Easter 2014

This year, we were invited to spend Easter with my aunt and uncle in Maryland (the same family that opened their home to us for my "rehab.") We love going to their home to visit so we couldn't turn them down. We drove down the same day Adam's family left and came back the Monday after Easter. It was beautiful weather and we all had a wonderful time. As per tradition, we did the Easter baskets and egg hunt on Saturday, and saved Sunday for the celebration of Christ's resurrection. 

The spoils: 

Do you think they liked it?

Get excited, Lucy.

 In the morning, we died eggs. Then the kids watched their new copy of Frozen (first time for that copy, millionth time for the movie.) While they hung with Anna and Elsa, my aunt and I hid the eggs.

Here they are ready for the hunt:

Can you guess who's hand that is?

 And the hunt:

Temporarily distracted from hunting by the super-awesome green motorcycle

I never tire of looking at pics of her hair.

Then we went next door to take pictures with the neighbor's giant Olaf thing. Cuz that's just awesome.

Sunday was a beautiful day. My aunt and uncle's ward did a great job with the speaker and the choir. And the kids had a special program in Primary. They even got to wave real palm leaves! We had a delicious ham dinner and then did a special Easter Egg devotional with 24 plastic eggs, which each held a scripture verse and a small item pertaining to the last week of Christ's life. 

I forgot to pack Eddie's tie, so my aunt provided some scrap ribbon. Genius.

So happy Easter from our family to yours. If you haven't seen this video yet, check it out. It's not your grandma's Jesus video. It's really moving.

Ob La Di

Even though my posts lately have all been about Crazy School, life still goes on. Last week, we said goodbye to some good friends that were leaving Jersey for the Golden State. Jealous. Seriously, though, I'm going to miss my friend. We met at the playground not long after both of us had moved to NJ and bonded over how much we hated living on the East Coast. That was back when the babies were still babies and she only had two boys to wrangle. I hate moving. Why can't we all live in the same cul-de-sac somewhere? Boo.

Our families are just too cute.

Then, my in-laws came for their spring break, minus Kim who was on a school trip to Ireland (jealous, again) but plus their foreign exchange student, Pim. Yes, we traded Kim for Pim. 

After they arrived, I took them and the kids on a walk to the park to show them the neighborhood. Then it poured rain on us. But we had fun running home. And that night we all went out for Red Robin. (Apparently there's some jingle everyone but me knows since I don't watch TV so go ahead and sing that to yourself now.) And why did we go out to dinner? Because it was my birthday! Did you forget?

And let me digress a moment to talk about birthdays in the digital age. If I know you but never talk to you on the phone, a FB "Happy birthday" is fine. If I consider you a bosom friend, a call is appreciated, a text bare minimum. If you are related to me by blood, you better be calling. I'm looking at you, Rebecca. Just putting that out there. For future reference.

The next day, Grandma and Grandpa spent time with me and the kids, while Adam took Megan and Pim to the city. They hit up a few tourist stops and did a lot of shopping. I mean, the girls did a lot of shopping. I mean, Pim did a lot of shopping. Wouldn't you if you were visiting her hometown? (Bangkok). 

Central Park

What's more touristy than holding a giant M&M store bag on the subway?

Street meat!

The next day, I got to take the whole day off (!) while Adam took everyone to the Statue of Liberty. It was an awfully chilly day to be on the water, but the boat was the kids' favorite part. Okay, their only favorite part. In case you were wondering, 3-year-olds are too young to take to the Statue of Liberty. Especially three of them.

The whole fandamily. This was the only shot Charlie wasn't (visibly) crying in.

Awwwwwwwwwwwww!!!

 Adam's family only spent a few days with us, but we were sure grateful they came down to visit. And what could be better than spending a few hours at the playground with these guys? 

Right? . . . Meg? . . . Mom? 

I'll let you fill in the thought bubbles. But seriously, we had a blast and hope they did, too. The kids crawled all over Grandpa, demanding story after story. Megan was quickly re-adopted as their favorite while always helping me. It was super fun to get to know Pim a little and the kids loved playing games with her. And Grandma brought the tastiest cheesecake so that alone makes her golden, besides all the help she was and love she showed the grandkids. I know the kids can't wait for them to come again. 

