Hiatus

It has been over a year since I last posted an entry.

I won't get into how life has changed, just know that it has.

Mostly, this is a post about depression and how it can affect even the best of intentions.

I started this blog on February 1, 2013. I had a lot to say and I wanted to say it on the off chance that people might like to listen. I had the best of intentions to do good at this blogging thing; to post frequently and engage people. To challenge people's mindsets, encourage women and parents, and, most importantly, to expand my world outside of motherhood and marriage. I love my family, I love my husband, and I love this SAHM gig. But I also want my boys to see me as more than the Keeper of the Snacks and the person who fills up sippies and changes poopy diapers. I would like them to see me as a whole person, so that they aren't surprised by it when they get older and they no longer require my services. I saw this blog as an opportunity for me to become better-rounded and as an opportunity to engage my whole self: the story teller, the comedian, the geek, the author, the philosopher, the feminist, and the proponent of all things kind.

There is one side of myself, however, that I don't really like to talk about. And that side of myself is becoming increasingly harder to ignore. So, I'm coming clean: I suffer with depression.

I was diagnosed with depression as a teenager and I was put on an antidepressant. It had some seriously devastating side effects so I went off of them, against the advice of my doctor. The side effects of going cold turkey were pretty awful. I lost friendships, particularly my best friend, and it wasn't helped by my typical, petulant teenage attitude. She didn't understand, I couldn't explain, and we hurt each other. I learned and I grew from the experience. My empathy and fierce dedication to kindness was born from our turbulent and messy break-up. I didn't go back on antidepressants and I have lived on an emotional roller coaster pretty much ever since.

My life is dedicated to the ebb and flow of this depression. I have times where I am very happy; joy is bubbling at the surface and I see beauty in everything, even in the mirror. I am in love with life and I have ideas and plans to make things better. To be a better mother and wife; to begin to get rid of this baby weight; to keep a clean house; to fill the walls with pictures, and artwork; to read and knit EVERYTHING. And then, I plummet and I struggle to get out of bed. Housework doesn't get done and we end up going through a drive thru more often than I care to admit. The kids keep me on task. They are the reason I get out of bed, the reason that I eat and drink, the reason that I leave the house on those days. On those days, I know that I need help but the thought of picking up the phone to make an appointment with the doctor is physically exhausting. It just makes me feel bone tired. So, I didn't. And then my blue days would be over and I would feel exhilarated and I would promise myself that the next time, I wouldn't succumb. That I would not give in to those feelings.

But it's gotten worse. Before, these periods would last a few days; we called it my "funk." It was just a funk and I would shake it off in a day or two, maybe three, and life would get back to normal. But lately, normal has shifted. It's no longer a funk because it's most of the time. I only have a few days of happy before I'm back in the dumps. I can't live like that. My sons shouldn't have to live like that and neither should my husband. So, I took the first step to healing: I called my doctor.

We discussed my options and we've started a treatment: prescription strength vitamins and a walking regimen, which I have not started yet. Antidepressants may be in my future but I want to make sure my youngest son, Opie, is safe while he continues to breastfeed. I am still in love with my life. I wouldn't trade my kids, or being a stay-at-home mommy, for anything. My husband and I celebrated ten years of marriage this year and I am so excited about where the next ten years take us. I am still good. I just want to be better.

I also have hopes that I will find it in me to start blogging again. I still have a lot to say. On the off chance that someone might like to listen.

I am raising a person.

"One day, my child will have a job. His boss won't care about him. His boss will only care if he's following the rules and doing his job. That's why I have to do this right now. How else will my child learn if I don't make rules and enforce them?"

This is a refrain that I hear quite often.

There are a number of things that I find troubling about this:
The idea that I am raising a worker bee who will become an adult, trudge into a job that is bleak and unfulfilling, waiting for quitting time so he can go home and prepare to do it all again tomorrow.

The idea that we, as parents, have the ability to prevent our children from learning life lessons by not creating rules just so we can enforce them.

The extraordinarily unrealistic expectations that our every move, our every choice, our every wrong decision will result in our child not being prepared for adult life. Which leaves little room for error. The only constant I have found in my parenting journey is that I will make mistakes. How terrifying it would be to think that every mistake I made would irreversibly condemn my children to failure.

But I think the thing that worries me most is how many people believe that we are raising workers. That jobs are the most important part of our children's adult lives. Don't get me wrong: jobs are important. But when it comes down to it, my children's jobs will be a fraction of their lives.

Think about this: in order for a person to spend 50% of their time at work, they would have to spend 84 hours a week at their job. While I don't doubt that there are jobs out there like that, we can't call them common. In fact, according to this, the average American workweek is 34.5 hours. That's about 21% of a person's life. We spend a lot more time during our weeks being mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, partners and friends.

With this in mind, I wonder if we should be teaching our children to give up their self-image in order to please a future boss. Should we teach them to sacrifice their moral compass for the rules of the workplace? Most importantly, should we be teaching them that life's greatest lessons are about how to get a paycheck?

When I look at my children, I do not see future employees, whose days are filled with preparing for work and working. I see little boys who will grow into men. They will laugh, love and cry. They will be friends, lovers, maybe even husbands and fathers. They may choose a career that defines them or they may choose an entirely different path. I hope, if I fail at everything else, I will have raised them to be people first, workers second.