Happy Pills

It's been almost six weeks since the crap hit the fan and I had my little "breakdown." I couldn't sleep for four nights straight. And when I tried to get help, Mother Nature decided to dump a huge snowstorm on Northern Jersey and every place I called was closed. I even tried to hurt myself, because in my addled brain, I thought then I could go to the emergency room. But guess what? I'm a wimp! And I have a very strong sense of self-preservation coupled with a very weak stomach. So, don't worry. I can't kill a spider, much less myself. 

I eventually did get in to see a psychiatrist, and for a month now, I've been taking Lexapro, an anti-anxiety/depression medicine. I tried Lexapro before, when the babies were little and I was drowning in diapers and self-loathing, but it was given to me by a shrink that only heard the word "triplets," threw a prescription at me, and never talked to me again. The first two days I took it, I felt jittery and had trouble sleeping. Screw that, I thought, stopped taking it, and never followed up. This time around, my doctor explained that the side effects would wear off with time, but that I had to stick with it for a few weeks. She gave me a prescription for a sleep aide that I used a few times, and we've been meeting regularly ever since. In other words, she does her job right. Bless her! But it took a while for the meds to kick in, and getting to that point was hard. If you've never experienced anxiety or depression before, lemme splain:

Generalized anxiety, for me, feels like this unease that comes from nowhere, like black, formless demons that lurk at the corners of your consciousness. You can't place the source of the fear, but it's real, like a feeling of impending doom. The sun might be shining, but its light is bleak and hopeless. Adam knows that when I tell him I'm feeling anxious, he needs to put his arms around me, hold me tightly, and tell me over and over, "Everything is going to be alright." Because when you're in its thrall, the demons eat away at any peace of mind you had. My chest feels tight. I want to hide. It's horrible.

Recently, before the fan/crap, I had a few bona-fide panic attacks. One happened on the drive home from Costco. I had Elizabeth with me and I was irked that I'd finished later than I wanted and would be hitting bad traffic. Plus, some nice person had left a note telling me I'd scratched their truck, though I knew there was no way I'd hit anything in the parking lot, much less a truck. All this and other thoughts were swirling in my head, when all of a sudden, my breathing started to get rapid and shallow. I felt like there was something constricting my chest and that I couldn't get a deep enough breath. The longer it went on, the more I struggled to breathe, and the more scared I got. I didn't know what to do. I thought I was going to lose control of the car. I pulled over as soon as I safely could, I asked Elizabeth to say a prayer for me (to give her something to do since she was freaking out), and called Adam. Listening to his voice helped me calm down a little. I figured the best thing I could do would be to get out of my head, so after assuring him that I was feeling better, I turned on NPR and listened to the news. I let the words coming out of my radio numb me and I was fine for the rest of the drive home. 

I had one more panic attack the day of snow and crap. And then the anxiety turned to a terrible pain in my stomach. For a while, I even thought I might be pregnant, since it reminded me so much of the crippling pain I'd experienced when I carried the triplets. But I found out I wasn't pregnant and wouldn't have to throw myself off the George Washington Bridge like I'd vowed I would if I were. Hallelujah! But the pain was still there, as bad as that I experienced when I was a green missionary in Texas. Oh, the irony. But the stomach pain, thank goodness, has diminished and now I only feel a slight queasiness once in a while. And it sure has helped me lose weight! (Or that might be the zumba.)

As for depression, perhaps I can best describe my experience with it by telling you how I've felt since the meds have started to kick in. It was about Tuesday of last week when I first noticed that I didn't have to force myself to smile. Charlie was saying something heart-breakingly adorable and I felt a warmth I hadn't felt in so long. I was genuinely delighted by the funny thing my kid had just said. I noticed I was laughing more. I was making jokes at the dinner table. I was dancing around and singing Frozen songs with the kids. I wasn't dwelling on painful thoughts and memories. It was like I finally felt like myself; I felt free to enjoy life. I still got angry. I still felt sad. But it didn't incapacitate me. Depression for me feels like everything is flat. I feel like I'm walking through water. When it's bad, it takes all my effort and mental stamina to get anything done. I remember one day when I was faced with laundry, and it physically (but mentally?) hurt to pick up the laundry basket and start collecting dirty clothes. Another day, I couldn't get out of bed. My kids were running amok and needed to be fed breakfast, but I just couldn't move. "Suck it up, woman!" you're shouting. I was shouting it to myself, too. But I couldn't. I called my friend and neighbor and told her how I felt. She knew just what to do: she invited me to bring the kids over so we could talk. That was enough to motivate me to get out of bed. So my kids were fed that day, thanks to her. 