Stay tuned for Easter! And more Crazy School!

Crazy School: Week 2

Holy moly, guys. I'm learning a lot at Crazy School. I'm even learning that what I thought was "crazy" isn't really crazy. Here are some examples:

Growing up, we used to chant this little rhyme and think we were so funny:

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I'm a schizophrenic.
And so am I.

Yeah, it wasn't until I was almost an adult that I figured out that schizophrenia is not the same as multiple personality disorder (which might not really be a thing. But I digress.) Remember the movie A Beautiful Mind where the brilliant mathematician hears voices and sees hallucinations? That's schizophrenia. And it wasn't until last week that I figured out that schizophrenics aren't crazy. We have open process group for an hour every day where anyone can talk about whatever issues they're dealing with. I'm still getting to know everyone, but I was shocked to learn that some of the people I'd come to feel the most comfortable with suffered from schizophrenia. There's one guy, we'll call him Herman, cuz that's such a great name, who has always been very polite and thoughtful. When I cry (which I'm sure you can imagine is a lot), he always brings me the tissue box. He dresses like a homie, and I can tell from his accent that he's chicano. He's very soft spoken, and always talks about his wife and children with an incredible amount of love and concern. He's had a rough life—he's alluded to years he's spent on the street—but I was flabbergasted when he spoke up one day about how that morning he'd been hearing voices. He'd seen the news coverage of the shooting at Ft. Hood and it triggered his voices. He referred to the phenomenon as "they." They told him he was a horrible person; that he should do bad things; that he was in danger of doing the same kind of thing that shooter did. He talked about overcoming his fear of reaching out to his wife when the voices got bad, but how he overcame it and texted her and how it helped ground him, quiet the voices. Herman is my friend. He is kind and considerate and honorable and hard working. And sometimes he hears voices. He is not crazy. 

This is what real crazy looks like.

I recently talked to an old friend and her husband on the phone. Her husband has anxiety and depression and has been heroically battling it for a while. But talking to me was the FIRST time he'd ever talked to someone else who has the same illness he has. The first! That, my friends, is crazy. Why don't we talk about these things? Just hearing someone say, "I can totally relate to that," gives me so much hope. And it's even better when they can say, ". . . and here's how I dealt with it." But empathy has it's downside. The other day, after a pretty intense discussion in group, I suddenly started crying. Most everyone had already gotten up to leave for a break, but the few people that remained noticed and asked me what was wrong. I hardly knew what to tell them. I just felt so overwhelmed by everyone's grief. There was so much suffering in that room—so many heartbreaking stories, so much pain—it just filled me up and spilled out. I wanted so badly to be able to help everyone feel better. But all I could do was listen and give feedback. I felt better after crying. But it's been hard to not get teary-eyed ever since then. I'll have to figure out what, if anything, is behind it. 

But back to the crazy stuff. We talked a lot last week about cognitive distortions. Come with me, if you will, into the mind of a "crazy" person. You'll see that they're not really crazy. They just have learned bad ways of thinking. (And, psst! We all have!) So Mr. Cray Cray goes to the store to buy some bread. At the store he sees Mr. Neighbor that he's known for a while. Mr. Cray Cray waves to Mr. Neighbor. Mr. N doesn't wave back. Mr. N completely ignores Mr. CC. Mr. CC starts to wonder what's wrong. Was it something I did? Why didn't he wave back? Is he mad at me? Why doesn't he like me? Nobody really likes me. I hate myself. Mr. CC starts to feel really down. He feels angry. He feels depressed. Poor Mr. CC. He then goes home and snaps at his wife when she asks him to take out the trash. His wife snaps back and they get in a big fight. Afterwards, Mr. CC feels even crummier and realizes he was right, nobody likes him. He's scum. 

