moosh in indy.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I have a folder in my email titled “Warm Fuzzies” where I keep the kind heartfelt words that are sent to me. I have to be careful when I dip into them because they bring me to tears every time.

I generally receive the most emails when I am lost in my own brain. I read over them, file them away and when I’m able, I go back and respond to them.

“…Reading your blog made me feel like I wasn’t the only one. It made me smile, it made me laugh, it made me tear up.

I minored in English in college, but I was never able to harness my words and wrangle them into the style I wanted. Reading your blog is like reading my own thoughts that I was never able to turn into a worthwhile read…”

Often times I am unable to write much more than “Thank you.” But what I truly wish is that they could *feel* the thank you that is in my heart. The overwhelming gratitude that leaves me staring at my screen in disbelief at all of these tender injured souls who found comfort in something I wrote.

“…’You are not the only one who regrets their children on the bad days.‘
is burned into my brain.
It is the worst feeling I have ever felt.
It is such the horrible, honest truth.
And I thank you so much for telling me/making me feel like I wasn’t alone…”

I’ve wanted to share parts of these emails for a long time. But I was never sure how to do it without it coming across as a big “LOOK HOW WONDERFUL I AM! *glitter glitter* APPLAUSE HERE” But the truth is I get a lot of emails me asking how I do it.

‘It’ being honesty about my mental illness.

“…Then after I read what you wrote, I realized that we do have a close relationship.  She will be fine as long as I continue to shower her with love, despite the overbearing cloudy days.  Basically, I just wanted you to know that you helped me feel at ease that everything will work out.  So, thank you for your honesty and opening my eyes to your situation…”

I have a hard time responding to questions like that, and then I remember my Warm Fuzzy folder. In it there are currently 66 reasons why I do “it.” Why I am honest about my struggles. 66 people who I have helped. 66 people who were able to find words about their own struggles and emotions because I was honest about mine.

“…Casey, I cannot tell you how much it is helping me to read these words from you.  I have never, not ever, found anyone who was willing to share, explain, put it into words that made sense or even came close to expressing how much it hurts.  And when you talk about this I don’t feel like such a freak show…”

Can anyone do it? Maybe. But there are still a lot of social stigmas around mental illness. Should you do it? If you can, yes. Even if no one ever reads it. There are days when writing is easier than breathing for me. And the first time someone thanks you for helping them feel not so alone? You’ll never forget that. Ever. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend, a stranger or your mom. Your story can and will help people.

“…The world is a better place because people like you exist in it…So thanks for being you, Casey. Even though we don’t know each other, I look up to you a lot. Your ability to fight back…I hope you know how many of us find this inspiring. I’m rooting for you. We all are…”

I’m beginning to realize that what drives me the most, as well as what drives others who admit to emotional defeats is that we want nothing more than to be well. To be better. Even though I know I will never be healed from this disease, I have hope for those good days.

And hope makes anything possible.

Anything.

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This post is sponsored by Hallmark’s “Life is a Special Occasion” campaign.

So. Yeah. Remember how I was all “Things are getting kind of bad.” and you were all “I hope things get better!” and I was all “Thank you! This too shall pass!”

Things didn’t get worse, but they didn’t get better. It’s still just bubbling, right under the surface.

I told my Ami about it and she wrote me this email back, and now I’m going to share it with you.

Because it applies to you (some of it at least.)

And me.

And we’re all just doing the best we can.

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1-  You are stronger than anything broken inside of you.  I know this to be true with every fiber of my being.  You don’t see how strong you are, but I can see your strength shining in you.

2-  You have done absolutely nothing to deserve depression.  You haven’t taken anything for granted, you haven’t offended God, you haven’t been a bad person.  You just have it for no reason I understand, and I plan to ask Heavenly Father about it at my “exit interview.”

3-  If this is, in fact, a depression episode and not just a blip on the screen, then eventually everything will wind up being okay.  You are strong enough to get help.  You are brave enough to push forward, even when it feels like you are merely standing in place.  And you are incredibly and absolutely loved.