A few days before the meds kicked, I had my darkest hour. I tried to hurt myself again, this time to displace the emotional pain with physical pain (cuz that makes sense, right?) Again, my weak stomach prevailed and no harm done. But my p-sychiatrist didn't see it that way. Two attempts in three weeks, plus endless thoughts of ending my life was enough to convince her I needed more intensive help. I balked at first, but after talking it over with Adam, my parents, and my therapist, I decided to give it a try. I've only had an intake appointment, but I feel really optimistic about it. I'll be going to what's called an Intensive Outpatient Program for about six weeks. I'll basically be able to do a few years' worth of therapy in a much shorter time. And since I'll be starting the program with the meds already working (and not mired in terrible anxiety and depression), I'll be that much further ahead. It won't be cheap, but hey! It's cheaper than going to the funny farm! 

A wise man once told me, depression is the mind's inability to construct a future. And it's so true. When you're depressed, there's no hope in the future. And you're afraid that you'll always feel that way. 

I don't feel afraid anymore.

And here's some cute pictures of my kids.

P.S. For a really awesome, hilarious, and true description of depression (and how not to react to people with depression,) check out these posts on Hyperbole and a Half here and here.)

Rehab

What to do when you have a mental breakdown? Take a vacation from your problems! Right, Dr. Leo Marvin? My shrink suggested I get away for some time, as a sort of "rehab," and knowing that Adam would be out of town for the weekend, I called my Aunt Jill and asked if the kids and I could come for a visit. She, of course, was happy to have us—bless her!—so we made our way down to Maryland before the big snow storm hit. It was my first time packing up all the stuff and kids for a trip, and I never could have done it without my friend, Emily's help. Yes, the friend who's daughter has cancer. She helped me. But she's pretty much a saint, so that should come as no surprise. We made it to my aunt's house without a hitch, but I later discovered that I had forgotten my toiletry bag, which not only included all the toothbrushes but also my newly acquired meds, both the anti-depressants and the sleeping aid. So, I didn't sleep that night. That was fun. But the next day, my aunt and I slogged through the snow to the supermarket, bought five toothbrushes and some melatonin and I slept fine after that. Hooray!

Besides watching a glut of British awesomeness (like the newly released Austenland) with my aunt, we also celebrated Valentine's Day by decorating heart sugar cookies and going on a special treasure hunt. 

Enjoying the loot at the end of the hunt.

At the last minute, Adam's plans fell through, so he took a Greyhound down and joined us for the last few days of our stay. He came just in time to dig a cave in this giant pile of snow in their front yard.

The mountain of snow eventually got stairs and a slide.

 The day before we left, we decided to take the kids into DC to the Natural History Museum, AKA the Dinosaur Bone Museum. The last time we were in Maryland, we took them to the Air and Space Museum and it didn't go too terribly, so we were optimistic about this trip. And it went pretty well. (We only lost track of one of the kids once!) 

The kids loved the dinosaurs.

Elizabeth was so fun to watch. She made a check list before we left of things she wanted to see, then kept adding to it at the museum.

The Future Scientist

 Everyone was pretty impressed with all of God's creatures.

Eddie learns one of the attributes of the class mammalia.

We're still alive! And smiling!

The museum has a live butterfly exhibit that we've been to before, when Elizabeth was just a baby. We thought the kids would get a kick out of it so we splurged on tickets. And we were right.

Hooray for impromptu vacations! It really was wonderful to get away for a bit and be with family. I'm so glad my aunt and uncle were willing to let us come at such short notice. They are a tremendous blessing in our lives. Now to face life after "rehab."