Okay, so Mr. Cray Cray's example is a little extreme. But do you see how it works? A healthy person would take an event like a neighbor not greeting them and figure, Hmm...he must not have seen me. Or, Mr. N must be having a bad day. But Mr. CC has a cognitive distortion. He takes the negative thing that happened and internalizes it. It's his fault. His negative thoughts lead to negative feelings which lead to negative actions which reinforce the original negative thoughts. The good news? Mr. CC can interrupt the cycle at any point. He can challenge the negative thought. He can ask himself, "Is this true? What evidence do I have? What's a more logical explanation?" If he's already to the negative feelings, he can do something to help himself feel better. He can go talk to his neighbor and reconnect. He can call up a loved one. He can go for a run. Whatevs. If he's already at the negative behavior, he can forgive himself. He can be honest with his wife about what happened with Mr. N. He can fight the impulse to label himself as "scum." He can let it go. (I can't tell you how many times I sing that to myself in group.)

Letting go feels pretty awesome, right Elsa?

Guys, this stuff works. I've used it on myself. I've used it to help Adam. (He'll be so embarrassed I mentioned him.) It works! But you have to be mindful of what you're thinking and feeling. But mindfulness is for another post. I hope this stuff isn't boring you. Some of you have expressed interest in peeking over my shoulder at my notes from crazy school. So there you are. We're all crazy. And no one really is. Class dismissed.

Crazy School: Week 1

Just because you are bad guy does not mean you are bad . . . guy.

I started my Intensive Outpatient Program, AKA "IOP," AKA "Crazy School," last Friday. The first day didn't go anything like I'd expected and by then end I was ready to run for the hills. In stead of doing any kind of "Hi, my name is Emily and I'm a little crazy," they just gave me a tour of the building and deposited me in a class that had already started. I took my seat and tried not to feel like I was the new kid in 7th grade. Most of the other people were young adults and a lot of them were recovering addicts. And I got the impression that no one wanted to be there. I even asked my clinician at the break if some of them were court ordered to be there and couldn't believe me when she said it was all voluntary. Then why are they acting like jackasses? I wanted to shout. We had a class about how important it is for our mental health to get enough sleep and eat right. Seriously. A whole class. Then we had group therapy where I felt like I knew more about how to lead the discussion than the shrink. Then we talked about what coping skills we'd learned that week that we planned on using over the weekend. Um, yeah. Not exactly helpful. It wasn't even until the end of the day that I'd spoken enough to reveal that I have triplets. ("You win!" they all said.) When they asked what my goal was for next week, I very much wanted to say, "Try to figure out if this program is worth my precious time." But I didn't. And I went back the next week. And I'm so glad I did.

After a disappointing second and third day, I finally had a breakthrough. We learned about Radical Acceptance which goes something like this: Bad things are going to happen and you will experience pain in your life whether you like it or not. But you decide if you want to stay in the pain and suffer or dig down deep to face reality and move on. As I was taking notes, I wrote down, "What is the reality that I'm refusing to accept?" Then another patient shared a story about how that morning she'd been frustrated as she got the kids ready for school. (She's one of the few that is old enough to have kids.) She finally lost it and snapped at her daughter and said something mean. And then, she said, she had a choice—she could either accept reality and move on or be willful and continue to suffer. When I asked her what she meant, she explained that she immediately apologized and tried to repair the relationship with her daughter. That's acceptance. If she'd been willful, she might have stuffed her emotions or let her guilt drive her crazy or a number of other negative outcomes. But what, I asked, was the reality that she had to accept? She looked at me for a moment and then said, "That I'm not perfect." 

BOOM! THE LIGHT GOES ON! BREAKTHROUGH!

So now, every time one (or all) of my kids cry or scream or throw a tantrum, I repeat over and over in my mind, "I'm not perfect and that's okay. I'm not perfect and that's okay." It's seriously helping.

This week I also started to try to have a better attitude in group therapy. After talking to my brother, BJ, who has been doing this stuff for the last four years all day, every day, I realized I needed to stop looking at the differences between me and the other patients, and focus on what inside of me was causing me to think I was better or healthier than them. I think that's what group therapy is all about—you're forced to interact with others in a way that requires absolute emotional authenticity. There's something synergistic that happens when you are able to listen to someone else's problem, help them dig down to the root of it, see yourself in their own pain, and help them come up with a solution. Even just knowing that other people have felt what you're feeling and have figured out how to deal with it is really affirming and helps you grow. 

Am I boring you yet? The point of all this is that I am glad I'm in Crazy School and I'm looking forward to the next week. If you ever want an earful of what awesome thing I learned any given day, just give me a call.

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.