Lynn and all of our family – thank you so much for coming.  It means the world to us.  And to each and every one of you….I wish you enough.

Hope and Help

It is hard for me to express the sheer pain and grief I feel when hearing about a suicide.  The closest thing I can equate to it is how PTSD must feel to people. The tears flow and my mind swims back to March 7, 2014. Mental illness survivor's guilt perhaps?  Why did I survive and they didn't?  My biggest prayer today is that people will try to understand how depression envelopes your brain and incapacitates you and controls every aspect of who you are. Untreated, every single day is a battle to live, to cope, to get out of bed.  

Huff Post:  "It's not even just sadness, it's physical pain and passiveness. The world around you keeps moving and you are there, remaining still and lethargic. That's the thing about depression -- it's silent, and it doesn't care if you are black or white, male or female, rich or poor. You can be standing on a train next to someone reading a book and that person could be screaming inside, clinging on to their last hope of life."

There is hope and help.  I am living proof of this hope and help.  
Reach out.
Be a friend.
Send a loving text.
Care.

In closing, I wanted to repost JT's blog he wrote because I think it is important for people to understand just how difficult mental illness is to see in others.  I pray for this family to feel wrapped in God's love and understanding as they grieve.  

I understand.

That two word sentence is the biggest lie I ever told my wife.  The biggest one I ever told myself.  I understand.  No, I didn’t.  No, I don’t.  No, I’m not certain I ever fully will.  Because I didn’t understand Depression.  To me, it was simply a word…a feeling…it passes, right?  Heck, they named the illness after an emotion…how stupid is that!?  Perhaps that alone made it difficult for me to understand.  Perhaps it is my thick-headed, stubbornness.  Perhaps it is a combination of things…but the fact remains I didn’t understand what my wife was going through.  Oh yes, I said I understood…and maybe I even thought I did.  But that was akin to me sticking my toe in a freezing pool and saying it was cold…while my wife was immersed in the deep end.  Like me opening a cellar door and stating how dark it was…while my wife was enveloped in the darkness.  Like me trying to pick up a heavy weight…proclaiming how heavy it was and putting it down….while my wife was dragging it around.  I never understood.  I couldn’t possibly, because I wasn’t living it.  I realize that I may never truly understand it…because I believe that in order to truly understand…one must live it…not stick their toe in.  I didn’t realize she was freezing, in darkness, and carrying a heavy load…with no one to help…because I wasn’t there.  A guilt I will carry…but that’s a story for another time.  For this time, it is simply one point…I now know I didn’t understand.  My wife suffers from Depression.  So to me, while technically I do not ‘suffer’ from it…I deal with it.  Because I am in this with her…together we are in the deep end and swimming to shallow waters, leaving the dark for a brighter place, helping each other to carry the heavy loads.  I want to understand…and I can try to do that better…but I also think that may be missing the mark just a bit.  Maybe it is not about me fully understanding.  Maybe it is about something else.  Maybe it is not “I understand” that she and people that suffer from Depression need to hear.  Maybe it is not hearing anything…but more seeing and knowing…

I’m sorry.  You are not alone.  I am here now.

My Brain: The All-Hands Meeting

This is a repost from the New yorker i just dug up.  if you are living with a mood disorder, I hope this brings you as much humor as it does me.  

MY BRAIN: THE ALL-HANDS MEETING

By Hallie Cantor

Me: Hey, everyone, thanks for coming. This meeting is just to check in, get updated about what everybody’s been working on in the first quarter of the day, and see how we’re feeling about the future. Coffee, wanna kick us off?

Coffee: Sure, thanks. So, my team’s been pretty active in Q1. We started out with our regular one cup, and, you know, we weren’t seeing immediate results. We’re attributing that to a number of factors. Our target is developing a tolerance owing to her unemployment, plus we all know there’ve been some hiccups in the new sleep schedule—

(Sleep snorts. Coffee pauses.)

Coffee: —but we’re hoping to hit the ground running in Q2 with the second-cup initiative, and build on the foundation that Antidepressants set up.