The Thrill of Victory

This is the story of how I won New York City.  

Back in November, I met up with my friend Lindsay and her family at The Cloisters, a museum in Inwood (the northernmost neighborhood in Manhattan.) It took me forever to find a place to park, even though it's one of the few places I've been to in the city that actually has designated parking spots. But I finally saw someone pull out and took their spot, parallel parking on a side lane, along with a lot of other cars. I joined my friend, her three boys, her husband, and her mom who was in town, to see some pretty awesome medieval art, including this tapestry straight from every humanities textbook ever, and a sound installation of a gregorian choir that moved me to tears. (Okay, so that's not so hard.) A fun time was had by all, until I was walking back to my car with my friend's mom and saw the dreaded Orange Envelope under my windshield wiper. These carrot-colored devils are so ubiquitous to life in NYC that there's even a collectible plate patterned after them. So I knew what it was the moment I saw it, and I was crushed. I couldn't even keep it together in front of my friend's mom. I cried the whole way home. Did I mention the ticket was for $115? 

I thought about ignoring it but was told that if I did, the next time I drove to the city, I'd be arrested and dragged before a judge and then locked up in Attica. Okay, so I watch too much Law and Order, but that was the gist of it. So ignoring it wasn't an option. But paying it?! It was so unfair! There were a ton of other people parked just like me. And there were no signs indicating that parking wasn't allowed, so how was I to know it was illegal!? No. I was going to fight this, dadgum. 

First I had to call the city to get them to send me a copy of the ticket that I could actually read. Then I had to look it up in their online system. And then call back when it didn't show up forever. All of this took a few weeks' time and Adam kept nagging me to pay the ticket. But I wouldn't give up! I figured out how to do an appeal by mail. I gathered my evidence:

Exhibit A: A screen shot from Google Maps of the lane where I parked. 

The only No Parking sign is for the other street, a point I made in my letter.

As you can see, this image indicates where the lane is located (The Cloisters), and that there are no No Parking signs posted along the lane.

Exhibit B: The exact spot I parked, next to the trash can. Note the complete absence of No Parking signs. (But try to ignore that on the day this picture was taking, there also weren't any other cars parked along the side of the street, only in the clearly-marked actual parking spots. *Ahem*)

I even included a letter that I typed up for my friend's mom to sign, in which she testified "that [my] vehicle was parked on the north side of the north branch of Margaret Corbin Drive in New York, New York, on the aforementioned date at approximately 4 PM." Yes, I wrote that all myself. So I'd established that I had, indeed, parked where I said I parked and that there were, in fact, no signs stating that I could not park there. The original violation stated that I'd parked "in a lane intended for the free movement of vehicles" so I also stated in my letter that there was ample room for cars to pass, as it was a one-way street. I even went so far to include that there was, in fact, a No Parking sign further down the street, that indicated there was no parking after 10 PM. (And I had my witness testify that I'd parked at 4 PM, remember?) I read it through a hundred times, read the violation language itself, and concluded, meh? What have I got to lose? 

Fast forward to yesterday. I've had one of the hardest and darkest weeks of my life—a time of crisis. Though I'd like to write about the things I've been struggling with, I think it will take me a long time to process it all and be able to look at it with any objectivity. In a word, it's been hellish. But then, yesterday, I get a letter in the mail from the New York City Department of Finance. I opened it with a sinking heart. And then I read the Decision and Order stating that the "Respondent's claim is supported by persuasive documentary evidence." Disposition: Not Guilty.

I seriously did the Hallelujah Two Step for ten minutes. It looked something like this:

Adam gave me a high five. Then I called Lindsay. Then I ran next door to tell my friend Emily. I couldn't think of anyone else I could tell, so I decided to blog about it.

And that, my friends, is how I beat New York City.

Leaving Los Angeles

I recently saw a buzzfeed-ish article going around Facebook about what it's like to move away from Southern California. Some of it rang true and some of it made me laugh. But I thought I could do one better. Maybe it won't be as universal, but it will be much more therapeutic for me, as I face another week of sub-zero temperatures.