4-  You are not alone.  I know when everything is at its worst you feel alone.  But you aren’t.  You have people, right here in Indiana, who will catch you if you fall.  You have loving people who will gladly circle about you and hold you.  If things start to collapse around you, there is an entire Casey team ready to help put the pieces together again.

5-  Your depression will not permanently scar your children.  I know you worry about this.  But you need to remember that every single parent who brings a child into this world is a broken human being with great faults.  Right now you are looking at other mothers and comparing their shiny outsides with your dark inside.  Just remember, we are all broken, just maybe where you can’t see it.
Additionally, you are demonstrating to your beautiful daughters that it is okay to not be perfect.  Women, Mormon women in particular, have a hard time with this concept.  We all want to run the perfect home, be the perfect parent and perfect wife, doing a perfect job.  You are proving to your babies that this is a myth and furthermore that it is okay to be less than perfect.  You are also demonstrating that recognizing our imperfections does not mean we just succumb to our weaknesses, it means we press forward, relying on Christ to pick up our slack.

6-  If this is a worst case scenario, don’t be scared.  We can put together a plan that will keep you safe and your children happy.

7-  I love you.

Remember these things.
Ami (and by association, me.)

(Ami has a blog…it’s really good. You should read it. If you’re local you should totally be friends with her.)

It’s certainly not depression.

It most resembles anxiety.

It’s bubbling just under the surface.

A sort of knot in my stomach.

A lump in my throat.

A consistent reminder that something in my brain is broken.

Capable of ruining everything at a moments notice.

So far so good.

I’d like to keep it that way.

I’d be remiss not to thank you for the excellent work you’ve been doing for me lately. Especially when it comes time to dominate my family at monkey match each night. I know you’re well aware that this whole making our living on the Internet thing is feast or famine and we’ve had to pass on a lot of feasts in the past because you just couldn’t be trusted to hold your own.

You’ve been working so well I’ve taken on far more this month than I ever have in all my six years doing this. I have faith that we can do this together brain. That you won’t break on me. At least not until the feast table has been cleared and the food coma has set in.

We’re good brain, you and me.

Let’s keep it that way for as long as possible (at least until the end of August please.)

xoxo, the body that contains you and feeds you all those tasty omega-3′s

I am very happy. (So is Vivi.)

And for the first time in a very long time I am not listening and waiting for the other shoe drop.

It feels so good.

If I could give you all a hit of how good I feel right now? You’d beg me to be your dealer.

When I look in the mirror I see happy. When I see pictures of myself, I see happy.

I look good happy, even if no one else sees it. *I* see it.

I don’t see the constant ponytail and 11 week postpartum belly.

I know I weigh 40 pounds more than when I got married and that I only fit in clothes that are generously sized, elastic and machine washable.

But none of this really matters to me right now.

I see this time in my life where everything is so wonderful.

This is real happy. Not worldly happy, material happy or chemically altered happy.

Just, happy. Content. Thankful. Blessed.

I get to spend my days with my arms full of warm snuggly baby, something I waited nearly six years for.

I am going to be able to look back at pictures from this time in my life and know that for however long this lasts the people around me got all the best parts of me, especially my littles.

I know my depression is somewhere up there in my brain. I know it will be back someday.

But for the first time in ten years I don’t fear it.

Something has happened that I didn’t see coming.

And yet it makes perfect sense.

I’ve said before that I have a hard time looking at photos of myself from dark periods of my life.

Turns out I have a hard time looking at clothes from dark periods of my life as well.

Specifically, in this case, baby clothes.

I am coming to realize just how bad my postpartum depression was with Addie. I don’t remember truly enjoying a single moment of her babyhood until she hit about 7 months.

I kept telling myself that the reason I didn’t like putting Addie’s old clothes on Vivi was because they were the wrong season (Addie being a December baby and Vivi being a May baby, not to mention they both have very different spirits about them.)

But as I went through Vivi’s drawers today I picked up a onesie that I distinctly remember Addie wearing. And I distinctly remember feeling very, very absent when she wore it.

I held it in my hands.

It was just a shirt.

I looked back to Vivi’s drawer and saw other clothes that belonged to Addie during those first seven months. They brought back a feeling I can only describe as a very heavy rock on my heart. I took out the outfits that belonged to Addie and rearranged the drawer so only Vivi’s clothes were showing.