Antidepressants: Yeah, thanks, Coffee. Can I get that PowerPoint I e-mailed everyone up on the screen, please? Great. Now, as you can see, our department’s not getting the full R.O.I. we once were. Forty milligrams of Cymbalta used to be enough to get her out of bed and to a coffee shop, but increasingly—especially with the overwhelming trend toward mobile—she’s just checking her e-mail on her phone and then going back to sleep.

Sleep: Can I jump in here?

Me: Sure, Sleep, let’s hear from you.

Sleep: Listen, I know my department has been asking for a lot recently. But what do you want me to say? She’s unemployed now. That’s a new climate for all of us. We’ve had to adapt. Her sleeping patterns are being completely recalibrated. Seven hours a night isn’t gonna fly. We need nine, ten, even eleven hours now.

Coffee (under its breath): Ridiculous.

Sleep: And I hate to say it, but, as we enter Q2, the fact is we need a nap.

(Assorted grumbles and groans can be heard around the room.)

Sugar: We don’t need a nap, O.K.? What we need is a pastry.

Protein: Absolutely not. A pastry is a Band-Aid solution! We need scrambled eggs.

Me: Guys, come on. I can’t get into this with you two again before lunch. Let’s circle back to Coffee’s second-cup initiative. Water, how does that look from your end?

Water: I’m gonna have to strongly advise against it. If the first cup didn’t work, why would we double down on that strategy and sink more resources into a second cup? Besides, my team’s projections show that more coffee would frankly be counter to our goals at this point.

Coffee: Excuse me?

Water: She’s tired because she’s dehydrated. It’s always dehydration! How many articles from the Huffington Post’s Healthy Living vertical does her mom need to forward her before this sinks in?

Coffee (sulkily): There’s water in coffee, you know.

Exercise: I’m with Water. The work my guys are doing is pointless without support in the form of more water! All through Q1, we were busting our ass at yoga class and she couldn’t get any of the benefits because she was feeling light-headed from a single Sun Salutation. That’s textbook dehydration. I’m sorry, but it is.

Sugar: Could be low blood sugar.

Exercise: It’s not.

Sugar: It could be, though.

Water: It’s not.

Me: All right, let’s cool it with the crosstalk, please. I want to go big picture. None of us can deny the negative trends we’ve been seeing in mood and productivity. Let’s do a deep dive. Therapy, what do you have to say?

Therapy: I know things look stagnant right now, but it’s a process. We’re pursuing a long-term strategy, and sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. If we just stay the course—

Antidepressants: Oh, stuff it.

Therapy: Hey!

Antidepressants: I’m sick of this asshole taking credit for the work I’m doing! Therapy, have you ever gotten concrete results?

Therapy: I’m dealing with challenges that the rest of you have never had to handle! An off-site partner is not easy to work with, you know. Her Subconscious couldn’t even be bothered to dial in to this meeting.

Me: We tried. The connection was bad.

Therapy: What else is new?

Me: Look, excuses and finger-pointing aren’t going to solve anything. Does anyone have any constructive ideas?

(A calm, wise voice speaks up from the back of the room.)

Meditation: Pardon me, but may I make a suggestion? If you’d consider bringing me on full time instead of employing me on a sporadic freelance basis, I really think I could help out with some of these issues.

Me: Yeah, yeah. Maybe next quarter.

(Alcohol clears its throat.)

Alcohol: I know you already know that we’re all dying to contribute more consistently over in my department.

Weed: Ditto.

Me: Thanks, guys. I appreciate that.

Water: Tell me you’re not considering putting those jackasses in charge.

Me: Not in charge. Just . . . maybe they should have a place at the table. Would that be so terrible?

(Suddenly, the door to the conference room bursts open.)

P.M.S.: Sorry, sorry, sorry! Am I late?

Me: Fuck it. Sleep, you’re in charge. ♦

Hallie Cantor wrote for the third season of Comedy Central’s “Inside Amy Schumer.” She lives in Brooklyn