Ten Things You'll Miss When You Leave L.A. 



1. Mexican Food. 

Tacos de Lenga. Que delicioso!

Finding a good mexican restaurant became my obsession when we first moved to Brooklyn. We lived in a latino neighborhood, but every restaurant we tried was very disappointing. We were especially confused by all the ones that claimed to serve Chinese AND Mexican food. (Chimichungas that taste like egg rolls, our friends discovered.) I'll never forget the day we were driving to IKEA and we passed the ball fields near the projects in Red Hook and I saw . . . taco trucks! Taco trucks! I made Adam pull over and we got huaraches and pupusas. Oh happy day! It was like being home.

2. Espanol. 

I used Spanish in the workplace all the time when I lived in the west. Sometimes the Hispanoblantes would be a little surprised, but in So Cal, you have to know a little Spanish to get by. When we moved to Brooklyn, every time I'd try speaking Spanish to my vecinos, they would look at me like I was loco in the cabeza and then answer back in English. Even Angelinos who didn't take four years of high school Spanish (the fools), throw in words here and there. And the rest of the country would be wise to catch up. Salsa has ousted ketchup as the #1 condiment in America. Espanish is here to estay. 

3. Smog. 

Okay, you won't miss it, but you will miss whining about it. Someone was complaining to me once about the bad air quality in New Jersey. I just looked at them like they were crazy. I mean loco.

4. Freeways. 

It's a freeway, right?

WRONG!

When we first moved to the East Coast, I called everything "freeways" and, of course, used the ubiquitous "the" in front of all numbered roads. It got pretty confusing. Because nothing in the East Coast can be simple or relaxing, especially not driving anywhere. There are expressways. There are highways. There are beltways. There are routes. And, the most horrible thing of all, some of them have STOP LIGHTS. You think you're on a freeway. There are multiple lanes going in each direction. The speed limit is 55 mph. And all of a sudden, a stop light. 

5. Free Freeways. 

TOLL ROADS. Hate them. Hate them. Use them and have an EZ Pass cuz I'm not dumb but still. HATE THEM.

6. The Real Ocean. 

The Hollister store in Midtown Manhattan. It's live feed of Huntington Beach mocks me.

You will miss the pacific ocean like a lost limb. The first time we went to the beach on the East Coast, I kept waiting to feel that beach feeling, the drop in temperature, the increase in humidity, the scent of the sea in the air. I kept waiting as we parked the car, walked across the hot-as-fiery-coals sand, and I waded into the water. I can't tell you how bitter my disappointment was when I stood knee deep in lukewarm water as the sun beat down on me when I realized this was as beachy as it was going to get. I'm sweating. I'm in the ocean. I'm sweating and I'm in the ocean. What the blazes is wrong with this ocean?!?! 

7. Quality produce at a decent price. 

Every time I pay through the nose for avocados, I cry a little inside. If I find navel oranges for 2/$1.00, I'm thrilled. And then I eat them and they have no taste. 

8. Dry Air. 

Yup. That's what it feels like.

Everyone knows the East has terrible humidity. But what they don't explain is that the East also has a lot of really old houses and apartment buildings. And old houses and apartment buildings don't have central air. So not only are you living where it's hot as hell even when you're in the shade, you're also living where the only place you'll find relief is right in front of your window unit when it's turned all the way up, or Target. 

9. People Who Talk Normal. 

Man at grocery store: "Excuse me, miss, you left your pocket book in your carriage." 

Me: Miss? Am I a miss? What is a pocket book? Is he talking about my purse? Did he just call the grocery cart a carriage?? Oh. Thank you. 

Of course, even my husband, East-Coaster that he is, makes fun of me for slurring my consonants and overly-emphasizing vowels, like in this SNL skit. "Whaaudoinere?" And sometimes I overdo it with "dude." Okay, to be honest, I find the different accents fascinating. And I've gotten to the point where I use "shmutz" without feeling like a poser.

