Some of the best advice for coping that I didn't even know I was following was "find a hobby."
Once I started noticing patterns to my depression, I was able to notice what helped, and the coping mechanisms I seemed to reach for.
And apparently, if you see me in the kitchen covered in flour and no one's birthday is coming up, it might be a signal that I need a hug. During my depressed periods, I tend to bake.
It makes sense-- it gives me something productive to do to distract myself for a little while, and because I usually bake for my friends, it gives me a chance to make other people happy and, if I'm being honest, receive praise.
So, anyway, today I'm making rum cake for us to eat tomorrow. I'm using this made-from-scratch recipe.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Welcome
My 9th grade math and science teacher, a priest at my tiny Midwestern Catholic high school, has been with me almost every step of the way since I first started having problems. I would call him or meet with him every time I felt like I was having a breakdown and come back feeling the goodness of everything again. He'd offer me a cup of coffee and figuratively wipe my tears until I could see clearly again.
When I was offered the chance to move to Europe, it was after a long year and a half of almost constant lows, and repeated visits to his classroom and confessional. But the chance to travel seemed to both of us FINALLY a way out for me. That this change, with all the excitement and growth it would bring, would be the key to my breaking out to the other side and being okay. And now that I've found out that it wasn't quite the key to mental health I was hoping it would be-- though it did provide me with better coping methods than any other place or time in my life has-- I was afraid he would be disappointed.
I hadn't talked to him in over a year when I sat down to dial his number for the third time last week. I was nervous about calling him, so even though I knew that the reason he wasn't answering was because he didn't recognize the international number, I didn't leave a message. I just contented myself with calling back every couple days, thinking that if God wanted me to get help by way of this long-suffering priest again, he'd eventually answer. I crossed myself, said a prayer to that effect, and waited. On what was probably the final ring, he answered. (By the way, the reason he did answer this time was interesting and non-coincidental, which seemed to give us both a little glimpse of God's grace)
I started this conversation the way conversations with him always start. "Hi, Father? It's me, Rudy... Are you busy? Okay... Well, this is going sound really stupid, but..."
and then I explained the whole business to him. How I was unhappy for no reason; what a struggle getting out of bed sometimes is; how hard it is to pray.
He doesn't say much that anyone else couldn't say. He doesn't always have these wise, brilliant insights to the human condition, or the transition-age, depressed girl condition. He usually just "gets it" and makes me laugh and agrees when I say, "it just sucks." He says he wishes I had a book to get lost in for a while, which is exactly what I wish, too.
In closing, I tell him about my embarrassment coming to him again, like I did when I was an emotional train wreck of a teenager. His tone became as earnestly tender and serious as a father to their child when he assured me that I was welcome.
When I was offered the chance to move to Europe, it was after a long year and a half of almost constant lows, and repeated visits to his classroom and confessional. But the chance to travel seemed to both of us FINALLY a way out for me. That this change, with all the excitement and growth it would bring, would be the key to my breaking out to the other side and being okay. And now that I've found out that it wasn't quite the key to mental health I was hoping it would be-- though it did provide me with better coping methods than any other place or time in my life has-- I was afraid he would be disappointed.
I hadn't talked to him in over a year when I sat down to dial his number for the third time last week. I was nervous about calling him, so even though I knew that the reason he wasn't answering was because he didn't recognize the international number, I didn't leave a message. I just contented myself with calling back every couple days, thinking that if God wanted me to get help by way of this long-suffering priest again, he'd eventually answer. I crossed myself, said a prayer to that effect, and waited. On what was probably the final ring, he answered. (By the way, the reason he did answer this time was interesting and non-coincidental, which seemed to give us both a little glimpse of God's grace)
I started this conversation the way conversations with him always start. "Hi, Father? It's me, Rudy... Are you busy? Okay... Well, this is going sound really stupid, but..."
and then I explained the whole business to him. How I was unhappy for no reason; what a struggle getting out of bed sometimes is; how hard it is to pray.
He doesn't say much that anyone else couldn't say. He doesn't always have these wise, brilliant insights to the human condition, or the transition-age, depressed girl condition. He usually just "gets it" and makes me laugh and agrees when I say, "it just sucks." He says he wishes I had a book to get lost in for a while, which is exactly what I wish, too.
In closing, I tell him about my embarrassment coming to him again, like I did when I was an emotional train wreck of a teenager. His tone became as earnestly tender and serious as a father to their child when he assured me that I was welcome.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Drip, drip, drip
It's the noise more than anything.
Two mornings ago I was making my way across the fields between me and the neighboring village with my rosary. I wasn't concentrating; I had a migraine. I was depressed because I couldn't concentrate on my rosary, because I had a migraine, because I had the flu, and because I was awake.
Eventually I came to the shaded pond in the next village and got my shoes wet stepping through the snow that was left under the walnut tree, where the bench is.
This village can hardly be called a village at all. There is a cluster of farm houses, a pond, a tiny, white, country chapel that looks like something out of a story book, a maypole, farm cats that stare at you as they bathe in the first bit of sun we've seen in a good three months. And everywhere in this quiet place there was noise-- birds, wind, flies, cows, and most of all, unbelievable dripping. The sloped rooftops seemed to be losing gallons of melted snow through their drainpipes.
Sometimes you don't realize how very silent winter is, when God Himself seems to be staying indoors to catch up on crosswords or something. But one March day, everything comes back to life all at once.
You can almost hear the frost dripping off yourself too, and your heart beating again, just because you noticed.
Two mornings ago I was making my way across the fields between me and the neighboring village with my rosary. I wasn't concentrating; I had a migraine. I was depressed because I couldn't concentrate on my rosary, because I had a migraine, because I had the flu, and because I was awake.
Eventually I came to the shaded pond in the next village and got my shoes wet stepping through the snow that was left under the walnut tree, where the bench is.
This village can hardly be called a village at all. There is a cluster of farm houses, a pond, a tiny, white, country chapel that looks like something out of a story book, a maypole, farm cats that stare at you as they bathe in the first bit of sun we've seen in a good three months. And everywhere in this quiet place there was noise-- birds, wind, flies, cows, and most of all, unbelievable dripping. The sloped rooftops seemed to be losing gallons of melted snow through their drainpipes.
Sometimes you don't realize how very silent winter is, when God Himself seems to be staying indoors to catch up on crosswords or something. But one March day, everything comes back to life all at once.
You can almost hear the frost dripping off yourself too, and your heart beating again, just because you noticed.
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