I felt better.

When Addie’s clothes were gone the drawer became the me I am now. New. Recovered. Restored.

Being somewhat sure that I was only imagining things I went into the closet where some little dresses hang that Addie never actually wore. They stayed on their hangers until she was too big for them and they were packed away in hopes that another little girl would someday occupy them.

They didn’t give me the same feelings as the clothes she did wear.

And towards the back of the closet hang Addie’s bigger clothes…9 months on.

They do not stir up the same emotions from me as the tiny clothes do.

I am experiencing a lot of what I believe would be considered guilt over Addie’s babyhood. She was well cared for and very well loved. I have evidence that this was so, I just don’t remember being the one doing it.

I never want her to think I loved her any less than her sister. Because I don’t, the feelings involved are just so very different and working through them has been confusing at times.

Addie is my heart.

Vivi is my soul.

And I could never live without either.

My friend Heather talks a lot about her heart gut.

Maybe it’s because I have so much in common with Heather that I know exactly what she’s talking about when she speaks of her heart gut or maybe it’s something we all understand but on very different levels.

The author of one of my favorite books speaks of a heart gut in much more clinical terms (he’s a Harvard psychology professor) but it’s the same idea. And he says that one of the worst things we can do as parents is undermine a child’s heart gut.

It is natural as parents to want to protect our kids from the ugly and the sad and the scary. But there are also ways to explain the ugly, sad and scary in a way that will not only develop their compassion and understanding, but also develop their heart gut.

Addie has a well formed heart gut. Whether it’s from being trapped inside my broken body at such an awful time or being with me through every treacherous step of my depression, the little kid is smart and in tune with what’s going on around her. The last few weeks have been no exception.

I have cried over the past few weeks. A lot.

Out of frustration, exhaustion, happiness and sometimes simply because it just seems like the only thing left to do.

Of course Addie asks why I’m crying, and while it’s tempting to hide and say that I’m not, I’m just going to the bathroom for a really long time or I have something in my eye…I don’t. I tell her why I’m crying. I explain to her the difference between a sad cry and a happy cry. And most of all I tell her it’s okay to cry, and that there are times when you are so tired it really is the only thing left to do short of pass out.

There have been times in our marriage that Cody has been tending to me when I’m not at my best. Addie comes in and asks what’s wrong. Cody will tell her “nothing” or “mom’s fine” and ask her to go out and play. He’s only trying to protect her from the scary and sad. Addie always catches my eye before leaving the room and gives me this look like “I know you’re not fine and I love you very very much but I’m going to listen to dad.” I always attempt a smile at her, or at least give her a look to acknowledge that her heart gut is right and to never stop trusting it.

And even more importantly, that I will be okay. Promise.

Do you listen to your heart gut? Do you encourage your kids to do the same?

Have you ever been out with your friends at dinner and one starts to get uncomfortable because the waistband on her pants is just a little too tight and it’s starting to give her gas while your other friend has blisters from the shoes she hasn’t worn in awhile and no one has a band-aid to help her out?

Meanwhile you’re wearing stretchy stretchy pants with the most perfectly fitting sweater and shoes so comfortable that you could walk to the moon and back if the need arises?

You want with all your heart to give your gassy friend the stretchy pants off your body and switch shoes with your blistery friend but you can’t, because if you were to go without pants you would get arrested and your other friend has feet three sizes larger than your own.

The best you can do is teach your friend with the pinchy pants the rubberband around the button and through the buttonhole trick and for your sore soled friend? You help her hobble out to the car barefoot, who cares if she’s not wearing shoes? You’re her friend, not a 7-11.

Some of my favorite people are going through some very difficult times right now. And while their problems are those of deep sadness, depression and heartache rather than tight pants and pinchy shoes…I’m still left feeling helpless over here in my comfy pants and properly medicated brain.

I haven’t had much to say lately because I’ve been so preoccupied with prayers, hopes and wishes that my friends, whether close or far away, in or outside the computer, can feel better. I know they’ve all done the same for me when I’m down in the dumps.

So ladies? Until your pants fit comfortably and your shoes don’t pinch, I’ll be here, rooting for you.