10. In-N-Out. 

Five guys, overpriced. Shake Shack, decent. But nothing can replace quality you can taste. It's the first place I go when I go home and the last place I eat before I leave. I find it infuriating that they opened restaurants in Utah AFTER I left BYU. Rude. But it's been TWO YEARS since I've been home, guys. TWO YEARS. Who wants to overnight me a double double?

So there you have it. Did I forget anything? Maybe next time I'll do ten things I'll miss if we ever leave the NYC metro area. Maybe.

Adam's Book of Love

Monday, January 20th was Adam's 32nd birthday. This year, I decided to do something a little different. Christmas was somewhat of a disappointment for him; I think I put too much thought and effort into the kids' gifts and Adam felt like mine weren't very thoughtful. Plus, I basically bought myself a bunch of gifts and had him wrap them and give them to me from him. But that's just making it easy for him, right? Anyway, I wanted to do something a bit more meaningful, so about a month before his big day, I started contacting all of Adam's family and friends that I could find info for. I asked everyone to send something personal, a note or a letter, an mp3 or some photos, anything that would make Adam feel loved, and I'd put it all in a book for him. I was very pleased with the results. 

I had Elizabeth decorate the cover. She's pretty amazing when it comes to arts and crafts, if I do say so myself.

I just put the letters and pics in sheet protectors. The kids each colored a portrait of Adam (Elizabeth's is showing). 

Other people got creative, too. Two of the former missionaries that served in our ward when Adam was the Ward Mission Leader made these. I love them.

A tribute to Adam by Skyler Thiot

Our family illustrated by Crys Kevan Lee

Aren't they amazing? 

Hernan, who stayed with Adam a few years ago while the kids and I were in California for a few months, sent him a huge CD of songs and this photo collage.

I also received a lot of awesome pictures from Adam's earlier years, like this gem:

as well as this pic that I'd never seen before, sent from my aunt:

Just having the digital copies of so many old pictures was a great blessing. There was even a hand-crafted card and a Oscar Meyer Weiner whistle awaiting Adam in his Book of Love. I think he was also really touched by all the heartfelt letters people wrote. All in all, it was a lot of fun to put together, as I hope it was for everyone who contributed. So here's to Adam and all the 32 years he's blessed our lives. Happy birthday!

Letters for Maddie

As some of you know, my friend (and next-door-neighbor) has a bright, spunky, talented, sweet 9-year-old girl who has an aggressive form of lymphomic cancer. She's about six months into her two-year treatment and has shown an amazing amount of courage and patience. Not only is she a little hero, but she's also one of my kids' favorite people. They're like little Maddie Minions. 

Maddie is collecting letters to Santa to give to Macy's. For their Believe campaign, they will donate $1 for every letter to the Make-a-Wish foundation. (That same foundation that turned San Francisco into Gotham City for a kindergartener with cancer.) Make-a-Wish has already started making arrangements for Maddie's wish, a family trip to Disneyworld, which has given Maddie something to look forward to that's fun, exciting, and has nothing to do with spinal taps, poison pills, or overnight stays in the hospital. And now she wants to give back.

If you have time during all the rush of Christmas, please send a letter (or two or a hundred) to Maddie. You can send them to me and I'll walk twenty feet and deliver them to her. I'm such a philanthropist. (I'll gladly email you my address if you don't already have it.) Do you have any contacts with children groups, schools or church groups? Please spread the word. Let's help Maddie have a wonderful Christmas as she turns to helping others in her own hour of need.

Mother I Am A

I'm sorry this isn't a blog post w/ cute pictures of the kids. You can find that on Facebook. You're not on Facebook? Embrace the madness. This is yet another post where I try to work something out in my head and my heart. Don't feel obligated to read on. I can't help it. As Jo March says, "Genius burns!"

Okay, one cute pic.

