The antidepressant that lives and loves

April 23, 2009

Twenty one polo ponies died here last Sunday.

I do not know much about polo. But I do understand this:

“These horses give you their all,” said one of the world’s top polo player. “They are like the best dog you ever had.”

The best dog I ever had died in my arms. Her death was the last in a 22-month wave of death that finally pulled me under. My father died first. Sixteen months later, my mother. Eight month after that - my eternally faithful and infinitely loving dog Bella died.

Of the three I cried the hardest when my beautiful Weimeraner Bella died.

My daughter, Kealy, and Bella

 Maybe it was accumulated grief. But I wept like I had never wept before. I dug a hole in the backyard and buried her. My daughter and I made a headstone from a children’s craft kit designed for imprinting little hands in cement.

I replaced Bella several months later with another Weimeraner named Bella - the fourth dog in my life to carry that name. Bella IV is my depression dog. She stayed beside me through my descent to hell and refused to abandon me. She did not judge my illness and she had utter faith I would get better. 

I consider her as vital to my recovery as my medications and therapy. When I did not want to get out of bed she reminded me - with those piercing yellow eyes - that she had a bladder and if I did not get my butt out of bed there would be trouble. When I could not sleep she, too, would awaken and accompany me on my sad wanderings through our silent neighborhood.

When I had no love to give, she snuggled beside me and asked for nothing. She watched me. She knew something was wrong. She never left me alone. She waited. Even though I know nothing about polo, I do understand that devastating loss. I understand why grief counselors were brought in for the players, the trainers and the workers who cleaned these ponies’ stables. 

I know the priceless value of an animal that lives for nothing more than to please and love you, even when you are exhausted and can give nothing back. I know how important it is to have something in my life that gently reminds me that life goes on and that I am needed. I know that I love and need my dog and I will say a prayer today for those grieving the loss of their ponies.

Hating the illness, not the afflicted

May 13, 2009

I hate alcoholism. Everything about alcoholism I loathe. It is evil. It is toxic. It kills, robs and cheats. It has devastated my life. 

I direct my anger and rage toward the illness and not the people afflicted with it. That is not to say alcoholism is an excuse for bad behavior. It is an explanation. Alcoholics, like myself, must make amends for our wrongs - whether we were under the influence or under the influence of the “isms” that turn us into human napalm bombs - scorching and maiming the lives of the innocent who just happened to be in our way.

Even ten years after my last drink this disease still afflicts me. I will never, ever be cured. And I must never, ever forget that. I still make choices in my sobriety that are wittingly and unwittingly driven by this disease. Sometimes I watch myself do it. Like watching myself hold my hand over a flame, knowing I will get burned but doing it anyway. “Why?” I ask myself. I knew the consequences but still I continue to put my hand over the flame.

After years of taking suggestions and working a program I have come to think of my disease as an alien hibernating in my body. For days and months it sleeps. I make healthy sober decisions. My depression and bipolar are in check and I avoid situations or relationships that will disturb my serenity, sobriety depression and bipolar. Then, like that little alien in Sigourney Weaver’s chest in the movie Alien, that evil little guy unexpectedly awakens and rips through my chest, teeth-bared, writhing, thirsty and clawing at my other mental illnesses.

I am left stunned and wagging my head: “What the hell was that?” “Where did that come from?” It never ends. I must be constantly vigilant. I must test my motives, like a diabetic tests her blood. 

It has taken years, and many raging swings of a foam bat against a pillow, to separate the disease from the nasty words, neglect and embarrassment caused by my own alcoholism and the alcoholics in my life. I think of my parents’ cancer, and how easy it was to hate their cancer and not them. But I hated my father’s alcoholism - and sometimes I hated him. I wish with all my might that I had been able to separate his alcoholism from him, the father who loved me immensely - the very best he could. 

Today, as I wade through the wreckage of another alcoholic in my life, I will try to separate the disease from the person. Alcoholism is an explanation, not an excuse. I will carefully  walk that line between allowing myself to be hurt and hurting the still sick, and suffering alcoholic. And I will pray that I can see that line today and stay on it.

Guilt, shame and depression

May 31, 2009

Today is the second straight day I woke up with this feeling - no, it’s deeper than a feeling - that I had done something wrong.

Back in the days before I was diagnosed with depression and before I quit drinking, I woke with this feeling - sensation - every morning. Every single morning. A heaviness in my chest. My mind racing to find a wrong and them chomp onto it like a pit bull.

Often, there was a wrong. I drank too much the night before. I was a rotten mom. I had lost it with a public official I was interviewing for a story. If I could not find a wrong, I threw the back of my hand to my brow and indulged my impending martyrdom: my husband (now ex-) neglected, disrespected and ignored me; it’s sooooo hard being a working mom; must I do everything around here?

And if that didn’t explain the feeling in my chest, I could nibble on a resentment which marinated overnight: Will you look at those rich, thin, beautiful women? They are so ignorant and vapid!; Of course I would rather be home in an apron, backing chocolate chip cookies and watching Oprah but some of us women HAVE to work; Oh, great: They promoted another white guy.

This is what the brain of a dysthymic alcoholic sounds like. Constantly searching for the bad in every person and situation. Fuel for a miserable life and major depression. Then I quit drinking, began therapy and started taking antidepressants and mood stabilizers.

The clouds parted. I learned to identify rather than compare. I was taught how to stay on my side of the street and to make an amends. But the most important lesson I learned was the difference between guilt and shame: Guilt is the feeling that comes from having done something bad; Shame is the belief that you are inherently bad.

Guilt and shame were so tightly intertwined in my psyche that I often could not distinguish one from another. Did I do something bad or do I think I am bad? Hmmmmm. If I had done something bad I need to apologize. If I believe I am bad, I need to turn off that soundtrack. I am not bad. I am not bad. I am not bad…

So, as I lay in bed this morning with “Dog” imbedded in my side, I rewound the security camera’s tape from yesterday. I say a prayer and ask: I do something bad? Anything? Besides not trimming the hedges, no. I had not.

Which leaves me asking the question: Am I bad? No. I am not. This feeling my chest this morning is shame. Shame is just a feeling - not a fact. I am a good person. I deserve to be happy. I am not bad.

I am going to the park with “Dog.”