The other night, as I sat next to Eddie's little toddler bed, resting my head on his pillow, I took his hand in mine and had a revelation. Every night, as if it's part of his bedtime routine, he asks me to stay "just five minutes." Sometimes I can bargain him down to one minute, giving him the excuse that I have to go do the dishes (which is a lie, since Adam does them almost every night.) But some nights I agree to the full five minutes. That night, like every other night, I was tired to my core. The dinner/bedtime marathon was almost over, but I knew I had three more kids to go. So I didn't mind sitting still for a few minutes, my face a few inches from Eddie's. I could smell his shampoo. I could hear the tiny sucking sounds from his mouth and thumb. (Those melt me.) I took his hand in mine and that's when it hit me–just how small his hands were. His room was almost completely dark, so I couldn't see his fingers, but I could feel all the tiny little bones. I rubbed my thumb over them. They felt so small, so delicate, so easily broken. And it was a shock. He's such a small child. Not small for his age; he's just small. 

It took me a while to figure out why it was such a shock. Again, it came to me one night like that, when I was sitting again, for "just five minutes," with Eddie in the dark of his room. I realized Eddie's delicate little bones were surprisingly small only when I compared them to mine. It was all about scale. All day, every day, I'd wage these epic battles against the Three Tyrants and their Ring Leader. The frustration, the anger, the tears, the noise, everything going on in the microcosm of our home felt larger than life, especially the kids' personalities. In the dark, quiet room,with only my touch to inform me, Eddie wasn't a force to be reckoned with. He was just a tiny, little person, whose little hand was completely enveloped in mine.

*        *        *

Not long ago, I reposted on Facebook (There it is again. You really should get an account.) a video Adam's college roommates had made of him dancing. It's hilarious. It's awesome. I could watch it all day. And it inevitably gets a lot of attention. Someone suggested I make a response video. I filed the idea away, thinking it would be fun to do. I'm a good dancer. I've got some moves. It'd be nice to be shown a little internet love. So yesterday, I put on makeup, squeezed into some pre-triplets jeans, and set up the camera. I figured a video of just me dancing wouldn't be nearly as fun as a video of me and the kids, so I invited them to join me. When we watched the results, I thought it was a failure and refused to put it online. 

I showed it to Adam, (who later insisted on uploading it to YouTube) and watched with growing agitation as he watched. He laughed at Elizabeth as she lip sang and twitched her hips. It was really funny—her expressions were so exaggerated and she was obviously enjoying herself. I laughed a little, in spite of myself, but that only made my heart feel harder, and by the end, I was stone-faced and giving Adam the Look of Death. He, understandably, was utterly confused. Why was I so upset? All he saw was us having a dance party, and Elizabeth acting goofy. What did I see? Mr. Photoshop helps us peer into my twisted mind:

Seeing the video in Emily-Vision

But that wasn't all. As I watched Elizabeth upstaging me (literally and figuratively), I knew the only appeal a video like this would have would be her and the kids. Because, the little shoulder devil said with red, hot pokers in my heart, the only good thing about you is your kids. That's all you do. That's all you are. 

I remember a conversation I had with a kind soul when the babies were just a few months old. It had finally dawned on me, as I sat in her car peering out at rows of night-dark trees, that I was from now on going to be known as "The Triplets' Mom." I struggled like all first-time mothers with my new identity when Elizabeth was born. Heck, it almost sent me over the edge. But I emerged with me intact. Having three more kids (not to mention at once) has almost wiped me out. Wiped me out—made me tired, but wiped me out—dry erase board. And what hasn't been wiped out has been changed almost beyond recognition. I have scowl lines between my eyebrows. My abdomen looks like a war zone. Ever heard of twin skin? Nothing short of surgery will ever take it away. And my eyes look tired and puffy all. the. time. Sometimes I do a good job of looking at the acres of stretch marks and thinking about them as battle scars, or my Badges of Awesomeness, or something sunshiney-barfy like that. But sometimes I just cry and want to hide. That night, watching Adam watch the video, I felt so angry and impotent. 

I left the office and went to the dining table where I'd laid out some tools, a bead board, and an assortment of beads. I got to work, and an hour later, I'd made two pair of earrings. When I went to show Adam, I felt almost giddy. (The poor man must suffer from whiplash with my mood swings.) "I made these!" I told him. "ME!" It felt really, really good.